Title: The Midnight Guest
Author: White, Fred M. (Fred Merrick)
Language: English
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[Illustration: Front Cover]



THE MIDNIGHT GUEST


_A Detective Story_



By
Fred M. White
Author of "The Crimson Blind," "The Corner House,"
Etc.



GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS -- NEW YORK



Copyright, 1907
T. J. McBRIDE & SON
------------
Published May, 1907



CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.         At Whose Hand?

CHAPTER II.        No. 1 Fitzjohn Square.

CHAPTER III.       The Mark Of The Beast.

CHAPTER IV.        A Woman's Face.

CHAPTER V.         Vera Rayne.

CHAPTER VI.        A Voice in the Dark.

CHAPTER VII.       The Yellow Hand-bill.

CHAPTER VIII.      The Mystery Deepens.

CHAPTER IX.        The Confidential Agent.

CHAPTER X.         Ropes of Sand.

CHAPTER XI.        The Express Letter.

CHAPTER XII.       A Speaking Likeness.

CHAPTER XIII.      A Striking Likeness.

CHAPTER XIV.       Retrospection.

CHAPTER XV.        Dallas Makes A Discovery.

CHAPTER XVI.       Strong Measures.

CHAPTER XVII.      Looking Backwards.

CHAPTER XVIII.     After Many Years.

CHAPTER XIX.       Carlotta's Story.

CHAPTER XX.        Valdo in a New Light.

CHAPTER XXI.       To Be In Time.

CHAPTER XXII.      The Worth of a Name.

CHAPTER XXIII.     The Next Move.

CHAPTER XXIV.      A Blood Relation.

CHAPTER XXV.       Bred in the Bone.

CHAPTER XXVI.      A Faithful Servant.

CHAPTER XXVII.     Flight!

CHAPTER XXVIII.    Vera's Warning.

CHAPTER XXIX.      The Message.

CHAPTER XXX.       Lost!

CHAPTER XXXI.      A Missing Link.

CHAPTER XXXII.     What Does It Mean?

CHAPTER XXXIII.    The Midnight Message.

CHAPTER XXXIV.     A Strange Home-coming.

CHAPTER XXXV.      Mother and Child.

CHAPTER XXXVI.     In the Dead of Night.

CHAPTER XXXVII.    An Unexpected Friend.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.   In the House.

CHAPTER XXXIX.     The Hound Again.

CHAPTER XL.        Broken Wings.

CHAPTER XLI.       A Ray of Light.

CHAPTER XLII.      Run To Earth.

CHAPTER XLIII.     The Whole Truth.

CHAPTER XLIV.      The Story of a Crime.

CHAPTER XLV.       Count Flavio's Diary.

CHAPTER XLVI.      A Woman's Heart.

CHAPTER XLVII.     The Passing of the Vengeance.



THE MIDNIGHT GUEST.



CHAPTER I.
AT WHOSE HAND?


A Hansom pulled up in front of 799, Park Lane, and a slim figure of a
woman, dressed in deep mourning, ran up the broad flight of marble
steps leading to the house. Her features were closely concealed by a
thick veil, so that the footman who answered the ring could make
nothing of the visitor. Her voice was absolutely steady as she asked
to see Lord Ravenspur at once.

"That is impossible, madam," the footman protested; "his lordship is
not yet down, and besides----"

"There is no 'besides' about it," the visitor said, imperiously; "it
is a matter of life and death."

Once more the servant hesitated. There was something about this woman
that commanded his respect. The hour was still early for Park Lane,
seeing that it was barely nine o'clock, and the notable thoroughfare
was practically deserted. From the distance came the hoarse cries of a
number of newsboys who were racing across the Park. One of them came
stumbling down Park Lane, filling the fresh spring atmosphere with his
shouts. Evidently something out of the common had happened to bring
these birds of ill omen westward at so early an hour. With the
curiosity of his class the footman turned to listen.

"Terrible murder in Fitzjohn Square! Death of Mr. Louis Delahay, the
famous artist! Artist found dead in his studio! Full details!"

The well-trained servant forgot his manners for the moment.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "it can't be true. Why, Mr. Delahay was a
great friend of my master up to the last day or two----"

"I am Mrs. Delahay," the veiled woman said with quiet intentness.
"Please don't stand staring at me like that, but take me to your
master at once. It is imperative that I should see Lord Ravenspur
without a moment's delay."

The footman collected his scattered wits, and stammered out some kind
of apology. There were other newsboys racing down the Lane now. It
seemed as if London was ringing with the name of Louis Delahay. Then
the great double doors of the big house closed sullenly and shut out
the horrid sound. At any other time the veiled woman might have been
free to admire the luxury and extravagant good taste of her
surroundings. There were many people who regarded Lord Ravenspur as
the most fortunate and talented man in London. Not only had he been
born to the possession of a fine old title, but he had almost
unlimited wealth as well. As if this were not sufficient, Nature had
endowed him with a handsome presence and an intellect far beyond the
common. Apparently there was nothing that Ravenspur could not do. He
was a fine sportsman, and a large number of his forty odd years had
been spent big game shooting abroad. What time he passed in England
was devoted almost exclusively to artistic pursuits. As a portrait
painter Ravenspur stood on a level with the great masters of his time.
More than one striking example of sculpture had come from his chisel.
He had as much honour in the Salons of Vienna and Paris as he had
within the walls of Burlington House. In fine, Ravenspur was a great
personage, a popular figure in society, and well known everywhere. His
lavish hospitality was always in the best of good taste, and the
_entrée_ to 799, Park Lane was accounted a rare privilege by all his
friends.

But the woman in black was thinking nothing of this, as she followed
the footman along marble corridors to a sunny morning-room at the back
of the house. The footman indicated a chair, but the visitor waved him
aside with a gesture of impatience.

"Go and fetch your master at once," she said.

For a few moments she paced up and down, weaving her way in and out
amongst the rare objects of art like a wild animal that is freshly
caged. She threw back her long, black veil presently as if the
atmosphere of the place stifled her. Her face might have been that of
a marble statue, so intensely white and rigid it was. It was only the
rapid dilation of the dark eyes which showed that the stranger had
life and feeling at all. She turned abruptly as Lord Ravenspur came
into the room. His handsome, smiling face and prematurely iron-grey
hair afforded a strong contrast to the features of his visitor. He
came forward with extended hands.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Maria," he said. "But what is wrong?
Louis is all right, I suppose?"

"Louis is dead!" the woman said in the same cold, strained voice. "He
has been foully murdered. I could not say more if I spoke for an hour.
Louis is dead!"

The speaker repeated the last three words over and over again as if
she were trying to realise the dread significance of her own message.
Ravenspur stood there with his hand to his head, shocked and grieved
almost beyond the power of speech.

"This is terrible," he murmured at length. "My dear Maria, I cannot
find words to express my sympathy. Could you tell me how it happened?
But perhaps I am asking too much."

"No," Mrs. Delahay replied, still speaking with the utmost calmness;
"I am ready to answer any question you like to put to me. I am
absolutely dazed and stunned. As yet I can realise nothing. But,
perhaps, before the reaction comes I had better tell you everything.
To think that I should lose him in this way whilst I am still a bride!
But I dare not pity myself as yet, there is far too much stern work to
be done. There will be plenty of time later on for the luxury of
grief."

"Won't you sit down?" Ravenspur murmured.

"My dear friend, I couldn't. I must be walking about. I feel as if I
could walk about for years. But I will try and tell you how it
happened. He came back to London yesterday afternoon, as you know, and
put up at the Grand Hotel. You see, I had never been in London before,
and so I know nothing at all about it. If we had only gone straight to
our own house in Fitzjohn Square this dreadful thing--but why do I
think of that? You know the house was not quite ready for us, and that
was the reason why we went to the Grand. After visiting a theatre last
night Louis announced his intention of going as far as our house. I
understood him to say that he required something from his studio.
There were no caretakers on the premises, but Louis had a latchkey, so
that was all right. I went to bed about twelve o'clock, thinking no
evil, and not in the least alarmed because Louis had not come back. As
you know, he had always been a terribly late man, and I thought
perhaps he had met one of his old companions, or perhaps he had turned
into the Garrick Club. Still, when I woke up this morning about six,
and found that he had not returned, I became genuinely alarmed. I took
a cab as far as Fitzjohn Square, and went into the house."

"One moment," Ravenspur interrupted. "I don't quite understand how you
managed to get into the premises."

"That was an easy matter, though the front door was closed. The
latchkey was still in the lock. I only had to turn it to obtain
admission. I went straight to the studio, and there on the
floor----but I really cannot say any more. Strung up as I am I could
not describe it to you. . . .  I suppose I cried out, and when I came
back to a proper comprehension of things the place was full of police.
For the last two hours I have been with them answering all sorts of
questions. Then something told me to come to you, and here I am. And
whatever you do, please don't leave me alone. I could not bear to be
alone."

"I wish I could tell you how sorry I am," Lord Ravenspur murmured.
"This is a most extraordinary business altogether. You say that Louis
left you not later than twelve o'clock to go as far as Fitzjohn
Square, and that, when he left the Grand Hotel, he had no other object
in his mind. You are quite sure of this?"

"I am absolutely certain," Mrs. Delahay replied.

"Well, that is a strange thing," Ravenspur went on. "It so happens
that I had an accident to my own studio a day or two ago, and until
yesterday the workmen were in repairing the glass roof. I was engaged
upon a small work which I was anxious to finish, and it occurred to me
that I might just as well make use of your husband's studio, seeing
that he was away from home and did not require it. I obtained a
duplicate key from the house agent, and all yesterday I was working on
my picture there. In fact it is in Louis' studio at the present
moment. After some friends who were dining with me last night left, I
walked as far as Fitzjohn Square, and till nearly a quarter past one
this morning I was at work there. I might have gone on all night, only
the electric light failed suddenly, and I was left in darkness. Then I
came home and went to bed. And I am prepared to swear that it had
turned half-past one before I left your house, and there was no sign
of Louis up to that time."

"It is inexplicable," the woman said wearily. "When I try to think my
brain seems to turn to water, and everything goes misty before my
eyes. I feel like a woman who has had no sleep for years. I feel as if
I must get something to relieve this terrible pressure on my brain. Is
there nothing that you can suggest?"

"I think so," Ravenspur said quietly. "I am going to take you back to
your hotel, and call for a doctor on the way. You cannot go on like
this. No human mind could stand it."



CHAPTER II.
NO. 1 FITZJOHN SQUARE


A few moments later and Ravenspur's brougham was being rapidly driven
in the direction of the Grand Hotel. No words were spoken on the
journey, but Ravenspur did not fail to notice how his companion shook
and quivered as the shouts of the newsboys reached her ears. It seemed
as if all London had given itself over to this last sensational
tragedy. It was as if thousands of strange rough hands were pressing
upon the still bleeding wound. To an intensely sympathetic nature like
Ravenspur's, the relief of the destination was great. At his
suggestion of food his companion shuddered. The mere idea of it turned
her physically sick. Utterly worn out and exhausted she dropped into a
chair. There was a light now of something like madness in her eyes.
The doctor bustled in presently with something in his hand. Mrs.
Delahay drank the medicine in a mechanical way, scarcely knowing what
she was doing. Then, gradually, her rigid limbs relaxed, and the
staring dark eyes were closed.

"She'll do now for some time," the doctor whispered. "I have
telephoned for a nurse who may be here now at any moment. Don't let me
detain you. I have got my motor outside, and in any case I must remain
till the nurse arrives."

"That is very good of you," Ravenspur murmured. "As far as I am
concerned I should like to make some inquiries. I have known Delahay
now for the last five years; indeed, it was I who persuaded him to
take up his quarters in London. It seems a terrible thing that so
promising a career should be cut short like this. That man would have
come to the top of his profession, and, so far as I know, he hadn't a
single enemy in the world. Perhaps, by this time, the Scotland Yard
people may have found a clue."

Ravenspur drove straight away to Fitzjohn Square, and made his way
through the crowd of morbid folks who had gathered outside. As he
expected, he found the house in the hands of the police. Inspector
Dallas came forward and greeted him respectfully.

"This is a terrible affair, my lord," he said.

"Ghastly," Ravenspur exclaimed. "It was a great shock when Mrs.
Delahay came round to me this morning. And the strange part of the
whole business is that I was in this very house myself, quite alone,
till half-past one. Perhaps I had better explain the circumstances to
you, as the knowledge might prove useful. . . . And now you know all
about it. Mind you, I saw nothing; I did not hear a sound. Indeed, I
am quite convinced that there was no one on the premises when I left."

"But you had no means of making sure," the inspector protested. "The
miscreants might have been here all the time. They might have been
hiding in a room upstairs waiting for you to go."

"They might have attacked me as far as that goes," Ravenspur replied.
"My word, the mere suggestion of it turns one cold."

"At any rate, they were not after your lordship," the inspector said,
thoughtfully. "Of course, I am assuming for the sake of argument that
the murderer, or murderers, were actually here when you arrived last
night. If so, the whole thing was carefully premeditated. These people
had no quarrel with you, and, therefore, they did not molest you. All
the same, they wanted to get rid of you, or they would not have cut
off the light."

"But did they cut off the light?" Ravenspur asked.

"That we can prove in a moment. I am going on the theory that these
people wanted to get you out of the way, so they short-circuited the
current and left you in darkness. That was a very useful expedient,
and had the desired effect. I am very glad you told me this because it
may be the means of putting us on the track of important evidence. But
let us go down to the basement, and examine the electric meter."

Ravenspur followed his companion down the dark steps leading to the
basement, and Inspector Dallas struck a light. Then, with a grim
smile, he pointed to a cable which led from the meter to the different
rooms on the upper floors. The cable had been clean cut with some
sharp instrument, a fracture which must have been recently made, for
the main wire to the cable gleamed like gold.

"So far, so good," Dallas said. "We have proved by yonder
demonstration that these people were here last night whilst you were
actually at work in the studio."

"That puzzles me more than ever," Ravenspur replied. "Why did they not
get rid of me an hour before, which they could have done equally as
well, by the same simple expedient?"

"Simply because they could afford to wait till half-past one. You may
depend upon it that Mr. Delahay's movements were absolutely known to
them. They were perfectly well aware of the fact that he was not
expected here till some time past half-past one. It is not a nice
insinuation to make, but when Mr. Delahay left his hotel at midnight,
he had not the slightest intention of coming straight here. Doubtless
he had important business which was likely to last him an hour and a
half, and for some reason or other he did not want his wife to know
what it was. Speaking as one man of the world to another, Mr.
Delahay's excuse for getting out strikes me as being rather a shallow
one. Surely a married man, more or less on his honeymoon, does not
want to visit an empty house after midnight. Surely he could have
waited till daylight."

"Then you think he went out to keep an appointment?"

"I feel quite convinced of it, your lordship. And, moreover, the
appointment was a secret one of which Mrs. Delahay was to know
nothing. I will go still further, and say that Mr. Delahay came here
after you had gone this morning to keep an appointment. It is just
possible that he might have been in the house during your presence
here. It is just possible that he cut the cable himself."

"Ah, but that won't quite do," Ravenspur protested. "When I came out
of the house this morning I saw that the front door was carefully
fastened, and I am prepared to swear that the latchkey which Mrs.
Delahay found this morning was not in the lock then. No, no; I am
quite sure that poor Delahay must have come here after I left. I am
not prepared to contest your theory that my unfortunate friend came
here to keep an appointment. Indeed, the presence of the latchkey in
the door proves that he was in a hurry, and perhaps a little upset, or
he would not have committed the mistake of leaving the key behind him.
But after all, said and done, this is merely conjecture on our part.
Have you found anything yourself that is likely to give you a clue?"

Inspector Dallas hesitated just for a moment.

"Perhaps I ought not to mention it," he said, "but I am sure I can
rely upon your lordship's discretion. When I was called this morning I
found Mr. Delahay lying on the floor of the studio quite dead. So far
as we could see there were no marks of violence on the body except a
small puncture over the heart, which appears to have been made with
some very fine instrument. But, of course, we can't speak definitely
on that point till we have had the inquest. As far as we can judge,
something like a struggle must have taken place, because the loose
carpets on the floor were in great disorder, and one or two articles
of furniture had been overturned. You may say that this proves
nothing, except that violence was used. But in the hand of the dead
man we found something that might be useful to us. Perhaps you would
like to see it."

Lord Ravenspur intimated that he should. From a pocket-book Dallas
produced a photograph, _carte de visite_ size, which had been torn
into half a dozen pieces. The photograph was considerably faded, and
in the tearing the actual face itself had been ripped out of all
recognition. Still, judging from the small fragments, it was possible
to make out that the picture had been that of a woman. One scrap of
card bore the words "and Co., Melbourne." The rest of the lettering
had apparently vanished.

"This must have been taken a long time ago," Ravenspur said. "It is so
terribly faded."

"Not necessarily, my lord," Dallas said. "We know very little about
that photograph as yet except that it was taken in Australia. Of
course, it is fair to assume that the picture is an old one judging
from the colouring, but your lordship must not forget that foreign
photographs are always much fainter than those taken in this country,
because the light is so much stronger and more brilliant. At any rate,
the fact remains that we found those fragments tightly clenched in Mr.
Delahay's left hand, all of which points to some intrigue, with a
woman at the bottom of it. Of course, I know nothing whatever about
Mr. Delahay's moral character----"

"Then I'll tell you," Ravenspur said sharply. "My late friend was the
soul of honour. He was a very quick, passionate man, and he inherited
his temper from his Italian mother. But the man was incapable of
anything mean or dishonourable. He was genuinely in love with his
wife, and cared nothing for any other woman. How that photograph came
into his possession I don't know. Probably we never shall know. But
you can at once dismiss from your mind the suspicion that Delahay was
mixed up in that vulgar kind of business. Now, is there anything more
you can tell me?"

"Well, no," Dallas said, after a short pause. "There is nothing that
strikes me, no suggestions that seem to need a doctor's opinion. We
shall find that the cause of death is the small puncture over the
heart that I spoke of. To hazard an opinion, it might be caused by one
of those glass stilettos--the Corsican type of weapon where the blade
is snapped off in the wound. It leaves the smallest mark, and no blood
follows--a difficult thing to trace without great care. Of course, the
_post mortem_----"



CHAPTER III.
THE MARK OF THE BEAST.


A sudden quick cry broke from Ravenspur's lips. He fairly staggered
back, his white face was given over to a look of peculiar horror.
Then, as he became aware of the curious glances of his companion he
made a great effort to regain his self-control.

"I--I don't understand," he stammered. "A stiletto made of glass! A
long, slender blade like an exaggerated needle, I presume. Yet, now I
come to think of it, I recollect that, when I was painting a 'Borgia'
subject once, my costume dealer spoke of one of those Corsican
daggers. I did not take much interest in the conversation at the time.
And so you have an idea that this is the way in which my poor friend
met his death?"

Ravenspur was speaking quietly and easily now. He had altogether
regained control of himself save for an occasional twitching of his
lips. He paced up and down the room thoughtfully for some time,
utterly unconscious of Dallas' sharp scrutiny.

"I suppose there is nothing more you have to tell me?" he said at
length. "This is evidently going to be one of those crimes which
thrill a whole community for a week, and then are never heard of
again. Still, if there is anything I can do for you, pray do not
hesitate to ask for my assistance. I suppose we can do no more till
after the inquest is over?"

Without waiting for any reply from his companion Ravenspur quitted the
room, and went back to his brougham. He threw himself into a corner,
and pulled his hat over his eyes. For a long time he sat there
immersed in deep and painful thought, and utterly unconscious of his
surroundings. Even when the brougham pulled up in Park Lane he made no
attempt to dismount till the footman opened the door and addressed him
by name.

"I--I beg your pardon, Walters," he said, "this terrible business
prevents my thinking about anything else. I am going into my own room
now, and I am not to be disturbed by anybody. If I am dining out
tonight, tell Mr. Ford to write and cancel the engagement. Oh, here
is Ford himself."

The neat, clean-shaven secretary came forward.

"Your lordship seems to have forgotten," he said. "You are giving a
dinner here tonight yourself. You gave orders especially to arrange
it, because you were anxious for some of the Royal Academicians to
meet the young Polish artist----"

"I had clean forgotten it," Ravenspur said, with something like a
groan. "Entertaining people tonight will be like dancing in fetters.
Still, I must make the best of it, for I should not like that talented
young foreigner to be disappointed. In the meantime, I am not at home
to anybody."

With this admonition Ravenspur passed up to his own private rooms, and
carefully locked the door behind him. He took a cigar from his case,
and lighted it, only to fling it away a moment later in disgust. He
stood just for a moment with his hand on a decanter of brandy, and
then with a smile for his own weakness poured out a glassful, which he
drank without delay.

"I am a fool and a coward," he muttered. "What can there be to be
afraid of after all these years? Why do I hesitate in this way when
boldness and decision would avert the danger?"

Ravenspur sat there, looking moodily into space. He heard the house
resounding to the sound of the luncheon gong, but he made no movement.
The mere suggestion of food was repulsive to him, clean as his habits
were and robust as his appetite usually was. The Lane and the Park
were gay with traffic now; the roar of locomotion reached the ears of
Ravenspur as he sat there. Presently the noise of the newsboys came
again, and the name of Delahay seemed to fill the air to the exclusion
of everything else. Ravenspur rang his bell, and asked for a paper.

The flimsy, ill-printed sheet fairly reeked with the latest and most
ghastly of London tragedies. Nothing else seemed to matter for the
moment. Seven or eight columns were given over to an account of the
affair. Before he set himself down to read it steadily through,
Ravenspur glanced at the last paragraph, to find that the preliminary
inquiry had been adjourned for a week. Most of the florid sensational
paragraphs contained nothing new. The only point that interested the
reader was the medical evidence.

This was compact and to the point. Death had been undoubtedly due to a
stab over the heart which had been inflicted by some long, pointed
instrument, not much thicker, apparently, than a needle. So far as the
police doctor could say, the weapon used had been an Italian stiletto.
There was practically no blood. Indeed, the whole thing had been
accomplished in a cool and deliberate manner by a man who was not only
master of his art, but who must have possessed a considerable
knowledge of anatomy. Evidently he had chosen a spot to inflict the
wound with careful deliberation, for the deviation of half an inch
either way might have produced comparatively harmless results. It was
the opinion of the doctor that, had the fatal thrust been made through
the bare skin, all traces of it might have been overlooked. It was
only the adherence of the dead man's singlet to the tiny puncture that
had caused sufficient inflammation to attach suspicion to the point of
impact. All this pointed to the fact that the crime had been clearly
premeditated and carried out coldly and deliberately.

For the moment, however, the great puzzle was to discover how the
murderer had been aware that he would be in a position to find his
victim at Fitzjohn Square. It was proved conclusively enough that
Louis Delahay had come back to England on the spur of the moment, and
that equally on the spur of the moment he had made up his mind to
visit his house, and, therefore, nobody could possibly have known
besides his wife when he had left the Grand Hotel. On this point
public curiosity would have to wait, seeing that Mrs. Delahay was in
no condition to explain. In fact, she was in the hands of a medical
man who had prescribed absolute quiet for the present.

Ravenspur tossed the paper impatiently aside, and rang for his tea.
The slow day dragged along until it was time for him to dress and
prepare for the reception of his guests. He came down presently to the
drawing-room, where one or two of the men had already assembled. His
old pleasant smile was on his face now. He was once more the polished,
courtly man of the world. He steeled himself for what he knew was
coming. Practically the whole of his guests were artists of
distinction. And the death of Louis Delahay would be the one topic of
conversation. The blinds were down now, for the young spring night had
drawn in rapidly and it was perfectly dark outside. The clock struck
the hour of eight, and the butler glanced in inquiringly. Ravenspur
shook his head.

"Not quite yet, Simmonds," he said; "we are waiting for Sir James
Seton. As he is usually the soul of punctuality he is not likely to
detain us."

"You can take his place if necessary," one of the guests laughed.
"When I see Seton and our host together I always feel quite
bewildered. Two such public men had no business to be so absurdly
alike."

"There is no real 'resemblance,'" Ravenspur laughed, "though people are
constantly making absurd mistakes. It is excusable to mistake one for
the other in the dark, but not in the daylight. Besides, Seton is a
much taller man than I am, and much slimmer. We should hear nothing
about this likeness, but for certain gentlemen of the Press who make
their living out of little paragraphs."

"Well, they have got plenty to occupy their attention now," another
guest remarked. "This business of poor Delahay's is likely to give
them occupation for some time. Tell us all about it, Ravenspur. I hear
that you were down at Fitzjohn Square this morning. Is there anything
fresh?"

Ravenspur groaned in his spirit. All the same, his manner was polished
and easy as he turned to the speaker. But before he had time to give
any details there was a sound of excited voices in the hall outside,
the banging of a door or two, and then a tall, elderly man staggered
into the room, and fell into a seat. There was an ugly scar on the
side of his face, a few drops of blood stained his immaculate
shirt-front.

"Good Heavens!" Ravenspur cried. "My dear Seton, what is the matter?
Simmonds, bring the brandy here at once."

"No, no," the newcomer gasped; "I shall be all right in a minute or
two. A most extraordinary thing happened to me just now. I was coming
towards the Lane by the back of Lord Fairhaven's house on my way here
when a man came out from under the shadow of the trees, and commenced
a violent attack upon me. Fortunately, I was able to ward him off with
my stick, but not before he had marked me in the way you see. Somebody
happened to be coming along, and my assailant vanished. Still, it was
a nasty adventure, and all the more extraordinary because the fellow
evidently mistook me for our friend Ravenspur. He actually called me
by that name."

All eyes were turned in the host's direction, for a strange, choking
cry burst from his lips.



CHAPTER IV.
A WOMAN'S FACE.


It was such an unusual thing for Lord Ravenspur to show his feelings
so plainly. For the most part he passed as one of the most
self-contained men in London. He had always boasted, too, of perfect
health. His nerves were in the best condition. And now he had started
to his feet, his hand pressed to his heart, his face white, and wet
with terror. More than one of the guests came forward, but Ravenspur
waved them aside.

"I am behaving like a child," he said. "I suppose the time comes when
all of us begin to feel the effect of approaching age. I don't know
why Seton's misfortunes should have upset me so much. But, perhaps,
coming on the horrors of this morning, it has been a little too much
for me. It is a most scandalous thing that a gentleman can't go out to
dinner without being molested in this fashion. What are the police
thinking about?"

Ravenspur spoke in hot indignation; in fact, he was slightly overdoing
it. He fussed about Seton, and insisted that the latter should go up
to his room, which suggestion the guest waived aside. He was the far
more collected of the two.

"Oh, nonsense," he said; "a canful of hot water will repair all the
damage. Don't you worry about me. You go in to dinner, and leave me to
young Walter here."

A door opened at that moment, and a young man entered, and came
eagerly across the room in the direction of the speaker. Walter Lance
might have been Lord Ravenspur as he had been twenty years ago. As a
matter of fact, they were uncle and nephew, Lance being the son of
Ravenspur's favorite sister, who had died some years before. For the
rest, he was a barrister eagerly waiting his chance of success, and,
in the meantime, occupied himself in the capacity of Ravenspur's
private secretary. He seemed to have heard all that had taken place.
He was warm in his sympathy as he piloted Sir James Seton to his own
room. They were going down again almost before the dinner gong had
ceased to sound, and by this time a knot of dinner guests were
discussing ordinary topics again.

To the casual observer there was no sign of trouble or tragedy here.
Everything was perfect in its way. The oval table glittered with
silver and old Bohemian glass. The banks of flowers might have been
arranged by the master hand of an artist. Ravenspur sat there gaily
enough now, his conversation gleaming with wit and humour, the most
perfect host in London. There was no sign whatever of his earlier
agitation. And yet, strive as he would, from time to time the name of
Louis Delahay crept into the conversation. It was in vain that Lord
Ravenspur attempted to turn the stream of thought into other channels.
He was glad enough at length when the dinner came to an end, and the
party of guests broke up into little groups. The host approached Seton
presently with a request to know whether he would care to play bridge
or not.

"No bridge," Sir James said emphatically. "I am tired of the tyranny
of it. I wonder that you should make such a suggestion, Ravenspur,
seeing how you detest the commonplace. But, at any rate, I will have
another of those excellent cigarettes of yours."

"It shall be just as you please, my friends," Ravenspur said wearily.
"Now let us go and have a coffee in the studio. It is much cooler
there, and there is more space to breathe."

The suggestion was received with general approval, and a move was
immediately made in the direction of the studio. The apartment lay at
the end of a long corridor, which cut it off from the rest of the
house, the studio being in reality a huge garden room, which Ravenspur
had built for reasons of privacy. He took a latchkey from his pocket
and opened the door.

"I always keep this place locked," he explained. "Some years ago my
three Academy pictures were stolen just as they were finished, and
since then I have taken no risk. The annoying part of the whole thing
was that one of the missing pictures was the best thing I ever did.
What became of it is a mystery."

"I remember the picture perfectly well," one of the guests remarked.
"It was the study of a woman. Do you recollect my coming in one night
and you asked me my opinion of it?"

"I think I can remember it," Ravenspur said.

"Well, it was a superb piece of work," the first speaker went on;
"anything more fascinating than the woman's face I don't recollect
seeing. I don't know who your model was, Ravenspur, but you had a rare
find in her."

"I had no model," Ravenspur explained. "The face was more or less an
ideal one--composite, if you like, but resembling nobody in
particular. However, the thing was a great loss to me, and I have
never ceased to regret it. That is why I always keep this place locked
up; even when the room is cleaned out, I am always present to see that
nothing is disturbed. It is a whim of mine."

As he spoke Ravenspur switched on the electric lights, until the whole
of the beautiful apartment glowed to the illumination of the shaded
lamps. The studio itself was circular in shape, and finished in a
great dome of stained glass. The floor was littered with rare old
Persian carpets, and lounges from all parts of the world were dotted
about here and there. Round the walls was an almost unique collection
of armour. From the centre of the floor rose a fine acacia tree, the
vivid green foliage of which seemed to suffer nothing from being cut
off from the outer light and air. Altogether the place was quite
unique in its way, and striking evidence of Ravenspur's originality
and good taste. On little tables here and there were hundreds of
photographs, most of them signed, testifying to the great popularity
which Ravenspur enjoyed amongst all classes of society.

"You will have to leave these to the Nation," a guest laughed. "What a
cosmopolitan gallery it is--a prince on the one side, and a prominent
socialist on the other! Yet, after all, photographs are very
commonplace things. You might look over a thousand before your fancy
is taken by a face like this."

As he spoke the guest took up a portrait from one of the tables, and
held it out at arm's length, so that the light fell upon the features.
Unlike the rest, the photograph was not framed, and, judging from the
edges, it had had a certain amount of rough usage in its time. As to
the picture itself, it presented the features of a young and beautiful
girl, with a great cloud of hair hanging over her shoulders. There was
something almost tragic in the dark eyes; they seemed to tell a story
all their own.

"A beautiful face," the guest went on. "The sort of face that a poet
would weave an epic around. I don't want to be impertinent, Ravenspur,
but I should like to know who she is."

"Where did you get that from?" Ravenspur asked. His voice sounded hard
and cold, so that the man with the photograph in his hand turned in
some surprise. "Where did you find it?"

"My dear fellow, I took it up off this table, as you might have done.
Of course, it is no business of mine, and I am sorry if any careless
words I have spoken----"

"The apology is mine," Ravenspur put in quickly. "I was annoyed, just
for the moment, to think that that portrait should have been left
about. I could have sworn that I had locked it carefully away in a
safe. You are perfectly right, my dear Seymour, there is a tragedy
behind that charming face. But you will quite understand that I cannot
discuss the matter with anybody."

"Oh, quite," the offending guest said hastily. "Still, it is a most
lovely face. Now who does it remind me of?"

"The likeness is plain enough," Seton put in. "Why, it is the very
image of our host's young ward, Miss Vera Rayne. Is there any
relationship between them, Ravenspur?"

"Why, so it is!" Walter Lance cried. "Who can she be, uncle?"

Ravenspur had crossed the studio in the direction of a safe let into
the wall. He placed his hand in one of the little pigeon holes there,
as if seeking for something. Apparently he was unsuccessful in his
search, for he shook his head doubtfully.

"Not there," Ravenspur said to himself. "Most extraordinary lapse of
memory on my part. Of course, I must have taken that photograph from
the safe when I was looking for something else, and----"

The speaker broke off abruptly. He slammed the door of the safe behind
him, and returned to his guests. But the light had gone out of his
eyes; he seemed to have suddenly aged.

"Let us have some coffee," he said. "Is it true, Marrion, that there
is likely to be a serious split in the cabinet?"



CHAPTER V.
VERA RAYNE.


The conversation became more general now, so that it was possible a
moment later for Ravenspur to slip out of the studio without his
absence being observed. He went swiftly away to the library, where he
hastily dashed off a note, which he handed over to a servant to be
delivered immediately. He seemed to be somewhat easier in his mind
now, for the smile had come back to his lips. The smile became deeper,
and a shade more tender, as a young girl came into the room. She had
evidently just returned from some social function, for she was in
evening dress, with a light silken cloud thrown over her fair hair.
Save for the brilliancy of her eyes, and the happy smile upon her
lips, she bore a strong resemblance to the mysterious photograph,
which had so disturbed Ravenspur a little time before. She crossed the
room gaily, and kissed Ravenspur lightly on the cheek.

"So your friends have all gone?" she asked.

"No; they are still in the studio. But, tell me, have you had a very
enjoyable evening? And how is it that you are back so soon?"

A faint splash of colour crept into the girl's cheeks. She seemed to
be just a little embarrassed by the apparently simple question.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "One gets tired of going out every
night. And it was rather dull. I daresay all this sounds very
ungrateful when you give me everything I could desire. But I am
longing to get into the country again. It seems almost a crime for
people to shut themselves up in dusty London, when the country is
looking at its very best. Do you know, I was far happier when I was
down in Hampshire."

"Well, we can't have everything our own way," Ravenspur smiled.
"Still, we shall see what will happen later on. And now, I really must
go back again to my guests."

Vera Rayne threw herself carelessly down into a chair. A little sigh
escaped her lips. She ought to have been happy enough. She had all the
blessings that good health and great wealth could procure. And yet
there were crumpled rose leaves on her couch of down. The thoughtful
look on her face deepened. She sat there so deeply immersed in her own
reflections, that she was quite oblivious to the fact that she was no
longer alone. Walter Lance had come into the room. He addressed the
girl twice before he obtained any response. Then she looked up, and a
wistful, tender smile lighted up her beautiful face.

"I was thinking," she said. "Do you know, Walter, I have been thinking
a good deal lately. I suppose I am naturally more discontented than
most girls, but I am getting very tired of this sort of life. Pleasure
is so monotonous."

"Ungrateful," Walter laughed. He came and stood close to the speaker's
side so that he could see down into the depths of her eyes, which were
now turned fully upon his. "There are thousands of girls who envy your
fortunate lot."

"I don't know why they should. You see, it is all very well for me to
go on like this. It is all very well to be a fascinating mystery. The
time has come when I ought to know things. For instance, I should like
to know who I really am."

"What does it matter?" Lance asked. "What does it matter so long as
I--so long as we all care for you. My dear girl, you pain me. And when
you speak in that cold, not to say arbitrary way, as if--as
if--really, Vera! It isn't that I want you to be more worldly than you
are----"

"But then you see, I am not worldly, Walter. And I really should like
to know who I am, and where I came from. It is all very well to tell
people that I am the daughter of an old friend of Lord Ravenspur, and
that he adopted me when my father died. That is sufficient for our
friends and acquaintances, and seems to satisfy them, but it does not
satisfy me. When I ask Lord Ravenspur about my parents he puts me off
with one excuse or another, and if I insist he becomes quite stern and
angry. He is so good to me that I don't like to bother him. And yet I
can't go on like this."

Walter Lance looked somewhat uneasily at the speaker.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"My dear Walter, I mean exactly what I say," Vera said sadly. "I am
tired of this constant round of pleasure. Really, it seems to me that
the lives of the rich are quite as monotonous as those of the poor. We
go our weary round of dinner and dance and reception, varied by an
occasional theatre or concert. We see the same faces, and take part in
the same vapid conversation---- Oh, Walter, how much nicer it would be
to get one's own living!"

"How would you get yours?" Lance laughed.

"Well, at any rate, I could try. And that is what I am going to do,
Walter. I have fully made up my mind not to stay here any longer.
Don't think that I am ungrateful, or that I do not recognise Lord
Ravenspur's great kindness to me. But you see I have no claim upon
him, and if anything happened to him tomorrow what would my position
be? I know he has a large income from his property, but that will go
to his successor some day. Oh, I know you will think that this is very
hard and cold of me, but there are reasons, many and urgent reasons,
why it is impossible----"

Vera broke off abruptly, and Walter could see that the tears had
gathered in her eyes. There was something in those eyes, too, that
caused his heart to beat a trifle faster, and brought him still closer
to her side.

"Won't you tell me what it is?" he whispered. "We have always been
such good friends, Vera. Forgive me asking you, but isn't this
decision on your part rather a sudden one?"

"Oh, I am quite prepared to admit that," the girl said candidly, "and
I wish I could explain. But you would not understand--was there ever a
man yet who really understood a woman? The thing that you call impulse
. . . I know that Lord Ravenspur had his own ideas as to my future,
the same as he has in regard to yours."

"Oh, indeed," Walter said drily; "that is news to me. And in what way
is my uncle interested in my welfare?"

"Do you mean to say he hasn't told you? He has mentioned it to me at
least a score of times. You are going to marry Lady Clara Vavasour.
That much is settled."

