Title: The Red Redmaynes
Author: Phillpotts, Eden, 1862-1960
Language: English
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THE RED REDMAYNES

by

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

New York
The MacMillan Company
1922



       BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

       EUDOCIA
       EVANDER
       PLAIN SONG
       GREEN ALLEYS
       MISER'S MONEY
       THE GREY ROOM
       CHILDREN OF MEN
       A SHADOW PASSES
       STORM IN A TEACUP
       PAN AND THE TWINS
       THE BANKS OF COLNE
       CHRONICLES OF SAINT TID
       THE HUMAN BOY AND THE WAR



CONTENTS

CHAPTER
      I. THE RUMOUR
     II. THE PROBLEM STATED
    III. THE MYSTERY
     IV. A CLUE
      V. ROBERT REDMAYNE IS SEEN
     VI. ROBERT REDMAYNE IS HEARD
    VII. THE COMPACT
   VIII. DEATH IN THE CAVE
     IX. A PIECE OF WEDDING CAKE
      X. ON GRIANTE
     XI. MR. PETER GANNS
    XII. PETER TAKES THE HELM
   XIII. THE SUDDEN RETURN TO ENGLAND
    XIV. REVOLVER AND PICKAXE
     XV. A GHOST
    XVI. THE LAST OF THE REDMAYNES
   XVII. THE METHODS OF PETER GANNS
  XVIII. CONFESSION
    XIX. A LEGACY FOR PETER GANNS



CHAPTER I

THE RUMOUR


Every man has a right to be conceited until he is famous--so it is
said; and perhaps unconsciously, Mark Brendon shared that opinion.

His self-esteem was not, however, conspicuous, although he held that
only a second-rate man is diffident. At thirty-five years of age he
already stood high in the criminal investigation department of the
police. He was indeed about to receive an inspectorship, well earned
by those qualities of imagination and intuition which, added to the
necessary endowment of courage, resource, and industry, had created
his present solid success.

A substantial record already stood behind him, and during the war
certain international achievements were added to his credit. He felt
complete assurance that in ten years he would retire from government
employ and open that private and personal practice which it was his
ambition to establish.

And now Mark was taking holiday on Dartmoor, devoting himself to
his hobby of trout fishing and accepting the opportunity to survey
his own life from a bird's-eye point of view, measure his
achievement, and consider impartially his future, not only as a
detective but as a man.

Mark had reached a turning point, or rather a point from which new
interests and new personal plans were likely to present themselves
upon the theatre of a life hitherto devoted to one drama alone.
Until now he had existed for his work only. Since the war he had
been again occupied with routine labour on cases of darkness, doubt,
and crime, once more living only that he might resolve these
mysteries, with no personal interest at all outside his grim
occupation. He had been a machine as innocent of any inner life, any
spiritual ambition or selfish aim, as a pair of handcuffs.

This assiduity and single-hearted devotion had brought their
temporal reward. He was now at last in position to enlarge his
outlook, consider higher aspects of life, and determine to be a man
as well as a machine.

He found himself with five thousand pounds saved as a result of some
special grants during the war and a large honorarium from the French
Government. He was also in possession of a handsome salary and the
prospect of promotion, when a senior man retired at no distant date.
Too intelligent to find all that life had to offer in his work
alone, he now began to think of culture, of human pleasures, and
those added interests and responsibilities that a wife and family
would offer.

He knew very few women--none who awakened any emotion of affection.
Indeed at five-and-twenty he had told himself that marriage must be
ruled out of his calculations, since his business made life
precarious and was also of a nature to be unduly complicated if a
woman shared it with him. Love, he had reasoned, might lessen his
powers of concentration, blunt his extraordinary special faculties,
perhaps even introduce an element of calculation and actual
cowardice before great alternatives, and so shadow his powers and
modify his future success. But now, ten years later, he thought
otherwise, found himself willing to receive impressions, ready even
to woo and wed if the right girl should present herself. He dreamed
of some well-educated woman who would lighten his own ignorance of
many branches of knowledge.

A man in this receptive mood is not asked as a rule to wait long for
the needful response; but Brendon was old-fashioned and the women
born of the war attracted him not at all. He recognized their fine
qualities and often their distinction of mind; yet his ideal struck
backward to another and earlier type--the type of his own mother
who, as a widow, had kept house for him until her death. She was his
feminine ideal--restful, sympathetic, trustworthy--one who always
made his interests hers, one who concentrated upon his life rather
than her own and found in his progress and triumphs the salt of her
own existence.

Mark wanted, in truth, somebody who would be content to merge
herself in him and seek neither to impress her own personality upon
his, nor develop an independent environment. He had wit to know a
mother's standpoint must be vastly different from that of any wife,
no matter how perfect her devotion; he had experience enough of
married men to doubt whether the woman he sought was to be found in
a post-war world; yet he preserved and permitted himself a hope that
the old-fashioned women still existed, and he began to consider
where he might find such a helpmate.

He was somewhat overweary after a strenuous year; but to Dartmoor
he always came for health and rest when opportunity offered, and
now he had returned for the third time to the Duchy Hotel at
Princetown--there to renew old friendships and amuse himself on the
surrounding trout streams through the long days of June and July.

Brendon enjoyed the interest he awakened among other fishermen and,
though he always went upon his expeditions alone, usually joined the
throng in the smoking-room after dinner. Being a good talker he
never failed of an audience there. But better still he liked an hour
sometimes with the prison warders. For the convict prison that
dominated that grey smudge in the heart of the moors known as
Princetown held many interesting and famous criminals, more than one
of whom had been "put through" by him, and had to thank Brendon's
personal industry and daring for penal servitude. Upon the prison
staff were not a few men of intelligence and wide experience who
could tell the detective much germane to his work. The psychology of
crime never paled in its intense attraction for Brendon and many a
strange incident, or obscure convict speech, related without comment
to him by those who had witnessed, or heard them, was capable of
explanation in the visitor's mind.

He had found an unknown spot where some good trout dwelt and on an
evening in mid-June he set forth to tempt them. He had discovered
certain deep pools in a disused quarry fed by a streamlet, that
harboured a fish or two heavier than most of those surrendered daily
by the Dart and Meavy, the Blackabrook and the Walkham.

Foggintor Quarry, wherein lay these preserves, might be approached
in two ways. Originally broken into the granite bosom of the moor
for stone to build the bygone war prison of Princetown, a road still
extended to the deserted spot and joined the main throughfare half a
mile distant. A house or two--dwellings used by old-time
quarrymen--stood upon this grass-grown track; but the huge pit was
long ago deserted. Nature had made it beautiful, although the
wonderful place was seldom appreciated now and only wild creatures
dwelt therein.

Brendon, however, came hither by a direct path over the moors.
Leaving Princetown railway station upon his left hand he set his
face west where the waste heaved out before him dark against a blaze
of light from the sky. The sun was setting and a great glory of
gold, fretted with lilac and crimson, burned over the distant
earth, while here and there the light caught crystals of quartz in
the granite boulders and flashed up from the evening sobriety of the
heath.

Against the western flame appeared a figure carrying a basket. Mark
Brendon, with thoughts on the evening rise of the trout, lifted his
face at a light footfall. Whereupon there passed by him the fairest
woman he had ever known, and such sudden beauty startled the man and
sent his own thoughts flying. It was as though from the desolate
waste there had sprung a magical and exotic flower; or that the
sunset lights, now deepening on fern and stone, had burned together
and became incarnate in this lovely girl. She was slim and not very
tall. She wore no hat and the auburn of her hair, piled high above
her forehead, tangled the warm sunset beams and burned like a halo
round her head. The colour was glorious, that rare but perfect
reflection of the richest hues that autumn brings to the beech and
the bracken. And she had blue eyes--blue as the gentian. Their size
impressed Brendon.

He had only known one woman with really large eyes, and she was a
criminal. But this stranger's bright orbs seemed almost to dwarf her
face. Her mouth was not small, but the lips were full and delicately
turned. She walked quickly with a good stride and her slight,
silvery skirts and rosy, silken jumper showed her figure clearly
enough--her round hips and firm, girlish bosom. She swung along--a
flash of joy on little twinkling feet that seemed hardly to touch
the ground.

Her eyes met his for a moment with a frank, trustful expression,
then she had passed. Waiting half a minute, Brendon turned to look
again. He heard her singing with all the light-heartedness of youth
and he caught a few notes as clear and cheerful as a grey bird's.
Then, still walking quickly, she dwindled into one bright spot upon
the moor, dipped into an undulation, and was gone--a creature of the
heath and wild lands whom it seemed impossible to imagine pent
within any dwelling.

The vision made Mark pensive, as sudden beauty will, and he wondered
about the girl. He guessed her to be a visitor--one of a party,
perhaps, possibly here for the day alone. He went no farther than to
guess that she must certainly be betrothed. Such an exquisite
creature seemed little likely to have escaped love. Indeed love and
a spirit of happiness were reflected from her eyes and in her song.
He speculated on her age and guessed she must be eighteen. He then,
by some twist of thought, considered his personal appearance. We are
all prone to put the best face possible upon such a matter, but
Brendon lived too much with hard facts to hoodwink himself on that
or any other subject. He was a well-modelled man of great physical
strength, and still agile and lithe for his age; but his hair was an
ugly straw colour and his clean-shorn, pale face lacked any sort of
distinction save an indication of moral purpose, character, and
pugnacity. It was a face well suited to his own requirements, for he
could disguise it easily; but it was not a face calculated to charm
or challenge any woman--a fact he knew well enough.

Tramping forward now, the detective came to a great crater that
gaped on the hillside and stood above the dead quarry workings of
Foggintor. Underneath him opened a cavity with sides two hundred
feet high. Its peaks and precipices fell, here by rough, giant
steps, here stark and sheer over broad faces of granite, where only
weeds and saplings of mountain ash and thorn could find a foothold.
The bottom was one vast litter of stone and fern, where foxgloves
nodded above the masses of debris and wild things made their homes.
Water fell over many a granite shelf and in the desolation lay great
and small pools.

Brendon began to descend, where a sheep track wound into the pit. A
Dartmoor pony and her foal galloped away through an entrance
westerly. At one point a wide moraine spread fanwise from above into
the cup, and here upon this slope of disintegrated granite more
water dripped and tinkled from overhanging ledges of stone. Rills
ran in every direction and, from the spot now reached by the
sportsman, the deserted quarry presented a bewildering confusion of
huge boulders, deep pits, and mighty cliff faces heaving up to
scarps and counter-scarps. Brendon had found the guardian spirit of
the place on a former visit and now he lifted his voice and cried
out.

"Here I am!" he said.

"Here I am!" cleanly answered Echo hid in the granite.

"Mark Brendon!"

"Mark Brendon!"

"Welcome!"

"Welcome!"

Every syllable echoed back crisp and clear, just tinged with that
something not human that gave fascination to the reverberated words.

A great purple stain seemed to fill the crater and night's wine rose
up within it, while still along the eastern crest of the pit there
ran red sunset light to lip the cup with gold. Mark, picking his way
through the huddled confusion, proceeded to the extreme breadth of
the quarry, fifty yards northerly, and stood above two wide, still
pools in the midst. They covered the lowest depth of the old
workings, shelved to a rough beach on one side and, upon the other,
ran thirty feet deep, where the granite sprang sheer in a precipice
from the face of the little lake. Here crystal-clear water sank into
a dim, blue darkness. The whole surface of the pools was, however,
within reach of any fly fisherman who had a rod of necessary
stiffness and the skill to throw a long line. Trout moved and here
and there circles of light widened out on the water and rippled to
the cliff beyond. Then came a heavier rise and from beneath a great
rock, that heaved up from the midst of the smaller pool, a good fish
took a little white moth which had fluttered within reach.

Mark set about his sport, yet felt that a sort of unfamiliar
division had come into his mind and, while he brought two tiny-eyed
flies from a box and fastened them to the hairlike leader he always
used, there persisted the thought of the auburn girl--her eyes blue
as April--her voice so bird-like and untouched with human
emotion--her swift, delicate tread.

He began to fish as the light thickened; but he only cast once or
twice and then decided to wait half an hour. He grounded his rod and
brought a brier pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. The
things of day were turning to slumber; but still there persisted a
clinking sound, uttered monotonously from time to time, which the
sportsman supposed to be a bird. It came from behind the great
acclivities that ran opposite his place by the pools. Brendon
suddenly perceived that it was no natural noise but arose from some
human activity. It was, in fact, the musical note of a mason's
trowel, and when presently it ceased, he was annoyed to hear heavy
footsteps in the quarry--a labourer he guessed.

No labourer appeared, however. A big, broad man approached him, clad
in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and a red waistcoat with
gaudy brass buttons. He had entered at the lower mouth of the
quarries and was proceeding to the northern exit, whence the little
streamlet that fed the pools came through a narrow pass.

The stranger stopped as he saw Brendon, straddled his great legs,
took a cigar from his mouth and spoke.

"Ah! You've found 'em, then?"

"Found what?" asked the detective.

"Found these trout. I come here for a swim sometimes. I've wondered
why I never saw a rod in this hole. There are a dozen half pounders
there and possibly some bigger ones."

It was Mark's instinctive way to study all fellow creatures with
whom he came in contact. He had an iron memory for faces. He looked
up now and observed the rather remarkable features of the man before
him. His scrutiny was swift and sure; yet had he guessed the
tremendous significance of his glance, or with proleptic vision seen
what this being was to mean during the years of his immediate
future, it is certain that he would have intensified his inspection
and extended the brief limits of their interview.

He saw a pair of broad shoulders and a thick neck over which hung a
square, hard jaw and a determined chin. Then came a big mouth and
the largest pair of mustaches Brendon remembered to have observed on
any countenance. They were almost grotesque; but the stranger was
evidently proud of them, for he twirled them from time to time and
brought the points up to his ears. They were of a foxy red, and
beneath them flashed large, white teeth when the big man talked in
rather grating tones. He suggested one on very good terms with
himself--a being of passionate temperament and material mind. His
eyes were grey, small, set rather wide apart, with a heavy nose
between. His hair was a fiery red, cut close, and of a hue yet more
violent than his mustaches. Even the fading light could not kill his
rufous face.

The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him
away.

"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and
mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and
a thirst afterward."

"I expect it does."

"But this bally place seems to bewitch people," continued the big
man. "What is it about Dartmoor? Only a desert of hills and stones
and two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and
yet--why you'll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would
only be a bad substitute."

The other laughed. "There is a magic here. It gets into your blood."

"So it does. Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing
to see but the poor devils of convicts. A man I know is building
himself a bungalow out here. He and his wife will be just as happy
as a pair of wood pigeons--at least they think so."

"I heard a trowel clinking."

"Yes, I lend a hand sometimes when the workmen are gone. But think
of it--to turn your back on civilization and make yourself a home in
a desert!"

"Might do worse--if you've got no ambitions."

"Yes--ambition is not their strong point. They think love's
enough--poor souls. Why don't you fish?"

"Waiting for it to get a bit darker."

"Well, so long. Take care you don't catch anything that'll pull you
in."

Laughing at his joke and making another echo ring sharply over the
still face of the water, the red man strode off through the gap
fifty yards distant. Then in the stillness Mark heard the purr of a
machine. He had evidently departed upon a motor bicycle to the main
road half a mile distant.

When he was gone Brendon rose and strolled down to the other
entrance of the quarry that he might see the bungalow of which the
stranger had spoken. Leaving the great pit he turned right-handed
and there, in a little hollow facing southwest, he found the
building. It was as yet far from complete. The granite walls now
stood six feet high and they were of remarkable thickness. The plan
indicated a dwelling of six rooms and Brendon perceived that the
house would have no second story. An acre round about had been
walled, but as yet the boundaries were incomplete. Magnificent views
swept to the west and south. Brendon's rare sight could still
distinguish Saltash Bridge spanning the waters above Plymouth, where
Cornwall heaved up against the dying afterglow of the west. It was a
wonderful place in which to dwell, and the detective speculated as
to the sort of people who would be likely to lift their home in this
silent wilderness.

He guessed that they must have wearied of cities, or of their fellow
creatures. Perhaps they were disappointed and disillusioned with
life and so desired to turn their backs upon its gregarious
features, evade its problems, as far as possible, escape its shame
and follies, and live here amid these stern realities which promised
nothing, yet were full of riches for a certain order of mankind. He
judged that the couple, who designed to dwell beside the silent
hollow of Foggintor, must have outlived much and reached an attitude
of mind that desired no greater boon than solitude in the lap of
nature. Such people could only be middle-aged, he told himself. Yet
he remembered the big man had said that the pair felt "love was
enough." That meant romance still active and alive, whatever their
ages might be.

The day grew very dim and the fret of light and shadow died off the
earth, leaving all vague and vast and featureless. Brendon returned
to his sport and found a small "coachman" fly sufficiently
destructive. The two pools yielded a dozen trout, of which he kept
six and returned the rest to the water. His best three fish all
weighed half a pound.

Resolved to pay the pools another visit, Mark made an end of his
sport and chose to return by road rather than venture the walk over
the rough moor in darkness. He left the quarry at the gap, passed
the half dozen cottages that stood a hundred yards beyond it, and
so, presently, regained the main road between Princetown and
Tavistock. Tramping back under the stars, his thoughts drifted to
the auburn girl of the moor. He was seeking to recollect how she had
been dressed. He remembered everything about her with extraordinary
vividness, from the crown of her glowing hair to her twinkling feet,
in brown shoes with steel or silver buckles; but he could not
instantly see her garments. Then they came back to him--the
rose-coloured jumper and the short, silvery skirts.

Twice afterward, during the evening hour, Brendon again tramped to
Foggintor, but he was not rewarded by any glimpse of the girl; but
as the picture of her dimmed a little, there happened a strange and
apparently terrible thing, and in common with everybody else his
thoughts were distracted. To the detective's hearty annoyance and
much against his will, there confronted him a professional problem.
Though the sudden whisper of murder that winged with amazing speed
through that little, uplifted church-town was no affair of his,
there fell out an incident which quickly promised to draw him into
it and end his holiday before the time.

Four evenings after his first fishing expedition to the quarries, he
devoted a morning to the lower waters of the Meavy River; at the end
of that day, not far short of midnight, when glasses were empty and
pipes knocked out, half a dozen men, just about to retire, heard a
sudden and evil report.

Will Blake, "Boots" at the Duchy Hotel, was waiting to extinguish
the lights, and seeing Brendon he said:

"There's something in your line happened, master, by the look of it.
A pretty bobbery to-morrow."

"A convict escaped, Will?" asked the detective, yawning and longing
for bed. "That's about the only fun you get up here, isn't it?"

"Convict escaped? No--a man done in seemingly. Mr. Pendean's
uncle-in-law have slaughtered Mr. Pendean by the looks of it."

"What did he want to do that for?" asked Brendon without emotion.

"That's for clever men like you to find out," answered Will.

"And who is Mr. Pendean?"

"The gentleman what's building the bungalow down to Foggintor."

Mark started. The big red man flashed to his mind complete in every
physical feature. He described him and Will Blake replied:

"That's the chap that's done it. That's the gentleman's
uncle-in-law!"

Brendon went to bed and slept no worse for the tragedy. Nor, when
morning came and every maid and man desired to tell him all they
knew, did he show the least interest. When Milly knocked with his
hot water and drew up his blind, she judged that nobody could
appreciate the event better than a famous detective.

"Oh, sir--such a fearful thing--" she began. But he cut her short.

"Now, Milly, don't talk shop. I haven't come to Dartmoor to catch
murderers, but to catch trout. What's the weather like?"

"'Tis foggy and soft; and Mr. Pendean--poor dear soul--"

"Go away, Milly. I don't want to hear anything about Mr. Pendean."

"That big red devil of a man--

"Nor anything about the big red devil, either. If it's soft, I
shall try the leat this morning."

Milly stared at him with much disappointment.

"God's goodness!" she said. "You can go off fishing--a professed
murder catcher like you--and a man killed under your nose you may
say!"

"It isn't my job. Now, clear out. I want to get up."

"Well, I never!" murmured Milly and departed in great astonishment.

But Brendon was not to enjoy the freedom that he desired in this
matter. He ordered sandwiches, intending to beat a hasty retreat and
get beyond reach; then at half past nine, he emerged into a dull and
lowering morn. Fine mist was in the air and a heavy fog hid the
hills. There seemed every probability of a wet day and from a
fisherman's point of view the conditions promised sport. He was just
slipping on a raincoat and about to leave the hotel when Will Blake
appeared and handed him a letter. He glanced at it, half inclined to
stick the missive in the hall letter rack and leave perusal until
his return, but the handwriting was a woman's and did not lack for
distinction and character. He felt curious and, not associating the
incident with the rumoured crime, set down his rod and creel, opened
the note, and read what was written:

                                  "3 Station Cottages, Princetown.

     "DEAR SIR: The police have told me that you are in Princetown,
     and it seems as though Providence had sent you. I fear that I
     have no right to seek your services directly, but if you can
     answer the prayer of a heartbroken woman and give her the
     benefit of your genius in this dark moment, she would be
     unspeakably thankful.

                                 "Faithfully yours,
                                 JENNY PENDEAN."

Mark Brendon murmured "damn" gently under his breath. Then he turned
to Will.

"Where is Mrs. Pendean's house?" he asked.

"In Station Cottages, just before you come to the prison woods,
sir."

"Run over, then, and say I'll call in half an hour."

"There!" Will grinned. "I told 'em you'd never keep out of it!"

He was gone and Brendon read the letter again, studied its neat
caligraphy, and observed that a tear had blotted the middle of the
sheet. Once more he said "damn" to himself, dropped his fishing
basket and rod, turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and walked
to the police station, where he heard a little of the matter in hand
from a constable and then asked for permission to use the telephone.
In five minutes he was speaking to his own chief at Scotland Yard,
and the familiar cockney voice of Inspector Harrison came over the
two hundred odd miles that separated the metropolis of convicts from
the metropolis of the world.

"Man apparently murdered here, inspector. Chap who is thought to
have done it disappeared. Widow wants me to take up case. I'm
unwilling to do so; but it looks like duty." So spoke Brendon.

"Right. If it looks like duty, do it. Let me hear again to-night.
Halfyard, chief at Princetown, is an old friend of mine. Very good
man. Good-bye."

Mark then learned that Inspector Halfyard was already at Foggintor.

"I'm on this," said Mark to the constable. "I'll come in again. Tell
the inspector to expect me at noon for all details. I'm going to see
Mrs. Pendean now."

The policeman saluted. He knew Brendon very well by sight.

"I hope it won't knock a hole in your holiday, sir. But I reckon it
won't. It's all pretty plain sailing by the look of it."

"Where's the body?"

"That's what we don't know yet, Mr. Brendon; and that's what only
Robert Redmayne can tell us by the look of it."

The detective nodded. Then he sought No. 3, Station Cottages.

The little row of attached houses ran off at right angles to the
high street of Princetown. They faced northwest, and immediately in
front of them rose the great, tree-clad shoulder of North Hessory
Tor. The woods ascended steeply and a stone wall ran between them
and the dwellings beneath.

Brendon knocked at No. 3 and was admitted by a thin, grey-haired
woman who had evidently been shedding tears. He found himself in a
little hall decorated with many trophies of fox hunting. There were
masks and brushes and several specimens of large Dartmoor foxes, who
had run their last and now stood stuffed in cases hung upon the
walls.

"Do I speak to Mrs. Pendean?" asked Brendon; but the old woman shook
her head.

"No, sir. I'm Mrs. Edward Gerry, widow of the famous Ned Gerry, for
twenty years Huntsman of the Dartmoor Foxhounds. Mr. and Mrs.
Pendean were--are--I mean she is my lodger."

"Is she ready to see me?"

"She's cruel hard hit, poor lady. What name, sir?"

"Mr. Mark Brendon."

"She hoped you'd come. But go gentle with her. 'Tis a fearful ordeal
for any innocent person to have to talk to you, sir."

Mrs. Gerry opened a door upon the right hand of the entrance.

"The great Mr. Brendon be here, Mrs. Pendean," she said; then
Brendon walked in and the widow shut the door behind him.

Jenny Pendean rose from her chair by the table where she was writing
letters and Brendon saw the auburn girl of the sunset.



CHAPTER II

THE PROBLEM STATED


The girl had evidently dressed that morning without thought or
care--perhaps unconsciously. Her wonderful hair was lifted and wound
carelessly upon her head; her beauty had been dimmed by tears. She
was, however, quite controlled and showed little emotion at their
meeting; but she looked very weary and every inflection of her
pleasant, clear voice revealed it. She spoke as one who had suffered
much and laboured under great loss of vitality. He found this to be
indeed the case, for it seemed that she had lost half herself.

As he entered she rose and saw in his face an astonishment which
seemed not much to surprise her, for she was used to admiration and
knew that her beauty startled men.

Brendon, though he felt his heart beat quicklier at his discovery,
soon had himself in hand. He spoke with tact and sympathy, feeling
himself already committed to serve her with all his wits and
strength. Only a fleeting regret shot through his mind that the case
in all probability would not prove such as to reveal his own strange
powers. He combined the regulation methods of criminal research with
the more modern deductive system, and his success, as he always
pointed out, was reached by the double method. Already he longed to
distinguish himself before this woman.

"Mrs. Pendean," he said, "I am very glad that you learned I was in
Princetown and it will be a privilege to serve you if I can. The
worst may not have happened, though from what I have heard, there is
every reason to fear it; but, believe me, I will do my best on your
account. I have communicated with headquarters and, being free at
this moment, can devote myself wholly to the problem."

"Perhaps it was selfish to ask you in your holidays," she said.
"But, somehow, I felt--"

"Think nothing whatever of that. I hope that what lies before us may
not take very long. And now I will listen to you. There is no need
to tell me anything about what has happened at Foggintor. I shall
hear all about that later in the day. You will do well now to let me
know everything bearing upon it that went before this sad affair;
and if you can throw the least light of a nature to guide me and
help my inquiry, so much the better."

"I can throw no light at all," she said. "It has come like a
thunderbolt and I still find my mind refusing to accept the story
that they have brought to me. I cannot think about it--I cannot bear
to think about it; and if I believed it, I should go mad. My husband
is my life."

"Sit down and give me some account of yourself and Mr. Pendean. You
cannot have been married very long."

"Four years."

He showed astonishment.

"I am twenty-five," she explained, "though I'm told I do not look so
much as that."

"Indeed not; I should have guessed eighteen. Collect your thoughts
now and just give me what of your history and your husband's you
think most likely to be of use."

She did not speak for a moment and Brendon, taking a chair, drew it
up and sat with his arms upon the back of it facing her in a casual
and easy position. He wanted her to feel quite unconstrained.

"Just chat, as though you were talking of the past to a friend," he
said. "Indeed you must believe that you are talking to a friend, who
has no desire but to serve you."

"I'll begin at the beginning," she answered. "My own history is
brief enough and has surely little bearing on this dreadful thing;
but my relations may be more interesting to you than I am. The
family is now a very small one and seems likely to remain so, for of
my three uncles all are bachelors. I have no other blood relations
in Europe and know nothing of some distant cousins who live in
Australia.

"The story of my family is this: John Redmayne lived his life on the
Murray River in Victoria, South Australia, and there he made a
considerable fortune out of sheep. He married and had a large
family. Out of seven sons and five daughters born to them during a
period of twenty years, Jenny and John Redmayne only saw five of
their children grow into adult health and strength. Four boys lived,
the rest died young; though two were drowned in a boating accident
and my Aunt Mary, their eldest daughter, lived a year after her
marriage.

"There remained four sons: Henry, the eldest, Albert, Bendigo, and
Robert, the youngest of the family, now a man of thirty-five. It is
he you are seeking in this awful thing that is thought to have
happened.

"Henry Redmayne was his father's representative in England and a
wool broker on his own account. He married and had one daughter:
myself. I remember my parents very well, for I was fifteen and at
school when they died. They were on their way to Australia, so that
my father might see his father and mother again after the lapse of
many years. But their ship, _The Wattle Blossom_, was lost with all
hands and I became an orphan.

"John Redmayne, my grandfather, though a rich man was a great
believer in work, and all his sons had to find occupation and
justify their lives in his eyes. Uncle Albert, who was only a year
younger than my father, cared for studious subjects and literature.
He was apprenticed in youth to a bookseller at Sydney and after a
time came to England, joined a large and important firm of
booksellers, and became an expert. They took him into partnership
and he travelled for them and spent some years in New York. But his
special subject was Italian Renaissance literature and his joy was
Italy, where he now lives. He found himself in a position to retire
about ten years ago, being a bachelor with modest requirements. He
knew, moreover, that his father must soon pass away and, as his
mother was already dead, he stood in a position to count upon a
share of the large fortune to be divided presently between himself
and his two remaining brothers.

"Of these my Uncle Bendigo Redmayne was a sailor in the merchant
marine. After reaching the position of a captain in the Royal Mail
Steamship Company he retired on my grandfather's death, four years
ago. He is a bluff, gruff old salt without any charm, and he never
reached promotion into the passenger service, but remained in
command of cargo boats--a circumstance he regarded as a great
grievance. But the sea is his devotion, and when he was able to do
so, he built himself a little house on the Devon cliffs, where now
he resides within sound of the waves.

"My third uncle, Robert Redmayne, is at this moment apparently
suspected of having killed my husband; but the more I think of such
a hideous situation, the less possible does it appear. For not the
wildest nightmare dream would seem more mad and motiveless than such
a horror as this.

"Robert Redmayne in youth was his father's favourite and if he
spoiled any of his sons he spoiled the youngest. Uncle Robert came
to England, and being fond of cattle breeding and agriculture,
joined a farmer, the brother of an Australian friend of John
Redmayne's. He was supposed to be getting on well, but he came and
went, for my grandfather did not like a year to pass without a
sight of him.

"Uncle Bob was a pleasure-loving man especially fond of horse racing
and sea fishing. On the strength of his prospects he borrowed money
and got into debt. After the death of my own father I saw a little
of Uncle Robert from time to time, for he was kind to me and liked
me to be with him in my holidays. He did very little work. Most of
his time he was at the races, or down in Cornwall at Penzance, where
he was supposed to be courting a young woman--a hotel keeper's
daughter. I had just left school and was about to leave England and
go to live with my grandfather in Australia, when events happened
swiftly, one on top of the other, and life was changed for all us
Redmaynes."

"Rest a little if you are tired," said Mark. He saw by her
occasional breaks and the sighs that lifted her bosom, how great an
effort Mrs. Pendean was making to tell her story well.

"I will go straight on," she answered. "It was summertime and I was
stopping with my Uncle Robert at Penzance when two great
things--indeed three great things--happened. The war broke out, my
grandfather died in Australia and, lastly, I became engaged to
Michael Pendean.

"I had loved Michael devotedly for a year before he asked me to
marry him. But when I told my Uncle Robert what had happened he
chose to disapprove and considered that I had made a serious
mistake. My future husband's parents were dead. His father had been
the head of a firm called Pendean and Trecarrow, whose business was
the importation of pilchards to Italy. But Michael, though he had
now succeeded his father in the business, took no interest in it. It
gave him an income, but his own interests were in a mechanical
direction. And, incidentally, he was always a good deal of a dreamer
and liked better to plan than to carry out.

"We loved one another passionately and I have very little doubt that
my uncles would have raised no objection to our marrying in the long
run, had not unfortunate events happened to set them against our
betrothal.

"On the death of my grandfather it was found that he had written a
peculiar will; and we also learned that his fortune would prove
considerably smaller than his sons expected. However, he left rather
more than one hundred and fifty thousand. It appeared that during
the last ten years of his life, he had lost his judgment and made a
number of hopeless investments.

"The terms of the will put all his fortune into the power of my
Uncle Albert, my grandfather's eldest living son. He told Uncle
Albert to divide the total proceeds of the estate between himself
and his two brothers as his judgment should dictate, for he knew
that Albert was a man of scrupulous honour and would do justly by
all. With regard to me, he directed my uncle to set aside twenty
thousand pounds, to be given me on my marriage, or failing that, on
my twenty-fifth birthday. In the meantime I was to be taken care of
by my uncles; and he added that my future husband, if he appeared,
must be approved of by Uncle Albert.

"Though jarred to find he would receive far less than he had hoped,
Uncle Robert was soon in a good temper, for their elder brother
informed Uncle Bob and Uncle Bendigo that he should divide the
fortune into three equal parts. Thus it came about that each
received about forty thousand pounds, while my inheritance was set
aside. All would have been well, no doubt, and I was coaxing my
uncle round, for Michael Pendean knew nothing about our affairs and
remained wholly ignorant that I should ever be worth a penny. It was
a marriage of purest love and he had four hundred a year of his own
from the business of the pilchard fishery, which we both deemed
ample for our needs.

"Then broke the war, on those awful days in August, and the face of
the world changed--I suppose forever."

She stopped again, rose, went to the sideboard, and poured herself
out a little water. Mark jumped up and took the glass jug from her
hand.

"Rest now," he begged, but she sipped the water and shook her head.

"I will rest when you have gone," she answered; "but please come
back again presently if you can give me a gleam of hope."

"Be very sure of that, Mrs. Pendean."

She went back to her seat while he also sat down again. Then she
resumed.

"The war altered everything and created a painful breach between my
future husband and my Uncle Robert. The latter instantly
volunteered and rejoiced in the opportunity to seek adventure. He
joined a cavalry regiment and invited Michael to do the same; but my
husband, though no more patriotic man lives--I must speak still as
though he lives, Mr. Brendon--"

"Of course you must, Mrs. Pendean--we must all think of him as
living until the contrary is proved."

"Thank you for saying that! My husband had no mind for active
warfare. He was delicately built and of a gentle temperament. The
thought of engaging in hand-to-hand conflict was more than he could
endure, and there were, of course, a thousand other ways open to him
in which he could serve his country--a man so skilful as he."

"Of course there were."

"Uncle Robert, however, made a personal thing of it. Volunteers for
active service were urgently demanded and he declared that in the
ranks was the only place for any man of fighting age, who desired
longer to call himself a man. He represented the situation to his
brothers, and Uncle Bendigo--who had just retired, but who,
belonging to the Naval Reserve, now joined up and soon took charge
of some mine sweepers--wrote very strongly as to what he thought was
Michael's duty. From Italy Uncle Albert also declared his mind to
the same purpose, and though I resented their attitude, the
decision, of course, rested with Michael, not with me. He was only
five-and-twenty then and he had no desire but to do his duty. There
was nobody to advise him and, perceiving the danger of opposing my
uncles' wishes, he yielded and volunteered.

"But he was refused. A doctor declared that a heart murmur made the
necessary training quite impossible and I thanked God when I heard
it. The tribulations began then and Uncle Bob saw red about it,
accusing Michael of evading his duty and of having bribed the doctor
to get him off. We had some very distressing scenes and I was
thankful when my uncle went to France.

"At my own wish Michael married me and I informed my uncles that he
had done so. Relations were strained all round after that; but I did
not care; and my husband only lived to please me. Then, halfway
through the war, came the universal call for workers; and seeing
that men above combatant age, or incapacitated from fighting, were
wanted up here at Princetown, Michael offered himself and we arrived
together.

"The Prince of Wales had been instrumental in starting a big moss
depôt for the preparation of surgical dressings; and both my husband
and I joined this station, where the sphagnum moss was collected
from the bogs of Dartmoor, dried, cleaned, treated chemically, and
dispatched to all the war hospitals of the kingdom. A busy little
company carried on this good work and, while I joined the women who
picked and cleaned the moss, my husband, though not strong enough to
tramp the moors and do the heavy work of collecting it and bringing
it up to Princetown, was instrumental in drying it and spreading it
on the asphalt lawn-tennis courts of the prison warders' cricket
ground, where this preliminary process was carried out. Michael also
kept records and accounts and indeed organized the whole depôt to
perfection.

"For nearly two years we stuck to this task, lodging here with Mrs.
Gerry. During that time I fell in love with Dartmoor and begged my
husband to build me a bungalow up here when the war was ended, if he
could afford to do so. His pilchard trade with Italy practically
came to an end after the summer of 1914. But the company of Pendean
and Trecarrow owned some good little steamers and these were soon
very valuable. So Michael, who had got to care for Dartmoor as much
as I did, presently took steps and succeeded in obtaining a long
lease of a beautiful and sheltered spot near Foggintor quarries, a
few miles from here.

"Meanwhile I had heard nothing from my uncles, though I had seen
Uncle Robert's name in the paper among those who had won the D.S.O.
Michael advised me to leave the question of my money until after the
war, and so I did. We began our bungalow last year and came back to
live with Mrs. Gerry until it should be completed.

"Six months ago I wrote to Uncle Albert in Italy and he told me that
he should deliberate the proposition; but he still much resented my
marriage. I wrote to Uncle Bendigo at Dartmouth also, who was now in
his new home; but while not particularly angry with me, his reply
spoke slightingly of my dear husband.

"These facts bring me to the situation that suddenly developed a
week ago, Mr. Brendon." She stopped and sighed again.

"I much fear that I am tiring you out," he said. "Would you like to
leave the rest?"

"No. For the sake of clearness it is better you hear everything now.
A week ago I was walking out of the post-office, when who should
suddenly stop in front of me on a motor bicycle but Uncle Robert? I
waited only to see him dismount and set his machine on a rest before
the post-office. Then I approached him. My arms were round his neck
and I was kissing him before he had time to know what had happened,
for I need not tell you that I had long since forgiven him. He
frowned at first but at last relented. He was lodging at Paignton,
down on Torbay, for the summer months, and he hinted that he was
engaged to be married. I behaved as nicely as I knew how, and when
he told me that he was going on to Plymouth for a few days before
returning to his present quarters, I implored him to let the past go
and be friends and come and talk to my husband.

"He had been to see an old war comrade at Two Bridges, two miles
from here, and meant to lunch at the Duchy Hotel and then proceed to
Plymouth; but I prevailed upon him at last to come and share our
midday meal, and I was able to tell him things about Michael which
promised to change his unfriendly attitude. To my delight he at
last consented to stop for a few hours, and I arranged the most
attractive little dinner that I could. When my husband returned from
the bungalow I brought them together again. Michael was on his
defence instantly; but he never harboured a grievance very long and
when he saw that Uncle Bob was not unfriendly and very interested to
hear he had won the O.B.E. for his valuable services at the depôt,
Michael showed a ready inclination to forget and forgive the past.

"I think that was almost the happiest day of my life and, with my
anxiety much modified, I was able to study Uncle Robert a little. He
seemed unchanged, save that he talked louder and was more excitable
than ever. The war had given him wide, new interests; he was a
captain and intended, if he could, to stop in the army. He had
escaped marvellously on many fields and seen much service. During
the last few weeks before the armistice, he succumbed to gassing and
was invalided; though, before that, he had also been out of action
from shell shock for two months. He made light of this; but I felt
there was really something different about him and suspected that
the shell shock accounted for the change. He was always excitable
and in extremes--now up in the clouds and now down in the
depths--but his terrible experiences had accentuated this
peculiarity and, despite his amiable manners and apparent good
spirits, both Michael and I felt that his nerves were highly strung
and that his judgment could hardly be relied upon. Indeed his
judgment was never a strong point.

"But he proved very jolly, though very egotistical. He talked for
hours about the war and what he had done to win his honours; and we
noticed particularly a feature of his conversation. His memory
failed him sometimes. By which I do not mean that he told us
anything contrary to fact; but he often repeated himself, and having
mentioned some adventure, would, after the lapse of an hour or less,
tell us the same story over again as something new.

"Michael explained to me afterwards that this defect was a serious
thing and probably indicated some brain trouble which might get
worse. I was too happy at our reconciliation, however, to feel any
concern for the moment and presently, after tea, I begged Uncle
Robert to stop with us for a few days instead of going to Plymouth.
We walked out over the moor in the evening to see the bungalow and
my uncle was very interested. Finally he decided that he would
remain for the night, at any rate, and we made him put up with us
and occupy Mrs. Gerry's spare bedroom, instead of going to the Duchy
Hotel as he intended.

"He stopped on and liked to lend a hand with the building sometimes
after the builders had gone. He and Michael often spent hours of
these long evenings there together; and I would take out tea to
them.

"Uncle Robert had told us about his engagement to a young woman, the
sister of a comrade in the war. She was stopping at Paignton with
her parents and he was now going to return to her. He made us
promise to come to Paignton next August for the Torbay Regatta; and
in secret I begged him to write to both, my other uncles and
explain that he was now satisfied Michael had done his bit in the
war. He consented to do so and thus it looked as though our
anxieties would soon be at an end.

"Last night Uncle Robert and Michael went, after an early tea, to
the bungalow, but I did not accompany them on this occasion. They
ran round by road on Uncle Robert's motor bicycle, my husband
sitting behind him, as he always did.

"Supper time came and neither of them appeared. I am speaking of
last night now. I did not bother till midnight, but then I grew
frightened. I went to the police station, saw Inspector Halfyard,
and told him that my husband and uncle had not come back from
Foggintor and that I was anxious about them. He knew them both by
sight and my husband personally, for he had been of great use to
Michael when the moss depôt was at work. That is all I can tell
you."

Mrs. Pendean stopped and Brendon rose.

"What remains to be told I will get from Inspector Halfyard
himself," he said. "And you must let me congratulate you on your
statement. It would have been impossible to put the past situation
more clearly before me. The great point you made is that your
husband and Captain Redmayne were entirely reconciled and left you
in complete friendship when you last saw them. You can assure me of
that?"

"Most emphatically."

"Have you looked into your uncle's room since he disappeared?"

"No, it has not been touched."

"Again thank you, Mrs. Pendean. I shall see you some time to-day."

"Can you give me any sort of hope?"

"As yet I know nothing of the actual event, and must not therefore
offer you hope, or tell you not to hope."

She shook his hand and a fleeting ghost of a smile, infinitely
pathetic but unconscious, touched her face. Even in grief the beauty
of the woman was remarkable; and to Brendon, whose private emotions
already struck into the present demands upon his intellect, she
appeared exquisite. As he left her he hoped that a great problem lay
before him. He desired to impress her--he looked forward with a
passing exaltation quite foreign from his usual staid and cautious
habit of mind; he even repeated to himself a pregnant saying that he
had come across in a book of quotations, though he knew not the
author of it.

     "There is an hour in which a man may be happy all his
      life, can he but find it."

Then he grew ashamed of himself and felt something like a blush
suffuse his plain features.

At the police station a car was waiting for him and in twenty
minutes he had reached Foggintor. Picking his way past the fishing
pools and regarding the frowning cliffs and wide spaces of the
quarry under a mournful mist, Mark proceeded to the aperture at the
farther end. Then he left the rill which ran out from this exit and
soon stood by the bungalow. It was now the dinner hour. Half a
dozen masons and carpenters were eating their meal in a wooden shed
near the building and with them sat two constables and their
superior officer.

Inspector Halfyard rose as Brendon appeared, came forward, and shook
hands.

"Lucky you was on the spot, my dear," he said in his homely Devon
way. "Not that it begins to look as if there was anything here deep
enough to ask for your cleverness."

Inspector Halfyard stood six feet high and had curiously broad,
square shoulders; but his imposing torso was ill supported. His legs
were very thin and long, and they turned out a trifle. With his
prominent nose, small head, and bright little slate-grey eyes, he
looked rather like a stork. He was rheumatic, too, and walked
stiffly.

"This here hole is no place for my legs," he confessed. "But from
the facts, so far as we've got 'em, Foggintor quarry don't come into
the story, though it looks as if it ought to. But the murder was
done here--inside this bungalow--and the chap that's done it hadn't
any use for such a likely sort of hiding-place."

"Have you searched the quarries'?"

"Not yet. 'Tis no good turning fifty men into this jakes of a hole
till we know whether it will be needful; but all points to somewhere
else. A terrible strange job--so strange, in fact, that we shall
probably find a criminal lunatic at the bottom of it. Everything
looks pretty clear, but it don't look sane."

"You haven't found the body?"

"No; but you can often prove murder mighty well without it--as now.
Come out to the bungalow and I'll tell you what there is to tell.
There's been a murder all right, but we're more likely to find the
murderer than his victim."

They went out together and soon stood in the building.

"Now let's have the story from where you come in," said Brendon, and
Inspector Halfyard told his tale.

"Somewhere about a quarter after midnight I was knocked up. Down I
came and Constable Ford, on duty at the time, told me that Mrs.
Pendean was wishful to see me. I knew her and her husband very well,
for they'd been the life and soul of the Moss Supply Depôt, run at
Princetown during the war.

"Her husband and her uncle, Captain Redmayne, had gone to the
bungalow, as they often did after working hours, to carry on a bit;
but at midnight they hadn't come home, and she was put about for
'em. Hearing of the motor bike, I thought there might have been a
breakdown, if not an accident, so I told Ford to knock up another
chap and go down along the road. Which they did do--and Ford came
back at half after three with ugly news that they'd seen nobody, but
they'd found a great pool of blood inside the bungalow--as if
somebody had been sticking a pig there. 'Twas daylight by then and I
motored out instanter. The mess is in the room that will be the
kitchen, and there's blood on the lintel of the back door which
opens into the kitchen.

"I looked round very carefully for anything in the nature of a clue,
but I couldn't see so much as a button. What makes any work here
wasted, so far as I can see, is the evidence of the people at the
cottages in the by-road to Foggintor, where we came in. A few
quarrymenn and their families live there, and also Tom Ringrose, the
water bailiff down on Walkham River. The quarrymen don't work here
because this place hasn't been open for more than a hundred years;
but they go to Duke's quarry down at Merivale, and most of 'em have
push bikes to take 'em to and from their job.

"At these cottages, on my way back to breakfast, I got some
information of a very definite kind. Two men told the same tale and
they hadn't met before they told it. One was Jim Bassett, under
foreman at Duke's quarry, and one was Ringrose, the water bailiff
who lives in the end cottage. Bassett has been at the bungalow once
or twice, as granite for it comes from the quarry at Merivale. He
knew Mr. Pendean and Captain Redmayne by sight and, last night,
somewhere about ten o'clock by summer time, while it was still
light, he saw the captain leave and pass the cottages. Bassett was
smoking at his door at the time and Robert Redmayne came alone,
pushing his motor bicycle till he reached the road. And behind the
saddle he had a big sack fastened to the machine.

"Bassett wished him 'good night' and he returned the compliment;
and half a mile down the by-road, Ringrose also passed him. He was
now on his machine and riding slowly till he reached the main road.
He reached it and then Ringrose heard him open out and get up speed.
He proceeded up the hill and the water bailiff supposed that he was
going back to Princetown."

Inspector Halfyard stopped.

"And that is all you know?" asked Brendon.

"As to Captain Redmayne's movements--yes," answered the elder.
"There will probably be information awaiting us when we return to
Princetown, as inquiries are afoot along both roads--to Moreton and
Exeter on the one side and by Dartmeet to Ashburton and the coast
towns on the other. He must have gone off to the moor by one of
those ways, I judge; and if he didn't, then he turned in his tracks
and got either to Plymouth, or away to the north. We can't fail to
pick up his line pretty quickly. He's a noticeable man."

"Did Ringrose also report the sack behind the motor bicycle?"

"He did."

"Before you mentioned it?"

"Yes, he volunteered that item, just as Bassett had done."

"Let me see what's to be seen here, then," said Brendon, and they
entered the kitchen of the bungalow together.



CHAPTER III

THE MYSTERY


Brendon followed Halfyard into the apartment destined to be the
kitchen of Michael Pendean's bungalow, and the inspector lifted some
tarpaulins that had been thrown upon a corner of the room. In the
midst stood a carpenter's bench, and the floor, the boards of which
had already been laid, was littered with shavings and tools. Under
the tarpaulin a great red stain soaked to the walls, where much
blood had flowed. It was still wet in places and upon it lay
shavings partially ensanguined. At the edge of the central stain
were smears and, among them, half the impress of a big, nail-studded
boot.

"Have the workmen been in here this morning?" asked Brendon, and
Inspector Halfyard answered that they had not.

"Two constables were here last night after one o'clock--the men I
sent from Princetown when Mrs. Pendean gave the alarm," he said.
"They looked round with an electric torch and found the blood. One
came back; the other stopped on the spot all night. I was out here
myself before the masons and carpenters came to work, and I forbade
them to touch anything till we'd made our examination. Mr. Pendean
was in the habit of doing a bit himself after hours."

"Can the men say if anything was done last night--in the way of
work on the bungalow?"

"No doubt they'd know."

Brendon sent for a mason and a carpenter; and while the latter
alleged that nothing had been added to the last work of himself and
his mate, the mason, pointing to a wall which was destined to
inclose the garden, declared that some heavy stones had been lifted
and mortared into place since he left on the previous evening at
five o 'clock.

"Pull down all the new work," directed Brendon.

Then he turned to examine the kitchen more closely. A very careful
survey produced no results and he could find nothing that the
carpenters were not able to account for. There was no evidence of
any struggle. A sheep might as easily have been killed in the
chamber as a man; but he judged the blood to be human and Halfyard
had made one discovery of possible importance. The timbers of the
kitchen door were already set up and they had received a preliminary
coat of white paint. This was smeared at the height of a man's
shoulder with blood.

Brandon then examined the ground immediately outside the kitchen
door. It was rough and trampled with many feet of the workmen but
gave no special imprints or other indications of the least value.
For twenty yards he scrutinized every inch of the ground and
presently found indications of a motor bicycle. It had stood
here--ten yards from the bungalow--and the marks of the wheels and
the rest lowered to support it were clear enough in the peat. He
traced the impressions as the machine was wheeled away and observed
that at one soft place they had pressed very deeply into the earth.
The pattern of the tire was familiar to him, a Dunlop. Half an hour
later one of the constables approached, saluted Mark, and made a
statement.

"They've pulled down the wall, sir, and found nothing there; but
Fulford, the mason, says that a sack is missing. It was a big sack,
in the corner of the shed out there, and the cement that it
contained is all poured out; but the sack has gone."

The detective visited the spot and turned over the pile of cement,
which revealed nothing. Then, having himself searched the workmen's
shed without discovering any clue, he strolled in the immediate
neighbourhood of the bungalow and examined the adjacent entrance to
the quarries. Not the least spark of light rewarded the search. He
came back presently out of the rain which had now begun to fall
steadily--but not before he had strolled as far as the fishing pools
and seen clear marks of naked, adult feet on the sandy brink.

Inspector Halfyard, who had remained in the bungalow, joined him
while he examined the other five chambers with close attention. In
the apartment destined for a sitting-room, which faced out upon the
great view to the southwest, Brendon found a cigar half smoked. It
had evidently been flung down alight and had smouldered for some
time, scorching the wooden floor before it went out. He found also
the end of a broken, brown boot lace with a brass tag. The lace had
evidently frayed away and probably had broken when being tied. But
he attached not the least importance to either fragment. Nothing
that he regarded as of value resulted from inspection of the
remaining rooms and Brendon presently decided that he would return
to Princetown. He showed Halfyard the footprints by the water and
had them protected with a tarpaulin.

"Something tells me that this is a pretty simple business all the
same," he said. "We need waste no more time here, inspector--at any
rate until we have got back to the telephone and heard the latest."

"What's your idea?"

"I should say we have to do with an unfortunate man who's gone mad,"
replied the detective; "and a madman doesn't take long to find as a
rule. I think it's murder right enough and I believe we shall find
that this soldier, who's had shell shock, turned on Pendean and cut
his throat, then, fondly hoping to hide the crime, got away with the
body. Why I judge him to be mad is because Mrs. Pendean, who has
told me the full story of the past, was able to assure me that the
men had become exceedingly friendly, and that certain differences,
which existed between them at the outbreak of the war, were entirely
composed. And even granting that they quarrelled again, the quarrel
must have suddenly sprung up. That seems improbable and one can't
easily imagine a sudden row so tremendous that it ends in murder.

"Redmayne was a big, powerful man and he may have struck without
intention to kill; but this mess means more than a blow with a fist.
I think that he was a homicidal maniac and probably plotted the job
beforehand with a madman's limited cunning; and if that is so,
there's pretty sure to be news waiting for us at Princetown. Before
dark we ought to know where are both the dead and the living man.
These footprints mean a bather, or perhaps two. We'll study them
later and drag the pond, if necessary."

The correctness of Brendon's deduction was made manifest within an
hour, and the operations of Robert Redmayne defined up to a point. A
man was waiting at the police station--George French, ostler at Two
Bridges Hotel, on West Dart.

"I knew Captain Redmayne," he said, "because he'd been down once or
twice of late to tea at Two Bridges. Last night, at half after ten,
I was crossing the road from the garage and suddenly, without
warning, a motor bike came over the bridge. I heard the rush of it
and only got out of the way by a yard. There was no light showing
but the man went through the beam thrown from the open door of the
hotel and I saw it was the captain by his great mustache and his red
waistcoat.

"He didn't see me, because it was taking him all his time to look
after himself, and he'd just let her go, to rush the stiff hill that
rises out of Two Bridges. He was gone like a puff of smoke and must
have been running terrible fast--fifty mile an hour I dare say. We
heard as there was trouble at Princetown and master sent me up over
to report what I'd seen."

"Which way did he go after he had passed, Mr. French?" asked
Brendon, who knew the Dartmoor country well. "The road forks above
Two Bridges. Did he take the right hand for Dartmeet, or the left
for Post Bridge and Moreton?"

But George could not say.

"'Twas like a thunder planet flashing by," he told Mark, "and I
don't know from Adam which way he went after he'd got up on top."

"Was anybody with him?"

"No, sir. I'd have seen that much; but he carried a big sack behind
the saddle--that I can swear to."

There had been several telephone calls for Inspector Halfyard during
his absence; and now three separate statements from different
districts awaited him. These were already written out by a
constable, and he took them one by one, read them, and handed them
to Brendon. The first came from the post office at Post Bridge, and
the post-mistress reported that a man, one Samuel White, had seen a
motor bicycle run at great speed without lights up the steep hill
northward of that village on the previous night. He gave the time as
between half past ten and eleven o'clock.

"We should have heard of him from Moreton next," said Halfyard;
"but, no. He must have branched under Hameldown and gone south, for
the next news is from Ashburton."

The second message told how a garage keeper was knocked up at
Ashburton, just after midnight, in order that petrol might be
obtained for a motor bicycle. The description of the purchaser
corresponded to Redmayne and the message added that the bicycle had
a large sack tied behind it. The rider was in no hurry; he smoked a
cigarette, swore because he could not get a drink, lighted his
lamps, and then proceeded by the Totnes road which wound through the
valley of the Dart southward.

The third communication came from the police station at Brixham and
was somewhat lengthy. It ran thus:

     "At ten minutes after two o'clock last night P.C. Widgery, on
     night duty at Brixham, saw a man on a motor bicycle with a
     large parcel behind him run through the town square. He
     proceeded down the main street and was gone for the best part
     of an hour; but, before three o'clock, Widgery saw him return
     without his parcel. He went fast up the hill out of Brixham,
     the way he came. Inquiries to-day show that he passed the
     Brixham coast-guard station about a quarter after two o'clock,
     and he must have lifted his machine over the barrier at the end
     of the coast-guard road, because he was seen by a boy, from
     Berry Head lighthouse, pushing it up the steep path that runs
     to the downs. The boy was going for a doctor, because his
     father, one of the lighthouse watchers, had been taken ill. The
     boy says the motor bicyclist was a big man and he was blowing,
     because the machine was heavy and the road just there very
     steep and rough. He saw no more of him on returning from the
     doctor. We are searching the Head and cliffs round about."

Inspector Halfyard waited until Brendon had read the messages and
put them down.

"About as easy as shelling peas--eh?" he asked.

"I expected an arrest," answered the detective. "It can't be long
delayed."

As though to confirm him the telephone bell rang and Halfyard rose
and entered the box to receive the latest information.

"Paignton speaking," said the message. "We have just called at
address of Captain Redmayne--No. 7 Marine Terrace. He was expected
last night--had wired yesterday to say he'd be home. They left
supper for him, as usual when he is expected, and went to bed.
Didn't hear him return, but found on going down house next morning
that he had come--supper eaten, motor bike in tool house in back
yard, where he keeps it. They called him at ten o'clock--no answer.
They went in his room. Not there and bed not slept in and his
clothes not changed. He's not been seen since."

"Hold on. Mark Brendon's here and has the case. He'll speak."

Inspector Halfyard reported the statement and Brendon picked up the
mouthpiece.

"Detective Brendon speaking. Who is it?"

"Inspector Reece, Paignton."

"Let me hear at five o'clock if arrest has been made. Failing arrest
I will motor down to you after that hour."

"Very good, sir. I expect to hear he's taken any minute."

"Nothing from Berry Head?"

"We've got a lot of men there and all round under the cliffs, but
nothing yet."

"All right, inspector. I'll come down if I don't hear to the
contrary by five."

He hung up the receiver.

"All over bar shouting, I reckon," said Halfyard.

"It looks like it. He's mad, poor devil."

"It's the dead man I'm sorry for."

Brendon considered, having first looked at his watch. Personal
thoughts would thrust themselves upon him, though he felt both
surprise and shame that they could do so. Certain realities were
clear enough to his mind, however future details might develop. And
the overmastering fact was that Jenny Pendean had lost her husband.
If she were, indeed, a widow--

He shook his head impatiently and turned to Halfyard.

"Should Robert Redmayne not be taken to-day, one or two things must
be done," he said. "You'd better have some of that blood collected
and the fact proved that it is human. And keep the cigar and boot
lace here for the minute, though I attach no importance to either.
Now I'll go and get some food and see Mrs. Pendean. Then I'll come
back. I'll take the police car for Paignton at half past five if we
hear nothing to alter my plans."

"You will. This isn't going to spoil your holiday, after all."

"What is it going to do, I wonder?" thought Brendon. But he said no
more and prepared to go on his way. It was now three o'clock.
Suddenly he turned and asked Halfyard a question.

"What do you think of Mrs. Pendean, inspector?"

"I think two things about her," answered the elder. "I think she's
such a lovely piece that it's hard to believe she's just flesh and
blood, like other women; and I think I never saw such worship for a
man as she had for her husband. This will knock her right bang out."

These opinions made the detective melancholy; but he had not yet
begun to reflect on how the passing of a dearly loved husband would
change the life of Mrs. Pendean. He suddenly felt himself thrust out
of the situation forever, yet resented his own conviction as
irrational.

"What sort of a man was he?"

"A friendly fashion of chap--Cornish--a pacifist at heart I reckon;
but we never talked war politics."

"What was his age?"

"Couldn't tell you--doubtful--might have been anything between
twenty-five and thirty-five. A man with weak eyes and a brown beard.
He wore double eye-glasses for close work, but his long sight he
said was good."

After a meal Brendon went again to Mrs. Pendean; but many rumours
had reached her through the morning and she already knew most of
what he had to tell. A change had come over her; she was very silent
and very pale. Mark knew that she had grasped the truth and knew
that her husband must probably be dead.

She was, however, anxious to learn if Brendon could explain what
had happened.

"Have you ever met with any such thing before?" she asked.

"No case is quite like another. They all have their differences. I
think that Captain Redmayne, who has suffered from shell shock, must
have been overtaken by loss of reason. Shell shock often produces
dementia of varying degrees--some lasting, some fleeting. I'm afraid
your uncle went out of his mind and, in a moment of madness, may
have done a dreadful thing. Then he set out, while he was still
insane, to cover up his action. So far as we can judge, he took away
his victim and meant apparently to throw him into the sea. I feel
only too sure that your husband has lost his life, Mrs. Pendean. You
must be prepared to accept that unspeakable misfortune."

"It is hard to accept," she answered, "because they were good
friends again."

"Something of which you do not know may have cropped up between them
to upset Redmayne. When he comes to his senses, he will probably
think the whole thing an evil dream. Have you a portrait of your
husband?"

She left the room and returned in a few moments with a photograph.
It presented a man of meditative countenance, wide forehead, and
steadfast eyes. He wore a beard, mustache and whiskers, and his hair
was rather long.

"Is that like him?"

"Yes; but it does not show his expression. It is not quite
natural--he was more animated than that."

"How old was he?"

"Not thirty, Mr. Brendon, but he looked considerably older."

Brendon studied the photograph.

"You can take it with you if you wish to do so. I have another
copy," said Mrs. Pendean.

"I shall remember very accurately," answered Brendon. "I am
tolerably certain that poor Mr. Pendean's body was thrown into the
sea and may already be recovered. That appears to have been Captain
Redmayne's purpose. Can you tell me anything about the lady to whom
your uncle is engaged?"

"I can give you her name and address. But I have never seen her."

"Had your husband seen her?"

"Not to my knowledge. Indeed I can say certainly that he never had.
She is a Miss Flora Reed and she is stopping with her mother and
father at the Singer Hotel, Paignton. Her brother, my uncle's friend
in France, is also there I believe."

"Thank you very much. If I hear nothing further, I go to Paignton
this evening."

"Why?"

"To pursue my inquiry and see all those who know your uncle. It has
puzzled me a little that he has not already been found, because a
man suffering from such an upset of mind could make no successful
attempt to evade a professional search for long. Nor, so far as we
know, has he apparently attempted to escape. After going to Berry
Head early this morning, he returned to his lodgings, ate a meal,
left his motor bicycle, and then went out again--still in his tweed
suit with the red waistcoat."

"You'll see Flora Reed?"

"If necessary; but I shall not go if Robert Redmayne has been
found."

"You think it is all very simple and straight-forward, then?"

"So it appears. The best that one can hope is that the unfortunate
man may come back to his senses and give a clear account of
everything. And may I ask what you design to do and if it is in my
power to serve you personally in any way?"

Jenny Pendean showed surprise at this question. She lifted her face
to Brendon's and a slight warmth touched its pallor.

"That is kind of you," she said. "I will not forget. But when we
know more, I shall probably leave here. If my husband has indeed
lost his life, the bungalow will not be finished by me. I shall go,
of course."

"May I hope that you have friends who are coming forward?"

She shook her head.

"As a matter of fact I am much alone in the world. My husband was
everything--everything. And I was everything to him also. You know
my story--I told you all there was to tell this morning. There
remain to me only my father's two brothers--Uncle Bendigo in
England, and Uncle Albert in Italy. I wrote them both to-day."

Mark rose.

"You shall hear from me to-morrow," he said, "and if I do not go to
Paignton, I will see you again to-night."

"Thank you--you are very kind."

"Let me ask you to consider yourself and your own health under this
great strain. People can endure anything, but often they find
afterwards that they have put too heavy a call on nature, when it
comes to pay the bill. Would you care to see a medical man?"

"No, Mr. Brendon--that is not necessary. If my husband should be--as
we think, then my own life has no further interest for me. I may end
it."

"For God's sake don't allow yourself to speak in that way," said
Brendon. "Look forward. If we can no longer be happy in the world,
that is not to deny us the power and privilege of being useful in
it. Think what your husband would have wished you to do and how he
would have expected you to face any great tragedy, or grief."

"You are a good man," said Mrs. Pendean quietly. "I appreciate what
you have said. You will see me again."

She took his hand and pressed it. Then he left her, bewildered by
the subtle atmosphere that seemed to surround her. He did not fear
her threat. There was a vitality and self-command about Mrs. Pendean
that seemed to shut out any likelihood of self-destruction. She was
young and time could be trusted to do its inevitable work. But he
perceived the quality of her love for the man who was too certainly
destroyed. She might face life, proceed with her own existence, and
bring happiness into other lives; but it did not follow that she
would ever forget her husband or consent to wed another.

He returned to the police station and was astonished to find that
Robert Redmayne continued at large. No news concerning him had been
reported; but there came a minor item of information from the
searchers at Berry Head. The cement sack had been found in the mouth
of a rabbit hole to the west of the Head above a precipice. The sack
was bloodstained and contained some small tufts of hair and the dust
of cement.

An hour later Mark Brendon had packed a bag and started in a police
motor car for Paignton; but there was no more to be learned when he
arrived. Inspector Reece shared Brendon's surprise that Redmayne had
not been arrested. He explained that fishermen and coast guards were
dragging the sea, as far as it was possible to do so, beneath the
cliff on which the sack had been found; but the tide ran strongly
here and local men suspected the current might well have carried a
body out to sea. They judged that the corpse would be found floating
within a mile or two of the Head in a week's time, if no means had
been taken to anchor it at the bottom.

Brendon called at Robert Redmayne's lodgings after he had eaten some
supper at the Singer Hotel. There he had taken a room, that he
might see and hear something of the vanished man's future wife and
her family. At No. 7 Marine Terrace the landlady, a Mrs. Medway,
could say little. Captain Redmayne was a genial, kind-hearted, but
hot-headed gentleman, she told Mark. He was irregular in his hours
and they never expected him until they saw him. He often thus
returned from excursions after the household was gone to bed. She
did not know at what hour he had come back on the previous night, or
at what hour he had gone out again; but he had not changed his
clothes or apparently taken anything away with him.

Brendon examined the motor bicycle with meticulous care. There was a
rest behind the saddle made of light iron bars, and here he detected
stains of blood. A fragment of tough string tied to the rest was
also stained. It had been cut--no doubt when Redmayne cast his
burden loose on reaching the cliffs. Nothing offered any difficulty
in the chain of circumstantial evidence, nor did another morning
furnish further problems save the supreme and sustained mystery of
Robert Redmayne's continued disappearance.

Brendon visited Berry Head before breakfast on the following day and
examined the cliff. It fell in broad scales of limestone, whereon
grew thistles and the white rock-rose, sea pinks and furze. Rabbits
dwelt here and the bloodstained sack had been discovered by a dog.
It was thrust into a hole, but the terrier had easily reached it and
dragged it into light.

Immediately beneath the spot, the cliffs fell starkly into the
sea--a drop of three hundred feet. Beneath was deep water and only
an occasional cleft or cranny broke the face of the shining
precipice, where green things made shift to live and the gulls built
their rough nests with scurvy grass. No sign marked the cliff edge,
but beneath, on the green sea, were boats from which fishermen still
dredged for the dead. This work, long continued, had yielded no
results whatever.

Later in the day Brendon returned to his hotel and introduced
himself to Miss Reed and her family to find that her brother, Robert
Redmayne's friend, had returned to London. She and her parents were
sitting together in the lounge when he joined them. All three
appeared to be much shocked and painfully mystified. None could
throw any light. Mr. and Mrs. Reed were quiet, elderly people who
kept a draper shop in London; their daughter revealed more
character. She was a head taller than her father and cast in a
generous mould. She exhibited a good deal of manner and less actual
sorrow than might have been expected; but Brendon discovered that
she had only known Robert Redmayne for half a year and their actual
engagement was not of much more than a month's duration. Miss Reed
was dark, animated, and commonplace of mind. Her ambition had been
to go upon the stage and she had acted on tour in the country; but
she declared that theatrical life wearied her and she had promised
her future husband to abandon the art.

"Did you ever hear Captain Redmayne speak of his niece and her
husband?" Brendon inquired, and Flora Reed answered:

"He did; and he always said that Michael Pendean was a 'shirker' and
a coward. He also assured me that he had done with his niece and
should never forgive her for marrying her husband. But that was
before Bob went to Princetown, six days ago. From there he wrote
quite a different story. He had met them by chance and he found that
Mr. Pendean had not shirked but done good work in the war and got
the O.B.E. After that discovery, Bob changed and he was certainly on
the best of terms with the Pendeans before this awful thing
happened. He had already made them promise to come here for the
regattas."

"You have neither seen nor heard of the captain since?"

"Indeed, no. My last letter, which you can see, came three days ago.
In it he merely said he would be back yesterday and meet me to bathe
as usual. I went to bathe and looked out for him, but of course he
didn't come."

"Tell me a little about him, Miss Reed," said Mark. "It is good of
you to give me this interview, for we are up against a curious
problem and the situation, as it appears at present, may be illusive
and quite unlike the real facts. Captain Redmayne, I hear, had
suffered from shell shock and a breath of poison gas also. Did you
ever notice any signs that these troubles had left any mark upon
him?"

"Yes," she answered. "We all did. My mother was the first to point
out that Bob often repeated himself. He was a man of great good
temper, but the war had made him rough and cynical in some respects.
He was impatient, yet, after he quarrelled or had a difference with
anybody, he would be quickly sorry; and he was never ashamed to
apologize."

"Did he quarrel often?"

"He was very opinionated and, of course, he had seen a good deal of
actual war. It had made him a little callous and he would sometimes
say things that shocked civilians. Then they would protest and make
him angry."

"You cared much for him? Forgive the question."

"I admired him and I had a good influence over him. There were fine
things in him--great bravery and honesty. Yes, I loved him and was
proud of him. I think he would have become calmer and less excitable
and impatient in time. Doctors had told him that he would outgrow
all effects of his shock."

"Was he a man you can conceive of as capable of striking or killing
a fellow creature?"

The lady hesitated.

"I only want to help him," she answered. "Therefore I say that,
given sufficient provocation, I can imagine Bob's temper flaring
out, and I can see that it would have been possible to him, in a
moment of passion, to strike down a man. He had seen much death and
was himself absolutely indifferent to danger. Yes, I can imagine him
doing an enemy, or fancied enemy, a hurt; but what I cannot imagine
him doing is what he is supposed to have done afterwards--evade the
consequence of a mistaken act."

"And yet we have the strongest testimony that he has tried to
conceal a murder--whether committed by himself, or somebody else, we
cannot yet say."

"I only hope and pray, for all our sakes, that you will find him,"
she replied, "but if, indeed, he has been betrayed into such an
awful crime, I do not think you will find him."

"Why not, Miss Reed? But I think I know. What is in your mind has
already passed through my own. The thought of suicide."

She nodded and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Yes; if poor Bob lost himself and then found himself and discovered
that he had killed an innocent man in a moment of passion, he would,
if I know him, do one of two things--either give himself up
instantly and explain all that had happened, or else destroy himself
as quickly as he could."

"Motive is not always adequate," Brendon told them. "A swift,
passing storm of temper has often destroyed a life with no more evil
intent than a flash of lightning. In this case, only such a storm
seems to be the explanation. But how a man of the Pendean type could
have provoked such a storm I have yet to learn. So far the testimony
of Mrs. Pendean and the assurances of Inspector Halfyard at
Princetown indicate an amiable and quiet person, slow to anger.
Inspector Halfyard knew him quite well at the Moss Depôt, where he
worked through two years of the war. He was apparently not a man to
have infuriated Captain Redmayne or anybody else."

Mark then related his own brief personal experience of Redmayne on
the occasion of their meeting by the quarry pools. For some reason
this personal anecdote touched Flora Reed and the detective observed
that she was genuinely moved by it.

Indeed she began to weep and presently rose and left them. Her
parents were able to speak more freely upon her departure.

Mr. Reed indeed, from being somewhat silent and indifferent, grew
voluble.

"I think it right to tell you," he said, "that my wife and I never
cared much for this engagement. Redmayne meant well and had a good
heart I believe. He was free-handed and exceedingly enamoured of
Flora. He made violent love from the first and his affection was
returned. But I never could see him a steady, married man. He was a
rover and the war had made him--not exactly inhuman, but apparently
unconscious of his own obligations to society and his own duty, as a
reasonable being, to help build up the broken organization of social
life. He only lived for pleasure and sport or spending money; and
though I do not suggest he would have been a bad husband, I did not
see the makings of a stable home in his ideas of the future. He had
inherited some forty thousand pounds, but he was very ignorant of
the value of money and he showed no particular good sense on the
subject of his coming responsibilities."

Mark Brendon thanked them for their information and repeated his
growing conviction that the subject of their speech had probably
committed suicide.

"Every hour which fails to account for him increases my fear," he
said. "Indeed it may be a good thing to happen; for the alternative
can at best be Broadmoor; and it is a hateful thought that a man who
has fought for his country, and fought well, should end his days in
a criminal lunatic asylum."

For two days the detective remained at Paignton and devoted all his
energy, invention, and experience to the task of discovering the
vanished men. But, neither alive nor dead, did either appear, and
not a particle of information came from Princetown or elsewhere.
Portraits of Robert Redmayne were printed and soon hung on the
notice board of every police station in the west and south; but one
or two mistaken arrests alone resulted from this publicity. A tramp
with a big red mustache was detained in North Devon and a recruit
arrested at Devonport. This man resembled the photograph and had
joined a line regiment twenty-four hours after the disappearance of
Redmayne. Both, however, could give a full account of themselves.

Then Brendon prepared to return to Princetown. He wrote his
intention to Mrs. Pendean and informed her that he would visit
Station Cottages on the following evening. It happened, however,
that his letter crossed another and his plans were altered, for
Jenny Pendean had already left Princetown and joined Mr. Bendigo
Redmayne at his house, "Crow's Nest," beyond Dartmouth. She wrote:

     "My uncle has begged me to come and I was thankful to do so. I
     have to tell you that Uncle Bendigo received a letter yesterday
     from his brother, Robert. I begged him to let me send it to you
     instantly, but he declines. Uncle Bendigo is on Captain
     Redmayne's side I can see. He would not, I am sure, do anything
     to interfere with the law, but he is convinced that we do not
     know all there is to be told about this terrible thing. The
     motor boat from 'Crow's Nest' will be at Kingswear Ferry to
     meet the train reaching there at two o'clock to-morrow and I
     hope you may still be at Paignton and able to come here for a
     few hours."

She added a word of thanks to him and a regret that his holiday was
being spoiled by her tragedy.

Whereupon the man's thoughts turned to her entirely and he forgot
for a while the significance of her letter. He had expected to see
her that night at Princetown. Instead he would find her far nearer,
in the house on the cliffs beyond Dartmouth.

He telegraphed presently that he would meet the launch. Then he had
leisure to be annoyed that the letter from Robert Redmayne was thus
delayed. He speculated on Bendigo Redmayne.

"A brother is a brother," he thought, "and no doubt this old
sailor's home would offer a very efficient hiding-place for any
vanished man."



CHAPTER IV

A CLUE


A motor boat lay off Kingswear Ferry when Mark Brendon arrived. The
famous harbour was new to him and though his mind found itself
sufficiently occupied, he still had perception disengaged and could
admire the graceful river, the hills towering above the estuary, and
the ancient town lying within their infolding and tree-clad slopes.
Dominating all stood the Royal Naval College, its great masses of
white and red masonry breaking the blue sky.

A perfect little craft awaited him. She was painted white and
furnished with teak. Her brasses and machinery glittered; the
engines and steering wheel were set forward, while aft of the cabins
and saloon an awning was rigged over the stern. The solitary sailor
who controlled the launch was in the act of furling this protection
against the sun as Mark descended to the water; and while the man
did so, Brendon's eyes brightened, for a passenger already occupied
the boat: a woman sat there and he saw Jenny Pendean.

She wore black and he found, as he leaped aboard and greeted her,
that her mourning attire was an echo to her heart. That had happened
which convinced the young wife that all hope must be abandoned; she
knew that she was a widow, for the letter in her uncle's possession
told her so. She greeted the detective kindly and was glad that he
had responded to her invitation, but Mark soon found that her
attitude of mind had changed. She now exhibited an extreme
listlessness and profound melancholy. He told her that a letter from
himself had gone to her at Princetown and he asked her for
information respecting the communication received from Captain
Redmayne; but she was not responsive.

"My uncle will tell you what there is to tell," she said. "It
appears that your original suspicion has proved correct. My husband
has lost his precious life at the hands of a madman."

"Yet it seems incredible, Mrs. Pendean, that such an afflicted
creature, if alive, should still be evading the general search. Can
you tell me from where this letter came? We ought to have heard of
it instantly."

"So I told my Uncle Bendigo."

"Is he sure that it really does come from his brother?"

"Yes; there is no doubt about that. The letter was posted in
Plymouth. But please do not ask me about it, Mr. Brendon. I do not
want to think of it."

"I hope you are keeping well; and I know you are being brave."

"I am alive," she said, "but my life has none the less ended."

"You must not think or feel so. Let me say a thing that comforted
me in the mouth of another when I lost my mother. It was an old
clergyman who said it. 'Think what the dead would wish and try to
please them.' It doesn't sound much; but if you consider, it is
helpful."

The boat was speedy and she soon slipped out between the historic
castles that stood on either bank of the entrance to the harbour.

Mrs. Pendean spoke.

"All this loveliness and peace seem to make my heart more sore. When
people suffer, they should go where nature suffers too--to bleak,
sad regions."

"You must occupy yourself. You must try to lose yourself in work--in
working your fingers to the bone if need be. There is nothing like
mental and physical toil at a time of suffering."

"That is only a drug. You might as well drink, or take opium. I
wouldn't run away from my grief if I could. I owe it to the dead."

"You are not a coward. You must live and make the world happier for
your life."

She smiled for the first time--a flicker, that lightened her beauty
for a moment and quickly died.

"You are good and kind and wise," she answered. Then she changed the
subject and pointed to the man in the bows. He sat upright with his
back to them at the wheel forward. He had taken off his hat and was
singing very gently to himself, but hardly loud enough to be heard
against the drone of the engines. His song was from an early opera
of Verdi.

"Have you noticed that man?"

Mark shook his head.

"He is an Italian. He comes from Turin but has worked in England for
some time. He looks to me more Greek than Italian--not modern Greek
but from classical times--the times I used to study as a schoolgirl.
He has a head like a statue."

She called to the boatman.

"Stand out a mile or so, Doria," she said. "I want Mr. Brendon to
see the coast line."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," he answered and altered their course for the open
sea.

He had turned at Jenny Pendean's voice and shown Mark a brown,
bright, clean-shorn face of great beauty. It was of classical
contour, but lacked the soulless perfection of the Greek ideal. The
Italian's black eyes were brilliant and showed intelligence.

"Giuseppe Doria has a wonderful story about himself," continued Mrs.
Pendean. "Uncle Ben tells me that he claims descent from a very
ancient family and is the last of the Dorias of--I forget--some
place near Ventimiglia. My uncle thinks the world of him; but I hope
he is as trustworthy and as honest in character as he is handsome in
person."

"He certainly might be well born. There is distinction, quality, and
breeding about his appearance."

"He is clever, too--an all-round sort of man, like most sailors."

Brendon admired the varied charms of the Dartmouth coast, the
bluffs and green headlands, the rich, red sandstone cliffs, and
pearly precipices of limestone that rose above the tranquil waters.
The boat turned west presently, passed a panorama of cliffs and
little bays with sandy beaches, and anon skirted higher and sterner
precipices, which leaped six hundred feet aloft.

Perched among them like a bird's nest stood a small house with
windows that blinked out over the Channel. It rose to a tower room
in the midst, and before the front there stretched a plateau whereon
stood a flagstaff and spar, from the point of which fluttered a red
ensign. Behind the house opened a narrow coomb and descended a road
to the dwelling. Cliffs beetled round about it and the summer waves
broke idly below and strung the land with a necklace of pearl. Far
beneath the habitation, just above high-tide level, a strip of
shingle spread, and above it a sea cave had been turned into a
boathouse. Hither came Brendon and his companion.

The motor launch slowed down and presently grounded her bow on the
pebbles. Then Doria stopped the engine, flung a gangway stage
ashore, and stood by to hand Jenny Pendean and the detective to the
beach. The place appeared to have no exit; but, behind a ledge of
rock, stairs carved in the stone wound upward, guarded by an iron
handrail. Jenny led the way and Mark followed her until two hundred
steps were climbed and they stood on the terrace above. It was fifty
yards long and covered with sea gravel. Two little brass cannon
thrust their muzzles over the parapet to seaward and the central
space of grass about the flagpole was neatly surrounded with a
decoration of scallop shells.

"Could anybody but an old sailor have created this place?" asked
Brendon.

A middle-aged man with a telescope under his arm came along the
terrace to greet them. Bendigo Redmayne was square and solid with
the cut of the sea about him. His uncovered head blazed with
flaming, close-clipped hair and he wore also a short, red beard and
whiskers growing grizzled. But his long upper lip was shaved. He had
a weather-beaten face--ruddy and deepening to purple about the cheek
bones--with eyebrows, rough as bent grass, over deep-set, sulky eyes
of reddish brown. His mouth was underhung, giving him a pugnacious
and bad-tempered appearance. Nor did his looks appear to libel the
old sailor. To Brendon, at any rate, he showed at first no very
great consideration.

"You've come I see," he said, shaking hands. "No news?"

"None, Mr. Redmayne."

"Well, well! To think Scotland Yard can't find a poor soul that's
gone off his rocker!"

"You might have helped us to do so," said Mark shortly, "if it's
true that you've had a letter from your brother."

"I'm doing it, ain't I? It's here for you."

"You've lost two days."

Bendigo Redmayne grunted.

"Come in and see the letter," he said. "I never thought you'd fail.
It's all very terrible indeed and I'm damned if I understand
anything about it. But one fact is clear: my brother wrote this
letter and he wrote it from Plymouth; and since he hasn't been
reported from Plymouth, I feel very little doubt the thing he wanted
to happen has happened."

Then he turned to his niece.

"We'll have a cup of tea in half an hour, Jenny. Meantime I'll take
Mr. Brendon up to the tower room along with me."

Mrs. Pendean disappeared into the house and Mark followed her with
the sailor.

They passed through a square hall full of various foreign
curiosities collected by the owner. Then they ascended into a large,
octagonal chamber, like the lantern of a lighthouse, which
surmounted the dwelling.

"My lookout," explained Mr. Redmayne. "In foul weather I spend all
my time up here and with yonder strong, three-inch telescope I can
pick up what's doing at sea. A bunk in the corner, you see. I often
sleep up here, too."

"You might almost as well be afloat," said Brendon, and the remark
pleased Bendigo.

"That's how I feel; and I can tell you there's a bit of movement,
too, sometimes. I never wish to see bigger water than beat these
cliffs during the south-easter last March. We shook to our keel, I
can tell you."

He went to a tall cupboard in a corner, unlocked it and brought out
a square, wooden desk of old-fashioned pattern. This he opened and
produced a letter which he handed to the detective.

Brendon sat down in a chair under the open window and read this
communication slowly. The writing was large and sprawling; it sloped
slightly-upward from left to right across the sheet and left a
triangle of white paper at the right-hand bottom corner:

     "DEAR BEN: It's all over. I've done in Michael Pendean and put
     him where only Judgment Day will find him. Something drove me
     to do it; but all the same I'm sorry now it's done--not for him
     but myself. I shall clear to-night, with luck, for France. If I
     can send an address later I will. Look after Jenny--she's well
     rid of the blighter. When things have blown over I may come
     back. Tell Albert and tell Flo. Yours,

                                             "R. R."

Brendon examined the letter and the envelope that contained it.

"Have you another communication--something from the past I can
compare with this?" he asked.

Bendigo nodded.

"I reckoned you'd want that," he answered and produced a second
letter from his desk.

It related to Robert Redmayne's engagement to be married and the
writing was identical.

"And what do you think he's done, Mr. Redmayne?" Brendon asked,
pocketing the two communications.

"I think he's done what he hoped to do. At this time of year you'll
see a dozen Spanish and Brittany onion boats lying down by the
Barbican at Plymouth, every day of the week. And if poor Bob got
there, no doubt plenty of chaps would hide him when he offered 'em
money enough to make it worth while. Once aboard one of those
sloops, he'd be about as safe as he would be anywhere. They'd land
him at St. Malo, or somewhere down there, and he'd give you the
slip."

"And, until it was found out that he was mad, we might hear no more
about him."

"Why should it be found that he was mad?" asked Bendigo. "He was
mad when he killed this innocent man, no doubt, because none but a
lunatic would have done such an awful thing, or been so cunning
after--with the sort of childish cunning that gave him away from
the start. But once he'd done what this twist in his brain drove
him to do, then I judge that his madness very likely left him. If
you caught him to-morrow, you'd possibly find him as sane as
yourself--except on that one subject. He'd worked up his old
hatred of Michael Pendean, as a shirker in the war, until it
festered in his head and poisoned his mind, so as he couldn't get
it under. That's how I read it. I had a pretty good contempt for
the poor chap myself and was properly savage with my niece, when
she wedded him against our wishes; but my feeling didn't turn my
head, and I felt glad to hear that Pendean was an honest man, who
did the best he could at the Moss Depôt."

Brendon considered.

"A very sound view," he said, "and likely to be correct. On the
strength of this letter, we may conclude that when he went home,
after disposing of the body under Berry Head, your brother must have
disguised himself in some way and taken an early train from
Paignton to Newton Abbot and from Newton Abbot to Plymouth. He would
already have been there and lying low before the hunt began."

"That's how I figure it," answered the sailor.

"When did you last see him, Mr. Redmayne?"

"Somewhere about a month ago. He came over for the day with Miss
Reed--the young woman he was going to marry."

"Was he all right then?"

Bendigo considered and scratched in his red beard.

"Noisy and full of chatter, but much as usual."

"Did he mention Mr. and Mrs. Pendean?"

"Not a word. He was full up with his young woman. They meant to be
married in late autumn and go abroad for a run to see my brother
Albert."

"He may correspond with Miss Reed if he gets to France?"

"I can't say what he'll do. Suppose you catch him presently? How
would the law stand? A man goes mad and commits a murder. Then you
nab him and he's as sane as a judge. You can't hang him for what he
did when he was off his head, and you can't shut him up in a lunatic
asylum if he's sane."

"A nice problem, no doubt," admitted Brendon, "but be sure the law
will take no risks. A homicidal maniac, no matter how sane he is
between times, is not going to run loose any more after killing a
man."

"Well, that's all there is to it, detective. If I hear again, I'll
let the police know; and if you take him, of course you'll let me
and his brother know at once. It's a very ugly thing for his family.
He did good work in the war and got honours; and if he's mad, then
the war made him mad."

"That would be taken very fully into account, be sure. I'm sorry,
both for him and for you, Mr. Redmayne."

Bendigo looked sulkily from under his tangled eyebrows.

"I shouldn't feel no very great call to give him up to the living
death of an asylum, if he hove in here some night."

"You'd do your duty--that I will bet," replied Brendon.

They descended to the dining-room, where Jenny Pendean was waiting
to pour out tea. All were very silent and Mark had leisure to
observe the young widow.

"What shall you do and where may I count upon finding you if I want
you, Mrs. Pendean?" he asked presently.

She looked at Redmayne, not at Brendon, as she answered.

"I am in Uncle Bendigo's hands. I know he will let me stop here for
the present."

"For keeps," the old sailor declared. "This is your home now, Jenny,
and I'm very glad to have you here. There's only you and your Uncle
Albert and me now, I reckon, for I don't think we shall ever see
poor Bob again."

An elderly woman came in.

"Doria be wishful to know when you'll want the boat," she said.

"I should like it immediately if possible," begged Brendon. "Much
time has been lost."

"Tell them to get aboard, then," directed Brendigo, and in five
minutes Mark was taking his leave.

"I'll let you have the earliest intimation of the capture, Mr.
Redmayne," he said. "If your poor brother still lives, it seems
impossible that he should long be free. His present condition must
be one of great torment and anxiety--to him--and for his own sake I
hope he will soon surrender or be found--if not in England, then in
France."

"Thank you," answered the older man quietly. "What you say is true.
I regret the delay myself now. If he is heard of again by me, I'll
telegraph to Scotland Yard, or get 'em to do so at Dartmouth. I've
slung a telephone wire into the town as you see."

They stood again under the flagstaff on the plateau, and Brendon
studied the rugged cliff line and the fields of corn that sloped
away inland above it. The district was very lonely and only the
rooftree of a solitary farmhouse appeared a mile or more distant to
the west.

"If he should come to you--and I have still a fancy that he may do
so--take him in and let us know," said Brendon. "Such a necessity
will be unspeakably painful, I fear, but I am very sure you will not
shrink from it, Mr. Redmayne."

The rough old man had grown more amiable during the detective's
visit. It was clear that a natural aversion for Brendon's business
no longer extended to the detective himself.

"Duty's duty," he said, "though God keep me from yours. If I can do
anything, you may trust me to do it. He's not likely to come here, I
think; but he might try and get over to Albert down south. Good-bye
to you."

Mr. Redmayne went back to the house, and Jenny, who stood by them,
walked as far as the top of the steps with Brendon.

"Don't think I bear any ill will to this poor wretch," she said.
"I'm only heartbroken, that's all. I used to declare in my
foolishness that I had escaped the war. But no--it is the war that
has killed my dear, dear husband--not Uncle Robert. I see that now."

"It is all to the good that you can be so wise," answered Mark
quietly. "I admire your splendid patience and courage, Mrs. Pendean,
and--and--would do for you, and will do, everything that wit of man
can."

"Thank you, kind friend," she replied. Then she shook his hand and
bade him farewell.

"Will you let me know if you leave here?" he asked.

"Yes--since you wish it."

They parted and he ran down the steps, scarcely seeing them. He felt
that he already loved this woman with his whole soul. The tremendous
emotion swept him, while reason and common sense protested.

Mark leaped aboard the waiting motor boat and they were soon
speeding back to Dartmouth, while Doria spoke eagerly. But the
passenger felt little disposed to gratify the Italian's curiosity.
Instead he asked him a few questions respecting himself and found
that the other delighted to discuss his own affairs. Doria revealed
a southern levity and self-satisfaction that furnished Brendon with
something to think about before the launch ran to the landing-stage
at Dartmouth.

"How comes it you are not back in your own country, now the war is
over?" he asked Doria.

"It is because the war is over that I have left my own country,
signor," answered Giuseppe. "I fought against Austria on the sea;
but now--now Italy is an unhappy place--no home for heroes at
present. I am not a common man. I have a great ancestry--the Doria
of Dolceaqua in the Alpes Maritimes. You have heard of the Doria?"

"I'm afraid not--history isn't my strong suit."

"On the banks of the River Nervia the Doria had their mighty castle
and ruled the land of Dolceaqua. A fighting people. There was a
Doria who slew the Prince of Monaco. But great families--they are
like nations--their history is a sand hill in the hour-glass of
time. They arise and crumble by the process of their own
development. Si! Time gives the hour-glass a shake and they are
gone--to the last grain. I am the last grain. We sank and sank till
only I remain. My father was a cab driver at Bordighera. He died in
the war and my mother, too, is dead. I have no brothers, but one
sister. She disgraced herself and is, I hope, now dead also. I know
her not. So I am left, and the fate of that so mighty family lies
with me alone--a family that once reigned as sovereign princes."

Brendon was sitting beside the boatman in the bows of the launch,
and he could not but admire the Italian's amazing good looks.
Moreover there were mind and ambition revealed in him, coupled with
a frank cynicism which appeared in a moment.

"Families have hung on a thread like that sometimes," said Mark;
"the thread of a solitary life. Perhaps you are born to revive the
fortunes of your race, Doria?"

"There is no 'perhaps.' I am. I have a good demon who talks to me
sometimes. I am born for great deeds. I am very handsome--that was
needful; I am very clever--that, too, was needful. There is only one
thing that stands between me and the ruined castle of my race at
Dolceaqua--only one thing. And that is in the world waiting for me."

Brendon laughed.

"Then what are you doing in this motor launch?"

"Marking the time. Waiting."

"For what?"

"A woman--a wife, my friend. The one thing needful is a woman--with
much money. My face will win her fortune--you understand. That is
why I came to England. Italy has no rich heiresses for the present.
But I have made a false step here. I must go among the élite, where
there is large money. When gold speaks, all tongues are silent."

"You don't deceive yourself?"

"No--I know what I have to market. Women are very attracted by the
beauty of my face, signor."

"Are they?"

"It is the type--classical and ancient--that they adore. Why not?
Only a fool pretends that he is less than he is. Such a gifted
man as I, with the blood of a proud and a noble race in his
veins--everything to be desired--romance--and the gift to love as
only an Italian loves--such a man must find a very splendid, rich
girl. It is only a question of patience. But such a treasure will
not be found with this old sea wolf. He is not of long descent. I
did not know. I should have seen him and his little mean hole first
before coming to him. I advertise again and get into a higher
atmosphere."

Brendon found his thoughts wholly occupied with Jenny Pendean. Was
it within the bounds of possibility that she, as time passed to
dim her sufferings and sense of loss, might look twice at this
extraordinary being? He wondered, but thought it improbable.
Moreover the last of the Dorias evidently aimed at greater position
and greater wealth than Michael Pendean's widow had to offer. Mark
found himself despising the extraordinary creature, who violated so
frankly and cheerfully every English standard of reserve and
modesty. Yet the other's self-possession and sense of his own value
in the market impressed him.

He was glad to give Doria five shillings and leave him at the
landing-stage. But none the less Giuseppe haunted his imagination.
One might dislike his arrogance, or rejoice in his physical beauty,
but to escape his vitality and the electric force of him was
impossible.

Brendon soon reached the police station and hastened to communicate
with Plymouth, Paignton, and Princetown. To the last place he sent a
special direction and told Inspector Halfyard to visit Mrs. Gerry at
Station Cottages and make a careful examination of the room which
Robert Redmayne had there occupied.



CHAPTER V

ROBERT REDMAYNE IS SEEN


A sense of unreality impressed itself upon Mark Brendon after this
stage in his inquiry. A time was coming when the false atmosphere in
which he moved would be blown away by a stronger mind and a greater
genius than his own; but already he found himself dimly conscious
that some fundamental error had launched him along the wrong
road--that he was groping in a blind alley and had missed the only
path leading toward reality.

From Paignton on the following morning he proceeded to Plymouth and
directed a strenuous and close inquiry. But he knew well enough that
he was probably too late and judged with certainty that if Robert
Redmayne still lived, he would no longer be in England. Next he
returned to Princetown, that he might go over the ground again, even
while appreciating the futility of so doing. But the routine had
to be observed. The impressions of naked feet on the sand were
carefully protected. They proved too indefinite to be distinguished,
but he satisfied himself that they represented the footprints of two
men, if not three. He remembered that Robert Redmayne had spoken of
bathing in the pools and he strove to prove three separate pairs of
feet, but could not.

Inspector Halfyard, who had followed the case as closely as it was
possible to do so, cast all blame on Bendigo, the brother of the
vanished assassin.

"He delayed of set purpose," vowed Halfyard, "and them two days may
make just all the difference. Now the murderer's in France, if not
Spain."

"Full particulars have been circulated," explained Brendon, but the
inspector attached no importance to that fact.

"We know how often foreign police catch a runaway," he said.

"This is no ordinary runaway, however. I still prefer to regard him
as insane."

"In that case he'd have been taken before now. And that makes what
was simple before more and more of a puzzle in my opinion. I don't
believe that the man was mad. I believe he was and is all there; and
that being so, you've got to begin over again, Brendon, and find why
he did it. Once grant that this was a deliberately planned murder
and a mighty sight cleverer than it looked at first sight, then
you've got to ferret back into the past and find what motives
Redmayne had for doing it."

But Brendon was not convinced.

"I can't agree with you," he answered. "I've already pursued that
theory, but it is altogether too fantastic. We know, from impartial
testimony, that the men were the best of friends up to the moment
they left Princetown together on Redmayne's motor bicycle the night
of the trouble."

"What impartial testimony? You can't call Mrs. Pendean's evidence
impartial."

"Why not? I feel very certain that it is; but I'm speaking now of
what I heard at Paignton from Miss Flora Reed, who was engaged to
Robert Redmayne. She said that her betrothed wrote indicating his
complete change of opinion; and he also told her that he had asked
his niece and her husband to Paignton for the regattas. What is
more, both Miss Reed and her parents made it clear that the soldier
was of an excitable and uncertain nature. In fact Mr. Reed didn't
much approve of the match. He described a man who might very easily
slip over the border line between reason and unreason. No, Halfyard,
you'll not find any theory to hold water but the theory of a
mental breakdown. The letter he wrote to his brother quite confirms
it. The very writing shows a lack of restraint and self-control."

"The writing was really his?"

"I've compared it with another letter in Bendigo Redmayne's
possession. It's a peculiar fist. I should say there couldn't be a
shadow of doubt."

"What shall you do next?"

"Get back to Plymouth again and make close inquiries among the onion
boats. They go and come and I can trace the craft that left Plymouth
during the days that immediately followed the posting of Redmayne's
letter. These will probably be back again with another load in a
week or two. One ought to be able to check them."

"A wild-goose chase, Brendon."

"Looks to me as though the whole inquiry had been pretty much so
from the first. We've missed the key somewhere. How the man that
left Paignton in knickerbockers, and a big check suit and a red
waistcoat on the morning after the murder got away with it and never
challenged a single eye on rail or road--well, it's such a flat
contradiction to reason and experience that I can't easily believe
the face value."

"No--there's a breakdown somewhere--that's what I'm telling you; but
whether the fault is ours, or a trick has been played to put us
fairly out of the running, no doubt you'll find out soon or late. I
don't see there's anything more we can do up here whether or no."

"There isn't," admitted Mark. "It's all been routine work and a
devil of lot of time wasted in my opinion. Between ourselves, I'm
rather ashamed of myself, Halfyard. I've missed something--the thing
that most mattered. There's a signpost sticking up somewhere that I
never saw."

The inspector nodded.

"It happens so sometimes--cruel vexing--and then people laugh at us
and ask how we earn our money. Now and again, as you say, there's a
danger signal to a case so clear as the nose on a man's face, and
yet, owing to following some other clue, or sticking to a theory
that we feel can and must be the only right one, we miss the real,
vital point till we go and bark our shins on it. And then, perhaps,
it's too late and we look silly."

Brendon admitted the truth of this experience.

"There can only be two possible situations," he said; "either this
was a motiveless murder--and lack of motive means insanity; or else
there was a deep reason for it and Redmayne killed Pendean, after
plotting far in advance to do so and get clear himself. In the first
case he would have been found, unless he had committed suicide in
some such cunning fashion that we can't discover the body. In the
second case, he's a very cute bird indeed and the ride to Paignton
and disposal of the corpse--that all looked so mad--was super-craft
on his part. But, if alive, mad or sane, I'm of opinion he did what
he said in his letter to his brother he meant to do, and got off for
a French or Spanish port. So that's the next step for me--to try and
hunt down the boat that took him."

He pursued this policy, left Princetown for Plymouth on the
following day, took a room at a sailors' inn on the Barbican and
with the help of the harbour authority followed the voyages of a
dozen small vessels which had been berthing at Plymouth during the
critical days.

A month of arduous work he devoted to this stage of the inquiry, and
his investigation produced nothing whatever. Not a skipper of any
vessel involved could furnish the least information and no man
resembling Robert Redmayne had been seen by the harbour police, or
any independent person at Plymouth, despite sharp watchfulness.

A time came when the detective was recalled to London and heartily
chaffed for his failure; but his own unusual disappointment
disarmed the amusement at his expense. The case had presented such
few apparent difficulties that Brendon's complete unsuccess
astonished his chief. He was content, however, to believe Mark's own
conviction: that Robert Redmayne had never left England but
destroyed himself--probably soon after the dispatch of his letter to
Bendigo from Plymouth.

Much demanded attention and Brendon was soon devoting himself to a
diamond robbery in the Midlands. Months passed, the body of Michael
Pendean had not been recovered, and the little world of Scotland
Yard pigeon-holed the mystery, while the larger world forgot all
about it.

Meantime, with a sense of secret relief, Mark Brendon prepared to
face what had sprung out of these incidents, while permitting the
events themselves to pass from his present interests. There remained
Jenny Pendean and his mind was deeply preoccupied with her. Indeed,
apart from the daily toll of work, she filled it to the exclusion of
every other personal consideration. He longed unspeakably to see her
again, for though he had corresponded during the progress of his
inquiries and kept her closely informed of everything that he was
doing, the excuse for these communications no longer existed. She
had acknowledged every letter, but her replies were brief and she
had given him no information concerning herself, or her future
intentions, though he had asked her to do so. One item of
information only had she vouchsafed and he learned that she was
finishing the bungalow to her husband's original plan and then
seeking a possible customer to take over her lease. She wrote:

     "I cannot see Dartmoor again, for it means my happiest as well
     as my most unhappy hours. I shall never be so happy again and,
     I hope, never suffer so unspeakably as I have during the recent
     past."

He turned over this sentence many times and considered the weight of
every word. He concluded from it that Jenny Pendean, while aware
that her greatest joys were gone forever, yet looked forward to a
time when her present desolation might give place to a truer
tranquility and content.

The fact that this should be so, however, astonished Brendon. He
judged her words were perhaps ill chosen and that she implied a
swifter return to peace than in reality would occur. He had guessed
that a year at least, instead of merely these four months, must pass
before her terrible sorrow could begin to dim. Indeed he felt sure
of it and concluded that he was reading an implication into this
pregnant sentence that she had never intended it to carry. He longed
to see her and was just planning how to do so, when chance offered
an opportunity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brendon was called to arrest two Russians, due to arrive at Plymouth
from New York upon a day in mid-December; and having identified them
and testified to their previous activities in England, he was
free for a while. Without sending any warning, he proceeded to
Dartmouth, put up there that night, and started, at nine o'clock on
the following morning, to walk to "Crow's Nest."

His heart beat hard and two thoughts moved together in it, for not
only did he intensely desire to see the widow, but also had a wish
to surprise the little community on the cliff for another reason.
Still some vague suspicion held his mind that Bendigo Redmayne might
be assisting his brother. The idea was shadowy, yet he had never
wholly lost it and more than once contemplated such a surprise visit
as he was now about to pay.

Suspicion, however, seemed to diminish as he ascended great heights
west of the river estuary; and when within the space of two hours he
had reached a place from which "Crow's Nest" could be seen, perched
between the cliff heights and a grey, wintry sea, nothing but the
anticipated vision of the woman held his mind.

He came ignorant of the startling events awaiting him, little
guessing how both the story of his secret dream and the chronicle of
the quarry crime were destined to be advanced by great incidents
before the day was done.

His road ran over the cliffs and about him swept brown and naked
fields under the winter sky. Here and there a mewing gull flew
overhead and the only sign of other life was a ploughman crawling
behind his horses with more sea fowl fluttering in his wake. Brendon
came at last to a white gate facing on the highway and found that he
had reached his destination. Upon the gate "Crow's Nest" was
written in letters stamped upon a bronze plate, and above it rose a
post with a receptacle for holding a lamp at night. The road to the
house fell steeply down and, far beneath, he saw the flagstaff and
the tower room rising above the dwelling. A bleakness and melancholy
seemed to encompass the spot on this sombre day. The wind sighed and
sent a tremor of light through the dead grass; the horizon was
invisible, for mist concealed it; and from the low and ash-coloured
vapour the sea crept out with its monotonous, myriad wavelets
flecked here and there by a feather of foam.

As he descended Brendon saw a man at work in the garden setting up a
two-foot barrier of woven wire. It was evidently intended to keep
the rabbits from the cultivated flower beds which had been dug from
the green slope of the coomb.

He heard a singing voice and perceived that it was Doria, the motor
boatman. Fifty yards from him Mark stood still, and the gardener
abandoned his work and came forward. He was bare-headed and smoking
a thin, black, Tuscan cigar with the colours of Italy on a band
round the middle of it. Giuseppe recognized him and spoke first.

"It is Mr. Brendon, the sleuth! He has come with news for my
master?"

"No, Doria--no news, worse luck; but I was this way--down at
Plymouth again--and thought I'd look up Mrs. Pendean and her uncle.
Why d'you call me 'sleuth'?"

"I read story-books of crime in which the detectives are 'sleuths.'
It is American. Italians say 'sbirro,' England says 'police
officer.'"

"How is everybody?"

"Everybody very well. Time passes; tears dry; Providence watches."

"And you are still looking for the rich woman to restore the last of
the Dorias to his castle?"

Giuseppe laughed, then he shut his eyes and sucked his evil-smelling
cigar.

"We shall see as to that. Man proposes, God disposes. There is a god
called Cupid, Mr. Brendon, who overturns our plans as yonder
plough-share overturns the secret homes of beetle and worm."

Mark's pulses quickened. He guessed to what Doria possibly referred
and felt concern but no surprise. The other continued.

"Ambition may succumb before beauty. Ancestral castles may crumble
before the tide of love, as a child's sand building before the sea.
Too true!"

Doria sighed and looked at Brendon closely. The Italian stood in a
tight-fitting jersey of brown wool, a very picturesque figure
against his dark background. The other had nothing to say and
prepared to descend. He guessed what had happened and was concerned
rather with Jenny Pendean than the romantic personality before him.
But that the stranger could still be here, exiled in this lonely
spot, told him quite as much as the man's words. He was not chained
to "Crow's Nest" with his great ambitions in abeyance for nothing.
Mark, however, pretended to miss the significance of Giuseppe's
confession.

"A good master--eh! I expect the old sea wolf is an excellent friend
when you know his little ways."

Doria admitted it.

"He is all that I could wish and he likes me, because I understand
him and make much of him. Every dog is a lion in his own kennel.
Redmayne rules; but what is the good of a home to a man if he does
not rule? We are friends. Yet, alas, we may not be for long--when--"

He broke off abruptly, puffed a villainous cloud of smoke, and went
back to his wire netting. But he turned a moment and spoke again as
Brendon proceeded.

"Madonna is at home," he shouted and Mark understood to whom he
referred.

He had reached "Crow's Nest" in five minutes and it was Jenny
Pendean who welcomed him.

"Uncle's in his tower," she said. "I'll call him in a minute. But
tell me first if there is anything to tell. I am glad to see
you--very!"

She was excited and her great, misty blue eyes shone. She seemed
more lovely than ever.

"Nothing to report, Mrs. Pendean. At least--no, nothing at all. I've
exhausted every possibility. And you--you have nothing, or you would
have let me hear it?"

"There is nothing," she said. "Uncle Ben would most certainly
have told me if any news had reached him. I am sure that he is
dead--Robert Redmayne."

"I think so too. Tell me a little about yourself, if I may venture
to ask?"

"You have been so thoughtful for me. And I appreciated it. I'm all
right, Mr. Brendon. There is still my life to live and I find ways
of being useful here."

"You are contented, then?"

"Yes. Contentment is a poor substitute for happiness; but I am
contented."

He longed to speak intimately, yet had no excuse for doing so.

"How much I wish it was in my power to brighten your content into
happiness again," he said.

She smiled at him.

"Thank you for such a friendly wish. I am sure you mean it."

"Indeed I do."

"Perhaps I shall come to London some day, and then you would
befriend me a little."

"How much I hope you will--soon."

"But I am dull and stupid still. I have great relapses and sometimes
cannot even endure my uncle's voice. Then I shut myself up. I chain
myself like a savage thing, for a time, till I am patient again."

"You should have distractions."

"There are plenty--even here, though you might not guess it.
Giuseppe Doria sings to me and I go out in the launch now and then.
I always travel to and fro that way when I have to visit Dartmouth
for Uncle Ben and for the household provisions. And I am to have
chickens to rear in the spring."

"The Italian--"

"He is a gentleman, Mr. Brendon--a great gentleman, you might say. I
do not understand him very well. But I am safe with him. He would do
nothing base or small. He confided in me when first I came. He then
had a dream to find a rich wife, who would love him and enable him
to restore the castle of the Doria in Italy and build up the family
again. He is full of romance and has such energy and queer, magnetic
power that I can quite believe he will achieve his hopes some day."

"Does he still possess this ambition?"

Jenny was silent for a moment. Her eyes looked out of the window
over the restless sea.

"Why not?" she asked.

"He is, I should think, a man that women might fall in love with."

"Oh, yes--he is amazingly handsome and there are fine thoughts in
him."

Mark felt disposed to warn her but felt that any counsel from him
would be an impertinence. She seemed to read his mind, however.

"I shall never marry again," she said.

"Nobody would dare to ask you to do so--nobody who knows all that
you have been called to suffer. Not for many a long day yet, I
mean," he answered awkwardly.

"You understand," she replied and took his hand impulsively. "There
is a great gulf I think fixed between us Anglo-Saxons and the
Latins. Their minds move far more swiftly than ours. They are more
hungry to get everything possible out of life. Doria is a child in
many ways; but a delightful, poetical child. I think England rather
chills him; yet he vows there are no rich women in Italy. He longs
for Italy all the same. I expect he will go home again presently. He
will leave Uncle Ben in the spring--so he confides to me; but do not
whisper it, for my uncle thinks highly of him and would hate to lose
him. He can do everything and anticipates our wishes and whims in
the most magical way."