"Really, now, that is very kind of my uncle. But, unfortunately, I
have views of my own on the subject. Lady Clara is a very nice girl,
and I understand that she is rich, but she does not appeal to me in
the least. My dear Vera, surely you are mistaken. Surely my uncle must
have guessed, he could not be so blind as not to see--Vera, dearest,
cannot you understand what I mean? Do you suppose that I could
possibly have known you all this time without--without---- You know, I
am certain that you know."

"Oh, no, no," Vera cried; "you must not speak like that. I cannot
listen to you. I know that Lord Ravenspur has set his heart upon this
marriage, and it would be the basest ingratitude on my part if
I----but what am I talking about?"

The girl broke off in some confusion. The faint pink oh her cheeks
turned to a deeper crimson. Her eyes were cast down; she did not seem
to realise that Walter had her hands in his, that he had drawn her
close to his side.

"I must speak," he said huskily. "Even at the risk of your thinking me
the most conceited man on earth, I must tell you what is uppermost in
my mind now. My dear girl, I have known you ever since you were a
little child. From the very first we have been the best of friends. I
have watched you change from a girl to a woman. I have watched your
mind expanding, and gradually I have come to know that you are the one
girl in the world for me. I have not spoken like this before, because
there seemed to be no need to do so. Everything was so natural, there
did not appear to be any other end to a love like mine. But if I have
been wrong, and if you tell me that you care nothing for me----"

"I couldn't," Vera whispered. "Oh, Walter, if you only knew----"

"Then you do care for me, my dearest. Yes, I can see it in your face,
there is always the truth in your eyes. And now I can speak more
freely. You were going away from here out of loyalty to my uncle, and
because you deem it your duty to sacrifice your feelings rather than
interfere with his plans. But, my dear girl, don't you see what a
needless sacrifice it would be? Don't you see that any such action on
your part would be worse than useless? But I will speak to you about
this tomorrow. I am quite sure he is not the man to stand between us
and our happiness. Would that I had thought of this before. I am sure
that it would have saved you many an anxious moment."

Vera shook her head sadly. Walter's arms were about her now, her head
rested on his shoulder. Just for the moment they were absolutely
oblivious to the world. They heard nothing of the sound of voices as
Lord Ravenspur's guests drifted away; they were unconscious that he
was standing in the doorway, now regarding them with stern
disapproval. He hesitated just a moment, then he strode into the room.
Walter had never seen his face so hard and cold before.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said, "but there is something I have to
say to you, Walter. It is getting late now, Vera, and quite time that
you were in bed."

The girl looked up with something like rebellion in her eyes.

"I am going into the drawing-room for half an hour," she said.
"Perhaps Walter will come and say goodnight to me when you have
finished your conversation. I think you understand what I mean. And
don't be too hard on me. If you only knew how I have tried to do
what--what----"

The tears rose to Vera's eyes, as she turned slowly and sadly away.



CHAPTER VI.
A VOICE IN THE DARK.


Vera turned away and walked quietly from the room, leaving the two men
face to face. Lord Ravenspur was the first to speak.

"I am sorry for this," he said; "more sorry than I can tell you.
Strange how one should be so wilfully blind. Strange how frequently
even the cleverest man will overlook the inevitable. But I suppose I
thought that you two had come to regard one another as brother and
sister. Oh, I am not disputing your taste. There is not a more
beautiful and fascinating girl in London than Vera. It is only natural
that you should fall in love with her. But she knows the views I have
for you. She knows to what an extent she is indebted to me. That being
so it is her plain duty----"

"My dear uncle," Walter broke in eagerly, "if there is anybody to
blame, it is I. Vera knows her duty plainly enough, and she would have
acted upon it but for me. When I came in here tonight I was struck by
the unhappiness of her face, and, naturally, I began to ask questions.
It seems an egotistical thing to say, but Vera is as deeply attached
to me as I am to her, and that was the source of her trouble. She had
made up her mind to go away. She had made up her mind to get her own
living. And why? Simply because she knew that you had other views for
me, and that she stood in the way of your plans. It was only by a mere
accident that the whole thing came out. But I have spoken the words
now that are beyond recall, even if I wished to recall them, which I
do not. There will never be another woman in the world for me."

"But the thing is impossible," Lord Ravenspur broke out harshly. "It
is absolutely out of the question. I had other views for you, but I
certainly should not have pressed them against your wishes. But all
that is as nothing compared to this--this tragedy. I blame myself
bitterly for my want of foresight. My conduct has been almost
criminal. But, be that as it may, there must be no engagement between
Vera and yourself. Don't press me to tell you why, because my lips are
sealed, and I dare not speak. But, as you value your future, I implore
you to carry this thing no further. I know this sounds an outrageous
request, but I am speaking from the bottom of my heart. It is the
fashion of the world to regard me as one of the most fortunate and
enviable of men. I tell you, with all the force at my command, that I
would cheerfully change places with the humblest labourer on my
estate. I have never dropped the mask before, and I probably never
shall again. I am only doing it now so that you may be warned in time.
Go back to Vera, and tell her what I say. Tell her that there are
urgent reasons why a marriage between you is utterly out of the
question. And if you will persist in having your own way, then let me
ask you one final favour. Let the engagement be kept a secret. And now
I have no more to say. Perhaps I have said too much as it is, only if
you were aware what the last twenty-four hours has brought forth----"

Ravenspur broke off abruptly as if fearful of saying too much. His
whole attitude had changed; his features quivered with an almost
uncontrollable emotion. Then he turned on his heel, and strode down
the corridor in the direction of the studio. Walter could hear the
latch of the door click as it closed behind him. . . .

Ravenspur was alone with his own troubled thoughts. For a long time he
paced up and down the room, then he took up the photograph which had
excited so much attention amongst his guests earlier in the evening.
He laid it down on a little table, and gazed at the face there long
and sadly.

"Amazing!" Ravenspur muttered to himself. "Absolutely inexplicable! I
could have sworn that I had the photograph still under lock and key.
When did I take it from the safe, and why? Beyond all question, it was
not on the table yesterday. Is this a mere coincidence, or is it a
menace and warning of the old trouble which has never ceased to be
with me night and day the last twenty years? And how the whole thing
works together! First of all, poor Delahay is found murdered in his
studio, and now something like the same thing happens to one of my
guests who was unquestionably mistaken for me in the darkness. And as
if that was not enough, those two young fools must take it into their
heads to fancy that they are in love with one another. Heaven only
knows how I shall make my way out of this terrible coil, even if I
have the good luck to escape the consequences of my folly! The most
fortunate man in London! The most popular and most sought for! What a
bitter travesty upon the truth it is! If they only knew! If there were
only some power to lift the roof off of every house in London, what
tragedies would be revealed! And how many friends would be left to
me?"

Time was going on. A dozen clocks in different parts of the house
struck twelve. As Ravenspur stood by the table, his moody eyes still
bent upon the photographs, there was a sudden click and snap, and the
whole place was plunged in darkness. The thing was so quick and
unexpected that something like a cry of alarm broke from Ravenspur's
lips. It all came to him in a flash that the tragedy of Fitzjohn
Square was going to be repeated with himself in the _rôle_ of the
victim. This is just what had happened the previous evening, only
there had been nothing to try his nerves then as they were being
strained to breaking point now. Shaking and agitated in every limb he
made his way across to where the switches were, but there was nothing
wrong with them. He could hear no commotion in the house, such as
would naturally follow the extinguishing of the light. Indeed,
underneath the doorway he could see by the slit of light that the
electrics in the corridor were still working.

The full horror of it was almost more than he could bear. A wild
desire for light and companionship came upon him. His unsteady hand
fumbled at the latch, which seemed in some way to have gone wrong, for
the door refused to open. Ravenspur was breathing thickly and heavily.
But he was sufficiently in possession of his faculties to realise that
he was no longer alone in the room. He could distinctly hear someone
breathing close to him. Then he caught the sound of a low chuckle.

"Not so fast," a voice hissed in his ear; "I haven't come all this way
for the benefit of your society to lose you like this. You needn't
worry about the door, because you can't escape in that way."

In a sudden frenzy of rage and anger and fear, Ravenspur stretched out
his arm and encountered that of the mysterious stranger, whose
dramatic entrance had so startled him. But, strong man as he was, and
in the pink of good condition, Ravenspur could make nothing of his
assailant. The man appeared to be not more than half his size, but his
arms and body were tough and elastic as the finest whipcord. Gradually
Ravenspur was borne backward. He dropped on his knees with a grip
about his throat that caused him to gasp for breath, and brought a
million stars dancing before his eyes. He wanted help more earnestly
than he had ever required it in his life before, but his pride was
stubborn still, and he tried to choke down the cry which rose to his
lips. He must fight for himself to the end.


"So that is to be the end of it?" Vera asked. "It breaks my heart to
speak like this, but after what Lord Ravenspur has said, there must be
an end to the matter."

"But, my dearest girl, the thing is absurd," Walter cried. "What have
we done that we should be treated in this way? Surely our position is
clear enough. We are to be parted for the sake of some ridiculous whim
which is not even capable of an explanation. I am not going to leave
matters here. I decline to obey until I know the reason why. At any
rate, nothing can prevent our loving each other. And, as far as I am
concerned, I am quite prepared to keep the matter secret between us.
But I intend to have the matter out with my uncle before I sleep
tonight. I am not a boy to be treated in this sentimental fashion. So
long as I know that your feelings remain unchanged----"

"What is that?" Vera cried. "Didn't you hear anything--a kind of
horrible muffled scream? There it is again."

The sound came again and again, ringing through the silent house,
horrible and insistent in its note of tragedy. Vera turned a pale,
scared face to her companion.

"Where is it?" she gasped. "Where does it come from?"

"The studio," Walter exclaimed. "It is my uncle's voice. Something
terrible has happened to him."

Without another word Walter dashed from the room, and flew along the
corridor leading to the studio. Just for a moment there was a
strained, tense silence; then, as the door of the studio was reached,
a strange, muffled scream burst out again. With his hand on the lock
Walter shook the door, which refused to give way to him. He called
aloud on Ravenspur, but no reply came. He shook the door in a fit of
angry exasperation, and once more from inside the room came that
queer, choking noise, followed by a low chuckle. It was maddening,
exasperating to a degree, to stand so close to the threshold of
tragedy and yet to be so far away.

There was only one thing for it, and that was to break down the door.
Flinging himself full against the woodwork, Walter literally forced
his way in. Then he stood just for a moment looking into the gloom and
darkness, trying to see where the figure of the unhappy man lay.



CHAPTER VII.
THE YELLOW HAND-BILL.


The suggestion of tragedy brooding in the darkness held Lance back
just for the moment. He was almost afraid to proceed lest he should
find something even worse than he had expected. Then his hand fumbled
along the wall with the switches, and the great room burst into a glow
of light again.

The place was absolutely empty, save for the figure of Lord Ravenspur
huddled up upon the Persian rug. He was absolutely still and silent.
As far as Lance could see he had ceased to breathe.

Naturally enough the young man looked about him for a sign of the
miscreant, but the studio contained no trace of his presence. The
thing was puzzling to the last degree. There was no exit from the room
beyond the door which Walter had broken down, and nobody could
possibly have passed him that way. Besides, the switches were just
inside the door, and the light had been turned on almost immediately.
At any rate, there was nobody there now except the victim of the
attack himself, and Walter feared that he was already past any
explanation of the strange affair.

That would have to keep for the present. Walter bent over and raised
Lord Ravenspur's head and shoulders. He was still alive, for his eyes
were wide open, though no words came from his lips. At the same time
he seemed to be struggling for speech which would not come. Then he
raised a shaking arm and contrived to pull Walter's head down close to
his lips. The words came at length in a faint whisper, a whisper so
low, that Walter had the greatest difficulty in following it.

"Don't let anybody know. It is absolutely necessary that no one should
know," Lord Ravenspur faltered. "If there is any alarm, I pray you go
and allay it at once. Say that I had fallen asleep and was suffering
from nightmare, Say I had a horrible dream. Say anything, so long as
you respect my secret. Now go."

There was nothing to do but to obey this mysterious request. At the
end of the corridor Vera was waiting with an anxious face. It was no
nice thing to prevaricate, it would have to be done. Walter spoke as
lightly as possible.

"There is no occasion for alarm," he said. "Lord Ravenspur says that
he fell asleep and had a horrible nightmare. At any rate, he seems to
be all right now. You had better go to bed. I am sorry that you should
have been so much alarmed."

To Walter's great relief, Vera asked no further questions. She turned
away obediently enough, and he hurried back to the studio. Lord
Ravenspur still lay on the Persian rug, but with Walter's help he
contrived to get into a chair. A little brandy brought some trace of
colour to his face. He seemed more like himself again. "They heard
nothing in the house?" he asked anxiously.

"Only Vera," Walter explained. "She was terribly frightened, but she
believed what I told her, and she has gone up to her room. And now,
perhaps, you will tell me the truth."

"Do you think I have not already done so?"

"My dear uncle, I am sure of it. I know it is possible for people to
make the most hideous noises when they are suffering from nightmare,
but this is quite another matter. You called aloud for help. You were
in imminent danger of losing your life. Before I broke the door down I
distinctly heard somebody give a low chuckle. Of course, you can make
light of this in the morning. You can induce people to laugh at your
absurd situation, but you cannot deceive me. I know there was someone
in the room when I forced the door."

"Then where is he now, Walter?" Lord Ravenspur asked.

"Ah, that I cannot tell; but he was here right enough."

"He passed you in the corridor?"

"That he most certainly did not. Nobody came out that way."

A faint smile came to Lord Ravenspur's lips. He indicated the room
with a wave of his hand.

"I see exactly what you mean," Walter said. "Of course, if you do not
feel inclined to tell me the truth I cannot compel you to do so. But I
have only to look at you, to see that you have lately been through a
desperate struggle with someone who came here to take your life. You
are absolutely exhausted with the severity of it. If I had my own way
I would put the matter in the hands of the police."

"No, no," Ravenspur said vehemently. "If you have the slightest regard
for me you will not venture to say a word to a soul. I want the whole
thing to be forgotten. If I remain in my room all tomorrow under the
plea of indisposition, I shall be all right the next day. You are to
give me your word of honour that you will say nothing of what you have
seen tonight."

"If you wish it so, certainly," Walter said reluctantly.

"My dear uncle, won't you trust me? I would do anything to help you.
And besides, how are you going to guard against this happening again?

"A bloodthirsty ruffian who can enter a house and vanish in this
mysterious fashion, is not likely to be put off, if he knows you are
going to take no steps to guard yourself against a further attack. But
what has become of him?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Ravenspur said wearily. "I was sitting
in my chair when the light suddenly went out and I heard the door
locked. Then I had to fight for my life, and was nearly done for when
I called out for assistance."

"And you saw nothing of him?" Walter asked.

"Nothing whatever," Ravenspur went on. "I could only feel him. And
after that I recollect no more till you came."

"A most extraordinary thing," Walter said, somewhat impatiently.
"Surely you have some idea as to who the man is. Surely he must be the
same man who mistook Sir James Seton for yourself tonight."

No reply came from Lord Ravenspur. Evidently he desired to say no
more. He seemed anxious to be alone. But Walter, angry and hurt,
walked rapidly about the room seeking for a way whereby the late
visitor had vanished. But he looked in vain. There was no possible
means of exit other than the door, and the fireplace was too narrow to
admit of anybody coming or going. As to the roof, it was of heavy
stained glass, and as impregnable as the walls themselves. The mystery
was maddening. And yet the one man who could have explained it all sat
there silent, and moody, and tongue tied.

"Is there anything more that I can do for you before I go to bed?"
Walter asked. "Are you sure I can't help you?"

"I am afraid not, my boy," Ravenspur said in a dull, mechanical way.
"I know that you won't chatter about this thing. And, perhaps, a
little later on, I shall be able to speak more plainly. I shall be
glad if you will help me up the stairs and get me into bed. I have had
a great shock tonight."

It seemed almost cruel to pursue the subject further, and Walter
refrained from questions as he noticed the ghastly whiteness of his
uncle's face. The latter was disposed of at length, and then Walter
came downstairs again. He now had the house practically to himself.
All desire for sleep had forsaken him. Besides that, it was no nice
thought to reflect on the possibility of that ruffian being still on
the premises. Walter had not the slightest doubt in his mind that the
man had left the studio in some secret manner, and that he had come
there through no ordinary channel. What was to prevent him returning
again when the house was asleep and finishing his work? In itself, the
fact of Lord Ravenspur possessing a bitter enemy was remarkable. And
Lord Ravenspur's obstinate silence was more remarkable still. Walter
had given his word to say nothing of these strange events, but that
did not bind him from making inquiries on his own account.

He returned to the studio once more and made a thoroughly searching
examination of the place. Was there some secret door which Lord
Ravenspur used, and of which nobody knew anything? It had never
occurred to Walter till that moment that his uncle might have
turned-down pages in his life, but that conclusion was inevitable now.
Still, though Walter spent the best part of an hour in his search, he
had nothing to show for his pains. He was about to give up the thing
in despair when a piece of yellow paper, lying by the side of the
Persian rug where Lord Ravenspur had fallen, attracted his attention.
It was a small, shabby sheet of paper, folded in four and printed from
worn-out type, in fact, just the class of bill which is circulated
amongst travelling circuses and shows of that kind. It was the last
thing in the world that anyone would have looked for in the studio of
so fastidious a man as Lord Ravenspur. Slowly and thoughtfully Walter
unfolded and read the handbill. It was an advertisement of the
nightly programme of the Imperial Palace Theatre. The name of the
place sounded imposing enough, but the locality of Vauxhall Bridge
Road somewhat detracted from the importance of it. So far as Walter
could judge, the Imperial Palace Theatre was no more than a shady
music hall giving two shows a night, and most of the names on the bill
were absolutely unknown to fame. The star turn appeared to be one
Valdo, who was announced as the flying man who had made such a
sensation throughout the leading halls in Europe.

"I wonder if this is a clue," Walter murmured to himself. "At any
rate, I should like to see this Valdo. I'll go down to the Imperial
Palace tomorrow night and enquire for myself."

Walter folded up the shabby bill and placed it in his pocket, after
which he went thoughtfully to bed.



CHAPTER VIII.
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.


Nobody in the Park Lane house appeared to have the slightest suspicion
that anything had been wrong. The stolid, well-trained servants
accepted the explanation of the broken door quite as a matter of
course. And when Vera had come down in the morning she appeared to
have forgotten the incident entirely. Lord Ravenspur was not feeling
particularly well, and he had decided to keep to his room for the day.
The explanation was perfectly simple and quite natural. All the same,
Walter was thankful that Vera should ask him no questions. It was no
easy matter to preserve a cheerful and unconcerned face at the
breakfast table, but he seemed to manage it all right. He was just a
little quiet and subdued, but then there was nothing remarkable about
that, especially in view of Lord Ravenspur's feelings on the subject
of his engagement to Vera.

The day dragged on, and Walter waited with what patience he had till
the evening. He was not displeased to find that Vera was dining out
with some friends in Sloane Square, for this would give him the
opportunity he needed. He changed his dinner jacket presently for an
old tweed coat and cap. Then he set out on his errand in Vauxhall
Bridge Road. Walter was not alone on this occasion, for he was
accompanied by a journalist friend whose particular study was the life
and habits of the lower classes. It was this friend who had suggested
the advisability of the humble garb, so that they could thus mix
freely with the people around them. Walter congratulated himself upon
his friend's prudence when he saw the class of audience that filled
the Imperial Palace Theatre.

The place was large enough, and by no means lacked artistic finish. At
one time it had been an actual theatre, run by some enthusiast with a
view to the elevation of the masses and the production of high-class
plays at popular prices. The experiment had ended in a ghastly
failure, and now a shrewd, hard-headed publican in the neighbourhood
was making a fortune by the simple expedient of giving his patrons
exactly what they required.

"What part of the house shall we try?" Walter asked.

"We can't do better than the pit," Venables replied. "That will cost
you sixpence, or perhaps, if you like to be extravagant, we can have a
box for half-a-crown. Still, we don't want to make ourselves
conspicuous. The pit is quite good enough for me. You can smoke here,
you know, and drink too, for the matter of that. But I should not
advise you to try the latter experiment."

The house was fairly well filled as the two friends entered and took
their seats. The audience for the most part were respectable enough,
but the whole place reeked with perspiring humanity, and the air was
pungent with the smell of acrid tobacco. A constant fusillade of chaff
went on between the stage and the audience. Indeed, the artistes, for
the most part, appeared to be on the most friendly terms with the
_habitués_ of the theatre. A dreary-looking comedian was singing one
of the inevitable patter songs, full of the feeble allusions to drink
without which songs of that kind never appear to be complete. The
audience listened stolidly enough.

"Are they never going to tire of this kind of thing?" Walter asked his
companion. "Is there nothing humorous in the world outside the region
of too much beer? These people sadden me."

"Oh, they are all right," Venables said, cheerfully. "They are quite
happy in their own particular way. I have long ceased to look for
anything fresh on the music hall stage. An original artist and an
original manner wouldn't be tolerated."

The dreary song came to an end at length; then it was followed by two
so-called sisters, who, in short skirts and large picture hats,
discoursed of the joys of country life in a peculiarly aggressive
Cockney accent. The whole thing was dull and depressing to the last
degree, and Walter began to regret his loss of time. He noticed from
his programme that Valdo was down rather late, so there was nothing
for it but to possess his soul in patience till the time came. It was
a little past ten o'clock before the stage was cleared, and the
attendants, in their grimy uniforms, began to erect a series of fine
wires running from the roof to the floor. Then there was an extra
flourish from the aggressive orchestra, and a slim man, dressed
entirely in black, came on to the stage. He was received with great
enthusiasm and the smiting of glasses upon the tables. Evidently Valdo
had established himself as a firm favourite with the patrons of the
Imperial Palace Theatre.

All Walter's apathy had vanished, as he turned to the stage and
scrutinised the acrobat long and carefully. So far as he could judge,
Valdo was no Englishman with a foreign name, but a genuine foreigner,
presumably of Italian birth. The man was not tall or particularly
broad, but he was well proportioned, and gave the idea of one
possessed of considerable physical strength. In particular, Walter
noticed how long his arms were, and how the muscles stood out between
his shoulders. As to the rest, the man looked mild enough, and his
dark Southern face was wreathed in an amiable smile.

He proceeded, with the aid of an attendant, to fasten two small curved
canvas frames to his shoulders. These he thrashed up and down with his
arms much as a cock flaps its wings before crowing. Then, with an
agile leap from the stage, the man proceeded to sail up slowly from
the floor to the flies.

"That's clever," Venables exclaimed. "It looks to me as if our friend
has solved the art of the flying machine. But one never knows. I
daresay it is no more than some ingenious trick."

This speech appeared to be resented by a respectable-looking mechanic
who was occupying the next seat to Venables.

"Nothing of the kind," the man said indignantly. "I've been here three
nights now, and I know something about mechanics, too. If you think
that wires are used you are just mistaken. A friend of mine is stage
carpenter here, and he told me all about it. Depend upon it, that chap
has got the knack right enough."

The performer fluttered down again from the wings as lightly and
easily as he had risen, and a tremendous outbreak of applause
followed. When the din had died away, the stage manager came forward
and invited any of the audience who chose to come up and see for
themselves that everything was fair and legitimate, and that no
mechanism had been employed. The intelligent mechanic turned to
Venables with a defiant smile.

"Now is your chance, guv'nor," he exclaimed. "You go and smell it out
for yourself."

Venables would have declined the offer, but already Walter had risen
eagerly from his seat. The opportunity was too good to be missed.
Though he did not associate this man Valdo with the mysterious attack
on Lord Ravenspur's life, he felt quite convinced that the artist was
indirectly concerned in it. To waste a chance would be the height of
folly. A moment or two later the two friends were on the stage. They
stood there whilst the performer went through another series of
graceful performances, but they could see absolutely nothing which
suggested mechanical contrivance of any kind. The whole act came to an
end at length, and Valdo stood there bowing and smiling when his wings
were removed.

"Let's have a chat with him," Venables whispered. "Apart from the
thing being decidedly interesting, there ought to be some good 'copy'
here. Properly worked, Signer Valdo ought to be worth a couple of
columns to me."

At the suggestion of the "Press," the stage manager pricked up his
ears. He was not insensible to the value of a good advertisement. He
suggested a move to his private office, where it would be possible for
the visitors to interview quietly.

"Nothing I should like better," Walter said eagerly. "Perhaps you will
come with us, and join us in a bottle of champagne?"

They made their way behind the stage to a dingy little room,
insufficiently lighted with one gas jet. The back of the stage was in
a turmoil. It was almost impossible to hear for the din. Then very
briefly and modestly Valdo told his history. He had found out his
peculiar powers by a series of experiments with the parachute. The
whole secret lay, he explained, in the enormously powerful muscles
between his shoulders and the backs of his arms. The rest was worked
by the amazing rapidity with which he had learnt to move his arms. So
far the thing was effective enough, but the strain was so great that,
hitherto, he had found it impossible to rise to a height of more than
forty feet. This naturally prevented him from obtaining engagements in
the larger theatres and halls where so limited a flight would have
been far less imposing than it appeared to be when performed in a
place like the Imperial Palace. There was nothing more to be said, and
the two friends were turning away when a woman put her head into the
door, and looked inquiringly at Valdo. He muttered something to the
effect that he would be ready in a moment or two, and the woman
vanished.

Walter caught his lip in his teeth. It was hard work to conceal his
surprise. There was no doubt whatever about it, no question as to the
identity of the intruder. Strange as it appeared to be, Walter
recognised the features of Mrs. Delahay. There was no mistaking that
white, stern face. It was only for a moment, but that moment had been
enough for Lance.



CHAPTER IX.
THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT.


All that evening and most of the next day Walter brooded over his
startling discovery. He said nothing to anybody about it, though he
had attempted the night previously to follow up the clue. The attempt
had failed, however, for though Walter had waited outside the theatre,
he saw no more of Mrs. Delahay. And as to the man Valdo he eventually
went off by himself. There was nothing for it now but to wait and see
what was going to happen.

Meanwhile, public interest in the Fitzjohn Square tragedy had not
abated in the least. Everybody was waiting eagerly enough for the
inquest, which was to open at four o'clock on the day following the
mysterious attack upon Lord Ravenspur. The latter had come down
somewhat late in the morning, looking but little the worse for his
adventure. It was not expected that the inquest would be more than
formally opened, and it was generally known that Lord Ravenspur would
be an important witness.

In view of the extraordinary interest taken in the affair the
proceedings had been moved to a public hall. Long before the time
arranged for opening the inquiry the hall was packed to its utmost
capacity. After the police and medical evidence had been taken, the
first witness called was Lord Ravenspur. His fine, picturesque figure
stood out in the strong light. He gave his evidence clearly and well,
though his voice shook from time to time with emotion, which was only
natural enough, seeing that the dead man had been so close a friend of
his.

After all, he had little to tell. He described his late visit to
Fitzjohn Square, and how he had been at work on a picture there until
such time as the lights were extinguished and he was forced to abandon
his task.

"You thought nothing of the lights going out?" the coroner asked. "You
saw nothing suspicious in that?"

"Well, no," the witness replied. "You see, it is no unusual occurrence
for the supply of electric light to fail. The thing so easily happens.
As the house has been empty for some time it occurred to me that
perhaps there was a fault somewhere, or, perhaps, the workmen had not
quite finished their job."

"Quite so," the coroner observed. "Tell us, did you hear any noise in
the house, or any suspicious sounds?"

"Nothing whatever. Until the light went out there was nothing whatever
to disturb me. In fact, I was so intent upon my work that I was quite
lost to everything else."

"But you know now," the coroner went on, "that the main cable leading
to the meter was cut. That being so, somebody must have been in the
house at the same time as yourself. What I want to get at is this--the
murderer was deliberately waiting for his victim. He had no quarrel
with you, and his great idea was to get you out of the way. That
appears to be obvious."

"It is obvious enough to me," Ravenspur replied. "I came to that
conclusion directly Inspector Dallas pointed out to me that the main
cable had been deliberately cut. But you see I suspected nothing wrong
at the time, and there was nothing else for me to do but to abandon my
task directly the light went out. I am afraid that I can tell you
nothing more."

"The deceased was a great friend of yours?" the coroner asked. "I
presume you know a great deal about his life and habits. Was he at all
the sort of man to make enemies?"

"The last man in the world," the witness said emphatically. "My friend
Was both upright and straightforward. Indeed, I regarded him as a man
incapable of a mean action."

One or two desultory questions followed, and then Lord Ravenspur sat
down. To a certain extent his evidence had been dramatic enough, but,
at the same time, he had not said a single word likely to throw any
light on the mystery. The audience thrilled and bent forward eagerly
as Mrs. Delahay stood up to give her evidence. She was just as deadly
pale, just as calm and set, as she had been when she called upon
Ravenspur in Park Lane with the dreadful news. She gave her evidence
slowly and distinctly, speaking more like an automaton than a creature
of flesh and blood. She told how she had become alarmed at her
husband's prolonged absence, how she had gone down to Fitzjohn Square
to see if anything had happened, how she found the dead body there,
and how the police had come to her assistance. But more than that she
could not say, more than that she did Dot know. So far as she knew her
husband had always been a cheerful man. She had never heard him say an
evil word of any one. She had not been married long, in fact she was
still a bride. Altogether she had known her husband for a little over
three years. She was older than her husband, she proceeded to say. The
coroner asked her age.

"I am forty-three," she said calmly.

"Really," the coroner murmured politely, "I should not have taken you
to be so much. I don't wish to ask you anything likely to cause you
pain, but does it not occur to you that your husband might have been
concealing something? Is it not rather strange that he should leave
you at midnight and take an hour and a half in reaching a house to
which he might have walked in ten minutes?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Delahay said. "My husband was one of the most
open of men. In fact, he was too fond of leaving his letters and
private papers about. And as to the rest, he might have met a friend.
He might have gone to one of his clubs."

"If I may be allowed to interrupt a moment," Inspector Dallas said, "I
may say that we have utterly failed to trace Mr. Delahay's movements
from the time he left the Grand Hotel till he reached Fitzjohn Square.
Not one of his friends appears to have seen him on the night in
question."

"That is rather unfortunate," the coroner murmured. "I am sorry to
have troubled you so far. You may sit down now."

With something which might have been a sigh of relief Mrs. Delahay
resumed her seat close to the table. Then Inspector Dallas put
forward a witness who gave the name of John Stevens. He looked like a
broken-down professional man in his greasy, shabby frock-coat and dingy
linen. His watery eye glanced nervously over the court. The red tinge
on his cheeks spoke quite plainly of the cause of his downfall. He
proceeded to give his evidence so incoherently that the coroner had to
reprimand him sharply once or twice.

"I can't hear half you say," that official said irritably. "I think
you said your name was John Stevens. What can you tell us about this
case? Did you know Mr. Delahay?"

"I knew him quite well, sir," the witness said. "I have seen him
scores of times when I have been watching in Fitzjohn Square."

"What do you mean by watching there?"

"Well, sir, you see, I am a private inquiry agent. I work for one of
the large firms of detectives, getting up evidence and that kind of
thing. For months past it has been my duty to keep my eye on a certain
house in the Square, especially at night. In that way I have got to
know most of the inhabitants by sight, and also I have got to know a
good deal about their habits."

"You are a professional spy, then?" the coroner asked.

"Well, sir, if you like to put it like that," the witness said humbly.
"On the night of the murder about a quarter past one, I was in the
Square gardens watching through the railings at the corner of John
Street. I could see perfectly well what was going on because there is
a large electric arc light where John Street and the Square adjoin. As
I said, it was just about a quarter past one, because I looked at my
watch to see what the time was. It was nearly time for me to leave, as
my instructions----"

The witness broke off abruptly, and glanced about the room with the
air of a man who has recognised an acquaintance whom he had not
expected to see. His rambling attentions were recalled by the coroner
in a few sharp words.

"I am sure I beg your pardon. As I said, I was waiting there till my
time was up, and I saw Mr. Delahay come round the corner. He stood
there just a moment. As far as I could gather he seemed to be troubled
about something. I was too far off to hear what he was saying, but it
seemed to me----"

"What are you talking about?" the coroner interrupted. "Do you mean to
say that Mr. Delahay was talking to himself?"

"Oh, dear no, sir; he was talking to his companion."

"Companion! That is the first we have heard of that. Was the companion
a man or a woman, might I ask?"

"It was a lady, sir. She was a tall woman dressed in black. They stood
opposite me for five or six minutes talking very earnestly together.
Then Mr. Delahay turned away from the woman and went into the house.
The woman seemed to hesitate a few moments, then she followed, and I
saw her go into the house after Mr. Delahay. But she will be able to
tell you all about it herself."

"I don't understand you," the coroner said, with a puzzled frown. "How
can the woman tell us all about it herself? You don't mean to say that
she is in court?"

The witness slowly turned and pointed a dingy forefinger in the
direction of Maria Delahay.

"That's the lady, sir," he said. "That's the lady that I saw with Mr.
Delahay the night before last."

"But that is absolutely impossible," the coroner cried. "Don't you
know that that lady is Mr. Delahay's wife?"



CHAPTER X.
ROPES OF SAND.


Something like a thrill of real excitement ran through the spectators.
The remark was made so quietly and in such a natural tone, that nobody
dreamt of questioning the word of the witness. Then it went home to
all that Stevens was making against Mrs. Delahay what amounted to a
serious accusation. All eyes were turned upon her. She glanced in the
direction of the witness in the same, dull, steady way which had
characterised her from the first.

"This is very remarkable," the coroner murmured. "Do you quite
understand what you are saying?"

"Why, of course, sir," Stevens went on, as if absolutely unconscious
that his words were creating a sensation. "That is the lady whom I saw
with Mr. Delahay that night. I daresay she will tell you herself when
she comes to give evidence."

"One moment, please," the coroner went on. "How long is it since you
identified the lady opposite?"

The witness looked about him as if he hardly understood the question.
He was clearly puzzled by what had happened.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I did not see her till the last few
moments. You see, sir, I took her for a witness like myself. I cannot
say any more than that."

The coroner murmured something to the effect that there must be a
mistake here. Then he turned to the witness again.

"This is a most important investigation," he said, "and I want you to
be very careful. Will you look at the lady again and see if you have
not made a mistake? Surely you were in court when she gave her
evidence. You must have seen her then."

"Indeed, I didn't, sir," the witness protested. "I did not come into
court until my name was called outside."

The coroner turned sharply to Mrs. Delahay and asked her to be good
enough to stand up. She rose slowly and deliberately, and turned her
head in the direction of Stevens. A ray of light fell upon her
features; they were absolutely dull and expressionless, as if all the
life had gone out of her; as if she failed utterly to comprehend what
was going on around her. It was only natural that she should have
dissented vigorously from Stevens' statement. She regarded him without
even the suggestion of a challenge in her eyes. As a matter of fact,
the man was making a serious charge against her--a charge of wilful
perjury at the very least, and yet, so far as she was concerned,
Stevens did not even appear to exist.

"Well, what do you make of it?" the coroner asked.

"Just as I told you before," the witness went on. "I saw that lady
with Mr. Delahay at a quarter past one on the morning of the murder. I
saw her enter the house in Fitzjohn Square."

"Extraordinary!" the coroner exclaimed. "Mrs. Delahay has already
sworn to the fact that she retired to bed at twelve o'clock, and that
she did not miss her husband till late the next morning; and now you
say that you saw her with the murdered man. In the face of Mrs.
Delahay's evidence, are you prepared to repeat your first statement?"

A stubborn look came over Stevens' face. His watery eyes became more
clear and steadfast.

"I have no object in telling a lie, sir," he said. "I came forward in
what I considered to be the interests of justice, and at some loss to
myself. I am prepared to stand up in any Court of Justice, and take my
oath that Mrs. Delahay was with her husband at the time and place I
have mentioned."

The audience swayed again, for there was something exceedingly
impressive in the speaker's words. All eyes were turned upon Mrs.
Delahay, who seemed at length to gain some understanding of what was
going on. There was no sign of guilt or confusion on her face. It was
as calm and stony as ever.

"The speaker is absolutely mistaken," she said. "He must have confused
me with somebody else. From twelve o'clock at night till seven the
next morning I was not out of my room."

"On the face of what has happened, we cannot possibly go any further,"
the coroner said. "After all it will be an easy matter to test the
correctness of both witnesses. It is just possible that Stevens has
made a mistake."

Stevens shook his head doggedly. He felt quite certain that there was
no mistake so far as he was concerned. Then there was a little awkward
pause, followed by a whispered consultation between the coroner and
Inspector Dallas.

"The enquiry is adjourned for a week," the coroner announced. "There
is nothing to be gained by any further investigation till the
extraordinary point which has arisen has been settled."

The disappointed audience filed out until only a few of the
authorities from Scotland Yard remained. As Mrs. Delahay walked slowly
towards the door, Inspector Dallas followed her.

"You will excuse me, I am sure," he said, "but I should like to come
back to your hotel with you and make a few inquiries. You see, it is
absolutely necessary to disprove John Stevens' statements. Until we
have done that, we can't carry our investigations any further. I hope
you will be able to help us in this matter."

"How can I help you?" the woman asked in the same dull, level voice.
"I tell you that man was mistaken. I am still so dazed and stunned by
my loss that I am quite incapable of following things clearly.
Something seems to have gone wrong with my brain. But I will try and
help you. It is very strange that that man should have made such an
extraordinary mistake."

"Very strange indeed," Dallas murmured. "Will you permit me to call
you a cab? Now tell me, have you any relations? For instance, have you
a sister who is very like you? In one of the most important
investigations I ever undertook, I was utterly baffled for months
owing to the fact of there being two twin brothers mixed up in the
case. If you have a sister----"

"So far as I know I have not a single female relative in the world,"
Mrs. Delahay responded. "And as to the rest, you will find that my
statement is absolutely true. I suppose you will believe the servants
at the hotel?"