"Well, I must not keep you any longer."

"Indeed you are not doing that. I am very, very glad to see you, Mr.
Brendon. You are going to stop for dinner? We always dine in the
middle of the day."

"May I?"

"You must. And tea also. Come up to Uncle Bendigo now. I'll leave
you with him for an hour. Then dinner will be ready. Giuseppe always
joins us. You won't mind?"

"The last of the Doria! I've probably never shared a meal with such
high company!"

She led him up the flight of stairs to the old sailor's sanctum.

"Mr. Brendon to see us, Uncle Ben," she said, and Mr. Redmayne took
his eye from the big telescope.

"A blow's coming," he announced. "Wind's shifted a point to
southward. Dirty weather already in the Channel."

He shook hands and Jenny disappeared. Bendigo was pleased to see
Brendon, but his interest in his brother had apparently waned. He
avoided the subject of Robert Redmayne, though he revealed other
matters in his mind which he approached with a directness that
rather astonished the detective.

"I'm a rough bird," he said, "but I keep my weather peeper open, and
I didn't find it difficult to see when you were here in the summer,
that my fine niece took your fancy. She's the sort, apparently, that
makes men lose their balance a bit. For my part I never had any use
for a woman since I was weaned, and have always mistrusted the
creatures, seeing how many of my messmates ran on the rocks over
'em. But I'm free to grant that Jenny has made my house very
comfortable and appears to feel kindly to me."

"Of course she does, Mr. Redmayne."

"Hold on till I've done. At this minute I'm in sight of a very
vexatious problem; because my right hand--Giuseppe Doria--has got
his eyes on Jenny; and though he's priceless as a single man and
she's invaluable as a single woman, if the beggar gets round her and
makes her fall in love with him presently, then they'll be married
next year and that's good-bye to both of 'em!"

Mark found himself a good deal embarrassed by this confidence.

"In your place," he said, "I should certainly drop Doriaa pretty
clear hint. What is good form in Italy he knows better than we do,
or ought to, seeing he's a gentleman; but you can tell him it's
damned bad form to court a newly made widow--especially one who
loved her husband as your niece did, and who has been separated from
him under such tragic circumstances."

"That's all right; and if there was only one in it I might do so;
though for that matter I'm afraid Doria isn't going to stop here
much longer in any case. He doesn't say so, but I can see it's only
Jenny who is keeping him. You've got to consider her too. I'm not
going to say she encourages the man or anything like that. Of course
she doesn't. But, as I tell you, I'm pretty wide awake and it's no
good denying that she can endure his company without hurting
herself. He's a handsome creature and he's got a way with him, and
she's young."

"I rather thought he was out for money--enough money to reëstablish
the vanished glories of his race."

"So he was and, of course, he knows he can't do that with Jenny's
twenty thousand; but love casts out a good many things besides fear.
It blights ambition--for the time being anyway--and handicaps a man
on every side in the race for life. All Doria wants now is Jenny
Pendean, and he'll get her if I'm a judge. I wouldn't mind too much
either, if they could stop along with me and go on as we're going;
but of course that wouldn't happen. As it is Doria has come to be a
friend. He does all he's paid to do and a lot more; but he's more a
guest than a servant, and I shall miss him like the devil when he
goes."

"It's hard to see what you can do, Mr. Redmayne."

"So it is. I don't wish to come between my niece and her happiness,
and I can't honestly say that Doria wouldn't be a good husband,
though good husbands are rare everywhere and never rarer than in
Italy, I believe. He might change his mind after they'd been wed a
year and hanker for his ambitions again and money to carry them out.
Jenny will have plenty some day, for there's poor Bob's money sooner
or late, I suppose, and there'll be mine and her Uncle Albert's so
far as I know. But, taking it by and large, I'd a good bit sooner it
didn't happen. I'll tell you these things because you're a famous
man, with plenty of credit for good sense."

"I appreciate the confidence and can return a confidence," answered
Brendon after a moment's reflection. "I do admire Mrs. Pendean. She
is, of course, amazingly beautiful, and she has a gracious and
charming nature. With such distinction of character you may rest
assured that nothing will happen yet a while. Your niece will be
faithful to her late husband's memory for many a long month, if not
forever."

"I believe that," answered Bendigo. "We can mark time, I don't
doubt, till the turn of the year or maybe longer. But there it is:
they are thrown together every day of their lives and, though Jenny
would hide it very carefully from me, and probably from herself also
as far as she could, I guess he's going to win out."

Brendon said no more. He was cast down and did not hide the fact.

"Mind you, I'd much prefer an Englishman," admitted the sailor; "but
there's nobody to make any running in these parts. Giuseppe's got it
all his own way." Then he left the subject. "No news, I suppose, of
my poor brother?"

"None, Mr. Redmayne."

"I'd pinned my faith that the whole horrid thing might be capable of
explanation along some other lines. But the blood was proved to be
human?"

"Yes."

"Another secret for the sea, then, as far as Pendean is concerned.
And as for Robert, only doomsday will tell where his bones lie."

"I also feel very little doubt indeed that he is dead."

A few minutes later a gong sounded from beneath and the two men
descended to their meal. It was Giuseppe Doria who did the talking
while they ate a substantial dinner. He proved a great egotist and
delighted to relate his own picturesque ambitions, though he had
already confessed that these ambitions were modified.

"We are a race that once lorded it over western Italy," he declared.
"Midway inland, between Ventimiglia and Bordighera, is our old
fastness beneath the mountains and beside the river. An ancient
bridge like a rainbow still spans Nervia, and the houses climb up
the hills among the vines and olives, while frowning down upon all
things is the mighty ruin of the Doria's castle--a great ghost from
the past. In the midst of all the human business and bustle, removed
by a century from the concerns of men, it stands, hollow and empty,
with life surging round about, like the sea on the precipices below
us. The folk throng everywhere--the sort of humble people who of old
knelt hatless to my ancestors. The base born wander in our chambers
of state, the villagers dry their linen on our marble floors,
children play in the closets of great counsellors, bats flutter
through the casements where princesses have sat and hoped and
feared!

"My people," he continued, "have sunk through many a stage and very
swiftly of late. My grandfather was only a woodman, who brought
charcoal from the mountains on two mules; my uncle grew lemons at
Mentone and saved a few thousand francs for his wife to squander.
Now I alone remain--the last of the line--and the home of the Doria
has long stood in the open market.

"With the fortress also goes the title--that is our grotesque
Italian way. A pork butcher or butter merchant might become Count
Doria to-morrow if he would put his hand deep enough in his pocket.
But salvation lies this way: that though the property and title are
cheap, to restore the ruin and make all magnificent again would
demand a millionaire."

He chattered on and after dinner lighted another of his Tuscan
cigars, drank a liqueur of some special brandy Mr. Redmayne produced
in honour of Brendon, and then left them.

They spoke of him, and Mark was specially interested to learn
Jenny's attitude; but she gave no sign and praised Giuseppe only for
his voice, his versatility, and good nature.

"He can turn his hand to anything," she said. "He was going fishing
this afternoon; but it is too rough, so he will work in the garden
again."

She hoped presently that Doria would find a rich wife and reach the
summit of his ambitions. It was clear enough that he did not enter
into any of Mrs. Pendean's calculations for her own future. But
Jenny said one thing to surprise her listener while still speaking
of the Italian.

"He doesn't like my sex," she declared. "In fact he makes me cross
sometimes with his scornful attitude to us. He's as bad as Uncle
Ben, who is a very hard-hearted old bachelor. He says, 'Women,
priests, and poultry never have enough.' But I say that men are far
greedier than women, and always were."

The sailor laughed and they went out upon the terrace for a time
where soon the early dusk began to fall. The storm had not yet
developed and there was a fierce and fiery light over the west at
sunset while a tremendous wind blew the sky almost clear for a time.
When the Start lighthouse opened a white, starry eye over the
deepening purple of the sea, and heavy waves beat below them in
hollow thunder, they returned to the house and Mr. Redmayne showed
Brendon curiosities. They drank tea at five o'clock and an hour
later the detective went on his way. A general invitation had been
extended to him and the old sailor expressly declared that it would
give him pleasure to receive Mark as a guest at any time. It was a
suggestion that tempted Brendon not a little.

"You've done a wonderful thing," said Jenny, as she saw him to the
outer gate. "You've quite won my uncle, and really that's a feat."

"Would it bore you if I fell in with his proposal and came down for
a few days after Christmas?" he asked, and she assured him that it
would give her pleasure.

Heartened a little he went his way, but the wave of cheerfulness set
flowing by her presence soon ebbed again. He felt full of suspicion
and half believed her indifference regarding Doria to be assumed. He
guessed that she would be jealous to give no sign until the days of
her mourning were numbered, but he felt a melancholy conviction that
when another summer was passed, Jenny Pendean would take a second
husband.

He debated the wisdom of presently returning to "Crow's Nest" and
felt a strong inclination to do so. Little guessing that he would be
there again on the morrow, he determined to remind Bendigo Redmayne
of his invitation in early spring. By that time much might have
happened, for he intended to correspond with Jenny, or at any fate
take the first step in a correspondence.

The moon had risen as he pursued his lonely road and it shone clear
through a gathering scud that threatened soon to overwhelm the
silver light. Clouds flew fast and, above Brendon's head, telegraph
wires hummed the song of a gathering storm. The man's thoughts
proceeded as irregularly as the fitful and shouting wind. He weighed
each word that Jenny had said and strove to understand each look
that she had given him.

He tried to convince himself that Bendigo Redmayne's theory must,
after all, be false, and he assured himself that by no possibility
could the widow of Michael Pendean ever lose her sad heart to this
stranger from Italy. The idea was out of the question, for surely a
woman of such fine mould, so suddenly and tragically bereaved, would
never find in this handsome chatterbox, throbbing with egotism, any
solace for sorrow, or promise for future contentment. In theory his
view seemed sound. Yet he knew, even while he reflected, that love
in its season may shatter all theories and upset even the most
consistent of characters.

Still deep in thought Brendon tramped on; and then, where the road
fell between a high bank to the windward side and a pine wood on the
other, he experienced one of the greatest surprises that life had
yet brought him.

At a gate, which hung parallel with the road and opened into the
depth of a copse behind, there stood Robert Redmayne.

The five-barred gate alone separated them and the big man lolled
over it with his arms crossed on the topmost bar. The moonlight beat
full into his face, and overhead the pines uttered a harsh and
sullen roar as the wind surged over them; while from far below the
shout of an angry sea upon the cliffs was carried upward. The red
man stood motionless, watchful. He wore the tweed clothes, cap and
red waistcoat that Brendon well remembered at Foggintor; the
moonlight flashed on his startled eyes and showed his great mustache
and white teeth visible beneath it. There was dread upon his face
and haggard misery, yet no madness.

It seemed that he kept a tryst there; but it had not been Mark
Brendon that he expected. For a moment he stared as the detective
stopped and confronted him. He appeared to recognize Mark, or at any
rate regard him as an enemy, for instantly he turned, plunged into
the woods behind him, and disappeared. In a moment he had vanished
and the riot of the storm hid all sounds of his panic flight.



CHAPTER VI

ROBERT REDMAYNE IS HEARD


For some moments Mark stood motionless with his eyes on the moonlit
gate and the forest gloom behind it. There rhododendron and laurel
made dense evergreen cover beneath the pines and offered inviolable
shelter. To follow Robert Redmayne was vain and also dangerous, for
in such a spot it might easily happen that the hunter would lie at
the mercy of the hunted.

This sudden apparition bewildered Brendon, for it argued much beyond
itself. Surely it indicated treachery and falsehood among those he
had just left at "Crow's Nest," for it was a coincidence almost
inconceivable that on this day of his chance visit, the wanted man
should suddenly reappear in the neighbourhood of his brother's
house. Yet collusion seemed impossible, for Mark had given no notice
to Bendigo Redmayne of his coming.

Brendon asked himself if he had suffered a hallucination, but he
knew that his rational mind was not constituted to create ghosts
from within. Imagination he had, but therein was a source of
strength, not weakness, and no grain of superstition weakened his
mental endowment. He knew also that no one had been farther from his
thoughts than Robert Redmayne at the moment of his sudden
appearance. No, he had seen a living man and one who certainly would
not willingly have revealed himself.

He had not the least intention of ignoring his discovery and was
quite prepared to arrest Robert Redmayne, even under his brother's
roof if necessary; but he desired first to hear Jenny Pendean upon
the subject before seeking the assistance of the Dartmouth police.
He felt that she would not deceive him, or answer a direct appeal
with a lie. And then there flashed upon him the painful conviction
that she must already have lied to him; for if Redmayne were living
concealed at "Crow's Nest," all the household, including Doria and
the solitary woman servant, would assuredly be in the secret.

Supposing Jenny begged him to hold his hand and spare Robert
Redmayne, would he then be justified in keeping his discovery to
himself? Some men might have built up a personal hope upon this
possibility and seen themselves winning to the summit of their
ambition by bending to the widow's will; but Mark did not confound
the thoughts of duty and love nor did he even dream that success in
one might depend upon neglect of the other. He had only to raise the
question to answer it, and he swiftly determined that not Jenny, or
her Uncle Bendigo, or anybody on earth should prevent him from
securing Robert Redmayne on the following day if it came within his
power to do so. Indeed he felt little doubt that this would happen.
For that night there was no hurry. He slept well after an unusual
amount of exercise and emotion; and he rose late. He was dressing at
half past eight when there came a chambermaid to the door.

"There's a gentleman must see you this instant moment, please, sir,"
she said. "He's by the name of Mr. Doria and he comes from Captain
Redmayne out over at 'Crow's Nest.'"

Not sorry that his day's work might now be simplified, Mark bade the
girl summon his visitor, and in two minutes Giuseppe Doria appeared.

"I was clever to find you," he said, "for we only knew that you were
stopping in Dartmouth to-night, but we did not know where. Yet I
guessed you would choose the best hotel and I guessed rightly. I
will eat my breakfast with you, if you please, and tell you why I am
here. The thing was to catch you if we could before you went away. I
am glad that I was in time."

"So Robert Redmayne, the murderer of Michael Pendean, has turned
up?" asked Brendon, finishing his shaving; and Doria showed
astonishment.

"Corpo di Bacco! How did you know that?" he asked.

"I saw him on my way home," replied Mark. "I had already seen him,
before the tragedy on Dartmoor, and I remembered him. What is more,
I'm not sure that he didn't remember me."

"We are in fear," continued Doria. "He has not been yet to his
brother, but he is near."

"How can you tell that he is near, if he has not yet been to his
brother?"

"Thus we know it. I go every morning early to Strete Farm on the
hills above us for milk and butter. I go this morning and they have
an ugly story. Last night a man entered Strete Farm and took food
and drink. The farmer hears him and comes upon him sitting eating in
the kitchen--a big man with a red head and a red mustache and a red
waistcoat. The man, when he sees Mr. Brook--that is the farmer--he
bolts through the back kitchen by which he has come. Mr. Brook knows
nothing of the man and he tells me of his adventure, and then I go
home to tell padron mio--my master.

"When I describe this man, Mr. Redmayne and Madonna nearly have a
fit between them. They recognize him--he is the assassin! They think
instantly of you and bid me take my bicycle and ride here at my best
speed to catch you, if it may be done before you go. I succeed, but
I cannot stay with you; I must return to keep guard. I do not like
to feel there is nobody there. My old sea wolf is not frightened of
the sea, but I think he is a little frightened of his brother. And
Mrs. Jenny--she is very frightened indeed."

"Come to breakfast," said Mark, whose toilet was now completed.
"I'll get a motor in a quarter of an hour and run out as quick as
may be."

They swallowed a hasty meal and Giuseppe displayed growing
excitement. He begged Brendon to bring other policemen with him, but
this Mark declined to do.

"Plenty of time for that," he said. "We may catch him easy enough. I
shall do nothing until I have seen Mr. Bendigo at 'Crow's Nest' and
heard his views. If Robert Redmayne is breaking into houses for
food he must be at the end of his tether."

By nine o'clock the Italian had started homeward, and as soon as he
was gone, Brendon went to the police station, borrowed a revolver
and a pair of handcuffs, hinted at his business, and ordered a
police car to be ready as quickly as possible. A constable drove him
and before setting out he told the local chief of police, one
Inspector Damarell, to await a message over the telephone in the
course of the morning. He enjoined strictest secrecy for the
present.

Mark overtook and passed Doria on his way home. The storm had nearly
blown itself out and the morning was clear and cold. Beneath the
cliffs a big sea rolled, but it was fast going down.

Any suspicion that the inhabitants of Bendigo's home were seeking to
create false impressions left Brendon's mind, when he stood before
Jenny and her uncle. The former was nervous and the latter beyond
measure puzzled. There was now little doubt that Robert Redmayne
must be the man who broke into Strete Farm for food, since Mark's
experience of the previous night tended to confirm the fact. He had
seen Redmayne some hours before the fugitive alarmed the household
at Strete. Where was he now and why had he come hither? All
suspected that the unfortunate man had probably returned from France
or Spain, and now lay hid close at hand, waiting for a safe
opportunity to see the old sailor.

"Your brother has probably got his eye on the house," said Brendon,
"and is considering how to approach you, Mr. Redmayne, without
risking his own safety."

"There's only one he'll trust, I reckon, and that's me," declared
Bendigo. "If he knew that Jenny means him no harm, he might trust
her, too, but he may not believe that she's good Christian enough to
forgive him. And anyway I guess he don't know she's with me. I'm
talking as though he was sane, but I doubt it."

Mark, who had studied Mr. Redmayne's large government survey map of
the district, suggested an immediate search over the most likely
regions in the neighbourhood.

"I think of you and Mrs. Pendean," he explained. "You don't want hue
and cry again and all the past brought up once more. If we can get
to him without calling in the police, then so much the better. The
man must be in extreme want. His face, as I saw it, was harrowed and
tormented. He has probably reached a mental condition of tension and
torture in which he will not be sorry to find himself among friendly
and understanding fellow creatures. There are two districts which
especially suggest themselves to me to search in: the shore, where
there are many caves and crevices above sea level safe from
observation; and the dense woods into which he plunged when I came
suddenly upon him last night. I examined them on my way out this
morning. They appear to be very extensive, but they are traversed by
drives for sportsmen and you can look up and down these drives for
many hundred yards."

Mr. Redmayne summoned Doria who had now reached home again.

"Can the launch go to sea?" he asked. Giuseppe considered that she
might. Bendigo then submitted a proposition.

"I'm asking that you'll let this search go on quietly and privately
for another twenty-four hours," he said. "Then, if we fail to round
him up in a friendly way, so to say, you must, of course, turn the
constabulary out and hunt him down. To-day we can go over the places
you name and I reckon you've hit the most likely burrows for the
poor man. I dare say, if we sat tight and did nothing at all, we
might find him creeping here to me after dark pretty soon; but we'll
act as you advise and see if the shore or the woods show any sign.

"There's us three who know who he is--Jenny and me and you; and I'd
propose that my niece goes down the coast in the motor boat with
Giuseppe. They can cruise away to the west, where there's an easy
landing here and there at little coves, and they may sight my
brother poking about, or hid in some hole down that way. There are
caves with tunnels aft that give on the rough lands and coombs
behind. It's a pretty lone region and he couldn't hang on long there
or find food for his belly. They can try that for a few hours and
we'll go up aloft. Or else I'll take you in the boat and they can
hunt round Black Woods--whichever you like."

Brendon considered. He inclined to the belief that the hunted man
might sooner trust the woods than the coast. Moreover he knew
himself an indifferent sailor and perceived that the motor boat
could not promise a very even keel in the great swell that followed
the storm.

"If Mrs. Pendean doesn't mind the weather and there is no shadow of
danger to the launch, then I advise that your niece goes down the
coast and has a look into the caves as you propose," he said. "No
doubt Doria can be trusted to see sharply after her. Meantime we
will quarter the wood. If we could only get into touch with the man,
it might be possible to secure him without making any noise."

"There must be a noise if we catch him," declared Doria. "He is a
famous criminal and who ever runs him to his earth and pulls him out
will make a noise and receive great praise."

He prepared for the coming voyage of discovery and, within half an
hour, the motor boat danced out from beneath "Crow's Nest"; then she
held a course to the westward, rolling indeed, but not enough to
trouble Jenny who sat in the stern and kept a pair of strong Zeiss
glasses fixed upon the cliffs and shore. They were soon reduced to a
white speck under the misty weather; and after they had gone,
Bendigo, in a sailor's pea-jacket and cap, lighted a pipe, took a
big black-thorn stick, and set off beside Mark. The police car still
stood on the road and, both entering it, they soon reached the gate
beside which Robert Redmayne had appeared on the previous night.
There they left the motor and entered Black Woods together.

Bendigo still talked of his niece and continued to do so. It was a
subject on which the other proved very willing to listen.

"She's at the parting of the ways now," declared Jenny's uncle. "I
can see her mind working. I grant she loved her husband dearly
enough and he made a pretty deep mark on her character, for she's
different from what she was as a girl. But there's very little doubt
that Doria's growing awful fond of her--and when that sort loves a
woman he generally finds she's not unwilling to meet him halfway. I
believe now that my niece can't help caring for the man, but all the
time she's secretly ashamed of herself--yes, heartily ashamed--for
finding another in her mind only six months after the death of
Pendean."

Mark asked a question.

"When you say that her husband altered his wife's character, in what
way did he do so!"

"Well--he taught her sense I reckon. You'd never think now, would
you, that she was a red Redmayne--one of us--short of temper,
peppery, fiery? But she was, as a youngster. Her father had the
Redmayne qualities more developed than any of us and he handed 'em
down. She was a wilful thing--plucky and fond of mischief. Her
school fellows thought the world of her because she laughed at
discipline; and from one school she got expelled for some frolics.
That was the girl I remembered when Jenny came back to me a widow.
And so I see that Michael Pendean, what ever else he was, evidently
had the trick character to learn her a bit of sense and patience."

"It may be natural development of years and experience, combined
with the sudden, awful shock of her husband's death. These things
would unite to tone her down and perhaps break her spirit, if only
for a time."

"True. But she's not a sober-sided woman for all her calm. She was
too full of the joy of life for Pendean, or any man, to empty it all
out of her in four years. He may have been one of the Wesleyan sort,
like such a lot of the Cornish; he may have been a kill-joy, too;
but whether he was or not, he hadn't quite converted her in the
time, and what I'm seeing now, I judge, is the young woman slowly
coming back to herself under the influence of this Latin chap. He's
cunning, too. He knows how to tickle her vanity, for even she has
got a bit of womanly conceit in her, though less vain of her
wonderful face no woman could be. But Doria has taken good care to
hint his ambition is well lost for love; he's dropped it very
cleverly no doubt and already made her see which way he's steering.
He's put Jenny before the dollars and the dreams of the castle down
south. In a word, if I'm not a greenhorn, he'll ask her to marry him
as soon as a year is told and he can touch the subject decently."

"And you think she will accept him, Mr. Redmayne?"

"At present I'd take long odds about it; but he's a volatile devil
and may change by that time."

Then Bendigo in his turn asked a question.

"We found no will among my poor brother's papers, and of course he's
had no access to his money since this bad business. How he's lived
all the time only he himself knows. But suppose the worst happens
presently and he's found to be a lunatic, what becomes of his
stuff?"

"It would ultimately go to you and your brother."

They tramped the wood and fell in with a gamekeeper, who greeted the
trespassers none too amiably. But on learning their errand and
receiving a description of the fugitive, he bade them go where they
pleased and himself promised to keep a sharp watch. He had two mates
and would warn them; and he understood the importance of preserving
strict silence concerning the fugitive until more should be known.

But it was not to Brendon and Robert Redmayne's brother that any
information came. Their hunt produced neither sign nor clue of the
man they sought, and after three hours of steady tramping, which
covered all the ground and exhausted Bendigo, they returned in the
motor car to "Crow's Nest."

News of direct importance awaited them, and Bendigo proved correct
in his suspicion that the wanted man might have chosen the coast.
Jenny had not only seen Robert Redmayne but had reached him; and she
returned very distressed and somewhat hysterical, while Doria,
having done great things in the matter, was prepared to brag about
them. But he begged Mrs. Pendean, as the heroine of a strange
adventure, to tell her story.

She was deeply moved and her voice failed on two or three occasions
during the narrative; but the interest of the tale was such that
Bendigo lost sight of Jenny in the picture she now painted of his
unfortunate brother. They had sighted Robert Redmayne suddenly from
the motor boat.

"We saw him," said Jenny, "about two miles down the coast, sitting
not fifty yards from the sea, and he, of course, saw us; but he had
no glasses and could not recognize me, as we were more than half a
mile from shore. Then Giuseppe suggested landing and so approaching
him. The thing was to let me reach him, if possible. I felt no fear
of him--excepting the fear that, knowing how he had ruined my life,
he might shrink from facing me.

"We ran by, as though we had not observed him; then, getting round a
little bluff, so that we were hidden, we went ashore, made fast the
boat, and regularly stalked him. There was no mistake. I had, of
course, recognized Uncle Robert through the glasses; and now Doria
went first and crept along, with me behind him, until we had reached
to within twenty-five yards. The poor wretch saw us then and leaped
up, but it was too late and Giuseppe reached him in a moment and
explained that I came as a friend. Doria was prepared to detain him
if he endeavoured to escape, but he did not. Robert Redmayne is worn
out. He has been through terrible times. He shrank at first and
nearly collapsed when I came to him. He went on his knees to me. But
I was patient and made him understand that I had not come as an
enemy."

"Is he sane?" asked Bendigo.

"He appears to be sane," she answered. "He made no mention of the
past and neither spoke of his crime nor of what he has been doing
since; but he has altered. He seems a ghost of his former self; his
voice has changed from a boom into a whisper; his eyes are haunted.
He is thin and full of terror. He made me send Doria out of earshot
and then told me that he had only come here to see you. He has been
here some days, hidden in one of the caves down the coast westward.
He wouldn't tell me where, but no doubt it is near where we found
him. He is ragged and wounded. One of his hands ought to be attended
to."

"And still you say he behaved like a sane man, Mrs. Pendean?" asked
Brendon.

"Yes--except for what seemed an insane fear. And yet fear was
natural enough under the circumstances. He feels, poor creature,
that he has reached the end of his tether; and even if he is insane
and will escape the extreme penalty, he doesn't know that himself. I
implored him to come with me in the boat and see Uncle Bendigo and
trust to the mercy of his fellow men. I didn't feel a traitor in
asking him to do this; for I imagine, though seemingly sane now, he
must in reality be mad, since only madness could explain the past,
and he will be judged accordingly. But he is very suspicious. He
thanked me and grovelled horribly to me; but he would not trust
either me or Doria, or think of entering the boat. He is all nerves
and soon began to fear we were planning an ambush, or otherwise
endangering his freedom.

"I asked him, then, to tell me what he wished and how I could help
him. He considered and said that if Uncle Bendigo would see him
quite alone and swear, before God, not to hinder his departure in
any way after they had met, he would come to 'Crow's Nest' to-night
after the household was asleep.

"For the moment he wants food and a lamp to light his hiding-place
after dark. But before all else, he begs you, Uncle Ben, to let him
come and see you quite alone. Then he told us to be gone if we were
honest friends. It is left in this way. If you will see him, he will
come any hour you mention after midnight. But first you must give
your written oath before God that you will have nobody with you, and
that you will neither set a trap for him nor seek to detain him. His
hope is that you will give him means and clothes, so that he may
leave England safely and get to Uncle Albert in Italy. He made us
swear not to say where we had found him, and then he indicated a
spot where I was to bring your answer in writing before dark. I am
to leave a letter at that spot as soon as I can, and go away at
once, and he will come and find your directions."

Mr. Redmayne nodded.

"And at the same time you had better take the poor wretch some food
and drink and the lamp. How he has lived for the last six months I
cannot understand."

"He has been in France--so he says."

Bendigo did not take long to determine a course of action and
Brendon approved his decisions.

"In the first place," declared Robert Redmayne's brother, "the man
must be mad, whatever appears to the contrary. This story points to
that, and seeing he is still free and has succeeded in existing and
avoiding the police in two countries, one can only say that with his
madness he has developed amazing cunning too. But, as Jenny reports,
he's on his beam ends at last. He knows this house and he knows the
way to it. So I'll do this.

"I'll agree to see him to-night--or rather to-morrow morning. I'll
bid him come at one o'clock, and he shall find the door open and a
light in the hall. He can walk straight in and mount up to me in the
tower, and I'll swear the needful oath that he shall see nobody else
and be free to go again when he pleases. That will calm him down and
give me a chance to study him and try and see where we stand. We
might trap him, of course, but I can't lie even to a lunatic."

"There's no reason why you should," said Brendon. "If you feel no
personal fear of the man, then you can see him as you suggest. You
understand, however, there must be no question of helping him to
evade the law, as he wishes?"

Bendigo nodded.

"I suppose not. I can't turn him on to my brother, Albert, anyway.
Albert's a weak, nervous sort of man and he'd have a fit if he
thought Robert was coming to seek asylum with him."

"The State must provide his asylum," said Mark. "His future is no
longer any question for his relations. The best that we can hope is
that he may soon be in a position of security, both for himself and
other people. You will do well to see him, give him succour, and
hear what he has to say. After that, Mr. Redmayne, if I may advise,
you will leave the rest to me."

Bendigo lost no time in writing the desired letter inviting Robert
Redmayne to meet him in secret at one o'clock during the coming
night and promising the fugitive, on oath, that he should be safe
and free to depart again when he desired to do so. But, none the
less, he expressed an earnest hope that his brother would stop at
"Crow's Nest," and be advised as to his future actions. Some
provisions were put into the launch and, with the letter in her
pocket, Jenny again set out. She was prepared to go alone, for she
could handle the boat as cleverly as Doria himself; but this her
uncle would not permit.

It was already growing dusk before she left and Giuseppe drove the
little vessel to its limit of speed.

Then Brendon was much surprised. He had been standing under the
flagstaff with the master of "Crow's Nest," watching the launch, and
when she had vanished westward into a grey, still evening, Bendigo
challenged the detective with a proposition altogether unexpected.

"See here," he said. "I've got a damned, uneasy feeling about
meeting my brother single-handed to-night. I can't tell you what it
is. I'm not a coward and never shirked duty yet; but frankly I don't
much like facing him for this reason. A madman's a madman, and we
can't expect a madman to be any too reasonable if we oppose him,
however tactfully. I should be powerless if he got off his head, or
resented the advice I should have to give him, or went for
me--powerless, I mean, to do anything but stop him with a bullet.
But if he's got to be stopped that way, I don't want to be the one
to do it.

"I've promised to meet him alone and I shan't be telling the poor
man a lie, because, if all's straight and he shows no violence, he
needn't know anybody else is there. But if I was put into danger, I
might tackle him mercifully with somebody to help, whereas if I was
alone and he threatened to do me harm, it would very likely mean
something I'd rather not think about."

Brendon saw the force of this observation.

"A very reasonable thing indeed," he answered, "and in a case like
this, you couldn't blame yourself even if you didn't keep the letter
of your promise."

"In the spirit I shall keep it, however. I've sworn to let him come
and go again free, and that oath I must keep if he does nothing that
forces me to break it."

"You are wise and I quite agree with you," said Mark. "No doubt
Doria is a man you can rely upon in every way and he is powerful
too."

But Bendigo shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I've left this question until Doria and my niece
were out of the way, for a very good reason. I don't want them in
this thing more than they are already; and I don't want them, or
anybody, to know that I've got a friend hid along with me in the
tower when Robert comes. They understand that I am to see him alone;
and I've bade them keep out of the way and not show themselves for
an instant. What I want up there is you and only you."

Brendon considered.

"I confess the idea occurred to me as soon as we had your brother's
offer; but seeing the terms, I couldn't press for it," he said. "Now
I agree and, what's more, I think it would be very desirable if
nobody--not even the household--knew I was here."

"That can be done. If you send your car away and say you'll report
to-morrow, then the police won't trouble us any more till we see
what next. You can go up to the tower and get into the big case I
keep my flags and odds and ends in. There are holes bored for
ventilation at the height of a man's head from the ground, and if
you're packed in there, you can see and hear everything and pop out
in five seconds if my life is threatened."

Brendon nodded.

"That's all right," he said. "I'm considering what follows. Your
brother goes free presently; and no doubt Mrs. Pendean will only
wait until he is off to come up to you. I can't stop all night in
the cupboard."

"It don't matter a button after he's gone," answered Bendigo. "If
you tell your car to go, that's all that signifies for the minute.
And all anybody but ourselves will believe is that you've gone back
to Dartmouth, and won't be here again until to-morrow morning."

Mark fell in with this plan. He dismissed the car and directed that
Inspector Damarell should be told to do nothing more until further
information reached him. Then, with the old sailor, he climbed to
the tower room, inspected the great cupboard, and found that he
could follow the course of events very comfortably from within.
Holes of the size of a half-penny piece were bored in each door of
this erection and, with a three-inch support under his feet, Brendon
found his eyes and ears at the needful level.

"The point is to know how I get clear afterward," considered
Brendon, returning to the sequel. "As soon as your brother has left
the house, it is certain that Mrs. Pendean, probably Doria also,
will hasten to know what has happened and what you have determined."

"Afterward nothing matters," repeated Bendigo. "I'll go down to the
door with Robert and you can follow me and slip out as soon as he
has got clear. Or else you can appear when he has gone and reveal
yourself and tell Jenny that it was your own wish to stop without
letting anybody know it but myself. That'll be the best way; and as
soon as she finds you are here, she'll see that you have comfortable
quarters for the rest of the night."

Brendon approved of this plan and when the launch returned, her
uncle informed Jenny that the detective had left, to make certain
inquiries, but would return early on the following morning. She
expressed surprise that he had gone but declared that it would in
any case have been necessary for him to do so before the fugitive
arrived.

"We left the letter, the lamp, and the food and drink exactly where
he indicated," she said, "on a forlorn spot, above that ancient,
raised beach, where the great boulders are."

Thus the matter was settled. Mark had already taken up his position
in the chamber aloft and Bendigo looked to it that he should not be
interfered with. It was Mr. Redmayne's custom to keep the tower room
locked when not himself in it, and he did so now until the night
should come. He supped with Jenny and the Italian, having already
provided Brendon with food in his hiding-place. It was understood
that the sailor would ascend to his den about eleven o'clock, by
which time Mark undertook to be safely hidden in the cupboard.

At the agreed time Doria and his master came up together, the former
carrying a light. Jenny also joined them for a short while, but she
stayed only ten minutes and then departed to bed. The weather had
turned stormy and wet. A shouting wind from the west shook the
lantern of the tower room and flung rain heavily against the glass,
while Bendigo moved restlessly about and bent his brows to look out
into the blackness of the night.

"The poor devil will be drowned, or break his neck climbing up from
the sea in this darkness," he declared.

Giuseppe had brought up a jug of water, a bottle of spirits, a
little keg of tobacco, and two or three clay pipes, for the old sea
captain never smoked till after supper and then puffed steadily
until he went to bed.

He turned now and asked Doria a question.

"You've cast your peepers over the poor chap to-day," he said, "and
you're a clever man and know a bit of human nature. What did you
make of my brother?"

"I looked closely and listened also," answered the servant; "and
this I think--the man is very sick."

"Not likely to break out again and cut another throat?"

"Never again. I say this. When he killed Madonna's husband, he was
mad; now he is not mad--not more mad than anybody else. He craves
only one thing--peace."



CHAPTER VII

THE COMPACT


Bendigo lit his pipe and turned to his only book. It was "Moby
Dick." Herman Melville's masterpiece had long ago become for the old
sailor the one piece of literature in the world. It comprised all
that interested him most in this life, and all that he needed to
reconcile him to the approach of death and the thought of a future
existence beyond the grave. "Moby Dick" also afforded him that
ceaseless companionship with great waters which was essential to
content.

"Well," he said to Doria, "get you gone. Look round as usual to see
that all's snug aloft and below; then turn in. Leave only the light
in the hall and the front door on the latch. Did you mark if he had
a watch to know the hour?"

"He had no watch, but Mrs. Pendean thought upon that and lent him
hers."

Bendigo nodded and picked up a clay pipe, while Doria spoke again.

"You feel quite steady in your nerves? You would not like me to lie
in readiness to come forward if you want me!"

"No, no--turn in and go to sleep. And no spying, as you're a
gentleman. I'll talk reason to the poor fellow. I reckon it's going
to be all right. We know that he's had shell shock and all the rest
of it, so I dare say the law won't be very hard upon him."

"The dead man's wife was an angel to Robert Redmayne. He thought at
first that she had come to give him up. But her eyes showed him that
she had come in mercy. May I speak of your niece a moment before I
go?"

Bendigo shrugged his round shoulders and pushed his hand through his
red hair.

"It's no good speaking of her till you've spoken to her," he said.
"I know what you are after very well. But it's up to her, I reckon,
not me. She's gone her own way since she was a nipper--got her
father's will hid under her woman's shape."

He reflected uncomfortably that Mark Brendon must hear every word
about to pass; but there was no help for that.

"Our Italian way is to approach the parents of the loved one,"
explained Doria. "To win you is to be far on my way, for you stand
to her in the place of parent. Is it not so? She cannot live alone.
She was not meant by God to be a single woman, or a widow woman.
There is a saying in my tongue, 'She who is born beautiful is born
married.' I terribly fear that somebody else will come."

"But what about your ambitions--to wed an heiress and claim the
title and the territory of your vanished forbears?"

Doria swept his hands to right and left with a great gesture, as
though casting away his former hopes.

"It is fate," he said. "I planned my life without love. I had never
loved and never wanted to. I guessed that love would appear after I
had married money and earned the necessary means and leisure to
love. But now all is changed. The arrow has sped. There has come the
spirit simpatica instead of the necessary rich woman. Now I do not
want the rich woman but only she who wakens my passion, adoration,
worship. Life has nothing in it but Madonna--English Jenny. What are
castles and titles--pomp and glory--when weighed against her? Dust,
padron mio, all dust!"

"And what about her, Giuseppe?"

"Her heart is hidden; but there is that in her eyes that tells me to
hope."

"And what about me?"

"Alas! Love is selfish. But you are the last I would seek to hurt or
to rob. You have been very good to me and Madonna loves you. It is
certain that if the very best happened, she would do nothing to
offend one who has been to her as you have been."

"We can stow the subject for six months anyhow," replied Bendigo,
lighting his long clay. "I suppose, in your country as well as mine,
there's a right and a wrong way to approach a woman; and seeing my
girl's a widow--made so under peculiarly sad circumstances--you'll
understand that love talk is out of the question for a good bit yet
a while."

"Most truly you speak. I hide even the fire in my eyes. I only dare
look at her between the lids."

"There's a lot goes to Jenny, and no doubt such a keen blade as you
knows that very well. But all's in the air at present. Her husband
left no will and that means, since there's nobody else with any
claim upon him, she has all his dough--five hundred a year perhaps.
But there's much more to her than that in the long run. My brother
Albert and I are both old bachelors with nobody so near us as Jenny.
In fact you may say that if all goes right, she'll be pretty flush
some day. Not enough to waste on ruined castles, but a mighty good
income none the less. Then there's poor Bob's money; for however it
falls out with him, it don't look as though he'd spend it now."

"All this is wind in the trees and the cackling of hens to me,"
declared Doria. "I have not thought about it and I do not want to
think about it. The criterion of love, such as I feel to Jenny, is
that nothing else weighs a mustard seed in the balance against it.
If she were a pauper, or if she owned millions, my attitude of heart
is not changed. I worship her with the whole of myself--so that
there is not a cranny left in my spirit where hunger for money can
find foothold, or fear of poverty exist. Happiness never depends
upon cash, or the lack of it; but without love no real happiness
shall be found in the world."

"That may be bunkum, or it may be God's truth--I don't know. I've
never been in love and nobody ever wasted an ounce of affection on
me," replied Redmayne. "But you've heard me now. You can sit on the
safety valve for six months anyway; and it will probably pay you
best to do so; for one thing's certain: Jenny won't love you any
better for making love under present circumstances."

"It is too true," answered the other. "Trust me. I will hide my soul
and be exquisitely cautious. Her sorrow shall be respected--from no
selfish motive only, but because I am a gentleman, as you remind
me."

"Youth's youth, and you Italians have a good deal more fire kneaded
into you than us northerners."

Suddenly Doria's manner changed and he looked half sternly, half
curiously at Bendigo. Then he smiled to himself and ended, the
conversation.

"Fear nothing," he said. "Trust me. Indeed there is no reason why
you should do otherwise. No more of this for half a year. I bid you
good night, master."

He was gone and for a moment only the hurtle of the rain on the
ground windows of the tower room broke the silence; then Brendon
emerged from his hiding-place and stretched his limbs. Bendigo
regarded him with an expression half humorous and half grim.

"That's how the land lies," he said. "Now you've got it."

Mark bent his head.

"And you think that she--"

"Yes--I think so. Why not? Did you ever in your experience hit up
against a man more likely to charm a young woman?"

"Will he keep his word and not try to make the running for another
six months?"

"You're as green about love as I am; but even I can answer that. Of
course he'll make the running. He can't help it. It doesn't need
words."

"The idea of another husband would be abominable to Mrs. Pendean for
many years; and no Englishman worthy of the name would dare to
intrude upon her sacred grief."

"I don't know anything about that. I only know that whatever the
amount of grief she feels, she's devilish interested in
Giuseppe--and he's not an Englishman."

They talked for the best part of an hour and Mark perceived that the
old sailor was something of a fatalist. He had already concluded
that his niece would presently wed again and with the Italian. Nor
did the prospect do more than annoy Bendigo from the point of view
of his own comfort. Brendon observed that Mr. Redmayne felt no
personal objection or distrust. Jenny's uncle did not apparently
anticipate that she would live to regret such a second husband;
while Mark, from a standpoint quite independent, honestly felt that
one so volatile and strangely handsome might sooner or later cloud
the young woman's life with tribulation. He knew the quality of his
own love, but perceived the hopelessness at present of showing it in
any way. For at this juncture there appeared no possibility of
serving her. He was, however, a patient man and now summoned hope
that in the future it might yet fall within his reach to be of vital
use, even though it should never lie in her power to reward his
devotion.

He knew himself and he knew that this strange and novel emotion of
love was, at least in his case, a deep, omnipotent thing, beyond and
above any selfish and purely personal desire for happiness. Even
Doria admitted that much probably, though whether, did the test
arise, he would put the woman's prosperity before his own passion,
Brendon took leave to doubt.

He retreated presently as the hour of one approached, but before
doing so, returned to the subject of Robert Redmayne. The elder
spoke the last word and left Mark in grave doubt as to what the
immediate future might bring.

"If," said Bendigo, "my brother has any just excuse for what he did,
or can convince me, for instance, that he took Pendean's life in
order to save his own, then I stick by him and don't give him up
while I can fight on his side. You'll tell me that I'll be in reach
of the law myself if I do any such thing; but that won't frighten
me. Blood's thicker than water when you come down to a job like
this."

It was a new attitude, but the detective said nothing, and as a
clock in the hall below beat the hour of one he returned to the
cupboard and drew the door behind him. Bendigo had just lighted
another pipe when there came the sound of feet ascending the stair;
but it was no doubtful or cautious footfall that they heard. The
ascending man neither hesitated nor made any effort to approach
without noise. He came swiftly and as the sailor stood up calm and
collected, to meet his brother--not Robert Redmayne but Giuseppe
Doria appeared.

He was very agitated and his eyes shone. He breathed hard and wiped
the hair away from his forehead. He had evidently been out in the
rain, for water glistened on his shoulders and face.

"Suffer me to drink," he said. "I have been frightened."

Bendigo pushed the bottle and an empty tumbler across his table and
the other sat down and helped himself.

"Be quick; what the devil's the matter? He'll be here in a
minute--my brother."

"No, he will not be here. I have seen and spoken with him--he's not
coming to you."

Doria helped himself very sparingly to some spirits; then he
explained.

"I was going the rounds and just about to turn out the oil lamp over
the front gate as usual when I remembered Mr. Redmayne. That is half
an hour ago and I thought it would be better to leave the lamp, to
guide him, for the night is dark and wild. I came down the ladder
therefore; but I had already been seen. He was waiting under the
shelter of the rocks on the other side of the road, where there is a
pent roof of natural stone; and seeing me he remembered me and came
and spoke a little. He was full of new fear and dread. He said that
people had been hunting him and that even now men were hidden not
far off to take him. I assured him it was not so and swore to him
that you were alone and desired only to succour him. I used my best
words and prayed him to come in swiftly and let me shut the outer
gate and make it fast; but his suspicions grew; the fear of a hunted
animal was in his eyes. He misunderstood me. Terror conquered him
and what I had said, to make him feel safe, acted in the contrary
way. He would not come within the gate but sent a message that you
are to come to him instead, if you still will to save him. He is a
very sick soul and will not last long. I saw death in his eyes under
the lamplight."

There was a pause while Bendigo slowly took in this change in the
situation. Then he lifted his voice and spoke, not to Doria, but to
the man in hiding.

"Come right out, Brendon," he said. "The game's up for to-night as
you've heard. Doria has seen Bob, and he's frightened the poor
beggar off apparently. Anyway he's not coming."

Mark emerged and Giuseppe gazed in astonishment. His mind evidently
ran backward and his face flushed with annoyance.

"Corpo di Bacco!" he swore. "Then you heard my confidences. You are
a sneak!"

"Stow that," cried Bendigo. "Brendon's here because I wished it for
my brother's good. I wanted him to know what passed--and your love
affairs are neither here nor there. He'll not use anything he heard
that don't concern his proper business. What did Robert say?"

But Doria was angry. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it
again, looked first at Brendon and then at his master and breathed
hard.

"Get on," said Bendigo. "Shall I go out to the man, or has he gone?"

"And as for me; don't think twice about it," added Brendon. "I'm
here for one reason only, and that you know. You and your private
hopes and ambitions have nothing to do with me."

Upon this speech the Italian appeared to regain his composure.

"I am a servant for the moment and my duty is to Mr. Redmayne," he
answered. "This is the message that I have been told to bring. The
hunted man will not trust himself behind doors or under a roof,
until he has seen his brother alone. He is hiding now near the place
where Mrs. Pendean and I found him, in a cave beside the sea. It
opens upon the water and it can be approached by boat. But there is
a way also inside, that enables him to creep down into the cave from
the cliffs behind it. He will be in this place until his brother
comes, to-morrow night after twelve o'clock. But the way down from
the land is hidden very carefully and he will not speak of that. You
must go to him from the sea, my master. He thought it out while he
spoke to me. He will light his lamp in the cave, and when the light
is seen from the launch, you will put in and come to him. That is
what he demands shall be done; and if anybody tries to land but only
his brother, he will shoot them. So he swears, and he said also that
when Bendigo Redmayne knows all, then he will forgive all and be on
his side."

"Did he talk like a sane man?" asked Brendon.

"He talked like a sane man; but he is at his last gasp. He must
have had mighty strength once, only it is now worn down to nothing."

An uneasy thought passed through the detective's mind. Could it be
possible that Doria, while speaking previously to Bendigo about
private affairs, had discovered his presence in the great cupboard
and then warned Robert Redmayne that he would not meet his brother
alone? He dismissed the suspicion, however, for Doria's surprise and
anger when he emerged were genuine enough. Moreover there appeared
no reason why Giuseppe should side with the fugitive.

Bendigo spoke.

"So be it," he said. "It's a matter of life and death now and I'm
sorry we must wait till another night. We'll fetch out in the launch
and, when we see the light, go in and hail him."

Then he turned to Brendon.

"I'll ask you to hold off until I've seen the poor chap. As a
brother I ask it."

"Trust me. It's quite understood that nothing shall be done now
until you have seen him and reported. It may not be regular, but
common humanity suggests that."

"You can stop here to-morrow night," continued the sailor. "And if I
prevail with the unfortunate man I'll bring him off in the launch.
Then we'll talk sense to him. We've got to remember that nobody's
ever heard his side."

"If Captain Redmayne had a side he wouldn't have run away, or taken
the extraordinary pains that he did take to conceal his victim,"
answered Mark. "Don't buoy yourself up to suppose that will be a
possible line of defence. We're far more likely to get him off by
proving a homicidal act under the influence of shell shock--and the
less reason there was for murdering Michael Pendean, the more reason
there will be for supposing your brother out of his mind and
therefore guiltless when he did it."

"He is a very sane and a very sorry man now," declared Doria. "He
will come to your hand like a starved bird, signor."

"So much for that, then; and now we had better turn in," said
Bendigo. "I've always got a spare bunk in the spare room and you'll
find all you want, barring a razor, in the bathroom. You young men
use the newfangled safety razors, so Giuseppe can lend you one no
doubt."

Doria promised that a razor should be in the bathroom early on the
following morning; then he retired and Bendigo, who found that he
was hungry, descended to the dining-room. Brendon and he made a meal
before going to bed.

From his couch in a small chamber adjoining the older man's, Mark
heard Mr. Redmayne growling to himself in evident sorrow for his
brother. Himself he felt moved at a situation so painful, but was
glad enough to know that a few more hours would determine it. In his
own mind he felt satisfied of the issue and imagined Robert Redmayne
as detained for a certain period at the royal pleasure and then, if
medical opinion sanctioned the step, once more liberated.

He turned to his own affairs and faced the fact that his hope of
Jenny grew thin. The thought of her was now complicated by her
position. He had never considered that in the future she might be
rich and possessed of far larger means than he could ever attain. He
looked forward and perceived that opportunity would lie with him to
enjoy some private conversation on the following day. Yet, when the
time came, what was there that he could say to her? The storm had
blown itself out and dawn returned before he slept.

With morning Bendigo proved grumpy and desirous to be left alone. He
was evidently much perturbed and shut himself into the tower room
with his pipe and "Moby Dick." He only cared to see Jenny, who spent
some time with him. It was from Brendon that she heard the facts in
the morning when, much to her surprise, he appeared at breakfast
while she was making tea. Doria joined them a little later, but Mr.
Redmayne, usually an early riser, did not appear. Jenny took him his
breakfast.

He came down to luncheon and, after that meal, Doria conveyed
Brendon in the launch to Dartmouth, where Mark visited the police
station and explained the need for further delay. There was now no
necessity for the contemplated man hunt and he let Inspector
Damarell learn that the fugitive had been found and would probably
surrender within four-and-twenty hours. He telephoned to Scotland
Yard the same information and presently returned to "Crow's Nest."
The day was still and sunless with fine rain falling; but the wind
had dropped and the night promised to be calm.

Doria landed Brendon and then put off again, going slowly down the
coast. He asked Mark's permission to do so, that he might make a few
mental notes of distances for the coming night. The raised beach, on
which Robert Redmayne had been first spoken, was about five miles
off, and Giuseppe suspected that Redmayne's hiding-place would be
found to lie still farther to the west.

He departed therefore at a definite rate of speed and was back again
in three quarters of an hour before the dusk had fallen. But he had
nothing to report. He had found no cave where he expected one, and
now guessed that Robert Redmayne's secret holt must be nearer than
they imagined.

The night came at last--very dark overhead but clear and calm.
Beneath "Crow's Nest" the waves, sunk to nothing, made a quiet
whisper along the feet of the precipices and tinkled on the little
beaches that here and there broke the cliff line. The tide was just
making and midnight had struck when Bendigo Redmayne, in
rough-weather kit, stumped down his long flight of steps and went to
sea. Brendon and Jenny stood above under the flagstaff, and soon
they heard the launch purr away swiftly under the darkness.

The woman spoke first.

"Thank God we are at the end of this horrible suspense," she said.
"It has been a cruel nightmare for me, Mr. Brendon."

"I have felt much for you, Mrs. Pendean, and admired your marvellous
patience."

"Who could but be patient with the poor wretch? He has paid the
price of what he did. Even I can say that. There are worse things
than death, Mr. Brendon, and you will presently see them in Robert
Redmayne's eyes. Even Giuseppe was sobered after our first meeting."

That she should use the Italian's Christian name so easily struck
unreasoning regret into the heart of Mark. It gave him an excuse for
a question.

"Do you believe all Doria tells you? Is he regarded here as a
domestic or an equal?"

She smiled.

"As a superior rather than an equal. Yes, I see no reason to doubt
his story. He is obviously a great gentleman and a man of natural
fine feeling. Breeding and education are different things. He has
little education, but a native delicacy of mind belongs to him. You
feel it."

"He interests you?"

"He does," she confessed frankly. "Indeed I owe him something, for
he has a wonderful art and tact to strike the right note with me."

"He has had rare opportunities," said Brendon grudgingly.

"Yes; but not everybody would have taken them. I came here
distracted--half mad. My uncle tried to be kind, but he has no
imagination and could rise to nothing higher than reading me
passages from 'Moby Dick.' Doria was of my own generation and he has
a feminine quality that most men lack."

"I thought women hated feminine qualities in men."

"Perhaps I misuse my words. I mean that he possesses a quick
sympathy and a sort of intuition that are oftener found in a woman
than a man."

Mark was silent and she asked a question.

"I could not fail to note that you do not like him, or if that is
too strong, that you see nothing to admire in him. What is there
antipathetic in his nature to you, and in yours to him? He doesn't
like you either. Yet you both seem to me such gracious, kindly men.
Surely you have no bias against other nationalities--a man with a
cosmopolitan record like yours?"

At this thrust Brendon perceived how unconsciously he had displayed
an aversion for which no real reason existed--no reason, at any
rate, that he might fairly declare. And yet he was frank; nor did
his response perhaps surprise her, though she appeared to be
astonished.

"There's only one answer, Mrs. Pendean: I'm jealous of Signor
Doria."

"Jealous! Why, Mr. Brendon--what have you to envy him?"

"You would not be likely to guess," he replied, though in truth
Jenny had already done so accurately enough. "I am sure that if
Doria is a gentleman I need not be jealous, seeing what is in my
thought cannot be spoken to you by any man for many a long day to
come. And yet to envy him is natural; and when you ask what I envy,
I will be honest and tell you. Fate has given him the privilege of
lightening the cruel burden placed upon your shoulders. His sympathy
and intuition you admit have succeeded in so doing. You will say
that no Englishman could have done that exactly in the way he
did--perhaps you are right; but one Englishman regrets from the
bottom of his heart that the opportunity was denied him."

"You have been good and kind, too," she answered. "Do not think I am
ungrateful. It was not your fault that you failed to discover Robert
Redmayne. And, after all, what would success have amounted to? Only
the capture of the unfortunate man a few months sooner. Now, I hope,
he will see that there is nothing for it but to give himself up to
his brother and trust his fellow creatures to be merciful."

Thus she led conversation away from Doria and herself, and Mark took
the hint. He no longer doubted that her regard for the Italian might
easily ripen into love. He assured himself that he dreaded this for
her, yet suspected all the time that his regret was in reality
selfish and inspired by personal disappointment rather than fear for
her.

Anon they saw the flash of a ruby and an emerald upon the sea
westward and soon heard Redmayne's motor boat returning. Less than
half an hour had passed, and Brendon hoped that Robert Redmayne had
yielded to his brother's entreaty and was now about to land; but
this had not happened. Only Giuseppe Doria ascended the steps and he
had little to tell.

"They didn't want me yet, so I ran back," he said. "All goes well;
his cavern lies quite near to us. The lamp flashed out only two
miles away and I ran in; and there was the man standing just outside
a small cave on the little beach before it. He cried out a strange
welcome. He said, 'If any other lands but you, Ben, I will shoot
him!' So the master shouted that he was to fear nothing, and he
jumped ashore as soon as our nose touched the sand; then told me to
put off instantly. They went back into the cave together and I am to
return within an hour."

He explained the position of the cave.

"It is above the little beach, revealed at low tide, where cowries
are to be found," he said. "I took Madonna there on an occasion to
gather the little shells for the fancywork the master makes."

"Uncle Ben fashions all sorts of wonderful ornaments out of shells,"
explained Jenny.

Doria smoked some cigarettes and then descended again. In twenty
minutes the boat had gone to sea once more, while Jenny bade Mark
good night and retired. She felt it better not to meet her uncles on
their arrival, and Brendon agreed with her.



CHAPTER VIII

DEATH IN THE CAVE


Alone, Brendon regarded the future with some melancholy, for he
believed that only Chance had robbed him of his great hope. Chance,
so often a valued servant, now, in the mightiest matter of his life,
turned against him. Not for a moment could he or would he compare
himself with the man he now regarded as a successful rival; but
accident had given Doria superb opportunities while denying to
Brendon any opportunity whatever. He told himself, however, that a
cleverer man than he would have made opportunities. What was his
love worth if it could not triumph over the handicaps of Chance?

He felt ruled out, and he had not even the excuse to impose himself
upon Jenny and still seek to win her by pretending that he was
better fitted to make her permanently happy than his rival. Indeed
he knew that in the long run such a cheerful and versatile soul as
Giuseppe was more likely to satisfy Jenny than he, for Doria would
have all his time to devote to her, while marriage and a home must
be only a part of Brendon's future existence. There remained his
work, and he well knew that, whatever Jenny's position and
independence, he would not leave the business that had brought him
renown. Only on one ground he doubted for her, and again and again
feared that such an attractive being as Doria might follow the
tradition of his race and presently weary of one woman.

Next he considered another aspect of the situation and thought of
every word that Jenny had recently spoken. They pointed to one
conclusion in his judgment and he believed that when a seemly period
had elapsed she would allow herself to love Doria. That was as much
as to say she had already begun to do so, if unconsciously. This
surprised him, for even granting the obvious fascination of the man,
he could hardly believe that the image of her first husband had
already begun to grow faint in Jenny's memory. He remembered her
grief and protestations at Princetown; he perceived the deep
mourning which she wore. She was indeed young, but her character had
never appeared to him youthful or light-hearted. Against that fact,
however, he had certainly only known her after her sorrow and loss,
and he remembered how she had sung on the moor upon the evening she
passed him in the sunset light. She had probably been cheerful and
joyous before her husband's death. But she surely never possessed a
frivolous nature. His knowledge of character told him that. And
there was strength as well as sweetness in her face. Serious
subjects had interested her in his small experience of her company;
but that might be because she responded, as a delicate instrument,
to her environment; and he himself had never been anything but
serious beside her. With the Italian, no doubt, there had happened
moments when she could sometimes smile and forget. Doria's own
affairs, of which he loved to chatter, had doubtless often
distracted Mrs. Pendean from her own melancholy reflection, and in
any case she could not sigh forever at her age.

The return of the motor boat arrested his reflections. She had been
gone about an hour when Mark perceived her running very swiftly
homeward. Guessing that Bendigo Redmayne and his brother were now
aboard, he prepared to retire until the following day to the room he
occupied. He had arranged to be invisible unless Robert Redmayne
were willing to see him and discuss the future.

But Doria once more came back to "Crow's Nest" alone, and what he
had to tell soon altered the detective's plans. For Giuseppe was
much concerned and feared that evil had overtaken his master.

"After the time was up, I ran in," he said, "and the rising tide
brought me within a few yards of the mouth of the cave. The light
was burning but I could see neither of them. I hailed twice and got
no answer. All was still as the grave and I went near enough to the
shore to satisfy myself that there was nobody there. The cave was
empty. Now I am a good deal alarmed and I come back to you."

"You didn't land?"

"I didn't touch shore, but I was within five yards of the cave, none
the less, for the tide is now risen. The light shone upon
emptiness. I beg you will return with me, for I feel that some evil
thing may have happened."

Much puzzled, Brendon delayed only to get his revolver and an
electric torch. He then descended with Doria to the water and they
were soon afloat again. The boat ran at full speed for a few
minutes; then her course was changed and she turned in under the
cliffs. Mark soon saw a solitary gleam of light, like a glowworm, at
sea level in the solid darkness of the precipices, and Doria,
slowing down, crept in toward it. Presently he shut off his engine
and the launch grounded her prow on a little beach before the
entrance of Robert Redmayne's hiding-place. The lamp shone brightly,
but its illumination, though serving to show the cavern empty, was
not sufficient to light its lofty roof, or reveal a second exit,
where a tunnel ran up at the rear and could be climbed by steps
roughly hewn in the stone.

"It is a place my master showed me long ago," explained Doria. "It
was used by smugglers in the old days and they have cut steps that
still exist."

Both men landed and Giuseppe made fast the launch. Then immediate
evidence of tragedy confronted them. The floor of the cave was of
very fine shingle intermixed with sand. The sides were much broken
and the strata of the rock had wrinkled and bent in upon itself. The
lamp stood on a ledge and flung a radius of light over the floor
beneath. Here had been collected the food and drink supplied to
Redmayne on the previous day, and it was clear that he had eaten
and drunk heartily. But the arresting fact appeared on the beaten
and broken surface of the ground. Heavy boots had torn this up and
plowed furrows in it. At one spot lay an impression, as though some
large object had fallen, and here Brendon saw blood--a dark patch
already drying, for the substance of it was soaked away in the sandy
shingle on which it had dropped.

It was a blot rather than a pool and under his electric lamp Mark
perceived a trail of other drops extending irregularly toward the
back of the cavern. From the mark of the fallen body a ridge
ploughed through the shingle extending rearward, and he judged that
one of the two men had certainly felled the other and then drawn him
toward the chimney, or tunnel that opened at the back of the cave.
Spots of blood and the dragged impression of some heavy body
stretched along the ground to the stone steps and there disappeared.

The detective stopped here and inquired the length of the staircase
and whither it led; but for a time his companion appeared too dazed
to answer him. Giuseppe showed a good deal of the white feather,
combined with sincere emotion at the implicit tragedy.

"This is death--death!" he kept repeating, and between his words his
mouth hung open and his eyes rolled fearfully over the shadowy
places round about him.

"Pull yourself together and help me if you can," said. Brendon.
"Every moment may make all the difference. It looks to me as though
somebody had been dragged up here. Is that possible?"

"To a very powerful man it might be. But he was weak--no good."

"Where does this place lead?"

"There are many shallow steps, then a long slope and, after that,
you have to bend your head and scramble out through a hole. You are
then on a plateau halfway up the cliff. It is a broad ledge and from
it one only track, rough and steep, rises up zigzag, like our
hairpin roads in Italy, till you reach the summit of the cliff. But
it is rough and broken--impossible by night."

"We must go that way all the same and make it possible. Is the boat
fast?"

"If you will help me, we will pull her up into the cave. Then we can
hunt and she will not take harm."

Lamenting the loss of time, Mark lent a hand and the launch was soon
above high-water mark. Then, with Brendon in front and the light
from his torch upon the steps, they began their ascent. Save for a
drop of blood here and there, the stone stairway gave no clue; but
when they had reached its summit and the subterranean path turned to
the left, still in a tunnel of the solid rock, they marked on the
ascending slope, slippery with percolations from the roof, a
straight smear dragged over the muddy surface. Pursued for fifty
yards the tunnel began to narrow and the roof descend, but still the
smooth track of a heavy object being dragged upward was evident.
Save for an occasional word the men proceeded in silence, but
Brendon sometimes heard the Italian speaking to himself. "Padron
mio, padron mio--death!" he repeated.

For the last ten yards of the tunnel Mark had to go on his knees and
crawl. Then he emerged and found himself in the open air on a shelf
hung high between the earth and the sea. All was dark and very
silent. He held up his hand to Doria and the two listened intently
for some minutes, but only the subdued murmur of the water far
beneath reached their ears. No sound broke the stillness round
about. Under their feet stretched a ledge of fine turf, browned by
winter and covered with the evidence of sea birds. Giuseppe picked
up a few grey feathers as the electric torch swept the surface of
the plateau.

"For the master's pipe," he explained. "He uses feathers to cleanse
it."

Overhead the cliff line stretched black as ink against the sky,
making the midnight clouds above it light by contrast. Here Brendon
saw evidences that the dead weight dragged from beneath had remained
still a while, and he observed an impress near it on the herbage,
where doubtless a living man had rested after his exertions. There
were clots of blood on the grass near this spot, but no other sign
visible in the present condition of darkness. Remembering the death
of Michael Pendean, Brendon was already reconstructing, in theory,
the events immediately under his notice. That Bendigo Redmayne's
brother had slain the elder now appeared too probable; and he had
apparently proceeded as before and removed his victim--in a
sack--for the line on the cave floor below and along the path which
Mark had just traversed indicated some heavy, rounded object that
did not change its shape as it was dragged along.

For two minutes he stood, then spoke.

"Where is the path from here?" he asked, and Doria, proceeding
cautiously to the east of the plateau, presently indicated a rocky
footpath that ascended from it. The track was rough and evidently
seldom used, for brambles and dead vegetation lay across it. They
proceeded by this way and Brendon directed the other to disturb
nothing, so that careful examination might, if necessary, be made
when daylight returned. The path elbowed to right and left sharply,
ever ascending, and it was not too steep to prevent steady progress.
It ended at last on the summit of the cliffs, where, after a barren
space of fifty yards, a low wall ran separating ploughed lands from
the precipices. But no sight of any human being awaited them and, on
the close sward of the summit, footsteps would have left no record.

"What d'you make of it?" asked Doria. "Your mind is swift and
skilled in these deviltries. Is it true that my master and my friend
is a dead man--the old sea wolf dead?"

"Yes," said Brendon drearily. "In my mind there is no doubt of it.
It is also true that a thing has happened which I should have
prevented and a life been lost which might have been saved. From the
first I have taken too much on trust in this matter and believed
all that I was told too readily."

"That is no blame to you," answered the other. "Why should you have
doubted what you heard?"

"Because it was my business to credit nothing and trust nobody. I am
not blaming anybody, or suggesting any attempts to deceive me; but I
have accepted what sounded obvious and rational, as we all did,
instead of examining things for myself. You may not understand this,
Doria; but other people will be only too quick to do so."

"You did the best you could; so did everybody. Who was to know that
he came here to kill his brother?"

"A madman may do anything. My fault has been to assume his return to
sanity."

"What more natural? How could you assume otherwise? Only an insane
man would have killed Madonna's husband, and only a very sane one
would have escaped the sleuths afterward. So you argued that he was
mad and then sane again; yet now he has gone mad once more."

Brendon desired to be at Dartmouth as swiftly as possible, so that a
search might be instituted at dawn. Doria considered whether he
might make best speed by road or water, and decided that he could
bring Mark more quickly to the seaport in the launch than along the
highway.

"We must, however, return by the tunnel," he said, "for there is no
other route by which we can get back to the boat."

Brendon agreed and they descended the zigzag path and then, from the
plateau, reëntered the tunnel and presently reached the steps again
and the cavern beneath. Extinguishing the lamp, which still burned
steadily, they were soon afloat, and under a tremor of dawn the
little vessel cut her way at her best speed, flinging a sheaf of
foam from her bows and leaving a white wake on the still and
leaden-coloured sea.

They saw a figure beneath the flagstaff at "Crow's Nest" and both
recognized Jenny Pendean. She made no signal, but the sight of her
evidently disturbed Giuseppe's mind. He stopped the boat and
appealed to Brendon.

"My heart is in my mouth," he said. "A sudden fear has overtaken me.
This madman--it may be that he has turned against his own and those
who are his best friends. There is a thing lunatics will do. It
follows--while we are away--do you not see? There are only two women
at 'Crow's Nest' now, and he might come and make a clean sweep--is
it not so?"

"You think that?"

"With God and the devil all things are possible," answered the
other, his eyes lifted to the house on the cliffs.

"You're right. Run in. There may be a danger for her."

Doria was triumphant.

"Even you do not think of everything," he cried; but the other did
not answer. On him lay a load of responsibility and a heavy sense of
failure.

He directed Doria how to act, however.

"Tell Mrs. Pendean and the servant to lock up the house and then
join us," he said. "They had better come to Dartmouth, and they can
return presently with you, after you have landed me. Beg that they
do not delay a moment."

Doria obeyed and in ten minutes returned with Jenny, dazed and pale,
and the frightened domestic still fumbling at her bodice buttons.
They were both in great fear and full of words; but Brendon begged
them to be quiet. He warned Jenny that the worst was to be dreaded
for her uncle, and their awful news reduced her to silence quickly
enough. Thus they sped on their way, leaped between the harbour
heads before sunrise, and soon came ashore at the landing stage.

Doria's work was now done and, having directed him to take the women
back, Mark bade them all keep the house until more news should reach
them.

"Telephone to the police station if you have anything to report," he
directed, "but should the man appear and attempt to enter, prevent
him from doing so."

He gave them further directions and then they parted.

In half an hour the news had spread, search parties set out by land,
and Brendon himself, with Inspector Damarell and two constables, put
to sea in the harbour-master's swift steam launch. Some food had
been brought aboard and Mark made a meal as he described the
incidents of the night. It was eight o'clock before they reached the
cavern and began a methodical search over the ground and upward.
Mark had arranged with Doria that a signal should fly from "Crow's
Nest" for him if there were any news; but nothing had happened, for
the flagpole was bare.

Then began a laborious hunt in the cave and the tunnel by which it
was approached from above. Morning light filled the hollow place and
the officers working methodically left no cranny unexplored; but
their combined efforts by daylight revealed little more than Brendon
had already found for himself in the darkness. There was nothing but
the trampled sand, the partially eaten store of food, the lamp on
its stone bracket, the black blot of blood, and the shallow trench
left by some rounded object that had been dragged to the steps. The
tide was down but the little beach only displayed the usual debris
at high-water mark. Inspector Damarell returned to the steam launch
and bade the skipper go back to Dartmouth.

"We'll ride home by motor from above," he said. "Tell them to bring
my runabout car to the top of Hawk Beak Hill; and let 'em fetch
along some sandwiches and half a dozen bottles of Bass; I'm thinking
we shall want 'em by noon."

The launch was off and once more the chimney with the steps, the
inclined plane beyond, and the plateau halfway up the cliff were all
examined with patient scrutiny. The police went at a foot's pace,
yet nothing appeared save an occasional drop of blood upon a stone
and the trail of the object dragged upward on the previous night.

"He must be a Samson," said Mark. "Consider if you or I had to pull
a solid, eleven-stone man in a sack up here."

"I could not," admitted the inspector. "But it was done. We're going
to have a repetition of that job at Berry Head in the summer. We
shall hunt the cliffs, like a pack of hounds, and presently find
some place hanging over deep water. Then we shall hit on a sack in a
rabbit hole or badger's earth--and that will be all there is to it."

On the plateau they rested, while Brendon found some clear marks of
feet--a heavy, iron-shod boot, which he recognized. They occurred in
a soft place just outside the mouth of the tunnel and he recollected
the toe plates and the triangle-headed nails that held them.

He called Inspector Damarell.

"When this is compared with the plaster casts taken at Foggintor,
you'll find it's the same boot," he said. "That's no surprise, of
course, but it proves probably that we are dealing with the same
man."

"And he'll use the same means to vanish into thin air that he did
six months ago," prophesied the other. "You mark me, Brendon, this
is not one man's work. There's a lot hid under this job that hasn't
seen light--just as there was under the last. It's very easy to say,
because we can't find a motive, the man's mad. That's the line of
least resistance; but it don't follow by a long sight that it's the
right line. Here's a chap has lured his brother to death, and very
cunning he's been about it. He's pitched a yarn and then, after a
promise to turn up, he changes his mind and makes a new plan
altogether by which old Ben Redmayne is put entirely in his power.
Then--"

"But who was to know he meant mischief? We had facts to deal with.
Mrs. Pendean herself had seen and spoken to him; so had Doria. In
the case of the lady, at any rate, all she said was above suspicion.
She hid nothing; she behaved like a Christian woman, wept at the
spectacle of his awful misery, and brought his message to his
brother. Then sudden, panic fear overtook the man at the last
moment--natural enough--and he begged Bendigo Redmayne to see him in
his hiding-place alone. It rang true as a bell. For myself I had not
a shadow of suspicion."

"That's all right," admitted Damarell, "and I'm not one who pretends
to be wise after the event. But, as I told you before, I thought it
a mistake to suspend our search and take the matter out of
professional hands just when we were safe to nab him. You were in
command and we obeyed, but whatever the murderer had to say would as
well have been said to us as to his brother--and better; because in
any case he might have tempted a brother to break the law for him.
Now there's more innocent blood been shed and a damned, dangerous
criminal--mad or sane--is still at large. Most likely more than one.
However, it is not much use jawing, I grant you. What we've got to
do is to catch them--if we can."

Brendon made no reply to this speech. He was vexed, yet knew that
he had heard little more than the truth.

He examined the plateau and showed again where some round object had
pressed the earth and where a man had sat beside it. From this spot
it was not possible to dispose of a body in the sea. Beneath it
extended a fall of a hundred feet to broken ground, which again gave
by sloping shelves to the water. Had a corpse been thrown over here,
it must have challenged their sight beneath; and yet from this
standpoint no sign of the vanished man or his burden appeared. But
the zigzag path to the cliff top revealed neither any evidence of a
weight being dragged upward nor the impression of the iron-shod
foot. Fresh footprints there were, but they had been made by Brendon
and Doria on the previous night. Now the police ascended, making
careful examination of every turn in the way, and finally reached
the summit a little after noon. It was a dizzy height, beetling over
the sea beneath; but crags and buttresses broke out from the six
hundred feet of precipice and any object thrown over from the crest
of Hawk Beak Hill must have been arrested many times in its downward
progress.

Inspector Damarell stopped to rest and flung himself panting on the
close sward at the crown of the cliff.

"What do you think?" he asked Brendon; and the other having made a
careful examination of the ground around them and scanned the peaks
and ledges beneath, answered:

"He never came here--at any rate not until he had disposed of the
body. It's the broken ground under the plateau we must search. There
may be a way down that he knew. I guess he threw the body over, then
scrambled down himself and covered it deep with stones. It's surely
there--for the simple reason that it can't be anywhere else. We
should have found out if he'd brought it to the top. And in my
judgment, even if he wanted to do so, he would have lacked the
physical strength. He must have spent himself getting it to the
plateau, however strong he is, and then found that he could do no
more. The body, therefore, should be hidden in the rocks below the
plateau."

"We can leave it at that then, till we've had something to eat and
drink," answered the inspector, and proceeding to the nearest point
of the highroad, where a car already waited for them, they made a
meal. The constable who drove the car had no news, but Brendon
expected that information might await him at Dartmouth. He was
convinced that on this occasion the object of their search could not
long evade discovery.

They chained up the motor car, and the constable who had driven it
joined them when they descended to explore the broken ground beneath
the plateau.

"There's nothing more hateful to me than a murder without the body,"
declared Damarell, on the way down. "You don't even know if you're
on firm ground to start with, and every step you take must hang upon
a fact that you can't verify except by circumstantial evidence.
Every step may in reality be a false one--and the nearer you appear
to be to the truth, the farther you may be going away from it. A
pint of blood needn't of necessity mean a murder; but this chap,
Robert Redmayne, has a partiality for leaving red traces behind
him."

The others listened and then they reached the plateau and went down
to the stony space beneath. This was not difficult to reach. A dozen
rough-and-ready ways presented themselves to a climber; but neither
Brendon nor his companions could find the least indications that any
other had recently descended.

Now they quartered out the stone-covered ground and, having first
searched every superficial yard for indications of disturbance,
proceeded to a methodical and very thorough hunt beneath the
surface. The stones were moved and the space critically examined
over every square foot, but not a shadow of evidence to show that
the spot had been trodden or touched could be discovered. Brendon
sought first immediately below the plateau, where the sack and its
contents must have fallen, but nothing indicated such an event. The
stones were naked and no stain of blood or indication of any
intrusion upon the lonely spot rewarded the searchers. For three
hours, until dusk began to deepen on the precipices above them, the
men worked as skilfully and steadfastly as men might work. Then
their fruitless task was done. Brendon's theory, so confidently
proclaimed, had broken down and he confessed his failure frankly
enough.

They climbed up together once more and reached the summit of the
cliffs again. Here, by the main road, they met one or two civilians
who had devoted the day to assisting the police; but not one of them
reported any sight or rumour of the fugitive.

The entrance of "Crow's Nest" opened upon the highroad which took
the police back to Dartmouth, and here Brendon delayed the car and
descended alone down the coomb to the house that had so suddenly
lost its master. The place seemed mourning and it was very silent.
Mark inquired for Jenny and the frightened maid doubted whether she
might be seen.

"The poor lady be cruel put about," she explained. "She says she
brings evil fortune after her and wishes to God it was her that was
dead and not poor master. Mr. Doria tried to comfort her a bit; but
he couldn't and she told him to be gone. She's very near cried her
eyes out of her head since morning."

"That does not sound much like Mrs. Pendean," he answered. "Where is
she, and where is Doria?"

"She's in her room. He is writing letters. He says that he must look
after new work pretty quick, because no doubt he won't be wanted
here after a month from now."

"Ask Mrs. Pendean if she can see me a moment," he said, and the
woman, left him to ascertain. But Brendon was disappointed. Jenny
sent word that she could not see him to-day and hoped he would take
occasion to call on the following morning, when he would find her
more composed.

To this he could answer nothing and presently started to rejoin the
car. Giuseppe overtook him from the house; but he could only report
that the day had passed without event at "Crow's Nest."

"Nobody has come but a clergyman," he told Brendon, "and we have
been careful to leave everything just as the old captain left it."

"I will see you to-morrow," promised Mark; then he rejoined the
inspector and their car went on its way.

A surprise and a keen disappointment awaited them at Dartmouth. The
day's work had produced no result whatever. Not a trace of Robert
Redmayne was reported from anywhere and Inspector Damarell offered
the former solution of suicide. But Brendon would not hear it now.

"He is no more dead this time than he was six months ago," he
answered; "but he has some system of disguise, or concealment, that
utterly defeats the ordinary methods of a man hunt. We must try
bloodhounds to-morrow, though the scent is spoiled now and we can
hardly hope for any useful results."

"Perhaps he'll write from Plymouth again as he did before,"
suggested the inspector.

Weary and out of spirits, Mark left the police station and went to
his hotel. To be baffled was an experience not new to him and thus
far he felt no more tribulation than a great cricketer, who
occasionally fails and retires for a "duck," knowing that his second
innings may still be told in three figures; but what concerned him
was the double failure on the same case. He felt puzzled by events
and still more puzzled by his own psychology, which seemed incapable
of reacting as usual to the stimulus of mystery and the challenge of
a problem, apparently ineluctable.

He felt that his wits were playing him false and, instead of
cleaving some bold and original way to the heart of a difficulty, as
was his wont, he could see no ray of light thrown by the candle of
his own inspiration. Inspiration, in fact, he wholly lacked. Once
only in the past--after an attack of influenza--had he felt so
barren of initiative as now, so feeble and ineffective.

He fell asleep at last, thinking not of the vanished sailor, but
Jenny Pendean. That she must suffer at her uncle's sudden death was
natural and he had not been surprised to learn of her collapse. For
she was sensitive; she had lately been through a terrible personal
trial; and to find herself suddenly associated with another tragedy
might well induce a nervous breakdown. Who would come to the rescue
now? To whom would she look? Whither would she go?

Mark was early astir and with Inspector Damarell he organized an
elaborate search system for the day. At nine o'clock a large party
had set out, for another morning brought no news by telegram or
telephone, and it was clear that Redmayne still continued free.

Brendon proceeded presently to "Crow's Nest," drawn thither solely
by thoughts of Jenny, for whatever she might secretly think of Doria
and feel toward him, it was certain that he could not be of any
great support under present circumstances. Doria was essentially a
fair-weather friend. Many were the things that Jenny would be called
to do and, so far as Mark knew, there was none to assist her. He
found her distressed but calm. She had telegraphed to her uncle in
Italy and though she doubted whether he would risk return into an
English winter, she hoped that he might do so.

"Everything is chaos," she said, "just as it was at Princetown.
Uncle Bendigo told me only a few days before these things
happened--when he had made up his mind that his brother Robert must
be dead--that the law would not recognize his death for a certain
period of years. And now we know that he is not dead but that poor
Uncle Bendigo is. Yet the law will not recognize his death, either
perhaps, seeing that he has not been found. Uncle Robert's papers
and affairs were gone into and he left no will; so his property,
when the law sanctions it, would have been divided between his
brothers; but now I imagine it all belongs to my uncle in Italy;
while, as for poor Uncle Bendigo, I expect that he has made a will,
because he was such a methodical man; but what he intended to do
with his house and money we cannot tell yet."

Jenny had nothing to say or suggest that could help Brendon and she
was very nervous, desiring to leave the lonely habitation on the
cliffs as quickly as possible; but she intended to await Albert
Redmayne's decision.

"This will greatly upset him, I fear," she said. "He is now the
last of 'the red Redmaynes,' as our family was called in Australia."

"Why the adjective?"

"Because we were always red. Every one of my grandfather's children
had red hair, and so had he. His wife was also red--and the only
living member of the next generation is red, too, as you see."

"You are not red. Your hair is a most wonderful auburn, if I may say
so."

She showed no appreciation of the compliment.

"It will soon be grey," she answered.



CHAPTER IX

A PIECE OF WEDDING CAKE


Albert Redmayne, holding it his duty to come to England, did so, and
Jenny met him at Dartmouth after his long journey.

He was a small, withered man with a big head, great, luminous eyes,
and a bald scalp. Such hair as yet remained to him was the true
Redmayne scarlet; but the nimbus that still adorned his naked skull
was streaked with silver and his thin, long beard was also grizzled.
He spoke in a gentle, kindly voice, with little Southern gestures.
He was clad in a great Italian cloak and a big, slouchy hat, which
between them, almost served to extinguish the bookworm.

"Oh, that Peter Ganns were here!" he sighed again and again, while
he thrust himself as near as possible to a great coal fire, and
Jenny told him every detail of the tragedy.

"They took the bloodhounds to the cave, Uncle Albert, and Mr.
Brendon himself watched them working, but nothing came of it. The
creatures leaped up the channel from the cave and were soon upon the
plateau where the long tunnel opens into the air; but there they
seemed to lose their bearings and there was no scent that attracted
them, either up to the summit of the cliffs, or down to the rocky
beach underneath. They ran about and bayed and presently returned
again down the tunnel to the cave. Mr. Brendon has no belief in the
value of bloodhounds for a case like this."

"Nothing further of--of--Robert?"

"Not a trace or sign of him. I'm sure that everything that the wit
of man can do has been done; and many clever local people, including
the County Commissioner and the highest authorities, have helped Mr.
Brendon; but not a glimpse of poor Uncle Robert has been seen and
there is nothing to show what happened to him after that terrible
night."

"Or to brother Bendigo, either, for that matter," murmured Mr.
Redmayne. "It is your poor husband's case over again--blood, alas,
but nought else!"

Jenny was haggard and worn. She devoted herself to the old man's
comfort and hoped that the journey would not do him any hurt.

Mr. Albert Redmayne slept well, but the morning found him very
depressed and melancholy. Things, dreadful enough at a distance,
seemed far worse now that he found himself in the theatre of their
occurrence. He maintained a long conversation with Mark Brendon and
cross-questioned Doria; but their information did not inspire him to
a suggestion and, after twenty-four hours, it was clear that the
little man could be of no assistance to anybody. He was frightened
and awe-stricken. He detested "Crow's Nest" and the melancholy
murmur of the sea. He showed the keenest desire to return home at
the earliest opportunity and was exceedingly nervous after dark.

"Oh, that Peter Ganns were here!" he exclaimed again and again, as a
comment to every incident unfolded by Brendon or Jenny; and then,
when she asked him if it might be possible to summon Peter Ganns,
Mr. Redmayne explained that he was an American beyond their reach at
present.

"Mr. Ganns," he said, "is my best friend in the world--save
and excepting one man only. He--my first and most precious
intimate--dwells at Bellagio, on the opposite side of Lake Como from
myself. Signor Virgilio Poggi is a bibliophile of European eminence
and the most brilliant of men--a great genius and my dearest
associate for twenty-five years. But Peter Ganns also is a very
astounding person--a detective officer by profession--but a man of
many parts and full of such genuine understanding of humanity that
to know him is to gain priceless insight.

"I myself lack that intimate knowledge of character which is his
native gift. Books I know better than men, and it was my peculiar
acquaintance with books that brought Ganns and me together in New
York. There I served him well in an amazing police case and aided
him to prove a crime, the discovery of which turned upon a certain
paper manufactured for the Medici. But a greater thing than this
criminal incident sprang from it; and that is my friendship with the
wonderful Peter. Not above half a dozen books have taught me more
than that man. He is a Machiavelli on the side of the angels."

He expatiated upon Mr. Peter Ganns until his listeners wearied of
the subject. Then Giuseppe Doria intervened with a personal problem.
He desired to be dismissed and was anxious to learn from Brendon if
the law permitted him to leave the neighbourhood.

"For my part," he said, "it is an ill wind that blows good to
nobody. I am anxious to go to London if there is no objection."

He found himself detained, however, for some days, until an official
examination of the strange problem was completed. The investigation
achieved nothing and threw no ray of light, either upon the apparent
murder of Bendigo Redmayne, or the disappearance of his brother. The
original mystery at Foggintor Quarry was recalled, to fill the minds
of the morbid and curious; but no sort of connecting motive between
the two crimes appeared and the problem of Robert Redmayne only grew
darker. All purpose was lacking from both tragedies, while even the
facts themselves remained in doubt, since neither incident furnished
a dead body to prove murder against the missing man.

Mr. Albert Redmayne stayed no longer in Devonshire than his duty
indicated, for he could prove of no service to the police. On the
night previous to his departure he went through his brother's scanty
library and found nothing in it of any interest to a collector. The
ancient and well-thumbed copy of "Moby Dick" he took for sentiment,
and he also directed Jenny to pack for him Bendigo's "Log"--a diary
in eight or ten volumes. This he proposed to read at his leisure
when home again. To the end of his visit he never ceased to lament
the absence of Mr. Peter Ganns.

"My friend is actually coming to Europe next year," he explained.
"He is, without doubt, the most accomplished of men in the dreadful
science of detecting crime and, were he here, he could assuredly
read into these abominations a meaning for which we grope in vain.
Do not think," he added to Jenny, "that I undervalue the labours of
Mr. Brendon and the police, but they have come to naught, for there
are strange forces of evil moving here deeper than the plummet of
their intelligence can sound."

He departed, assured that his family was the victim of some evil,
concealed alike from himself and everybody else; but he promised
Jenny that he would presently write to America and lay every
incident of the case, so far as it was known and reported, before
his friend.

"He will bring a new intelligence to bear upon the tragedy," said
Albert. "He will see things that are hidden from us, for his brain
has a quality which one can only describe as a mental X-ray, which
probes and penetrates in a fashion denied to ordinary thinking
apparatus."

Before he returned to the borders of Como and his little villa
beneath the mountains, the old scholar took affectionate leave of
Jenny and made her promise to follow him as soon as she was able to
do so.

He had failed to observe the emotional bonds that united her to
Doria; but he had found Giuseppe an attractive personality and
welcomed the Italian's good sense and tact under distressing
circumstances. He made him a present of money before leaving and
promised him testimonials if he should need them. As for Jenny, she
was to enjoy the bequest under her grandfather's will when she
desired to do so, while for her future, her uncle trusted that she
would make her home with him.

He soon departed and the Redmayne inquiry, begun with much zest and
determination, gradually faded away and perished of inanition. No
solitary clue or indication of progress rewarded the investigations.
Robert Redmayne had vanished off the face of the earth and his
brother with him. There remained of the family only Albert and his
niece--a fact she imparted, not without melancholy, to Mark Brendon,
when the day came that he must take his leave of her and return to
other and more profitable fields of work.

He urged her to join her uncle as soon as possible and he begged her
to accept his willing service in any way within his power; while she
was gracious and thanked him for all that he had done.

"I shall never, never forget your patience and your great goodness,"
she said. "I am indeed grateful, Mr. Brendon, and I hope, if only
for your sake, that time will lay bare the truth of these horrible
things. To know that good men, against whom there was no grudge or
hate in the world, have been murdered by their fellow men--it is a
nightmare. But God will bring the truth to light--I feel positive of
that."

He left her more deeply in love than ever; but there seemed no note
of hope or promise in their farewell. And yet he felt a profound
conviction that they would meet again. She undertook to acquaint him
with her movements and was not sure that she would accept Albert
Redmayne's invitation to join him. So Mark left her, believing that
Doria was certain to determine her future and guessing that, if she
presently proceeded to Como, the lively and indomitable Italian
would quickly follow.

For the present, however, Giuseppe seemed to be concerned with his
own affairs. He brought Brendon back on his last journey from
"Crow's Nest" in the launch and explained that he had already found
good work beside the Thames.

"We shall, I hope, meet again," he said, "and you may hear presently
of a very wonderful adventure in which Doria shall be l'allegro--the
merry man and the hero!"

They talked and Mark became impatient under a growing consciousness
that the quicker-witted spirit was pulling his leg. Doria preserved
the best possible temper, but his Latin love of a certain sort of
fun seemed cynical and almost inhuman under the circumstances.

They spoke of the mystery and, upon that subject, the motor boatman
declared himself as quite unable to find any explanation; but, with
respect to Brendon's failure, he did not hesitate to make a sly
allusion. Indeed he hinted at things which Mark was to hear six
months later in a more responsible mouth.

"Above all, what has puzzled me most in this horrid affair is you,
Brendon," declared Giuseppe. "You are a great sleuth, we know; yet
you are no better than the rest of us stupid people before these
happenings and horrors. That made me wonder for a long time; but now
I wonder no longer."

"I'm beat and I own it. I've missed something vital--the keystone of
the arch. But why do you say that you wonder no more? Because you
know me now and find me a very dull dog?"

"Not so, my friend, far from it. You are a very wily, clever dog.
But--well, as we say in Italy, 'if you put a cat into gloves, she
will not catch mice.' You have been in gloves ever since you knew
Madonna was a widow."

"What do you mean?"

"Very well you know what I mean!"

And that was the end of their conversation, for Brendon frowned in
silence and Giuseppe began to slack the engines as they reached the
landing stage.

"Something tells me I shall meet you again, Marco," he said as they
shook hands and prepared to part; and Brendon, who shared that
impression strongly enough, nodded.

"It may be so," he answered.

For a period of several months, however, the detective was not to
hear more of those who had played their small parts in the unsolved
mystery. He was busy enough and in some measure rehabilitated a
tarnished reputation by one brilliant achievement in his finest
manner. But success did not restore his self-respect; and it
diminished in no degree the fever burning at his heart.

Once he received a note from Jenny telling him that she hoped to see
him in London before leaving for Italy; and the fact that she had
decided to join her uncle gave him some peace; but he heard nothing
further and his reply to Mrs. Pendean's communication, which had
come from "Crow's Nest," won no response. Weeks passed and whether
she remained still in Devonshire, was in London, or had gone to
Italy, he could not know, for she did not write again.

He dispatched a long letter in early spring to the care of Albert
Redmayne, but this also won no response. And then came an
explanation. She had been in London, but kept him ignorant of the
fact for sufficient reasons. She had neither thought of him nor
wanted him, for her life was full of another.

On a day in late March, Brendon received a little, triangular-shaped
box through the post from abroad, and opening it, stared at a wedge
of wedding cake. With the gift came a line--one only: "Kind and
grateful remembrances from Giuseppe and Jenny Doria."

She sent no direction that might enable him to acknowledge her gift;
but there was a postal stamp upon the covering and Brendon noted
that the box came from Italy--from Ventimiglia, a town which Doria
once mentioned in connection with the ruined castle and vanished
splendours of his race.

And yet, despite this sudden, though not surprising, event, there
persisted with Mark a conviction that this did not mean the end.
Time was to bring him into close companionship with Jenny again: he
knew it for an integral factor of the future; but the persistence of
this impression could not serve to lighten his melancholy before an
accomplished fact. That he might live to be of infinite service to
Jenny a subconscious assurance convinced him; but he must say
good-bye to love forever. Henceforth hope was dead and when duty
called he knew not what form his duty might assume. Through a
sleepless night he retraced every moment of his intercourse with
Doria's wife and much tormented himself.

But other recollections awakened by this survey gave him pause and
pointed to mysteries as yet unguessed. For was it possible that this
tender-natured woman, who had mourned her husband so bitterly but
nine months before, could now enter with such light-hearted joy into
union with another man? Was it reasonable to see Jenny Pendean, as
he remembered her in the agony of her bereavement, already the happy
and contented bride of one a stranger to her until so recently?

It was indeed possible, because it had happened; but reasons for so
untimely an event existed. They might, if understood, absolve the
widow for an apparent levity not consonant with her true and
steadfast self. It cast him down, almost as much as his own vanished
dream and everlasting loss, that hard-hearted love could work such a
miracle and banish the wedded past of this woman's life so
completely in favour of a doubtful future with a foreign spouse.

There were things hidden, and he felt a great desire to penetrate
them for the credit of the woman he had loved so well.



CHAPTER X

ON GRIANTE


Dawn had broken over Italy and morning, in honeysuckle colours,
burned upon the mountain mists. Far beneath a lofty hillside the
world still slumbered and the Larian lake, a jewel of gold and
turquoise, shone amid her flowery margins. The hour was very silent;
the little towns and hamlets scattered beside Como, like clusters of
white and rosy shells, dreamed on until thin music broke from their
campaniles. Bell answered bell and made a girdle of harmony about
the lake, floating along the water and ascending aloft until no
louder than the song of birds.

Two women climbed together up the great acclivity of Griante. One
was brown and elderly, clad in black with an orange rag wrapped
about her brow--a sturdy, muscular creature who carried a great,
empty wicker basket upon her shoulders; the other was clad in a rosy
jumper of silk: she flashed in the morning fires and brought an
added beauty to that beautiful scene.

Jenny ascended the mountain as lightly as a butterfly. She was
lovelier than ever in the morning light, yet a misty doubt, a
watchful sadness, seemed to hover upon her forehead. Her wonderful
eyes looked ahead up the precipitous tract that she and the Italian
woman climbed together. She moderated her pace to the slower gait of
the elder and presently they both stopped before a little grey
chapel perched beside the hill path.

Mr. Albert Redmayne's silkworms, in the great airy shed behind his
villa, had nearly all spun their cocoons now, for it was June again
and the annual crop of mulberry leaves in the valleys beneath were
well-nigh exhausted.

Therefore Assunta Marzelli, the old bibliophile's housekeeper, made
holiday with his niece, now upon a visit to him, and together the
women climbed, where food might be procured for the last tardy
caterpillars to change their state.

They had started in the grey dawn, passed up a dry watercourse, and
proceeded where the vine was queen and there fell a scented filigree
of dead blossom from flowering olives. They had seen a million
clusters of tiny grapes already rounding and had passed through
wedges and squares of cultivated earth, where sprang alternate
patches of corn yellowing to harvest and the lush green of growing
maize. Figs and almonds and rows of red and white mulberries, with
naked branches stripped of foliage, broke the lines of the crops.
Here hedges sparkled in a harvest of scarlet cherries; and here
sheep and goats nibbled over little, bright tracts of sweet grass.
Higher yet shone out groves of chestnut trees, all shining with the
light of their tassels, very bright by contrast with the gloom of
the mountain pines.

And then, where two tall cypresses stood upon either side, Jenny
and Assunta found the shrine and stayed a while. Jenny set down the
basket which she carried with their midday meal, and her companion
dropped the great bin destined to hold mulberry leaves.

The lake below was now reduced to a cup of liquid jade over which
shot streamers of light into the mountain shadows at its brink; but
there were vessels floating on the waters that held the watchers'
eyes.

They looked like twin, toy torpedo boats--mere streaks of red and
black upon the water, with Italy's flag at the taffrail. But the
little ships were no toys and Assunta hated them, for the strange
craft told of the ceaseless battle waged by authority against the
mountain smugglers and reminded the widow of her own lawless
husband's death ten years before. Cæsar Marzelli had taken his cup
to the well once too often and had lost his life in a pitched battle
with the officers of the customs.

Long shafts of glory shot between the mountains and drenched the
lake; the shoulders of the lesser hills flamed; the waters beneath
them flashed; and far away, among the table-lands of the morning
mist, against a sapphire sky, there gleamed the last patches of
snow.

A cross of rusty iron surmounted the little sanctuary by which they
sat, and the roof was of old tiles scorched a mellow tint of brown.
To Maris Stella was the shrine dedicated; and within, under the
altar, white bones gleamed--skulls and thighs and ribs of men and
women who had perished of the plague in far-off time.

"_Morti della peste_," read Jenny, on the front of the altar, and
Assunta, in gloomy mood before the recollection of the past, spoke
to her young mistress and shook her head.

"I envy them sometimes, signora. Their troubles are ended. Those
heads, that have ached and wept so often, will never ache and weep
again."

She spoke in Italian and Jenny but partially understood. Yet she
joined Assunta on her knees and together they made their morning
prayer to Mary, Star of the Sea, and asked for what their souls most
desired.

Presently they rose, Assunta the calmer for her petitions, and
together they proceeded upward. The elder tried to explain what a
base and abominable thing it was that her husband, an honest free
trader between Italy and Switzerland, should have been destroyed by
the slaves in the government vessels beneath, and Jenny nodded and
strove to understand. She was making progress in Italian, though
Assunta's swift tongue and local patois were as yet beyond her
comprehension. But she knew that her dead smuggler husband was the
subject on Assunta's lips and nodded her sympathy.

"Sons of dogs!" cried the widow; then a steep section of their road
reduced her to silence.

The great event of that day, which brought Jenny Doria so violently
back into the tragedy of the past, had yet to happen, and many hours
elapsed before she was confronted with it. The women climbed
presently to a little field of meadow grass that sparkled with tiny
flowers and spread its alpine sward among thickets of mulberry. Here
their work awaited them; but first they ate the eggs and wheaten
bread, walnuts and dried figs that they had brought and shared a
little flask of red wine. They finished with a handful of cherries
and then Assunta began to pluck leaves for her great basket while
Jenny loitered a while and smoked a cigarette. It was a new habit
acquired since her marriage.

Presently she set to work and assisted her companion until they had
gathered a full load of leaves. Then the younger plucked one or two
great golden orange lilies that grew in this little glen, and soon
the women started upon their homeward way. They had descended about
a mile and at a shoulder of Griante sat down to rest in welcome
shadow. Beneath, to the northward, lay their home beside the water
and, gazing down upon the scattered and clustered habitations of
Menaggio, Jenny declared that she saw the red roof of Villa Pianezzo
and the brown of the lofty shed behind, where dwelt her uncle's
silkworms.

Opposite, on its promontory, stood the little township of Bellagio
and behind it flashed the glassy face of Lecco in the cloudless
sunshine. And then, suddenly, as if it had been some apparition
limned upon the air, there stood in the path the figure of a tall
man. His red head was bare and from the face beneath shone a pair of
wild and haggard eyes. They saw the stranger's great tawny
mustache, his tweed garments and knickerbockers, his red waistcoat,
and the cap he carried in his hand.

It was Robert Redmayne. Assunta, who gazed upon him without
understanding, suddenly felt Jenny's hand tighten hard upon her arm.
Jenny uttered one loud cry of terror and then relaxed and fell
unconscious upon the ground. The widow leaped to her aid, cried
comfortable words and prayed the young wife to fear nothing; but it
was some time before Jenny came to her senses and when she did so
her nerve appeared to have deserted her.

"Did you see him?" she gasped, clinging to Assunta and gazing
fearfully where her uncle had stood.

"Yes, yes--a big, red man; but he meant us no harm. When you cried
out, he was more frightened than we. He leaped down, like a red fox,
into the wood and disappeared. He was not an Italian. A German or
Englishman, I think. Perhaps a smuggler planning to fetch tea and
cigars and coffee and salt from Switzerland. If he leaves enough for
the doganieri, they will wink at him. If he does not, they will
shoot him--sons of dogs!"

"Remember what you saw!" said Jenny tremulously: "Remember exactly
what he looked like, that you may be able to tell Uncle Albert just
how it was, Assunta. He is Uncle Albert's brother--Robert Redmayne!"

Assunta Marzelli knew something of the mystery and understood that
her master's brother was being hunted for great crimes.

She crossed herself.

"Merciful God! The evil man. And so red! Let us fly, signora."

"Which way did he go?"

"Straight down through the wood beneath us."

"Did he recognize me, Assunta? Did he seem to know me? I dared not
look a second time."

Assunta partially followed the question.

"No. He did not look either. He stared out over the lake and his
face was like a lost soul's face. Then you cried out and still he
did not look but disappeared. He was not angry."

"Why is he here? How has he come and where from?"

"Who shall say? Perhaps the master will know."

"I am in great fear for the master, Assunta. We must go home as
quickly as possible."

"Is there danger to the signor from his brother?"

"I do not know. I think there may be."

Jenny helped Assunta with her great basket, lifted it on her
shoulders and then set off beside her. But the rate of progress
proved too slow for her patience.

"I have a horrible dread," she said. "Something tells me that we
ought to be going faster. Would you be frightened if I were to leave
you, Assunta, and make greater haste?"

The other managed to understand and declared that she felt no fear.

"I have no quarrel with the red man," she said. "Why should he hurt
me? Perhaps he was not a man but a spirit, signora."

"I wish he were," declared Jenny. "But it was not a ghost you heard
leap into the wood, Assunta. I will run as fast as I can and take
the short cuts."

They parted and Jenny hastened, risked her neck sometimes, and sped
forward with the energy of youth and on the wings of fear. Assunta
saw her stop and turn and listen once or twice; then the crags and
hanging thickets hid her from view.

Jenny saw and heard no more of the being who had thus so
unexpectedly returned into her life. Her thoughts were wholly with
Albert Redmayne and, as she told him when she met him, it remained
for him to consider the significance of this event and determine
what steps should be taken for his own safety. He was at Bellagio
when she reached home, and his manservant, Assunta's brother,
Ernesto, explained that Mr. Redmayne had crossed after luncheon to
visit his dearest friend, the book lover, Virgilio Poggi.

"A book came by the postman, signora, and the master must needs hire
boat and cross at once," explained Ernesto, who spoke good English
and was proud of his accomplishment.

Jenny waited impatiently and she was at the landing stage when
Albert returned. He smiled to see her and took off his great slouch
hat.

"My beloved Virgilio was overjoyed that I should have found the
famous book--the veritable Italian edition of Sir Thomas
Browne--his 'Pseudodoxia Epidemica.' A red-letter day for us both!
But--but--" He looked at Jenny's frightened eyes and felt her hand
upon his sleeve. "Why, what is wrong? You are alarmed. No ill news
of Giuseppe?"

"Come home quickly," she answered, "and I will explain. A very
terrible thing has happened. I cannot think what we should do. Only
this I know: I am not going to leave you again until it is cleared
up."

At home Albert took off his great hat and cloak. Then he sat in his
study--an amazing chamber, lined with books to the lofty ceiling and
dark in tone by reason of the prevalent rich but sombre bindings of
five thousand volumes. Jenny told him that she had seen Robert
Redmayne, whereupon her uncle considered for five minutes, then
declared himself both puzzled and alarmed. He showed no fear,
however, and his large, luminous eyes shone out of his little,
withered face unshadowed. None the less he was quick to read danger
into this extraordinary incident.

"You are positive?" he asked. "Everything depends on that. If you
have seen my unfortunate, vanished brother again here, so near to
me, it is exceedingly amazing, Jenny. Can you say positively,
without a shadow of doubt, that the melancholy figure was not a
figment of your imagination, or some stranger who resembled Robert?"

"I wish to Heaven I could, Uncle Albert. But I am positive."

"The very fact that he appeared exactly as you saw him last--in the
big tweed suit and red waistcoat--would support an argument in
favour of hallucination," declared her uncle. "For how on earth can
the poor creature, if he be really still alive, have remained in
those clothes for a year and travelled half across Europe in them?"

"It is monstrous. And yet there he stood and I saw him as clearly as
I see you. He was certainly not in my thoughts. I was thinking of
nothing and talking to Assunta about the silkworms, when suddenly he
appeared, not twenty yards away."

"What did you do?"

"I made a fool of myself," confessed Jenny. "Assunta says that I
cried out very loud and then toppled over and fainted. When I came
round there was nothing to be seen."

"The point is then: did Assunta see him also?"

"That was the first thing I found out. I hoped she had not. That
would have saved the situation in a way and proved it was only some
picture of the mind as you suggest. But she saw him clearly
enough--so clearly that she described a red man not Italian, but
English or German. She heard him, too. When I cried out he leaped
away into the woods."

"Did he see and recognize you?"

"That I do not know. Probably he did."

Mr. Redmayne lighted a cigar which he took from a box on a little
table by the open hearth. He drew several deep breaths before he
spoke again.

"This is a very disquieting circumstance and I greatly wish it had
not happened," he said. "There may be no cause for alarm; but, on
the other hand, when we consider the disappearance of my brother
Bendigo, I have a right to feel fear. By some miracle, Robert, for
the last six months, has continued to evade capture and conceal the
fact of his insanity. That means I am now faced with a most
formidable danger, Jenny, and it behooves me to exercise the
greatest possible care of my person. You, too, for all we can say,
may be in peril."

"I may be," she said. "But you matter more. We must do something
swiftly, uncle--to-day--this very hour."

"Yes," he admitted. "We are painfully challenged by Providence, my
child. Heaven helps those who help themselves, however. I have never
before, to my knowledge, been in any physical danger and the
sensation is exceedingly unpleasant. We will drink some strong tea
and then determine our course of action. I confess that I feel a
good deal perturbed."

His words were at variance with his quiet and restrained expression,
but Mr. Redmayne had never told a falsehood in his life and Jenny
knew that he was indeed alarmed.

"You must not stop here to-night," she said. "You must cross to
Bellagio and stay with Signor Poggi until we know more."

"We shall see as to that. Prepare the tea and leave me for half an
hour to reflect."

"But--but--Uncle Albert--he--he might come at any moment!"

"Do not think so. He is now, poor soul, a creature of the night. We
need not fear that he will intrude in honest sunshine upon the
haunts of men. Leave me and tell Ernesto to admit nobody who is not
familiar to him. But I repeat, we need fear nothing until after
dark."

In half an hour Jenny returned with Mr. Redmayne's tea.

"Assunta has just come back. She has seen nothing more of--of Uncle
Robert."

For a time Albert said nothing. He drank, and ate a large macaroon
biscuit. Then he told his niece the plans he was prepared to follow.

"Providence is, I think, upon our side, pretty one," he began, "for
my amazing friend, Peter Ganns, who designed to visit me in
September, has already arrived in England; and when he hears of this
ugly sequel to the story I confided in his ears last winter, I am
bold to believe that he will hasten to me immediately and not
hesitate to modify his plans. He is a methodical creature and hates
to change; but circumstances alter cases and I feel justified in
telling you that he will come as soon as he conveniently can do so.
This I say because he loves me."

"I'm sure he will," declared Jenny.

"Write me two letters," continued Albert. "One to Mr. Mark Brendon,
the young detective from Scotland Yard, of whom I entertained a high
opinion; and also write to your husband. Direct Brendon to approach
Peter Ganns and beg them both to come to me as quickly as their
affairs allow. Also bid Giuseppe to return to you immediately. He
will serve to protect us, for he is fearless and resolute."

But Jenny showed no joy at this suggestion.

"I was to have had a peaceful month with you," she pouted.

"So indeed I hoped; but it can hardly be peaceful now and I confess
that the presence of Doria would go some way to compose my nerves.
He is powerful, cheerful, and full of resource. He is also brave. He
remembers the past and he knows poor Robert by sight. If, therefore,
my brother is indeed near at hand and to be expected at any moment,
then I should be glad of some capable person to stand between us.
Should my brother presently indicate, through you or somebody else,
that he wants to see me alone by night, as in the case of Bendigo,
then I must absolutely decline any such adventure. We meet in the
presence of armed men, or not at all."

Jenny had left Doria for a time and apparently felt no desire to see
him again until her promised visit to her uncle should be ended.

"I heard from Giuseppe three days ago," she said. "He has left
Ventimiglia and gone to Turin, where he used to work and where he
has many friends. He has a project."