The hotel was reached at length, and Mrs. Delahay excused herself on
the ground that she was tired and utterly worn out. So far as Dallas
was concerned he had no desire to detain her. As a matter of fact, he
wanted to pursue his inquiries alone, and on the production of his
card the resources of the establishment were placed at his disposal.
Nothing seemed to escape his eye. No detail appeared to be too
trivial. He received his reward at length through the lips of one of
the chambermaids who had something to say. As was only natural, there
was not a servant on the premises who had not heard all about the
Fitzjohn Square tragedy, or who was not deeply interested in Mrs.
Delahay.

"It is your duty to look after the rooms on the same floor as Mrs.
Delahay's bedroom?" he asked. "What time did you retire on the night
of the murder?"

"Not before two o'clock," the chambermaid replied. "We were unusually
late that night as the house was full."

"Quite so. I suppose when Mr. and Mrs. Delahay came in from the
theatre they got the key of their bedroom from the office in the
ordinary way? I suppose they had a dressing room and a bedroom?"

The chambermaid admitted that such was the fact. When asked if she
knew what time Mrs. Delahay had retired for the night, she shook her
head. She "could not be quite sure."

"You see, it was like this," she said. "I was rather interested in Mr.
and Mrs. Delahay--they were such a distinguished looking couple. I was
in the corridor when Mr. Delahay went out about twelve o'clock, and
half an hour later I went up to Mrs. Delahay's bedroom to see if I
could do anything for her. The key was in the door, which struck me as
rather strange, because, as you know, in large hotels like this, it is
the customary thing for people to lock their rooms. I knocked at the
door and no reply came, so I went in. The bed and dressing room were
both empty, and thinking, perhaps, that Mrs. Delahay had gone out as
well as her husband, I turned the key in the door and took it down to
the office."

A thoughtful expression came over Inspector Dallas' face.

"That was quite the proper thing to do," he said. "I suppose you don't
know what time the key was fetched again from the office?"

"Oh, that I cannot tell you. You see, I went to bed about two o'clock
and I was up again at seven. When I took Mrs. Delahay up her cup of
early tea she was in bed then."

"Really! Did you notice anything strange about her?"

"There was nothing to notice. She appeared to be very bright and
cheerful, and chatted to me in the friendliest possible way. She did
say something to the effect that she was a little uneasy about her
husband, who had not yet returned, and that she must go and look for
him. But beyond that I saw nothing that was in the least out of the
common."

"I think that will do," Dallas observed. "I won't detain you any
longer. I. know how busy you are."

Dallas went straight away downstairs and interviewed the clerk in the
office. The latter's memory was a little vague on the subject of the
coming and going of the various hotel guests. There were hundreds of
them in the course of a week, and it was the habit of most of them to
leave the key of their rooms in the office every time they went out.
The speaker had no recollection of Mrs. Delahay calling for her key
very late on the night of the tragedy. He debated the point
thoughtfully for a moment, then his face lighted up.

"I think I can help you," he exclaimed.



CHAPTER XI.
THE EXPRESS LETTER.


"Take your time," Dallas said, encouragingly. "I don't want to hurry
you. All I want are facts."

"It is beginning to come to me now," the clerk said thoughtfully.
"Yes, I remember it quite distinctly. You see, Madam Leona Farre, the
great French actress, is staying in the house, and she did not come in
till just two o'clock. After I had given her her key Mrs. Delahay came
up and asked who the lady was. She wanted her key, too, which she told
me was missing from the door of her room."

"Oh, indeed," Dallas said softly. "She had just come in, I suppose?
Had she taken off her things?"

"No," the clerk said. "She had just come in from the street. I had to
explain to her how it was that the key had found its way back into the
office again."

"She did not appear to be annoyed at that?"

"Not in the least. Indeed, she seemed to be rather amused at her own
carelessness. No, I saw nothing suspicious in her manner. I think that
is all I can tell you."

"Possibly," Dallas said. "But there is one other little matter in
which you may be of assistance. I suppose you can recollect the night
that Mr. Delahay left the hotel. Did he happen to ask for letters or
anything of that kind? It would be quite the usual thing to do. Of
course, it is a small point----"

"There were no post letters," the clerk interrupted. "But just as Mr.
Delahay was going out a messenger boy brought an express letter for
him, which he read hastily, and then asked the hall porter to call him
a cab. No, I can't say that the message disturbed him at all, but it
seemed to hurry him up a bit just as a telegram might have done. That
was the last I saw of him."

On the whole Inspector Dallas was not disposed to be dissatisfied with
his morning's work. He had discovered some important facts, and, at
any rate, it had impressed the detective with the truth of John
Stevens' evidence. As to the rest, it would not be a difficult matter
to find out the name and number of the messenger boy who had brought
the unfortunate Delahay that letter. There was nothing for it now but
to take a cab and go off in the direction of the district office
whence the messenger boy had come. As Dallas walked briskly down the
steps of the hotel he met Lord Ravenspur coming up.

"I am just going to see Mrs. Delahay," the latter said. "By the way,
Inspector, that was remarkable evidence which the witness Stevens
volunteered this morning. But, of course, he was mistaken. It is
absolutely impossible that Mrs. Delahay could have been with her
husband at the time he stated."

"Well, I am not so sure of that, my lord," Dallas replied. "Really, I
don't know what to make of it. At any rate, I have discovered an
absolute fact: that for two hours, between twelve and two, Mrs.
Delahay was not in the hotel. I have it on the independent testimony
of two witnesses who corroborate one another down to the minutest
detail. I don't know what to make of it."

All the healthy colour left Ravenspur's face.

"This is amazing," he said. "Yet I cannot believe that Mrs. Delahay
has been deliberately deceiving us. I will go up and see what she has
to say for herself. I suppose I am at liberty to tell her what you
have just said to me?"

"I don't know why not," Dallas said after a thoughtful pause. "You
see, she is bound to know sooner or later. And I hope you will make
her see the advisability of accounting for her movements. Nothing can
be gained by trying to deceive us, to say nothing of the wrong
impression which Mrs. Delahay is creating in the minds of other
people. Really, if you come to think of it, she is standing in an
exceedingly perilous position, my lord."

Ravenspur was not destined to make any impression upon the widow of
his unfortunate friend, for she refused to see him. One of the
servants came down with a message to the effect that Mrs. Delahay
could not see anybody. Even a letter hastily scribbled by Ravenspur
failed to induce her to change her mind. With something like despair
in his heart Ravenspur went off in the direction of his own house. For
the rest of the afternoon he sat in the library, a prey to his own
gloomy thoughts. Visitors came and went, but the same message was
given to all of them--Lord Ravenspur was far from well. He could not
see anybody this afternoon. It was nearly seven o'clock before Walter
Lance came into the library.

"I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I have something serious to
say to you. I have been reading today's evidence in the Delahay case,
and I was so interested in the matter that I went to Scotland Yard and
had a chat with Inspector Dallas. It seems to me that Mrs. Delahay has
placed herself in a very compromising position."

"What do you mean by that?" Ravenspur demanded.

"Surely, my dear uncle, the thing is plain enough. Whatever your
opinion of Mrs. Delahay may be you cannot get away from the fact that
she was deliberately lying when she gave her evidence this morning.
She swore that on the night of the murder she wasn't out of her
bedroom after twelve o'clock, and we know now that she was away from
the hotel for over two hours. You know it, too, because Dallas told
you. You will forgive my plain speaking, sir, but I think you could
throw some light on this painful tragedy. Believe me, I should not
dare to say so much if----"

"You are presumptuous," Ravenspur said angrily. "Do you dare to
insinuate that a man in my position----"

"I am not insinuating anything," Walter urged. "But I have a feeling
we are in some way connected with this tragedy. I have a strange
instinct that there is some close connection between the death of Mr.
Delahay and that mysterious murderous attack upon you in your studio.
Oh, I know that commonsense is all against my theory, but I am going
to tell you something which will astonish you. After I saw you to bed
the other night I searched the studio for some way whereby an
assailant could have entered the room--I mean some secret door known
only to yourself----"

"You can disabuse your mind of that idea," Ravenspur said, with the
ghost of a smile. "I give you my word that there is nothing of the
sort. But go on with your story."

"Well, I couldn't find any means of entrance and exit except by the
door, and then it occurred to me that I might possibly light upon a
clue. Finally I found this lying on the floor, and I should like you
to read it. You may find it interesting."

With these words Walter took from his pocket the dingy yellow
handbill, and laid it open on the table so that Ravenspur might read.
The latter glanced at the printed words, and then turned to Walter
with a questioning eye.

"What does it all mean?" he asked. "It conveys nothing whatever to me,
and, even if it did, I am the last man in the world to patronise
entertainments of that kind."

"You never heard of Valdo before, then?" Walter asked.

"Not I, my dear boy. Who is the fellow?"

"He is a kind of flying man. He is an individual with extraordinarily
developed arms and muscles. He can move those arms almost as quickly
as a fly does in its flight; with the aid of specially prepared wings
he can flutter about a stage like a bird. I daresay there is some
secret behind it all, but still the performance is very graceful and
attractive, though, as yet, the man tells me his flight is limited to
some thirty feet."

"He tells you!" Ravenspur exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you have
actually paid a visit to this theatre?"

"Certainly I have, sir. You see, I regarded this bill as a kind of
clue. I knew that you could not possibly have brought it into the
house, nor were any of your friends likely to do so. Therefore I came
to the not illogical conclusion the other night that your assailant
must have dropped it. The man who got into the studio must have been
an extraordinary climber or something exceedingly clever in the way of
an acrobat. In fact, just the sort of fellow who would be connected
with music halls and circuses and places of that kind. That is why I
went down to the Imperial Palace Theatre together with a journalist
friend of mine who takes an interest in such matters. The only item of
the entertainment worth watching was this man Valdo, and, of course,
up to a certain point I did not identify him with the outrage upon
yourself."

"Why should you do so now?" Ravenspur asked. "I told you that I have
never seen or heard of the man, nor does he answer to any acquaintance
of mine. Why, then, should you go out of your way to suggest that he
had even been here?"

"I am coming to that," Walter said quietly. "I was so interested in
the performance that I went round to Valdo's dressing-room afterwards,
and had a long chat with him. Just before I came away a woman looked
into the room, and asked the performer if he was ready, or something
of that kind. She did not notice me; indeed, she did not even look in
my direction. It was only just for a moment that I caught a glimpse of
her face. It was only by a great effort that I concealed my feelings.
And when I tell you that the woman I am speaking about was Mrs.
Delahay----"

"Impossible!" Ravenspur cried in great agitation. "The thing is
absolutely incredible. I cannot believe it."

"Nevertheless, I am stating nothing but the truth," Walter said. "As
sure as I am standing here I saw Mrs. Delahay. And now you know why I
am sure that there is something more behind this than has yet come to
light."



CHAPTER XII.
A SPEAKING LIKENESS.


It was some little time before Lord Ravenspur replied. For a moment or
two he seemed to be bereft of the gift of speech.

"It sounds almost incredible," he managed to stammer at length. "You
are absolutely certain you are not mistaken?"

"No, I am not mistaken. Mrs. Delahay's face is far too striking a one
to be taken for that of anybody else. Of course, I am not asking you
to give me any information. I am not seeking to pry into your secrets;
but this mystery maddens me. The most extraordinary part of the whole
affair is this--for three years on and off I have known Mrs. Delahay
intimately. I saw a great deal of her in Florence, also in Paris last
year. And she has always given me the impression of being absolutely
straightforward and single minded. And now, for some reason or
another, she has taken it into her head to tell deliberate lies which
appear to have no point or meaning. If she had only said that she went
to call upon a friend after her husband had gone out, no further
question would have been asked. Of course, I had not forgotten the
evidence of the man Stevens. I must confess I should like to see him
and ask him a few pointed questions. But apart from all that, you must
see the necessity of getting Mrs. Delahay to tell the truth. It is
just possible that she is shielding somebody. It is just possible that
the whole thing is capable of explanation. But of that you are the
best judge."

"It is a miserable business altogether," Ravenspur groaned. "I am
obliged to you for the straightforward way in which you have told me
everything, and I will do my best with Maria Delahay. She refused to
see me this morning, but I will go round after dinner and make another
attempt to get an interview."

It was somewhat later in the evening that Walter looked up his friend
Venables again. As he expected, he found the journalist to be greatly
interested in the Delahay case. Walter had debated the matter over in
his mind. He could see no harm in telling Venables what he had
discovered.

"It is certainly a curious case," the latter remarked. "And
professional interests apart, I should like to get to the bottom of
this mystery. But I see you have some suggestion to make in connection
with it. What is your idea?"

"Well, I have been thinking it out as I came along," Walter explained;
"and it seems to me that we might get a good deal out of the witness
John Stevens. He is the sort of man who would do anything for money,
and a sovereign or two ought to loosen his tongue. I don't want to say
anything unkind about Louis Delahay, because he was a great friend of
ours; and, so far as I know, his past is a clean and honourable one.
But then you never can tell. What is a man like that doing to make an
enemy, who is prepared to run the risk of being hanged for killing
him? And why does he want to go round to his studio at such an hour in
the morning?"

"I thought of all that," Venables said grimly. "Depend upon it, your
unfortunate friend had some secret chapters in his life of which the
world will probably never know anything. But what has all this got to
do with that fellow Stevens?"

"I was just coming to that point. If I had been the coroner I should
have asked Stevens a great many more questions this morning. As it
was, the authorities seemed content to let him go after he had given
evidence to the effect that he had seen Mrs. Delahay with her husband.
He told the court that he had been prowling and spying about Fitzjohn
Square for some months, and he gave a pretty plain hint to the effect
that he could tell a story or two about some of the inhabitants there.
Now, for six months or more before Delahay went to Florence to be
married, he lived a bachelor life at this house; and all this time
Stevens was prowling about the neighbourhood after dark. It is not a
very pleasant thing to have to do, but I should like to talk the
matter over with Stevens and see if he can give us any information as
regards Delahay. If you will telephone to Scotland Yard and get them
to give you Stevens' address, we will go round to his rooms and
interview him at once."

It was no difficult matter to get the address in question, and
presently the two friends reached the shabby house in the dingy street
where Stevens lived. An exceedingly dirty child informed the visitors
that Mr. Stevens was out at present, but that he always left his
whereabouts behind him in case he might be required professionally. At
the present moment, the precocious child informed the strangers, Mr.
Stevens could be found at the Imperial Palace Theatre in Vauxhall
Bridge Road.

"That is a bit of a coincidence," Venables remarked. "However, we
can't do better than go down to the theatre."

There was some little trouble in finding Stevens, and the performance
was nearly at an end before he was pointed out to Walter by one of the
attendants. He appeared to be none too sober, judging by his flushed
face and somewhat unsteady gait; though, since the morning, his
wardrobe had undergone a decided change for the better. The greasy,
seedy frock-coat had vanished. Also the dilapidated silk hat. In fact
the man looked quite prosperous.

"I would suggest that we don't speak to him in here," Venables said.
"Let us follow him out into the road."

Walter fell in at once with the idea. In the road Stevens paused as if
waiting for somebody, and presently from the stage door there appeared
the slim, graceful figure of Valdo. For some moments the two men stood
in earnest conversation together, and from their attitude it was
plainly evident that they were in hot dispute upon some point. The
discussion lasted some little time. Then with a shrug of his
shoulders, Valdo put his hand in his pocket and passed a coin or two
over to his companion. Stevens was understood to say something to the
effect that that would suffice for the present. Then he lounged off
down the road and paused presently before a public-house which
glittered invitingly opposite.

"Catch him before he goes in there," Venables whispered hurriedly. "If
the fellow has any more to drink he will be perfectly useless to us
for the rest of the evening."

Stevens turned suspiciously as Walter spoke to him.

"I think your name is Stevens," the latter said. "My friend here is a
journalist and is greatly interested in the Fitzjohn Square mystery.
We have been reading your evidence of this morning, and have come to
the conclusion that you may be able to afford us some useful
information. If you will answer a few questions we will make it worth
your while."

"To the extent of a couple of sovereigns," Venables put in.

"Then I am your man," Stevens exclaimed with alacrity. "Perhaps you
wouldn't mind coming round as far as my rooms. I have got a pretty
poor memory for things, so I always jot everything down in my diary. I
put everything down pretty well, because you never know what
information is likely to be useful. I once made fifty pounds out of
the simple fact that I saw a footman reading some postcards he was
posting. Since then I have neglected no trifles."

"What we want," Walter explained, "is all you can tell us about Mr.
Louis Delahay. You know him very well by sight, and you must be
acquainted with some of his habits."

Stevens laughed knowingly, and nodded his head.

"I could open your eyes about a few of them in that neighbourhood," he
said. "I haven't been loafing about Fitzjohn Square all these months
for nothing. If I were a blackmailer, which I am not, I could live on
the fat of the land. That is too dangerous a game to play, and I
prefer to get along as I am."

The man was evidently in a condition when he was past concealing
anything. He chattered away glibly until his rooms were reached. Then
with a flourish he opened the door and invited his visitors to enter.
He apologised for the fact that he had nothing whereon to entertain
the strangers, which apology was duly accepted. It was, perhaps, on
the whole, a fortunate thing that Stevens' cellar was empty. He
ushered his companions into a grimy room, stuffy from want of air, and
reeking with the odour of stale tobacco smoke.

"You will excuse me for a moment," he said politely. "I will go into
my bedroom and get my diary. I suppose pretty well all you want to
know has happened quite lately."

"It is the last six months with which we are chiefly concerned,"
Walter explained. "Before that does not matter."

Stevens turned away and closed the door behind him. He was gone some
little time, so that his visitors had ample opportunity to take stock
of their surroundings. There was nothing in the place of any value
except a small circular picture in a handsome frame, depicting a
beautiful face, which was evidently the work of some artist of repute.
The painting was so glaringly out of place that it immediately
attracted Venables' attention.

"How did that get here?" he asked.

"My word, you may well ask that," Walter cried in surprise. "Here is
another amazing discovery! You remember my uncle being robbed of some
pictures a few years ago, one of which he declared was the best thing
he had ever done?"

"You don't mean to say," Venables exclaimed, "that, that----"

"Indeed, I do," Walter said under his breath. "I declare to you that
the painting hanging up there is the one which my uncle always
considered his masterpiece."



CHAPTER XIII.
A STRIKING LIKENESS.


Venables regarded the painting with deep interest. All his
journalistic instincts were now aroused. It appeared to him that he
was on the eve of tapping a perfect gold mine of sensational "copy."

"Now are you quite sure you are not making a mistake?" he asked. "You
have not been misled by some chance likeness, because this is rather
an important matter for me. My people expect smartness, but they have
a rooted objection to mistakes."

"I tell you there is no mistake here," Walter Lance said definitely.
"I am prepared to swear that that portrait was painted by my uncle. Of
course, you remember the sensation there was at the time when the
pictures were stolen. They vanished from the studio in the most
mysterious fashion. Two of them were of comparative unimportance, but
yonder work my uncle reckons to be the best thing he has ever done.
And I quite agree with him."

"A portrait, I suppose?" Venables asked.

"Well, my uncle always denies it. He says the face is more or less a
fancy one. And while he is prepared to admit that it is coloured by
recollection, he says it is not intended for anybody in particular.
But I can see a likeness there."

"Of course you can, and a very strong one, too," Venables exclaimed.
"Do you mean to tell me that your uncle cannot see that that picture
is Miss Vera Rayne?"

"That is the point I have put to him more than once. He says he can't
see it at all. And there are others who share the same opinion. On the
other hand, there are certain friends of ours who take the same view
of it as I do myself."

"And they are right," Venables said vigorously. "My word, we appear to
be only on the fringe of this mystery! It occurs to me that the thief
who stole that picture did not steal it for the mere sake of gain, but
merely because it is _what_ it is. No doubt the other two works were
merely stolen as a blind. I don't wish to appear curious, my dear
fellow, but what relation is Miss Rayne to Lord Ravenspur or
yourself?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you," Walter replied. "Strange as it may seem,
my uncle has always refused to say anything about Miss Rayne's
antecedents. All I know is that she is well bred, exceedingly
beautiful, and perfect in every way."

"Oh, of course," Venables said hastily. "But here is Stevens back
again. It wouldn't be a bad plan to ask him point blank where that
picture comes from."

Walter nodded his approval as Stevens came back into the room with a
notebook in his hand. He started uneasily as Venables literally fired
the question at him. But there was no time for the man to prevaricate.

"It doesn't belong to me," he said. "As a matter of fact, it is the
property of a man who used to lodge with me some time ago."

"Well, it is a very fine piece of work," Venables said, in a
matter-of-fact voice. "I suppose your friend is a poor man; otherwise
he would not live in a place like this. Do you think he would like to
sell the picture?"

Stevens replied, with obvious confusion, that he could not say. His
friend was not an Englishman, and where he was to be found at that
moment Stevens could not say. There appeared to be nothing more for it
but to change the subject. Then, as he stood looking at the painted
face, a sudden inspiration come to Walter. He wondered why he had not
thought of it before. His mind went swiftly back to the moment in the
studio when Lord Ravenspur had appeared so disturbed over the
unexpected finding of the photograph by one of his guests. Here was
the photo idealised. Could there be any connection between the thief
of the picture and Lord Ravenspur's midnight guest?

"Perhaps I can stimulate your memory," he said. "Isn't your friend an
Italian? Hasn't he got something to do with the variety stage? Come,
you can answer my question; surely it is an easy one. Isn't your
friend in London at the present moment?"

Stevens stammered and hesitated. There was something like fear in his
eyes as he glanced furtively at the questioner. Lance felt quite sure
that he was on the right track now.

"Now, look here," he said. "We have come on important business, and if
you refuse to help us, we may find some other way of inducing you to
tell the truth. On the other hand, there need be no unpleasantness,
and there is no reason why you shouldn't put a five-pound note in your
pocket. Now isn't that picture the property of a man named Valdo who
is at present under engagement at the Imperial Palace Theatre? Now,
yes or no."

"I don't know how you found it out," Stevens said, wriggling about
uncomfortably. "But it is true enough. Valdo was living with me about
three years ago. He came back one night with the picture in his
possession."

"Not in a frame, I suppose?" Lance asked.

"He brought it rolled up. The frame was put upon it a day or two later
by Silva himself."

"Silva!" Venables exclaimed. "I thought his name was Valdo."

"That is his stage name," Stevens explained. "You see, Silva had not
come to England very long. He was very poor then, and I understood
that he was looking for some Englishman, who had promised him
employment whenever he crossed the Channel."

"Was the Englishman ever found?" Lance asked.

"That I can't tell you," Stevens went on. "Silva is very close about
his own affairs, and I believe that he belonged to some secret
society. He told me the picture had been painted for him by a clever
compatriot of his, who was trying to make a name for himself. Of
course, it was nothing to me, and I asked no questions about it. When
Silva went away to fulfil an engagement up in the North, he asked me
to take care of the portrait, and it has been hanging on the wall
opposite ever since. I hope there is nothing wrong about it."

"Indeed there is," Lance said significantly. "Now, if you would like
to help us, we will make it worth your while. If you don't, why, it is
more than possible that you may find yourself in an awkward position.
I don't mind telling you that that portrait was painted by Lord
Ravenspur, and that it was stolen one night from his studio some three
years ago."

Stevens gave a sudden start.

"I recollect it," he cried; "I recollect it perfectly. I remember that
there was a great outcry at the time, and that a large reward was
offered for the recovery of the pictures. Lord, if I had only known.
And to think that all this time----"

"That reward would have been yours," Venables smiled grimly. "You
would not have allowed your friendship for this man Silva----"

"Friendship!" Stevens said contemptuously. "What is friendship where
money is concerned? And, after all, Silva was no real pal of mine.
Precious little use he was to me."

"Oh, you'll find us useful enough if you play your cards correctly,"
Venables said. "We happen to know that you are on good terms with this
man Valdo, or Silva, whatever you call him. In fact, we know that he
gave you money tonight. You are quite astute enough to see how much
better it will pay you to be on our side. Therefore, you will see the
advantage of saying nothing to this Italian about our visit here
tonight. Here is a five-pound note to go on with, and if I want you
again, as is exceedingly probable, I will write to you and tell you
where to meet me. I don't think we need detain you any more at
present."

"Then you don't want to know anything about Fitzjohn Square?" Stevens
asked. "I can tell you a thing or two."

"I think that will keep for the present," said Lance. "Good-night, and
remember that silence is your policy."

Stevens grinned and nodded as he tucked the five-pound note into his
waistcoat pocket. His recent visitors went off together in the
direction of Venables' rooms.

"That was a brilliant inspiration of yours," the latter said,
presently. "Now, what on earth put it into your head to ask if that
man Valdo had any connection with the stolen pictures? To my mind,
your question was almost an inspiration."

"Well, hardly that," Lance proceeded to explain. "But, first of all,
let me tell you the events which led up to our discovery tonight. I
think you ought to know. I am quite sure that the secret is safe in
your hands. Now listen, carefully."

Venables listened carefully enough to Walter's extraordinary story of
the strange photograph, and of the mysterious attack on Lord Ravenspur
in his studio, and the subsequent discovery of the yellow handbill.
In the light of these disclosures everything was perfectly plain to a
mind so astute as that of Venables. He shook his head gravely.

"This looks like a vendetta," he said. "You may depend upon it that
Miss Vera Rayne is the unconscious cause of all the mischief. Of
course, I am treading on delicate ground now, but I suppose it is just
possible that Miss Rayne may be Lord Ravenspur's daughter. We know
that Ravenspur used to spend a great part of his time in Corsica, and
everybody is aware of the fact that love-making out there is a
dangerous business. It looks very much to me as if this man Valdo was
working out a plan of revenge, either on his own behalf, or on behalf
of some noble family, hailing from that picturesque corner of Europe.
My theory is further strengthened by the mysterious way in which these
things have come about. See how anxious your uncle is to keep
everything out of the hands of the police. I feel quite sure now that
the death of Louis Delahay is all part of the same drama. It wouldn't
be a bad plan to mention Luigi Silva's name to your uncle, and ask him
if he has ever heard of the man before."

"That is a good idea," Walter exclaimed. "I'll ask my uncle the
question before I go to bed tonight."



CHAPTER XIV.
RETROSPECTION.


Most of the lights in the houses in Park Lane were out when Walter
reached his uncle's residence. But as he entered the hall he could see
that the studio was still ablaze. The door was 'closed, but a thin
shaft of light penetrated from beneath. As Walter tried the door he
found to his surprise that it was locked. With some feeling of
apprehension he called to his uncle, and a moment later Ravenspur
turned the key. His face was pale. There was in his eyes a look which
spoke of some vague fear.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," Walter said.

"My dear boy, I am only too pleased to have a companion," Ravenspur
said eagerly. "Upon my word, my nerves are so much shaken by these
terrible happenings that I am almost afraid to be alone. Sit down and
have a cigarette."

Walter took a cigarette from the silver box on a little table, nor did
he fail to note the presence of a stand of spirits, which was a thing
in which his uncle rarely, or never, indulged.

"I really needed a stimulant tonight," Ravenspur said, half
apologetically. "Where have you been all the evening?"

"I have been out making discoveries," Walter said, as he threw himself
down into a comfortable armchair, "and one of my discoveries has been
really remarkable. To be perfectly candid, Venables and myself have
been doing a little private detective business together. Venables was
by no means satisfied that that fellow Stevens had told all he knew at
the inquest on poor Delahay, so we hunted Mr. Stevens up, and finally
ran him to earth in his dingy lodgings."

"And did he give you any valuable information?" Ravenspur asked
eagerly. "Was it worth your while?"

"Indeed, it was, as you will see for yourself, sir. As soon as ever we
got into the room I was struck by a picture there. One does not
usually find great works of art in a bed-sitting room at five
shillings a week. And when you see a picture like that, worth a couple
of thousand pounds at least, it naturally arouses your curiosity. And
when, on the top of that, the picture is perfectly familiar to you,
why, my dear uncle----"

"You mean you had seen the picture before? Where?"

"In this very studio; you painted it here, sir. It is one of the three
pictures which were stolen from you some time ago. Oh, you need not
shake your head, uncle. I assure you that I have not made the
slightest mistake. I leave you to guess which of the three pictures it
was that I saw in that dreary bed-sitting room."

"I think I can tell you," Ravenspur groaned. "It was the fancy
portrait. Some instinct tells me so."

"You are quite right, sir," Walter went on. "It was the portrait,
surely enough. But it did not belong to Stevens, as you will probably
have guessed by this time. It had been left in his care by an Italian
friend, who gave a very plausible reason for being in possession of so
valuable a work. I understand that this Italian's name was Luigi
Silva. Have you heard of him?"

Lord Ravenspur rose from his chair, and walked agitatedly up and down
the studio. It was some little time before he spoke, and then his
words came slowly and painfully.

"I see you know more than I had expected," he said. "For instance, you
have formed the conclusion that this Luigi Silva stole that picture.
In fact, that he came here on purpose to get possession of it, and
that he took two other canvases at the same time to prevent us finding
out his real motive. Till tonight I had not the remotest idea why
this Luigi Silva wanted that portrait, because the loss of the other
pictures utterly deceived me, as it was intended to do. Now I know
better."

"But you did not answer my question, sir," Lance suggested.

"Oh, yes; you wanted to know if I was personally acquainted with this
man. As a matter of fact, I am not, though I have heard far too much
about him for my peace of mind. But tell me, how did you manage to
ascertain the fellow's proper name?"

"That, of course, we got from Stevens," Walter explained. "Silva is in
England ostensibly as a music hall artist; in other words, he is
Valdo, the flying man that I told you about a little time ago. But
don't you think we are getting rather from the point, uncle? I want to
know the history of this man."

Once more Ravenspur commenced his walk up and down the room. He seemed
to be hovering between two minds.

"Perhaps it would be wiser if I were to tell you everything," he said.
"I did not intend to do so, but to a certain extent you have forced my
hand, and it would be much more prudent for you to know where you
stand. You asked me just now what I knew of this man Silva. Eighteen
years ago he was in the employ of a great friend of mine, Count Boris
Flavio. My unfortunate friend is forgotten now, but at the time of
which I am speaking he enjoyed almost a European reputation. To begin
with, he was an exceedingly rich man. He had one of the most beautiful
places on the Continent, situated not far from Florence. Had he been
poor, Flavio would have shone in any line he chose to take up. He was
a fine artist, a notable sculptor, and one or two of his books
attracted great attention. In addition to this, he had few rivals as
an all-round sportsman. His conversation was brilliant, his appearance
and manners left nothing to be desired. Out of the scores of notable
men I have met in my time, there is not one of them to whom I was so
deeply attached as I was to Boris Flavio. His views, his sympathies,
his extraordinary grasp of character all appealed strongly to me. So
far as I know, he had no secrets from me, and it came almost as a
shock one day when I had a letter from him saying that he was about to
be married. Naturally one expected such a man to make a brilliant
match, but, on the contrary, Flavio chose a wife from people of whom
one had hardly heard. On the score of family, Carlotta Descarti had
nothing with which to reproach herself. And here comes in the strange
part of the affair. The Descartis and the Flavios had estates which
touched one another, and between the two families there had been a
feud for centuries. It was a veritable Montague and Capulet business,
and I daresay it was this factor in the case that so strongly appealed
to my friend Flavio. Mind you, I did not learn these facts till long
after, and it so happened that circumstances prevented my attending
Flavio's wedding, and I never saw his wife. Two years later I received
an urgent and mysterious message from Flavio to go and see him
secretly, and meet him in the grounds of his estate without letting a
soul know that I was there. . . . I never saw a man so changed as my
unhappy friend. It appeared that he had married a woman who was a
perfect fiend. She had made more than one attempt upon his life, and
he felt certain that the end was not far off. When I asked him why he
tolerated such a state of things, he told me it was for the sake of
his little girl, to whom he was passionately attached. And then he
bound me to an extraordinary promise. Mind you, I would not have made
that rash promise to any other friend, but such was the charm and
magnetism of the man that I never even hesitated. And this is what I
had to do. If anything happened to my friend, if he died mysteriously,
I was to go to Italy at once, and, by fair means or foul, get the
child away from the baneful influence of her mother. Oh, you may look
at me with astonishment, Walter, but stranger things happen every day.

"I went away fully intending to keep my promise if occasion arose, and
I was not surprised to hear a few months later that poor Flavio had
been found dead in his room. It was proved that he had been poisoned,
and suspicion immediately fell upon his wife. On and off, the case
lasted three or four years, and caused a tremendous sensation
throughout Europe. Beyond all question the wife was guilty enough, but
she managed to prove an extraordinary _alibi_, which so puzzled the
jury that they disagreed no fewer than five times. After that the
authorities recognised the futility of further proceedings, and the
countess was released. What became of her I don't know, for she
disappeared, and, as far as I can tell, has never been seen from that
day to this. But most assuredly she would have been convicted had it
not been for the devotion of a servant of hers whom she had brought
from her old home with her. This servant's name was Luigi Silva. It
was he who saved his mistress. I am firmly convinced it was he who
engineered that marvellous _alibi_, and coached his witnesses so
cleverly that there was no flaw in their evidence. I was not present
at any of the trials, because I could not manage to get away, but I
read enough to convince me that this Luigi Silva had talents and
courage far above the common."

"And the child?" Walter asked, with pardonable curiosity.

"Oh, I had almost forgotten the main part of my story," Ravenspur
proceeded. "The more I read of that case, the more convinced I was
that I should be doing right in carrying out my promise to my dead
friend. It was not a difficult matter. It only meant a journey to
Italy and back, and the little one was in my safe custody. I leave you
to guess what that child is called now."

"Vera Rayne, of course," Walter said.

"Quite so. From that day to this she has been with me always. But,
mind you, I was not blind to the risk I was taking. If ever the truth
came out, my life was not worth much. I knew that I should be tracked
and followed, and finally lose my life, even if the search took twenty
years. But, gradually, as the time wore on, I became easy in my mind.
I had taken the utmost precautions to blind my trail, and the only
accomplice I had was my old nurse, who has been dead for some years.
Besides, Vera was growing up, and it seemed to me impossible to
identify her with the baby not quite two years old. She is not in the
least like her father, either, and that is why I made a mistake. I had
quite forgotten that she might be very like her mother, and she I have
never seen."



CHAPTER XV.
DALLAS MAKES A DISCOVERY.


"The danger would certainly lie there," Walter said thoughtfully.

"My dear boy, that is just where the danger comes in," Ravenspur
replied. "I haven't the remotest idea whether Vera is like or unlike
her mother, but I fear that she must be, otherwise that man Silva
would never have got on my track, as I have felt quite sure lately
that he has done. Doubtless in some of his wanderings he has seen the
girl, he has recognised the likeness, and made up his mind that he has
found the object of his search at last. You see, he has only to make a
few inquiries amongst the servants, who would tell him that Vera is my
ward, and that, as to the rest, she is more or less of a beautiful
mystery. One can understand now why he should come to my studio and
steal that portrait."

"I think I can see a better theory than that," Walter said. "Wasn't
the portrait exhibited before it came back to the studio again? I seem
to remember something of the kind."

"Of course it was," Ravenspur exclaimed. "I had quite forgotten that.
Silva must have got his inspiration from the picture. I suppose that
is why he made that murderous attack upon Sir James Seton the other
night, taking him, of course, for me. But that is not the first
warning I have had of the impending danger, and I am afraid it won't
be the last."

Walter listened to this desponding view with impatience.

"But, surely, you are not going to take it like this, sir?" he
expostulated. "By greatest good fortune we have discovered who your
mysterious foe is. I think it has been a wonderful slice of luck, and
we ought to take advantage of it. Surely you couldn't do any less than
place the matter in the hands of the police, telling them all that has
happened. At any rate, you can do nothing else. They can drive this
man Silva out of the country. If I may be allowed a suggestion, you
will let Inspector Dallas know without delay. If you don't care to
tell him yourself, let me broach the matter. Indeed, it seems my
imperative duty to do so. If you fell by the hand of this man now I
should feel morally responsible for your death. And, besides, if
anything happens to you, what are we going to do about Vera? She is
not yet of age. She might at any moment be claimed by her mother, who
you say is a perfect fiend. And, besides, though this is a minor
matter, I am deeply attached to Vera myself----"

"Oh, I know, I know," Ravenspur groaned. "The thing is hedged round
with troubles and difficulties. You know why I was against your
marriage with Vera, and how greatly distressed I was when I found
everything out. If there had been nothing in the way, nobody would
have been more delighted at a match like that than myself. But you see
the danger, though you little know how deep and far-reaching those
Corsican vengeances are. How do I know that if you marry Vera you
would not be marked down for the same fate as myself?"

"I am prepared to risk that," Walter said grimly. "Still, at the
present moment, we have far more important things to talk about. And
Vera must know nothing of this."

"My dear boy, of course not. I should never dream of telling her. But
sooner or later she must discover everything for herself, I am afraid.
I have been thinking over what you said just now, and perhaps it would
be as well to let the police know."

"You will do it at once?" asked Walter eagerly.

"Well, no, I don't propose to do it at all. You have been so clever
and cool-headed in this matter that I have decided to leave everything
to you. The whole problem is so complicated that I am utterly unable
to grasp it. I can see no connection between the two, but I am
perfectly certain that the death of poor Delahay is all part of the
coil."

"I feel that, too," Walter said. "But we need not concern ourselves
about that at present. By the way, have you seen anything of Mrs.
Delahay today?"

"She won't see me," Ravenspur replied. "She obstinately refuses to see
anybody. She remains wilfully blind to the fact that she is in a
serious position. You see, she declared in her evidence in chief that
she had not been outside the hotel on the night of the murder, and yet
on the testimony of three independent witnesses we have it that she
was away upwards of three hours. Of course, that man Stevens is a very
suspicious character, but he could have nothing to gain by swearing
that he saw Mrs. Delahay with her husband very early in the morning in
Fitzjohn Square. Moreover, the man's evidence was not in the least
shaken. What to make of it I don't know. I wish you would try and see
her. You know her far better than I do, because you were a deal in
Italy before Delahay's marriage, and I think she likes you. Of course,
she might have some strong reasons for leaving the hotel and for
keeping the thing a secret, and she may be utterly and entirely
innocent. But, really she ought to tell her best friends what is the
meaning of this mystery."

Walter glanced at his watch. It still wanted some minutes to eleven
o'clock, and it was no far cry to the Grand Hotel. A hansom took him
there in ten minutes. Mrs. Delahay had not yet retired for the night,
and Walter sent up his card, with a few urgent words pencilled on it.
A maid came down presently with the information that Mrs. Delahay
would see him for a moment.

She came into her sitting-room perfectly calm and self-possessed,
though the deadly whiteness of her face and the scintillating of her
eyes told of the torture that was going on within.

"I wish you would let me help you," Walter said as they shook hands.
"I wish you would be advised by me. My uncle tells me that you refused
to see him altogether."

"I was bound to," Mrs. Delahay said in a low voice. "Oh, I know
exactly what you want. I am the victim of a set of extraordinary
circumstances. My innocent lie may get me into serious trouble. I am
not blind to that knowledge, but at the same time I cannot speak. I
must allow people to think the worst. But I swear to you if it is the
last word I ever utter, that I was not with my husband. I was not the
woman the witness identified as the person he had seen with Louis
Delahay in Fitzjohn Square that terrible morning."

The words were quietly, almost coldly, uttered, but Walter believed
them as he would perhaps have refused to believe a passionate outburst
on the speaker's part.

"But surely," he argued, "you can give some account of your movements.
You can say why you went out and what for?"

"I cannot," Maria Delahay went on in the same even tones. "There are
the most pressing reasons why I should keep silent. My dear Mr. Lance,
I am grateful from the bottom of my heart for all your sympathy and
kindness, but nothing can move me from my determination. After all
said and done, the police can prove nothing against me. For the rest
of my life I shall be a person to be shunned and avoided, but I shall
know how to bear my punishment uncomplainingly. And in conclusion, I
am quite convinced of this--if I told you everything, you would say
that I was perfectly justified in the course I am taking. Further
argument is useless."

Walter saw the futility of it, too. He saw in the woman's averted head
and outstretched hand, the sign that he was no longer needed, and that
the interview was at an end. By no means satisfied he made his way
down to the vestibule intent upon seeing Inspector Dallas without
further delay. He was not surprised to find the object of his search
engaged in discussion with the clerk.

"You are the very man I want to see," he said. "If you have ten
minutes to spare, I think I can give you some useful information. I
have just been having a long conversation with Lord Ravenspur, and he
has asked me to lay certain facts before you."

"I can come with you now," Dallas said. "We can talk as we go along
the road. Now, sir."

"It is rather a long story," Walter said. "I suppose you Scotland Yard
people keep yourselves _au fait_ with most of the sensational crimes
which take place on the Continent? I suppose, for instance, you
remember the death by poisoning of Count Boris Flavio, and how his
wife was charged no fewer than five times with the crime?"

Dallas fairly started.

"That is a most extraordinary thing," he said. "I don't mind telling
you that within the last day or two, or rather within the last few
hours, we have blundered upon a startling light on that crime. It so
happens that an Italian detective, who has come here to take a
prisoner back to Rome, has interested himself in the Fitzjohn
business, more or less because Mrs. Delahay is Italian herself. This
detective Berti was not in court during the inquest, but he came round
here an hour or two ago and expressed a casual wish to see Mrs.
Delahay. He managed to do so for a moment, and then he made a
statement that fairly took my breath away. But come with me as far as
Scotland Yard and you shall hear him tell the story himself. I won't
spoil it for him."

A little while later Walter found himself in the presence of a slim,
diminutive man, with a fierce moustache and an exceedingly mild,
insinuating manner.

"This is my friend Berti," Dallas explained. "And this, Berti, is Mr.
Walter Lance, nephew of Lord Ravenspur. He mentioned the Flavio case
to me just now with a view to getting a little information. I told him
that you had had the whole business in hand, and you had better let
him know that you are in a position to place your finger upon the
Countess Flavio at any moment."

"Oh, that is an easy matter," Berti said. "I had the privilege of
seeing the Countess this evening; but she does not call herself
countess now. She is Mrs. Louis Delahay."



CHAPTER XVI.
STRONG MEASURES.


"You have made a most extraordinary mistake," Walter said. "On and off
I have known Mrs. Delahay for some considerable time. I am quite
certain that she is no relation whatever to Countess Flavio."

"And I, sir, am equally positive," the Italian detective replied. "I
think my friend Inspector Dallas told you just now that I had the
Flavio case in hand from the first. Indeed, I have had many
conversations with the Countess. So positive am I that I am right that
I will be prepared to make an affidavit of the facts."

"This is very strange," Lance murmured. "I cannot but believe that you
have been deceived by a strong likeness between two different women. I
know all about Mrs. Delahay. She comes from a very good Italian
family, though I believe they were poor; they were exceedingly proud
and exclusive, and until the death of her parents, Mrs. Delahay lived
a life of almost monastic seclusion."

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me her name?" Berti asked. "It
might facilitate matters."

"Certainly," Walter Lance replied. "Before she was married Mrs.
Delahay was Signora Descarti."

A peculiar smile flitted over his face.

"That is assuredly a point in my favour," he said, "seeing that
Countess Flavio also was Signora Descarti."

Lance began to feel less sure of his ground. It appeared to him that
the mystery was deeper than he had anticipated, and the more he came
to investigate, the more bewildering the puzzle was. Certainly he had
known Maria Delahay for the last three years on and off, but when he
came to think over matters it struck him for the first time with
peculiar force that, really, he knew little or nothing of Maria
Delahay's antecedents. He well recollected the time when Louis Delahay
announced his approaching marriage. He recalled that evening
perfectly. Delahay had been a self-contained sort of man, and one of
the last persons in the world to associate with matrimony, but he
seemed to have found his fate at length, and had quite come out of his
shell, discussing his future wife with Lance.

And what was it that he had told him after all? In the first instance,
Signora Descarti was no longer in the bloom of her youth. In the
second place, she was shy and retiring, possibly because, up to a
certain time, she had lived such a secluded life. Despite the fact
that she was of excellent family, she was earning a precarious living
with her brush, and Delahay had hinted that there had been a romance
in her early days which had coloured her life. Really, beyond this,
Walter Lance had no knowledge of this unhappy woman's past, and he did
not forget that the Flavio affair was nearly twenty years old. Except
by the police, the thing was absolutely forgotten. It was almost
impossible that anybody besides these authorities would recognise
Carlotta, Countess Flavio, at this moment.

It came upon Lance with quite a shock that his unfortunate friend,
after all, might have married a woman who had been tried five times on
the capital charge. Eighteen years is a long span in a human life, and
many changes can happen in that time.

Lance put aside the uneasy thoughts that rose to his mind, and turned
to Berti again.

"That is distinctly a point in your favour," he said. "I confess that
the fact that both ladies possessed the same maiden name comes as a
shock to me. And yet, even now, I can't altogether abandon the idea
that this is nothing more than a coincidence. But, tell me, what
opinion did you form of Countess Flavio's character?"

The Italian smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Enigma," he said, "the woman seemed to be without feeling altogether,
from the time that I arrested her until her final acquittal I never
knew her display any feeling at all. Even when I had to announce to
her that she was at liberty, she gave no sign of pleasure or relief.
She was like a creature who had been deprived of all the emotions,
like some people you see who are deeply addicted to the drug habit. I
have seen her execrated by a mob of excited people, and taking no more
notice of them than if she were deaf. Yes; she was a most
extraordinary woman."

"Did you believe her guilty?" Lance asked.

"Ah, there you puzzle me," Berti replied. "Upon my word, I don't know.
Opinion was so equally divided; in each case the jury was balanced for
and against. Sometimes I thought the woman was guilty, and sometimes I
thought she was innocent. Of course, it was that extraordinary _alibi_
which saved her life. There was no getting away from it, for the
testimony in the woman's favour was given by people who were total
strangers to her. On the other hand, all the household servants came
forward one after the other, and gave their mistress a very bad name,
indeed. On their testimony she would have been executed, without a
doubt. If only half they said was true, the Countess Flavio was a
fiend."

"Did no servant testify in her favour?" Lance asked.

"Well, one. And he was a manservant who had accompanied the Countess
from her own home. According to his account, his mistress was a
perfect angel, and the Count was no more nor less than a disgrace to
humanity. This testimony passed for very little, seeing that Count
Flavio's neighbours and tenants came forward and spoke of him as a man
of singular charm and virtue."

"I have heard that," Lance said, thoughtfully. "You see, Lord
Ravenspur, my uncle, was a great friend of the Count. I understand
that he never met the Countess, though he had an interview with the
Count not long before his death. According to what Lord Ravenspur
says, at that time the Count walked in fear of his life. He was very
fearful lest his wife should try to destroy him. And now you tell me
that the Countess Flavio was no less than the wife of my friend
Delahay. I don't know what to think about it. I presume that Inspector
Dallas will take steps to assure himself that Mrs. Delahay is the
woman you take her to be."

"Well, yes," Dallas said grimly; "I don't see how the matter can rest
here. We know perfectly well that Mrs. Delahay was away from her hotel
for upwards of two hours on the night of her husband's death. It has
been proved that she was seen in his company. And yet, at the first
outset, she declares that she has not been outside her bedroom. One
doesn't like to come to conclusions; they are fatal things to form in
our profession. But it seems to me pretty obvious that there is one
person who could clear up this mystery, and she happens to be the dead
man's wife."

Lance had nothing to say in objection to this. Still, at the same
time, there was a haunting doubt in the back of his mind that
circumstances were shaping themselves against Maria Delahay apart from
any faults of her own.

"You haven't enough to justify an immediate arrest, I suppose?" he
asked. "You see what I mean?"

"Oh, I see perfectly well what you mean, sir," Inspector Dallas
replied. "There is nothing to gain by such a course. It is impossible
for the woman to get away. Indeed, we should take immediate steps to
prevent her leaving the country. If she is the guilty party, she will
be much more use to us as a free woman than she would be as a
suspected criminal under lock and key. But, unless I am mistaken, Mr.
Lance, you came here to tell me something."

"I had clean forgotten all about it," Lance exclaimed. "But as it is
getting late now, if you don't mind I will leave it till the morning.
It is a long story."

A few moments later and Lance was retracing his steps in the direction
of the Grand Hotel. He was going to do wrong; he was going to do
something which, sooner or later, might land him in serious trouble,
but that did not deter him for a moment. In the hall of the hotel he
scribbled a hasty note, and sent it up to Mrs. Delahay. A message came
down in a moment or two to say that Mrs. Delahay would be pleased to
see Mr. Lance.

He found her waiting in the sitting-room, just as cold and pale and
impassive as before.

"You have something very important?" she asked.

"Indeed, I have," Lance exclaimed. "I want you to believe that I am
actuated entirely by the friendliest motives, and if I speak plainly
you will understand that I am not wanting in feeling. I have been with
Inspector Dallas tonight and he introduced me to an Italian detective
whose name is Berti. The latter assures me that his name is quite
familiar to you."

"He is quite mistaken," Mrs. Delahay said in her cold, even voice. "I
don't know anybody of that name. As to a policeman, I never had the
honour of speaking to one in my life."

"You are quite certain of that?"

"Absolutely. If it were true, what should I have to gain by denying
it? If you have anything to say to me, it will be far better to speak
quite plainly."

The woman spoke quietly enough. It was impossible to believe that she
was wilfully deceiving her questioner.

"Very well, then," Lance said, "I may as well tell you that this man
Berti was the detective who had the Flavio case in hand. You will
remember, of course, what an extraordinary sensation that drama caused
in Italy many years ago."

"Did it?" Mrs. Delahay said indifferently. "I never had the slightest
interest in that kind of thing. So far as this particular case is
concerned, I never heard of it before."

Lance could only stare in astonishment. She was speaking and acting
now just as, according to Berti, the Countess Flavio had behaved
before and during the trial. Was she the sport of circumstance, or was
she the woman she denied herself to be?



CHAPTER XVII.
LOOKING BACKWARDS.


"That is very strange," Lance murmured. "I am told that the trial in
question was the talk of Europe for two or three years. I believe the
papers were full of it at the time. And yet you don't seem to have
heard of it. Isn't the name of Flavio familiar to you at all? It is
not a common name."

As Lance spoke he saw a swift and subtle change pass over the face of
his companion. A flame of colour stained either cheek; then it was
gone, leaving her still more ghastly white than before.

"I have not told you quite the truth," the woman said; "but in twenty
years one forgets even the keenest of sorrows. Now I come to think of
it, the name of Flavio reminds me of one of the most unhappy
experiences in my existence. There was a certain Count Flavio whose
estates joined those of my father. For some generations there had been
a deep and bitter feud existing between the Flavios and the Descartis.
The head of the Flavios was a very old man, who had two sons. Not to
make a long story of it, the young people met, and fell in love with
each other: the young people on one side being my sister and myself.
The intrigue was found out, of course, and for the next ten years I
was practically a prisoner in my father's house. He had a gloomy old
fortress somewhere up country, and there I was detained. I might have
been there still had my parents lived."

"And your sister?" Lance asked. "What of her?"

Again the woman hesitated. Again the look of pain and suffering swept
like a wave across her face.

"They told me my sister was dead," she murmured. "I had to take their
word for it."

"And you believed it? You believe it still? I hope you will pardon me
for my persistent questions, but it is quite necessary that I should
put them. Do you feel quite convinced?"

Once more Mrs. Delahay hesitated. Once more she seemed to shrink as if
in physical pain.

"How can I know? How can I tell?" she asked. "Did I not say that I had
been a prisoner all those years? This would account for the fact that
I know nothing about that Flavio tragedy. Are you going to tell me
that it is one and the same family to whom my sister and myself were
attached?"

"Indeed, I do," Lance went on. "Your Count Flavio had two sons. When
he died his elder son came into the title and estates. That was the
man who was afterwards poisoned by his wife; at least, a great many
people think so. And his wife's name was Carlotta. Her surname was
Descarti. My dear Mrs. Delahay, it is impossible to believe that this
is a coincidence."

"I quite agree with you," Mrs. Delahay said, in a low voice. "They
seem to have deceived me about my sister, and my parents told me that
she was dead. I suppose they meant that she was dead to the family.
She must have made her escape, and married her lover after all. I was
less fortunate. But what you say absolutely overwhelms me. The man
that my sister loved was a splendid specimen of humanity; he was
kind-hearted and generous; in every sense of the word he was a
gentleman. And I can vouch for my sister's many good qualities. To say
that she poisoned him is absurd. Why, she simply worshipped him. But,
tell me, what opinion did the world form as to the merits of this
extraordinary case?"

'"I want to spare you as much pain as possible," Lance murmured. "But
your sister was held up to execration as a fiend in human form. One
servant after another gave evidence to this effect. They seemed to
think that your sister was not altogether sane--but why should I
torture you with these details? What I really came here to tell you is
this. The Italian detective, Berti, who had the case in hand, is in
England at the present moment, and he has seen you. He declares that
you are Countess Flavio. You can see how seriously this accusation may
tell against you--later on."

Lance uttered the last two words reluctantly enough, but Mrs. Delahay
saw their full significance.

"Oh, I know what you mean," she said. "You mean that I have placed
myself in a perilous position. But there is one thing I can assure
you--I am not the Countess Flavio. If necessary, when the time comes,
I can prove this in a manner which would set even that Italian
policeman's suspicions at rest. It is very kind of you to take all
this trouble on my behalf. I suppose you want me to tell the whole
truth, and say why I denied being away from the hotel the other night,
when three people can come forward and show that my statement is
false. Well, it was false. I don't mind going as far as that. But more
I cannot and will not say, except that I am an innocent woman who has
been a prey to cruel misfortune all her life."

There was determination as well as sadness in the words. Lance could
see that he was merely wasting his time.

"Think it well over," he said; "give it every consideration. I will
call and see you again in the morning."

No reply came from Maria Delahay. She merely held out her hand, and
Lance took his leave without another word. Then the woman dropped into
a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

Why did Fate persecute her in this way, she asked herself. Why had her
life been such a misery for the past twenty years. Surely all this was
a terrible price to pay for a childish indiscretion. And yet, though
the years had been long and burdensome, it seemed but a brief step
back to the happy, sunny days when she and her sister had been
children playing in the woods at home and getting every drop of
enjoyment out of life. Then they had hardly comprehended the feud that
existed between the Descartis and the Flavios. Indeed, they had looked
upon it as rather a silly business altogether and a distinct nuisance
to mutual friends and neighbours. They had begun to notice, too, that
the sons of old Flavio were good to look upon, and finally one day a
slight adventure in the woods had thrown the young people together.

The thing had begun in a harmless fashion enough. They met again, and
yet once more. They fell in the way of discussing the family quarrel
and making light of it. From then on the path was pleasant and easy
enough, and one day the two girls awoke to the fact that they were
both deeply in love with the sons of their hereditary enemy. It was at
this point that stern old Descarti discovered the great secret.

What happened after that Maria Descarti hardly knew. There was a
terrible storm of rage and passion, sleepless nights, and tear-bedewed
pillows, and then such a life of greyness and despair that the girls
had never dreamt of. When at length she ventured courage to ask after
her sister, she was told that the latter was dead. She took this
statement literally, and she resigned herself to the inevitable.

The prison doors were open at length, but only on the death of her
parent, and there she was at forty years of age, helpless and
friendless, with no knowledge of the world, and nothing to aid her
besides her brush and pencil. The struggle was indeed a hard one, and
it looked like ending at length when she came in contact with Louis
Delahay. She had no strong passion to give him, nothing but the
tranquil affection of approaching middle age.

She had been perfectly candid in the matter, and Delahay knew exactly
what he had to expect. Perhaps the prospect of tranquil happiness was
far better than the rosy dreams of youth. And all this was now
shattered by the unexpected tragedy.

Maria Delahay had reached this point in her thoughts; then her mind
wandered on to what Lance had recently told her. And so, after all,
her sister was alive. This knowledge had not reached Maria Delahay
tonight. She had suspected it for some days, and it had come about in
quite a prosaic way.

She could see it now quite clearly in her mind. The pleasant-mannered
chambermaid had come into the sitting-room soon after Delahay had gone
out on that fatal evening. She had evidently taken a liking to her
visitor. Maria could see her now as she fussed about the room.

"Is there anything you want?" she asked.

"You seem to have forgotten me," the girl said. "I waited upon you
when you were here last spring."

"Last spring!" Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "Why, surely, you have made a
mistake. I have never been here before."

"Oh, madam," the girl said reproachfully, "you are making fun of me.
You came here by yourself, and stayed for the best part of a week. You
had very few visitors, and you used to talk to me a good deal. . . .
Only the name is different. You used to have Carlotta, not Maria, on
the envelopes I brought up to you."

Mrs. Delahay started. With difficulty she restrained her feelings, for
the chambermaid's innocent words had let a flood of light in a dark
place. In the happy old days people were constantly mistaking her for
her sister. Was it possible that her sister was still alive? Was it
possible that she had been deceived all this time? A little
dissimulation might be the means of getting the truth from the voluble
chambermaid.

"You have sharp eyes," she said, "and, no doubt, a good memory. How
long did I stay here, and where did I go afterwards?"

"It was a little over a week," the girl said. "And then you went away
to Number Seventeen, Isleworth Road, Kensington. I remember the
address because I have a sister in service who used to live next door.
Perhaps madam does not want to be remembered? There are many reasons
why it is prudent not to know too much."

"I am glad to see you are so discreet," Mrs. Delahay smiled. "There is
no reason to mention this to anybody else, you understand?"



CHAPTER XVIII.
AFTER MANY YEARS.


Left alone to herself, Maria Delahay had summed up the situation
clearly and logically. Beyond all doubt her sister was still alive.
Beyond all doubt Carlotta had been staying at the Grand Hotel within
the past twelve months. She, too, seemed to have had her misfortunes,
misfortunes more keen and cruel than even those of her younger sister.
It was very strange that Maria should learn the truth in this fashion.
It was stranger still that she should discover the house to which
Carlotta had gone on leaving the hotel. Up to this moment Maria had no
idea of going out herself. She intended to go straight to bed and
await her husband's return.

Now a strange restlessness came over her. She felt it impossible to
remain imprisoned within those four walls. There was no likelihood of
Louis Delahay's return for the next two hours. Why, then, should she
not go out and take a cab as far as Isleworth Road? It was very late,
of course, but then London was a late place, and a midnight call no
novelty.

Allowing herself to act on the impulse of the moment, Maria walked
downstairs, and out into the Strand. Hailing a cab, she was driven to
Isleworth Road, where she gave orders for the driver to stop. The
locality was a respectable one, and there were lights in a good many
of the houses; but at number seventeen Mrs. Delahay met with
disappointment. The house was not empty, though the blinds were down,
and there was not a light to be seen. The dingy nature of the steps
and the tarnished look of the brasswork testified to the fact that
neither had received any attention of late. As Maria stood there
ringing the bell for the third time, in the faint hope of making
somebody hear, a policeman came along.

"You are wasting your time there, lady," he said civilly enough. "The
people are not at home. I think they are coming back at the end of the
week, because my instructions to keep a special eye on the house don't
go beyond Saturday."

Maria thanked the officer and went back in a cab. She would have liked
to have asked more questions, but she restrained her natural
curiosity. After all, it was not a far cry to Saturday, and even then
she might meet with a disappointment. In all probability her sister
had left London long ago.

Maria was thinking all these things over now that Walter Lance had
gone. She wondered that her sister had so completely passed out of her
mind. But, then, she had had so many terrible anxieties to weigh her
down. She could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy. She paced up
and down the room in a vain attempt to get away from herself. The
clocks outside were striking the hour of midnight, but the roar of the
Strand was going on still as if it were high noon. A sudden resolve
came to the woman. She would go out at once and try her luck at
Isleworth Road again.

She took no cab this time. She knew the way. As she walked along she
was conscious of the fact that she was being followed. She smiled
bitterly to herself. What had those people to be afraid of? Did they
think she was going to run away?

Her heart gave a great leap as she saw the lights gleaming behind the
drawn blinds at No. 17. She had only to ring once, then the door was
promptly opened by a typical English servant, who waited for the
visitor to speak.

"I think there is a lady here I want to see," Maria stammered. "At
least she was here for some time in the spring. You see, she is my
sister, and we have not met for twenty years. It may appear strange,
but I don't even know her name."

It seemed to Maria that this was a proper precaution on her part.
Though her explanation sounded weak enough, to her great relief she
saw the servant smile and open the door a little wider.

"That is all right, madam," the servant said. "I can see that you are
my mistress's sister by the likeness. Will you please come this way."

The next five minutes seemed like an hour to Maria. Then the door
opened, and a tall, dark woman came in. The two looked at one another
for quite a minute in absolute silence. It was so strange to meet
after all these years, so sad for both to see how the other had
altered. Then Maria Delahay moved forward, and the two women kissed
each other almost coldly.

"Why did you come here?" the Countess said. "How did you manage to
find me out? I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were dead, too, till the other night," Maria said. "I
was told that twenty years ago. I should not be here at all but for an
amazing chance. You will remember that you were staying at the Grand
Hotel some time in the spring, and it so happens that my rooms are on
the same floor as yours, and that the same chambermaid is still there.
When she welcomed me as an old customer I guessed by instinct that you
were still alive. And if you only knew it, there is a providence
behind this thing."

Countess Flavio appeared to be listening in a dull, mechanical kind of
way. There was no disguising the fact that she was both distressed and
disconcerted to find herself face to face with her long-lost sister
again. "You know nothing of my history?" she asked. "Not till
tonight," Maria said. "I have recently been listening to it. I knew
nothing. How could I know anything? When our dream of happiness came
so suddenly to an end I became practically a prisoner in that dreadful
old house of ours near Naples. I was told that you were dead, and I
believed the story. I knew nothing of your existence till a day or two
ago. I was utterly ignorant of the fact that you had had such a
dreadful time. Not that I would believe anything they say, Carlotta,
because I know what you were in the old days. But however dreadful
your experiences have been, you, at any rate, snatched a brief
happiness. You married the man of your choice. How did you manage to
escape?"

"Oh, don't ask me," Carlotta Flavio said bitterly. "If you only knew
everything you would see that you were far better off in your prison
than I was with my liberty. Do you know that I was five times tried
for my life? Do you know that for four years I was the most execrated
woman in South Italy? But I am not going into that now. I want to know
what brings you here this evening. Why you should come at such an
inconvenient time?"

"But why inconvenient?" Mrs. Delahay protested. "We were fond of one
another in the old times. And what more natural than I should seek out
my sister at the first opportunity? But you are changed. Doubtless
your misfortunes have soured you. I have had my misfortunes, too. Of
course you have heard lately a good deal about Mr. Louis Delahay--I
mean the unfortunate artist who was found murdered in his studio the
other night?"

Countess Flavio started. Her lips grew white.

"Who has not heard of it?" she said. "The papers are full of the
tragedy. People are talking about nothing else. But you are not going
to tell me that there is any connection----"

"Indeed, I am," Maria went on. "As I said just now, for years I was no
better than a prisoner. I should be a prisoner still if our parents
had lived. Then, finally, when I found my freedom, I made a discovery
that there was absolutely no money left. I was forced to get my own
living. I had nothing beyond my brush, and things were going from bad
to worse with me when I made the acquaintance of Louis Delahay. We
always liked one another from the first, and when he asked me to marry
him I gladly consented. It seemed to me that the way was opening up
for a happy middle-age. It seemed to me that Fate had got tired of
persecuting me at last. I married Louis Delahay and we came back to
England."

"You married Delahay?" the Countess said mechanically, "and you came
back to England? I am trying to realise it. I read the account of the
inquest. I know that people are saying that Delahay's wife is
responsible for his death; but I did not dream then that it was my own
sister whom folks were condemning. I cannot believe it now. But why
did you go out that evening. If you had remained in your room nobody
would have been----"

"I left the hotel to come here," Maria replied. "But I found that you
were not in London. And now I am going to tell you why it is that I
have refused to speak, why it is that I have allowed people to regard
me as a perjurer. You say you read the account of the inquest. Do you
recollect what a poor creature called Stevens said? He swore, and,
what is more, he believed every word he said, that he saw Louis and
myself together in Fitzjohn Square early on that fatal morning. Come,
if you read the paper carefully, you must have seen that. It was the
most sensational piece of evidence given at the inquest. The man
picked me out in court, and said positively that he had seen me with
Louis. But he didn't, as you know perfectly well."

"As I know perfectly well?" the Countess stammered. "What have I got
to do with it? Where do I come in?"

Maria Delahay threw up her hands with an impatient gesture. There was
a steady gleam in her eyes now. She had lost all her listless manner.

"I was not there," she said, "because I was somewhere else. That James
Stevens saw someone with my husband on that morning is absolutely
certain. It is absolutely certain, too, that he did not see me. Then
who did he see whose likeness to me is so great as to deceive a pair
of keen eyes under a brilliant electric light? It was you, _you_,
Carlotta, who were walking with my husband at that hour in the
morning. Now tell me what it all means."



CHAPTER XIX.
CARLOTTA'S STORY.


"On, this is terrible," the Countess stammered.

"Of course it is," Maria Delahay cried. "Why don't you be candid with
me? I have told you what my name is, and, besides, you already knew.
When you saw my husband on that fatal night your likeness to me would
have struck him at once, and explanations would have followed. Then
why are you trying to deceive me now?"

"I hardly know what I am saying," the Countess replied. "The whole
thing is such a terrible complication. I don't want to deceive you,
Maria, and I will tell you all I can. You might believe me or not, but
when I read of the death of Louis Delahay, for the moment I had quite
forgotten you. You see it was a great shock to me when you came in
just now, especially as I had not seen you for so many years. But I am
getting muddled up again. I am beginning to wonder which of us is
which. It seems to me that all this miserable business is merely the
result of the strong likeness which exists between us."

"Never mind that," Mrs. Delahay cried. "If you will remember, in my
evidence I said my husband had gone out, that he did not return all
night, and that I found him dead in Fitzjohn Square in the morning. I
was out of the hotel for nearly two hours trying to find you, after I
had been so strangely put on your track by the chambermaid. Perhaps it
was a foolish thing on my part to conceal my absence, but, of course,
I never guessed the result of my folly. It never occurred to me till
afterwards that my absence from the hotel could be so easily proved.
Even that did not matter so much. And when the witness Stevens swore
that he saw me with my husband at a time when I had said I was in my
hotel, things began to look serious for me. I know perfectly well that
I may be arrested at any moment on a charge of murdering my husband.
How true that charge will be I leave you to judge for yourself. But
the mystery was no longer a mystery to me when Stevens told the court
most positively that he had seen me with my husband. I did not know
that Louis was acquainted with you. He never mentioned your name, but
directly Stevens had finished I knew that it must have been you who
was with my husband; and now I must ask you to give me an
explanation."

"That is an easier matter than it seems," Countess Flavio said. "I
knew Louis Delahay, though he had no acquaintance with me."

"That sounds impossible," Maria murmured.

"Oh, I know it does, but it is true all the same; and to make my story
plain I shall have to go back nearly eighteen years. The events which
led to my making Louis Delahay's acquaintance took place near Florence
at the time I mentioned."

"That is strange," Mrs. Delahay murmured. "I was in Florence about
then, too. Yes, I know I told you that I was practically a prisoner
all those years, but there were times when I had a certain latitude. I
was very ill about that time, and the doctor ordered me to Florence,
saying that it was good for me to see people and mix with crowds. I
was supposed to be there by myself, but there was no movement of mine
which was not noted. I never took even the shortest walk without being
dogged and spied upon. The people who called themselves my servants
were, in reality, my gaolers. But why do I worry you with these
trivial details when there is so much of importance to say? Go on with
your story."

"Well, as I was saying," the Countess explained, "I was in Florence
with my husband. We had been married then something like three years.
We had rather a lonely villa on the outskirts of the town. Ours was
not a happy life; indeed, it was most miserable. I daresay there were
faults on my side, too; but one night we had a violent quarrel, and,
on the spur of the moment, I made up my mind to run away. I managed to
get all my jewels together. I managed to leave the house in darkness
and steal through the grounds to the road. I was dressed all in black,
and I remember the night was very thick. Just as I was congratulating
myself on my escape my husband overtook me. He was beside himself with
passion. He laid violent hands upon me. I believe he would have killed
me if I had not managed to wrench myself free and make for the road.
What we said I do not know, but I suppose our voices must have carried
far, for I had only got a little down the road, with my husband in hot
pursuit behind me, when a man emerged from the cottage and caught me
by the arm. At first I thought he was one of my husband's tools, but
the first words that he said reassured me."

"'Do not be afraid,' he whispered. 'I was trespassing on the Count's
property just now, and I heard all that was said. That man is
dangerous, and it is necessary that I should protect you for the
present. Come in here with me.'"

"He did not wait for me to consent. He fairly lifted me from the
ground into the blackness and seclusion of the cottage. It was all
done in less time than it takes to tell. A moment later I heard my
husband go raging down the road, and then I knew that my life was
saved. Mind you, it was altogether too dark to see my rescuer. It
would have been imprudent to strike a light. I stayed for some little
time until I regained my composure, after which I made up my mind to
return home again. It would never do for people to think that a
Descarti was a coward, and, besides, there were other considerations.
I would go back home again and give my husband one more chance,
especially as I had a friend in the house in the person of Luigi
Silva, who had followed me on my marriage. At the same time, I did not
forget the dictates of prudence. It might be still necessary for me to
seek an asylum, and my instinct told me that I could trust the man by
my side. On the spur of the moment I implored him to take care of my
jewels for me. He demurred for a time on the score that he was a
perfect stranger to me, then, finally, he consented, at the same time
taking from his pocket a card, which he said contained his name and
address. And thus the strange interview ended, thus we parted, never
to meet again till that fatal night we came together in Fitzjohn
Square. I know the story sounds incredible."

"Not to me," said Mrs. Delahay, sadly. "Nothing could be incredible to
a woman who has gone through what I have. But go on. You went back
home again, after entrusting your jewelry to a perfect stranger whose
face you had never seen."

"Indeed, I did. And we should never have known one another even if we
had met. I went back to the villa, and afterwards we returned to our
estate. But it was not for long. A month or two later my husband was
found dead in bed, and it was proved beyond question that he had been
poisoned. Then began a time for me--a time of terror and anxiety so
great that I sometimes marvelled that I retained my reason. For four
years the torture lasted, and then, at length, I was free. I was in so
strange and morbid a condition that the sight of a human face was
hateful to me. I wanted to go off and live on some distant island
until I recovered my nerve and strength again. I succeeded at length
in finding the place I needed, and for twelve or thirteen years I led
a life of absolute seclusion in a little cottage high up the Italian
Alps. I had taken a certain amount of money with me, but I woke up to
the fact one day that my means were exhausted. You must know that I
fled straight away, as soon as the last trial was finished, and that
all those years I never saw a single face that was familiar to me. But
by the end of that period I was quite myself again. I felt a strange
longing to go into the world and see what life was like once more.
Besides, there was my child to consider."

"Your child?" Mrs. Delahay cried. "This is the first time you have
mentioned a child. Do you mean to say that you could part with your
own flesh and blood in that callous way?"

The Countess' expression hardened for a moment.

"She was his child as well as mine," she whispered.

"Well, what of that? I fail to see that it makes any difference. Your
husband might have been a passionate man, but, apart from that,
everybody spoke exceedingly well of him. He was immensely popular. He
was clever and generous. He had hosts of friends--I know that through
an English nobleman, who was greatly attached to the Count. Everybody
spoke well of him."

"Oh, I know, I know," the Countess said, with a bitter smile. "The
catalogue of his virtues was trumpeted high enough at the trial, and I
was no more than an inhuman wretch, not fit to live, certainly not fit
to have a husband like Count Boris Flavio. But you shall hear my story
presently. You shall hear what my witness has to say. At any rate, I
hated my husband with a deep and abiding hate, so that I could not
bear to look upon the face of his child. You may say that all this is
unnatural and inhuman, but you little know what I had to put up with.
Still, twelve or fourteen years will heal most wounds, and when I came
back into the world I was possessed with a longing to see my daughter.
I did not like to go back to the old place again, so I sent to make
inquiries. Imagine my feelings when I heard that my daughter, Vera,
had been kidnapped during the time of the first trial, and that she
had never been seen again. That is two years ago now. I managed to
communicate with Luigi Silva, and he was just as astonished and
surprised as I was. Naturally, he thought that I had made arrangements
with Vera, and that she was with me all the time. One of my reasons
for coming to England was to try and find my child. My other reason
was to see Mr. Louis Delahay and get my jewels back from him. This was
quite imperative, as I am at my wits' end for money."



CHAPTER XX.
VALDO IN A NEW LIGHT.


"How did you know my husband was in England?" Maria asked.

"I didn't," the Countess confessed. "I looked for him all over the
Continent. I should have written to him, only I had mislaid his card,
which I found at length after a long search. Seeing that the address
was Fitzjohn Square, I thought I would come and interview Mr. Delahay.
It was quite late at night that I found that he was staying at the
Grand Hotel, and as things were very pressing indeed, I sent him an
express letter asking for an interview early in the morning. In
response I received a telegram saying that he would see me at once,
and if I could manage to be at the corner of Fitzjohn Square at one
o'clock in the morning. I told you just now that things were very
urgent, because I had taken this house furnished, and I had already
had one or two unpleasant interviews with the landlord, who naturally
wanted his money. The telegram seemed to be reasonable enough. Artists
are very late people, and, besides, it occurred to me that Mr. Delahay
had probably had those jewels in his house. At any rate, I met him.
You can imagine how astonished he was when he saw my face. Of course,
he naturally concluded that I was your sister, but he seemed to think
that you had told him that I was dead. I suppose that was so."

"Certainly it was," Mrs. Delahay said. "I was definitely told that you
were dead. And when I related our unhappy story to my husband, I
always spoke of you as one who was no more."

"Yes; I quite see. Well, we went along very pleasantly together to the
house, and it seemed to me that all I had to do was to get those
jewels and come and call upon you. Naturally, I had not heard of you
for years. Indeed, I regarded you as dead, much the same as you were
under the impression that I no longer lived. But when we reached the
studio, a light was burning there, and, looking in, I saw a man
painting, a handsome man whom your husband told me was Lord Ravenspur.
You can imagine that neither of us wanted to be seen. There was no
occasion to raise any doubts in the intruder's mind, and so we waited
till he was gone. Then my case of jewels was handed over to me, and I
came straight back here. Not till late the next afternoon did I know
what had happened."

"Then there is nothing more you can tell me?" Mrs. Delahay asked.

"I am sorry to say there is not. But since you have been here certain
suspicions have begun to grow in my mind which fill me with dread. It
would not be fair to utter them yet, until I am more certain of my
facts. Still, I am glad you have come now, because I think you will be
of assistance to me. You heard me speak just now of Luigi Silva, but,
of course, you will remember him perfectly well?"

"I recollect him," Mrs. Delahay said. "A queer-tempered man, with
strange and wayward moods, but he was sincerely attached to us. I
should like to see him again."