"I shall speak with him seriously when next we meet," declared the
old man. "I entertain great admiration for your attractive spouse,
as you know. He is a delightful person; but it is time we consider
the future of your twenty thousand pounds and yourself, Jenny. In
the course of nature all that is mine will also be yours, and when
the estate of poor Bendigo is wound up, my present income must be
nearly doubled. Leave to presume death, however, may be delayed. But
the fact remains that you will enjoy the Redmayne money sooner or
later, and I want to come to grips with Giuseppe and explain to him
that he must understand his responsibilities."

Jenny sighed.

"Nobody will make him understand them, uncle."

"Do not say so. He is intelligent and has, I am sure, a sense of
honour as well as a deep and devoted affection for you. But he must
not spend your money. I will not allow that. Write to him at Turin
and entreat him from me to abandon anything that he may have in hand
and join us instantly here. We need not keep him long; but he can
look after us for a while until we learn when Ganns and Brendon are
to be expected."

Jenny promised, without much enthusiasm, to call her husband to the
rescue.

"He will laugh and perhaps refuse to come," she said. "But since you
think it wise, I will beg him to hasten and tell him what has
happened. Meanwhile what of to-night and to-morrow night?"

"To-night I go across the water to Bellagio and you come with me. It
is impossible that Robert should know we are there. Virgilio Poggi
will take care of us and be very jealous for me if I hint that I am
in any danger."

"I'm sure he will. And should you not warn the police about Uncle
Robert and give them a description of him?"

"I'm not sure as to that. We will consider to-morrow. I little like
the ways of the Italian police."

"You might have watchers here to-night, ready to take him if he
appears," suggested Jenny.

But Albert finally decided against giving any information.

"For the moment I shall do nothing. We will see what another morning
may bring forth. To feel this awful presence suddenly so close is
very distressing and I do not want to think of him any more until
to-morrow. Write the letters and then we will put a few things
together and cross the lake before it is evening."

"You do not fear for your books, Uncle Albert?"

"No, I have no fear for my books. If there is a homicidal being
here, intent upon my life, he will not look to the right or the
left. Even when he was sane, poor Robert never knew anything about
books or their value. He will not seek them--nor could he reach them
if he did."

"Did he ever visit you here in the past? Does he know Italy?" she
said.

"So far as I am aware he was never here in his life. Certainly he
never visited me. It is, in fact, so many years since I have seen
him that I might have met him and failed to recognize the unhappy
man."

Jenny wrote the letters and posted them; then she packed for her
uncle and herself and presently, having warned Assunta and Ernesto
that no stranger must be admitted until his return on the following
day, Albert Redmayne prepared to cross the lake. First, however, he
locked and barred his library and transferred half a dozen volumes
more than commonly precious to a steel safe aloft in his bedroom.

A boatman quickly rowed them to the landing stage of Bellagio and
they soon reached the dwelling of Albert's friend, who welcomed them
with an equal measure of surprise and delight.

Signor Poggi, a small, fat man with a bald head, broad brow, and
twinkling eyes, grasped their hands and listened with wonder to the
reason for their arrival. He knew English and always delighted in
the practice of that language when opportunity offered.

"But this is beyond belief!" he said. "An enemy for Alberto! Who
should be his enemy--he who is the friend of every man? What romance
is this, Signora Jenny, that throws danger into the path of your
dear uncle?"

"It is the sudden threat and terror of my vanished brother,"
explained Mr. Redmayne. "You are familiar, Virgilio, with the
terrible facts concerning Robert's appearance and Bendigo's
disappearance. Now, suddenly, when I have long come to believe that
my younger brother's lurid career was ended and that he had ceased
to be, he leaps upon the mountains and reappears in his habit as he
lived! Nor can we doubt that he lives indeed. He is no ghost, my
friend, but a solid, shadow-easting man, who may be seeking my life
by reason of his distempered mind."

"It is romance," declared Virgilio, "but romance of a very grim and
painful description. You are, however, safe enough with me, for I
would gladly shed my blood to save yours."

"Well I know it, rare Virgilio," declared the other. "But we shall
not long impose ourselves upon your courage and generosity. We have
written to England for Peter Ganns who, by God's providence, is now
in that country and hoped to visit me in a few months. We have also
called upon Giuseppe Doria to return at once to us. When he does so
I am content to sleep at home again; but not sooner."

Signor Poggi hastened to order a meal worthy of the occasion, while
his wife, who was also a devoted admirer of the Englishman, prepared
apartments. Nothing but delight filled Poggi's mind at the
opportunity to serve his dearest companion. An ample meal was
planned and Jenny helped her hostess in its preparation.

Poggi drank to the temporal and eternal welfare of his first friend
and Albert returned the compliment. They enjoyed a pleasant meal and
then sat through the June twilight in Virgilio's rose garden,
smelled the fragrance of oleanders and myrtles in the evening
breeze, saw the fireflies flash their little lamps over dim olive
and dark cypress, and heard the summer thunder growling genially
over the mountain crowns of Campione and Croce.

Mr. Redmayne's niece retired early and Maria Poggi with her, but
Virgilio and Albert talked far into the night and smoked many cigars
before they slept.

At nine o'clock next morning Mr. Redmayne and Jenny were rowed home
again, only to hear that no intruder had broken upon the nightly
peace of Villa Pianezzo. Nor did the day bring any news. Once more
they repaired to Bellagio before dark, and for three days lived
thus. Then there came a telegram from Turin to say that Doria was
returning immediately to Como and might soon be expected via Milan;
while on the morning that actually brought him to Menaggio, his wife
received a brief letter from Mark Brendon. He had found Mr. Ganns
and the two would set forth for Italy within a few days.

"It is impossible that we can receive both here," declared Albert;
"but we will engage pleasant apartments with dear Signor Bullo at
the Hotel Victoria. They are full, or nearly so; but he will find a
corner for any friends of mine."



CHAPTER XI

MR. PETER GANNS


Mark Brendon received with mingled emotions the long letter from
Jenny Doria. It awaited him at New Scotland Yard and, as he took it
from the rack, his heart leaped before the well-remembered
handwriting. The past very seldom arose to shadow Mark's strenuous
present; but now, once more, it seemed that Robert Redmayne was
coming between him and his annual holiday. He told himself that he
had lived down his greatest disappointment and believed that he
could now permit his thoughts to dwell on Jenny without feeling much
more than the ache of an old wound. Her letter came a week before
the recipient proposed to start upon his vacation. He had intended
going to Scotland, having no mind for Dartmoor again at present; but
it was not his failure, so complete and bewildering, that had barred
a return to familiar haunts. Memory made the thought too painful and
poignant, so he designed to break new ground and receive fresh
impressions.

Then came this unexpected challenge and he hesitated before
accepting it. Yet a second reading of the woman's appeal determined
him, for Jenny wrote for herself as well as her uncle. She reminded
Brendon of his goodwill and declared how personally she should
welcome him and feel safer and more sanguine for his companionship.
She also contrived to let him know that she was not particularly
happy. The fact seemed implicitly woven into her long letter, though
another, less vitally interested in the writer, might have failed to
observe it.

Regretting only that Albert Redmayne's friend must be approached and
hoping that Mr. Peter Ganns would at least allow him a few days'
start, Brendon sought the famous American and found his direction
without difficulty. He had already visited New Scotland Yard, where
he numbered several acquaintances, and Mark learned that he was
stopping at the Grand Hotel in Trafalgar Square. On sending in his
name a messenger boy bade Brendon follow to the smoking-room.

His first glance, however, failed to indicate the great man. The
smoking-room was nearly empty on this June morning and Mark observed
nobody but a young soldier, writing letters, and a white-haired,
somewhat corpulent gentleman sitting with his back to the light
reading the _Times_. He was clean shaved, with a heavy face modelled
to suggest a rhinoceros. The features were large; the nose swollen
and a little veined with purple, the eyes hidden behind owl-like
spectacles with tortoise-shell rims, and the brow very broad, but
not high. From it abundant white hair was brushed straight back.

Brendon extended his glance elsewhere, but the messenger stopped,
turned, and departed, while the stout man rose, revealing a massive
frame, wide shoulders, and sturdy legs.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Brendon," he said in a genial voice; then he
shook hands, took off his spectacles, and sat down again.

"This is a pleasure I had meant to give myself before I quitted the
city," declared the big man. "I've heard about you and I've taken
off my hat to you more than once during the war. You might know me,
too."

"Everybody in our business knows you, Mr. Ganns. But I've not come
hero-worshipping to waste your time. I'm proud you're pleased to see
me and it's a great privilege to meet you; but I've looked in this
morning about something that won't wait; and your name is the big
noise in a letter I received from Italy to-day."

"Is that so? I'm bound for Italy in the fall."

"The question is whether this letter may change your plans and send
you there sooner."

The elder stared, took a golden box out of his waistcoat pocket,
opened it, tapped it, and helped himself to a pinch of snuff. The
habit explained his somewhat misshapen nose. It was tobacco, not
alcohol, that lent its exaggerated lustre and hypertrophied outline
to that organ.

"I hate changing my itinerary, once made," replied Mr. Ganns. "I'm
the most orderly cuss on earth. So far as I know, there's but one
man in all Italy is likely to knock my arrangements on the head; and
I'll see him, if all's well, in September next."

Brendon produced Jenny's letter.

"The writer is niece of that man," he said and handed the
communication to Mr. Ganns.

Peter put on his spectacles again and read slowly. Indeed Mark had
never seen a letter read so slowly before. It might have been in
some cryptic tongue which Mr. Ganns could only with difficulty
translate. Having finished he handed the communication back to
Brendon and indicated a desire for silence. Mark lit a cigarette and
sat surveying the other from the corner of his eye.

At last the American spoke.

"What about you? Can you go?"

"Yes; I've appealed to my chief and got permission to pick this up
again. My holiday's due and I'll go to Italy instead of Scotland. I
was in it from the first, you know."

"I do know--I know all about it, from my old pal, Albert Redmayne.
He wrote me the most lucid dispatch that ever I read."

"You can go, Mr. Ganns?"

"I must go, boy. Albert wants me."

"Could you get off in a week?"

"A week! To-night."

"To-night, sir! Do you reckon that Mr. Redmayne is in any danger?"

"Don't you?'"

"He's forewarned and you see he's taking great precautions."

"Brendon," said Mr. Ganns, "run round and find when the night boat
sails from Dover, or Folkestone. We'll reach Paris to-morrow
morning, I guess, catch the _Rapide_ for Milan, and be at the Lakes
next day. You'll find we can do so. Then telegraph to this dame that
we start _a week hence_. You take me?"

"You want to get there before we're expected?"

"Exactly."

"Then you do think Mr. Albert Redmayne is in danger?"

"I don't think about it. I know he is. But as this mystery has only
just let loose on him and he's got his weather eye lifting, it will
be all right, I hope, for a few hours. Meantime we arrive."

He took another pinch of snuff and picked up the _Times_. "Will you
lunch with me here in the grillroom at two o'clock?"

"With pleasure, Mr. Ganns."

"Right. And telegraph, right now, that we hope to get off in a
week."

Some hours later they met again and over a steak and green peas
Brendon reported that the boat train left Victoria at eleven and
that the _Rapide_ would start from Paris on the following morning at
half past six.

"We reach Bevano some time after noon next day," he said, "and can
either go on to Milan and then come back to Como and travel by boat
to Menaggio, where Mr. Redmayne lives, or else leave the train at
Bevano, take steamer on Maggiore, cross to Lugano, and cross again
to Como. That way we land right at Menaggio. There's not much in it
for time."

"We'll go that way, then, and I'll see the Lakes."

Peter Ganns spoke little while he partook of a light meal. He
picked a fried sole and drank two glasses of white wine. Then he ate
a dish of green peas and compared their virtues with green corn. He
enjoyed the spectacle of Brendon's hearty appetite and bewailed his
inability to join him in red meat and a pint of Burton.

"Lucky dog," he said. "When I was young I did the like. I love food.
You need never fear any rough stuff in business as long as you can
eat beef and drink beer. But nowadays, I don't go into the rough
stuff--too old and fat."

"Of course not, sir. You've done your bit. Nobody on your side has
been at closer quarters with the big crooks, or heard their guns
oftener."

"That's true."

Mr. Ganns held up his left hand, which was deformed and had lost the
third and little finger.

"The last shot that Billy Benyon ever fired. A great man--Billy.
I'll never see his like again."

"The Boston murderer? A genius!"

"He was. A marvellous brain. When I sent him to the chair it was
like a Bushman killing an elephant."

"You're sorry for the under dog sometimes, I expect?"

"Not always; but now and again I like the bull to get the toreador,
and the savage to eat the missionary."

They entered the smoking-room presently and then Brendon, very much
to his surprise, heard an astonishing lecture which left him under
the emotions of a fourth-form schoolboy after an interview with his
head master.

Mr. Ganns ordered coffee, took snuff, and bade Mark listen and not
interrupt.

"We're going into this thing together and I want you to get a clear
hunch on it," he began, "because at present you have not. I don't
say we shall see it through; but if we do, the credit's going to be
yours, not mine. We'll come to the Redmayne business in a minute.
But first let us have a look at Mr. Mark Brendon, if it won't bore
you stiff."

The other laughed.

"He's not a very impressive object, so far as this case is
concerned, Mr. Ganns."

"He is not," admitted Peter genially. "Quite the reverse, in fact.
And his poor showing has puzzled Mr. Brendon a good bit, and some of
his superior officers also. So let us examine the situation from
that angle before we get up against the problem itself."

He stirred his coffee, poured a thimbleful of cognac into it, sipped
it, and then slid into a comfortable position in his armchair, put
his big hands into his trousers pockets, and regarded Mark with a
steady and unblinking stare. His eyes were pale blue, deeply set and
small, but still of a keen brilliancy.

"You're a detective inspector of Scotland Yard," continued Ganns,
"and Scotland Yard is still the high-water mark of police
organization in the world. The Central Bureau in New York is pretty
close up, and I've nothing but admiration for the French and
Italian Secret Services; but the fact remains: The Yard is first;
and you've won, and fairly won your place there. That's a big thing
and you didn't get it without some work and some luck, Brendon. But
now--this Redmayne racket. You were right on the spot, hit the trail
before it was cold, had everything to help you that heart of man
could wish for; yet a guy who had joined the force only a week
before could have done no worse. In a word, your conduct of the
affair don't square with your reputation. Your dope never cut any
ice from the start. And why? Because, without a doubt, you had a
theory and got lost in it."

"Don't think that. I never had a theory."

"Is that so? Then failure lies somewhere else. The hopeless way you
bitched up this thing interests me quite a lot. Remember that I know
the case inside out and I'm not talking through my hat. So now let's
see how and why you barked your shins so bad.

"Now, Mark, take a cinema show and consider it. Perhaps it's going
to throw some light for you. A cinema film presents two entirely
different achievements. It presents ten for that matter; but we'll
take just two. It shows you a white sheet with a light thrown on it;
it passes the light through a series of stains and shadows and the
stains are magnified by lenses before they reach the screen. A most
elaborate mechanism, you see, but the spectator never thinks about
all that, because the machine produces an appeal to another part of
his mind altogether. He forgets sheet, lantern, film, and all they
are doing, in the illusion which they create.

"We accept the convention of the moving picture, the light and
darkness, the tones and half tones, because these moving stains and
shadows take the shape of familiar objects and tell a coherent
story, showing life in action. But we know, subconsciously, all the
time that it is merely an imitation of reality, as in the case of a
picture, a novel, or a stage play. Certain ingenious applications of
science and art combined have created the appearance of truth and
told a story. Well, in the Redmayne case, certain ingenious
operations have combined to tell you a story; and you have found
yourself so interested in the yarn that you have quite overlooked
the mechanism. But the mechanism should have been the first
consideration, and the conjurers, by distracting your attention from
it, did just what they were out to do. Let us take a look at the
mechanism, my son, and see where the archcrooks behind this thing
bluffed you."

Brendon did not hide his emotion, but kept silence while Mr. Ganns
helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

"Now the little I've done in the world," he continued, "is thanks
not so much to the deductive mind we hear such a lot about, but to
the synthetic mind. The linking up of facts has been my strong suit.
That's the backbone of success; and where facts can't be linked up,
then failure is usually the result. I never waste one moment on a
theory until I've got a tough skeleton of facts back of it. It was
up to you to hunt facts, Mark; and you didn't hunt facts."

"I had an encyclopedia of facts."

"Granted. But your encyclopedia began at the letter 'B,' instead of
the letter 'A.' We'll turn to that in a minute."

"My facts, such as they were, cannot be denied," argued Brendon, a
little aggrieved. "They are cast-iron. My eyes and observation are
trained to be exact and jealous of facts. No amount of synthesis can
prevent two and one from being three, Ganns."

"On the contrary, two and one may be twenty-one, or twelve, or a
half. Why jump to any conclusion? You had facts; but you did not
have all the available facts--or anything like all. You tried to put
on the roof before the walls were up; and, what's more, a great many
of your 'cast-iron facts' were no facts at all."

"What were they then?"

"Elaborate and deliberate fictions, Mark."

At this challenge Brendon felt a hot wave of colour mount his cheek;
but the other was far too generous and genial a spirit ever to seek
any triumph over a younger man. Neither did Brendon feel angry with
Mr. Ganns even though his remarks were provocative enough. He was
angry with himself. Peter, however, knew his power. He read the
detective's mind like a book and well understood that, both by his
position and rank, Mark must be far too good a man to chafe at the
criticism of a better than himself. He explained.

"Where I've got the pull on you, for the minute, is merely because
I've been in the world a few years longer. A time's coming when
you'll talk to your juniors as I can talk to you; and they'll
listen, with all proper respect and attention, as you are listening.
When you are my age, you'll command that perfect confidence which I
command. Folks can't trust youth all the way; but you'll win to it;
and believe me, in our business, there's no greater asset than the
power to command absolute trust. You can't pretend to that power if
you haven't got it. Human nature damn soon sees through you, if
you're pretending what you don't command. But I'm playing straight
across the board, Mark, as my custom is, and I know you are too sane
and ambitious a lad to let false pride or self-assurance resent my
calling you an ass over this thing."

"Prove it, Ganns, and I'll be the first to climb down. I know I've
been an ass for that matter--knew it long ago," confessed Brendon.

"Yes, I'll prove it--that's easy. But what's going to be harder is
to find out why you've been an ass. You've no right to be an ass.
It's unlike your record and unlike your looks and your general
make-up of mind. I mostly read a strange man's brain through his
eyes; and your eyes do you justice. So perhaps you'll tell me
presently where you went off your rocker. Or perhaps you don't know
and I shall have to tell you--when I find the nigger in the
woodpile. Now take a look round, and its dollars to doughnuts you'll
begin to see the light."

He paused again, applied himself to his gold box, and then
proceeded.

"To put it bluntly and drop everybody else but you out of it, for
the minute, you went on false assumption from the kick-off, Brendon.
To start wrong was not strange. I should have done exactly the same
and nobody outside a detective story would have done differently;
but to go on wrong--to pile false assumption on false assumption in
face of your own reasoning powers and native wits--that strikes me
as a very curious catastrophe."

"But you can't get away from facts."

"Nothing easier, surely. You said good-bye to facts when you left
Princetown. You don't know the facts any more than I do--or anybody
but those responsible for the appearances. You have assumed that the
phenomena observed by yourself and reported by other professionals
and various members of the public were facts, whereas a little solid
thinking must have convinced you that they couldn't be. You didn't
give your reason a chance, Mark.

"Now follow me and be honest. You say certain things have happened.
I say they didn't, for the very sound reason that they couldn't. I
am not going to tell you the truth, because I am a long way from
that myself, and I dare say you'll strike it yet before I do; but I
am going to prove that a good few things you think are true can't
be--that events you take for granted never happened at all. We've
got but few senses and they are easily deluded. In fact a man's a
darned clumsy box of tricks at his best and I wouldn't swap a hill
of beans for what my senses can assure me; but, as a wise man says,
'Art is with us to save us from too much truth,' so I say 'Reason is
with us to save us from too much evidence of our senses--often
false.'

"Now see how reason bears on the evidence of Robert Redmayne and his
trick acts since first he disappeared. A thing occurs and there are
only certain ways--very limited in number--to explain it. Either
Robert Redmayne killed Michael Pendean, or else he did not. And if
he did, he was sane or insane at the time. That much can't be denied
and is granted. If he was sane, he committed the murder with a
motive; and pretty careful inquiry proves that no motive existed. I
attach no importance to words, no matter who may utter them, and the
fact that Mrs. Pendean herself said that her husband and her uncle
were the best of friends don't weigh; but the fact that Robert
Redmayne stopped at Princetown with the Pendeans for over a week in
friendship and asked them to Paignton, is of some weight. I'm
inclined to believe that Redmayne was perfectly friendly with
Michael Pendean up to the time of the latter's disappearance, and
that there was no shadow of motive to explain why Redmayne did in
his brother-in-law. Then, assuming him to be sane, he would not have
committed such a murder. The alternative is that he was mad at the
time and did homicide on Pendean while out of his mind.

"But what happens to a madman after a crime of this sort? Does he
get off with it and wander over Europe as a free man for a year?
Granted the resources of maniacal cunning and all the rest of it,
was it ever heard that a lunatic went at large as this man did, and
laughed at Scotland Yard's attempt to run him down and capture him?
Is it reasonable that he runs away with a corpse, disposes of it
safely, returns to his lodgings, makes a meal, and then, in broad
daylight, vanishes off the face of the earth for six months,
presently to reappear, hoodwink fresh people, and commit another
crime? Once more he scorns law and order, vanishes for another six
months, and now flaunts his red waistcoat and red mustache in Italy
at his remaining brother's door. No, Mark, the man responsible for
these impossible things isn't mad. And that brings me back to my
preliminary alternative.

"I said just now, 'Either Robert Redmayne killed Michael Pendean, or
else he did not.' And we may add that either Robert Redmayne killed
Bendigo Redmayne or else he did not. But we'll stick to the first
proposition for the moment. And the next question you must ask
yourself is this. 'Did Robert Redmayne kill Michael Pendean?' That's
where your 'facts,' as you call them, begin to sag a bit, my son.
There's only one sure and certain way of knowing that a man is dead;
and that is by seeing his body and convincing the law, by the
testimony of those who knew the man in life, that the corpse belongs
to him and nobody else."

"Good God! You think--"

"I think nothing. I want you to think. This is your funeral--so
far; but I want you to come out like the sun from behind a cloud and
surprise us yet. Just grasp that matters couldn't have happened as
you supposed, and go on from there. Remember, incidentally, that you
are quite unable to swear that either Pendean or Bendigo Redmayne is
dead at all. They may both be just as much alive as we are. Chew it
over. This is a very pretty thing and I believe we're up against
some great rascals; but I don't even know that yet for sure. I can
see many points that are vital which you are more likely to clear
than I. You've been badly handicapped, for reasons I have yet to
find out; but if you think over what I told you and look into your
brain-pan without prejudice, maybe you'll begin to see them
yourself."

"It's sporting of you to suggest that, but I can't offer any such
excuse," answered Brendon thoughtfully. "Never did a man go into a
case with less handicap. I even had peculiar incentives to make
good. I came into it on the top of the tide with everything under my
hands. No--what you've said throws rather too bright a light on the
truth. Everything looked so straight-forward that I never thought
the appearances hid an utterly different reality. Now I know they
probably did."

"That's what I guess. Somebody palmed a marked card on you, Brendon;
and you took it like a lamb. We all have in our time--even the
smartest of us. Gaboriau says somewhere, 'Above all, regard with
supreme suspicion that which seems probable and begin always by
believing what seems incredible.' French exaggeration, of course;
but there's truth in it. The obvious always makes me uncomfortable.
If a thing is jumping just the way that suits you, distrust it at
once. That holds of life as well as business."

They chatted for half an hour and Mr. Ganns attained his object,
which was to fling his companion back to the beginning of the whole
problem that had brought them together. He desired that Mark should
travel the ground again with an open mind and all preconceptions put
behind him.

"To-night, in the train," said Peter, "I shall ask you to give me
your version of the case from the moment that Mrs. Pendean invited
you to take it up--or from earlier still, if you had to do with any
of the people before the catastrophe. I want the whole yarn again
from your angle; and after what I've told you, it may be that, as
you retrace every incident, light may flash that wasn't there
before."

"It is very probable indeed," admitted Mark. Then his generous
nature prompted him to praise the elder.

"You're a big man, Peter Ganns, and you've said things to-day that
no doubt were elementary to you, but mean a lot to me. You've made
me feel mighty small--which I wouldn't own to anybody else; but you
know that much without my telling you. I only differ from you on one
point and that is the sequel. If this thing is ever cleared, you'll
be responsible for clearing it, and I shall see you get the credit."

The other laughed and flung snuff into his purple nostrils.

"Nonsense, nonsense! I'm a back number--almost out of the game
now--virtually retired to take my ease and follow my hobbies. This
is nothing to do with me. I'm only going to watch you."

"A detective's hobby is generally his old business," said Mark, and
Mr. Ganns admitted it. "Literature and crime, nice things to eat and
drink, snuff and acrostics--these serve to fill my leisure and
represent my vices and virtues," he confessed.

"Each has its appointed place in my life; and now I'm adding travel.
I've wanted to see Europe once again before I went into my shell for
good; and to enjoy the society of my dear friend, Albert Redmayne,
visit his home, and hear his bland and childlike wisdom once more.

"The only shadow thrown by a devoted friendship, Brendon, is the
knowledge that it must some day come to an end. And when I say
'good-bye' to the old bookworm I shall know that we are little
likely to meet again. Yet who would deny himself the glory of
friendship, before the menace that it must sooner or later finish? A
close amity and understanding, a discovery of kindred spirits, is
among the most precious experiences within the reach of mankind.
Love, no doubt, proves a more glorious adventure still; but
lightning lurks near the rosy chariot of love, my lad, and we who
win the ineffable gift must not whine if the full price has to be
paid. For me, cool friendship!"

He chattered amiably and Mark guessed that on the simple and human
side Mr. Ganns found himself much at one with his friend, Albert
Redmayne. Peter's philosophy seemed to Brendon of a very mild
quality, and he wondered how a man who looked at human nature in a
spirit so hopeful, if not credulous, should yet own those
extraordinary gifts the American possessed. Upon these, surely, and
not his genial and elemental faith, was his fame founded.



CHAPTER XII

PETER TAKES THE HELM


As the detectives travelled through night-hidden Kent and presently
boarded the packet for Boulogne, Mark Brendon told his story with
every detail for the benefit of Mr. Ganns. Before doing so he reread
his own notes and was able to set each incident of the case very
clearly and copiously before the older man. Peter never once
interrupted him, and, at the conclusion of the narrative,
complimented Mark on the recital.

"The moving picture is bright but not comprehensive," he said,
returning to a former analogy. "In fact I'm beginning to see already
that, no matter what we get at the end of the reel, there are still
a few preliminary scenes that should come in at the beginning."

"I've begun at the beginning, Mr. Ganns."

But Peter shook his head.

"Half the battle is to know the beginning of a case. I'll almost go
so far as to say that, given the real beginning, the end should be
assured. You've not begun at the beginning of the Redmayne tangle,
Mark. If you had, the clue to this labyrinth might be in your hands
to-day. The more I hear and the more I think, the more firmly am I
convinced that the truth we are out to find can only be discovered
by a deal of hard digging in past times. There is a lot of spade
work demanded and you, or I, may have to return to England to do
it--unless we can get the information without the labour. But I've
no reason to count on any luck of that sort."

"I should like to know the nature of the ground I failed to cover,"
said Brendon; but Peter was not disposed to enlighten him at
present.

"Needn't bother yet," he said. "Now talk about yourself and give the
case a rest."

They chatted until the dawn, by which time their train had reached
Paris, and an hour or two later they were on their way to Italy.

Mr. Ganns had determined to cross the Lakes and arrive unexpectedly
at Menaggio. He had now turned his mind once more to the problem
before him and spoke but little. He sat with his notebook open and
made an occasional entry as he pursued his thoughts. Mark read
newspapers and presently handed a page to Mr. Ganns.

"What you said about acrostics interested me," he began. "Here's one
and I've been trying to guess it for an hour. No doubt it ought to
be easy; but I expect there's a catch. Wonder if it will puzzle
you."

Peter smiled and dropped his notebook.

"Acrostics are a habit of mind," he said. "You grow to think
acrostically and be up to all the tricks of the trade. You soon get
wise to the way that people think who make them; and then you'll
find they all think alike and all try to hoodwink you along the same
lines. If you tempt me on to acrostics, you'll soon wish you had
not."

Mark pointed to the puzzle.

"Try that," he said. "I can't make head or tail of it; yet I dare
say you'll thrash it out if you've got the acrostic mind."

Mr. Ganns cast his eye over the puzzle. It ran thus:

                When to the North you go,
                The folk shall greet you so.
             .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

          1. Upright and light and Source of Light
          2. And Source of Light, reversed, are plain.
          3. A term of scorn comes into sight
             And Source of Light, reversed again.

The American regarded the problem for a minute in silence, then
smiled and handed the paper back to Brendon.

"Quite neat, in its little conventional way," he said. "It's on the
regular English pattern. Our acrostics are a trifle smarter, but all
run into one form. The great acrostic writer isn't born. If
acrostics were as big a thing as chess, then we should have masters
who would produce masterpieces."

"But this one--d'you see it?"

"Milk for babes, Mark."

Mr. Ganns turned to his notebook, wrote swiftly into it, tore out
the page, and handed the solution to his companion.

Brendon read:

          G      O      D
          Omega  Alph   A
          D      O      G

"If you know Knut Hamsun's stories, then you guess it instantly. If
not, you might possibly be bothered," he said, while Brendon stared.

"There are two ways with acrostics," continued Peter, full of
animation, "the first is to make lights so difficult that they turn
your hair grey till you've got them, the second--just traps--perhaps
three perfectly sound answers to the same light, but the second just
a shade sounder than the first, and the third a shade sounder than
either of the others."

"Who makes acrostics like that?"

"Nobody. Life's too short; but if I devoted a year to a perfect
acrostic, you bet your life it would take my fellow creatures a year
to guess it. The same with cryptography, which we've both run up
against, no doubt, in course of business. Cyphers are mostly crude;
but I've often thought what a right down beauty it might be possible
to make, given a little pains. The detective story writers make very
good ones sometimes; but then the smart man, who wipes everybody's
eyes, always gets 'em--by pulling down just the right book from the
villain's library. My cryptograph won't depend on books."

Peter chattered on; then he suddenly stopped and turned to his notes
again.

He looked up presently.

"The hard thing before us is this," he said, "to get into touch with
Robert Redmayne, or his ghost. There are two sorts of ghost, Mark;
the real thing--in which you don't believe and concerning which I
hold a watching brief; and the manufactured article. Now the
manufactured article can be quite as useful to the bulls as the
crooks."

"You believe in ghosts!"

"I didn't say so. But I keep an open mind. I've heard some funny
things from men whose word could be relied upon."

"If this is a ghost, that's a way out, of course; but in that case
why are you frightened for Albert Redmayne's life?"

"I don't say he's a ghost and of course I don't think he's a ghost;
but--"

He broke off and changed the subject.

"What I'm doing is to compare your verbal statement with Mr.
Redmayne's written communication," he said, patting his book. "My
old friend goes back a long way farther than you would, because he
knows a lot more than you did. It's all here. I've got a regard for
my eyes, so I had it typed. You'd better read it, however. You'll
find the story of Robert Redmayne from childhood and the story of
the girl, his niece, and of her dead father. Mrs. Doria's father was
a rough customer--scorpions to Robert's whips apparently--a man a
bit out of the common; yet he never came to open clash with the law.
You never thought of Robert's dead brother, Henry, did you! But
you'd be surprised how we can get at character and explain
contradictions by studying the different members of a family."

"I shall like to read the report."

"It's valuable to us, because written without prejudice. That's
where it beats your very lucid account, Mark. There was something
running through your story, like a thread of silk in cotton, that
you won't find here. It challenged me from the jump, my boy, and I'm
inclined to think that in that thread of silk I shall just find the
reason of your failure, before I've wound it up."

"I don't understand you, Ganns."

"You wouldn't--not yet. But we'll change the metaphor. We'll say
there was a red herring drawn across the trail, and that you took
the bait and, having started right enough, presently forsook the
right scent for the wrong."

"Puzzle--to find the red herring," said Mark.

Mr. Ganns smiled.

"I think I've found it," he replied. "But on the other hand, perhaps
I haven't. In twenty-four hours I shall know. I hope I'm right--for
your sake. If I am, then you are discharged without a stain on your
character; if I'm not, then the case is black against you."

Brendon made no reply. Neither his conscience nor his wit threw any
light on the point. Then Peter, turning to his notes, touched on a
minor incident and showed the other that it admitted of a doubt.

"D'you remember the night you left 'Crow's Nest' after your first
visit? On the way back to Dartmouth you suddenly saw Robert Redmayne
standing by a gate; and when the moonlight revealed you to him, he
leaped away and disappeared into the trees. Why?"

"He knew me."

"How?"

"We had met at Princetown and we had spoken together for some
minutes by the pool in Foggintor Quarry, where I was fishing."

"That's right. But he didn't know who you were then. Even if he'd
remembered meeting you six months before in the dusk at Foggintor,
why should he think you were a man who was hunting him?"

Mark reflected.

"That's true," he said. "Probably he'd have bolted from anybody that
night, not wishing to be seen."

"I only raise the question. Of course it is easily explained on a
general assumption that Redmayne knew every man's hand was against
him. He would naturally, in his hunted state, fly the near approach
of a man."

"Probably he didn't remember me."

"Probably; but there are possibilities about the action. He might
have been warned against you."

"There was nobody to warn him. He had not yet seen his niece, nor
spoken with her. Who else could have warned him--except Bendigo
Redmayne himself?"

Peter did not pursue the subject. He shut his book, yawned, took
snuff, and declared himself ready for a meal. The long day passed
and both men turned in early and slept till daybreak.

Before noon they had left Baveno on a steamer and were crossing the
blue depths of Maggiore. Brendon had never seen the Italian lakes
before and he fell silent in the presence of such beauty; nor did
Mr. Ganns desire to talk. They sat together and watched the panorama
unfold, the hills and gorges, the glory of the light over earth and
water, the presence of man, his little homes upon the mountains, his
little barques upon the lake.

At Luino they left the steamer and proceeded to Tresa. Beside the
railroad, on this brief instalment of the journey, there stood lofty
palisades of close wire netting hung with bells. Peter, who had
travelled here twenty years earlier, explained that they were
erected as a safeguard against the eternal smuggling between
Switzerland and Italy.

"'Only man is vile' in fact," he concluded and woke a passing wave
of bitterness in his companion's spirit.

"And our life is concerned with his vileness," Mark answered. "I
hate myself sometimes and wish I was a grocer or a linen draper or
even a soldier or sailor. It's degrading to let your life's work
depend on the wickedness of your fellow creatures, Ganns. I hope a
time is coming when our craft will be as obsolete as bows and
arrows."

The elder laughed.

"What does Goethe say somewhere?" he asked. "That if man endures
for a million years, he'll never lack obstacles to give him trouble,
or the pressure of need to make him conquer them. Then there's
Montaigne--you ought to read Montaigne--wisest of men. He'll tell
you that human wisdom has never reached the perfection of conduct
that itself prescribes; and could it arrive there, it would still
dictate to itself others beyond. In a word, the world will never be
short of crooks while human nature lasts, nor yet of men trained to
lay them by the heels. Crime will continue, in some form or other,
as long as men do; and as the criminal gets cleverer, so must we."

"I think better of human nature," answered Mark and his friend
applauded him.

"Quite right, my boy--at your age," he said.

They wound over Lugano and came in evening light to its northern
shore. Then once more they took train, climbed aloft, and fell at
last to Menaggio on Como's brink.

"Now," said Peter, "I guess we'll leave our traps here and beat it
to Villa Pianezzo right away. We'll scare the old boy a bit, but can
tell him things all fell right and so we found that we could jog
along a week before we thought to do so. Not a word that I think him
to be in danger."

Within twenty minutes their one-horse vehicle had reached Mr.
Redmayne's modest home and they found three persons just about to
take an evening meal. Simultaneously there appeared Mr. Redmayne,
his niece, and Giuseppe Doria; and while Albert, Italian fashion,
embraced Mr. Ganns and planted a kiss upon his cheek, Jenny greeted
Mark Brendon and he looked once more into her eyes.

There had come new experiences to her and they did not fail of the
man's observation. She smiled indeed and flushed and proclaimed her
wonder and admiration at the speed which had brought him across
Europe to her uncle's succour; but even in her animation and
excitement the new expression persisted. It set Mark's heart
throbbing vigorously and told him that perchance he might yet be
useful to her. For there hung a shadow of melancholy on Jenny's face
her smiles could not dispel.

Doria held back a little while his wife welcomed her uncle's friend;
then he came forward, declared his pleasure at meeting Mark again
and his belief that time would soon reveal the truth and set a
period to the sinister story of the wanderer.

Mr. Redmayne was overjoyed at seeing Ganns and quite forgot the
object of his visit in the pleasure of receiving him.

"It has been my last and abiding ambition to introduce you to
Virgilio Poggi, dear Peter, so that you, he and I may sit together,
hear each other's voices and look into each other's eyes. And now
this will happen. Thus the unhappy spirit who wanders upon the hills
has unconsciously accomplished a beautiful thing."

Jenny and Assunta, had hastily prepared for the visitors and now all
sat at supper and Brendon learned how rooms were already taken for
him and Mr. Ganns at the Hotel Victoria.

"That's as may be," he declared to Doria's wife. "You will find, I
think, that Mr. Ganns is going to stop here. He takes the lead in
this affair. Indeed there was no great reason why I should have
intruded again, where I have failed so often."

Jenny looked at him softly.

"I am very thankful you have come," she said--in a whisper for his
ear alone.

"Then I am very thankful too," he replied.

After a cheerful meal Peter absolutely declined to cross Como and
visit Signor Poggi on the instant.

"I've had enough of your lakes for one day, Albert," he announced,
"and I want to talk business and get a rough, general idea of what
more is known than Mark and I already know. Now what has happened
since you wrote, Mrs. Doria?"

"Tell them, Giuseppe," directed Mr. Redmayne.

"Your gift--the gold box--take a pinch," said Peter holding out his
snuff to the old bookworm; but the master of Villa Pianezzo refused
and lighted a cigar.

"I will have smoke rather than dust, my precious Peter," he said.

"The man has been seen twice since you heard from my wife," began
Doria. "Once I met him face to face on the hill, where I walked
alone to reflect on my own affairs; and once--the night before
last--he came here. Happily Mr. Redmayne's room overlooks the lake
and the garden walls are high, so he could not reach it; but the
bedroom of Mr. Redmayne's man, Ernesto, is upon the side that stands
up to the road.

"Robert Redmayne came at two o'clock, flung pebbles at the window,
wakened Ernesto, and demanded to be let in to see his brother. But
the Italian had been warned exactly what to say and do if such a
thing happened. He speaks English well and told the unfortunate man
that he must appear by day. Ernesto then mentioned a certain place,
a mile from here in a secluded valley--a little bridge that spans a
stream--and directed Robert to await his brother at that spot on the
following day at noon. This my Uncle Alberto had already planned in
the event of his brother reappearing.

"Having heard this, the red man departed without more words and your
friend, greatly courageous, kept the appointment that he had made,
taking only me with him. We were there before midday and waited
until after two o'clock. But nobody came to us and we saw neither
man nor woman.

"For my own part I feel very certain that Robert Redmayne was hidden
near at hand, and that he would have come out quickly enough had his
brother been alone; but of course Uncle Alberto would not go alone,
and we would not have allowed him to do so in any case."

Peter listened intently to these words.

"And what of your meeting with him?" he asked.

"That was clearly an accident on Robert Redmayne's part. I happened
to be walking, deep in thought near the spot where my wife first saw
him, and, rounding a corner, I suddenly confronted the man sitting
on a rock by the path. He started at my footfall, looked up, clearly
recognized me, hesitated, and then leaped into the bushes. I
endeavoured to follow but he distanced me. He is harbouring aloft
there and may be in touch with some charcoal burner above in the
mountains. He was strong and agile and moved swiftly."

"How was he dressed?"

"Exactly as I saw him dressed at 'Crow's Nest' when Mr. Bendigo
Redmayne disappeared."

"I should like to know his tailor," said Mr. Ganns. "That's a useful
suit he wears."

Then he asked a question that seemed to bear but little on the
subject.

"Plenty of smugglers in the mountains I suppose?"

"Plenty," answered Giuseppe, "and my heart is with them."

"They dodge the customs officers and get across the frontier by
night sometimes I dare say?"

"If I stop here long enough, I shall be better in a position to
know," replied the other cheerfully. "My heart, Signor Ganns, is
with these boys. They are a brave and valiant people and their lives
are very dangerous and thrilling and interesting. They are heroes
and not villains at all. Our woman, Assunta, is the widow of a free
trader. She has good friends among them."

"Now, Peter, tell us all that is in your mind," urged Mr. Redmayne
as he poured out five little glasses of golden liqueur. "You hold
that I go in some peril from this unhappy man?"

"I do think so, Albert. And as to my mind, it is not by any means
made up. You say, 'Catch Robert Redmayne first and decide
afterwards.' Yes; but I will tell you an interesting thing. We are
not going to catch Robert Redmayne."

"You throw up the sponge, signor?" asked Giuseppe in astonishment.

"Surely you have caught everybody you ever tried to catch, Peter?"
asked Albert.

"There is a reason why I shall not catch him," replied Ganns,
sipping from his little Venetian glass.

"Can it be that you think him not a man at all but a ghost, Mr.
Ganns?" asked Jenny, round-eyed.

"He has already suggested a ghost," said Mark, "but there are
different sorts of ghosts, Mrs. Doria. I see that, too. There are
ghosts of flesh and blood."

"If he is a ghost, he is a very solid one indeed," declared Doria.

"He is," admitted Peter. "And yet none the less a ghost in my
opinion. Now let us generalize. It needn't be a sound maxim to seek
the person who benefits by a crime--not always--for often enough the
actual legatee of a murdered man may have had nothing whatever to do
with his death. Albert, for example, will inherit Mr. Bendigo
Redmayne's estate when leave to assume his death is granted by the
law; and Mrs. Doria will inherit her late husband's estate in due
course. But it isn't suggested that your wife killed her first
husband, Signor Doria; and it isn't suggested that my friend here
killed his brother.

"None the less, it's a safe question to ask what a suspected man
gains by his crime. And, if we put that question, we find that
Robert Redmayne gained nothing whatever by killing Michael
Pendean--nothing, that is, but the satisfaction of a sudden,
overpowering lust to do so. Pendean's murder made Redmayne a
vagabond, deprived him of his income and resources, set every man's
hand against him and left him a wanderer haunted by the gallows.
Yet, while he evaded the law in a manner that can only be called
miraculous, he made no attempt to avert suspicion from himself. On
the contrary he courted suspicion, took his victim to Berry Head on
a motor bicycle and did a thousand things which defiantly proclaim
him a lunatic--but for one overmastering fact. A lunatic must have
been caught: he was not.

"He vanishes from Paignton, to reappear at 'Crow's Nest'; he takes
another life; he apparently commits another senseless murder on the
person of his own brother and once more disappears, leaving not a
clue. Now, in face of these absurdities, we have a right to brush
aside the apparent facts and ask ourselves a very vital question.
What is that question, Signor Doria?"

"It is one I have already asked myself," replied Giuseppe. "It is
one I have asked my wife. It is a question, however, which I cannot
answer, because I do not know enough. There is nobody in the world
who knows enough--unless it be Robert Redmayne."

Ganns nodded and took snuff.

"Good," he said.

"But what is the question?" asked Albert Redmayne. "What is the
question Giuseppe puts to himself and, you put to yourself, Peter?
We who are not so clever do not see the question."

"The question, my friend, is this: Did Robert Redmayne murder
Michael Pendean and Bendigo Redmayne? And you can ask yourself a
still more vital question: Are these two men dead at all?"

Jenny shivered violently. She put out her hand instinctively and it
clutched Mark Brendon's arm where he sat next to her. He looked at
her and saw that her eyes were fixed with strange doubt and horror
upon Doria; while the Italian himself showed a considerable amount
of surprise at Peter's conclusion.

"Corpo di Bacco! Then--" he asked.

"Then we may be said to enlarge the scope of the inquiry a good
deal," answered Mr. Ganns mildly. He turned to Jenny.

"This is calculated to flutter you, young lady, when you think of
your second marriage," he said. "But we're not asserting anything;
we're only just having a friendly chat. Facts are what we want; and
if the fact is that Robert Redmayne didn't kill Michael Pendean,
that doesn't mean for a moment that Mr. Pendean isn't dead. You must
not let theories frighten you now, since you certainly did not allow
them to do so in the past."

"More than ever it is necessary that my unhappy brother should be
secured," declared Albert. "It is interesting to remember," he
added, "that poor Bendigo first thought he had to do with a ghost
when the arrival of his brother was reported to him. He was very
superstitious, as sailors often are, and not until Jenny had seen
and spoken with her uncle, did Bendigo believe that a living man
wanted to see him."

"The fact that it was actually Robert Redmayne and no ghost is
proved by that incident, Ganns," added Mark Brendon. "That the man
who came to 'Crow's Nest' was in truth Robert Redmayne we can rest
assured through Mrs. Doria, who knew her uncle exceedingly well. It
only remains to prove with equal certainty that the wanderer here is
Redmayne, and one can feel very little question that he is. It is of
course marvellous that he escaped discovery and arrest; but it may
not be as marvellous as it seems. Stranger things have happened. And
who else could it be in any case?"

"That reminds me," replied Ganns. "There has been mention made of
Mr. Bendigo's log. He kept a careful diary--so it was reported. I
should like to have that book, Albert, for in your statement you
tell me that you preserved it."

"I did and it is here," replied his friend. "That and dear Bendigo's
'Bible,' as I call it--a copy of 'Moby Dick'--I brought away. As yet
I have not consulted the diary--it was too intimate and distressed
me. But I was looking forward to doing so."

"The parcel containing both books is in a drawer in the library.
I'll get them," said Jenny. She left the apartment where they sat
overlooking the lake and returned immediately with a parcel wrapped
in brown paper.

"Why do you need this, Peter?" asked Albert, and while he was
satisfied with the reply, Brendon was not.

"It's always interesting to get a thing from every angle," answered
Mr. Ganns. "Your brother may have something to tell us."

But whether Bendigo's diary might have proved valuable remained a
matter of doubt, for when Jenny opened the parcel, it was not there.
A blank book and the famous novel were all the parcel contained.

"But I packed it myself," said Mr. Redmayne. "The diary was bound
exactly as this blank volume is bound, yet it is certain that I made
no mistake, for I opened my brother's log and read a page or two
before completing the parcel."

"He had bought a new diary only the last time he was in Dartmouth,"
said Doria. "I remember the incident. I asked him what he was going
to put into the book, and he said that his log was just running out
and he needed a new volume."

"You are sure that you did not mistake the old, full book for the
new, empty one, Albert?" asked his friend.

"I cannot be positive, of course, but I feel no shadow of doubt in
my own mind."

"Then the one has been substituted for the other by somebody else.
That is a very interesting fact, if true."

"Impossible," declared Jenny. "There was nobody to do such a thing,
Mr. Ganns. Who could have felt any interest in poor Uncle Bendigo's
diary but ourselves?"

Mr. Ganns considered.

"The answer to that question might save us a very great deal of
trouble," he said. "But there may be no answer. Your uncle may be
mistaken. On the other hand I have never known him to be mistaken
over any question involving a book."

He took up the empty volume and turned its pages; then Brendon
declared they must be going.

"I'm afraid we're keeping Mr. Redmayne out of bed, Ganns," he
hinted. "Our kits have already been sent to the hotel and as we've
got a mile to walk, we'd better be moving. Are you never sleepy?"

He turned to Jenny.

"I don't believe he has closed his eyes since we left England, Mrs.
Doria."

But Peter did not laugh: he appeared to be deep in thought. Suddenly
he spoke and surprised them.

"I'm afraid you're going to find me the sort of friend that sticketh
closer than a brother, Albert. In a word, somebody must go to the
hotel and bring back my travelling grip, for I'm not going to lose
sight of you again till we've got this thing straightened out."

Mr. Redmayne was delighted.

"How like you, Peter--how typical of your attitude! You shall not
leave me, dear friend. You shall sleep in the apartment next my own.
It contains many books, but there shall be my great couch moved from
my own bedroom and set up there in half an hour. It is as
comfortable as a bed."

He turned to his niece.

"Seek Assunta and Ernesto and set the apartment in order for Mr.
Ganns, Jenny; and you, Giuseppe, will take Mr. Brendon to the Hotel
Victoria and bring back Peter's luggage."

Jenny hastened to do her uncle's bidding, while Brendon made his
farewell and promised to return at an early hour on the following
morning.

"My plans for to-morrow," said Peter, "subject to Mark's approval,
are these. I suggest that Signor Doria should take Brendon to the
scene in the hills where Robert Redmayne appeared; while, by her
leave, I have a talk with Mrs. Jenny here. I'm going to run her over
a bit of the past and she must be brave and give me all her
attention."

He started and listened, his ear cocked toward the lake.

"What's that shindy?" he asked. "Sounds like distant cannon."

Doria laughed.

"Only the summer thunder on the mountains, signor," he answered.



CHAPTER XIII

THE SUDDEN RETURN TO ENGLAND


A successful detective needs, above all else, the power to see both
sides of any problem as it affects those involved in it. Nine times
out of ten there is but one side; yet men have often gone to the
gallows because their fellow men failed in this particular--followed
the line of least resistance and pursued the obvious and patent
conclusions to an end only logical upon a false premise.

Peter Ganns did not lack this perspicuity. It was visible in his big
face to any student of physiognomy. He smiled with his mouth, but
his eyes were grave--never ironical, never satirical, but always set
in a stern, not unkindly expression. They were watchful yet
tolerant--the eyes of one versed in the weakness as well as the
nobility of human nature. He could measure the average, modest
intelligence of his fellow creatures as well as estimate the heights
of genius to which man's intellect may sometimes attain. His own
unusual powers, centred in sound judgment of character and wide
experience of the human comedy, had set the seal in his eyes while
graving something like a smile upon his full, Egyptian lips.

He sat next day and spoke to Albert Redmayne on a little gallery
that extended from the dining-room of the villa and overhung the
lake. Here, for half an hour, he talked and listened until Jenny
should be ready for him.

The elder expounded his simple philosophy.

"I was long out of heart with God, while striving to keep my faith
in man, Peter," he declared. "But now I see more clearly and believe
that it is only by faith in our Maker that we can understand
ourselves. 'Better' is ever the enemy of 'good,' and 'best' is a
golden word only to be used for martyrs and heroes."

"Men do their best for two things, Albert," replied Mr. Ganns. "For
love and for hate; and without these tremendous incitements not the
least or greatest among us can reach the limit of his powers."

"True, and perhaps that explains the present European attitude. The
war has left us incapable of any supreme activity. Enthusiasm is
dead; consequently the enthusiasm of good-will lacks from our
councils and we drift, without any great guiding hand upon the
tiller of destiny. Heart and brains are at odds, groping on
different roads instead of advancing together by the one and only
road. We see no great men. There are, of course, leaders, great by
contrast with those they lead; but history will declare us a
generation of dwarfs and show how, for once, man stood at a crisis
of his destiny when those mighty enough to face it failed to appear.
Now that is a situation unparalleled in my knowledge of the past.
Until now, the hour has always brought the man."

"We drift, as you say," answered Ganns, dusting his white waistcoat.
"We are suffering from a sort of universal shell shock, Albert; and
from my angle of observation I perceive how closely crime depends
upon nerves. Indifference in the educated takes the shape of
lawlessness in the masses; and the breakdown of our economical laws
provokes to fury and despair. Our equilibrium is gone in every
direction. For example the balance between work and recreation has
been destroyed. This restless condition will take a decade of years
to control, and the present craving for that excitement, to which we
were painfully accustomed during the years of war, is leaving a
marked and dangerous brand on the minds of the rising generation.
From this restlessness to criminal methods of satisfying it is but a
step.

"We are sick; our state is pathological. What we need is a renewal
of the discipline that enabled us to confront and conquer in the
past struggle. We must drill our nerves, Albert, and strive to
restore a balanced and healthy outlook for those destined to run the
world in future. Men are not by nature lawless. They are rational
beings in the lump; but civilization, depending as it does on creed
and greed, has made no steps as yet, through education, to arrest
our superstition and selfishness."

"Once let the light of good-will in upon this chaos and we should
see order beginning to return," declared Mr. Redmayne. "The problem
is how to promote good-will, my dear friend. This should be the
great and primal concern of religion; for what, after all, is the
basis of all morality? Surely to love our neighbour as ourself."

They set the world right together and their thoughts drifted into a
region of benignant aspirations. Then came Jenny and presently the
detective followed her into a garden of flowers behind Villa
Pianezzo.

"Giuseppe and Mr. Brendon have gone to the hills," she said. "And
now I am ready to talk to you, Mr. Ganns. Don't fear to hurt me. I
am beyond hurting. I have suffered more in the past year than I
should have thought it possible to suffer and keep sane."

He looked at her beautiful face intently. It was certainly sad
enough, but to his eye, beneath the lines of sorrow, lay an anxiety
that concerned neither the past nor the future, but the immediate
present. She was apparently unhappy in her new life.

"Show me the silkworms," he said.

They entered the lofty shed rising above a thicket behind the
villa--a shuttered apartment where twilight reigned. The place was
fitted with shelves to the ceiling and between the caterpillar trays
tall branches of brushwood ascended to the roof. Out of the cool
gloom of this silent chamber there glimmered, as it seemed, a
thousand little lamps dotted everywhere on the sticks and walls and
ceiling. Not a place where a worm could climb or spin was
unadorned, for the oval, shining cocoons, scattered like small, ripe
fruit upon the twigs, made a delicate light on every side through
the sombre dusk. Mr. Redmayne's silkworms were descended, through
countless generations, from those historic eggs stolen by Nestorian
pilgrims from China, and carried thence secretly in hollow canes to
Constantinople some thirteen hundred years before.

The caterpillars had nearly all done their work and completed their
silken cases; but a couple of hundred, fat, white monsters, each
some three inches long, still remained in the trays, and they
fastened greedily on fresh mulberry leaves that Jenny brought them.
Others were but beginning their shrouds. They had sketched them and
appeared to be busily weaving in the preliminary bag made of
transparent and glittering filament. A few of the creatures began to
turn yellow, though as yet they had not devoured their last meal.
Jenny picked them up and held them to the morning light.

"Never mummy was wound so exquisitely as the silkworm's chrysalis,"
said Peter; and Jenny chatted cheerfully about the silken industry
and its varied interests, but found that Mr. Ganns could tell her
much more than she was able to tell him.

He listened with attention, however, and only by gradual stages
deflected conversation to the affairs that had brought him.
Presently he indicated an aspect of her own position arising from
his words on the previous night.

"Did it ever strike you that it was a bold thing to marry within
little more than nine months of your first husband's disappearance,
Mrs. Doria?" he asked.

"It did not; but I shivered when I heard you talking yesterday. And
call me 'Jenny,' not 'Mrs. Doria,' Mr. Ganns."

"Love has always been very impatient of law"; he declared, "but the
fact is that unless proof of an exceptional character can be
submitted, the English law is not prepared to say of any man that he
is dead until seven years have passed from the last record of him
among the living. Now there is rather a serious difference between
seven years and nine months, Jenny."

"Looking back I seem to see nothing but a long nightmare. 'Nine
months!' It was a century. Don't think that I didn't love my first
husband; I adored him and I adore his memory; but the loneliness and
the sudden magic of this man. Besides all that, surely none could
question the hideous proofs of what happened? I accepted Michael's
death as a fact which need not enter the calculation. My God! Why
did not somebody hint to me that I was doing wrong to wed?"

"Did anybody have a chance?"

She looked at him with a face full of unhappiness.

"You are right. I was possessed. I made a terrible mistake; but do
not fear that I have escaped the punishment."

He guessed her meaning and led her away from the subject of her
husband.

"Tell me, if it won't hurt you too much, a little about Michael
Pendean."

But she appeared not to hear him. Her thoughts were concerned
entirely with herself and her present situation.

"I can trust you. You are wise and know life. I have not married a
man, but a devil!"

Her hands clenched and he saw a flash of her teeth in the gloom of
the silent chamber.

He took snuff and listened, while the unfortunate woman raved of her
error.

"I hate him. I loathe him," she cried, and heaped hard words on the
head of the debonair Giuseppe. She broke off presently panted, and
then subsided in tears.

Peter studied her very carefully, yet, for the moment, showed no
great sympathy. His answer was tonic rather than sedative.

"You must keep your nerve and be patient," he said. "Even Italy's a
free country in some respects; you need not stop with Doria if you
don't want to."

"Might my husband be alive? Do you imagine it possible that he could
be alive? I think of him as my husband again, now that this
midsummer madness is over. I have much to say to you. I want you--I
pray you--to help me as well as my uncle. But he must come first, of
course."

"We shall possibly find that in helping him we are helping you,"
answered Peter. "But you ask a question and I always answer a
question when it's reasonable to do so. No, Jenny, I cannot think
that Michael Pendean is alive. Let us go out into the air; it is
stuffy here. But remember I do not say that he is not alive. It was
certainly man's blood that an unknown hand shed at Foggintor; it was
man's blood in the cave under the cliffs near Mr. Bendigo Redmayne's
home; but as yet we know no more, with absolute certainty, who lost
it than who spilled it. That is the large problem I am here to
solve. And perhaps, if you want to help me, you can do so. This at
any rate I promise you: if you help me, you will also help yourself
and your Uncle Albert."

"He is in danger?"

"Consider the situation. In process of time the estate of Albert's
two brothers will devolve upon him. That means, I suppose, that
sooner or later the bulk of the money must be yours. Albert is
frail. I do not think he will be a long-lived man. What follows?
Surely that you--the last of the Redmaynes--will inherit everything.
And you are married. Here is a proposition, then. And what have you
just told me? That your husband is 'a devil,' and that you hate him
since you have seen a glimpse of his heart. These facts cannot be
entirely separated. They may or may not be closely allied."

She looked at him steadfastly.

"I have only thought of Giuseppe Doria in connection with myself,
never in connection with Uncle Bendigo and Uncle Albert. Uncle
Bendigo died--if he is dead--before I consented to marry
Doria--before he asked me to do so. But keep my mistake from my
uncle. I don't want him to know I'm miserable."

"You must decide where to put your trust, my dear," answered Mr.
Ganns. "Otherwise you may find yourself on dangerous ground."

She weighed her answer.

"You are thinking of something," she said.

"Naturally. What you have told me as to your relations with your
Italian husband offers considerable food for thought. But consider
very carefully. You cannot run with the hare and hunt with the
hounds. How many a bad man and, for that matter, how many an
innocent man, has come to grief in the attempt. Tell me this. Does
Giuseppe know that you no longer love him?"

She shook her head.

"I have hid it. The time has not come to let him know that. He would
be revenged, and God knows what form his revenge might take. Till I
have escaped from him, he must not dream that I have changed."

"That's your feeling? Well, the questions are two. Do you know
enough about him to assist and justify your escape and, if you do,
are you prepared to confide your knowledge to me?"

"I do not know enough," she answered. "He is a very clever man under
his light-hearted and easy-going manners. He is, I believe, faithful
to me, and he takes care never to be unkind in the presence or
hearing of a third person. But this I think: that he knows very well
what you've just told me--that all the Redmayne money must sooner
or later be mine."

"And yet he behaves to you as though he were a devil? That's not
very clever of him."

"I can't explain. Perhaps I have said too much. His cruelty is very
subtle. Italian husbands,--"

"I know all about Italian husbands. We'll talk over this again when
you have had time to think a little. There's a reason for your hate
and distrust of him, no doubt. You would not pretend such emotions.
He's faithful, you say, so perhaps that reason is linked with
knowledge you do not care to impart to me--or anybody? Perhaps it
embraces the mystery man we want to catch--Robert Redmayne? Does
Doria know more about him than you or I do! And you have found it
out? There may be quite a number of things that make you hate Doria.
So think it over and consider if to hear any of them would help me."

Jenny looked at Peter with profound interest.

"You are a very wonderful man, Mr. Ganns."

"Not a bit--only practiced in the jig-saw puzzle we call life.
Attach no special importance to what I have just said, or the
possibilities I have just thrown out. I may be altogether wrong. I
have only at present your word that Signor Doria is not a kind
husband. I may not agree with you when I know him better. You may
not be a judge. Your first husband was perhaps so exceptional that
the norm of husbands is unknown to you. My mind is quite open on
the subject, because I have often found that a wife knows much less
about her husband's character than do other people. Remember that
hate blinds quite as frequently as love; and love turned to hate
is a transformation so complicated that it takes a cunning
psycho-analyst to interpret it. Therefore to know the importance of
your fears, I must know more about you yourself.

"We'll leave it at that--and all you need think of me at present is
that I want to serve you. But I am an old bird, while Brendon, on
the contrary, is still young; and youth understands youth. Remember
that in him you have a steadfast and faithful friend. I shan't be
jealous if you can tell him more than you can tell me."

Jenny's lips moved and were again motionless. He perceived that she
had started to say one thing, but would now say another. She took
his big hand and pressed it between her own.

"God bless you!" she said. "If I have you for a friend, I am
content. Mr. Brendon has been very good to me--very, very good. But
you are more likely to serve Uncle Albert than he."

They parted presently and Jenny returned to the house, while the
detective, finding a comfortable chair under an oleander bush,
sniffed the fragrance of the red blossom above him, regretted that
his vice had largely spoiled his sense of smell, took snuff and
opened his notebook. He wrote in it steadily for half an hour; then
he rose and joined Albert Redmayne.

The elder was full of an approaching event.

"To think that to-day you and Poggi meet!" he exclaimed. "Peter, my
dear man, if you do not love Virgilio I shall be broken-hearted."

"Albert," answered Mr. Ganns. "I have already loved Poggi for two
years. Those you love, I love; and that means that our friendship is
on a very high plane indeed; for it oftens happens that nothing
puzzles us more infernally than our friends' friends. In our case,
however, so entirely do we see alike in everything that matters,
that it is beyond possibility you should be devoted to anybody who
does not appeal to me. By the same token, how much do you love your
niece?"

Mr. Redmayne did not answer instantly.

"I love her," he replied at length, "because I love everything that
is lovely; and without prejudice I do honestly believe she is about
the loveliest young woman I have ever seen. Her face more nearly
resembles that of Botticelli's Venus than any living being in my
experience; and it is the sweetest face I know. Therefore I love her
outside very much indeed, Peter.

"But when it comes to her inside, I feel not so sure. That is
natural, for this reason, that I do not know her at all well yet. I
have seldom seen her in childhood, or had any real acquaintance with
her until now. When I know her better, it is pretty certain that I
shall love her all through; but one must confess I can never know
her very well, because the gap in age denies perfect understanding.
Nor does she come to me, as it were, alone. Her life turns to her
husband. She is still a bride and adores him."

"You have no reason to think her as an unhappy bride?"

"None whatever. Doria is amazingly handsome and attractive--the type
a woman generally worships. I grant that Italo-English marriages are
not remarkable for their success; but--well, no doubt Jenny's
husband is worldly-wise. He has everything to gain by being good,
everything to lose by behaving badly. Jenny is a proud girl. She has
qualities. There is a distinction about her. She would stand no
nonsense from Doria and she knows that I would stand no nonsense
from him. I hope to see much of her, though it appears that their
home will be in Turin."

"He has abandoned his ambitions to recover the family estates and
title and so forth? Brendon told me all about that."

"Entirely. Besides it seems that one of your countrymen has secured
the castle at Dolceacqua and bought the title too. Giuseppe was very
entertaining on the subject. But I'm afraid he loves idleness."

Before luncheon Mark Brendon returned from the hills with his guide.
They had seen nothing of Robert Redmayne and appeared to be rather
weary of one another's company.

"You must impart your wisdom and gay spirit to Signor Marco," said
Giuseppe to Mr. Ganns, when Brendon was out of earshot with Jenny.
"He is a very dull dog and does not even listen when I talk. Not
simpatico, I suppose. He will never find out anything. Will you, I
wonder? Have you any ideas? A new broom sweeps clean, as you say."

"I must suck your brains before you suck mine, Doria," said Peter
genially. "I want to hear what you think of this man in the red
waistcoat. We must have a talk."

"Gladly, gladly, Signor Peter. I have seen him now many times--in
England three--four times--in Italy once. He is always the same."

"Not a spook?"

"A spirit? No. Very much alive. But how he lives and what he lives
for--who can tell?"

"You do not fear on account of Mr. Redmayne?"

"I much fear on account of him," answered Doria. "And when my wife
told me that she had seen him, I telegraphed from Turin that they
should be careful and run no risk whatever of a meeting. Jenny's
uncle is frightened when he thinks about it; but we keep his
thoughts away as much as possible. It is bad for him to fear. For
the love of Heaven, good signor, get to the bottom of it if you can.
My idea is to set a trap for this red man and catch him, like a fox
or other wild creature."

"A very cute notion," declared Peter. "We'll rope you in, Giuseppe.
Between you and me and the post, our friend Brendon has been barking
up the wrong tree, you know. But if you and I and he, together,
can't clean this up, then we're not the men I take us for."

Doria laughed.

"'Deeds are men; words are women,'" he said. "There has been too
much chatter about this; but now you are come; we shall see things
accomplished."

It was not until after the midday meal that Ganns and Mark were able
to get speech together. Then, promising to return in time to meet
Virgilio Poggi, who would cross the lake for tea, the two men
sauntered beside Como and exchanged experiences. The interview
proved painful to the younger, for he found that Peter's doubts were
cleared in certain directions. Brendon, indeed, led up to his own
chastening very directly.

"It makes me mad," he said, "to see the way that beggar treats his
wife--Doria I mean. Pearls before swine. I never hoped much from it;
but to think they have only been married three months!''

"How does he treat her?"

"Well, one isn't blind to her appearance. The cause is, of course,
concealed; the effect, very visible to my eyes. She's far too plucky
to whisper her troubles; but she can't hide her face, where they may
be read."

Mr. Ganns said nothing and Mark spoke again.

"Do you begin to see any light?"

"Not much upon the main problem. A minor feature has cleared,
however. I know the rock you split upon, my son. You were in love
with Jenny Pendean from the moment you knew that she was a widow.
And you're in love with Jenny Doria now. And to be in love with one
of the principals in a case, is to handicap yourself out of the
hunt, as far as that case is concerned."

Brendon stared but made no answer.

"Human nature has its limits, Mark, and love's a pretty radical
passion. No man ever did, or could, do himself justice in any task
whatever--not while he was blinded with love of a woman. Love's a
jealous party and won't stand competitors. So it follows that if you
were in love anyway you wouldn't be at your best; and how much more
so when the lady in your case was the lady in _the_ case?"

"You wrong me," answered the other rather hotly. "That is really
unreasonable. Emphatically the incident made no sort of difference,
for the very good reason that she was not in the case, save as an
innocent sufferer from the evil actions of others. She helped me
rather than hindered me. Despite all she was called to endure, she
kept her nerve from the first and fought her own grief that she
might make everything clear to me. If I did come to love her, that
made no sort of difference to my attitude to my work."

"But it made a mighty lot of difference to your attitude to her.
However, your word runs with me, Mark, and I'm very willing to
attach all due importance to your conclusions. But I am not in the
least willing to accept your estimate of anybody's character without
further proofs. You mustn't feel it personal. Only remember that I'm
not in this case for my health, and, so far, I have had no reason
whatever to eliminate anybody."

"We know some things without proof and are proud to take them on
trust," answered Brendon. "Have I not seen Mrs. Doria under
affliction and in situations unspeakably difficult? She has been
marvellously brave. After her own great sorrow, her only thought was
her unfortunate relations. She buried her own crushing grief--"

"And in nine months was married to another man."

"She is young and you have seen for yourself what her husband is.
Who can tell what measures he took to win her? All I know is that
she has made an appalling mistake. Perhaps I feel it rather than
know it; but I'm positive."

"Well," said Peter quietly. "It's no good playing about. At a seemly
opportunity, after her husband died, I guess you told her you loved
her and asked her to marry you. She declined; but it didn't end
there. She's got you on the string at this moment."

"That's not true, Ganns. You don't understand me--or her."

"Well, I do not ask much; but since I have picked up this thing for
Albert's sake, there's one point on which I insist. If you are going
to take Jenny into your confidence and assume that she has no wish
or desire other than to see justice done and the mystery cleared,
then I can't work with you, Mark."

"You wrong her, but that doesn't matter, I suppose. What does matter
is that you wrong me," said Brendon, with fierce eyes fixed upon the
elder. "I've never thought or dreamed of confiding in her, or
anybody else. I've nothing to confide, for that matter. I did love
her, and I do love her, and I'm deeply concerned and troubled to see
the mess she's in with this blighter; but I'm a detective first and
last and always over this business; and I have some credit in my
painful profession."

"Good. Remember that, whatever happens. And keep your temper with
me, too, because nothing is gained by losing it. I'm not saying a
word against Mrs. Doria, but inasmuch as she is Mrs. Doria and
inasmuch as Doria is as yet very much an unknown quantity to you and
me, you must understand that I don't allow appearances to blind my
eyes or control my actions. Now if a woman hints, or indicates, that
she is unhappily married, then nothing is more natural than that a
man like yourself, who entertains the tenderest feelings to the
woman, should believe what he sees and regard her melancholy as
genuine. It looks all right; but suppose, for their own ends, that
Jenny Doria and her spouse want to create this impression? Suppose
that their object is to lead you and me to imagine that they are not
friends?"

"My God! What would you make of her?"

"It isn't what I'd make of her. It's what she really is. And that
I'm going to find out, because a great deal more may depend upon it
than you appear to imagine."

"A moment's reflection will surely convince you that neither she nor
Doria--"

"Wait, wait! I'm only saying that we must not allow character,
fancied or real, to dam any channel of investigation. If reflection
convinces me that it is impossible for Doria to be in collusion with
Robert Redmayne, I shall admit it. As yet that is not so. There are
several very interesting points. Have you asked yourself why Bendigo
Redmayne's diary is missing?"

"I have--and could not see how it was likely to contain anything
dangerous to Robert Redmayne."

Peter did not enlighten him for the moment. Then he spoke and
changed the subject.

"I must find out several fundamental facts and I certainly shall not
learn them here," he said. "Next week in all probability, unless
something unexpected happens to prevent it, I go back to England."

"Can't I go?'"

"I shall want you here; but our understanding must be complete
before I leave.''

"Trust me for that," said Mark.

"I do."

"You want me to look after Mr. Redmayne?"

"No; I look after him. He's my first care. I haven't broke it to him
yet; but he's going with me."

Brendon considered and his thought flushed his cheek.

"You can't trust him with me, then?"

"It's not you. Mind, I'm only guessing; but, anyway, the risk is too
considerable. I go, because, until I have been, I remain in the dark
over some vital matters that must be cleared and can only be
cleared in England. Vital in my opinion, that is. But in the
meantime Albert is not the sort of a man to be trusted alone, for
the reason that he has no idea whence the danger threatens; nor can
he be trusted with you, either, because you are equally ignorant."

"But if the danger lies with Doria, as you seem to hint, how can
you, or anybody else, save Mr. Redmayne from it? He likes Doria. The
beggar amuses him and is tactful and clever to please where and when
he wants to please. He's been trying to please me. To-morrow he'll
try to please you."

"Yes--a very light-hearted, agreeable chap--and clever as you say.
But I don't know yet whether what you and I see, or even what his
wife sees, is the real Doria."

"Possibly not."

Ganns considered and then proceeded.

"I must give you a clear understanding. I'm so used to playing a
lone hand and saying nothing till I can say everything, that I may
be tempted to treat you in a way you don't deserve. Now I'll tell
you how the cat's jumping. She's jumping in the dark--I'll allow
that; but what I seem to see dimly is this: that Giuseppe Doria
knows a great deal more about the man in the red waistcoat than we
do. I hardly think Doria is the man to murder my old friend; but I'm
not so sure that, if somebody else wanted to take the step, Doria
would prevent him.

"If Albert disappeared, you've got to remember that Doria's wife
would be the worldly gainer. Why anybody should want to kill Albert
to put money into Jenny's pocket I cannot say. But it's a feature;
and while I'm in England, I'll ask you to keep your eyes skinned and
try and find out as much about Giuseppe as you can. Not from his
wife, however. I needn't tell you that. You'll be free to poke about
and try and surprise 'Red Waistcoat.' Perhaps you'll do the trick;
but take care he doesn't surprise you. All I ask is that you don't
believe a quarter you hear, or half you see. We must get under the
appearances if we're to make good."

"You think, then, that Doria and Robert Redmayne may be running in
double harness? And perhaps you think that Jenny Doria knows this
fact and that in this secret knowledge her present misery lies?"

"No need to drag her in; but your own question suggests the
possibility."

"Not against my own knowledge. She could be a willing party to no
crime. It is contrary to her inherent character, Ganns."

"And yet you're a detective 'first and last and always'--eh? One
would think that I wanted you to put her through the third degree.
Not that I ever put any man or woman through it myself. It is dirty
business and quite unworthy of our great service. We'll leave Mrs.
Doria, then, and concentrate on her husband. There are a lot of very
interesting things to find out about Doria, my boy."

"You forget that he only came into this business at 'Crow's Nest.'"

"How can I forget what I don't know? Why do you say he only came
into it at 'Crow's Nest'? He may have come into it at Foggintor.
Perhaps he and not Robert Redmayne, or any other, cut Michael
Pendean's throat?"

"Impossible. Consider. Is not Michael's widow Doria's wife?"

"What, then? I'm not saying she knew he was the murderer."

"Another thing: Doria was the servant of Bendigo Redmayne at the
time."

"And how do you know even so much?"

Brendon showed impatience.

"My dear Ganns, that's common knowledge."

"Common nothing! You can't swear he was the servant of Bendigo
Redmayne on the day that the murder was committed. To prove as much
would entail an amount of solid research that might surprise you. Of
this crowd, only Doria for certain knows when he joined up at
'Crow's Nest.' His wife may, or may not, know. I'm quite unprepared
to take Giuseppe's word for the date."

"That's why you wanted Bendigo Redmayne's log then?"

"One of the reasons certainly. The diary may be here yet. You can
use your eyes when we are away and try to find it. If you are
allowed to stumble on it, note particularly any pages torn out or
erased or faked."

"You still believe that those about Mr. Redmayne are criminals ?''

"I believe that it becomes necessary to prove they are not. Perhaps
you'll succeed in doing so before we return. There's a devil of a
lot of clearing to be done yet before we begin building. What beats
me frankly is the fact that my old friend Albert is still alive. I
can see no reason whatever why he should be--and a dozen why he
should not."

"Thanks to your forethought in coming unexpectedly, perhaps."

"With all the will and wit in the world you can't prevent one man
from killing another if he wants to do so--that is, assuming the
would-be murderer is at liberty and unknown. One more thing, Mark.
When I leave with Mr. Redmayne, I disappear altogether, and so does
he. It must be understood that nobody here is going to hear anything
about us till we come back again. If you want me very urgently, you
must telegraph to New Scotland Yard, where my direction will be
known, but nowhere else. And look after yourself sharply too. Don't
run any needless risks on trust. You may be in danger and certainly
will be if you get on the scent."

Two days later the book lover and Peter were taking a steamer for
Varenna, whence they would entrain for Milan and so return to
England. The meeting of Signor Poggi and Mr. Ganns afforded
exquisite satisfaction to Albert, and Peter did not cloud his
pleasure with any allusion to the future until the following
morning. Then, having expressed his enthusiasm for Virgilio and his
hope of better acquaintance on their return, the American broke to
Albert their immediate departure. He anticipated some protest, but
Mr. Redmayne was too logical to make any.

"I asked you to solve this enigma," he said, "and I am the last to
question your methods of so doing. That you will get to the bottom
of these horrid mysteries, Peter, I am quite certain. It is a
conviction with me that you are going to explain everything; but I
shall support your operations and if you hold it necessary that I go
to England, of course, dear friend, I go. You must not, however,
count upon me for any practical assistance. It is entirely contrary
to my nature to take an active part in this campaign. To put any
enterprise or adventure upon me would be to ask for failure."

"Fear nothing at all," answered Ganns. "I don't want you to do
anything whatever but lie low and amuse yourself. The danger may
follow you, or it may not; but my only wish is to come between you
and danger, Albert, and keep you under my own eyes. For the rest
we'll hide our tracks. Get Jenny to pack your portmanteau for a ten
days' tour. If all's well, you'll be home again at the end of next
week."

The morning of departure swiftly arrived and while Mr. Redmayne gave
final instructions to his niece, Peter and Mark walked the landing
stage as the paddle steamer, _Pliny_, came thudding across from
Bellagio to take the travellers on the first stage of their journey.
Brendon defined the position.

"It stands thus," he said. "You strongly suspect Doria of being in
collusion with another man, but doubt whether the other man is
really Robert Redmayne. What you want me to do is to watch Doria and
see if I can surprise the great unknown, or learn the truth about
him. Meanwhile you go home, and your work on the case you prefer to
keep to yourself until it is considerably clearer and forwarder than
at present."

"The situation in a nutshell. Keep an open mind. I ask no more than
that."

"I will," answered Brendon. "Already I suspect the explanation that
you have had of Mrs. Doria's sufferings. It is tolerably clear to me
that she knows more than we do, and has some secret of her husband's
that is causing her unhappiness."

"A theory capable of proof. You'll see a good deal of the dame
during the coming week and the time oughtn't to be wasted, if what
you think is true."

On the steamer stood Virgilio Poggi. He was come across the water to
take leave of Mr. Redmayne and see him as far as Varenna. The three
men departed presently, leaving Mark, Jenny and her husband
together. At Varenna, Virgilio also took his leave. He was not
content with embracing Albert but clasped Mr. Ganns also in an
affectionate farewell.

"We are great men, all three of us," said Signor Poggi, "and
greatness cleaves to greatness. Return as quickly as you can,
Albert, and obey Signor Ganns in everything. May this cloud be
quickly lifted from your life. Meantime you both have my prayers."

Albert translated the speech for Peter's benefit; then the train
moved forward and Virgilio took the next boat home again. He sneezed
all the way, for he had accepted a pinch from Peter's snuffbox
ignorant of its effects upon an untrained nose.



CHAPTER XIV

REVOLVER AND PICKAXE


While Brendon entertained no sort of regard for Giuseppe Doria, his
balanced mind allowed him to view the man with impartial justice. He
discounted the fact of the Italian's victory in love, and, because
he knew himself to be an unsuccessful rival, was the more jealous
that disappointment should not create any bias. But Doria had failed
to make Jenny a happy wife; he understood that well enough, and he
could not forget that some future advantage to himself might accrue
from this circumstance. The girl's attitude had changed; he was not
blind and could not fail to note it. For the present, however, he
smothered his own interests and strove with all his strength to
advance a solution of the problems before him. He was specially
desirous to furnish important information for Peter Ganns on his
return.

He did what his judgment indicated but failed to find sufficient
reasons for linking Doria with the mystery, or associating him with
Robert Redmayne. For despite Peter's luminous analysis, Mark still
regarded the unknown as Albert Redmayne's brother; and he could find
no reasonable argument for associating Giuseppe with this person,
either at present or in the past. Everything rather pointed in a
contrary direction. Brendon traversed the incidents connected with
Bendigo Redmayne's disappearance, yet he could recall nothing
suspicious about Giuseppe's conduct at "Crow's Nest"; and if it
seemed unreasonable to suppose he had taken a hand in the second
tragedy, it appeared still less likely that he could be associated
with the first.

It was true that Doria had wedded Pendean's widow; but that he
should have slain her husband in order to do so appeared a grotesque
assumption. Moreover, as a student of character, Mark could not
honestly find in Jenny's husband any characteristics that argued a
malevolent attitude to life. He was a pleasure-loving spirit and his
outlook and ambitions, while frivolous, were certainly not criminal.
He talked of the smugglers a good deal and declared himself in
sympathy with them; but it was gasconade; he evinced no particular
physical bravery; he was fond of his comforts and seemed little
likely to risk his own liberty by association with breakers of law
and order.

A startling proof that Mark had not erred in this estimate was
afforded by a conversation which he enjoyed with Doria on a day soon
after the departure of Albert Redmayne and his friend. Giuseppe and
his wife had planned to visit an acquaintance at Colico, to the
northward of the lake; and before the steamer started, after noon,
the two men took a stroll in the hills a mile above Menaggio.
Brendon had asked for some private conversation and the other gladly
agreed.

"As you know, I'm going to spend the day in the red man's haunt,"
explained Mark, "and I'll call at supper time since you wish it; but
before you go, I'll ask you to stroll along for an hour. I want to
talk to you."

"That will suit me very well," said the other, and in half an hour
he returned to Brendon, found him chatting with Jenny in the dark
portal of the silkworm house, and drew him away.

"You shall have speech with her to-night after supper," promised
Giuseppe. "Now it is my turn. We will ascend to the little shrine on
the track above the orchards. There are shrines too many to the Holy
Mother, my friend. But this one is not to Madonna of the wind, or
the sea, or the stars. I call her 'Madonna del farniente'--the saint
for weary people, whose bodies and brains both ache from too much
work."

They climbed aloft presently, Doria in a holiday suit of
golden-brown cloth with a ruby tie, and Brendon attired in tweeds,
his luncheon in his pocket. Then the Italian's manner changed and he
dropped his banter. Indeed for a time he grew silent.

Brendon opened the conversation and of course treated the other as
though no question existed concerning his honesty.

"What do you think of this business?" he asked. "You have been
pretty close to it for a long time now. You must have some theory."

"I have no theory at all," replied Doria. "My own affairs are enough
for me and this cursed mystery is thrusting a finger into my life
and darkening it. I grow a very anxious and miserable man and I
will tell you why, because you are understanding. You must not be
angry if I now mention my wife in this affair. A mill and a woman
are always in want of something, as our proverb says; but though we
may know what a mill requires, who can guess a woman's whims? I am
dazed with guessing wrong. I don't intend to be hard or cruel. It is
not in me to be cruel to any woman. But how if your own woman is
cruel to you?"

They had reached the shrine--a little alcove in a rotting mass of
brick and plaster. Beneath it extended a stone seat whereon the
wayfarer might kneel or sit; above, in the niche, protected by a
wire grating, stood a doll painted with a blue cloak and a golden
crown. Offerings of wayside flowers decorated the ledge before the
little image.

They sat down and Doria began to smoke his usual Tuscan cigar. His
depression increased and with it Brendon's astonishment. The man
appeared to be taking exactly that attitude to his wife she had
already suggested toward him.

"Il volto sciolto ed i pensieri stretti," declared Giuseppe with
gloom. "That is to say 'her countenance may be clear, but her
thoughts are dark'--too dark to tell me--her husband."

"Perhaps she fears you a little. A woman is always helpless before a
man who keeps his own secrets hidden."

"Helpless? Far from it. She is a self-controlled, efficient,
hard-headed woman. Her loveliness is a curtain. You have not yet got
behind that. You loved her, but she did not love you. She loved me
and married me. And it is I who know her character, not you. She is
very clever and pretends a great deal more than she feels. If she
makes you think she is unhappy and helpless, she does it on purpose.
She may be unhappy, because to keep secrets is often to court
unhappiness; but she is not helpless at all. Her eyes look helpless;
her mouth never. There is power and will between her teeth."

"Why do you speak of secrets?"

"Because you did. I have no secrets. It is Jenny, my wife, who has
secrets. I tell you this. _She knows all about the red man!_ She is
as deep as hell."

"You mean that she understands what is happening and will not tell
her uncle or you?"

"That is precisely what I mean. She does not care a curse for
Alberto. What is born of hen will scrape--remember that. Her father
had a temper like a fiend and a cousin of her mother was hanged for
murder. These are facts she will not deny. I had them from her
uncle. I am frightened of her and I have disappointed her, because I
am not what she thought and have ceased to covet my ancestral
estates and title."

Such a monstrous picture of Jenny at first bewildered Brendon and
then incensed him. Was it within the bounds of possibility that
after six months of wedded life with this woman, any man living
would utter such an indictment and believe it?

"She is great in her way--much too great for me," said Giuseppe
frankly. "She should have been a Medici or a Borgia; she should have
lived many centuries sooner, before policeman and detective officers
were invented. You stare and think I lie. But I do not lie. I see
very clearly indeed. I look back at the past and the veil is lifted.
I understand much that I did not understand when I was growing blind
with love for her. As for this Robert Redmayne--'Robert the Devil,'
I call him--once I thought that he was a ghost; but he is not a
ghost: he is a live man.

"And presently what will happen if he is not caught and hanged? He
will kill Uncle Alberto and perhaps kill me, too. Then he will run
away with Jenny. And I tell you this, Brendon: the sooner he does
so, if only he leaves me alone, the better pleased I shall be. A
hideous speech? Yes, very hideous indeed; but perfectly true, like
many hideous things."

"Do you honestly expect that I, who know your wife, am going to
believe this grotesque story?"

"I do not mind whether you believe it or no. Feel as savage as you
please. For that matter I feel rather savage myself. There is a new
ferocity creeping into me. If you keep company with a wolf, you will
soon learn to howl--that's why I howl a good deal in secret, I can
tell you. Soon I shall howl so that everybody will hear. So now you
know how it is with me. I am outside her secrets and feel no wish
whatever to learn them, save as they affect me. If she will give me
a few thousand pounds and let me vanish out of her life, I shall be
delighted to do so. I did not marry her for her money; but since
love is dead, I shall like a little of the cash to start me at
Turin. Then she is free as air. It will pay you quite well to try
and arrange the bargain."

Brendon could hardly believe his ears, but the Italian appeared very
much in earnest. He chattered on for some time. Then he looked at
his watch and declared that he must descend.

"The steamer is coming soon," he said. "Now I leave you and I hope
that I have done good. Think how to help me and yourself. What she
now feels to you I cannot tell. Your turn may come. I trust so. I am
not at all jealous. But be warned. This red man--he is no friend to
you or me. You seek him again to-day. So be it. And if you find him,
be careful of your skin. Not that a man can protect his skin against
fate. We meet at supper."

He swung away, singing a canzonet, and quickly vanished, while
Brendon, overwhelmed by this extraordinary conversation, sat for an
hour motionless and deep in thought. He could hardly plough his path
through what appeared a jungle of flagrant falsehood. But where
another man had striven to find underlying purpose in this diatribe
and consider Doria's object in choosing him for a confessor,
Brendon, while swift enough to regard the attack on Jenny as foul
and false, yet did not hesitate to believe that which his own desire
drove him to believe. He sifted the grain from the chaff, doubtfully
guided by his own passion, and saw the Italian's wife free. But he
could not see her false. He scorned the baleful picture that
Giuseppe had painted and guessed that his purpose was to cut the
ground from under Jenny's feet and accuse her of those identical
crimes that he himself had committed. His attitude to Doria was
affirmed, and from that hour he believed, with Peter Ganns, that the
Italian knew the purposes of the unknown and was assisting him to
achieve them. But again his spirit picked and chose. He did not
remember how Ganns also, though in more temperate words than
Doria's, had warned him for the present to put no trust even in
Jenny. He trusted her as he trusted himself; and that also meant
distrusting her husband.

He considered now his own course of action and presently proceeded
to the region in which Robert Redmayne had been most frequently
reported. Certain appearances were chronicled and, before Ganns
returned to England, the theory had been accepted that the fugitive
hid and dwelt aloft in some fastness with the charcoal burners. Now
Brendon felt the need to probe this opinion and determined, if
possible, to find the lair of the red man.

Not single-handed did he expect to do so. His purpose henceforth was
to watch Doria unseen and so discover whom he served. Thus he would
kill two birds with one stone and simplify action for Peter Ganns
when he returned.

Brendon climbed steadily upward and presently sat down to rest upon
a little, lofty plateau where, in the mountain scrub, grew lilies
of the valley and white sun-rose. Idly he sat and smoked, marked the
steamers creep, like waterman beetles, upon the shiny surface of the
lake stretched far below, watched a brown fox sunning itself on a
stone and then plucked a bunch of the fragrant valley lilies to take
to Jenny that night when he came to sup at the Villa Pianezzo. But
the blossoms never reached the hand of Mrs. Doria.

Suddenly, as he rose from this innocent pastime, Mark became aware
that he was watched and found himself face to face with the object
of his search. Robert Redmayne stood separated from him by a
distance of thirty yards behind the boughs of a breast-high shrub.
He stood bare-headed, peering over the thicket, and the sun shone
upon his fiery red scalp and tawny mustache. There could be no
mistaking the man, and Brendon, rejoicing that daylight would now
enable him to come to grips at last, flung down his bouquet and
leaped straight for the other.

But it appeared that the watcher desired no closer contact. He
turned and ran, heading upward for a wild tract of stone and scrub
that spread beneath the last precipices of the mountain. Straight at
this cliff, as though familiar with some secret channel of escape,
the red man ran and made surprising speed. But Mark found himself
gaining. He strove to run the other down as speedily as possible,
that he might close, with strength still sufficient to win the
inevitable battle that must follow, end effect a capture.

He was disappointed, however, for while still twenty yards behind
and forced to make only a moderate progress over the rocky way he
saw Robert Redmayne suddenly stop, turn and lift a revolver. The
flash of the sun on the barrel and the explosion of the discharge
were simultaneous. As the red man fired, the other flung up his
arms, plunged forward on his face, gave one convulsive tremor
through all his limbs, and moved no more. The discovery, the chase
and its termination had occupied but five minutes; and while one big
man, panting from his exertions, approached only to see that his
fallen victim showed no sign of life, the other, with his face amid
the alpine flowers, remained where he had dropped, his arms
outstretched, his hands clenched, his body still, blood running from
his mouth.

The conqueror took careful note of the spot in which he stood and
bringing a knife from his pocket blazed the stem of a young tree
that rose not very far from his victim. Then he disappeared and
peace reigned above the fallen. So still he lay that another fox,
scared from its siesta, poked a black muzzle round a rock and
sniffed the air; but it trusted not appearances and having
contemplated the recumbent object lifted its head, uttered a dubious
bark and trotted away. From on high an eagle also marked the fallen
man, but swiftly soared upward to the crown of the mountain and
disappeared. The spot was lonely enough, yet a track ran within one
hundred yards and it often happened that charcoal burners and their
mules passed that way to the valleys.

None, however, came now as the sun turned westward and the cool
shadow of the precipice began to creep over the little wilderness at
its feet. Many hours passed and then, after night had flooded the
hollow, there sounded from close at hand strange noises and the
intermittent thud of some metal weapon striking the earth. The din
ascended from a rock which lifted its grey head above a thicket of
juniper; and here, while the flat summit of the boulder began to
shine whitely under the rising moon, a lantern flickered and showed
two shadows busy above the excavation of an oblong hole. They
mumbled together and dug in turn. Then one dark figure came out into
the open, took his bearings, flung lantern light on the blazed tree
trunk, and advanced to a brown, motionless hump lying hard by.

Infinite silence reigned over that uplifted region. Above, near the
summit of the mountain, flashed the red eye of a charcoal burner's
fire; beneath only the plateau sloped to a ragged edge easterly, for
the lake was hidden under the shoulder of the hills. No firefly
danced upon this height; but music there was, for a nightingale
bubbled his liquid notes in a great myrtle not ten yards from where
the still shape lay.

The dark, approaching figure saw the object of his search and came
forward. His purpose was to bury the victim, whom he had lured
hither before destroying, and then remove any trace that might
linger upon the spot where the body lay. He bent down, put his hands
to the jacket of the motionless man, and then, as he exerted his
strength, a strange, hideous thing happened. The body under his
touch dropped to pieces. Its head rolled away; its trunk became
dismembered and he fell backward heaving an amorphous torso into the
air. For, exerting the needful pressure to move a heavy weight, he
found none and tumbled to the ground, holding up a coat stuffed with
grass.

The man was on his feet in an instant, fearing an ambush; but
astonishment opened his mouth.

"Corpo di Bacco!" he cried, and the exclamation rang in a note of
something like terror against the cliffs and upon the ear of his
companion. Yet no swift retribution stayed his steps; no shot rang
out to arrest his progress. He leaped away, dodging and bounding
like a deer to escape the expected bullet and then disappeared
behind the boulder. But neither rascal delayed a moment. Their
mingled steps instantly rang out; then the clatter faded swiftly
upon the night and silence returned.

For ten minutes nothing happened. Next, out of a lair not fifteen
yards from the distorted dummy, rose a figure that shone white as
snow under the moon. Mark Brendon approached the snare that he
himself had set, shook the grass out of his coat, lifted his hat
from the ball of leaves it covered, and presently drew on his
knickerbockers, having emptied them of their stuffing. He was cold
and calm. He had learned more than he expected to learn; for that
startled exclamation left no doubt at all concerning one of the
grave-diggers. It was Giuseppe Doria who had come to move the body,
and there seemed little doubt that Brendon's would-be murderer was
the other.

"'Corpo di Bacco,' perhaps, but not corpo di Brendon, my friend,"
murmured Mark to himself. Then he turned northward, traversed some
harsh thickets that barred the plateau, and reached a mule track, a
mile beneath, which he had discovered before daylight waned. It led
to Menaggio through chestnut woods.

The operations of the detective from the moment that he fell
headlong, apparently to rise no more, may be briefly chronicled.

When his enemy drew up and fired pointblank upon him, the bullet
passed within an inch of Brendon's ear and the memory of a similar
experience flashed into his mind and led to his subsequent action.

On a previous occasion, having been missed at close quarters, he
pretended to be hit and fell apparently lifeless within fifteen
yards of a famous malefactor. The ruse succeeded; the man crept back
to triumph over an inveterate foe and Brendon shot him dead as he
bent to examine a fancied corpse. With a loaded revolver still in
his opponent's hand, he could take no risk on this second occasion
and fell accordingly. His purpose was to tempt the red man back and
if possible secure his weapon before he had time to fire again.

But he was disappointed, for the unknown, seeing Mark crash
headfirst to the ground, and blood run from his mouth, evidently
felt assured that his purpose was accomplished. Brendon had
simulated death for a while, but when satisfied of his assailant's
departure, presently rose, with no worse hurts than a bruised face,
a badly bitten tongue, and a wounded shin.

The situation thus created he weighed in all its bearings and
guessed that those who now believed themselves responsible for his
death would take occasion to remove the evidence of their crime
without much delay. The blazed tree, which he presently noted,
confirmed this suspicion. Nobody had ever seen one of Robert
Redmayne's victims and the last was little likely to be an
exception. Mark guessed that until darkness returned he might expect
to be undisturbed. He walked back, therefore, to his starting-place,
and found the packet of food which he had brought with him and a
flask of red wine left beside it.

After a meal and a pipe he made his plan and presently stood again
on the rough ground beneath the cliffs, where he had pretended so
realistically to perish. He intended no attempt to arrest; but,
having created the effigy of himself and stuffed his knickerbockers
and coat to resemble nature and deceive anybody who might return in
darkness to his corpse, Brendon found a hiding-place near enough to
study what would happen. He expected Redmayne to return and guessed
that another would return with him. His hope was to recognize the
accomplice and prove at least whether Jenny was right in hinting her
husband's secret wickedness, or whether Doria had justly accused her
of collusion with the unknown. It was impossible that both were
speaking the truth.

With infinite satisfaction he heard Giuseppe's voice, and even an
element of grim amusement attended the Italian's shock and his
subsequent snipe-like antics as he leaped to safety before an
anticipated revolver barrage.

The adventure told Brendon much and his first inclination was to
arrest Doria on the following morning; but that desire swiftly
passed. A surer strategy presented itself. From the first
ambition--to get Jenny's husband under lock and key--his mind leaped
to a more workmanlike proposition. He suspected, however, that
Giuseppe might take the initiative and deny him any further
opportunity of bettering their acquaintance; and that night as he
fell asleep with an aching shin and cheek, Mark endeavoured to
consider the situation as it must appear from Doria's angle of
vision. Much temporal comfort resulted for him from this
examination.

It seemed clear that Doria and Redmayne were working to destroy
Albert Redmayne for their common advantage. Let the old book lover
disappear and Robert and his niece would be the last of the
Redmaynes to share the fortune of the vanished brothers. Robert,
indeed, could have no open part in these advantages, for he was
outlawed; but it would be possible for him, in process of time,
when Jenny inherited all three estates and Robert, Bendigo and
Albert were alike held to be deceased in the eyes of the law, to
share the fortune in secret with his niece and her husband. This
view explained the prescience of Peter Ganns and his surprise that
Albert Redmayne should still be in the land of the living. Ganns,
however, was proved mistaken in one vital particular, for there
could no longer be any reasonable doubt that Robert Redmayne still
lived.

Utterly mistaken as Brendon's theories ultimately proved to be, they
bore to his weary brain the stamp of truth and he next proceeded to
consider Doria's future attitude before the problem now awaiting him
and his companion in crime. Doria could not be sure that he had been
recognized or even seen when approaching the supposed corpse of
Redmayne's victim; and, in any case, under the darkness, no man
might certainly swear that it was Doria who came to dig the grave
and dispose of the body. Brendon confessed to himself that only
Giuseppe's startled oath had proved his presence, and Jenny's
husband might well be expected to offer a sound alibi if arrested.
He judged, therefore, that Doria would deny any knowledge of the
incident; and time proved that Mark was right enough in that
prediction.



CHAPTER XV

A GHOST


The next morning, while he rubbed his bruises in a hot bath, Brendon
determined upon a course of action. He proposed to tell Jenny and
her husband exactly what had happened to him, merely concealing the
end of the story.

He breakfasted, lighted his pipe and limped over to Villa Pianezzo.
He was not in reality very lame, but accentuated the stiffness. Only
Assunta appeared, though Brendon's eyes had marked Doria and Jenny
together in the neighbourhood of the silkworm house as he entered
the garden. He asked for Giuseppe and, having left Brendon in the
sitting-room of the villa, Assunta departed. Almost immediately
afterward Jenny greeted him with evident pleasure but reproved him.

"We waited an hour for supper," she said, "then Giuseppe would wait
no longer. I was beginning to get frightened and I have been
frightened all night. I am thankful to see you, for I feared
something serious might have happened."

"Something serious did happen. I've got a strange story to tell. Is
your husband within reach? He must hear it, too, I think. He may be
in some danger as well as others."

She expressed impatience and shook her head.

"Can't you believe me? But of course you can't. Why should you?
Doria in danger! However, if you want him, you don't want me, Mark."

It was the first time that she had thus addressed him and his heart
throbbed; but the temptation to confide in her lasted not a moment.

"On the contrary I want you both," he answered. "I attach very great
weight to the hints you have given me--not only for my sake but for
your own. The end is not yet as far as you're concerned, Jenny, for
your welfare is more to me than anything else in the world--you know
it. Trust me to prove that presently. But other things come first. I
must do what I am here to do, before I am free to do what I long to
do."

"I trust you--and only you," she said. "In all this bewilderment and
misery, you are now the only steadfast rock to which I can cling.
Don't desert me, that's all that I ask."

"Never! All that's best in me shall be devoted to you, thankfully
and proudly--now that you have wished it. Trust me, I say again.
Call your husband. I want to tell you both what happened to me
yesterday."

Again she hesitated and gazed intently upon him.

"Are you sure that you are wise? Would Mr. Ganns like you to tell
Doria anything?"

"You will judge better when you have heard me."

Again he longed to confide in her and show her that he understood
the truth; but two considerations shut his mouth: the thought of
Peter Ganns and the reflection that the more Jenny knew, the greater
might be her own peril. This last conviction made him conclude their
conference.

"Call him. We must not let him think that we have anything of a
private nature to say to each other. It is vital that he should not
imagine such a thing."

"You have secrets from me--though I have let you know my own
secret," she murmured, preparing to obey him.

"If I keep anything from you, it is for your own good--for your own
security," he replied.

She left him then and in a few moments returned with her husband. He
was full of curiosity and under his usual assumption of cheerfulness
Brendon perceived considerable anxiety.

"An adventure, Signor Marco? I know that without you telling me.
Your face is solemn as a raven and you walked stiffly as you came to
the door. I saw you from the silkworms. What has happened?"

"I've had a squeak of my life," replied Mark, "and I've made a
stupid mistake. You must pay all attention to what I'm going to tell
you, Doria, for we can't say who is in danger now and who is not.
The shot that very nearly ended my career yesterday might just as
easily have been aimed at you, had you been in my place."

"A shot? Not the red man? A smuggler perhaps? You may have stumbled
upon some of them, and knowing no Italian--"

"It was Robert Redmayne who fired upon me and missed by a miracle."

Jenny uttered an exclamation of fear. "Thank God!" she said under
her breath.

Then Brendon told the story in every detail and explained his own
ruse. He related nothing but the truth--up to a certain point; but
beyond that he described events that had not taken place.

"Having made the faked figure, I hid just before dusk fairly close
to it intending, of course, to keep watch, for I was positive that
the murderer, as he would suppose himself to be, must come back
after dark to hide his work. But now ensued an awkward contretemps
for which I had not provided. I found myself faint--so faint that I
began to be alarmed. I had not eaten since the morning and the food
and flask which I had brought with me were half a mile and more
away. They remained, of course, where I had left them when I started
to chase Redmayne. It was a choice between attempting to reach the
food while I could do so, or stopping and growing chilled and every
moment weaker.

"I am not made of iron and the day had been rather strenuous for me.
I was bruised and lame and utterly played out. I decided that I
should have time to reach my food and return to my hiding-place
before the moon rose. But it was not such an easy or speedy business
as I had expected. It took me a long time to get back to the
starting-place and when I did, a search was needed before I found my
sandwiches and flask of Chianti. Never was a meal more welcome. I
soon felt my strength returning and set off in half an hour on the
journey back to the plateau.

"Then my troubles began. You'll think the wine got into my head and
it may have done so; but at any rate I lost the path most
effectually and presently lost myself. I began to despair and had
very nearly given up any further attempt to return when, out of the
trees, blinked the white face of the precipice under Griante's crown
and I recognized the situation. Then I went slowly and silently
forward and kept a sharp lookout.

"But I returned too late. Once back again, a glance at the dummy
showed me that I had lost my chance. It had been handled. The trunk
was in one place, the grass head, with my cap upon it, lay in
another. One knew that no fox or other wild creature would have
disturbed it thus.

"Dead silence hung over the spot; and now, half fearing an ambush in
my turn, I waited an hour before emerging. Not a soul was there.
Redmayne had clearly come, discovered my escape and then departed
again. Even in that moment I considered what I should have done had
he confiscated my clothes! It would then have been necessary to
tramp to my hotel in the white shirt and scanty underclothing which
was all that remained to me. But now I donned my jacket and
knickerbockers, cap and stockings and then prepared to depart.

"There was a smell of earth in the air--a reek of upturned mould;
but what that may have been I cannot say. I soon started downhill
and, presently, striking a path to the north, entered the chestnut
woods and was at my hotel an hour after midnight. That is my story
and I propose to-day to revisit the spot. I shall engage the local
police who have orders to assist us--that is, unless you, Doria, can
spare time to accompany me yourself. I would rather not ask them;
but I do not go there again alone."

Jenny looked at her husband and waited to speak until he had done
so. But Giuseppe appeared more interested at what had already
happened to Brendon than in what was next to happen. He asked many
questions, to which Mark was able to return true replies. Then he
declared that he would certainly accompany the detective to the
scene of his adventure.

"We will go armed this time," he said.

But Jenny protested.

"Mr. Brendon is not nearly well enough to climb there again to-day,"
she declared. "He is lame and must be feeling the effects of
yesterday. I beg him not to attempt to go again so soon."

Doria said nothing but looked at Mark.

"I shall best lose my stiffness by another climb," he assured them.

"That is very true. We will be in no hurry."

"If you go, I come too," said the woman quietly; and both men
protested. But she would take no denial.

"I will carry your meal for you," she said, and though they opposed
her again, went off to prepare it. Giuseppe also disappeared, that
he might leave an order for the day with Ernesto, and Jenny had
joined Brendon again before he returned. He had begged her once more
not to accompany them; but she was impatient.

"How dull you are for all your fame, Mark"; she replied. "Can you
not think and put two and two together where I am concerned, as you
do in everything else? I am safe enough with my husband. It will not
pay him to destroy me--yet. But you. Even now I implore you not to
go up again alone. He is as wily as a cat. He will make some excuse,
disappear and meet the other villain. They won't fail twice--and
what can a woman do to help you against two of them?"

"I want no help. I shall be armed."

They started, however, and Jenny's fears were not realized. Doria
showed no levity and did nothing suspicious. He kept close to
Brendon, offered him an arm at steep places and advanced a dozen
theories of the incidents reported. He was deeply interested and
reiterated his surprise that the unknown's shot should have missed
Brendon.

"It is better to be lucky than wise," he declared. "And yet who
shall not call you very wise indeed? That was a great ruse--to fall
as though dead when the bullet had missed its billet."

Brendon did not reply and little was said as they proceeded to the
scene of his adventures; but presently Doria spoke again.

"One eye of the master sees more than six of his servants. We shall
hear how Pietro Ganns understands all this. But I am thinking of the
red man. What is in his mind this morning? He is very savage with
himself and perhaps frightened. Because he knows that we know. He is
a murderer still. He does not repent."

They scoured the scene of Brendon's exploit presently and it was
Jenny who found the shallow grave. She was very pale and shivering
when they responded to her call.

"That is where you would be now!" she said to Mark.

But he was occupied with the mould piled beside the pit. Here and
there were prints of heavy feet and Doria declared that the
impression of the nails pointed to such boots as the mountain men
habitually wore. Nothing else rewarded the search; but Giuseppe was
full of theories and Brendon, occupied with his own thoughts,
allowed him to chatter without interruption. For his part he felt
doubtful whether any further apparition of Robert Redmayne might be
expected. This failure would probably put a period to his activity
for a time.

Mark determined to take no action until Mr. Ganns came back to
Menaggio. Meanwhile he proposed to occupy himself with the husband
and wife and, so far as possible, preserve an attitude of friendship
to them both. That relations were secretly strained between them
appeared clear enough; and the results of casual but frequent visits
to the Villa Pianezzo were summed in the detective's mind before Mr.
Redmayne and Peter returned. He believed most firmly that Doria was
in collusion with the secret antagonist, and intended ultimate
mischief to his wife's uncle for his own ends; and he was equally
convinced that Jenny, while conscious enough that her husband could
not be trusted and meant evil, as yet hardly guessed the full extent
of his infernal purpose.

Had she known that Giuseppe and Robert Redmayne were actually
working together to destroy Albert Redmayne, Brendon believed that
she would tell him. But he guessed that she knew nothing definite,
while suspecting much. She had shown the most acute concern at his
own danger, and more than once implored Mark to do nothing but look
after his own safety until Peter Ganns was back again. Meantime the
rift between her spouse and herself appeared to grow. She was
tearful and anxious, yet still chose to be vague, though she did
admit that she thought she had glimpsed Robert Redmayne again, one
evening. But Brendon did not press her again to confide in him,
though Doria showed no sort of jealousy. He often left them together
for hours and exhibited to the detective a very amiable attitude.
He, too, on more than one occasion confessed that matrimony was a
state overvaunted.

"Praise married life by all means, Signor Marco," he said,
"but--keep single. Peace, my friend, is the highest happiness, and
the rarest."

The days passed and presently, without any warning, Albert Redmayne
and the American suddenly reappeared. They arrived at Menaggio after
noon.

Mr. Redmayne was in the highest spirits and delighted to be home
again. He knew nothing about Peter's operations and cared less. His
visit to England was spent at London, where he had renewed
acquaintance with certain book collectors, seen and handled many
precious things, and surprised and gratified himself to observe his
own physical energies and enterprise.