"You _shall_ see him," the Countess said. "And if you have half an
hour to spare it shall be this very night. When I discovered that my
daughter had been stolen I got in touch with Silva, who, as I told you
just now, was under the impression that I had taken Vera away and
placed her in safe custody, lest the authorities should interfere and
remove her from my influence. When he found that I had barely given
Vera a thought all these years, he was furiously angry with me.
Indeed, his rage knew no bounds. He had always been so faithful; he
had always worked so hard for me, that I was astounded. He refused to
have any more to do with me. He went off without leaving his address,
and for some little time I have been searching for him in vain. Quite
by accident I found him the other night. He seems to have turned his
athletic powers to advantage, for he is performing in London now as a
kind of flying man. I have seen the performance, and it is exceedingly
clever. But that isn't what I want to talk to you about. I know where
Silva, or Valdo, as he now calls himself, is to be met with. Within a
few moments I want you to come along and add your persuasion to mine."

"I will do anything you like," Mrs. Delahay said; "anything to get to
the bottom of this singular mystery."

The Countess started up at once, and proceeded to don her hat and
cloak. Then she led the way to the back of the house.

"There is a way out here," she said, "which leads into a lane. Now,
come along. We have not very far to go."

They turned out of the lane presently into a quiet, secluded
thoroughfare, where the Countess stopped. They had not long to wait,
for presently two figures came down the road, talking earnestly
together. The light was not good, but it was quite sufficient to show
Mrs. Delahay that one of the men was James Stevens.

"The witness, Stevens," she whispered. "He must not see us together.
There are many reasons why it is inadvisable that he should learn the
truth. The other man looks like Silva; only it is difficult to be sure
after all these years. Let me stand in this doorway till you have
managed to get rid of Stevens."

The Countess nodded her approval, and Maria Delahay slipped into the
shadow of the door. From where she stood it was quite possible to see
what was going on. She saw her sister approach the two men. She did
not fail to note Stevens start as he recognised, or thought he
recognised, the woman who was known to him as Maria Delahay. On the
still air she could catch a word or two.

"Very well," she heard Silva say sullenly. "I have one or two things
to say to my friend here, and then I'll come back to you."

The two men came past where the woman was standing in the doorway.
They were conversing in deep whispers, so that the listener could
catch only a word or two, yet those words filled her with vague
apprehension. She caught the name of Ravenspur as it came hissing from
Silva's lips. Then there was something she could not follow, and,
finally, clearly enunciated the one word "tonight." A moment later and
Stevens was shuffling off down the street, while Silva returned to
Countess Flavio. As Mrs. Delahay joined them, the little Italian
glanced from one to the other.

"So you are both here," he said.

There was something in the insolence of his manner that moved Mrs.
Delahay to anger.

"I should hardly have known you," she said; "certainly I should not
have known you from the tone in which you are addressing us. Have you
quite forgotten what you owe to your late master's children?"

"I have forgotten nothing," Silva said. "Why do you come here
persecuting me like this? Why cannot you let me alone? But for me your
sister would have been in a dishonoured grave by now. I saved her
life. I saved the good name of the family. And how am I repaid? What
does she care so long as she saves herself. And yet I remember her a
sweet and innocent child, just as I remember her own little one. Ah, I
was fond of her, and she was fond of me. I could never have gone off
and hidden myself, and left little Vera to the tender mercies of the
world. I, a man, no relation, couldn't have done that. But that her
mother could have done such a thing--ah, it seems unnatural,
unwomanly."

"You will find her for me?" the Countess said timidly.

"I have found her," Silva whispered fiercely. "But whether I have
found her for you or not is quite another matter. I was your good
friend once. I was your devoted slave and servant. I would have laid
down my life for you both, and you know it. But all that I felt for
you was as nothing compared to my love for your little one. And when
you told me that you had left her without another thought, my blood
fairly boiled with passion. I thought you had taken her with you. I
fondly imagined that you were devoting the rest of your life to her
welfare and happiness. And then, one day, you come coolly to me and
ask me where you can find your child. You go your own way, and leave
me to go mine. I suppose you have found out that I come this way home,
and so have waylaid me. But you will never get me to raise a finger on
your behalf again. Still, it does not much matter. I know where the
child is. I shall know how to act when the time comes. My vengeance is
ready, when I care to stretch out my hand to take it."

The words poured from the speaker's lips in a torrent of passionate
vehemence. He fairly quivered with rage. He seemed to be beside
himself with anger. There was something almost akin to madness in his
eyes.

"Oh, calm yourself," the Countess said. "My good Silva, I make every
allowance for your feelings, but you are going altogether too far.
You, above all men, ought to know how I longed to get away from
anything that reminded me of my husband. Don't forget that she was his
child as well as mine, and that she had her father's eyes and charm of
expression. Besides, I was barely responsible for my actions then.
Consider what I had had to go through. Consider my mental torture and
degradation. And yet you say it was my duty day by day to watch my
child and see the hateful pleasantness of her father's smile looking
at me from behind her innocent features. Oh, I couldn't do it. I tried
to persuade myself that it was my duty, but all to no avail. I was in
such a state of nervous exhaustion then, so near the borderland of
insanity, that I believe I should have taken the life of the child if
she had gone with me. And, naturally, I thought that she was with
friends. I knew that you would see that she was all right. And, in
addition to all this, she was her father's heiress."

"But who was interested in taking her away?" Mrs. Delahay asked. "I
don't see how anybody could gain anything by saddling themselves with
a child like that."



CHAPTER XXI.
TO BE IN TIME.


"It is plain enough to me," Silva growled; "but then I am acquainted
with the facts of which you two know nothing. With all his faults,
Count Flavio was passionately attached to his little girl. Through her
he could see a means of stabbing his wife to the heart, and he was
never the man to hesitate where a piece of refined cruelty was
concerned. He arranged that kidnapping himself."

"Incredible," Mrs. Delahay cried. "And why?"

"Have I not just told you so?" Silva went on. "You remember Count
Flavio and his brother twenty years ago? You recollect what a handsome
man he was? No one was more popular or sought after. No one was more
pleasing and fascinating. But behind that fair exterior was the nature
and disposition of a devil. Oh, I knew it before that unhappy marriage
took place. And that was why I insisted upon accompanying Signora
Carlotta when she fled with the count. It was not long before she
found him out. It was not long before he began to employ the petty
tyrannies which poisoned her life and made existence almost
unendurable. I have stood behind his chair when guests have been
present. I have seen his clever simulation of affection, whilst all
the time he was saying things that wound sensitive women and drive
them to despair. Many a time I have been tempted to thrust a knife
between his shoulders. More than once I have had my hand upon a blade.
But if I stayed here all night I could not sum up the catalogue of
that man's diabolical cruelties. And when at length he paid the
penalty of his crime, I stood by my mistress, and saved her from a
felon's grave. It was hard work, for everything was so cunningly laid
that my mistress stood convicted from the very first. Perhaps Count
Boris reckoned upon an untimely end. At any rate, all his servants,
and the greater part of his tenantry, followed one another in the
witness-box and gave him the character of a saint, whilst his wife was
painted in the blackest colours. But for a little scheme of mine, she
would have been convicted beyond the shadow of a doubt. Still, we are
getting away from the point. I was going to prove to you how I knew
that the Count had arranged for his daughter to be kidnapped before
his death. Some time previous to his marriage one of his greatest
friends was an English nobleman, called Lord Ravenspur. Quite by
accident, a few months before the tragedy, I saw a letter which the
Count had written to Lord Ravenspur imploring the latter to give him a
secret interview at once. In that letter the most horrible charges
were levelled against the Countess. But we need not go into those now.
I managed to get hold of the reply to the letter, and I had no
scruples in reading it. Mind you, I did not think then that there was
a plot on foot to kidnap the child, and I was prevented from attending
the interview owing to the cunning of the Count, and within a few
weeks afterwards I had plenty of things to occupy my attention, so
that those letters were forgotten. And so things went on for years,
until I heard from the Countess again, and I found that she knew
nothing of her child. Oh, I have made no secret of my feelings in that
matter. I have spoken quite freely tonight."

Silva paused for a moment, and wiped his heated face.

"From that time forward," he went on, "I have devoted myself almost
exclusively to my search for the child. It did not occur to me till
comparatively recently that Lord Ravenspur had had anything to do with
it. In fact, that nobleman's name had quite gone out of my mind. I
heard him spoken of from time to time as a great artist. I am fond of
pictures myself, and about three years ago I went into a private view
in Bond Street, and there I saw a face which attracted my attention.
It was the head of a young girl precisely what little Vera would have
been by that time. The more I studied those features, the more
convinced was I that here was the object of my search. And when I
asked the name of the artist, I was told that it was none other than
Lord Ravenspur.

"Then it came upon me like a flash that my search was at an end. The
recollection of those letters came to me; then I knew as plainly as
possible that, at the instigation of the Count, Lord Ravenspur had
taken the child away. Those two were in league together. But the one
who still lives shall not escape his punishment. I will see to that."

"But are you quite sure?" the countess asked eagerly. "Have you seen
Vera? Does she live with Lord Ravenspur?

"That I don't quite know," Silva said. "I have hung about the house; I
was determined to find out things for myself without raising
suspicions in the minds of the servants. I gradually discovered what
the household consisted of. On and off for the last two years I have
watched and waited, but I saw no sign of anybody resembling the girl
of whom I was in search. And gradually I began to think that I had
made a mistake. Business took me away to the North for some months,
and when I came back again I put in a day or two more in Park Lane in
the faint hope that I might be rewarded at last. And I was. At length
I saw her. And now you know where your daughter is to be found if you
want to see her again. I am perhaps wrong to tell you this----"

"But where had she been?" the Countess exclaimed.

"Ah, it is easy to be wise after the event," Silva said. "She had been
at school on the Continent for the past three years, and that is why
all my efforts ended in failure. I did not mean to tell you this. I
meant to have kept it to myself as a punishment for your heartless
conduct all these years. But I must own that your arguments impressed
me. I can see now how the child would have reminded you of her father.
And that is why I have said so much. But, at the same time, this thing
has been an indignity to the family which I cannot overlook. Lord
Ravenspur will have to pay the price of his audacity. Blood is thicker
than water----"

Silva appeared as if he would have said more. But he checked himself,
and his words died away in low mutterings. In some respects it seemed
to Mrs. Delahay that the man was sane enough. In other matters she was
convinced that he was little better than a dangerous lunatic. Were
they on the eve of another dreadful tragedy, she asked herself, or was
this man merely uttering vapouring threats when he spoke in this
fashion of Lord Ravenspur?

"You will do nothing rash?" she said.

A queer smile flickered about the corners of Silva's lips. His eyes
were glittering like stars.

"Oh, I will do nothing rash," he said significantly. "I have been
brought up in the wrong school for that. When we South Italians take
our vengeance, we strike and strike hard. But it is done in the dark,
so that the right hand does not know what the left is doing. But we
never forget, and we never forgive."

Silva turned on his heel, and walked slowly and thoughtfully away. The
Countess called for him to come back, but he took no heed. He might
have been deaf to the sound of her voice.

"It doesn't matter," she said; "at any rate, I shall know where to
find him again. But are you not coming back with me?"

"I think not," Mrs. Delahay said. "It is getting very late, and I must
be returning to my hotel. But, if you like, I will come and see you
again, only it must be stealthily and in the dark. You will quite see
the advisability of our not being much together till this cruel
mystery has been cleared up."

They parted at the corner of the street, and Mrs. Delahay continued
her way slowly, always keeping the figure of Silva in sight. An
impulse to follow him had suddenly seized her, though she had said
nothing of this to her sister. She recollected vividly enough now the
words that had passed between Silva and Stevens as to Lord Ravenspur,
and the things that were going to happen tonight. For all she knew to
the contrary, she might be the means of preventing another tragedy.
She felt almost sure of this presently as Silva turned into Park Lane,
and pulled up before Lord Ravenspur's house.

The street was quite deserted, so that the man had no great need for
caution. He stood there just a moment longer; then coolly entered the
garden by way of a side gate. Apparently he had come prepared for
this. He let himself into the garden with a key. Very cautiously Maria
Delahay followed. She noticed how dark the garden was, the shadows
being all the more dense by reason of the blaze of light which came
filtering through the glass dome of the studio. Though the glass was
stained, and it was impossible to see through, the light inside was
strong and steady.

Half hidden behind a bush the watcher waited developments. Presently
she heard Silva creep cautiously to the side of the studio. Then, a
moment later, to her amazement, she saw that he was slowly climbing to
the top of the dome, by means of one of the ribs in the roof. The man
appeared to be as lithe and active as a cat. The smallest foothold
seemed to suffice him. He made his way to the top of the dome, and
Mrs. Delahay could see him peering in curiously. He stood just for a
moment debating.

There was no time for further hesitation. It was very late now.
Probably all the household had gone to bed, and doubtless Lord
Ravenspur was alone in the studio. She knew something of his habits
from her husband. Without a moment's hesitation she flew back into the
road, and ran to the front door of the house.

She pressed the button of the bell. She could hear the ripple right
through the house. It seemed to her as if no one was ever coming. Then
presently there was the sound of a footstep inside, and the door was
flung open by Walter Lance.

"Not a moment," she gasped. "Get to the studio at once."



CHAPTER XXII.
THE WORTH OF A NAME.


The great house in Park Lane was brilliantly lighted up, and
passers-by asked themselves what distinguished company Lord Ravenspur
was entertaining tonight. Inside the house the master of it all was
counting the moments till he should be alone. He was only giving an
informal dinner, but the guests numbered upwards of thirty all the
same. And now they were disported all over the house. Ravenspur sat in
the great hall, with its mosaic floor and wonderful marble pillars. It
was one of the show places of London, the envy of many whose means
were greater than Ravenspur's. The veiled lights shone through palm
and fern. The sultry evening seemed to be rendered cooler by the
murmur of the fountains. It was possible to sit there and see the fish
darting hither and thither, so that the effect of being somewhat far
away in the seclusion of the woods was complete. A tall, fair woman,
marvellously attired, was languidly singing the praises of the place
to her host.

"There is nothing like it," she said. "It is absolutely unique. We
have tried the same effect in America, but, somehow or another, it
seems so artificial, so wanting in repose. You are the most fortunate
of individuals, Lord Ravenspur."

"So my friends tell me," Ravenspur smiled. "But you must not always
judge by appearances."

If his guest only knew, Ravenspur thought. If she could only guess
what his feelings were at that moment. The beauty of the place had
been a delight to him at one time. He had enjoyed the planning and
building, but now he would have changed it for the meanest cottage, if
only he could approach to peace and comfort thereby. The house seemed
full of omens. Danger seemed to lurk everywhere. No doubt those banks
of palms behind the water gave a charming effect to the hall, but,
then, an assassin might have hidden behind them, for they afforded
plenty of cover. The genial smile was still on Ravenspur's face. No
one would have guessed the grey tenor of his thoughts. Even the pretty
woman by his side had no idea how anxiously he was watching the clock
in the gallery.

Meanwhile, the guests flitted from place to place, and Ravenspur could
hear the click of the balls in the billiard-room. Somebody was playing
brilliant music in the drawing-room. Usually, Ravenspur's guests were
loth to leave, and tonight was no exception to the rule; but
presently they began to drift away, until, at length, Ravenspur was
alone.

He heaved a deep sigh of relief. He rose and turned in the direction
of the studio. As he did so a slim, white figure came down the broad
stairs, and Vera Rayne stood before him. She was looking her very best
tonight. There was an extra dash of colour in her cheeks, a sparkle
in her eyes. The look that Ravenspur turned upon her was half
affectionate and half sad.

"You did very well tonight," he said, "considering this is the first
time you have done me the honour to act as hostess to my guests. You
played your part quite to the manner born, Vera. We shall have no
occasion to call in the services of Lady Ringmar any more. You will
find yourself paragraphed in the papers now."

Vera did not appear to be listening. Her beautiful face had a grave
look upon it now. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. There
was no hurry about her words, but Ravenspur could not fail to see that
she was palpably nervous.

"It will not be for long, then," she said. "My dear guardian, can I
have a few moments' conversation with you? It is not so very late, and
one so seldom gets an opportunity."

"How grave you are," Ravenspur smiled. "We will go as far as the
library, if you like, and then I can smoke a cigar and listen to your
weighty utterances. Come along."

It was cosy enough in the library, and much more inviting of
confidences than the stately splendour of the pillared hall. Ravenspur
threw himself back in an armchair and lighted a cigar. Then he
signified to Vera to proceed. Her lips were trembling now. Something
bright and diamond-like twinkled under her lashes.

"You have been very kind to me," she said unsteadily.

"Have I really, my dear? Nothing out of the common, I am sure. And
what have I done? Given you a good education and found you a
comfortable home; and from first to last you have never caused me a
moment's anxiety. I have become as fond of you as if you were my own
child. It will be a genuine grief to me when the right man comes along
and takes you away from here."

"There is not much fear of that," Vera smiled wistfully. "Of course,
you may think me ungrateful. You may say that I am showing a great
deal of dissatisfaction----"

"My dear girl, you are not dissatisfied, surely?"

"I am afraid I am. You see, things cannot go on like this. I hate to
have to talk in such a fashion, but the time has come when I must
speak. All these years you have been showering benefits upon me. You
have been treating me as if I were your own flesh and blood. The money
alone that I must have cost you is enormous; and, so far as I know, I
have not a penny."

"You will have when I die," Ravenspur said lightly.

"Oh, please don't talk like that; it makes my task all the more
difficult. I have realised for a long time now that I cannot stay
here, a dependant on your bounty. I can never feel sufficiently
grateful for what you have done for me in the past. I could not
possibly put my feelings into words; but I have made up my mind that I
must get my own living in the future. It is a very hard thing to say,
but I am going to leave you."

"Did anybody ever hear anything so foolish?" Ravenspur cried. "Why,
this is your home. Is it your fault that you are utterly incapable of
getting your own living? When I brought you here--a child in arms--I
gave your father a solemn assurance that you should be my own daughter
in future. I have made provision for you in my will. Some day you
will be rich, as things go. And now you talk of leaving me in this
cold-blooded fashion. Don't you see that I cannot do without you? But
let me try and touch that gratitude of which you spoke. Surely, after
watching over you so carefully all these years, you are not going to
leave me at the very moment when you can make something like an
adequate return? You are practically mistress of the house now, and my
welfare is entirely in your hands. Need I say any more after that?"

"Oh, you try me sorely," Vera cried; "and yet my path is quite plain.
Even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I cannot remain here.
And now I come to the point. Before I go I want you to tell me who I
am, and who my parents are."

"Yes; I think you have a right to know that," Ravenspur said
thoughtfully; "but, if you don't mind, we will not go into that
tonight. It is too late, and the story is too long. Believe me, you
will be the happier for asking no questions. There is a dark tragedy
behind your young life which is now forgotten, and I am perfectly sure
you would bitterly regret it if you stirred the scandal up again. 'Let
sleeping dogs lie,' Vera. Be content to know that you are of good
family, and leave the rest alone."

The girl's face grew a shade paler. Her eyes had a suggestion of pain
in them as she turned to the speaker.

"I think I understand," she murmured. "If my suspicions are correct,
this is a great blow to me; but, having said so much, I think I must
know the rest. And now, now you see how impossible it is that I can
remain here much longer."

Ravenspur was silent for a moment. He had forgotten the little scene
which he had witnessed some time ago between Vera and Walter Lance. So
that was why she was going. She had given her heart to Walter, and
only too late she had discovered that a marriage between them was out
of the question.

The same subject was uppermost in Vera's mind. They were both looking
at the same thing from a different point of view; and it seemed to
Vera that if Ravenspur's words meant anything, it meant that she was
not even entitled to the name she bore. Every drop of blood appeared
to have left her heart. She stood there, white and breathless. Yet,
amidst all her storm of thoughts, one dominant idea possessed her. The
time had come to strike now. There must be no further delay. She must
leave the house. She must go out into the world to get her own living.
She would stay here no longer under these shameful conditions.

"You have spared my feelings," she began. "I almost wish now that I
had not asked you any of these---"

Vera broke off abruptly as the door opened, and Walter Lance came into
the room. He looked uneasy and anxious. He started to say something to
Ravenspur, then he paused, as he saw that Vera was standing there. In
spite of the girl's utter misery and dejection, she did not fail to
see that she was in the way now.

"I am just going," she said. "I am going as far as the drawing-room.
When you have finished with your uncle I should like to have a few
words with you, Walter."

"You had much better go to bed," Ravenspur said, with a sudden stern
inflection in his voice. "It is getting late, and I am sure that you
must be tired, Vera."

The girl made no reply. She walked through the door on the far side of
the library and made her way into the drawing-room. Uncle and nephew
stood there facing one another; they could hear the sound of Vera's
piano softly played.



CHAPTER XXIII.
THE NEXT MOVE.


"Well, and what is it now?" Ravenspur asked. "You look as if you had
seen a ghost. Is there anything new in this ghastly business? Have the
police solved the problem?"

"On the contrary, the problem gets more bewildering every hour,"
Walter said. "As you know, I was going to talk over our side of the
puzzle with Inspector Dallas, and he gave me some startling
information. As soon as ever I mentioned the Flavio business he told
me that he had made a discovery which connected it closely with the
death of poor Louis Delahay. It appears that there is in England at
the present moment an Italian detective, called Berti, who had the
Flavio affair in hand."

"I recollect the name perfectly well," Ravenspur murmured.

"It appears that Berti has seen Mrs. Delahay since the inquest. He was
rather interested in the affair, and he contrived to get a sight of
Mrs. Delahay. And now comes the most extraordinary feature of the
story. Berti is absolutely certain that Mrs. Delahay is no other than
Carlotta, Countess Flavio."

"Impossible," Ravenspur cried. "The man is mistaken."

"He is prepared to swear to his statement, any way," Walter said.
"And, after all, I don't see why it should be impossible. In fact it
is not in the least impossible, and I'll tell you why. After this
amazing thing came out I thought it my duty to go back to the hotel
and see Mrs. Delahay. I told her what Berti said, and taxed her with
being a principal in the Flavio tragedy."

"And she denied it promptly, of course?"

"She did. She told me quite calmly that she had never heard of the
Flavio affair. I confess her words staggered me, because they were so
calm and self-possessed. I watched her narrowly when I was speaking,
and she never so much as changed colour. Even when I told her the
story she appeared to be as mystified and puzzled as ever. She said,
as she has always said, that for the best part of her life she has
been more or less a recluse, and altogether out of touch with the
world's happenings. You see, Berti was so confident, and Mrs. Delahay
so self-possessed, that I was utterly puzzled."

"There is nothing to be puzzled about," Ravenspur said. "The Italian
detective has made a mistake. His recollections of Carlotta Flavio's
features after eighteen years have become blurred. For goodness sake,
don't let us harp upon this absurdity. Surely, there are enough
complications without this!"

"So I thought at first," Walter said. "But you will recollect telling
me the story of your friend Count Flavio and his unhappy marriage.
There were two Descartis--Carlotta, who married your friend, and
Maria, who disappeared and was not heard of for years. Now isn't it
rather significant, bearing in mind what Berti says, that Mrs.
Delahay's name should be Maria?"

Ravenspur looked up with a startled expression.

"Well, yes," he exclaimed. "But I see you have more to tell me. Will
you please go on?"

"I am coming to the interesting part now," Walter said. "Though I was
prepared to believe that Mrs. Delahay knew nothing of the Flavio
affair, I was by no means satisfied. I felt that there must be
something in the Italian's story. I was certain of it when Mrs.
Delahay admitted that her maiden name was Descarti. Oh, please let me
finish. It was Mrs. Delahay's sister Carlotta who was the wife of your
friend the Count. Hence the very natural mistake made by Berti. He had
not seen the Countess, but her sister. The strong likeness between
them would account for the misunderstanding."

"And this is really a fact?" Ravenspur cried. "Strange that it should
not have come out before."

"But why should it, my dear uncle? You say that you never saw Count
Flavio's wife. You have not the slightest idea what she was like. All
you know is that she was an exceedingly bad woman, and that you
rescued her child from a questionable future. On the other hand, Maria
Delahay is secluded from the world for eighteen years. She is told by
her parents that her sister is dead. She knows nothing of the terrible
Flavio scandal. This is a fact, because she told me so herself.
Indeed, we had it all out. She has to come back to the world again
when her parents die. She is compelled to get her own living. It is
only natural that she should change her name, and there you are."

Lord Ravenspur pondered over the matter for some time in silence.

"You saw a great deal more of the Delahays than I did," he said.
"Practically I have not seen them together at all. Now how do they
strike you? I mean, before their marriage, did you think that the
woman really cared anything for our poor friend?"

"I am sure she did," Walter said emphatically. "Of course, there was
no passionate attachment between them; they were too old for that. But
I am quite certain that Maria Delahay's affection was sincere enough.
After what I have seen the last day or two, I decline to believe that
she had anything to do with her husband's death. I believed her when
she said she never saw him from the time she left the hotel till she
found him dead in the studio."

"And that opens up another theory," Ravenspur exclaimed. "If it wasn't
Maria Delahay the witness Stevens saw that night in Fitzjohn Square,
then it must have been her sister Carlotta."

"My word, that never occurred to me!" Walter cried. "And yet the
solution is as simple as it is probable. I wonder if it is possible to
obtain a photograph of the Countess?"

"There were plenty of them published at the time of the trial,"
Ravenspur said. "Of course, I mean in the illustrated papers. I have
got the whole of them somewhere upstairs. Not that I pay much
attention to newspaper photographs, as they are rarely any use. I'll
go and see if I can find one."

Ravenspur turned hurriedly and left the room. He was gone some
considerable time, leaving Walter to stand there and ponder over the
result of his night's adventure. The more he thought the matter over,
the more complicated it became. He put the thing away from him almost
petulantly. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that the music in
the drawing-room was very soft and soothing. Then it flashed across
him that Vera had something to say. Ravenspur might be a little time
longer, and there was no opportunity like the present.

Only a portion of the drawing-room lights were on, together with the
piano candles, and Vera sat there half in the shadow, a pathetic
looking figure enough, in her white dress. As Walter approached he
could see that her face was very pale, and that her eyes showed signs
of recent tears.

"What is the matter?" he asked. "What fresh trouble is this?"

Vera's hands fell away from the keys. She rose from her seat.

"It is not altogether a fresh trouble," she murmured; "it is only the
old one become more acute. Do you remember my telling you the other
day that I felt how impossible it is for me to remain here any longer?
But I must go away."

"My dearest girl, why?" Walter asked. "You know perfectly well how
much I care for you. You know perfectly well that you could not look
me in the face and declare that you do not love me as well as I love
you. Now, could you?"

"That is what makes it all the harder," Vera whispered. "Oh, I am not
going to prevaricate about it. We have always been good friends,
Walter, and in the last few months I have realised that friendship has
given way to a more tender attachment. Perhaps it was that which
opened my eyes. Perhaps it was that that made me ask myself some
questions. I felt quite sure that Lord Ravenspur had guessed nothing
of our secret. In fact, it was a secret to me till one afternoon in
this very room. . . ."

"I am not likely to forget," Walter said tenderly.

"Well, then, you see I began to think. No father could have been
kinder to me than Lord Ravenspur. I owe him a debt that I can never
repay. But, though he has taken me into his house, and brought me up
as if I belonged to his own flesh and blood, it does not follow that
he considers me good enough for his nephew, the future holder of the
title. And when he did find out not long ago, I saw at once what a
dreadful disappointment it was to him."

"I am afraid it was," Walter said grudgingly. "But he did not set his
face against it when I placed the thing before him in a proper light.
He merely stipulated that our engagement must be a secret between us
for the present. I am sure he is much too just a man, much too
kind-hearted to spoil our happiness. You are too sensitive, Vera; your
sense of honour is too high."

The girl's lips quivered piteously.

"Perhaps I am," she whispered. "But there is another thing which I
have learned tonight, a thing which prevents me from remaining here
an hour longer than is necessary. It is the question of my birth. I
learned that tonight for the first time. Oh, do not humiliate me any
further. Do not force me to speak any more plainly. If you knew the
shameful story of my parents you would realise at once how unfitted I
am to become----"

The girl said no more. She covered her face with her hands, and burst
into tears. As to Walter, he was too astonished to speak. In the tense
silence that followed the hall bell rang violently again and again.
Vera looked up swiftly.

"You had better go yourself," she said. "It may be important." (She
was deeply grateful for the interruption.) "Go yourself; everybody
else is in bed."



CHAPTER XXIV.
A BLOOD RELATION.


Walter choked down an ugly word that rose to his lips. He resented the
intrusion just at a moment when he particularly desired to be alone
with Vera. Who was it, he wondered, who came so late? And who rang so
imperiously and persistently for admission? He flung back bolt and
chain, and opened the door. With her nerves all unstrung, and with a
certain intuition of impending calamity upon her, Vera had followed
him into the hall. She had dried her eyes now; she showed little sign
of her recent agitation. She heard Walter's exclamation as he
recognised the intruder.

"Good heavens, it is Mrs. Delahay!" he cried. "What can you want here
at this hour?"

"The studio," Mrs. Delahay gasped. "Get to the studio at once. If your
uncle should happen to be there----"

"You can reassure yourself on that point," Walter said. "Lord
Ravenspur is at present in his bedroom."

Maria Delahay pressed her hand to her heart. She gave a little gasp of
relief. She was too breathless to explain. All she needed now was a
chair to support her failing limbs. As Walter stood there it flashed
upon him that something wrong must be taking place in connection with
the studio. He had not forgotten the vivid incident of the other
night. Perhaps at this very moment the clue to the puzzle was in his
hands. He turned round, and his gaze fell upon Vera, who was watching
Mrs. Delahay curiously.

"Take this lady into the drawing-room," he said, "and wait till I come
back. I shan't be very long."

Vera came forward with a sympathetic smile upon her face. A light was
shining on her features. Maria Delahay could see how fair and sweet
she was. And so this, she thought, was her sister's child. This was
the girl from whom her mother had voluntarily separated herself for
upwards of eighteen years. It seemed impossible, incredible to
believe, but there it was. And the girl's hand was under Mrs.
Delahay's arm now. She was being gently assisted as far as the
drawing-room.

"I am sure you are Mrs. Delahay," Vera said, in her most sympathetic
voice. "If all had gone well we should have met before now. I cannot
tell you how sorry I am for you. I do hope this dreadful mystery will
be cleared up before long. And now can I get you anything? I suppose
you came to see Lord Ravenspur?"

Maria Delahay hesitated for a moment. There was no occasion to tell
this beautiful child the dread import of her presence there. It seemed
a wicked thing to bring her within the range of the trouble.

"I should like to see Lord Ravenspur, yes," she said "So you are his
ward, Vera Rayne? Really, I cannot see any likeness between you and
your father."

The words had slipped unconsciously from Maria Delahay's lips before
she had time to think what she was saying. It was only when she noted
the startled look in Vera's eyes that she realised the full extent of
her imprudent speech.

"Did you know my father?" Vera cried.

"What am I saying!" Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "My head is so dazed and
confused that I don't know what I am talking about. Just for a moment
I was filled with a foolish idea that you were Lord Ravenspur's
daughter. It would be strange if you bore a likeness to him, seeing
that he is only your guardian."

Vera was silent for a moment. Mrs. Delahay's impetuous speech had
filled her with misgivings. She did not know, she could not feel sure
that, after all, Lord Ravenspur might stand in closer relationship to
her than that of a guardian. But she put the trouble out of her mind
now. She had other things to occupy her attention. And after all said
and done, the poor creature by her side was in deeper grief and
anxiety than herself.

"I think I will go up and tell my guardian you are here," she said. "I
know he will be glad to see you."

Vera was spared the trouble, for at that moment Ravenspur came into
the room with a bundle of papers in his hand. He started as he caught
sight of Mrs. Delahay.

"You here at this hour!" he exclaimed. "I hope----"

"No; there is nothing particularly wrong," the woman said. "I should
like a few words with you if I am not intruding."

Vera discreetly left the room, and walked off towards the library.
There was a stern expression on Ravenspur's face as he looked at his
visitor. He waited for her to speak.

"I daresay you will think this is rather singular of me," she
faltered, "but I came here tonight because your life is in danger. I
believe that the man called Luigi Silva is under your roof at the
present moment. You know who I mean?"

"I know perfectly well," Ravenspur replied. "It would be absurd to
pretend to misunderstand you. And so it turns out after all that you
are the sister of my poor friend Flavio's wife. Did Delahay know your
identity before he married you?"

"He knew all there was that was worth knowing," the woman said, a
little defiantly. "He knew the story of my miserable youth, for
instance. I don't want you to misunderstand me. I don't wish to
pretend that I had any ardent passion for my husband. But my affection
was deep and sincere, and my loss is almost more than I can bear. Oh,
I know what you are going to say. You are going to ask what I know
about that wretched Flavio affair. I repeat in all sincerity that I
knew nothing till the other day. I did not even know that my sister
was alive, not until I visited her tonight at her house in Isleworth
Road. I was not aware that she had married Boris Flavio. I did not
know that she had a child----"

"Do you know who the child is?" Ravenspur asked swiftly.

"Yes; I know _now_," was the significant reply. "I have just been
talking to her. What a beautiful girl she is! How sweet and natural!
How open and candid is her face! It seems almost incredible to me that
my sister could have forgotten her child all these years. I could not
have done so."

"No; nor any other woman worthy of the name," Ravenspur said grimly.
"But though you lived with your sister till early womanhood, you had
no real conception of her character. I never met her myself, for which
I am devoutly thankful. But I learnt enough, and more than enough, of
her character from Flavio's letters to me. If ever a man was cursed
with a fiend incarnate in the shape of a wife, Flavio was that man.
Oh, I don't wish to give you pain, for you have suffered enough of
late. But I know what I am talking about. The mere fact that you
alluded to just now is proof positive that your sister is incapable of
affection for her child. More or less by accident you have made this
discovery tonight. By sheer chance you know that your sister's
daughter is under my roof. For a long time past I have known that some
agency has been at work to deprive me of the girl, an agency so
utterly unscrupulous that my very life is in danger. I suppose that
man is acting for your sister, who has a sudden whim to gain
possession of her child once more. And now I am going to ask you a
favour. You are to say nothing of what you have found out tonight. I
have told you what your sister is, and no doubt my words will prove
true before long. I am going to ask you to give me a solemn promise
that----"

"It is too late," Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "Whatever my sister may be
is all beside the point. She knows where her daughter is, and Luigi
Silva knows also. He told us everything not long ago. I found out by
accident that he was coming here. I saw him enter the house a few
moments ago. I believe he is in your studio at the present moment.
That is why I rang the bell so furiously; that is why I prayed I
should not be too late."

Ravenspur started violently.

"Oh, this is intolerable," he cried. "One could hardly believe it
possible that this is London in the twentieth century. I had thought
that those insane vendettas had died out before this, even in Corsica.
I must go at once and see----"

As the speaker turned away Maria Delahay held out a detaining hand.
Her face was pale and pleading.

"Your life is too valuable to be risked in that headstrong fashion,"
she said. "Besides, I have already warned your nephew, who appears to
know everything. He went off to the studio at once. I have no doubt
that he has scared Silva away by this time. But why don't you put this
matter in the hands of the police? Why run this risk when a few words
would prevent any danger? And there need be no scandal. Silva could be
warned. He would have to leave the country, and then there would be an
end----"

"And this from you who are a half Corsican yourself," Ravenspur said
reproachfully. "I could free myself from Silva, no doubt, but before
many months had passed another man would take his place and my danger
would be greater than ever. You see I have the advantage of knowing my
present assailant. To quote the old saying. 'Better a devil you know
than a devil you don't know.'"

Maria Delahay had nothing to say in reply. She was turning the matter
rapidly over in her mind. It seemed to her that she could see a way
out of the difficulty.

"I think," she began, "that perhaps----"

The words were never finished, for suddenly the tense silence of the
house was broken by a quick cry and the tinkling sound of broken
glass. Then, in the distance somewhere, a door banged sullenly, and
silence fell over the house once more.



CHAPTER XXV.
BRED IN THE BONE.


Meanwhile, Walter Lance had lost no time in reaching the studio. It
did not need any elaborate explanation on the part of Maria Delahay
for him to know that, in some way, the danger came from the man whom
he knew as Valdo. Walter did not doubt that this was not the first
time that the Corsican had visited the studio, though, as yet, he was
utterly unable to grasp how it was that the attempt had been so
successful.

There was danger here, and Walter knew it perfectly well, but he was
too filled with indignation to think of anything else. So far as he
could see, nothing had as yet taken place. The studio was absolutely
empty, and the full blaze of the electric lights disclosed no danger.

Watching eyes were probably not far off, and it behooved Walter to be
circumspect. He whistled an air. He strolled from place to place, ever
and again glancing upwards to the roof. He felt quite convinced that
it was the roof from which danger threatened, but there was nothing to
be seen, no sign of movement in the branches of the acacia.

Still, the miscreant must be near at hand. He might even be watching
the solitary occupant of the studio at that moment. Walter made up his
mind what to do. He switched off all the lights and shut the door of
the studio, at the same time affecting to turn the key in the lock. If
Valdo were hiding close at hand, he would take this for an indication
that the studio was locked and closed for the night.

This being done, Walter crept back again and took up a position at the
foot of an acacia. If Valdo entered the studio at all he was bound to
come that way. Doubtless he had made his way over the roof, and
presently it would be an easy matter to flutter from the dome on to
the top of the acacia. Such a plan as this would present no
difficulties to the flying man. Therefore, Walter braced himself for
the effort which would be required of him presently.

He had not much doubt as to the issue. From the point of physical
strength he was a match and more than a match for the Italian. There
was just the chance that the latter might make use of his knife, but
that had to be risked. A quarter of an hour passed slowly, and Walter
was beginning to get impatient. What he most feared now was that Lord
Ravenspur might return and demand to know why the studio was in
darkness. This would probably have the effect of scaring Valdo away,
and Walter would have all his trouble for his pains.