"I am still wonderfully strong, Jenny," he told his niece. "I have
been most active in mind and body and am by no means so far down the
hill of old age, that ends by the River of Lethe, as I imagined."

He made a good meal, and then, despite the long night in the train,
insisted on sending for a boat and crossing the water to Bellagio.

"I have a present for my Poggi," he said, "and I cannot sleep until
I hear his voice and hold his hand."

Ernesto went for a waterman and soon a boat waited at the steps,
which descended from Mr. Redmayne's private apartments to the lake.
He rowed away and Brendon, who had come to see Doria and found to
his surprise that Redmayne and Peter were back again, anticipated
some private hours with Mr. Ganns. But the traveller was weary and,
after one of Assunta's famous omelettes and three glasses of white
wine, he declared that he must retire and sleep as long as nature
ordained slumber.

He spoke before the listening Giuseppe, but addressed his remarks to
Brendon.

"I'm exceedingly short of rest," he said. "Whether I have done the
least good by my inquiries remains to be seen. To be frank, I doubt
it. We'll have a talk to-morrow, Mark; and maybe Doria will remember
a thing or two that happened at 'Crow's Nest' and so help me. But
until I have slept I am useless."

He withdrew presently, carrying his notebook in his hand, while
Brendon, promising to return after breakfast on the following
morning, strolled to the silkworm house where the last of the
caterpillars had spun its golden shroud. He was not depressed by the
weary tones of Peter's voice nor the discouraging nature of his
brief statement, for, while speaking, Mr. Ganns had discounted his
pessimism by a pregnant wink unseen by Doria. It was clear to
Brendon that he had no intention of acquainting Giuseppe with any
new facts--if such there might be; and this interested Mark the more
because, as yet, Peter was quite ignorant of his own adventure on
Griante. He had kept it out of the post, not desiring to obtrude
anything between Mr. Ganns and his personal activities.

On the following day it was Mr. Redmayne who found himself weary.
Reaction came and he slept all that night and determined to keep his
bed for twenty-four hours. It seemed, however, that he was going to
find occupation for everybody. He directed Doria to visit Milan, on
a mission to secondhand booksellers, and Jenny was sent to Varenna
with a gift for an acquaintance.

Brendon perceived that it was designed to keep both husband and wife
out of the way for a few hours; but whether Doria suspected the
intention he could not judge. Certainly Jenny did not. She welcomed
the excursion to Varenna, for her uncle's correspondent was a widow
lady and Jenny already knew her and valued her friendship.

Brendon arrived at Villa Pianezzo just as the twain were starting on
their missions, and he and Peter walked to the landing stage with
them and saw them departing in different steamers.

Even this arrangement, however, failed to satisfy Ganns. He was
mysterious.

"If his steamboat stopped nowhere between here and Como, we wouldn't
need to trouble," he said; "but as it does, and Doria might hop off
anywhere and come back in an hour, we'll just drift back to Albert."

"He will be asleep and we can have our yarn out without fear of
interruption," answered Mark.

They soon sat together on a shady seat of the villa garden from
which the entrance was visible, and Peter, bringing out his
notebook, took a great pinch of snuff, set his gold box on a little
table before him, and turned to Brendon.

"You shoot first," he said; "there are three things I need to know.
Have you seen the red man and what is your present opinion
concerning Doria and his wife? Needn't ask if you found Bendigo's
diary, because I am dead sure you did not."

"I didn't. I directed Jenny to have a hunt and she invited me to
help her. For the rest I have seen Robert Redmayne, for we may
safely speak of the unknown by that name, and I have come to a very
definite conclusion concerning Giuseppe Doria and the unfortunate
woman who is at present his wife."

A shadow of a smile passed over the great features of Peter.

He nodded and Mark proceeded to tell his story, beginning with the
adventure on the mountain. He omitted no detail and described his
talk with Doria, the latter's departure to join Jenny on their
expedition to Colico, and his own subsequent surprise and escape
from death. He told how he had been fired at and fallen, hoping to
tempt the other to him, how his assailant had disappeared, and how,
at a late hour, he had planned a dummy and seen Giuseppe Doria
arrive to bury him.

He narrated how Giuseppe and Robert Redmayne had departed after
their disappointment, how he had decided to give Giuseppe an account
of the adventure, in order that he might not guess that his share in
it was known; and he told how, on the morrow, the Dorias and himself
had returned to the spot and found the empty grave with foot-marks
of native boots about the margin. He added that Jenny, four days
later, had reported a glimpse of a man whom she believed to be her
uncle; but it was dark at the time and she could not be positive,
though she felt morally sure of him. He was standing two hundred
yards from the Villa Pianezzo in a lane from the hills and had
turned and hastened away as she approached.

To this statement Peter listened with the deepest attention and he
did not disguise his satisfaction when Mark made an end.

"I'm mighty glad for two things," he said. "First that you're in the
land of the living, my son, and that a certain bullet passed your
ear instead of stopping in that fine forehead of yours; and I'm glad
to know what you've told me, because it fits in tolerably well and
strengthens an argument you'll hear later. Your little trap was
quite smart, though I should have worked it a bit different myself.
However, you did a very clever thing, and to take Doria into your
confidence afterward was up to our best traditions. Your opinion of
him needn't detain us now. There only remains to hear what you may
have to say on the subject of his pretty dame."

"My opinion of a very wonderful and brave woman remains unchanged,"
Brendon answered. "She is the victim of a hateful union and for her
the situation must get worse, I fear, before it can get better. She
is as straight as a line, Ganns; but of course she knows well enough
that her husband's a rascal.

"Needless to say I haven't dropped her a hint of the truth; but
while she is loyal in a sense and very careful, on her side, to
leave her sufferings or suspicions vague, she doesn't pretend she's
happy and she doesn't pretend that Doria is a good husband, or a
good man. She knows that I know better. She has been longing for
your return and it is a question with me now whether we shall not do
wisely to take her into our confidence. If she knew even what we
know, she would no doubt see much light herself and afford much
light for us. As to her good faith and honour, there can be no
question whatever."

"Well--so be it. I've heard you. Now you've got to hear me. We are
up against a very marvellous performance, Mark. This case has some
of the finest features--some unique even in my experience. Though,
as history repeats itself, I dare say there have been bigger
blackguards than the great unknown--though surely not many."

"Robert Redmayne?"

Peter broke off for a brief exposition. He took snuff, shut his eyes
and began.

"Why do you harp on 'Robert Redmayne,' like a parrot, my son? Just
consider all I've said on that matter and the general subject of
forgeries for a minute. You can forge anything that man ever made,
and a good few things that God has made. You can forge a picture, a
postage stamp, a signature, a finger print; and our human minds,
accustomed to pictures, postage stamps, finger prints, are easily
deceived by appearances and seldom possess the necessary expert
knowledge to recognize a forgery when we see it. And now we are
dealing with people who have forged a human being, for that is what
the red man amounts to.

"Didn't you do the same thing last week? Didn't you forge yourself
and leave yourself dead on the ground? Whether the real Robert
Redmayne is actually a stiff, we can't yet swear, though for my part
I am pretty well prepared to prove it; but this I do know, that the
man who shot at you and missed you and ran away was not Robert
Redmayne."

Brendon demurred. "Remember, I'm not a stranger to him, Ganns. I saw
and spoke with him by the pool in Foggintor Quarry before the
murder."

"What of it? You've never spoken with him since; and, what's more,
you've never seen him since, either. You've seen a forgery. It was a
forgery that looked at you on your way back to Dartmouth in the
moonlight. It was a forgery that robbed the farm for food and lived
in the cave and cut Bendigo Redmayne's throat. It was a forgery that
tried to shoot you and missed."

Mr. Ganns took snuff again and continued.

But as the course of his inquiries belong to the terrible
culmination of the mystery and cannot here be told with their just
significance, it will suffice to record that Brendon presently found
his brain reeling before a theory so extravagant that he would
instantly have discredited it from any lesser lips than those of the
famous man who propounded them.

"Mind," concluded Peter, who had spoken without ceasing for nearly
two hours, "I'm not saying that I am right. I'm only saying that,
wild though it sounds, it fits and makes a logical story even
though that story beats all experience. It might have happened; and
if it didn't happen, then I'm damned if I know what did, or what is
happening at this moment. It is a horrible thing, if true; but it's
a beautiful thing from the professional point of view--just as a
cancer, or a battle, or an earthquake can be beautiful when put in a
category outside humanity."

Brendon delayed his answer and his face was racked with many
poignant emotions.

"I can't believe it," he replied at length, in a voice which
indicated the extent of his mental amazement and perturbation; "but
I shall nevertheless do exactly as you direct. That is well within
my power and obviously my duty."

"Good boy. And now we'll have something to eat. You've got it clear?
The time is all important."

Mark scanned his notebook in which he had made voluminous entries.
Then he nodded and shut it.

Suddenly Mr. Ganns laughed. The other's book reminded him of an
incident.

"A funny little thing happened yesterday afternoon that I forgot,"
he said. "I'd turned in, leaving my notebook by my head, when there
came a visitor to my room. I was asleep all right, but my heaviest
sleep won't hold through the noise of a fly on the windowpane; and
lying with my face to the door I heard a tiny sound and lifted one
eyelid. The door opened and Signor Doria put his nose in. I'd pulled
the blind, but there was plenty of light and he spotted my
vade-mecum lying on the bed table a couple of feet from my head.
Over he came as quiet as a spider, and I let him get within a yard.
Then I yawned and shifted. He was gone like a mosquito, and half an
hour later I heard him again. But I got up and he didn't do more
than listen outside. He wanted that book bad--you can guess how
bad."

For two days Mr. Ganns declared that he must rest; and then there
came an evening when he privately invited Doria to take a walk.

"There's a few things I'd like to put to you," he said. "You needn't
let on to anybody else about it and we won't start together. You
know my favourite stroll up the hill. Meet me at the corner--say
seven o'clock."

Giuseppe gladly agreed.

"We will go up to the shrine of Madonna del farniente," he declared;
and when the time came, Peter found him at the spot. They ascended
the hill side by side and the elder invited Doria's aid.

"Between ourselves," he began, "I am not too well pleased with the
way this inquiry is panning out. Brendon's all right and means as
well as any bull that ever I worked with. He does a clever thing
here and there--as when he shammed death up on the mountain; but
what was the sense of setting that trap and then missing his man? I
shouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have done it. In plain words
there's some dope coming between Mark and his work, and I should
like to hear what you think of him, you being an independent
witness and a pretty shrewd cuss. You've had a chance to study his
make-up, so tell me what you think. I'm tired of fooling around this
job--and being fooled myself."

"Marco is in love with my wife," answered Giuseppe calmly. "That is
what's the matter with him. And, as I don't trust my wife in this
affair and still believe that she knows more about the red man than
anybody else, I think, as long as she hoodwinks Brendon, he will be
no manner of use to you."

Peter pretended to be much astonished.

"My stars! You take it pretty cool!"

"For the good reason that I am no longer in love with my wife
myself. I am not a dog in the manger. I want peace and quietness. I
have no use for intrigues and plots. I am a plain man, Signor
Pietro. Mystery bores me. Moreover I live in fear of getting into a
mess myself. I do not see where I come in at all. My wife and this
unknown rascal are after something; and if you want to get to the
bottom of this, watch her--not me. The blow you fear may fall at any
moment."

"You'd say trail Jenny?"

"That is what I would say. Sooner or later she'll make an excuse to
be off to the mountains alone. Let her start and then follow her up
with Brendon. The problem is surely simple enough: to catch this red
Redmayne. If you cannot do it, tell the police and the doganieri.
There is a force of smuggler hunters always on the spot and ready to
your hand. Describe this savage, human fox and offer a big reward
for his brush. He will be caught quickly enough then."

Mr. Ganns nodded and stood still.

"I shouldn't wonder if that may not have to be done; but I'd a deal
sooner take him ourselves if we could. Anyway I must get a move on
this fortnight, for to stop longer in Italy is impossible. Yet how
am I going to beat it and leave my old friend at the mercy of this
threat? While I'm alongside him, he's safe, I guess; but what may
happen as soon as I turn my back?"

"Can I not help you?"

But Mr. Ganns shook his head.

"Can't work in cahoots with you, son, because I begin to fear you
are right when you say your wife's against us; and a man isn't to be
trusted to pull down his own wife."

"If that's all--"

They proceeded slowly and Peter kept the ball of conversation
rolling while he pretended to be very busy with his plans and
projects. He promised also that, when Jenny went to the hills alone,
he and Brendon would secretly follow her.

Then a very strange thing happened. As the first firefly streaked
the dusk and the ruined shrine rose beside the way, a tall man
suddenly appeared in front of it. He had not been there a moment
before, yet now he bulked large in the purple evening light, and it
was not yet so dark but his remarkable features challenged the
beholders. For there stood Robert Redmayne, his great, red head and
huge mustache thrusting out of the gloom. He stared quite
motionless. His hands were by his sides; the stripes of his tweed
jacket could be seen and the gilt buttons on the familiar red
waistcoat.

Doria started violently, then stiffened. For a moment he failed to
conceal his surprise and cast one look of evident horror and
amazement at the apparition. He clearly knew the tall figure, but
there was no friendship or understanding in the bewildered stare he
now turned upon the shadow that filled the path. For a moment he
brushed his hand over his eyes, as though to remove the object upon
which he glared; then he looked again--to find the lane empty and
Ganns gazing at him.

"What's wrong?" asked Peter.

"Christ! Did you see him--right in the path--Robert Redmayne?"

But the other only stared at Giuseppe and peered forward.

"I saw nothing," he said; whereupon like lightning, the Italian's
manner changed. His concern vanished and he laughed aloud.

"What a fool--what a fool am I! It was the shadow of the shrine!"

"You've got the red man on your nerves, I guess. I don't blame you.
What did you think you saw?"

"No--no, signor; I have no nerves. I saw nothing. It was a shadow."

Ganns instantly dismissed the subject and appeared to attach no
importance whatever to it; but Doria's mood was altered. He became
less expansive and more alert.

"We'll turn now," announced Peter half an hour afterwards. "You're
a smart lad and you've given me a bright thought or two. We must
lecture Mark. It may be better for you, as her husband, to pretend a
bit, even though you don't feel it. Let me know privately when Mrs.
Doria is for the hills."

He stopped, kept his eye on Giuseppe and took a pinch of snuff.

"Maybe we'll get a move on to-morrow," he said.

Doria, now self-possessed but fallen taciturn, smiled at him and his
white teeth shone through the gloom.

"Of to-morrow nobody is sure," he answered. "The man who knows what
is to happen to-morrow would rule the world."

"I'm hopeful of to-morrow all the same."

"A detective must be hopeful," answered Giuseppe. "So often hope is
all that he has got."

Chaffing each other amiably they returned together.



CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST OF THE REDMAYNES


For the night immediately following Doria's experience at the old
shrine, Albert Redmayne and his friend, Virgilio Poggi, had accepted
Mark Brendon's invitation to dine at the Hotel Victoria, where he
still stayed. Ganns was responsible for the suggestion, and while he
knew now that Giuseppe might view the festivity with suspicion, that
mattered but little at this crisis.

His purpose in arranging to get Albert Redmayne away from home on
this particular night was twofold. It was necessary that Peter
himself should see Mark Brendon without interruption; and it was
vital that henceforth his friend, the old book lover, should never
for an instant lie within the power of any enemy to do him ill. In
order, therefore, that he might enjoy private conversation with
Brendon and, at the same time, keep a close watch upon Albert, Ganns
had proposed the dinner party at the hotel and directed Brendon to
issue the invitation as soon as Redmayne returned home.

Wholly unsuspicious, Signor Poggi and Albert appeared in the glory
of soft white shirt fronts and rather rusty evening black. A special
meal was prepared for their pleasure and the four partook of it in
a private chamber at the hotel. Then they adjourned to the
smoking-room, and anon, when Poggi and his companion were deep in
their all-sufficing subject, Peter, a few yards distant with Mark
beside him, related the incident of Giuseppe's ghost.

"You did the trick to a miracle," he said. "You're a born actor, my
son, and you came and went and got away with it just as well as
mortal man could wish, and far better than I hoped. Well, Doria was
fine. We stung him all right, and when he saw and thought he
recognized the real Robert Redmayne, it got him in the solar
plexus--I'm doggone sure of that. For just a moment he slipped, but
how could he help it?

"You see the beauty of his dilemma. If he'd been straight, he'd have
gone for you; but he wasn't straight. He knew well enough that _his_
Robert Redmayne--the forgery--wasn't on the war-path to-night; and
when I said I saw nothing, he pulled himself together and swore he
hadn't either. And the next second he realized what he had done! But
too late. I had my hand on my shooting iron in my pocket after that,
I can tell you! He was spoiling to hit back--he is now--he's not
wasting to-night. But all that matters for the moment is that we've
put a crimp on him and he knows it."

"He may be off before you return to the villa."

"Not he. He's going to see this thing through and finish his job, if
we don't prevent it. And he won't waste any more time either. He's
been playing a game and amusing himself--with us and Albert
yonder--as a cat with a mouse. But he won't play any more. From
to-night he's going for all three of us bald-headed. He's mad with
himself that he was foolish enough to delay. He's a wonder for his
age, Mark; but a man, after all--not a superman."

"What happened exactly, and how does he stand to what he saw?"

"Can't swear, but I figure it like this. I watched very close with
what I call my third eye--a sort of receiver in my brain that soaks
up what a man's thinking and draws it out of him. For the first
moment he was nonplussed, lost his nerve and may even have believed
he saw a spirit. He cried out, 'It's Robert Redmayne !' and
instantly asked me if I'd seen him too. I stared and said I'd seen
nothing at all, and then his manner changed and he laughed it off
and said it was only a shadow cast by the shrine. But, on second
thoughts, he knew mighty well it was no shadow, and presently he
fell a bit silent, thinking hard, while I just chatted about
nothing, as I'd done from the start of our walk. I'd pretended to
take him into my confidence, you see, and I heard from him just
exactly what I thought he was going to tell me--that you were in
love with his wife; that he had no more use for her; that she knew
all about the red man, and so on.

"Now what passed in his mind? He must have come to one of two
possible conclusions. Either he suspected that he had been the
victim of hallucination and seen a freak of his own imagination,
and believed me when I said I had seen nothing; or else he did not.
If he had taken it that way, there was nothing more to be said and
nothing to worry about as far as I was concerned. But he didn't take
it that way and, on second thoughts, he didn't believe me. He knew
very well indeed that he was not the sort of person who sees ghosts;
he remembered that you'd been away at Milan for a couple of days and
he tumbled to it, the moment his wits cleared, that this was a
frame-up between me and you to surprise something out of him. And he
knew I had got exactly what I wanted, when he swore that he'd seen
nothing, after all.

"And that's where he stands now. And he's going to be busy in
consequence; but we've got to be busier. What he and his accomplice
propose to do is to destroy Albert Redmayne--in such a way that they
are not associated with his death; and what they will do, if we let
them, is to act as they have already acted in England. Albert would
disappear--and we might or might not be invited to look upon his
blood; but we shouldn't see him. Como is the grave they probably
mean for him."

"You'll go for Doria straight, then?"

"Yes. He's making his plans at this moment, just as we are, and it's
up to us to work our wonders so they'll tumble in ahead of his. You
see that? There's two of us and two of them, and the next move must
be ours, or they'll checkmate our king all right. We've got this
great advantage; that Albert is at our beck and call, not theirs;
and while he remains safe, our stock's good. Master Giuseppe knows
that; but he also suspects that he's no longer safe himself; so he's
probably going to take some chances in the next twenty-four hours."

"Everything centres on the present safety of Mr. Redmayne?"

"It does; and we must watch him like a pair of hawks. To me the most
interesting aspect of this case is the personal factor that has
spoiled it for the master criminal. And the factor is vanity--an
overmastering, gigantic, yet boyish vanity, that tempted him to
delay his purpose for the simple pleasure of playing, first with you
and then with me. It's himself that has given him away; there's
mighty little credit to us, Mark. His own pride of intellect has
thrown him. If he can win out now I'll forgive the scamp."

"To you all credit--if you are right in what you believe; to me
certainly none from first to last," answered Brendon gloomily. "And
yet," he added, "you may be mistaken. A man's convictions are not
easily uprooted; love is not always blind, and still I feel that,
even if I have lost my reputation, I may win something better--after
the tale is told."

Ganns patted his arm kindly.

"Hope no such thing, I beg you," he said. "Fight your hope, for it
will soon prove to be based on a chimera--on something that doesn't
and never did exist. But your reputation is another matter and I
pray you won't feel so ready to let a fine record go down the wind
this time to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes; to-morrow night the bracelets go on him."

Peter then indicated his purpose.

"He'll not guess we're moving quite so quickly and, by so doing, we
anticipate his stroke. That, at least, is what I mean to attempt
with your help, if possible. To-night and to-morrow morning I keep
beside Albert; then you must do so; because, after lunch, I have a
meeting with the local police down the lake at Como. The warrant
will be waiting for me and I shall return after dark in one of the
little black boats of the doganieri. We shall come up with lights
out and land at the villa.

"Your part will be to keep Albert in sight and watch the others.
Doria will probably believe my excuse for going down to Como isn't
true, and he is therefore likely to jump at the opportunity to get
on with it. There's just a chance of poison. I don't like to get
Albert across to Poggi, because there he would be much easier to
tackle than here."

"He's awake to the critical situation?"

"Yes, I've made it clear. He's promised not to eat or drink
anything, except what I bring home with me to-night from here. Our
game is that he'll be indisposed to-morrow and keep his private
rooms. He'll pretend that he's done himself too well with you
to-night. I shall be with him--I don't sleep to-night, but play
watch-dog. To-morrow his breakfast will go away untouched--and mine
also. We shall then partake of the secret food.

"After noon it's up to you. I can't say what Doria will do; but you
mustn't give him the chance to do anything. If he wants to see
Albert, use your authority and tell him he cannot do so until I
return. Put the blame on me; and if he's wicked use your iron."

"He may, of course, bolt when he knows the game is up," said Mark.
"He may be off already."

"Not he," answered Peter. "It's contrary to reason to suppose he'll
guess that I can possibly know what I know. He underrates me far too
much to give me credit for that. He won't beat it; he'll bluff
it--till too late. I don't fear to lose him; I only fear to lose
Albert."

"Trust me that far."

"I'm going to. And I want to plan a little surprise of some sort, so
that Albert unconsciously helps us. We can't ask him to do anything
cute himself; he's not built that way; but he's the king to be
guarded and if the king makes an unexpected move, much may be
gained. We've got to be alive to a dozen possibilities. If, for
instance, poison is attempted and found to fail--"

"How if we gave it out that it had succeeded and that Mr. Redmayne
pretended he was mighty ill an hour after breakfast?"

"I'd thought of that. But the difficulty would be that we shan't be
in a position to say if poison is really used. No time for
chemistry."

"Try it on the cat."

Peter considered.

"A double cross is often a very pretty thing," he admitted, "but
I've seen too many examples among the police of digging a pit and
falling in themselves. One difficulty is that we don't want to alarm
Albert more than necessary. At present he only knows that I think
him in danger; but he has not the most shadowy idea that members of
his own household are implicated. He won't know it till I forbid him
to touch his breakfast. Yes; we can certainly try a double cross. He
shall order bread and milk--we know who will bring it to him. Then
his cat, 'Grillo,' shall breakfast upon it." Peter turned to Mark.
"That will convince you, my friend."

But the other shook his head.

"It depends upon circumstances. Even granted poison, many an honest
man and woman has been the innocent tool of a murderer's will."

"True enough; but we are wasting time upon an improbability. I do
not myself think it will be attempted. It is the line of least
resistance and the line of least resistance generally means the
lines of greatest risk afterward. No--he'll do something smarter
than that if he gets half a chance. The grand danger would be that
Doria should find himself alone with Albert, even for a moment. That
is the situation to circumvent and avoid at any cost. Let nothing
induce you to lose sight of one or other; and even should Doria
obviously make a run for it before I return, don't be deceived by
that, or go after him. He may adopt any ruse to get you guessing
when I have gone--that is, if he suspects me of some immediate step.
But if I go without leading him to feel any very grave suspicion as
to my object in going, we may surprise him before his own stroke is
struck. That, in a word, is our objective."

An hour later the detectives saw Signor Poggi to his boat and then
walked home with Mr. Redmayne. Peter had provender concealed about
his person and presently he explained to his friend that things were
now come to a climax.

"In twenty-four hours I hope we're through with our mysteries and
plots, Albert," he said; "but during that time you've got to obey me
in every particular and so help me to set you free from this
abomination hanging over you. I can trust you; and you must trust me
and Mark here till to-morrow night. You'll soon be at peace again
with your troubles ended."

Albert thanked Ganns and expressed his satisfaction that a
conclusion was in sight.

"I have seen through the glass darkly," he told them. "Indeed I
cannot say that I have seen through the glass at all. I am entirely
mystified and shall be glad indeed to know this horror with which I
am threatened may be removed. Only my absolute trust in you, dear
Peter, has prevented me from becoming distracted."

At the villa Brendon left them and Jenny welcomed her uncle. The
girl begged Mark to come in for a while before returning; but it was
late and Mr. Ganns declared that everybody must retire.

"Look us up early, Mark," he directed. "Albert tells me there are
some old pictures at Como that have got a lot of kick in them. Maybe
we'll all go down the lake for a pleasure party to-morrow, if he
thinks it good."

For a moment Brendon and Jenny stood alone before he departed; and
she whispered to him.

"Something has happened to Doria to-night. He is struck dumb since
his walk with Mr. Ganns."

"Is he at home?"

"Yes; he went to bed many hours ago."

"Avoid him," answered Mark. "Avoid him as far as possible, without
rousing his suspicion. Your torments may be at an end sooner than
you think for."

He departed without more words. But he presented himself early on
the following day. And it was Jenny who first saw him. Then Peter
Ganns joined them.

"How is uncle?" asked Mr. Redmayne's niece, and Albert's friend
declared the old book lover found himself indisposed.

"He kept it up a bit too late last night at the hotel and drank a
little too much white wine," said Peter. "He's all right but feeling
a trifle like next morning. He'll stop where he is for a spell and
you can take him up a biscuit and a hair of the dog that bit him
presently."

Ganns then announced his intention of going later to the town of
Como, and he invited Doria and Brendon to accompany him; but Mark,
already familiar with the part he had to play, declined, while
Giuseppe also declared himself unable to take the trip.

"I must make ready to return to Turin," he said. "The world does not
stand still while Signor Pietro is catching his red man. I have
business, and there is nothing to keep me here any longer."

He appeared indifferent to the rest of the company and lacked his
usual good humour; but the reason Brendon did not learn until a
later hour.

After luncheon Mr. Ganns set off--in a white waistcoat and other
adornments; Giuseppe also left the villa, promising to return in a
few hours; and Brendon joined Albert in his sleeping apartment. For
a time they were alone together and then came Jenny with some soup.
She stopped to chat for a little while and, finding her uncle
apparently somnolent and disinclined to talk, turned to Mark and
spoke under her breath. She was still agitated and much preoccupied.

"Later, when we may, I should like to speak to you--indeed I must do
so. I am in great danger myself and can only look to you," she
whispered. Combined fear and entreaty filled her eyes and she put
her hand upon his sleeve. His own caught it and pressed it. He
forgot everything before her words. She had come to him at last of
her own free will.

"Trust me," he answered, so that only she could hear. "Your welfare
and happiness are more to me than anything else on earth."

"Doria will be out again later. Once he has gone--after dusk--we
can safely speak," she answered. Then she hastened away.

Albert Redmayne stirred himself as soon as Jenny withdrew. He was
dressed and lying on a couch beside the window.

"This subterfuge and simulation of ill health are most painful to
me," he declared. "I am exceeding well to-day and all the better for
our delightful dinner of last night. For nobody less than dear Peter
would I ever sink to pretend anything: it is contrary to my nature
and disposition so to do. But since I have his word that to-day
light is going to be thrown upon all this doubt and darkness I must
possess my soul in patience, Brendon. There are dreadful fears in
Peter's mind. I have never known him to be suspicious of good people
before. He will not let me eat and drink in my own house to-day!
That is as much as to say that I have enemies within my gates. What
could be more distressing?"

"A precaution."

"Suspicion is inconceivably painful to me. I will not harbour
suspicion. When suspicion dawns in my mind, I instantly throw over
the cause of the suspicion. If it is a book, however precious it may
be, I drop it once for all. I will not be tormented by doubts or
suspicions. In this house are Assunta and Ernesto, my niece and her
husband. To suspect any of those excellent and honourable people is
abominable and I am quite incapable of doing so."

"Only a few hours. Then, I think, all but one will be exonerated.
Indeed I'm sure of it."

"Giuseppe appears to be the storm centre in Peter's mind. It is all
beyond my understanding. He has always treated me with courtesy and
consideration. He has a sense of humour and perceives that human
nature lacks much that we could wish it possessed. He feels rightly
toward literature, too, and reads desirable authors. He is a good
European and is the only man I know, save Poggi, who understands
Nietzsche. All this is in his favor; and yet even Jenny appears to
regard Giuseppe as wholly ineffectual. She openly hints that she is
disappointed in him. I know what may go to make a man; but am, I
confess, quite ignorant of what goes to make a husband. No doubt a
good man may be a bad husband, because the female has her own
marital standards; yet what she wants, or does not want, I cannot
tell."

"You like Doria?"

"I have had no reason to do otherwise. I trust that this unhappy
brother of mine--if, indeed, he is what you all think and not an
air-drawn vision projected by your subconscious minds--may soon be
laid by the heels--for his own sake as much as ours. I will now read
in 'The Consolations of Boethius'--last of the Latin authors
properly so called--and smoke a cigar. I shall not see Giuseppe. I
have promised. It is understood that I am an invalid; but he will
certainly be hurt that I deny myself to him. The man has a heart as
well as a head."

He rose and went to a little bookshelf of his favourite authors.
Then he buried himself in Boethius, and Mark, looking out of the
window, saw the life of the lake and the glory of the summer sky
reflected. Beyond the shining water Bellagio's towers and cypresses
were massed under a little mountain. From time to time there sounded
the beat of paddle wheels, as the white steamers came and went.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doria returned for a while during the afternoon, and Jenny told him
that her uncle was better but still thought it wise to keep his
room. Her husband appeared to have recovered his good temper. He
drank wine, ate fruit and addressed most of his conversation to
Brendon, who spoke with him in the dining-room for a while.

"When you and Mr. Ganns are weary of hunting this red shadow, I hope
you will come and see me at Turin," he said. "And perhaps you will
also be able to convince Jenny that my suggestions are reasonable.
What is money for? She has twenty thousand pounds upon her hands and
I, her husband, offer such an investment as falls to the chance of
few capitalists. You shall come and see what my friends and I are
doing at Turin. Then you will make her think better of my sense!"

"A new motor car, you told me?" asked Mark.

"Yes--a car that will be to all other cars as an ocean 'liner' to
Noah's Ark. Millions are staring us in the face. Yet we languish for
the modest thousands to launch us. The little dogs find the hare;
the big dogs hold him."

Jenny said nothing. Then Doria turned to her and bade her pack his
clothes.

"I cannot stop here," he said when she had gone. "This is no life
for a man. Jenny will probably remain with her uncle. She is fed up,
as you say, with me. I am very unfortunate, Marco, for I have not in
the least deserved to lose her affection. However, if a new
inamorato fills her thoughts, it is idle for me to yelp. Jealousy is
a fool's failing. But I must work or I shall be wicked!"

He departed and Brendon joined Albert Redmayne, to find the old man
had grown uneasy and fearful.

"I am not happy, Brendon," he said. "There is coming into my mind a
cloud--a premonition that very dreadful disasters are going to
happen to those I love. When does Ganns return?"

"Soon after dark, Mr. Redmayne. Perhaps about nine o'clock we may
expect him. Be patient a little longer."

"It has not happened to me to feel as I do to-day," answered the
book lover. "A sense of ill darkens my mind--a suspicion of
finality, and Jenny shares it. Something is amiss. She has a
presentiment that it is so. It may be, as she suspects, that my
second self is not happy either. Virgilio and I are as twins. We
have become strangely and psychologically linked together. I am sure
that he is uneasy on my account at this moment. I am almost inclined
to send Ernesto to see if all be well with him and report that all
is well with me."

He rambled on and presently went out upon his balcony and looked
across to Bellagio. Then he appeared to forget Signor Poggi for a
time and presently ate a little of the store of food brought back in
secret by Mr. Ganns on the previous night.

"It is a grief to me," he said again, "that Peter fears treachery
under this roof. Surely God is all powerful and would not suffer my
interesting and harmless life to be snatched away from me by poison?
I shall be very thankful when Peter leaves his horrid profession and
retires and devotes his noble intellect to purer thoughts."

"What became of the soup, Mr. Redmayne?"

"'Grillo' drank every drop and, having done so, my beautiful cat
purred a grace after meat, according to his custom, then sank into
peaceful slumber."

Mark looked at the great blue Persian, who was evidently sleeping in
perfect comfort. It woke to his touch, yawned, spread its paws,
purred gently and then tucked itself up again.

"He's right enough."

"Of course. Jenny tells me that her husband returns to Turin
to-morrow. She, however, will stop here with me for the present. It
may be well if they separate for a while."

They talked and smoked, while Mr. Redmayne became reminiscent and
amused himself with memories of the past. He forgot his present
disquiet amid these recollections and chatted amiably of his
earliest days in Australia and his subsequent, successful career as
a bookseller and dealer.

Jenny presently joined them and all entered the dining-room
together, where tea was served.

"He will be going out soon now," whispered Albert's niece to
Brendon; and he knew that she referred to her husband. Mr. Redmayne
still declined to eat or drink.

"I did both to excess yesterday," he said, "and must rest my
ill-used stomach until to-morrow."

He was chiefly concerned with Doria and had prepared for him various
messages to bookmen in Turin. They sat long and the shadows were
lengthening before the old man returned to his apartments. Then
Giuseppe made a final and humorous appeal to Mark to influence Jenny
in favour of the automobiles and presently lit one of his Tuscan
cigars, took his hat and left the house.

"At last!" whispered Jenny, her face lighting in relief. "He will be
gone for a good two hours now and we can talk."

"Not here, then," Mark answered. "Let us go into the garden. Then I
can see when the man comes back."

They proceeded into the gathering dusk and presently sat together on
a marble seat under an ilex, so near the entrance that none might
arrive without their knowledge.

Presently Ernesto came and turned on an electric bulb that hung over
the scrolled iron work of the outer gate. Then they were alone
again, and the woman threw off all shadow of reserve and restraint.

"Thank God you can listen at last," she said, then poured out a
flood of entreaties. He was swept from every mental hold, drowned
in the torrent of her petitions, baffled and bewildered at one
moment, filled with joy in the next.

"Save me," she implored, "for only you can do so. I am not worthy of
your love and you may well have ceased to care for me or even
respect me; but I can still respect myself, because I know well
enough now that I was the innocent victim of this accursed man. It
was not natural love that made me follow him and wed him; it was a
power that he possesses--a magnetic thing--what they call the 'evil
eye' in Italy. I have been cruelly and wickedly wronged and I do not
deserve all that I have suffered, for it was the magic of hypnotism
or some kindred devilry that made me see him falsely and deceived
and drove me.

"From the time my uncle died at 'Crow's Nest' Doria has controlled
me. I did not know it then, or I would have killed myself rather
than sink to be the creature of any man. I thought it was love and
so I married him; then the trick became apparent and he cared not
how soon my eyes were opened. But I must leave him if I am to remain
a sane woman."

For an hour she spoke and detailed all she had been called upon to
endure, while he listened with absorbed interest. She often touched
Brendon's shoulder, often clasped his hand. Once she kissed it in
gratitude, as he promised to dedicate every thought and energy to
her salvation. Her breath brushed his cheek, his arm was round her
as she sobbed.

"Save me and I will come to you," she promised. "I am hoodwinked
and deceived no longer. He even owns the trap and laughs horribly at
me by night. He only wants my money, but thankfully would I give him
every penny, if by so doing I could be free of him."

And Brendon listened with a rapture that was almost incredulous; for
she loved him at last and desired nothing better than to come to him
and forget the double tragedy that had ruined her young life.

She was in his arms now and he sought to soothe her, sustain her and
bring her mind to regard a future wherein peace, happiness and
content might still be her portion. Another hour passed, the
fireflies danced over their heads; sweet scents stole through the
garden; lights twinkled from the house; on the lake in the silence
that now fell between them they heard the gentle thud of a steamer's
propeller. Still Doria did not return and as a church clock struck
the hour Jenny rose. Already she had knelt at his feet and called
him her saviour. Now, still dreaming of the immense change in his
fortunes, already occupied with the means that must be taken to free
his future wife, Mark was brought back to the present.

Jenny left him to seek Assunta; and he, hearing the steamer and
guessing that Peter was at hand, hastened to the house. Silence
seemed to fill it, and, as he lifted his voice and called to Albert
Redmayne, the noise on the water ceased. No answer reached Mark, and
from the library he proceeded to the adjoining bedroom. It was
empty and he hastened out upon the veranda above the lake. But
still the book lover did not appear. A long, black vessel with all
lights out had anchored a hundred yards from the Villa Pianezzo, and
now a boat put off from the craft of the lake police and paddled to
the steps below Brendon.

At the same moment Jenny joined him.

"Where is Uncle Albert?" she asked.

"I do not know. I have called him and got no answer."

"Mark!" she cried with a voice of fear. "Is it possible--" She moved
into the house and lifted her voice. Then Brendon heard Assunta
answer and in a moment there followed a horrified exclamation from
the younger woman.

But Brendon had descended the steps to meet the approaching boat.
His mind was still in a whirl of mingled emotions. Above him, as he
steadied the boat, stood Jenny and she spoke swiftly.

"He is not in the house! Oh, come quickly if that is Mr. Ganns. My
uncle has gone across the water and my husband has not returned."

Peter, with four men, quickly landed and Brendon spoke. He could
give no details, however, and Jenny furnished them. While she and
Mark sat in the garden, guarding the front door and front gate,
behind them to the house there had come a message by boat for Mr.
Redmayne from Bellagio. Perhaps there was but one appeal powerful
enough to make Albert forget his promises or the danger that he had
been assured now threatened him; but it was precisely this demand
which had made the old man hasten away.

Assunta told them how an Italian had reached the steps in a skiff
from Bellagio; how he had called her and broken the evil news that
Signor Poggi was fallen dangerously ill; and how he sent entreaties
to his friends to see him without delay.

"Virgilio Poggi has had a fatal fall and is dying," said the
messenger. "He prays Signor Redmayne to fly to him before it is too
late."

Assunta dared not delay the message. Indeed, knowing all that this
must mean to her master, she delivered it instantly, and five
minutes after hearing the dreadful news, Albert Redmayne, in great
agony of mind, had embarked, to be rowed toward the promontory where
his friend dwelt.

Assunta declared that her master had been gone for an hour, if not
longer.

"It may be true," said Jenny, but Brendon knew too well what had
happened.

The group formed under Peter's command and he issued his directions
swiftly. He cast one look at Mark which the detective never forgot;
but none saw it save Brendon himself. Then he spoke.

"Row this boat back to the steamer, Brendon," he said, "and tell
them to take you across to Poggi as quick as may be. If Redmayne is
there, leave him there and return. But he's not there: he's at the
bottom of the lake. Go!"

Mark hastened to the boat and one of the officers who had come with
Ganns wrote a dozen words on a sheet from a notebook. With this
Brendon reached the black steamer and in another moment the vessel
disappeared at full speed under the darkness in the direction of
Bellagio.

Then Peter turned to the rest and bade them all, with Jenny,
accompany him to the dwelling room. Supper had been laid here but
the apartment was empty.

"What has happened," explained Peter, "is this: Doria has used the
only certain means of getting Albert Redmayne out of this house, and
his wife has doubtless aided him to the best of her power by
arresting the attention of my colleague whom I left in charge. How
she did it I can easily guess."

Jenny's horrified eyes flamed at him and her face grew rosy.

"How little you know!" she cried. "This is cruel, infamous! Have I
not suffered enough?"

"If I am wrong, I'll be the first to own it, ma'am," he answered.
"But I am not wrong. What has happened means that your husband will
be back to supper. That's but ten minutes to wait. Assunta, return
to the kitchen. Ernesto, hide in the garden and lock the iron gate
as soon as Doria has passed through it."

Three big men in plain clothes had these remarks translated to them
by the fourth, who was a chief of police. Then Ernesto went into the
garden, the officers took their stations, and Mr. Ganns, indicating
a chair to Jenny, himself occupied another within reach of her. Once
she had tried to leave the room, but Peter forbade it.

"Fear nothing if you're honest," he said, but she ignored him and
kept her thoughts to herself. She had grown very pale and her eyes
roamed over the strange faces around her. Silence fell and in five
minutes came the chink of the iron gate and the footfall of a man
without. Doria was singing his canzonet. He came straight into the
room, stared about him at the assembled men, then fixed his eyes
upon his wife.

"What is this?" he cried in amazement.

"Game's up and you've lost," answered Ganns. "You're a great crook!
And your own vanity is all that's beat you!" He turned quickly to
the chief of police, who showed a warrant and spoke English.

"Michael Pendean," he said, "you are arrested for the murder of
Robert Redmayne and Bendigo Redmayne."

"And add 'Albert Redmayne,'" growled Ganns. He leaped aside with
amazing agility as he spoke, for the culprit had seized the weapon
nearest his hand and hurled a heavy saltcellar from the table at
Peter's head. The mass of glass crashed into an old Italian mirror
behind Ganns and at the moment when all eyes instinctively followed
the sound, Jenny's husband dashed for the door. Like lightning he
turned and was over the threshold before a hand could be lifted to
stop him; but one in the room had watched and now he raised his
revolver. This young officer--destined for future fame--had never
taken his eyes off Doria and now he fired. He was quick but another
had been quicker, had seen his purpose and anticipated his action.
The bullet meant for Michael Pendean struck down his wife, for Jenny
had leaped into the doorway and stopped it.

She fell without a sound, whereupon the fugitive turned instantly,
abandoned his flight, ran to her, knelt and lifted her to his
breast.

He was harmless now, but he embraced a dead woman and the blood from
her mouth, as he kissed her, covered his lips. He made no further
fight and, knowing that she was dead, carried her to a couch, laid
her gently down, then turned and stretched his arms for the
handcuffs.

A moment later Mark Brendon entered from the house.

"Poggi sent no message and Albert Redmayne has not been seen at
Bellagio," he said.



CHAPTER XVII

THE METHODS OF PETER GANNS


Two men travelled together in the train de luxe from Milan to
Calais. Ganns wore a black band upon the sleeve of his left arm; his
companion carried the marks of mourning in his face. It seemed that
Brendon had increased in age; his countenance looked haggard; his
very voice was older.

Peter tried to distract the younger man, who appeared to listen,
though his mind was far away and his thoughts brooding upon a grave.

"The French and Italian police resemble us in the States," said Mr.
Ganns. "They are much less reticent in their methods than you
English. You, at Scotland Yard, are all for secrecy, and you claim
for your system superior results to any other. And figures support
you. In New York, in 1917, there were two hundred and thirty-six
murders and only sixty-seven convictions. In Chicago, in 1919, there
were no less than three hundred and thirty-six murders and
forty-four convictions. Pretty steep--eh? In Paris four times as
many crimes of violence are committed yearly as in London, though,
of course, the population is far smaller. Yet what are the
respective achievements of the police? Only half as many crimes are
detected by the French as by the British. Your card index system is
to be thanked for that."

He ran on and then Brendon seemed to come to himself.

"Talk about poor Albert Redmayne," he said.

"There's little to be added to what you know. Since Pendean chooses
to keep dumb, at any rate until he's extradited, we can only assume
exactly what happened; but I have no doubt of the details. It was
Pendean, of course, you saw leave the villa, while his wife held you
in conversation, and so ordered her falsehoods that you were swept
away from every other consideration save how best to rescue her from
her husband.

"She took good care to involve your own future and to say just what
was most likely to make you forget your trust. My dear, dear Albert,
forgive me if I am blunt; but when you look back, presently, you
will see that the great loss is really mine, not yours. Michael
Pendean, once out of sight, gets a boat, adopts his disguise--the
false beard and mustache found upon him--and presently rows round to
Albert's steps. He sees Assunta, who does not recognize him, and
says that he has come from Virgilio Poggi, who is at death's door at
Bellagio.

"There was no weightier temptation possible than that. Redmayne
forgets every other consideration and in five minutes has started
for Bellagio. The boat is quickly in mid-lake under the darkness and
there Albert meets his death and burial. Pendean undoubtedly
murdered him with a blow--probably just as he murdered Robert and
Bendigo Redmayne; then, no doubt, he used weights, heavy stones
brought for the purpose, and sank his victim in the tremendous
depths of Como. He was soon back again with a clean boat and his
disguise in his pocket. He had an alibi also, for we found out that
he had been drinking for more than hour at an _albergo_ before he
came back to the villa."

"Thank you," said Brendon humbly. "There can be no doubt that it was
so. And now I will ask a final favour, Ganns. What happened has made
my mind a blank in some particulars. I should be thankful and
grateful if you would retrace your steps when you were in England. I
want to go over that ground again. You will not be at the trial; but
I must be; and, praise God, this is the last time I shall ever
appear in a court of law."

He referred to a determination that he had already expressed: to
leave the police service and seek other occupation for the remainder
of his life.

"That's as may be," answered Peter, bringing out the gold snuffbox.
"I hope you'll think better of it. You've had a bitter experience
and learned a great deal that will help you in business as well as
in life. Don't be beaten by a bad woman--only remember that you had
the luck to meet and study one of the rarest female crooks our
mysterious Creator ever turned out. A face like an angel and a heart
like a devil. Let time pass and presently you'll see that this is
merely a hiatus in a career that is only begun. Much good and
valuable work lies before you; and to abandon a profession for which
you are specially suited is to fly in the face of Providence
anyway."

After a pause and a long silence, while the train sped through the
darkness of the Simplon tunnel, Peter retraced the steps by which he
had been enabled to solve the riddle of the Redmaynes.

"I told you that you had not begun at the beginning," he said. "It's
really all summed up in that. You occupied an extraordinary
position. The criminal himself, in the pride of his craft and by
reason of the consuming vanity that finally wrecked him,
deliberately brought you in. It was part of his fun--his art if you
like--that he should involve a great detective for the added joy of
making a fool of him. You were the spice in his bloody cup for
Michael Pendean--the salt, the zest. If he had merely stuck to
business, not a thousand detectives would ever have queered his
pitch. But he was as playful as any other hunting tiger. He rejoiced
in adding a thousand details to his original scheme. He was an
artist, but too florid, too decadent in his decorations. And so he
ruined what might have been the crime of the century. It is just the
touch of human fallibility that has brought Nemesis to many a great
criminal.

"The machinery he employed focussed attention from the first on the
apparent murderer rather than his victim. It appeared impossible to
doubt what had happened and Pendean's death was assumed but never
proved. Particulars concerning Robert Redmayne were abundant; yet,
during the whole course of the official inquiry, none was
forthcoming concerning the supposed victim. Of him you had heard
from his wife; and her original statement to you at Princetown--when
she invited you, doubtless at Pendean's direction, to take up the
case--was masterly because so nearly true in every respect.

"But from the time that I met and spoke with Albert's niece I began
to reflect upon that statement, and my speedy conviction was this:
that a great deal more concerning Jenny's first husband demanded to
be known. Do not suppose that I was on the track of the truth at
that period. Far from it. I only desired more data and regarded the
history of Michael Pendean as being of doubtful value, since his
wife alone was responsible for the details. It seemed to me
absolutely necessary to learn more than she was prepared to tell. I
had questioned her, but found her either ignorant of much concerning
him--or else purposely evasive. Of her three uncles, only Robert had
ever seen Michael Pendean. Neither Bendigo nor dear Albert had set
eyes on him; and that fact, though of no significance at first, of
course, became very significant indeed at a later stage of my study.

"I went first to Penzance and devoted several days to learning all
possible particulars of the Pendean family. On examining Michael
Pendean's ancestry, as a preliminary to finding out everything
remembered of Pendean himself, I at once made a highly important
discovery. Joseph Pendean, Michael's father, was often in Italy on
his pilchard business for the firm, and he married an Italian woman.
She lived with her husband at Penzance and bore him one son, and a
daughter who died in infancy. The lady seems to have given cause for
a certain amount of scandal, for her Latin temperament and lively
ways did not commend themselves to the rather austere and religious
circle in which her husband and his relations moved.

"She visited Italy sometimes and Joseph Pendean undoubtedly
regretted his marriage. He might have divorced her in the opinion of
some with whom I spoke; but for the sake of his son he would not
take this step. Michael was devoted to his mother and accompanied
her frequently to Italy. On one of these occasions, when a boy of
seventeen or eighteen, he met with an accident to his head; but I
could glean no particulars of its nature. He seems to have been a
silent and observant lad and never quarrelled with his father.

"When at last Mrs. Pendean died in Italy, her husband attended the
funeral at Naples and returned to England immediately afterward with
his son. The boy was subsequently apprenticed to a dentist, having
expressed a wish to follow that profession. He promised well, passed
his examinations and practised at Penzance for a time. But then he
ceased to be interested in the work and presently joined his
father. In connection with the pilchard trade, he now visited Italy
and often spent a month at a time in that country.

"Few could give me any information as to his nature, and pictures of
him did not apparently exist; but an elderly relative was able to
tell me that Michael had been a silent, difficult boy. She also
showed me an old photograph of his parents, taken together with
their son when he must have been a child of three, or thereabout.
His father didn't suggest a man of character; but Mrs. Pendean
appeared to be a very handsome creature indeed, and it was at the
moment I studied her features through a magnifying glass that I won
my first conviction of a familiar likeness.

"It is a rule with me, when any sudden flash of intuition throws
real or false light upon a case, to submit the inspiration to a most
searching and destructive analysis and bring every known fact
against it. Thus, on seeing a possible glimpse of Giuseppe Doria's
beautiful countenance reflected upon my eyes from the photograph of
the mother of Michael Pendean, I began to marshal all my knowledge
to confound any deduction from that accident. But judge of my
interest and surprise when I found nothing that could be pointed to
as absolute refutation of the theory now taking such swift shape in
my mind. Not one sure fact clashed with the possibility.

"Nothing at present was positively known by me which made it out of
the question that Joseph Pendean's wife should be the mother of
Giuseppe Doria. But none the less many facts might exist as yet
beyond my knowledge, which would prove such a suspicion vain. I
considered how to obtain these facts and naturally my thought turned
to Giuseppe himself. To show you by what faltering steps we
sometimes climb to safe ground, I may say that at this stage of my
inquiry I had not imagined Doria and Michael Pendean were one and
the same person. That was to come. For the moment I conceived of the
possibility that Madame Pendean, a lady who had caused some
fluttering in the Wesleyan dovecots of Penzance, might by chance
have been the mother of a second son in her native country. I
imagined that Michael and an Italian half brother might know each
other, and that the two were working together to destroy the
brothers Redmayne, so that Michael's wife should inherit all the
family money.

"Having found out what Penzance could tell me, I beat it up to
Dartmouth, because I was exceedingly anxious to learn, if possible,
the exact date when Giuseppe Doria entered the employment of Bendigo
Redmayne as motor boatman. Albert's brother hadn't any friends that
I could find; but I traced his doctor and, though he was not in a
position to enlighten me, he knew another man--an innkeeper at
Tor-cross, some miles away on the coast--who might be familiar with
this vital date.

"Mr. Noah Blades proved a very shrewd and capable chap. Bendigo
Redmayne had known him well, and it was after spending a week at the
Tor-cross Hotel with Blades and going fishing in his motor boat,
that the old sailor had decided to start one himself at 'Crow's
Nest.' He did so and his first boatman was a failure. Then he
advertised for another and received a good many applications. He'd
sailed with Italians and liked them on a ship, and he decided for
Giuseppe Doria, whose testimonials appeared to be exceptional. The
man came along and, two days after his arrival, ran Bendigo down to
Tor-cross in his launch to see Blades.

"Redmayne, of course, was full of the murder at Princetown, which
had just occurred, and the tragedy proved so interesting that Blades
had little time to notice the new motor boatman. But what matters is
that we know it was on the day after the murder--on the very day
Bendigo heard what his brother, Robert, was supposed to have done at
Foggintor Quarry--that his new man, Giuseppe Doria, arrived at
'Crow's Nest' and took on his new duties.

"From that all-important fact I built my case, and you don't need to
be told how every step of the way threw light upon the next until I
had reached the goal. Robert Redmayne is seen on the night of
Michael Pendean's supposed destruction. He is traced home again to
Paignton. He leaves his diggings before anybody is up and, from that
exit, vanishes off the face of the earth. But during the same
day--probably by noon--Giuseppe Doria arrives at 'Crow's Nest'--an
Italian whom nobody knows, or has even seen before.

"That meant good-bye to any theory of a half brother for Michael;
and it also meant that not Pendean, but his wife's uncle, Robert
Redmayne, perished on Dartmoor. And there he lies yet, my son!"

Mr. Ganns took snuff and proceeded.

"Now, having made this tremendous deduction, I looked over all the
facts again and they became very much more interesting. Every moment
I expected some crushing blow to shake my structure; at every turn I
guessed a certainty would come along and bowl my theory over; but no
such thing happened. Details, of course, there are--many little
pieces of the puzzle now known to only one man alive, and that is
Pendean himself; but the main incidents, the true picture, loomed
out clear enough for me before I left Dartmouth and came back to
Albert in London. The big things were all, not there to be shaken.
The picture was fogged at certain points, but I had no doubt as to
what it represented, and even the incredible details that seemed to
contradict reason were composed and cleaned up when Michael
Pendean's own temperament was brought as a solvent to them.

"Here, I think, we may spare a tribute of admiration to Pendean's
histrionics. I guess that his original conception and creation of
'Giuseppe Doria' was an exceedingly fine and well thought out piece
of acting. He actually lived in the character and day after day
exhibited qualities of mind and an attitude to life quite foreign to
his real rather saturnine and reserved nature. Both he and his wife
were heaven-born comedians as well as hell-born criminals.