The minutes passed along, and no one came; but at length Walter's
patience was rewarded. He heard a slight swish and sway in the
branches of the acacia overhead. He could hear deep and regular
breathing coming nearer and nearer to him. Then, presently, in the
darkness, he discerned the lithe figure of the Italian. A moment
later, and the intruder was caught below the elbows in a grip that
made him fairly grunt again. He struggled just for a moment, but the
steady grip seemed to crush the life out of him, and he desisted.
Walter bore him back until his left hand shot out, and the whole
studio was bathed in flame once more. Before Valdo could realise
what had really happened, Walter's hands were all over him in a
search for weapons. Nothing more dangerous come to light than a small
sheath-knife, which Walter swept into his pocket. He was quite calm
and self-possessed now. He coolly indicated a chair, into which Valdo
flung himself sullenly.

"Now I should like to have a little conversation with you," he said.
"You will recollect that we have met before."

"I have not forgotten the fact," Luigi Silva said sullenly. "It was at
the Imperial Palace Theatre."

"Quite correct," Walter said. "I came to see that remarkable
performance of yours. I was very much interested, and I must
congratulate you warmly. At the same time, it seems to me that yours
is a dangerous kind of entertainment."

A contemptuous smile flickered over Silva's face. "There is no danger
whatever," he murmured; "anybody could do it if they had arms like
mine."

"I am afraid you don't quite take my meaning," Walter murmured. "There
are some cigarettes by your elbow. You had better help yourself,
especially as I am likely to detain you some time."

With a defiant air the Italian took and lighted a cigarette. He did
not appear in the least unnerved, though the furtive glances which he
occasionally turned in the direction of his captor showed that his
mind was not altogether at ease. He would have given much to know what
Lance was driving at. He did not like to see the other quite so sure
of his ground.

"My time is my own," he said. "Go on."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, your time is mine. But I dare say you will
wonder why I am detaining you like this. To tell you the truth, since
your last visit here----"

"That is not true," Silva cried. "I have never been here before!"

"Why play with me?" Walter asked contemptuously. "It is some days
since you were here last. To refresh your memory, I am alluding to the
night when you came here by way of the ventilator in the dome, and
made a murderous attack upon my uncle, who owes his life to the fact
that I was not very far away. It is no use your denying this, because
I am in a position to prove it. I dare say you congratulated yourself
upon the fact that you got clear away. You would chuckle to think how
mystified we all were. Here is a murderous onslaught made upon a
public man in his own studio, from which there is no exit but the
door; and on the night of the strange affair the door was locked. No
one but a bird could have escaped through the ventilator. You can
picture to yourself what a sensation the business would have caused if
the police had been called in and the affair made known to the Press.
Now I dare say you wonder why the police were not called in at once?"

Silva pulled at his cigarette savagely, but made no reply.

"Well, I am going to be more polite than you are," Walter said; "and I
am going to tell you. I had a fancy to play the detective myself. I
looked around for some sort of a clue, and at length I found one. Ah,
I see you are interested."

"Only in my own safety," Silva muttered.

"Well, that is the same thing. On the floor close by where you are
seated I found a shabby yellow playbill, advertising the performance
of Valdo, the flying man, at the Imperial Palace Theatre. The bill was
neatly folded, and was of recent date. Now I know perfectly well that
neither Lord Ravenspur nor any of his friends would be interested in
that kind of thing. Therefore, how did the bill get here? Probably
left by the flying man himself, and a flying man would be the only
kind of human being capable of getting in and out of this studio in
that mysterious fashion. Upon this, I made up my mind to come and see
you, and I did. I have only to place this information, together with
my testimony, in the hands of the police. Indeed, I have only to send
for a constable now and give you into custody. After that you would
not be likely to give us any cause for anxiety the next seven years."

The Italian's eyes gleamed as he glanced restlessly about him. There
was no reason for Walter to ask himself if his prisoner understood.
Silva shrugged his shoulders.

"That is what you are going to do?" he asked.

"Oh, we'll come to that presently. In the meantime, I want a little
information. You will remember when we were talking to you in the
manager's room at the Imperial, a lady came in and addressed a few
words to you. She was only there for a moment, but she stayed quite
long enough for me to recognise her features. I want to know what Mrs.
Delahay needed to see you for."

A sharp laugh broke from Silva's lips.

"You are very clever," he sneered. "Oh, so clever. So you are
interested in Mrs. Delahay? You think, perhaps, that I know a deal
about the murder of her husband. I know less about it than you do, and
I have no concern with her at all. You had better ask her. She will
probably be astonished----"

"Ah, I see what you mean," Walter exclaimed. "It was stupid of me not
to grasp the problem sooner. Of course, it was not Mrs. Delahay at all
I saw with you, but her sister, Countess Flavio."

Something like an oath broke from Silva's lips.

"Thank you very much," Walter said. "You could not tell me any more if
you were ever so candid. And now I know exactly what brings you here.
It is not robbery----"

"Robbery!" Silva broke out vehemently. "Sir, your words are a deadly
insult. I am an honest man, though I may only be a servant; I would
scorn to touch what does not belong to me."

"In that case you came here for violence, then," Walter said. "Yours
must be a strangely illogical mind. You would not soil your hands with
another man's money, but you would not hesitate to stab him in the
back under cover of the darkness. Come, don't let us argue any longer.
You came here the other night to murder my uncle. But for a fortunate
chance, Lord Ravenspur would be in his grave now. It is useless to
deny it."

"Have I made any attempt to deny it?" Silva said, in a voice that was
utterly devoid of passion. "Have I lied to you in any way? Oh, I see
there is no mercy in your face, and doubtless if our positions were
reversed, I should act as you are acting tonight. You are going to
hand me over to the authorities. I shall be no worse treated if I tell
the truth. I did come here to take Lord Ravenspur's life. I am only
sorry that I failed."



CHAPTER XXVI.
A FAITHFUL SERVANT.


The words were uttered with a grim coldness that caused Walter to
shiver. This was worse than any outbreak of fury, worse than homicidal
mania in its most acute form. The man was sane enough beyond all
doubt, but, at the same time, he was a fanatic, prepared to gratify
his vengeance, even if his own life paid the penalty.

"Well, that is candid, at any rate," Walter said. "You came here
prepared to take my uncle's life. It was the second attempt that you
made upon it. Oh, you know what I mean. You mistook a guest who was
coming here for Lord Ravenspur."

"That was a mistake," Silva said coolly. "It was a mistake that I
realised just in time. I should have greatly regretted any harm
happening to an innocent party."

"I suppose it would have quite upset you," Walter said sarcastically.
"But we are wandering from the point. What is the grudge you have
against my uncle? You have never even seen him till quite lately. He
has been an utter stranger to you."

A contemptuous smile flickered over Silva's face.

"I don't suppose I shall be able to make you understand," he said.
"Your race is different to mine. The blood in your veins flows much
slower and colder. You have no traditions in this country which are
part of your religion. You cannot comprehend that it is one's duty to
avenge insult and outrage, even at the cost of a life. In my part of
the world a man would be held a coward who hesitated to retrieve his
honour in such a fashion. But in this case it was not my honour, but
the honour of the noble house to which I belonged. It would have been
bad enough if the thing had been done by one of my own countrymen, but
a stranger, like Lord Ravenspur----"

"I fail to see the distinction," Walter murmured.

"Ah, that is because you cannot understand. Look you here, signor. I
have a mistress to whom I am devotedly attached. I would lay down my
life for her. I would do anything to shield her from pain. Let us say
that my mistress is married to a man who outwardly possesses all the
graces that Nature can bestow. He has the intellectual gifts, too. He
is widely beloved and popular wherever he goes. But at heart he is a
fiend. The refined cruelties which he uses towards his wife arouse
revengeful feelings in my breast, though I dare not gratify them, in
case I perish, and leave my beloved mistress in a worse case than
ever. But there are others of my clan also serving the noble house
from which my mistress came, and they write the Count _the letter_.
You don't know what that means, and I am not going to tell you. But it
is the death-warrant, and the Count knows it. He cannot appeal against
that. All the forces of the Crown cannot save his life. And then,
mysteriously, he dies. But he does not die before he has done one last
piece of irreparable mischief. He sees a way to strike his wife to the
heart from the other side of the grave. There is a child, perhaps the
only thing on earth that the Count loves purely and sincerely. He gets
his friend, Lord Ravenspur, to kidnap that child. I tell you if his
lordship had come amongst us and dishonoured the threshold of the
greatest chief in South Italy he could not have unlocked the
floodgates of vengeance in a more thorough manner. Think of the
degradation, the bitter insult of it all! If the true facts of the
case had been known to me at the time, Lord Ravenspur would have been
a dead man years ago. But when my mistress vanished from the world, I
naturally thought that she had taken the child with her. I did not
know until quite recently what had happened. Then when I cast my mind
back to the past I had no difficulty in fixing upon Lord Ravenspur as
the culprit. The rest you know."

The words were quietly and evenly spoken, but the deep ring of
sincerity in them was not lost upon Walter Lance. Here was a man who
saw his way clearly before him, a man blinded by prejudice and
bigotry, who would not hesitate for a single moment, who would laugh
contemptuously at the mere suggestion of personal danger.

"What could you do afterwards?" Walter urged.

Silva shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Why go into that?" he said. "The honour of the house would be
avenged. I should have done my duty, and have earned the approbation
of my friends. There would be a great outcry, no doubt. The thing
would be inquired into, and probably the child I speak of would have
been restored to her mother, though, to be sure, I am not quite
certain whether the Countess is a proper person----"

"So you have your doubts on that score?" Walter cried eagerly. "Now is
it not a fact that the Countess Flavio was notoriously a woman of evil
disposition?"

"Everybody said so," Silva replied. "Had I chosen, I might have thrown
a different light upon it. Mind you, I am not pleased with my late
mistress; but there were excuses plausible enough. I cannot forget
that it was a horrible thing for a mother to go off and leave her only
child all those years. Still, that is no matter. If the time ever
came, I could show the world something which would open their eyes as
to the doings in his lifetime of Count Flavio. He kept a diary. After
his death I found that diary."

"And you did not produce it at the trial?"

"To what good, signor? Popular prejudice was so strong against us
that, beyond doubt, the prosecution would have proved that diary to be
a forgery. Then I should have been cast into prison, and my mistress
would have been deprived of the one protector whom she so sorely
needed. Why, feeling ran so high at the time of the trial that it was
dangerous for me to walk the streets alone at night. But why discuss
this now? Why continue this unnecessary conversation? You have made up
your mind what to do. You have only to ring the bell, and there is an
end of me----"

Silva paused and shrugged his shoulders significantly. He rose as if
to take another cigarette. The box slipped from his hand, and some of
the little white tubes rolled across the polished floor. With an
apology for his clumsiness, he stooped to pick them up. Then he rose
again, his right hand shot out in the direction of a figure in armour,
grasping a huge battle-axe in its hand. With the swiftness of an
animal, the battle-axe was snatched away, and before Walter could
realise what had happened, the Italian had smashed a couple of the
heavy plate-glass sheets, thus clearing a way into the garden. Walter
yelled at the top of his voice and darted forward, but he was too
late. He realised the folly of a search in the darkness. No doubt, by
this time the man was far away. He opened the studio door, which
closed suddenly behind him, owing to a draught which came streaming
through the broken panes. He saw Lord Ravenspur standing before him in
the corridor, with a white face and agitated manner.

"What is it, Walter?" the latter asked hoarsely.

"I'll tell you presently," Walter said. "Only you must get the
women-kind away first. It is quite imperative that Vera should know
nothing, though it doesn't in the least matter in Mrs. Delahay's case.
She knows all about it."

Mrs. Delahay, followed by Vera, was in the corridor by this time. The
girl's face was pale. There was an inquiring look in her eyes.

"It is really nothing," Walter said. "Just a little accident on the
polished floor of the studio. One of the servants will have to sleep
in there tonight in case of intruders. It is a great pity we haven't
got one of the dogs from uncle's place in Hampshire."

"It is terribly late," Mrs. Delahay exclaimed, with a significant
glance in Walter's direction. "Really, I ought to be back at my hotel
long ago. I suppose I can find a cab?"

"I will go and find one for you," Walter said. "Hadn't you better go
to bed, Vera? Don't forget that you are likely to be up very late
tomorrow night."

Very few words sufficed to tell Mrs. Delahay what had happened.

Walter saw her into a cab, after which he returned to the house. He
was relieved to find that Vera had already retired. Lord Ravenspur was
walking moodily up and down the library.

"One of the grooms is going to sleep in the studio," he said. "We can
get the damage repaired tomorrow. And now tell me everything. I am
certain that you have something unpleasant to disclose."

Walter told his story at some length. Lord Ravenspur followed with
every sign of interest.

"Oh, I can quite understand that man's point of view," he said. "You
see, I know something about those people. When I was quite a young man
I spent a year or two in Corsica, and, to a certain extent, I
sympathise with them. I have committed an outrage on the national
honour, and I am to pay the penalty with my life. The thing is
recognised out there. It is regarded as quite commonplace."

"And there is no way of clearing yourself?" Walter asked.

"Well, perhaps there is one," Ravenspur said thoughtfully. "You see,
the head of the family can interfere. Vera's mother is in a position
to say---- But what am I talking about? My dear boy, my life is in
danger, and I am afraid that even if we lay Silva by the heels there
will be others. But, come what may, I am going to ask for no clemency.
Come what may, Vera shall never pass into the custody of that vile
woman whom she has the misfortune to call her mother. Nothing shall
induce me to change my mind. Indeed, such a thing would be a violation
of my promise to the dead."

"Your sentiments do you honour," Walter said; "but, unhappily, I don't
see how you can carry them out."



CHAPTER XXVII.
FLIGHT!


It was a long time before Lord Ravenspur replied. He paced up and down
the studio immersed in his own gloomy thoughts. Then gradually his
face cleared, his eyes flashed with resolution.

"I begin to see my way," he said. "It is not for my sake, but that of
the child. I hope you will believe me when I say I am no coward. If it
were six months hence I could laugh at the danger, because, whatever
happened to me, I should have succeeded in my purpose. In six months'
time Vera will be of age. At the expiration of that period she can
become a naturalized British subject. Then the Crown will look after
her interests, and see that the estates which she will some day
inherit are properly administered. Six months hence Vera will be her
own mistress. She has already been informed what her mother is like,
and she will know how to behave towards that woman. It will be a
satisfaction for me to know that we have baffled those bloodthirsty
wretches after all."

"And in the meantime?" Walter asked. "Don't you think we should have
Silva arrested, so that at any rate we should be safe as far as he is
concerned? We could easily find him."

"I don't think so," Ravenspur said, thoughtfully. "I know my enemy by
sight, which you will admit is a very great advantage. If another
assassin comes along, he will have a tremendous pull over me. Besides,
you made a suggestion just now which gave me a brilliant idea. You
said that it was a pity we hadn't got the dogs here. We will have a
couple of bloodhounds up the first thing in the morning, and one of
them shall sleep in my bedroom, the other in the studio. The hounds
are not in the least dangerous to those who know them. But I pity the
midnight intruder who comes along and gets introduced to one of them.
That will be one way of protecting myself for a time, and it will give
the scoundrels something to do to devise fresh means of putting an end
to me. I have thought it all out, and the best thing we can do is to
disappear."

"Disappear!" Walter cried. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. The thing can be done tomorrow night.
There is nothing easier."

"But tomorrow night we are going to Lady Ringmar's great reception,"
Walter urged. "I understand that it is to be one of the biggest things
of the season, and I know that Vera is looking forward to it with the
greatest possible pleasure."

"Well, we can go," Ravenspur said, a trifle impatiently. "Now my
scheme is this: we go to Lady Ringmar's, and stay there till about two
o'clock in the morning. We take certain wraps with us, and we leave
the house, not in one of the carriages, but in a hired fly which will
subsequently take us to Waterloo Station. By special train we will go
down to Weymouth, and at that point hire a yacht to convey us to
Jersey. There we shall be able to stay a few days, and settle our
plans. The servants can easily get all we want together early tomorrow
morning, and send the bags down to Weymouth as luggage in advance. The
next day the papers will contain the information that Lord Ravenspur
has suddenly been attacked with a mysterious illness, and that he has
been ordered to leave London at once. As perfect rest and quietness
are prescribed, he is keeping his address a secret, and has given
strict orders that no communication of any kind is to be forwarded.
Even the servants in Park Lane will profess not to know where we have
gone, which will be nothing less than the truth. How does the idea
strike you?"

Walter murmured something in reply. As a matter of fact, he was not in
the least in love with the scheme, though Lord Ravenspur appeared to
be so eager and happy about it, that he had not the heart to throw
cold water on the programme. From his more youthful point of view, the
idea of flight seemed cowardly. He would have placed the matter in the
hands of the police. He would not have shrunk from the utmost
publicity. But still, there was Vera to be considered. The girl's
future was of the first importance.

"Very well," he said, "I will give up my time tomorrow to getting
ready. I suppose now that you won't want me to telegraph to the
Hampshire place for the dogs?"

"Oh, I think you had better," Ravenspur said. "One never knows what
may turn up. And there is always the chance of the secret being
discovered. And now let us go to bed, and try to get some sleep. I
haven't had a night's rest for a week. I am longing to find myself on
board a yacht again. I shall be safe there at all events. Good-night,
my boy."

It was after lunch the following day that Vera came into the
billiard-room in search of Walter. The latter had practically finished
his preparations. He had done everything that his uncle had entrusted
to him, and there was nothing now but to wait the turn of events. In a
well-regulated establishment like that of Lord Ravenspur's, everything
had proceeded smoothly enough. By luncheon time the whole of the boxes
and portmanteaux had been packed, and the luggage despatched. Still,
there was a perplexed look in Vera's eyes as she came into the
billiard-room.

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Walter," she said. "I want to
know what is the meaning of all this mystery. I have seen enough
baggage leave the house to supply us with all we want for a season in
Scotland. When I asked my maid what she was doing, she simply said
that she had been instructed by the housekeeper to get my things
ready. Of course, I raised no objection, but I should certainly like
to know what it all means."

Walter looked a trifle embarrassed. He had quite forgotten that Vera
might show a natural curiosity.

"We are going away for a little time," he explained. "The fact of the
matter is, your guardian has not been at all well lately. But you must
have noticed that for yourself. He has had a great deal to try him,
too, and he is afraid of a breakdown. We are going to Weymouth direct
from Lord Ringmar's House, and not a soul is to know anything about
it. You see, if we stay and make elaborate preparations, it will take
quite a week to make a start. It is far better to let people know
afterwards that Lord Ravenspur has been ordered away peremptorily, and
that he is to have perfect rest for the next month or so. Only I can't
sufficiently impress upon you the necessity of keeping this thing
absolutely secret."

"Even from Lady Ringmar?" Vera cried.

"From everybody," Walter said, somewhat sternly. "Vera, your guardian
is in great danger. You are in great danger yourself. I dare not tell
you more now, but perhaps I shall be permitted to say it later on. Go
about your business or pleasure today just as if nothing had
happened."

Vera asked no further questions. She was perhaps just a little hurt
that Walter had refused to take her into his confidence. At the same
time, she was young and vigorous, and the thought of a change was not
displeasing. She passed out of the house presently with a view to a
walk in the park. She stopped before a feeble, blind old man who was
dolefully grinding out hymns on a dilapidated organ. A boy of some ten
or twelve years was guiding the unfortunate man along the pavement.
Vera took out her purse, and placed a shilling in the little tin cup
which the boy was carrying.

"I have not seen you here before," she said kindly.

The man murmured something to the effect that this was his first day
with the organ. He seemed uneasy and undecided in his manner, and,
naturally enough, Vera put this down to the strangeness of his
surroundings. Then she hastened on to the park, and the little
incident passed from her mind. She had tea subsequently with a friend
in Grosvenor Square, and when she came back, barely in time to dress
for dinner, she saw that the blind man was still in the Lane, grinding
industriously at his melancholy airs.

"I suppose Walter has told you," Ravenspur said as they sat down to
dinner. "You know where we are going?"

"He told me part," Vera said. "Really, I don't quite understand what
all this mystery means."

"Indeed, it is absolutely necessary," Ravenspur said gravely. "It is
as necessary for your happiness as it is for mine. I have done my best
to safeguard your welfare----"

"Oh, yes, yes," Vera cried contritely. "I am a most ungrateful girl to
speak in that way. After all, I am looking forward to the trip. It is
probably the last happy time we shall have together. Yes; I have quite
made up my mind to get my own living. But we won't discuss that
tonight."

Dinner was over at length and the carriage was ordered round. Vera
came downstairs presently; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were
sparkling. She was very alluring and attractive in her white dress.
She had made up her mind to be absolutely happy tonight. The dress
was a special present from Lord Ravenspur, and Vera had been afraid to
ask what the Paris house had charged for it. Still, it was the last
extravagance she was going to put Lord Ravenspur to.

"I declare there is my old blind man still," she said, as she got into
the carriage. "He must have been here all day. I must make inquiries,
and see what I can do for him."

The door of the carriage was banged to, and the horses trotted away.
As they passed the spot where the blind man was standing he suddenly
ceased his doleful airs and whistled softly. A moment later and a
shabby figure came shuffling down the Lane.

"That's right, Stevens," the blind man said in a quick, clear voice.
"Now here's the note, and, mind, you are not to deliver it before
half-past twelve. This is most important. If you are successful, come
back to me at the appointed spot, and I will see that you get your
money--fifty pounds."



CHAPTER XXVIII.
VERA'S WARNING.


Amongst her many friends, and in the keen enjoyment of the evening,
Vera forgot her fears. She was young enough to appreciate to the full
the joys of life. She was strong and vigorous, and most things pleased
her. Besides, there was always the reflection that the gates would be
closed to her before long. Once she had taken her fate in her own
hands, and had gone into the world to get her living, there would be
no more of this. A little longer and she would say goodbye to Lord
Ravenspur and Walter. Of course, the wrench would be a bitter one, for
she was by no means blind to the hardships and privations of the poor.

Still, she put that out of her mind now. She was going to have a very
pleasant evening, and by this time tomorrow she would be far away from
the heat and dust and bustle of London. In her mind's eye she could
see the yacht sliding over the water. She could see the moon shining
on the waves, and turning their-crests to molten silver.

The big house was crowded to its utmost capacity, for Lady Ringmar was
one of the most prominent of society women, and invitations to her
entertainments were eagerly sought after. The rooms were filled. At
the end of the long corridor Vera caught a peep of the garden, all
aglow with points of flame from the electric lights entwined about the
trees and shrubs.

An hour or so passed pleasantly enough; then, as the heat grew more
intense Vera's mind turned to the garden. There were huge blocks of
ice, looking deliciously cool, behind banks of ferns. The air hummed
with the noise of electric fans, and yet the atmosphere was heavy and
enervating. Supper was a thing of the past, and Vera stood at the head
of a flight of marble steps, which led to the garden. She was quite
alone. She was looking for Walter, whom she had not seen for some
little time. She turned with a smile as someone murmured her name. She
saw that it was Ravenspur's friend, Sir James Seton, who was standing
by her side.

"So you are all alone," he said. "What are those young men thinking
about? It was very different in my day."

Vera smiled somewhat faintly. She had every respect for Sir James. He
was kindly disposed enough, but in the eyes of youth he was regarded
as something of a bore. There was no help for it when he suggested a
turn in the garden.

"Certainly," Vera murmured; "only I don't want to walk far. I have
enjoyed my first season in town immensely, but I am beginning to long
for the fresh air in the country again."

"Quite right," Sir James agreed; "just the same with me. Why people
box themselves up in London during the most beautiful months in the
year I can't imagine. They talk about England being a decadent
country! A man wants a real stamina to struggle through the three
months which we call the season. Some of these men are a perfect
marvel to me. Take Ravenspur, for example. That man works as hard as
any man in England. He is here, there, and everywhere, and yet he
finds plenty of time for this sort of thing, too. If there is anybody
I envy, it is Ravenspur."

"I am sure you have no need to envy anybody," Vera laughed. "Besides,
in many ways you are very like him. Most people see a strong
resemblance between you two."

Sir James chuckled as if well pleased with the compliment.

"Do you really think so?" he asked eagerly. "Well, I suppose what
everybody says is bound to be true. At the same time, these
resemblances are not always desirable. For instance, look what
happened to me only the other day."

"And what was that?" Vera asked.

"Don't you know? It was the last time I dined with your guardian.
Didn't they tell you about it? It reminded me of the days when I was a
soldier--quite an adventure, too, I assure you. I was coming up Cheyne
Row, more or less in the darkness, when a man darted out of the
shadows, and attacked me. I had some difficulty in beating him off. I
don't know whether the man was mad or not, but his intentions were
quite serious."

"Really!" Vera exclaimed, with widely opened eyes. "And what became of
the man? Was he locked up?"

"Oh, he got away before I could do anything. Still, it was very
unpleasant while it lasted, I assure you."

"It must have been," Vera said thoughtfully. "But, my dear Sir James,
I don't quite understand what this adventure has to do with your
likeness to Lord Ravenspur."

"Oh, well, I had almost forgotten that. You see, when the fellow
rushed at me, he addressed me as Ravenspur, just as the hero of the
melodrama addresses the villain when he is caught in the last act.
There is not the slightest doubt that I was mistaken for your
guardian. Indeed, as soon as the man realised his mistake, he drew off
at once. I am rather surprised they did not tell you."

Vera was listening uneasily enough now. In the ordinary course of
events she would have heard all about that mysterious occurrence. Why
had they kept the knowledge from her? As she sat there thinking the
matter over, she began in her mind to piece events together. So this
sudden flight from London was dictated by personal fear on the part of
Lord Ravenspur. He wanted to get away from this relentless foe. There
was no other way to safeguard himself than by this yachting cruise.
And hitherto Vera had never detected in her guardian the slightest
sign of nervousness or fear. This foe, then, must be a man of
extraordinary determination and tenacity of purpose.

Vera could see it all more clearly now. She recollected the
disturbance in the conservatory on the night of Sir James Seton's
visit to Park Lane. She recollected with even more significant force
the cries and the shattering of glass in the conservatory the previous
evening. And why, for the first time in his life, had Lord Ravenspur
caused the bloodhounds to be brought up from Hampshire? All these
questions Vera asked herself, but she could think of no reply. In some
vague way her woman's instinct told her that she was mixed up in the
business. If so, it would never do for her to desert Lord Ravenspur at
this critical moment. She would have to stay by him until the danger
was past.

She sat there replying to the chattering remarks of her companion at
random, until even he saw how preoccupied she was.

"I am afraid you are not quite yourself tonight," he said.

"I am sure I beg your pardon," Vera murmured. "I am not quite myself.
I wish you would do me a favour, Sir James. Would you mind finding
Walter and sending him to me?"

Sir James trotted off obediently enough, and presently Walter came
along. He looked somewhat warm and heated.

"I am sorry I couldn't find you before," he said. "We have been having
a bit of fun in the drawing-room. It was rather a nuisance, too. What
do you think happened? But you will never guess. One of the dogs got
away and actually followed us here. I found three or four ladies held
up by one of the brutes in a drawing-room. They were frightened to
death, not knowing what a peaceful creature poor Bruno is in the
ordinary way. I had to lead him away and tie him up to one of the
trees in the shrubbery."

Vera smiled as she thought of the terror which the great hound would
naturally inspire. No doubt he had managed to get away from Park Lane
and had tracked them to Lady Ringmar's house.

"He will be quite quiet where he is," she said, "and we can take him
with us when we go. I shall be glad to get away. I am longing to leave
London behind me now."

Walter looked anxiously at his companion. He saw how pale and
disturbed she was, how distressed her features were.

"What is the matter?" he asked tenderly.

"I was going to tell you," Vera replied. "I have had a considerable
shock tonight. I have learnt something which you tried to conceal from
me. Oh, I am not blaming you, because I am sure you only acted for the
best, but I have just been having a conversation with Sir James Seton,
and he was telling me all about the attack that was made on him the
other night when he came to dine with us. I was dreadfully grieved to
hear what he had to say."

"But, my dear girl," Walter protested, "really----"

"Oh, yes, I know. You are thinking about me now," Vera said. "But it
is rather too late. That murderous attack was made upon Sir James
Seton because the miscreant mistook him for Lord Ravenspur. There can
be no doubt about it, because Sir James told me so. And when I heard
that, other strange circumstances flashed into my mind. For instance,
those two mysterious occurrences in the studio. Now, tell me honestly,
Walter, is the danger really great?"

Walter hesitated a moment before he replied.

"I am very much afraid it is," he said presently. "It is all a
question of time. And you must not regard Lord Ravenspur as a coward,
because he is nothing of the kind. I am certain that he is acting in
your very best interests----"

"Ah, I thought I was at the bottom of it somewhere," Vera cried, as
Walter bit his lip. "I was absolutely convinced of it. Oh, I know I
couldn't tell you why, except that my instinct warns me. But am I not
to know, Walter? Am I to go on being treated as a child? You have both
been very good to me, and the mere suggestion that I am a danger and a
burden to you fills me with pain. Won't you take me into your
confidence? I am no longer a child."



CHAPTER XXIX.
THE MESSAGE.


"If the secret were only my own I would not hesitate a moment," Walter
said. "Be patient a little longer, my dearest girl. I am quite sure
that Ravenspur will tell you when the proper time comes. Once we are
on board the yacht there will be no occasion for further secrecy.
Another hour, and we shall be on our way. I am not a nervous man, but
this thing is beginning to worry me."

Vera persisted no further. The band had just ceased playing, and there
was a sudden rush of guests into the garden, so that there was no
opportunity for further privacy. A somewhat imperious dowager pounced
down upon Walter, with a request that he would find her daughter, and
there was nothing for it but to obey. Just for a moment Vera stood in
the midst of a laughing, chattering group of friends, then she managed
to slip away unseen. She wanted to be alone and think this matter out.

She was just a little hurt that the others had not taken her into
their confidence. Still, perhaps Lord Ravenspur had acted in this way
to save her pain and annoyance. He had always been kind and
considerate to her. She owed him a deep debt of gratitude. And yet, up
to a few moments ago, she had been prepared to turn her back upon her
best friends and face the world alone. But she could not do that now.
She would have to abandon her plans for the future. She would have to
stay by Lord Ravenspur's side until this terrible danger was past. She
was only a girl, and could not do much. Still, that little she would
do cheerfully.

Vera was still busy with these painful thoughts when a footman came up
and spoke to her. He had a note on a tray, which he handed to Vera,
with the intimation that there was no reply. So far as Vera could
tell, the handwriting was quite strange to her.

"Who brought this?" she demanded.

"It was left by some strange man, miss," the servant said. "I was to
give it to you at once, when you were alone, if possible."

The footman's manner was perfectly respectful. He discreetly said
nothing of the sovereign which had accompanied the letter. Vera turned
away and broke the seal. She was in a somewhat secluded part of the
garden now, but she had no difficulty in reading the letter with the
aid of the sparkling points of flame which glimmered from the branches
of the overhanging trees.


"My dear child (the letter ran),

"I want you to read this alone. I want you to promise me that it shall
be shown to nobody. I daresay you will wonder why I write like this,
after all these years, but I can only plead that circumstances, not
myself, are alone to blame. I want you to believe that up till quite
recently I was hardly aware of your existence. But all these things I
can explain when we meet. Naturally you will ask yourself who I am,
and why I should venture to address you in this fashion. You will see
presently.

"For the last eighteen years you have dwelt under the roof of Lord
Ravenspur. You have passed as his ward, and I understand that he has
taken the greatest care of you. This much goes to his credit. But that
he behaved like a scoundrel at the outset I am prepared to prove. Had
it not been for him we should not have been parted all these years,
and you would have had a better chance of making the acquaintance of
your most unhappy mother.

"There, I have told the truth at length, and now you are aware who it
is that thus addresses you. When we meet I shall be able to explain
why I did nothing all these years--but I am wasting time. I know that
you are going away tonight. I know that you may be out of London for
some months. At present, circumstances do not permit me to claim my
rights, or to interfere with your plans. You will go away this evening
just as if nothing had happened, but before you go it is most
imperative that I should see you, if only for half an hour. I have had
this letter sent you by a trusty friend, who will not fail me. If you
will go through the shrubbery at the back, to Lady Ringmar's house,
you will find a pathway bordered with nut trees, which ends in a green
gate, leading to the lane at the back of the house. There you will
find another friend, who will bring you to me without delay. I give
you my word I will not detain you more than half an hour. Then you can
return to your friends as if nothing had happened. They will be none
the wiser. Indeed, I will ask you not to mention this letter to them
at all.

"I am not going to anticipate your refusal, for I know that you will
come, especially when I sign myself

"Your unhappy mother,

"CARLOTTA FLAVIO."


In a state of mind bordering on absolute bewilderment, Vera read the
letter again and again. It filled her with a pain which was closely
akin to shame. So far as she could see, there was no mistaking the
relationship which at one time had existed between the writer of the
letter and Lord Ravenspur. A natural craving and desire to see her
mother came over Vera. She knew there was yet time to get away from
Lady Ringmar's house and back again before the hour fixed for their
departure. Vera slipped the letter inside her dress, and with a firm,
determined step strode off in the direction of the shrubbery. She came
presently to the spot indicated in the letter. She looked eagerly
around to see if anybody awaited her. There was the faint suggestion
of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, and then, from a turn in the
path, the figure of a man emerged. Vera could see that he was
exceedingly well turned out in evening dress. The dust coat he was
wearing only partially concealed a slim built, athletic figure. For
the rest, the man was good looking enough, and Vera judged from his
dark eyes and black moustache that he was a foreigner, doubtless some
relation of her mother. He lifted his hat with great courtesy, and
waited for the girl to speak.

"I am Vera Rayne," she said quite simply.

"I am already aware of that," the stranger replied. "I suppose you
received the Countess's letter? But you must have done so, otherwise
you would not be here. You are prepared----"

"One moment," Vera said. Caution had suddenly returned to her, and
there was something in the eager light in the man's eyes now that
warned her to be careful. "I shall be glad if you will let me know who
you are. What is your name, for instance?"

The gleam in the stranger's eyes deepened in intensity, a quick frown
knitted his brows.

"Can it in the least matter?" he demanded. "You have received the
letter, and it is only for you to obey."

There was a peremptory ring in the speech which Vera did not like at
all. She realised that she was in a lonely part of the grounds, and
that, in case of need, assistance was a long way off. She began to
wish that she had been more prudent. After all, the whole thing might
be a plot against her happiness, a scheme into which she had fallen
without asking herself a single question. These doubts became
something like certainties when the stranger strode past her and cut
off all means of retreat.

"You are wasting my time," he said, "and time is precious tonight. It
is only a matter of half an hour altogether, and then you will be back
with your friends once more. If I were not anxious for your welfare do
you suppose I would be here at all?"

The speaker's English was good enough, but Vera did not fail to detect
the foreign accent behind it. She was becoming afraid now. Her heart
was beating faster. She turned to see if assistance might not be at
hand. But the thick belts of shrubs cut off all sounds. She could hear
absolutely nothing in the direction of the house. And then there was
another cause for fear. Surely she could hear something creeping
stealthily through the bushes. She listened again, and the footsteps
seemed to grow closer. Then the bushes parted, and a great black head
and a pair of gleaming eyes emerged, followed by a long, heavy body
that crept up to Vera's side and rubbed against her dress. A cry of
thankfulness escaped her.

"Bruno!" she panted. "How did you get here?"

Then she remembered the dog had followed them from Park Lane. He had
been tied up by Walter in the shrubbery, and the broken cord attached
to his collar told the rest of the story. The great hound lifted his
head. The glittering amber-coloured eyes were turned on the stranger,
and a deep growl came from the depths of the dog's throat. The small
man in evening dress stepped back.

"That dog is very dangerous," he stammered.

"Not while I am here," Vera said coldly, "though, perhaps if he met
you here alone you might have cause for uneasiness. And now, sir, will
you be so good as to tell me your name?"

"Amati," the stranger said sullenly. "But what does it matter? You
have made up your mind by this time whether you are coming with me or
not. You know perfectly well, from the letter in your possession, that
I am a messenger from your mother. I have a cab outside the lane, and
I can take you to her at once. I pledge you my word that you shall be
back in half an hour."

Still Vera hesitated. Still her suspicions refused to be lulled.

"It would be an easy matter for my mother to have come here," she
said. "There is not the slightest chance of being interrupted. And
seeing that time is so short----"

The last words were inaudible, for there was a shrill whistle
somewhere in the garden, and the dog by Vera's side whined uneasily.
As Vera stooped to soothe him she twisted her handkerchief in the
hound's collar. She recognised the whistle as Walter's. Then she gave
a sign and the great beast bounded away.



CHAPTER XXX.
LOST.


A peculiar grim smile came over the face of the man who called himself
Amati. He hesitated no longer, but with a single bound had reached
Vera's side, his arm was around her neck and his right hand pressed to
her lips before she could utter a sound.

"Be silent," he hissed, "and all will be well with you. Believe me, I
wish to do you no harm. You are quite safe with me."

There was nothing for it but to stand there obedient to the speaker's
will. Then, from his lips, came the sound like that of a bird startled
from its nest in the night. The green door opened, and another man
appeared. Almost before Vera knew what was happening she was half led,
half carried through the door and deposited in a cab. It seemed to her
that her senses were fading away, that there was something peculiarly
sweet and faint smelling on the handkerchief which her assailant had
pressed to her lips. The cab drove away swiftly, and the lane was left
in silence once more.

Meanwhile the evening was passing on, and Ravenspur was anxiously
waiting for the moment when it would be time to get away. Walter came
into the garden presently, wondering what had become of Vera.

"I have been looking for her, too," Ravenspur said. "That is the worst
of a great crush in a great house like this. It is so difficult to
find anybody. We must be off in a quarter of an hour from now. What is
all this I hear about one of the dogs?"

"Oh, that is true enough," Walter laughed. "It was old Bruno. I
suppose he managed to get away from Park Lane. At any rate, he
followed us here and I found him holding up some people in one of the
drawing-rooms. I thought he might just as well come to the station
with us, so I tied him up in the shrubbery. When I went to see if he
was all right just now I found the rascal had got away again. He came
back when I whistled, but I couldn't get him to come to my side. I
suppose he was afraid of getting a thrashing. However, he is lying
down quite good in the shrubbery now, so there is no cause for worry.
I daresay that it would be rather alarming for some of these women to
be suddenly confronted with the dog when they were carrying on a
tender flirtation in one of the arbours."

But Lord Ravenspur was not listening. He looked anxious and worried
and full of trouble.

"Oh, Bruno will follow the cab right enough," he said impatiently,
"and I daresay the other dog is at the station by this time. I wish
you would go and find Vera for me. It sounds foolish, I know, but I
have an absurd idea that something may happen just at the last moment.
It is always the way when one is overstrung."

Walter went off on his errand cheerfully enough. The moments passed,
but he did not return, and the feeling of anxiety on Ravenspur's part
deepened. Finally, Walter returned, with a face as anxious as Lord
Ravenspur's own. He caught the latter's arm almost fiercely.

"I begin to think you are right," he whispered. "I cannot find Vera
anywhere. One of her girl friends tells me that she last saw her quite
alone going off in the direction of the pathway behind the shrubbery.
That was half an hour ago. What she could be doing there I haven't the
remotest idea."

A smothered groan escaped Ravenspur's lips.

"I had half expected this," he muttered. "Something of the kind was
bound to happen. She has been lured away, or she has been kidnapped.
When you come to think of it, it is quite an easy matter in grounds as
large as these. It seems quite hopeless to try and fight against these
scoundrels. Depend upon it, they have found out our plans in some
mysterious way, and have taken this step to thwart them at the last
moment. But how did they manage, how could they have communicated with
Vera? And what extraordinary allurement did they hold out to her to
induce her to go off with strangers in this way? Oh, the thing is
maddening!"

"I don't know," Walter exclaimed. "I only know that we are wasting
time, and very precious time at that. Now, let me see, what would be
the most likely thing to appeal to the sentiments of a young girl like
Vera? I should say something to do with her mother. That, you may
depend upon it--a letter from her mother. We can very soon see whether
my suspicions are right or not. I'll go out into the hall at once and
interview the footmen."

A group of idle, lounging footmen were loafing in the hall. Walter
went straight to the point.

"Which of you gave Miss Rayne a letter just now?" he demanded. "And
who brought it? Come, speak out!"

The strong, determined voice was not without its effect. One of the
footmen came forward and murmured that he had taken the letter and
delivered it to Vera.

"It was about half an hour ago, sir," he explained. "No, I don't know
the man who brought it. He looked like a small tradesman, or
respectable clerk. All he told me was to give the letter to Miss Rayne
and see that she had it at once."

"And you were to give it to her when she was alone?"

"Well, yes, sir," the man admitted. "The messenger did say that. You
see, there was nothing strange--"

"Oh, of course not," Walter said impatiently. "You were to give it to
Miss Rayne when she was alone, and you had a handsome tip for your
pains. Was not that so?"

The man's face testified to the fact that Walter's shot had hit the
mark, but the latter did not remain there a single moment longer. He
had not lost sight of the fact that a cross-examination of a servant
would probably have led to a deal of idle gossip, in which Vera's name
would have been mixed up; and besides, the footman was obviously an
innocent party, and had told everything that he knew in connection
with the letter and its delivery.

"It is just as you feared," Walter said, when he reached Ravenspur's
side. "A respectably-dressed man came here half an hour ago and left a
letter for Vera, which was to be delivered to her when she was alone.
The thing was done, and that is how the mischief began. I feel quite
sure that I am right, and that that letter came, or purported to come,
from Vera's mother. The poor child would naturally go off, thinking no
evil. You may depend upon it that that scoundrel Silva is at the
bottom of it all. He cannot strike you in one way, so he has made up
his mind to deal the blow in another direction. There is no time to be
lost."

"But how on earth did they find out our plans?" Ravenspur groaned.
"All the servants are to be trusted."

"I've got it," Walter said suddenly. "Don't you recollect that blind
organ-grinder that Vera was so interested in? He was hanging about
Park Lane all day. Those sort of people have regular beats, and he has
never been seen there before. He saw all that baggage going away, and
drew his own conclusions. It would be an easy matter to have the stuff
followed to Waterloo Station, and find all about the special train
from the porters. But what are we going to do? Are we going to raise
an alarm?"

"Not yet," Ravenspur said hoarsely. "Don't let us have any scandal as
long as we can possibly avoid it. I'll go out with you and we'll make
another search of the grounds first. We may find some sort of a clue,
and if we do we can follow it up without anybody being any the wiser.
Lady Ringmar will simply think that we went off without saying
goodbye, and there will be an end of the matter as far as she is
concerned. Now come along."

The two slipped out into the grounds again and made a rapid search of
the garden. In the shrubbery they found the great hound, Bruno,
patiently waiting there. Apparently he seemed to think that his time
for punishment was past, for he crept up to Walter's side and rubbed
his great, black muzzle against his knee.

"Here's an inspiration," Walter exclaimed. "If Vera went away at all,
she must have gone by the back gate. We will put Bruno on the scent,
and if--Hallo, what's this?"

The dainty white cambric, with its fringe of lace, caught Walter's
eye. He withdrew the fragment from under the dog's collar and held it
up to one of the points of electric flame.

"Here is a clue with a vengeance," he exclaimed. "This is Vera's
handkerchief. Depend upon it, this is a signal to us that the dog must
have been with her at the time she went, and she must certainly have
gone voluntarily, or the dog would have made short work of the person
with whom Vera departed. She took this way of letting us know she had
gone, and most assuredly she must have gone by the back gate. What a
lucky thing it was that the dog came here tonight. Let us put him on
the scent at once."

"Your suggestion is an inspiration," Ravenspur muttered. "But we can't
go quite like this, you know. Run back to the house and get our coats
and hats. Don't be long."

Walter was back in a minute or two with the wraps. Then he laid his
hand on the dog's collar and led him down the path at the back of the
shrubbery. The great beast appeared to know exactly what was wanted of
him, for, after throwing up his head and giving vent to a long-drawn
howl, he placed his muzzle on the ground and scratched furiously at
the door. When the road was reached, at length, the dog tore along at
a furious rate, so that the silk scarf twisted round his collar tired
Walter's arms terribly.

Still, that did not matter, as they were making good progress now.
They went on and on, passing street after street, until the dawn came,
and they were in a distant suburb. Before an attractive-looking house,
the blinds and shutters of which were closely drawn, Bruno paused and
threw up his head.

"This is the place right enough," Walter whispered. "Be careful. If we
are seen everything is spoilt."



CHAPTER XXXI.
A MISSING LINK.


It was practically daylight now, so that the greatest caution was
absolutely necessary. It was possible to obtain cover behind a group
of thorn bushes and take observations of the house. But even that did
not lack risk, all the more so because of the presence of the dog. The
great hound had served his purpose, and it was essential that he
should be got rid of, for the present at any rate.

The house itself was quite a good one. The grounds were neat and trim.
The flower boxes in the windows ablaze with bloom. The place spoke for
itself as the residence of some prosperous individual who, in all
probability, was somebody of importance in the City. It was the last
place in the world to associate with crime and violence. In front of
the house was a fairly large lawn, shaded by shrubs and trees. A
kitchen garden at the back was bounded by a lane, and on the far side
of this stretched a wide open common covered with gorse and bracken.

"Have you any idea where we are?" Lord Ravenspur asked.

"Not the faintest,'" Walter confessed. "I nave never been here before.
The only thing I am sure of is that Vera is in yonder house. But let
us get away from here and talk it over. The further this thing goes,
the more sure I am that we have foes to deal with who are clever as
they are unscrupulous."

"But where shall we go?" Ravenspur asked.

Walter suggested skirting round the back of the house, and so on to
the common. Once there, they found shelter enough, for the gorse was
high and the bracken was deep. Indeed, a regiment of soldiers might
have hidden there with perfect safety.

"I think I begin to see my way," Walter said. "One of us must stay
here and the other get back to London without delay. If you don't
mind, I should like to consult my friend Venables about this business.
He is very clever and courageous, and, besides, he has a decided
fondness for detective business. I think you will agree with me that
we want another hand?"

"We want half a dozen," Ravenspur murmured. "What we really ought to
do is to place the matter in the hands of the police and have yonder
house searched at once. Yet, I am very loth to do that. I am
exceedingly anxious to prevent anything like a scandal, and this is
the very sort of thing to appeal to the cheap Press. But what are we
going to do about our journey to Weymouth? What would the officials at
Waterloo think when we didn't turn up last night? And, again, there
are all the servants in Park Lane. If you can only show me some way to
stop the mouths of these people I shall be grateful. You know what
servants are."

"I think that can be managed," Walter said after a thoughtful pause.
"You stay here while I go back to London. I will return as soon as
possible. Oh, of course, I will bring a change of clothing with me. It
would be madness to hang about a suburb like this in evening dress. We
should be spotted in a moment."

It seemed to Ravenspur that there was no help for it. Anxious and
troubled and worn out as he was, he could not be altogether blind to
the absurdity of the situation. The idea of a man in his position
hiding himself on a London common, dressed as he was, seemed
ridiculous. He had no more than a dust coat over his evening dress; he
was wearing the collar of an Order. Still, as he looked about him he
took fresh heart of grace. The common appeared to be little
frequented. There were deep hollows here and there, full of bracken
and brambles, under which it was possible to hide. There was no
prospect of Walter getting back within the next three hours. There was
nothing for it but to make the best of the situation.

Meanwhile, Walter was hurrying back to London. He made a wide _détour_
of the common, so that it was not possible for him to be seen from the
house. Then presently he struck a main road on the far side of which
ran a railway line. He could see in the distance the buildings and
signals that marked a station. At any rate, he would be able to find
out where he was without displaying his ignorance by asking questions.
It was still quite early, only a little past five o'clock, as Walter
found on consulting his watch. After all said and done, the station
was not much use to him, for probably no train would run within the
next couple of hours. Presently there was a clatter of hoofs behind,
and an empty hansom came along. The sight of the cab was proof to
Walter that he was not very far outside the radius. A happy idea came
to him.

"Are you going back to town?" he asked the cabman.

"Well, yes, sir," the cabman explained. "I have been taking a fare out
to Cannon Green."

"Then you are just the man for me," Walter exclaimed. "My man has
failed to turn up, and I was going to try the station. I suppose that
is Cannon Green station just at the end of the road?"

"That's right, sir," the cabman said civilly. "But you'll get no train
yet. Drive you anywhere you like, sir, for half-a-sovereign."

Walter jumped into the cab without further hesitation. A ride of a
little over an hour brought him to Park Lane. A sleepy footman opened
the door, and regarded Walter in amazement. He had his story all
ready. There had been misunderstanding on the previous evening, and
Lord Ravenspur and Miss Rayne had gone on to Weymouth by an early
train. There was something very paltry about this deception, but at
the same time it seemed to Walter to be absolutely necessary. He
roused his own man; together they packed a couple of portmanteaux,
which Walter gave directions should be taken to Waterloo Station
without delay, and left in the cloakroom. Once he had satisfied the
curiosity of the household in Park Lane, he went on promptly to
Venables' rooms. Over a hasty breakfast he explained everything that
had happened to his companion. As he expected, Venables at once threw
himself heart and soul into the adventure.

"I quite understand your point of view," he exclaimed. "What you want
to do is to hang about all day and take observations. At the same
time, it is absolutely necessary that we should arouse no suspicions.
I think I can see my way. This is a matter of disguise. We can pick up
all we want in this direction in Covent Garden on our way to the
station."

"There is only one thing that worries me," Walter said, "and that is
Bruno. What shall we do with him?"

"Oh, that's all right," Venables cried. "Very well-trained dog, isn't
he? So much the better. You see, in the course of my adventures I have
come across some pretty shady specimens of humanity, though I am bound
to say that I have found many of this class pretty faithful when they
are well paid. Now I know a fellow at Cannon Green who will look after
the dog for us for a consideration. He is a fancier himself, and
always has a few animals for sale. What more natural than that he
should have a bloodhound on the premises? Mr. Bill Perks is more than
suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods, and on two occasions
has been in trouble. Still, he knows me, and will do anything I like,
provided I pay him handsomely. Don't let us waste any more time."

An hour later and the two adventurers left the train at Cannon Green,
bearing a set of instruments such as those used by surveyors when they
are planning and laying out new land. Their disguise was slight
enough, but quite sufficient for the purpose. Both wore smart looking
caps, edged with gold, so that their appearance was sufficiently
formal and official. In addition to this Walter carried a bulky bag,
which contained a complete change of clothing for Lord Ravenspur. The
latter was glad enough to see Walter and Venables. He breathed a
little more freely when he found himself clad at length in a Norfolk
suit. He rather rebelled against a showy white helmet and a set of
long grey whiskers which Venables proceeded to attach dexterously to
his face. A few touches of grease paint and pencil, together with a
pair of big spectacles, rendered the disguise complete. Walter
expressed his admiration.

"I can hardly believe that it is you, uncle," he said.

"And you are changed almost out of recognition," Ravenspur said.
"Really, I must compliment Mr. Venables. And now, I suppose I had
better hide the bag in these bushes. We have a very anxious day before
us, I am afraid, but that does not prevent one feeling the call of
Nature. I don't think I was ever so ravenously hungry in my life.
Where can we get some breakfast?"

Venables, who seemed to have thought of everything, had already solved
the problem. There was a very fair hotel not far from the station, and
it would be an easy matter to hide the surveying outfit till it was
needed. In the first place, they could skirt round the edge of the
common, and pay a call on the man Perks, who would look after the dog
till his services were needed again.

They came at length to Perks' house, a rather dilapidated looking
place, with a large, untidy garden around it. There were sheds and
huts and kennels at the back, so that the intruders were greeted with
a terrible din of barking as they went up the path.

"Cunning hand, Perks," Venables explained. "It is very little he makes
out of dog-fancying. But see how useful these animals are. Day or
night the police can never approach the place with the object of raid
without Perks having ample notice. But come along, and you shall see
the man for yourselves. Oh, you needn't trouble yourself about your
disguise. Perks is not in the least suspicious nor will he ask any
questions. He will only think that you are a couple of amateur
detectives like myself."



CHAPTER XXXII.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN?


Roused by the angry uproar of the dogs, a tall, round-shouldered
individual appeared in the doorway. He had a melancholy cast of face
which was intensified by the lank black hair which hung upon his
shoulders. Indeed, the man looked more like some street preacher than
a suspect with a record of crime behind him. But the eyes were shrewd
enough, and so was the smile with which Perks greeted Venables when
the latter disclosed his identity.

"Ah, well, you was always one for your little games, sir," he said.
"Take care of that dog for you? Of course I will. And a rare beauty he
is. Is there anything else, gentlemen?"

"No," Venables explained. "Mind the dog is for sale if anybody asks
questions. You have had him for some time, and you want a big price
for him. Maybe we shall be able to find a job for you after dark
tonight, but as to that I can say nothing for the present. At any
rate, there is a five-pound note for you so long as you are discreet
and silent. I suppose I can come into your house and write a letter?
I'll get you to post it presently."

Perks intimated that his house was at the disposal of the visitors,
and they all trooped inside. The place looked cosy and comfortable
enough, though it was somewhat untidy. At one end of the table was a
china bowl, which was filled with odds and ends of small gold and
silver ornaments. Venables winked at Perks, and the latter grinned
sheepishly. He snatched up the bowl, and hastily removed it to a side
table. Ravenspur held out a detaining hand.

"One moment," he said, "I am rather fond of those kind of things. I
don't wish to be inquisitive, or to ask idle questions, but unless I
am greatly mistaken you have a Commonwealth porringer amongst those
things. I should like to look at it."

Perks bowed to the inevitable. He cursed himself slightly under his
breath for his folly in not removing everything, but he felt safe in
the hands of his visitors. They would not be likely to ask any
questions as to whence the plunder came. By the time that Venables had
written and stamped his letter, Lord Ravenspur came forward with a
small metal disc in his hand.

"This is a bit of a curio in its way," he said. "Intrinsically it is
worth very little, only a few shillings at the outside. If you like to
take a sovereign for it----"

Perks fell in with the suggestion eagerly enough. There was no reason
to stay any longer, and the trio set out for the hotel, feeling now
that it was possible to move without the slightest fear of alarming
the inhabitants of the cottage on the common.

"I suppose that was stolen property we caught Perks looking over?"
Ravenspur asked.

"Not the slightest doubt of it," Venables said coolly. "I daresay if
we had been voted suspicious the signal would have been flashed back
to the house to hide it at once. But if you thought it was stolen
property, Lord Ravenspur, why did you invest in that little disc which
you took such a fancy to?"

"I am going to tell you something startling," Ravenspur replied.
"Walter, you recollect that little ornament which I bought in Rome,
and subsequently gave to poor Delahay who took a great fancy to it? I
had his initials engraved on the back. He wore it on his watch-chain."

"I recollect it perfectly well," Walter said. "Delahay was wearing it
the last time I ever saw him. But what has all this got to do with
your purchase of this morning?"

"Only that it happens to be the same thing," Ravenspur said quietly.
"I recognised it in a moment. Oh, there is no mistake. Here is the
disc for you to examine for yourself. You will see the initials and
the date on the back of it. As soon as we get time, we must ascertain
from Inspector Dallas if Delahay's watch was missing when his body was
found. If so, then this opens quite a new phase of the mystery. On the
whole, I am not at all sorry that we came here today. Of course, I
kept my knowledge to myself, because I didn't want to arouse Perks'
suspicions. But if we can contrive to find out from whom he bought
this thing we shall be going a long way to clear up the mystery of
poor Delahay's death."

The matter was discussed at some length over the breakfast, to which
all of them did ample justice. Once this was finished, they made their
way back to the common again, and sat down on the grass to mature
their plan of campaign.

"Now what we want to do," Venables began, "is this. We want to be in a
position to make a close study of yonder house without arousing the
suspicions of the people there. I racked my brain for a long time
before I could think of a feasible scheme. And then it came to to me
like an inspiration. What could we do better than pass ourselves off
as an Ordnance Survey party down here on business? That is why I
procured the official looking caps, to say nothing of the theodolite
and the notebooks. Now you, Lord Ravenspur, have only got to look wise
and give us directions. You look exactly like the head of an exploring
party. We will pretend to work the theodolite, and make measurements,
and all that kind of thing."

"Inside the grounds?" Walter asked.

"Of course," Venables went on; "that is the beauty of the scheme. No
spot of ground is sacred to an Ordnance party. I have actually seen
them work inside a church. All we have got to do is to go about our
business boldly and be quite firm if anybody attempts to molest us. It
may be news to you that nobody can be prosecuted for trespass unless
specific damage is done."

The instruments were recovered presently from the hiding-place, and
with the theodolite on his shoulder Venables stepped boldly on to the
lawn in front of the house, and gravely went to work. The blinds
were all up by this time. The windows were opened, and a glimpse of
well-furnished rooms could be seen in the background. A couple of
maids stood in one of the windows, and watched the strangers
curiously.

"It looks respectable enough," Venables muttered, pretending to be
exceedingly busy. "You may depend upon it, this is a tougher job than
we anticipated. These servants are all right. You may be sure that
they know nothing of what is going on. However, to make certain, I'll
ask them for myself."

Venables approached the window and asked civilly for the loan of a
small piece of string. He came back presently, after a chat of a
minute or two, and once more appeared to be wholly engrossed in his
instrument. At the same time, he was telling his companions the
information which he had gleaned.

"I knew I was right," he said. "The house has been let furnished to an
Italian gentleman called something or another, I didn't quite catch
what, and the people only came down yesterday. Those servants go with
the freehold, so to speak, and they have all been in their present
situation for some considerable time. Their master is a City
stockbroker, who, with his family, is on the Continent for the next
month or two. If we are lucky we shall probably get a sight of the
Italian presently, though I expect we have all got a pretty shrewd
notion who the gentleman is."

The work proceeded gravely for a quarter of an hour. Levels appeared
to be taken, and there was much entering of figures in the notebooks.
Presently, as Walter glanced around him, he drew a deep breath, for
there was no mistaking the identity of the slim figure that emerged
from one of the open French windows and came striding eagerly down the
lawn.

"Silva," Walter said under his breath. "Don't pretend to see him till
he gets quite close. I think it would be a good thing if we left all
the interviewing to Venables."

The Italian approached the group and superciliously demanded to know
what they were doing there. He looked quite the master of the place in
his cool, flannel suit. He had a cigarette between his strong, white
teeth.

"Why are you trespassing here?" he demanded. "Don't you know that this
is private property? Go, or I will call in the police and give you
into custody."

"The police won't help you in this case," Venables said with the air
of a military man who is quite sure of his ground. "We are here on
Government business. I don't know if you understand what I mean, but
we are surveying, and nobody has a right to interfere with us,
providing we do no damage. We can come into the house if we like.
Indeed, I am not quite sure that we shan't have to. I see you have got
a flat roof, sir, with railings round. If we have occasion to take the
theodolite up there I will ring the bell and let you know."

The whole thing was so coolly and naturally done that Silva was taken
aback for the moment. Evidently he had come out of the house full of
suspicion, and with the fixed intention of getting rid of these
intruders as soon as possible. There was an uneasy look in his eyes as
Venables suggested the roof of the house as the field of action. He
deemed it wise to shift his ground altogether.

"That will be very inconvenient," he said, in quite another voice. "I
hope you will be able to manage without that if you can. However, if
you will give me an hour's notice, I daresay----"

But Walter was no longer listening. He was standing up regarding the
house with a professional eye. His gaze vaguely took in a dormer
window immediately under the roof. There were bars to the window,
pointing to the fact that at some time or another the room had been
used as a nursery. The window was blank for a moment, then a face
appeared and looked out.

That instant was enough for Walter. There was no mistaking those
features. They were those of Vera Rayne.



CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MIDNIGHT MESSAGE.


It was with the greatest difficulty that Walter restrained himself. He
dared not look round again until Silva's back was turned and the
Italian returned to the house. Even then it would have been impolitic
to make a sign, for there might be prying, suspicious eyes looking
from other windows who would understand, and then the whole of
Venables' ingenious scheme would be wasted. Turning sideways, Walter
glanced up again. It seemed to him that he could still catch the
outline of Vera's figure. Then a desperate idea occurred to him. He
stooped down and went through all the' motions of patting and
caressing some favourite animal. There was just the outside chance
that Vera might take this as an allusion to Bruno, and the knowledge
that the dog had put her friends on her track. The girl was sharp and
quick enough, and she might easily, in the light of events, guess the
identity of the trio on the lawn. Before Walter could speak, Venables
glanced in his direction and smiled.

"Well, did you see it?" the former asked.

"Did you see it, too?" Walter exclaimed. "I am glad of that because
now I know I was not mistaken."

"See what?" Ravenspur asked, apparently busy with his notebook. "I
didn't notice anything."

"It was Vera," Walter whispered. "Whatever you do, don't look up now.
I daresay you happened to notice a dormer window in the roof, with
bars in front of it. Well, a moment ago, I saw Vera's face there. What
a fortunate thing it was that we thought of the dog last night! I knew
he would not lead us astray."

"So far, so good," Venables murmured. "And now, don't let us forget
what we are here for. The next thing is to go to the back of the house
and go through the same pantomime there. What I want to do is to find
the easiest way of getting into the place, and to ascertain how many
people there are in the house, and where they sleep. For that purpose
it is necessary to be as near the back door as possible. I shall want
you two to keep up the masquerade while I pump the servants. With any
luck we shall have got all we want to know by lunch time."

Venables was as good as his word. By two o'clock the survey was
complete, and the trio were trudging off to their hotel to talk the
matter over. It was in a little arbour in the garden, over cigars and
coffee, that Venables unbosomed himself.

"It is like this," he explained. "I told you before that those
servants were quite innocent of anything going wrong in the house, and
so it turns out. The tenant is Silva, and his sister, the countess of
something or another, whose name doesn't matter, though it will be
necessary to see the lady later on. There is no basement, and, as far
as I could see, there would be very little difficulty in obtaining
entrance to the house by means of a small window that gives light and
air to the larder. On the ground floor are four living rooms, which we
need not trouble about. There are four bedrooms on the first floor,
and four on the second, to say nothing of the room in the roof. I
didn't dare to be too curious about this roof room, but I am told that
Silva uses it himself for certain experiments, and that, as his
experiments are dangerous, he keeps the key in his pocket. The
explanation sounds simple, and quite suffices for the servants; but I
think we have got a pretty fair idea of what is going on in that roof
room. I have managed to make a rough sort of plan of the bedrooms, so
that we shall be fairly safe when we come to break into the house, as
we shall have to do, soon after midnight, if you are agreeable."

"Isn't that rather a dangerous proceeding?" Walter asked. "I didn't
know that you added housebreaking to your other accomplishments. Being
amateurs, we are certain to make a noise, and you may be pretty sure
that Silva only sleeps on one ear."

"Oh, that part will be managed for us all right," Venables said
coolly. "The housebreaking item of the programme will be carried out
by Perks. The rascal knows he is quite safe in our hands, and he will
do all that is necessary for about a ten-pound note. Once his work is
accomplished we will send him about his business. The rest we can
manage ourselves. It will go hard, indeed, with us if Miss Rayne is
not back in our hands again before daylight."

Walter could think of no better scheme to offer, so that Venables was
allowed to have his own way. There was nothing for it now but to pass
the time as best they could till midnight The hours stole slowly on.
The darkness deepened and night came at length. Dinner had been a
thing of the past for some time, and it was getting near eleven
o'clock before the trio, accompanied by Perks, made their way in the
direction of the common. They lay quietly on the turf there till a
distant church clock struck twelve, then Venables jumped to his feet
and declared that the time for action had arrived.

It was nervous enough work, and Walter was wishing it well over. There
was no trouble in getting into the garden, and round to the back of
the house, to the point fixed upon by Venables as being the most
likely for their purpose. They had all been provided with silent shoes
by Perks, though no questions were asked as to whence they came. Now
that the pinch had come Perks was by far the most confident of the
party. Probably his previous experiences in this line were standing
him in good stead.

Coolly enough he produced a dark lantern and turned the disc of flame
down, so that it shone alone upon the bag of tools which lay upon the
grass. He picked out one presently, and proceeded, in perfectly
noiseless fashion, to cut out a disc of glass to which he had
previously affixed a sheet of brown paper by the aid of the tallow
from a candle. Once the instrument had severed the glass, the portion
cut away fell noiselessly into Perks' hand, so that he had no
difficulty in placing his arm inside and pulling back the catch. The
window was now open, but it was sufficiently small to make entry into
the house a matter of some difficulty.

"I think you had better try first," Venables whispered to Walter. "You
are the most agile. Just work your way through and go round to the
front door and let us in. I don't think you need stay any longer,
Perks."

"I am not quite so sure about that, sir," Perks grinned. "It is a very
common practice with people to fasten their scullery and kitchen
doors. I think I had better stay here till the gentleman has made
sure."

A grim, silent moment or two followed. Then, surely enough, Walter
came back with the whispered information that the kitchen door was
locked. Perks chuckled to himself as he snatched up another instrument
and squeezed through the window. He set to work in business-like
fashion, so that the kitchen door was forced at length without the
slightest noise, and the way to the hall was clear.

In the strange, unfamiliar darkness, Walter stood for a moment until
his eyes should become accustomed to the objects all about him. One by
one they began to loom out of the blackness. He could make out chairs
and tables, the outline of a square hall, and the front door at the
end of it. He set his teeth together, now filled with a stern
resolution to succeed or lose his life in the attempt. He was not
ignorant of the class of man he had to deal with. He knew that Silva
would not hesitate to shoot him down like a dog if his presence were
detected. But, surely, between the three of them, they would be able
to manage? It only needed to find Silva's room, to go in there and
overpower him. Once he was helpless, to get up to the roof room and
rescue Vera was the work of a moment.

With these sanguine thoughts uppermost in his mind, Walter cautiously
made his way in the direction of the front door. It was not difficult
to draw the bolts or take down the chain. But the trouble lay in the
fact that the door was also locked, and the key had vanished.
Therefore, any idea of admitting his companions that way had to be
definitely abandoned.

Still, there were the windows, and French windows at that. But even
this scheme was frustrated by the knowledge, gained a moment later,
that all the living rooms on the ground floor were locked and the keys
taken away. It was a disconcerting moment, and Walter hardly knew how
to proceed. There was no help for it but to return by the way he had
come and tell the others of his discovery. As to Lord Ravenspur, he
was far too big a man to squeeze through the larder window, so that
the perilous task would devolve entirely upon Walter and Venables.

As Walter stood there he became conscious of the fact that a feeble
ray of light was penetrating down the well of the stairs. Acting on
the impulse of the moment he crept up a few of the thickly carpeted
stairs until he was in a position to command the landing. The light
penetrated from one of the rooms, the door of which was slightly open,
so that Walter was fain to look in. It was only a night-light, after
all, standing on a small table in the middle of the room. Even from
that distance Walter could see that a letter lay by the side of the
light, or, rather, a sheet of paper with a message upon it. Powerful
curiosity drew him on, and he snatched up the sheet of paper. There
were only two or three lines, but Walter recognised, with a thrill,
that they were in Vera's handwriting. He had no time to read, before a
sudden rush of cold air from somewhere extinguished the feeble light.
Worse than this, the current slammed the door to with a bang that
shook the whole house. It was so utterly unexpected, and the darkness
was so intense, that Walter could only stand there utterly lost as to
his surroundings.



CHAPTER XXXIV.
A STRANGE HOME-COMING.


Vera opened her eyes at length. Gradually the things that had happened
came back to her. She recognised the futility of resistance. All she
could do was to wait and hope for the best. But despite the startling
rapidity with which events had moved, she was not in the least
frightened. Her prevailing feeling was one of indignation that any man
should have dared to treat her in this way. Withal, there was a
certain vein of curiosity that Vera did not care to suppress. The cab
was still moving briskly, and Vera judged by the trees on each side of
the road that they were already out in the country. The man sat
opposite her, grim and silent. He made no inquiry as to how Vera was
getting on. He suggested no apology for his violence.

The feeling of languor and the suggestion of headache passed away,
leaving Vera strong and vigorous again. It was impossible to sit there
without speaking.

"Do you quite understand what you are doing?" she said to the man
opposite. "Do you realise that you are guilty of a criminal offence?
You could be prosecuted for this."

"I will not contradict you," Silva said politely. "Believe me, I
deeply regret the necessity for taking this step. Yet it was
impossible to satisfy our requirements in any other way."

"Oh, you are not alone, then?" Vera asked. "Would it be inquiring too
much if I asked who else is in this business?"

Silva smiled under cover of the darkness. A man of courage himself, he
admired that quality in others. So the child that he had known, and
been so passionately attached to, eighteen years ago had grown up to
be a worthy representative of her race? Vera would have been
astonished at that moment if she could have seen into the back of
Silva's brain. She did not realise for a moment that here was a man
who would have gone through fire and water for her, and yet, at the
same time, he was prepared to wreak his insane vengeance upon those
whom she loved and admired more than anybody in the world. If Vera's
happiness had depended upon it, Silva would not have spared Ravenspur,
even had Vera gone on her knees and asked for it. Yet he would have
given his life if it could have done any good to this proud descendant
of the house of Descarti.

"Surely you can guess who is with me in this business?" he said. "Did
I not bring you a letter from your mother?"

Vera started. She had forgotten her mother for the moment, and this
question of Silva's had opened up a new and painful train of thought.
He was taking her to see her mother. But why had her mother so
suddenly displayed this tender solicitude, after leaving her
absolutely alone all these years? That Vera's mother was in possession
of her whereabouts, and had been all this time, the girl did not
doubt. When part of the story had to be told she had accepted
Ravenspur's statement implicitly. Her mother was a vile woman, and the
past was too painful for a young girl to hear. Ravenspur had not said
so in as many words, but that was distinctly the impression he had
conveyed to Vera. She began dimly to comprehend now why this new-born
affection of her mother's had not found vent in the conventional way.
Doubtless Ravenspur would have forbidden her the house. Doubtless he
had a hold that gave him the control of the situation--probably a
compact made years ago. And now one of the parties desired to break
it. Perhaps it was a question of money, or family property, or
something of that kind? Vera had heard of similar cases.

At any rate, there must be some reason for this mystery and violence.
And no doubt every word that Ravenspur had said about her mother's
character was true. Otherwise she could not have consented to an
abduction like this. Still, there was comfort in the reflection that
Lord Ravenspur and Walter would leave no stone unturned to punish this
outrage. The miscreants would be found out sooner or later. Vera
congratulated herself now upon the fact that she had left her
handkerchief tied to the collar of the dog Bruno. That would be a
sufficient clue to put her friends on the trail, and Bruno himself,
with his unerring instinct, would lead the pursuers to the right
place. After all, the imprisonment could not last long, though Vera
boiled with indignation as she thought of the treacherous way in which
she had been deceived.

"And you are going to take me to my mother, then?" she asked.

"That is the programme," Silva said coolly. "Unfortunately, you will
not be able to see the Countess tonight. You may believe me or not,
but I am sorry to have been compelled to take a step like this. But
you see, Lord Ravenspur's plans made it quite impossible for me to
wait till tomorrow."

Vera was silent for a moment. She could see plainly that Ravenspur's
clever scheme for getting away to Weymouth had been betrayed by
someone to this man. Her chief anxiety for the moment was for her
guardian. It was terrible to think that he had been dogged and watched
by people so cunning and unscrupulous as these. Vera was still
thinking the matter over when the cab stopped and Silva bade her get
out. A wild idea of appealing to the cabman for assistance was
dismissed as she caught sight of his face. There was a grin upon it,
and the driver unmistakably winked at Silva. There was just enough
light for Vera to see that the cabman was not wearing a badge.
Doubtless he was a conspirator, too. There was nothing for it but to
see the thing through to the finish. So Vera followed Silva through
the garden till he paused at length on the steps of a house, which
appeared to be in total darkness.

"The servants have gone to bed," Silva explained, as he opened the
door with a latchkey. "If you will wait a moment, I will turn up the
gas. If you desire anything----"

"Nothing," Vera said curtly. "All I want you to do is to show me to my
room. I wish to be alone."

Silva bowed politely enough. He turned and locked the door, and Vera
saw that he dropped the key in his pocket. Then he took a silver
candlestick from the hall table and handed it to Vera, intimating that
he would like her to precede him up the stairs. They came at length to
a room in the roof of the house which appeared to be comfortably,
almost luxuriously furnished, and with every feminine requirement at
hand. With absolute amazement Vera saw her own silver toilet set laid
out on the dressing table, her handbag was on the floor, and in one
corner of the room stood the two dress-baskets which her maid had
packed for immediate use on board the yacht. A slight smile of
amusement flickered over Silva's face as he noticed Vera's amazement.

"Everything has been done to make you comfortable," he said. "It was
my own idea to remove your immediate belongings from Waterloo Station
and bring them on here. I assure you that it was no difficult job. And
now I wish you goodnight, with a thousand pardons for the way in
which I have been compelled to treat you. Tomorrow morning----"

Silva paused significantly and bowed himself out of the room. He
closed the door gently behind him, and Vera waited till the sound of
his footsteps had died away. She tried the door, but, as she had
anticipated, it was fastened on the outside. Beyond all question, she
was a prisoner. There was nothing but to make the best of it, and wait
on the course of events. There were two bolts on the inside of the
door, and, having secured these, Vera felt easier in her mind. She
undressed slowly, and more for something to occupy her mind than
anything else. She would never be able to sleep again. The idea of
sleep seemed to be out of the question. Yet, within ten minutes, Vera
had fallen into a deep slumber from which she did not wake until the
sun was shining high, and the birds were singing in the trees. The
girl rose eagerly and looked out. She could see a wide expanse of
green lawn, with big shaded trees here and there. On two sides of the
house a common stretched away apparently to the confines of space. How
far she was from London Vera could not say. Certainly she had never
been here before. She was still admiring the beauty of the landscape
when there came a quiet knock at the door, and after the bolts were
drawn Silva came in. He was, if possible, even more abjectly
apologetic than on the previous evening.

"I am bound to intrude," he said. "You see, this house has only been
taken for a time, and the servants are absolutely in ignorance of your
presence here. I merely came to show you where you could find all the
requisites for your breakfast, and as to the rest, they are in this
basket. Here is a spirit lamp, so that you can boil your own water. I
am in great hopes that before evening I shall be able to give you what
is practically the freedom of the house. Do not think too harshly of
me."

Vera made no reply; she was only pleased to have the room to herself
again, so that she could think the matter out. She ate her breakfast
slowly, for time was beginning to hang on her hands. Any action was
better than sitting there doing nothing. It was some time later when
she crossed to the window, and looked out. She saw three men busily
engaged in some occupation on the lawn. She saw Silva come out and
address them, apparently in tones of expostulation, so far as she
could judge from his actions. Then one of the men looked up, and Vera
could see that he had noticed her. A moment later the man stooped
down, and went through some sort of a pantomime, which, in the
circumstances, puzzled Vera extremely. Why should that grave-looking
official stoop down and imitate the motions of one who is stroking a
dog?



CHAPTER XXXV.
MOTHER AND CHILD.