"To return; the large particulars, then, were these: the foreground,
the middle distance and the background made a synthetic whole,
logically consistent, rational even--when you allow for the artist's
make-up. That he will leave a full statement before the end, I
venture to prophecy. His egregious vanity demands it. Nothing that
he writes is likely to be sincere and he'll have his eye on the
spotlight all the time; but you may expect a pretty complete account
of his adventures before he's hanged; you may even expect something
a little new in the suicide line if they give him a chance; for be
sure he's thought of that.

"And now I'll indicate how I brought fact after fact to bombard my
theory, and how the theory withstood every assault until I was bound
to accept it and act upon it.

"We start with the assumption that Pendean is living and Robert
Redmayne dead. We next assume that Pendean, having laid out his
wife's uncle at Foggintor, gets into his clothes, puts on a red
mustache and a red wig and starts for Berry Head on Redmayne's motor
bicycle. The sack supposed to contain the body is found, and that is
all. His purpose is to indicate a hiding-place for the corpse and
lead search in a certain direction; but he is not going to trust the
sea; he is not going to stand the risk of Robert Redmayne's corpse
spoiling his game. No, his victim never left Foggintor and probably
Michael will presently tell us where to find the body.

"Meanwhile a false atmosphere is created under which he proceeds to
his engagement at 'Crow's Nest.' And then what happens? The first
clue--the forged letter, purporting to come from Robert Redmayne to
his brother. Who sent it? Jenny Pendean on her way through Plymouth
to her Uncle Bendigo's home. She and her husband are soon together
again--working for the next stroke. As I say, they were a pair who
ought to have been on the stage, where they would have made darned
sight bigger money than the Redmayne capital all told; but crime was
in their blood; they must have met like the blades of a scissors and
found themselves heart and soul in agreement. Evil was their good;
and no doubt, when they understood each other's lawless point of
view, both felt they must join forces. A tolerable bad dame, I'm
afraid, Mark; but she knew how to love all right; and nobody doubts
that bad women can love as well as good ones--often a great deal
better.

"They settle down and the supposed death of Michael Pendean blows
over. Jenny plays widow but spends as much time as she wants in her
husband's arms all the same; and together they plan to put out poor
Ben. He'd never seen Pendean, of course, which made the Doria
swindle possible. And a great point--that only Michael himself can
clear--is the intended order of his murders. That puzzled me a bit,
because before Robert Redmayne appeared at Princetown and the
reconciliation between him and his niece and her husband was
affected, he must already have got the appointment of motor boatman
to Bendigo and known that he was going there presently under a false
name and character. I incline to think that he meant to begin with
the old sailor and that, when Robert turned up unexpectedly on
Dartmoor, he altered his plans. That accident opened the way to his
first performance if I'm not wrong; but he'll throw light on that
assumption later and show what really did pass through his mind.

"Now we come to the preliminary steps at 'Crow's Nest' which ended
in the death of the second brother. What plan was to be taken we
cannot be sure, but your second visit to Dartmouth--a surprise
visit, remember--quickened it. You offered just the starting point;
and before you left on that rough, moonlight night, Pendean had
recreated the forgery of Robert Redmayne and appeared before you in
that character. And not content with this, he kept the part going
for all it was worth. As Robert Redmayne, he broke into Strete Farm
and was seen by Mr. Brook, the farmer; while as 'Doria,' next
morning, he comes to you at Dartmouth to tell you the murderer of
Michael Pendean has reappeared.

"One may easily imagine the joy that he took in this double
impersonation and how easy it was, with the help of his wife, to
fool you to the top of your bent. He had already derived the
exquisite entertainment of seeing you jealous of his attentions to
Jenny and suspicious that she was yielding to them; while she--well,
it is instructive to consider again her treatment of you. Yes, a
very great actress; but whether inspired by love for Pendean, or
hate for her unfortunate relatives, or just pure creative joy in her
own talent, who shall say? Probably all these emotions played their
part.

"Now we get to blindman's-buff with the forgery. Follow each step.
Bendigo never sees his supposed brother once; you never see him
again. Your united search through the woods is futile; but Jenny and
her husband in the motor boat bring news of him. She comes back with
tears in her eyes. She has seen Robert Redmayne--the murderer of her
husband! She and the motor boatman have spoken to him; they describe
his miserable condition and intense desire to see his brother. They
paint a wonderful and realistic picture. Robert must see Bendigo all
alone--and he must have food and a lamp in his secret hiding-place.
He has been in France--that was a sop for you, Mark--but can endure
suspense no longer.

"Well, it's fixed up and Ben decides to meet his brother after
midnight, alone; but the old sailor's pluck wavers--who shall blame
him?--and he arranged in secret with you that you should be hidden
in his tower room when Robert Redmayne comes to keep the
appointment. He writes a letter to his brother, and Jenny and Doria
go to sea again and take it, together with stores and a lamp. While
they're away, you get planted in the tower room to watch the coming
interview; and when the pair in the motor boat return, Jenny's uncle
tells her that you've gone back to Dartmouth and will blow in again
next morning. You recollect exactly what followed. Night comes and,
at the appointed time, footsteps are heard ascending to the
observatory and Bendigo prepares to meet his brother. But no Robert
Redmayne appears. It is Giuseppe Doria. He has already had a long
talk with his master about Jenny Pendean. He has told the old sailor
of his love for Jenny and so forth. You, hidden, heard that yarn,
and how Bendigo told him to stow the subject and say no more about
it for another six months.

"Now the next thing puzzled me for a moment; but I think I know what
happened. Only Pendean's final statement, if he ever makes one, will
serve to clear the point; but I can guess that at that first
interview with Ben he tumbled to the fact that you were hidden in
the tower room. He is a man with a power of observation sharp as a
razor, and I'm inclined to bet that before he left Bendigo, after
their talk over Jenny, he'd got you--knew you were there.

"That being so, his own plans had to be modified pretty extensively.
Whether he meant to finish off Ben that night, you can't be sure;
but there is very little doubt of it. Everything was planned. The
interview with Robert had been arranged and various people,
including yourself, knew about it. His wife was ready down below to
help him get the body away, and their plans were, no doubt, mature
to the last detail. If, therefore, all had gone right with Pendean,
if you had really been away that night, next morning you would
probably have been greeted with the information that Bendigo had
disappeared. You would possibly have found evidences of a struggle
in the tower room and a pint of blood judiciously decorating the
floor, but nothing else.

"Only on the assumption that Pendean had found you out can I explain
why this didn't start under your nose. I imagine that if he had
believed his master alone at one o'clock that night, he would have
knocked him on the head and proceeded as I suggest. But he does no
such thing. He arrives in great excitement to describe another
meeting with Robert and to report that the wanderer has changed his
mind and will only see his brother in his own secret hiding-place
after dark.

"On hearing this, Bendigo bids you come out of your cupboard, and
Doria, so to call him, pretends great indignation and surprise.

"Now we get another lifelike report of runaway Robert; and finally
Bendigo consents to visit him in his hiding-place. The lamp is going
to burn and show the particular cave on that honeycombed coast where
Bendigo's brother is supposed to be concealed. Another night comes
and Ben goes to his death. Probably he was murdered instantly on
landing and disposed of at sea. Again there is going to be no dead
man. Pendean returns to you and his wife at 'Crow's Nest.' He
reports that the brothers are conferring and reveals the situation
of the hiding-place. He is soon off again and, on his second visit,
plays his tiger tricks, runs a bloody trail up the tunnel to the
plateau, and sets his trap for the police next morning.

"One needn't go over the futile hunt that followed. Everything
worked exactly as Pendean had planned, and you can very easily
picture the entertainment furnished for that vampire pair by the
course of the subsequent man hunt.

"Two Redmaynes have gone to their account and there remains but one.
Meantime the course of true love runs smoothly and Doria marries his
wife again. So, at least, they are pleased to declare, for the
satisfaction of Albert Redmayne and yourself. Needless to say they
went south together as man and wife, reported a ceremony that did
not take place, and after a reasonable delay turned their attention
to my hapless friend.

"Would you not have thought some ray of human truth might have
touched their hearts in the company of that childlike and kindly
spirit? Would you not have judged that close acquaintance with one
so amiable and large-hearted must have wakened a spark of compassion
in their souls? No; they came to kill him and the unsuspecting
victim welcomes his murderers with friendship. It is interesting to
observe that he prefers Giuseppe to his own niece. He confessed to
me that Jenny puzzled him and it seemed strange to Albert that she
had forgotten her first husband so easily. His tender sensibilities
could not admire such indifference; and no doubt he also remembered
that his niece's early record, in marrying Pendean against her
family's wishes, too much reminded him of her father's wilful ways
and headstrong passions.

"But they come on their dark business and are welcomed; and then--an
insensate act of folly! The weak spot in their remorseless plan!
Again Doria rouses Robert Redmayne from the grave; again he
challenges you! A thousand simple and safe ways had offered to
dispose of Albert Redmayne. The region in which he chose to live and
his own trusting and ingenuous character had alike made him the
easiest possible prey of any human hunter; but Michael's vanity has
grown by what it feeds on. He is an artist, and he desires to
complete his masterpiece with all due regard to form. It must be
fashioned to endure and take its place forever in the highest
categories of crime. His pride rebels against the line of least
resistance. All shall end on the same large pattern in which it was
originally conceived. He courts danger and creates difficulty that
his ultimate achievement may be the more august.

"So the forgery is trotted out once more; and it is not enough that
Jenny shall report to her uncle the advent of Robert Redmayne beside
Como. An independent witness is demanded and Assunta Marzelli sees
the big man with the red mustache, red hair and red waistcoat. She
also records the tremendous shock to her mistress that resulted from
this sudden apparition. Remember that Jenny's husband was still
supposed by Albert to be in Turin. Then the old game is played;
Doria presently arrives in person; they toy with their subject; they
enrich it with details; awaken the alarm of their unhappy victim and
send for you, designing to treat you in the same manner as before.

"Nor does Albert's appeal to me hasten their operations. Who is
Peter Ganns? A famous American bull. Good! They will have another
victim at their chariot wheels. It shall be an international
triumph. Albert Redmayne must be murdered before an audience worthy
of the occasion. The combined detective forces of the States, of
Italy, of England, shall seek Robert Redmayne and succour Albert;
but the one shall evade capture, the other perish under their eyes."
He turned to Brendon. "And they brought it off--thanks to you, my
son."

"And paid for it--thanks to you," answered Mark.

"We are but men, not machines," answered the elder. "Love thrust a
finger into your brain and created the inevitable ferment. Of course
Pendean was lightning quick to win his account from that. He may
have even calculated upon it when he made Jenny beg your aid at the
outset. He knew what men thought of her; he had doubtless taken
stock of you at Princetown and probably learned that you were
unmarried. So, when time has passed and you can look back without a
groan, you will take the large view and, seeing yourself from the
outside, forgive yourself and confess that your punishment was
weightier than your error."

In gathering dusk the train thundered through the valley of the
Rhine while, above, the mountain summits melted upon the night. A
steward looked into the carriage.

"Dinner is served, gentlemen," he said. "I will, if you please, make
your beds while you are absent."

They rose and went together to the saloon carriage.

"I'm dry, son, and I've sure earned a drink," said Peter.

"You've earned a vast deal more than I or any man can ever pay you,
Ganns," said Brendon.

"Don't say it, or think it. I've done nothing that you wouldn't have
done if you had been free. And always remember this: I shall never
blame you, even when I think with dearest affection of my old
friend. I shall only blame myself, because the final, fatal mistake
was mine--not yours. I was the fool to trust you and had no excuse
for doing so. You were not to be trusted for a moment just then, and
I ought to have known it. 'Twas our limited capability that made you
err, that made me err, that made Michael Pendean err. The best laid
plans of mice and men--you know, Mark. The villain mars his
villainy; the virtuous smudge their white record; the deep brain
suddenly runs dry--all because perfection, in good or evil, is
denied to saints and sinners alike."



CHAPTER XVIII

CONFESSION


During the autumn assizes, Michael Pendean was tried at Exeter and
condemned to death for the murders of Robert, Bendigo and Albert
Redmayne. He offered no defence and he was only impatient to return
to his seclusion within the red walls of the county jail, where he
occupied the brief balance of his days with just such a statement as
Peter Ganns had foretold that he would seek to make.

This extraordinary document was very characteristic of the criminal.
It possessed a sort of glamour; but it failed of real distinction
and the quality proper to greatness, even as the crimes it recorded
and the man responsible for them. Pendean's confession revealed an
insensibility, a faulty sense of humour, an affectation and a love
for the glittering and the grandiose that robbed it of any supreme
claim in the annals or literature of murder. The document ended with
an assurance that Michael would never die at the hands of his fellow
man. He had repeated this assertion on several occasions and every
conceivable precaution was taken to prevent evasion of his
sentence--an issue to be recorded in its proper place.

Here is his statement, word for word as he wrote it.

        *       *       *       *       *

MY APOLOGIA

"_Hearken, ye judges! There is another madness besides, and it is
before the deed. Ah! Ye have not gone deep enough into this soul!
Thus speaketh the red judge: 'Why did this criminal commit murder?
He meant to rob.' I tell you, however, that his soul hungered for
blood, not booty: he thirsted for the happiness of the knife!_"

And again:

"_What is this man? A coil of wild serpents at war against
themselves--so they are driven apart to seek their prey in the
world._"

So wrote one whose art and wisdom are nought to this rabbit-brained
generation; but it was given to me to find my meat and drink within
his pages and to see my own youthful impressions reflected and
crystallized with the brilliance of genius in his stupendous mind.

Remember I, who write, am not thirty years old.

As a young man without experience I sometimes asked myself if some
spirit from another order of beings than my own had not been slipped
into my human carcase. It seemed to me that none with whom I came in
contact was built on, or near, my own pattern, for I had only met
one person as yet--my mother--who did not suffer from the malady of
a bad conscience. My father and his friends wallowed in this
complaint. They declared themselves openly to be miserable sinners
and apparently held that the one respectable attitude for humanity
at large. "Safety" was the only state to seek; "danger" the only
condition to avoid. A very cowardice of curs are the Cornish!

I soon found, however, that history abounded in great figures who
had thought and acted otherwise; and presently, in the light thrown
from the theatre of the past, I recognized myself for what I was.

In what is comprehended under the general and vague term of "crime,"
everything depends upon the values of the individual performer; and
again and again do we find that a criminal has struck before
counting the cost to himself, or considering the unsleeping
detectives, hidden in his own faulty heart and brain, who will
sooner or later discover and denounce him.

The man of conscience, the man capable of remorse, the man who
murders at the prompting of a temper uncontrolled--such will swiftly
learn that however well the deed is done, a thousand baffling
distractions, bred of their own inherent or acquired weakness, must
arise to confound them. Remorse, for example, is always a first step
to discovery, if not to confession; and any lesser uneasiness
similarly tends to trouble of mind and consequent danger of body.
Those who hang, in truth deserve to do so; but they who strike,
like myself, for reasons that success cannot shake and from a
settled, farsighted resolution beyond the power of any emotion to
assail, should be safe enough. We rejoice in the sublime mental
gratification that follows success: it is our spiritual support, our
sustenance and our reward.

What can offer an experience so tremendous as murder? What has
science, philosophy, religion to give us comparable with the
mysteries, dangers and triumphs of great crime? All are childish
toys compared to it; and since, in any case, the next world will
surely stultify our knowledge, confound our accepted truths, and
reduce the wisdom of this earth to the prattle of childhood, I
turned from physics and from metaphysics to action--and happening to
taste blood early, tingled with the joy of it.

At fifteen years of age I killed a man, and found, in a murder
undertaken for very definite reasons, a thrill beyond expectation.
It was as though I had drunk at a wayside spring and found an
elixir. That incident is unknown; the death of my father's foreman,
Job Trevose, has not been understood till now. He lived at Paul, a
village upon the heights nigh Penzance, and his walk to his work
took him by the coast-guard track along lofty cliffs. Among the
fish-curing sheds one day, unseen, I chanced to hear Trevose speak
of my mother to another man and declare that she did evil and
dishonoured my father.

From that moment I doomed Trevose to death and, some weeks later,
after many failures to win the right conditions, caught him alone in
a sea fog as he returned homeward. There was not a soul on the
cliff path but ourselves; and he was a small man, I a strong, big
boy. I walked beside him for fifty paces, then fell behind, leaped
at his neck and hurled him over the cliff in an instant. One yell he
gave and dropped six hundred feet. Then I fled over meadows inland
and returned home after dark. Neither I nor anybody else was ever
associated with the affair, and the death of Job Trevose has always
been ascribed to misadventure--the easier to believe since he was
not a temperate man.

From this experience I won, not remorse, but manhood. I rejoiced in
what I had done. But I did not tell any living soul and only my wife
ever heard the truth. Time passed and I proceeded with my life in
normal fashion, learning myself and increasing my understanding of
human nature. I was never under any domination of passion, but
exercised great restraint and found that only by self-knowledge and
self-command comes power. I did not seek forbidden fruit, but did
not shun it. My life proceeded orderly; I chose the profession of
dentist, as being likely to introduce me to people of a more
interesting type than my father's acquaintance; and I kept an open
mind for myself, but a shut mind for others.

My chief joy at this season was represented by my occasional visits
to Italy with my mother. Already I felt that land to be my home and
hated Cornwall and its bleak inhabitants. Then, at the psychological
moment, a girl woke instincts until then dormant; I was faced with
rarest good fortune and discovered a kindred spirit of the opposite
sex. That any woman lived who could see with my eyes, or share my
contempt of the trammels set round life, I did not believe until I
met with Jenny Redmayne. Women had never interested me, save in the
case of my mother, and I had seen none other with her large heart,
tolerance, humour and indifference to convention.

Then a chance friend, the brainless Robert Redmayne, brought his
niece to spend her school holiday with him and I discovered in the
seventeen-year-old schoolgirl a magnificent and pagan simplicity of
mind, combined with a Greek loveliness of body that created in me a
convulsion. From the day that we met, from the hour that I heard her
laugh at her uncle's objection to mixed bathing, I was as one
possessed; and my triumphant joy may be judged, though never
measured, when I perceived that Jenny recognized in me the
complement and precious addition unconsciously sought of her own
spirit.

That spirit she had scarcely understood; but now its clean and
fierce white light shone in secret for me alone. We loved one
another devotedly from the first understanding; and each fresh find
in the heart of the other drew us together with increasing worship
and passion. We were probably the most exquisite man and woman, the
most original, beautiful, fearless and distinguished, that had ever
come together in the benighted township of Penzance. People stared
at us sometimes as though we were a faun and nymph; but they did
not guess that our hearts were formed to match our wondrous bodies.
Fire leaped to fire and before the girl finished her education we
were dedicated to each other forever.

What she saw in me was my extraordinary masculine beauty, combined
with an intellect that set good and evil in their places and soared,
by native instinct, above both. What I discovered in her was an
attitude of mind so inquiring and so lawless, so utterly devoid of
any familiar prejudice or mother-taught opinion, that I felt as the
finder of a priceless jewel unstained by earth or heaven. Her
intellect was pure and not vitiated by any superstition; she
revealed a healthy thirst for experience; she adored me and my
attitude to life. We made fascinating voyages of discovery into each
others' hearts; we experimented from time to time on ordinary
people; and we quickly discovered that we both possessed rare
histrionic ability.

Indeed she had already entertained ambitions for the stage; but
though her dead father would hardly have stood in her way, these
ambitions were not encouraged by the three dolts, her uncles, who
now supposed themselves to control her future. A glorious actress is
lost to the world in my wife.

She had no secrets from me and I soon learned of her expectations;
but it was not the prospect of the Redmayne money that shortened her
uncles' lives. Jenny and I were never man-eaters; and, while my
youthful experience in murder attracted her and increased her
admiration for my qualities, it was not at that time in our minds
to anticipate events or quarrel with her relations.

Her grandfather still lived, when first I met her, and the extent or
disposition of his wealth seldom entered our calculations. For we
were then far too much in love to ponder the value of money, and our
temperaments proved so distinguished that no sordid calculation ever
wasted a moment of our time.

But a year passed; Jenny was ready to wed me and begin life as my
twin star; while I longed for her with a great longing. The
situation cleared; her grandfather died; she would presently be the
possessor of ample means and I already enjoyed an income from the
business of Pendean and Trecarrow.

Then came the war and the sentence of death incidently pronounced by
that event upon the brothers Redmayne. Their own folly and lack of
vision were alone responsible. The facts are familiar, but not the
tremendous and shattering emotions I endured on being branded a
coward and traitor to my country by these three patriotic idiots. I
did not argue with them; it was enough that Jenny swiftly awakened
to even a bitterer hatred and a deeper fury of resentment than
myself. They had roused the sleeping tempest and our lightning now
became only a question of time.

Was I the man to make carrion of myself in national quarrels! Was I
the man to sacrifice my glorious life because besotted and
third-rate minds, blinded by their own ignorance and fooled by
cleverer statesmen than themselves, had suffered England to drift
into war with Germany? Was I a sheep to be slaughtered for a
government of Nonconformists? Should I consent to be mangled by the
Boches because my fatuous country willed to trust the old gang? No!

I had long understood that war was certain; I had already ascended
public platforms with that little company who warned the Empire and
were derided for their pains by the ruling bats and moles. But to
die for the salvation of this diplomatic trash, to suffer untold
torments and ultimate extinction for that myopic crew of hypocrites
known as the British government--Never!

I evaded active service with a heart drug, as did some thousands of
other intelligent men. I kept a whole skin, stopped at home and
received for my share the Order of the British Empire instead of a
nameless grave. It was easy enough.

Before Jenny and I were married she knew that my outraged honour had
doomed her family to extinction. But they would wait till the war
was ended. Germany, indeed, might account for Robert Redmayne; and
even the elderly Bendigo, who was appointed to a mine sweeper, might
give his life for his country. Meantime we volunteered also and our
record of service at Princetown Moss Depôt is not to be assailed.

Already my future intention was colouring my life. I grew a beard,
wore glasses and pretended delicacy of constitution; for after the
war was done I intended murdering three men, and I proposed to do so
in such a manner that society would find it impossible to associate
me with the crimes. We devoted many hours to the project, for my
wife was, of course, at one with me in my determination. She hated
her family, as only relations can hate; and she had her own ground
of grievance, in that her legacy of twenty thousand pounds was
withheld pending the deliberations of Albert Redmayne. The money
interested Jenny more than myself; but she pointed out that her
grandfather's fortune, representing considerably over a hundred
thousand pounds, was left entirely to her uncles and herself, and
that as they were all three bachelors, she might reasonably hope to
inherit in fulness of time.

To that end we identified ourselves with war work and expected
presently to secure the trust and good-will of the brothers before
they were banished off the earth. At Princetown we adopted that
strenuous, simple-minded attitude to life most calculated to satisfy
those among whom our toil now threw us. We pretended an enthusiasm
for the work and an affection for Dartmoor which were alike
illusory. As an example of our far-reaching methods I may relate how
we returned to the wilderness after the war was done and actually
began to build a bungalow upon it, which, needless to say, we never
had the least intention of occupying. But the seed was sown and we
had created in many minds the impression of a devoted and simple
pair--conventional, narrow-minded, ingenuous and therefore
attractive to the many.

I now come to my confession and must admit at the outset how
circumstance served to modify detail and improve the original plan.
My own greatness gradually increases to any intelligent,
unprejudiced critic when my adaptability is considered, for that
play of blind chance, in which ninety and nine men out of a hundred
find themselves entangled throughout their lives, was to me an added
inspiration and opportunity. I tamed Chance and put a bit in its
jaws, a bridle on its fiery neck. Chance immensely altered my
original schemes; but it was powerless to modify my genius; it
became the Slave of the Ring, to serve an adamant purpose superior
to itself.

The war left the three brothers alive; and I had designed first to
destroy Bendigo and Albert Redmayne, who had never seen me, and
finally deal with my old friend, Robert; but it was he who came at
the critical moment as a lamb to the slaughter and so inspired the
superb conception now familiar to the civilized world.

The time was ripe to pluck these men who had insulted and outraged
me; and when Bendigo Redmayne advertised for a motor boatman, the
challenge was accepted. I left my wife and, from Southampton,
offered my services as an Italian marine engineer familiar with this
country and now seeking occupation in England. The sea was my
playground in youth and I understood very perfectly the mechanism to
be under my control. That Ben would select me seemed improbable and
I regarded this tentative opening as unlikely to introduce me to my
first objective. I forged certain foreign letters of commendation
and left it at that. He approved, however. He liked Italians, from
experience of them aboard ship, and he appreciated my letter and my
imaginary war record. It was arranged that I should join him on a
day in late June; and I returned to Princetown with the interesting
intelligence.

My original plans need not be related; but any reader of imagination
will perceive that Bendigo Redmayne must quickly have been in my
power to dispose of as I thought best. Then, within a fortnight of
the date fixed for my arrival at "Crow's Nest," all was changed by
the advent of Robert Redmayne. Strange to say, upon the day previous
to his appearance, my wife had nearly prevailed upon me not to keep
my engagement with Bendigo. She had learned that Robert was at
Paignton and the danger of a meeting between him and me--the
possibility that he might visit his brother and recognize me--was
too considerable to risk. I had therefore almost abandoned the
impersonation of "Giuseppe Doria" when Robert arrived at Princetown
and we were reconciled. But then Jenny, to whom all credit belongs
at this stage--my devoted, glorious Jenny!--began to see a glimpse
of the dazzling opportunity now presented. Every detail was worked
out with meticulous precaution; not a hazard was ignored, not a risk
unguarded.

With Robert Redmayne free to visit Bendigo at any time, "Doria"
would obviously be a danger; for, though a man of little
perception--noisy dolt easily enough hoodwinked--there remained
strong likelihood that he must recognize me in the Italian "Doria."
And the more so that we had now renewed our former friendship. But
let Robert Redmayne be reduced to silence, let Robert Redmayne
vanish, and I should be safe enough as "Giuseppe Doria" with the old
sailor!

From this determination: to obliterate Robert before going to
Bendigo, the inevitable means appeared. A week before Robert
Redmayne died, every stage of the journey had been planned.

What was the first step? An entreaty from Jenny that I should shave
my beard! She begged again and again and appealed to Robert, who
supported her. I withstood them until the day of his destruction.
Upon that morning I appeared without it and they congratulated me.
Other trifling preliminaries there were. On one occasion, when my
wife rode down to Plymouth with her uncle on his motor bicycle, she
left him to do some shopping and, visiting Burnell's the theatrical
costumer, she purchased a red wig for a woman. At home again she
transferred it into a red wig for a man. Meantime I had made a pair
of large mustaches, helping myself when Mrs. Gerry, our landlady,
was out of the way to hair from the brush of one of her stuffed
foxes, whose colour exactly resembled the rufous adornments of
Robert Redmayne. That was all I wanted. The rest of my disguise
would go to the quarry on the person of Robert himself.

But other things went to the quarry also, for I had to look far
ahead. When we started on his motor cycle, after tea, to do some
work at the bungalow, I took a handbag containing my costume as
Giuseppe Doria--a plain, blue serge suit, coat, waistcoat and
trousers and yachtsman's cap. I also carried a tool--the little
instrument with which I murdered the three Redmaynes. It resembled
the head of a butcher's pole-axe, of great weight with the working
end sharpened. I made it in a forge at Southampton and it lies
to-day under the waters of Como. My bag I had taken on previous
occasions to the quarry, with a bottle of whisky and glasses, so
Robert thought it not strange that I should do so again.

We started for Foggintor and it was still broad daylight when we got
there. I had already studied the quarry and determined on Robert
Redmayne's resting-place. You will find him--and the suit of clothes
I was wearing that evening--in the moraine, where it opens fanwise
from the cliff above and spreads into the bottom beneath. On the
right, at its base, water eternally drips from the ledges of the
granite and here, two feet beneath the surface, he doubtless still
lies. The falling water smooths the slope and the earth descends
daily to increase the volume of granite sand and gravel above him.
The drip must swiftly have washed away any trace of my handiwork
and, even with these directions, it may be hard to find him.

Arrived at the bungalow, Robert's first demand was a bath in the
quarry pool. To this I had accustomed him and we stripped and swam
for ten minutes. You will perceive the value of this operation. His
clothes were ready for me without speck or blemish; and when we
returned from the pool into the shelter of the bungalow it was a
naked man I smote and dropped with one blow of my formidable weapon.
His back was turned and the pole-axe head went through his skull
like butter. He was dead before I cut his throat, put on my shoes
and hastened, naked, to the moraine with a spade.

I opened the grave under the falling water and dug two feet into the
loose stuff, for that was deep enough. Then I carried him and my
clothes from the bungalow, interred them, heaped back the soil and
left the eternal percolations from above to do the rest. By the
following morning it had demanded very keen eyes to discover any
disturbance at that spot even had search been instituted at
Foggintor. But I did not desire a search and my subsequent measures
prevented it. A Ganns might have discovered clues, no doubt; a
Brendon was more easily deluded.

I stood now free of the vital object in a murder--the corpse, and it
remained for me to create the false appearance of reality with which
these operations have always been so successfully enshrouded. I
donned Redmayne's clothes. We were men nearly of a size and they
fitted closely enough, though too large in detail. I then adjusted
my wig and mustaches, drew Robert's cap over my head--it was too
large, but that mattered not. I next obtained the sack, touched it
in blood and put into it my handbag and a mass of fern and litter
to fill it out. Then I fastened it behind the motor bicycle--an
unwieldy object designed to create the necessary suspicion.

There was now nothing of either Redmayne or myself left at
Foggintor. The gloaming had long thickened to darkness when I went
my way and laid the trail through Two Bridges, Postbridge and
Ashburton to Brixham. Once only was I bothered--at the gate across
the road by Brixham coast-guard station; but I lifted the motor
bicycle over it and presently ascended to the cliffs of Berry Head.
Fate favoured me in details, for, despite the hour, there were
witnesses to every step of the route; I even passed a fisher lad,
descending from the lighthouse for a doctor, where no witness might
have been hoped for or expected. Thus my course was followed and
each stage of the long journey correctly recorded.

On the cliff I emptied my sack, cast its stuffing to the winds,
fastened my handbag to the bicycle, thrust the bloodstained sack
into a rabbit hole, where it could not fail to be discovered, and
then returned to Robert Redmayne's lodging at Paignton. There a
telegram had already been sent informing the landlady of his return
that night. The place and its details I had gleaned from Redmayne
himself; therefore I knew where he kept his machine and, having put
it in its shed, entered the house about three o'clock with his
latchkey and ate the ample meal left for his consumption. Only a
widow and her servant occupied the dwelling and they slept soundly
enough.

I did not venture to seek Bob's bedroom, for I knew not where it
might lie; but I changed into the serge suit, cap and brown shoes of
Doria and packed Redmayne's clothes, tweeds and showy waistcoat,
boots and stockings into my handbag with the wig and mustaches and
my weapon. Soon after four o'clock I left--a clean-shorn, brown
sailorman: "Giuseppe Doria," of immortal memory.

It was now light, but Paignton slumbered and I did not pass a
policeman until half a mile from the watering-place. Having admired
the dawn over Torquay, I walked to Newton Abbot and reached that
town before six o'clock. At the railway station I breakfasted and
presently took a train to Dartmouth. Before noon I reached "Crow's
Nest" and made acquaintance with Bendigo Redmayne. He was such a man
as Jenny had led me to expect and I found it easy enough to win his
friendship and esteem.

But he had little leisure for me at this moment, for there had
already come news from his niece of the mysterious fatality on
Dartmoor.

Needless to say that my thoughts were now entirely devoted to my
wife and I longed for her first communication. Our briefest
separation caused me pain, for our souls were as one and we had not
been parted, save for my visit to Southampton, since our marriage
day.

It was her exquisite thought to involve the man from Scotland Yard.
Mark Brendon, then known to be taking holiday at Princetown, had
been pointed out to her; she appraised him correctly and her
woman's intuition told her what verisimilitude would spring from his
active cooperation. Secure in her own genius, she therefore
complicated the issues by appealing to Brendon and winning his
enthusiastic assistance. Much sprang from this, for the poor fellow
was soon a willing victim to Jenny; and while he lent a thousand
happy touches to subsequent incidents by his inefficiencies and sins
of omission, such moderate talent as he possessed was still farther
obscured by the emotion of love which sprang up in his heart for my
widowed partner. Thus he became exceedingly useful as time passed;
yet fortune favours fools and his very stupidity served him well at
the end; for when I sought to destroy him on Griante and believed
that I had done so, the man displayed an ingenuity for which I did
not give him credit and unconsciously laid the foundations of
subsequent disaster.

The letter which Bendigo Redmayne received, and supposed had come
from his brother at Plymouth, was posted by Jenny on her journey to
"Crow's Nest." We had written it together a week earlier and studied
her uncle's indifferent penmanship very carefully before doing so.
This blind I held valuable, and indeed it proved to be; for it
concentrated attention on the port and led to the theory that Robert
had escaped to France or Spain.

Thus closed our opening episode. The murder of Michael Pendean
became received as a fact capable of everything but proof absolute,
while the escape of Robert Redmayne offered an insoluble problem to
the authorities. Michael Pendean indeed was dead enough, for it had
been a part of my original conception that he should never reappear.
Obviously he could not do so; and I, who had already created
"Doria," now began to live my new part in life with zest and
gusto--a dramatist and actor in one. He did not spring full-fledged
from my brain; but like other great impersonators, I gradually
enlarged and enriched the character and finally found myself
actually living and thinking the new being into which I was
translated. Pendean sank to the shadow of a shade.

My past, by an effort of will, was banished from my mind. I invented
and presently believed in another past. When my wife returned to my
side, I fell in love with her for the second time; and so superbly
did I enter into the existence and mental outlook of Giuseppe Doria
that I was almost shocked by the familiarity of Jenny when she
kissed me and hugged me at the first convenient opportunity after
her arrival at "Crow's Nest"!

And her own echoing genius swiftly accepted this magnificent
apotheosis of her Cornish husband. I became a new man in her eyes
also. With that marvellous power of make-believe, possible only to
women of supreme genius, she swiftly conceived of me as something
altogether different from Michael Pendean--a creature richer and
rarer--and this effort of imagination enabled us both to create that
solid appearance of a new and quickening understanding that so amply
sufficed to deceive Bendigo Redmayne and delude Brendon.

It is impossible to exaggerate the unique entertainment we derived
from this phase of our deception. We proposed to let six months pass
before the death of Bendigo Redmayne, and we were already
contemplating details and considering how best to bring his brother
back upon the stage for the purpose of Ben's destruction, when Mark
Brendon blundered in upon us once again. He came very pat with calf
love in his eyes; and it seemed that he might well assist us once
more and apply his limited attainments to the problem of our sea
wolf's approaching exit. Because we knew our Marco well, by this
time, and perceived how useful he might be in disseminating that
atmosphere of reality so desirable in cases such as these.

We were called upon to act quickly--so quickly that the first steps
were taken before the last had been fully planned; but the place,
the time of long, dark nights and other circumstances--these all
lent value and assistance to the acute operations now undertaken. I
swiftly brought Robert Redmayne to life; and though, with more
leisure for refinements, I should not have clothed him in his old
attire, yet that crude detail possessed a value of its own and
certainly served to deceive Brendon, who, before the sudden
apparition under that night of storm, did not stop to be logical or
weigh probability. In the windy moonlight he saw the red head, huge
mustache and brass-buttoned waistcoat of Robert Redmayne, and any
question of detail escaped him in the whirl of the larger emotions
and suspicions awakened by such an unexpected vision.

Doubtless he was thinking of Jenny and speculating with deep unrest
how he might approach that lonely and lovely woman. Nor had he
missed my attractions and we may feel sure that jealousy shared his
heart with passion. Upon these reflections broke Redmayne, the
murderer, and Marco's first thought was doubtless unflattering to
the residents of "Crow's Nest." What he designed to do next morning
I cannot say, but we determined his actions from the other end.
Having first appeared before him by Black Wood and lifted the
curtain on the second act of my romantic comedy, I remained there a
while, then ascended to Strete Farm and presently, in the small
hours, awakened the farmer, showed myself stealing food and so
hastily departed.

Thus a few hours later, when Giuseppe goes for the milk, he hears of
the robbery, returns to "Crow's Nest" and describes a man that Ben
has no difficulty in recognizing as his brother, or Jenny as her
uncle. Robert Redmayne is on the war-path once more!

Of subsequent events, most are so familiar that there is no need to
retrace them. It is to be noted, however, that Robert does not
appear again to anybody but Jenny and Doria. In other words, he does
not appear again at all. His disguise is doffed--not to be resumed
until many months have passed, when once more he leaps out upon the
wild ranges of Griante. No. While alive enough and close enough to
impress both Bendigo and Brendon with his presence as described by
Jenny and myself, he has in reality vanished to the void. The
"forgery" again goes to sleep--as soundly as the real man in
Foggintor.

Accident, indeed, modified the original scheme and once more Chance
befriended us and enabled us to improve upon the first intention.

My tears fall when I think of my incomparable Jenny and her
astounding mastery of minutiæ at "Crow's Nest"--her finesse and
exquisite touch, her kittenlike delicacy, her catlike swiftness and
sureness. The two beings involved were as children in her hands. Oh,
precious phoenix of a woman, you and I were of the same spirit,
kneaded into our clay! Through your father you won it--and I had it
from my mother--the primeval fire that burns through all obstacles
to its inveterate purpose!

I say that accident made a radical alteration of design vital, for I
had intended, on the night when Robert Redmayne would come and see
Bendigo, to murder the old sailor in his tower room and remove him
before morning with my wife's assistance. But the victim postponed
his own destruction, for upon the night when his death was intended,
during my previous conversation with him touching Jenny, I had
perceived, by his clumsy glances and evidence of anxiety, that
somebody else was in the tower room--unseen.

There was but one hiding-place and but one man likely to occupy it.
I did not indicate that I had discovered the secret and it was not
the detective who gave himself away; but, once alive to his
presence, I swiftly marked a flash of light at one of the little
ventilation holes in the cupboard and perceived that our sleuth
stood hid within it. My plan of campaign was altered accordingly and
to great advantage. Indeed, to have slain Ben in his house, when I
should have appeared instead of the brother he expected, had been a
maladroit achievement, contrasted with the far more notable feat of
the following night.

Having conveyed the old sailor to the cave, where, on my recent run
up the coast after dropping Brendon, I had already looked in and
lighted the lamp, I landed behind him and, as his foot touched the
shore, the pole-axe fell. He was dead in an instant and five minutes
later his blood ran upon the sand. Next I dug a grave under the
shingle, at a spot destined within half an hour to be covered by the
tide. In less than twenty minutes Bendigo Redmayne reposed beneath
three feet of sand and stone and I was on my way back again to
"Crow's Nest." There I reported to Brendon that the brothers had met
and would expect me again anon. I smoked a cigarette or two,
descended to our little harbour, removed my spade from the launch to
the boathouse, took a sack and so set out again.

By the time that I had reached the cavern the waves already flowed
over old sea wolf's resting-place. I landed, half filled my sack
with stones and sand, scattered judicious drops of blood and climbed
the steps and tunnel, laying the trail that occupied official
attention to such poor purpose during the days that followed.
Having reached the plateau, I emptied my sack, casting its contents
over the cliff; I then left a good impression or two of Robert
Redmayne's shoes, which I had, of course, remembered to put on. They
would be recollected by Mark Brendon, for impressions had been found
and records taken at Foggintor.

I swiftly descended the tunnel again after these operations,
returned to my boathouse, stowed my sack, changed my boots and
hastened to Brendon with my story. How we proceeded to the cave, our
fruitless inquiries and the subsequent failure to find any solution
to the disappearance of Bendigo and the reappearance of Robert are
all facts within the memory. I need not tell you that tale again;
but may declare how specially attractive it was to picture the
puzzled police upon the little beach next day, and know that Bendigo
Redmayne lay not a yard beneath their feet.

Once more my amazing wife and I parted for a brief period and then I
had the joy of introducing her to Italy, where the remainder of our
task awaited us. But we resolved that considerable time should pass
before proceeding and we did not appear before her remaining uncle
for many months. Meantime we revelled in a second honeymoon,
reported our marriage to Albert Redmayne and the egregious Marco, to
whom, at Jenny's suggestion we conveyed a piece of wedding cake,
that he might the better grasp our achievement. We had not finished
yet with the pride of New Scotland Yard.

And now for Italy. It is true that in my early manhood I had
suffered a sad accident at Naples, the secret of which was known to
my mother and myself alone. I therefore entertained some grudge
against her country; but the fact at no time lessened my love for
the south; and Jenny and I had always determined that when our task
was accomplished the balance of our united life should there be
spent in dignity and peace.



CHAPTER XIX

A LEGACY FOR PETER GANNS


If at any time I entertained one shadow of regret in the execution
of those who had traduced me and so earned their destruction, it was
after we had dwelt for a season with Albert Redmayne beside Como.
The lake itself is so flagrantly sentimental and the environment so
serene and suggestive of childlike peace and good-will that I could
almost have found it in my heart to lament the innocent book lover's
taking off. But Jenny swiftly laughed me out of these emotions.

"Keep your tenderness and sentiment for me," she said. "I will not
share them."

We might have killed Albert a thousand times and left no sign--a
fact that brings me to that part of my recital I most deplore. But a
measure of delay was necessary that we might learn the market value
of his books--otherwise Virgilio Poggi would doubtless have robbed
us after the old man's death. There was a medieval history of the
Borgia family I should myself have greatly treasured under happier
circumstances.

Nevertheless, though things difficult and dangerous we had
triumphantly achieved, before this task for a child we failed; and
the reason for our collapse was not in Jenny but in me. Had I
listened to my austere partner I should have waited only until she
had searched for and found her uncle's will. This she did; and as
the instrument proved entirely satisfactory, my duty was then to
proceed about our business and remember that better an egg to-day
than a hen to-morrow. Only an artist's fond pride intervened;
nothing but my vanity, my consciousness of power to excel, upset the
rightful climax. We were, indeed, both artists, but how incomparably
the greater she! How severe and direct, how scornful of needless
elaboration! She belonged, mind and body, to the finest period of
Greek art, and echoed their stern, soulless simplicity and
perfection. Had she won her way with me, we should be living now to
enjoy the fruits of our accomplishment.

But though she did not win her way, yet, in defeat, her final,
glorious deed was to intercept the death intended for me, that I
might still live. Loyal to the last, she sacrificed herself,
forgetting, in that supreme moment, how life for me without her
could possess no shadow of compensation. When Jenny shook off the
dust of the world, I was ready and willing to do the same. As for
that future life, in which I most potently believe, since she and I
have merited a like treatment, we shall share eternity together and
so be in heaven, whatever the Great Contriver may desire to the
contrary. Yet who shall presume to dogmatize? "There is nothing
either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." And what the Almighty
Mind may be pleased to think of any human performance is for the
present hidden with Him alone. He did not make the tiger to eat
grass or the eagle to feed on honey.

My wife's deeper sanity and clearer vision always inclined her to
distrust our American acquaintance, Peter Ganns. From the first
moment that Jenny's eyes fell upon that fine figure of a man, she
judged him to be built on a very different mental pattern from
Brendon. He was no New World edition of our poor, tame Marco; and
the preliminary fact that he should have anticipated us and arrived
beside Como before he was expected to do so, convinced Jenny that he
must prove a factor of extreme gravity in all future calculations.
I, too, perceived his force of character, and rejoiced to do so, for
here appeared an enemy worthy of my invention and resource.

It seemed clear that Pietro was a skeptical person--doubtless made
so by his dreadful trade. "Thomas" rather than "Peter" should have
been his name. He had a disconcerting habit of taking nothing for
granted; and his "third eye" as he called it--an eye of the
mind--saw a great many things concealed from ordinary observers. He
would have made a classical criminal.

The artist's pride, that had prevented me from acting so that Ganns
should have been invited to discover the murderer of Albert rather
than set the task of preserving his friend's life--this false,
foolish sense of superiority and security wrecked all. Had Albert
slept beneath the waters of Como before Ganns arrived, then not the
wit of twenty Peters had ever found him; but while no man living
could have saved the life of Redmayne, since had I determined to
take it, the predestined sequel to his death was confounded by my
own error. Once more Ganns struck before I expected him to do so and
I was, too late, confronted with the shattering truth. He had in
fact found me out. He returned to England, worked like a mole, dug
up my history, no doubt, and so came to the logical conclusion that
it appeared more reasonable Michael Pendean should murder Robert
Redmayne than the opposite. Having reached this conviction, his
reconstruction of each event threw added light; but even so it must
have been a spark of prodigious inspiration that identified in Doria
the vanished Cornishman.

Ganns is a great man on his own plane. But, though he is a greedy
creature who digs his grave with his knife and fork, though his
habit of drenching himself with powdered tobacco, instead of smoking
like a gentleman, is disgusting, yet I have nothing but admiration
for him. His little plot--to treat me to a dose of my own physic and
present a forgery of "Robert Redmayne" in the evening dusk--was
altogether admirable. The thing came in a manner so sudden and
unexpected that I failed of a perfect riposte. To confess that I saw
the ghost was dangerous; but to pretend afterwards that I had seen
nothing was fatal. His own immense cleverness, of course, appeared
in assuring me that he saw nothing, thus tempting me to suspect that
I had in reality been a victim of my own imagination. From that
moment the battle was joined and I stood at grave disadvantage.

How much or how little he had won from my slip I had yet to learn.
In any case the time was all too short, for I guessed now that Ganns
must at least have associated me with the unknown--he who had worn
Redmayne's clothes and had tried to shoot Brendon in his absence. It
was Jenny, of course, who had assisted me to dig Marco's grave on
Griante and who shared my disappointment when we found that Brendon
had escaped my revolver. Even so only the accident of biting his
tongue saved him. Had I not seen blood flowing from his lips, I
should have fired again.

I was not aware that Peter proposed to arrest me on the night of
Albert's death, for upon what ground could he do so? Indeed I judged
that after my final operations were completed and Albert destroyed,
good Ganns would swiftly prove, to his own satisfaction, that I
could not be associated with that crime and so feel his whole theory
open to suspicion. Had I known that Peter was at his goal, my first
thought might have been to disappear instantly and only appear again
under a new impersonation, a year or two later, when the storm was
over. In that case I should have indicated how "Giuseppe Doria" had
committed suicide and left every tactful and sufficing proof of the
fact.

But I never guessed the majestic heights of Peter's genius and,
taking the chance of his temporary absence, slew Albert with a
simple trick. There was only Mark Brendon to prevent it; and Jenny,
having reserved her final and irresistible appeal for some such
vital occasion, found no difficulty in absorbing all Marco's limited
intelligence, while awakening for him fond hopes and visions of a
notable future in her arms. It needs to be pointed out that this
worthy person's infatuation served again and again to prosper the
situation for us and handicap the efforts of Peter Ganns; but that
Ganns should have trusted him upon that all-important night to
shepherd Albert from my attention, only shows how Peter never
appreciated the limitations of his assistant. Yes, even Peter was
human, all too human.

While Jenny related her sufferings and made appeal to her listener's
overmastering devotion, I left the house and Brendon saw me go. To
get a boat, that I might cross to Bellagio, was the work of ten
minutes. I took one without troubling the owner, loaded a dozen
heavy stones and soon rowed to Villa Pianezzo and ascended the water
steps. A black beard was all the disguise I used, save that I had
left my coat in the boat and appeared before Redmayne in shirt
sleeves.

With trembling accents I related to Assunta, who of course knew me
not, that Poggi was taken fatally ill and might hardly hope to last
an hour. It was enough. I returned to the boat and in three minutes
Albert joined me and offered me untold gold to row as I had never
rowed before. A hundred and fifty yards from shore I directed him to
pass into the bow of the boat, explaining that I should so make
greater speed. As he passed me, the little pole-axe fell. He
suffered nothing and in five minutes more, with heavy stones
fastened to feet and arms, he sank beneath Como. The pole-axe
followed, its work completed. In more spacious times the weapon
would have become an heirloom. All this happened not two hundred
yards from Villa Pianezzo under the darkness.

Then I rowed ashore swiftly, returned the boat to the beach
unobserved, hid my disguise in my pocket and strolled to a familiar
inn. I had occupied but twenty-four minutes from the time of setting
out under Brendon's eyes while he sat in the garden. I stopped at
this _albergo_ for a considerable period, that a sufficient alibi
might be established and the moment of my arrival there prove
uncertain, should any future question ever arise concerning it. Then
the crash came. I returned home suspecting nothing--to fall like
Lucifer, to find all lost, to hold my dead wife in my arms and know
that, without her, life was ended for me.

In seemly, splendid fashion she passed and it shall not be recorded
that the man this glorious woman loved made an end of his days with
less distinction and propriety. To die on the gallows is to do what
many others have done; I will condescend to no such ignominy. Ganns
understood me well enough for that. Did he not warn the police how I
had been a dentist, and advised them to examine my mouth with care?
He alone realized something of my genius, but not all. Only our
peers can judge us; and such men as I come like lonely comets into
the atmosphere of earth and lonely pass away. Our magnitude
terrifies--and the herd of men thanks God when we disappear. Indeed
I was unusually blessed, for I had a greater than myself for
companion on my voyage. Like twin stars we cast a blended light; we
shone and vanished together, never to be named apart henceforth.

Let not my legacy to Peter Ganns be forgotten, or that I appoint
Mark Brendon executor and residuary legatee. With him I have no
quarrel; he did his best to save the situation for us. You ask, "How
shall a man condemned to death and watched day and night that he may
lay no hand upon himself--how shall this man make his own
departure?" Before these words are read throughout the world, you
will learn the answer to that question.

I think there is nothing more to say.

"_Al finir del gioco, si vede chi ha guadagnato._" "At the end of
the game we may see the winner." But not always, for sometimes the
game is drawn and honours are easy. I have played a drawn game with
Peter Ganns and he will not pretend a victory, or withhold the first
applause where it belongs. He knows that, even if we were equal, the
woman was greater than either of us.

                    Farewell,
                               GIUSEPPE DORIA.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten days after Peter Ganns had read this narrative and its sequel at
his snug home outside Boston, there awaited him, upon his breakfast
table, a little parcel from England. The packet suggested an
addition to Peter's famous collection of snuffboxes. He had left
certain commissions behind him in London and doubted not that a new
treasure awaited him. But he was disappointed. Something far more
amazing than any snuffbox now challenged his astonished eyes. There
came a long letter from Mark Brendon also, which repeated
information already familiar to Peter through the newspapers; but
added other facts for him alone.

                             NEW SCOTLAND YARD, 20 October 1921.

     MY DEAR PETER GANNS: You will have heard of Pendean's
     confession and message to you; but you may not have read full
     details as they concern you personally. I inclose his gift; and
     it is safe to bet that neither you nor any man will henceforth
     possess anything more remarkable. He made a will in prison and
     the law decides that I inherit his personal estate; but you
     will not be surprised to learn that I have handed it over to
     the police orphanages of my country and yours in equal
     proportions.

     The facts are these. As the day approached for his execution,
     extraordinary precautions were taken, but Pendean behaved with
     utmost restraint, gave no trouble and made no threat. Having
     completed his written statement, he asked to be permitted to
     copy it on a type-writer, but leave to do so was not granted.
     He kept the communication on his person and he was promised
     that no attempt to read it should be made until after his
     execution. Indeed he received this undertaking before he put
     pen to paper. He preserved a quiet and orderly manner, ate
     well, took exercise with his guards and smoked many cigarettes.
     I may mention that the body of Robert Redmayne was found where
     he buried it; but the tides have deflected the beach gravels of
     Bendigo's grave and search there has revealed nothing.

     Upon his last night but one, Pendean retired as usual and
     apparently slept for some hours with the bedclothes up to his
     face. A warder sat on each side of him and a light was burning.
     Suddenly he gave a sigh and held out his hand to the man on his
     right.

     "See that goes to Peter Ganns--it is my legacy," he said. "And
     remember that Mark Brendon is my heir." He then put a small
     object into the warder's hand. At the same time he apparently
     suffered a tremendous physical convulsion, uttered one groan
     and leaped up into a sitting position. From this he fell
     forward unconscious. One attendant supported him and the other
     ran for the prison surgeon. But Pendean was already
     dead--poisoned with cyanide of potassium.

     You will remember two facts which might have thrown light upon
     his secret. The first was his accident in Italy as a youth; the
     second your constant interest in a peculiar, inhuman quality of
     his expression which you were never able to understand. Both
     are now explained. With ordinary eyes the secret would have
     doubtless been swiftly discovered by us. But in his case, so
     dark were they, that pupil and iris were almost the same colour
     and hence our failure to explain the artificial mystery of his
     glance. He had, of course, a secret receptacle upon his person
     beyond human knowledge or power of discovery, for he says that
     only his mother knew of his accident. That accident was the
     loss of an eye. Behind an eye of glass that took its place had
     lain concealed, until he required it, the capsule of poison
     found crushed within his mouth after death.

     What the published statement of this knave has done for me you
     will guess. I am leaving the detective service and have found
     other occupation. One can only seek to live down my awful
     experience. Next year my work will bring me to America and,
     when that happens, I shall be very glad to see you again should
     you permit me to do so--not that we may speak of the past, with
     all its futility and bitterness for me, but that we may look
     forward, and that I may see all is well with you in your days
     of retirement, honour and ease. Until then I subscribe myself,
     your admirer and faithful friend,

                                       MARK BRENDON.


Peter opened his parcel.

It contained an eye made of glass and very exquisitely fashioned to
imitate reality. Its prevailing darkness had prevented the truth
from appearing, and yet, perfect though it was in lustre and
pigment, the false thing had given to Pendean's expression a quality
that never failed to disturb Peter. It was not sinister, yet he
remembered no such cast of countenance within his experience.

Mr. Ganns turned over the little object that had so often met his
inquiring gaze.

"A rare crook," he said aloud; "but he is right: his wife was
greater than either of us. If he'd listened to her and not his own
vainglory, both could be alive and flourishing yet."

The dark brown eye seemed to stare up at him with a human twinkle as
he brought out his gold snuffbox and took a pinch.





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