At any other time the trifling incident would have escaped Vera's
attention. But she had nothing else to occupy her mind now. She
wondered what it meant. There was no doubt that the official-looking
person below was pretending to stroke a dog. There was no jest about
it, either, because the other two men took no heed. They appeared to
be too absorbed in their occupation. Then, all at once, the truth of
it flashed into Vera's mind with a suddenness that left her pale and
trembling. It was plain enough. She could not say for certain who it
was patting and caressing an imaginary dog, but she was quite certain
that there was a message to her behind it. In the first place the man
had seen her at the window, of that she felt certain. And he was
telling her as plainly as words could speak that her handkerchief had
been found, and that Bruno led her friends to the right spot. No
doubt, these willing assistants had assumed the guise of land
surveyors with a view to getting a better knowledge of the house. Once
the excitement of this discovery passed away, Vera's courage came back
to her. She now knew that she was safe. She knew that it would not be
long before she was restored to her friends again. She deemed it
prudent to keep away from the window, and when at length she looked
down again, the men were gone.

There was nothing for it but to kill the dreary afternoon as best she
could. It seemed to her that she knew every inch of her room, every
design and pattern on the wallpaper. She would have given much for a
book to while away the time, but, apparently, Silva had overlooked
that requirement. As she lay back in an armchair, for the first time,
a small, wooden trap in the ceiling attracted her attention. It seemed
strange to Vera that she had not noticed it before. A sudden
resolution possessed her. She balanced a couple of chairs, one on the
other, upon the bed, and made an attempt to lift the trap. There was
not the slightest trouble. The square of board gave to her touch at
once. Vera thrust her head and shoulders through, and saw that she was
immediately under the roof. A sliding glass window overhead lighted up
the place, so that Vera could see what sort of a place she had
discovered. Instantly she made up her mind what to do. She turned a
yachting jersey out of one of the baskets and removed the bodice of
her dress. A short serge skirt completed the outfit, and a few moments
later Vera had squeezed through the trap, and was walking along the
boards which covered the whole area of the house under the roof. What
she was now anxious to find was a way down. Here was a large tank
which supplied the house with water, and by the side of it a short
iron ladder, the end of which was lost in the semi-darkness. But Vera
had discovered enough. Doubtless the iron ladder was a permanent
structure for the use of workmen in case anything went wrong with the
big tank. In all probability the bottom of the iron ladder reached
down until it joined the servants' staircase. Vera had seen
arrangements of this kind in small country houses before.

At any rate, the knowledge was worth having. Here was a clear avenue
of escape. As soon as the house was quiet Vera would be able to steal
away, and once outside, she would know exactly what to do. She had no
money, but that was a mere detail.

The slow hours crept on till dusk began to fall, and there had been no
further sign from Silva. The clocks outside were striking eight when
someone tapped at the door, and in response to Vera's query the voice
of Silva spoke:

"We are dining in half an hour," he said. "Will you be so good as to
come down? I have unfastened the door."

Vera was trembling with excitement and apprehension. She hastened to
change her dress, and a few moments later was hurrying down the
stairs. When she reached the hall she found Silva awaiting her. He
looked somewhat anxious.

"Your mother is in the drawing-room," he said "I hope you won't mind
sitting down to a cold dinner. For motives of prudence we have sent
the servants to London for an evening at the theatre. To anyone as
intelligent as yourself you will see why we adopted such a course.
Will you precede me?"

Vera had nothing to reply. Just for the moment she was incapable of
speech. She was wondering whether or not she would awake presently and
find it all no more than a dream. The drawing-room was brilliantly
lighted. A tall, dark woman stood by the fireplace. Her regular
features appeared to be absolutely composed; but agitated though Vera
was, she did not fail to notice the restless movements of the hands.
Just for a few moments the two looked at one another. Then something
like a smile came over the Countess Flavio's face.

"So you are my daughter," she said. "I am afraid I should not have
recognised you. Come closer, so that I can look at your face. Thank
Heaven, you are not in the least like your father. I cannot be
sufficiently thankful for that."

"I have thought about you often," Vera said coldly; "but, surely, if
you are my mother, you have a strange way of making yourself known to
me. What is the meaning of this outrage? Surely you could have come to
Park Lane and asked for me in the ordinary way, without sending this
creature of yours----"

Vera looked round for Silva, but he had discreetly disappeared.

"I am glad that man has had the decency to leave us alone," she went
on. "Oh, I have been thinking about this meeting all day. I do not
know what to imagine, or what to believe. You say that you are my
mother, but how I am to be certain that----"

"I swear it," the Countess said, with a touch of passion in her voice.
"You are my daughter beyond the shadow of a doubt. Oh, there is a deal
in what you say, but I could not come to Lord Ravenspur's house. There
are most urgent reasons. You are wondering, perhaps, why I have not
been near you all these years; but I can explain. You remember nothing
of your father, for which you can thank your Maker. With the solitary
exception of yourself, there was not a creature on earth that he cared
for. He was the embodiment of refined cruelty. His greatest delight
was in the tortured degradation of others. Ah, you little guess what a
veritable hell the two years which followed your birth were. I will
tell you all about that some day, and you will be sorry for me. If you
had only had my experience you would not wonder why I fled and hid
myself when my release came. You would not wonder why I refused to see
you, for fear you should be like your father, and remind me of him
every hour. I was so near the borderland of insanity then that I
should have killed you, if by one look or gesture you had reminded me
of the man who had ruined my life. And then, when the lapse of years
had restored my strength and vigor again, a longing to see you took
possession of me. And when at length I had found you, or, rather, my
faithful servant, Silva, had found you for me, there were certain
circumstances which prevented my seeking you out at once. I was going
to wait my time, but the man whom you call your guardian took such
steps that I was bound to act at once. That is why I wrote you that
letter last night. That is why you were brought here. And as to Lord
Ravenspur, if he is lucky----"

The Countess paused and bit her lips. A horrible suspicion flashed
into Vera's mind.

"You must say nothing against him," she cried. "Lord Ravenspur is one
of the best and noblest of men."

"Lord Ravenspur is a scoundrel," the Countess cried. "Yes, and before
I have finished I am going to prove it to you. Oh, you may look
incredulous, but I am a deeply injured woman, and that man is
responsible for all my torture."

A crimson wave stained Vera's cheeks. Here was the old suspicion back
again with redoubled force. She would have asked the direct question
which was trembling on her lips, but the door opened, and Silva came
in hurriedly.

"I am loth to intrude," he said, "but it is already half-past eight,
and it is imperative that you, madam, should be back in London this
evening. There is a train at twenty minutes past nine, which you must
not fail to catch."

Without argument, the Countess led the way across to the dining-room,
where dinner was laid out. Vera noted with some surprise that there
were only covers for two. She had half expected that Silva would sit
down to table, instead of which he moved from place to place, waiting
upon them, as if he had been accustomed to that kind of thing all his
life. A few moments ago he had appeared to be the dictator and leader
in everything. Now he suddenly lapsed into a perfectly respectful and
exceedingly well-trained servant. It was not that Silva was acting a
part. The thing was so perfectly done that Vera saw at once that this
was the man's proper position in life. She was too excited to eat or
drink, so that, altogether, the meal was little more than a mere
formality.

"I am sorry that I can't stay any longer," the Countess said; "I am
bound to be in London this evening."

"Then I will come with you," Vera said promptly.

"No," Silva burst out sternly. "The thing is impossible. For the
present you stay where you are. In a day or two we will make other
arrangements with the servants, and then you can have the freedom of
the house. The Countess will tell you that I am right."

"I am afraid so," the Countess said, "unless you will give me your
word that you will not communicate with Lord Ravenspur. You must be
dead as far as he and his household are concerned."



CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.


"I cannot do it," Vera said quietly. "Forgive me if my words hurt you,
but so far I have no evidence to prove that you are anything more than
a mere impostor. You claim to be my mother, and perhaps you are. But
till tonight I had no mother. For eighteen years Lord Ravenspur has
been more than a father to me. If you can give me any satisfactory
explanation of this plot against my safety----"

"Oh, I can," the Countess cried. "Two years ago--"

"Be silent!" Silva cried furiously. "I beg your pardon, madam, but I
am forgetting myself. I will venture to remind you that your train
will not wait."

"That is quite sufficient," Vera said, with dignity. "I will return to
my room again. Perhaps the next time I see you, you will have more
time for an explanation."

The girl turned and left the room. She walked slowly and sadly up the
stairs, and locked herself in. It was not long before she heard the
click of the fastening outside. She knew that she was a prisoner once
more. It was out of the question to try and realise the meaning of all
this extraordinary mystery. There was a certain sense of comfort in
the knowledge that she was safe from personal violence. But, beyond
this, there was little to light up the dreary prospect. Vera sat there
thinking the matter over till the clock struck eleven. Then she
glanced up at the ceiling, and stared at the trap-door long and
thoughtfully.

She could not hear a sound in the house. Doubtless Silva had retired
long ago. Perhaps he was asleep by this time. As to the servants, they
were probably not returning till an early hour in the morning. Vera
calculated that the house was sufficiently far from London to make a
return after the theatre impossible. She was going to risk it. If
Silva caught her attempting to escape she could only return to her
room again. She changed her dress rapidly. In the pocket of her skirt
she placed a a box of matches and a night-light, which she found on
the dressing-table. To get through the trap was a matter of a moment.
With the aid of a match she found the top of the iron ladder, and when
she had let herself down she came at length, as she had expected, to
the top of the servants' staircase. The house was absolutely quiet,
and plunged in darkness. Vera scarcely dared to breathe, till, at
length, she found herself in the hall. It was tense and nervous work,
and the girl was trembling from head to foot. She hardly dared to
touch the bolts. She drew them back a fraction at a time. Then she
slid off the chain; the links clicked together with a noise that
sounded in the girl's ears almost like a pistol shot. She turned the
handle hurriedly. One moment more, and she would be in the garden.

The disappointment was swift and cruel. The door was locked, and the
key was not there. Evidently this was no way of escape. After the
first feeling of despair Vera shot the bolts back, and put up the
chain once more. It was no use trying the back door, for that would
probably be locked, and the key gone. The only possible exit was by
way of one of the windows on the ground floor. But here again Vera was
doomed to disappointment, for every door was fastened and every key
had vanished.

Vera blew out her night-light, and crept softly up the stairs again.
She wondered if it were possible to open one of the bedroom windows
and leap to the ground. Trembling in every limb she groped her way
into one of the rooms, the door of which was open. Once more she
ventured to strike a light. The room she was in was furnished like a
study. Here was a large table with paper and pens and ink. The walls
were lined with books. A strong current of air came in from somewhere;
then Vera realised that one of the windows was open. There was a
balcony beyond, and on to this she stepped, trying to measure with her
eye the distance to the ground. But it was too dark for that. The risk
was too great to take. It was like standing on the edge of a
precipice. Vera drew back with a shudder. She really had not the
courage for such a desperate venture. It would be far better for her
to remain where she was until her friends came to her assistance.

With this thought uppermost in her mind Vera turned back to the room
again. A sudden gust of air from the open window extinguished the
night-light. It was just as well, for almost at the same instant
another door opened on the landing, and a shaft of brilliant light
shot out. In its rays Vera could see Silva and another man who was a
stranger to her. Silva appeared to be in high good spirits. He was
chatting gaily to his companion.

"Now you know exactly what I want," he said. "You are to wait by the
gate till two o'clock if necessary, and when those people come along,
you are to give me the signal. If they don't come by two o'clock, then
we can conclude that something has interfered with their plans, and
the thing has been postponed."

"Oh, I'll do what you want," the other man said hoarsely.

"I'll see that you do," Silva went on. "I suppose those fools thought
they deceived me this morning. It was just as well that I followed
them. Well, if they like to come here, they will be pretty sure of a
welcome. And now I will just come and let you out, and fasten the door
behind you. It will be fun to sit here watching till they are
overhead, and then I shall have them in a fine trap. I am looking
forward to it with the greatest possible pleasure. Then you had better
meet me in London tomorrow, and I will give you the money I promised.
Ah, my good Stevens, this is the best week's work you ever did in your
life. A few more such jobs and you will be able to retire from your
honorable profession."

The man addressed as Stevens smiled sourly. Vera made a note of the
name; she also made a note of the man's features. Then, as the two of
them went down into the hall, she slipped back to her own room again
by means of the iron ladder. Her breath was coming thick and fast, but
her courage had returned, and she felt braced up and ready to meet any
emergency.

It was quite clear to her what was happening. As far as she herself
was concerned, she was practically a prisoner. She could not get away
even if she wished to. And now she had no desire to leave. Her
instincts had been quite correct. Beyond all question the men on the
lawn in the earlier part of the day had been her own friends. The dog
had guided them here, and even at that moment they were probably on
their way to effect a rescue.

But they had not been quite clever enough for Silva. He had been too
suspicious to let an incident like that pass. He had appeared to bow
to the inevitable, but, all the same, he had followed his unwelcome
visitors, and probably discovered their secret. And the worst of it
was, Silva was now quite prepared for the intruders. It was
impossible, too, for Vera to warn her friends. She racked her brains
for some way of giving them a signal. There was only one desperate
step to take, and she decided to risk it. Back once more she went
until she came at length to the landing on the first floor. Her idea
was to find out where Silva was hiding. There was a strong smell of
cigarette smoke in the house, which appeared to come from the ground
floor. There was only one thing for it, and that was to descend to the
hall. Under the morning-room door there was just a thin slit of light.
It was here that the smell of cigarette smoke was the strongest. It
was here, no doubt, that Silva was waiting for the fray. So far as
Vera could judge the morning-room was on one side of the house, so
that in all probability the light would not be seen, or perhaps there
were some heavy curtains or drapery over the window. From his own lips
Vera knew something of what Silva's plans were. He was going to wait
there till he had his enemies trapped overhead. He probably would not
move till the critical moment came.

It was a desperate idea, but there was nothing else for it. Vera crept
up to the little sitting-room, and hastily dashed off a few words of
warning which she hoped might fall into Walter's hands. She did not
doubt for a moment that he would be one of the rescuers. It seemed
to her that if she placed the note on the little table with the
night-light behind it, and left the door open, it would be bound to
attract Walter's attention. Then he would be prepared for the attack
from below. There was practically no chance of Silva coming upstairs
in the meantime, so that there was no reason why the little plot
should fail. It was done at length, and then Vera again crept up the
iron ladder to the side of the tank. But she did not return to her
room. She knew that she was perfectly safe where she was. And,
besides, at any moment her assistance might be of the greatest value.
She stood there in the pitchy darkness, the leaden moments creeping on
like so many hours.

Her ears were strained to catch the slightest sound; even the trickle
of a water-tap sounded like pistol shots. A mouse behind the wainscot
appeared to be making noise enough to wake the dead. Then, above the
creeping silence, came a quick snap, which was like the breaking of
wood. Vera's heart gave a great leap. It seemed to her that the attack
was commencing in earnest.

A minute or two later and she fancied she could hear footsteps in the
hall. But this she dismissed as mere fancy. She could hear the trees
rustling outside as they swayed to a sudden breeze. She hoped the wind
would not be strong enough to blow out her night-light. She wished now
that she had closed the window. Then she jumped with a nervous start
as a door banged like the thud of artillery. She heard a quick, sharp
cry, and then the laboured breathing as if two men were locked in a
struggle to the death.



CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.


Outside in the garden, under cover of the darkness, Ravenspur and his
companion waited anxiously for a sign from Walter. The minutes crept
slowly on. Still there was nothing to break the silence. A quarter of
an hour passed, and at length Ravenspur began to feel decidedly
anxious.

"I don't like it," he murmured; "I don't like it a bit. We have an
exceedingly cunning scoundrel to deal with, and a bloodthirsty one
into the bargain. That man would not stick at anything. I can't
understand how it is that Walter doesn't open the door."

Venables made no reply. As a matter of fact, he was not a whit less
anxious than Ravenspur. Still the minutes crept on, and still there
was no sign from the interior of the house. Then at last came a faint,
dull report, which might either have been the closing of a door, or
the muffled echo of a pistol shot. Before Venables could reply he felt
something damp and cold against his hand. His nerves were now at high
tension. He jumped quickly back, and looked down. A great hound stood
there waving his long tail from side to side and looking up into
Ravenspur's face as if not altogether sure as to his presence being
welcome.

"Call him off," Venables said excitedly. "The brute is dangerous. By
Jove, what a fool I am! I thought at first that this was one of our
friend Valdo's bodyguard, but I see now that it is your dog, Lord
Ravenspur. I suppose he has managed to get away again."

"Oh, it's Bruno right enough," Ravenspur said. "Probably Perks
fastened him up insecurely. But he must not be allowed to roam about
here. Do you happen to have a dog collar and chain in your pocket,
Perks? If so, I'll go and chain him up to one of those trees by the
side of the lane."

Perks grinned, and produced the necessary collar and lead. In the
course of his business he rarely travelled without one of these,
though he looked dubiously at the leather strap, and opined that is
was not much good for so great a beast as Bruno.

"I think that will be all right," Lord Ravenspur said. "The dog is
well trained, and if I tell him to stop there I am sure he will. At
any rate, I don't suppose he will move until we have this business
finished. Now, come along, sir."

The great beast trotted along, more or less dejectedly, by his
master's side, and a moment or two later he was lying at the foot of a
small tree just by the gate leading to the lane. Ravenspur hurried
back to his companions. He had hoped by this time that something had
happened. He was seriously alarmed to find the house still in
darkness, and no sign of Walter anywhere.

"This is very disturbing," he said. "Don't you think one of you had
better go inside and see what has become of my nephew? If that man
there has done him any violence----"

"I don't think so," Venables interrupted. "After all, the man we are
looking for is no fool, and he would most assuredly avoid violence if
possible. My dear Lord Ravenspur, you surely did not expect to find
Miss Rayne by simply opening the door and going through the house? For
my part, I regard this business as only just beginning, and I shall be
very much surprised if Miss Rayne is in the house at all. Besides,
this man Valdo is certain to be prepared for emergencies of this kind.
Suppose he found Walter, and asked him what he was doing there?
Suppose he insisted upon showing him all over the house? We will
assume that he has proved to Lance that Miss Rayne is not there. He
would enjoy that immensely. It would give him far more pleasure than
any personal violence. And besides, Walter is quite capable of taking
care of himself. Really, we must risk it a little longer. Any undue
haste now would ruin our plans."

Sorely against his convictions Ravenspur allowed the point to pass. A
quarter of an hour had elapsed now, and there was no sign of Walter.
Ravenspur was about to speak again when suddenly from the lane came
something in the way of a diversion. A man's voice was raised in
terror, a frightened scream for help rent the air. As the cry died
away, a deep growl of the dog was heard. Without a moment's hesitation
Ravenspur rushed away down the garden and in the direction of the
lane.

"There's no time to be lost," he cried. "Come along. Unless I am
greatly mistaken, Bruno has got hold of some unfortunate wayfarer on
his way home."

It turned out to be exactly as Lord Ravenspur had prophesied. When
Perks came up, and turned his lantern on the scene, the outline of a
man's body came into view. The unfortunate individual was lying on his
back, the great hound was standing over him, his crest erect, his
formidable row of teeth glistening in the light. At one word from lord
Ravenspur the dog crouched down, and the stranger, trembling with
fright in every limb, was dragged to his feet. Something like a
chuckle burst from Perks' lips.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, John," he said.

"I thought the brute was going to tear the throat out of me," the
stranger said. "I came down here on business----"

"What business?" Venables said curtly. "Here, Perks, hold that light a
bit higher up so that I can see the fellow's face. Does he happen to
be a friend of yours?"

"We've done a bit of business together," Perks said significantly.
"Otherwise, he is not what I would call a friend of mine. He was over
at my place early this morning, but I thought he had gone back to town
again. What are you looking about here for, John?"

"That's my business," the other said sullenly. "The man who fastened
that dog up there so close to the lane ought to have six months. I
don't know who he belongs to."

"He belongs to me," Lord Ravenspur explained. "There is one thing I
will vouch for--if you hadn't been coming into the garden, that dog
would never have touched you. It is no business of mine to ask what
you are doing here, for I don't suppose you would tell me if I did.
However, it seems to me----"

"No; but I can tell you," Venables put in. "This, Lord Ravenspur, is
the man John Stevens who gave evidence at the inquest on Louis
Delahay. He was the man who saw Mrs. Delahay with her husband in
Fitzjohn Square that morning. He knows Valdo exceedingly well, and no
doubt he is down here on the latter's business. If you ask him, he
will hardly venture to deny it."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Stevens stammered.

"Oh, yes, you do," Venables went on. "You will say presently that you
have never seen me before. You are a treacherous rascal, and evidently
you are not in the least to be relied upon. I told you that it would
pay you to join me, and I suppose your idea is to get money from both
parties. This is no time to waste on incriminations. This man is a spy
of Valdo's, Lord Ravenspur. Evidently he is here to watch our
movements. We can't trust him. We can't let him out of our sight. The
question is, what are we going to do with him?"

"You just leave me alone or it will be the worse for you," Stevens
blustered. "I am not the man----"

Before Stevens could finish his speech he was jerked violently
backwards by Perks, and turned over on his face. In less time than it
takes to tell, his hands were bound behind his back with a couple of
straps, and his feet were fastened together with the aid of some
handkerchiefs which Perks borrowed from his companion. The thing was
dexterously done, so that Stevens lay there on his back, swearing
hotly at Perks, and threatening him with what was likely to happen
when his time came.

"Oh, that's all right," Perks said cheerfully; "don't you be a fool,
John. It will pay you much better to play the square game with these
gentlemen, and as to your threats, why, they don't worry me. You talk
about splitting. Why, you dare not go within a mile of a police
station. And a nice witness before magistrates you would make. No, my
lad; there is no chance of your doing me any harm unless you are
prepared to stand in the dock by my side. Now, come along, and we'll
get it over."

"What are you going to do with him?" Ravenspur asked.

"Oh, that is an easy one," Perks grinned cheerfully. "We'll just carry
him as far as the common, and dump him down on a nice bed of bracken
where he can pass the time studying astronomy. I haven't any fear that
he can get rid of these bandages. When everything is settled, I'll
come back and fetch him. Then I can take him home, and give him some
breakfast. He won't bear any malice. That is a very good point about
John Stevens: he never bears malice for long. As a matter of fact, he
ain't got pluck enough."

Stevens was dumped unceremoniously down upon the bracken, and the
little party went back to the house. Lord Ravenspur had forgotten all
about Walter for the moment. His mind had reverted to the murder in
Fitzjohn Square. He was thinking of Delahay and certain fresh facts
which had recently come to light. He allowed Venables to precede him.
Then he drew Perks aside for a moment.

"I am going to ask you a question," he said, "and I hope you will
answer it straightforwardly. I will see that no harm comes to you.
And, indeed, in any case it will be to your advantage to be candid.
Have you had any dealings lately with this man Stevens? You know what
I mean. Have you bought anything from him for which you paid without
asking any questions?"

"Only this very morning, sir," Perks admitted cheerfully. "To tell you
the truth, that little thing what you gave me a sovereign for was
amongst the lot. And now I have said it. I am a fool to tell you this,
but you gave me your word, sir----"

"That is all right," Ravenspur said. "I shall keep it."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IN THE HOUSE.


Meanwhile, Walter was standing there in pitch darkness, utterly at a
loss what to do next. He had no light to guide him. He had not the
remotest idea in which direction the door lay. He took a step or two
forward, with outstretched hands, until his ringers touched the wall.
There were so many unfamiliar objects here that it was some little
time before he felt his way with his finger-tips to the door. He found
it at length, and the knob yielded to his touch. No sooner was he in
the corridor than a dazzling flash confused and mystified him. Before
he could realise what had happened the light was gone, and a pair of
strong, sinewy arms were about his neck. He was taken utterly at a
disadvantage. Walter swayed backwards. He fell with a resounding crash
on the floor. A million stars danced before his eyes, and then he
remembered no more.

When he came to himself again he was lying in an armchair, to which he
was fastened by a maze of cords, wound cunningly about him. As his
head became clear and less confused, he realised that he was in a kind
of library, the walls of which were lined with books. Opposite him
Silva was seated, with a placid smile upon his face.

"I think we have met before," he said.

"I have had that advantage," Walter said grimly. "And now you will,
perhaps, be good enough to explain what you mean----"

"No," Silva hissed. A sudden anger flamed out of his eyes. "On the
other hand, the explanation comes from you. For the time being, at any
rate, this house is mine. I have paid for it, and I propose to spend
my time quietly here for the next month or two. I am hardly settled
down here before you come along in this unceremonious fashion and
burgle the place. Why?"

"That you know quite as well as I do," Walter retorted. "Really, you
are a man of amazing audacity. Now don't you know that the law
punishes people severely for this kind of thing?"

"And what kind of thing do you allude to?"

"Why should you assume ignorance in that way? You know perfectly well
what I mean. To my certain knowledge you have made three attempts on
the life of Lord Ravenspur, and even that does not seem to be
sufficient. Last night you managed to lure Miss Vera Rayne away from
London, and she is in this house at the present moment. That she is
detained here against her will I feel certain."

"Oh, indeed," Silva sneered. "Would you like to search the house? If I
give you permission to go over the premises, will you be prepared to
apologise and go away without further delay?"

A cold chill crept up Walter's spine. The man spoke with such an air
of confidence and triumph that Walter began to feel that the mission
had failed. Beyond all question, Silva had discovered the plot, and
already he had managed to get Vera out of the way. The Italian could
not be acting. His air was too assured for that.

"We need not say anything about apologies," Walter said; "but if you
can prove to me that Miss Rayne is not in the house, why, then, for
the present, at any rate, I will not trouble you."

"That is very good of you," Silva sneered. He rose from his chair and
paced up and down the room. "You have seen quite enough of me, sir, to
give me credit for not being altogether a fool. That was a very pretty
scheme which you put up this morning. And, really, your disguises were
quite artistic. I will go so far as to say that, in ordinary
circumstances, they would have utterly puzzled me; but, then, I am
suspicious by nature. I regard it as more than a coincidence that
three strangers should come into my garden the very morning after I
had----"

"Abducted Miss Rayne," Walter said, as Silva hesitated. "Why make any
bones about it? We know that Miss Rayne came here. We, on our side,
are not altogether without intelligence."

"You are worthy antagonists," Silva said, with a sarcastic bow. "We
will assume, for the sake of argument, that Miss Rayne was here this
morning, though, mark you, I do not admit it. Then, three strangers
come and make free with my garden. It is possible, of course, that
they are telling the truth, and that they are honest men, devoted to
the interests of their country. But, at the same time, I asked myself
a question. Then I followed these gentlemen, and by the time I
returned home I had a pretty shrewd idea who they were and what they
were after. How my suspicions are justified is proved by your presence
here this evening. Did you come alone?"

"That you must discover for yourself," Walter said.

The Italian's features suddenly darkened. He paused so close to Walter
that the latter could see the dilation of the pupils of his eyes. He
shook with a spasm of fury.

"I have no quarrel with you," he whispered hoarsely. "You are a fine
fellow, and I give you all the credit for your courage. But if you
persist in bringing yourself within the sphere of danger, then you
must take the consequences. Do you suppose for a moment that I am
afraid of my own life? Do you suppose that I care what happens when my
mission is accomplished? That mission is sacred to me as your good
name and religion are sacred to you. A man is to be removed, and when
he is out of the way my task is done. There is a proverb amongst you
English that it is as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and no
man can hang more than once, though he has a dozen murders to his
account. Therefore, if you stand in the way, I shall have no
hesitation in sweeping you aside. Now go away and trouble me no more.
You will never see Miss Rayne again. In a few hours from now she will
be in the custody of the proper person to safeguard her interests--her
mother."

A retort trembled on Walter's lips, but he restrained himself.

"I am going to give you every opportunity," Silva went on. "I trust to
your honour. See here."

He whipped a knife from his pocket, and just for a second Walter's
courage was tried high; but the Italian meant no harm. He advanced and
cut the cords, so that a moment later Walter was free. It was
impossible for the latter to know what was going on in the mind of his
companion. He did not know that a sudden inspiration had come to
Silva, and that the Italian had changed his mind. For the first few
minutes Valdo had recognised that he stood in a position of
considerable peril. Though he had suspected his visitors of the early
morning, he was lying to Walter when he declared that he had
discovered their identity. It was easy to be wise after the fact, and
Silva was taking every advantage of it. In his heart of hearts he
really had not expected anything quite so prompt as this. He could now
see his danger. If Walter was alone, then so far so good; but if there
were others outside the house, then Silva was more or less in a trap.
The others might rush in at any moment and hand him over to the
police. Once in their hands, his fate was certain. He would be charged
with those attempts on the life of Lord Ravenspur. In all probability
he would be sentenced to a term of imprisonment, which would result in
his death within the walls of a gaol.

But now, as time was going on, and there was no sign of disturbance
outside, Silva began to feel that he had only one man to deal with. It
would not be a difficult matter to persuade Walter and to prove to him
that Vera was no longer in the house, and the cunning Italian knew
perfectly well that his skin was safe until Lord Ravenspur and the
others were satisfied that the girl had come to no harm.

"We are on even terms again now," Silva went on. "In fact, the odds
are in your favour. I am not armed, and you are a stronger man than
myself. If you will wait a few moments I will go and get a candle, and
then you shall see for yourself that Miss Rayne is not in the house."

"I am sorry," Walter said coldly; "but I should prefer to accompany
you. Your word is hardly sufficient."

Silva's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. The silence was getting
awkward when, at length, the Italian spoke once more.

"There is a candle outside on the landing," he said. "I will go and
fetch it. You will be able to see me all the way there and back. You
English are suspicious."

Silva threw the door wide open and strode out into the corridor. As he
struck a match and lighted the candle, Walter could dimly see up the
next flight of stairs. It was only for a moment, but he distinctly saw
the outline of a figure there, and a signal made by the waving of a
white arm. It was with difficulty that he repressed a cry. He now knew
that the Italian had been lying to him, and that Vera was in the
house. When he glanced up again the figure had vanished, and Walter
dropped into the easy chair again. It seemed to him that there was
something in the signal which bade him to be cautious. Otherwise, what
was to prevent Vera coming down the stairs and appealing to Walter for
his protection?

Silva was, apparently, a long time getting the candle to burn to his
satisfaction. He seemed to be occupied in his task to the exclusion of
everything else. But there was a queer smile upon his face, for he had
turned in an unfortunate moment, and his quick eye had detected the
figure at the top of the stairs. In those few seconds he had made up
his mind what to do. When he came back into the library again there
was something like a smile on his face. He placed the candle on the
table.

"And now, sir," he said almost gaily, "before I proceed to satisfy you
that your suspicions are unfounded, permit me to offer you my
hospitality. I don't know how you feel, but you look rather shaken,
and I must apologise for the way in which I threw you a little time
ago; but you see, the average burglar is by no means a welcome guest,
and he has no right to expect to be received with open arms. I must
insist upon your accompanying me as far as the dining-room, so that I
may give you a glass of wine."

Walter hesitated, but only for a moment. He was feeling more shaken
and battered than he cared to own. Every now and again things grew
misty before his eyes, a feeling of deadly faintness came upon him. It
seemed hours since he entered the house, though little more than ten
minutes had elapsed. He knew, too, that he had a great fight before
him yet with this wily unscrupulous rascal. Silva must have some great
card up his sleeve, or he would not have so gaily denied that Vera was
in the house, when all the time she was close at hand. On the whole,
Walter decided that he would be all the better for accepting Silva's
offer.

"That is very thoughtful of you," he said. "I shall be very glad of a
stimulant of some kind."

Once in the dining-room, Silva took a decanter from the sideboard and
poured out a glass of port. Walter took it almost greedily and gulped
it down at a draught. The wine seemed to soothe him. He sank down in a
chair with his hands over his eyes, and, before he knew where he was,
he had sunk into a deep sleep. As Silva bent over the unconscious body
a hoarse laugh broke from his lips. Then something seemed to sting and
burn his cheek. He started back, to see Vera standing before him.

"You scoundrel!" she cried. "You have murdered him!"

In her anger she cast all fear aside. She caught up a heavy decanter
from the sideboard and sent it crashing through the window. The whole
house rang with her cries for assistance.



CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE HOUND AGAIN.


The clamour ceased. Just for a moment an intense silence followed.
Then there came the murmur of voices from without and the crash of
splintering wood. Silva cursed himself for his folly. He had been so
convinced that Walter had come alone that he had not looked for this.
There was no time to be lost. Silva caught Vera as if she had been a
feather-weight, and ran with her swiftly up the stairs. It was the
work of a moment to unlock a door, thrust her inside, and then fasten
the door once more. No sooner was this done than Silva was downstairs
again, with his hand on the lock of the back entrance of the house.
All this time he could hear the steady splintering of wood as an
effort was being made to force one of the drawing-room windows. Silva
smiled to himself, for here was the delay which was so essential to
him. Once the attackers were in the drawing-room, there would yet be
another door to force before they were upon him. He wished with all
his heart that he had his revolver with him. But, then, he had not
expected so swift a vengeance as this, and he had come down from town
without any weapon at all. Still, it was idle to waste time in these
regrets, seeing that there was other and stern work before him.

The back entrance of the house was opened at last, and Silva sped back
to the dining-room. He half dragged, half carried Walter's unconscious
body down the garden path, until he reached a bed of asparagus, where
he deposited his burden. Panting with his exertions, he came back
again to the house. He wiped the beads of perspiration from his face.
He reached eagerly for a glass of wine, but not from the same decanter
from which he had helped Walter. Then he sat down coolly enough to
smoke a cigarette till the enemy should put in an appearance. A
succession of sounds like pistol shots testified to the attack on the
drawing-room door, and a moment later the attacking force burst into
the dining-room.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," Silva said, with a smile. "But why
have you not come in the ordinary way? And now, perhaps, you will be
good enough to tell me what you are after?"

"You are wasting our time," Lord Ravenspur said sternly. "We are in
search of Miss Vera Rayne, as you know perfectly well. There is not
the slightest occasion to lie about it, because I heard her voice just
now. Take us to her at once."

"Your lordship's hearing is remarkably good," Silva sneered; "but the
scream of one angry woman is so like that of another that I am not
prepared to agree with your statement. However, as I appear to be only
one to three of you, I suppose you will have your own way and search
the house."

"That most assuredly," Venables put in.

"Then I will make no attempt to stop you. I will stay here while you
make your search, and perhaps when you have found out that you are
mistaken you will apologise to me."

The speaker was perfectly cool and self possessed. With a wave of his
hand he intimated that the house was quite at the disposal of the
intruders. He sat there with his legs crossed, apparently in the
enjoyment of a cigarette; but when once the party had scattered his
attitude changed entirely. He darted across the hall and out into the
garden. His task was not yet finished. There was a deal to do before
he could face his enemies again. He was not a bit downcast, though his
plot had partially failed, and though he knew now that before long
Vera Rayne would be in the hands of her friends again. All he thirsted
for now was a weapon by which he could take the vengeance for which he
had panted all these years. Slowly he dragged the unconscious body of
his victim in the direction of the little gate leading to the lane.

Meanwhile, Ravenspur and his companions were scattered over the house.
Ravenspur called Vera by name, and, to his great joy and relief, he
heard her answering cry from behind one of the bedroom doors. He was
not surprised to find the door locked. But that did not much matter
now. Ravenspur flung himself against the woodwork, and the door gave
way with a crash. Then Vera rushed out and threw herself, sobbing
hysterically, into his arms.

"Never mind me," she cried. "Save him!"

"Of whom are you speaking?" Ravenspur asked.

"Why, Walter, of course," Vera went on. "I believe that dreadful man
poisoned him. He lured Waiter into the dining-room and gave him a
glass of wine, and when I got there, he . . . Oh, it was too dreadful!
Then I broke the window and screamed for assistance, and you came in."

Ravenspur listened uneasily. In the excitement of the moment he had
forgotten all about Walter.

"Try and calm yourself," he said. "So much depends upon you now. Tell
me all that happened."

"I came down with that man last night," Vera said. "He brought me a
letter from my mother. I wanted to come, and I didn't want to come. I
think you will be able to understand my feelings. Then two of them
drugged me and carried me down here. It has been a dreadful time. I
began to hope this morning, when I saw you in the garden, and Walter
gave me a kind of sign. I felt quite sure then that you were not far
off, and the knowledge gave me courage. I was locked up in a room at
the top of the house, but I managed to escape through a trap-door, and
I was actually on the landing in the darkness when Walter came. He was
taken utterly by surprise by this man Silva, and I am sure that he was
terribly knocked about and shaken by a fall that he had had. Then I
managed to let Walter know that I was in the house. It was a daring
thing to do, and Silva must have seen it, though I did not think so at
the moment. After that he got Walter downstairs, under pretence of
giving him a glass of wine, and then he poisoned him. Oh, I am so
distracted that I hardly know what I am speaking about. It is dreadful
to think----"

"I am quite sure you are mistaken," Ravenspur said. "This man Silva
has no quarrel with Walter, and when we come to get at the truth you
will find that there is no greater mischief than a comparatively
harmless drug. But where is Walter? Drugged or not, he certainly was
not in the dining-room when we got there just now."

"But he must be," Vera protested. "I saw him lying in an armchair, to
all appearances dead."

Ravenspur wasted no time in further argument. He went straight back to
the dining-room, but no signs of Walter were to be seen. Silva had
disappeared also. A strong draught was blowing from the open back
door. Ravenspur began to understand pretty well what had taken place.
He turned eagerly to Vera.

"Come along with me," he exclaimed. "We are going into the garden. I
shall not be in the least surprised to find that Silva has dragged
Walter out there. He would have had plenty of time when we were
breaking into the house. I understand he is a man of considerable
personal strength. Depend upon it, we shall find him somewhere here.
Don't be discouraged."

Vera was doing her best to keep from breaking down altogether. There
was something peculiarly horrible in the suggestion that her lover's
body was lying out there stark and stiff in the darkness. The fresh
breeze blew gratefully on her face. She began to feel a little more
like herself again.

"We will get Perks here with his lantern presently," Lord Ravenspur
said. "Keep as near to the path as possible. If that fellow happens to
have a knife and sees me here, why----"

It was Lord Ravenspur's turn to shudder now, but he kept bravely on.
He opened his mouth to speak again, when, suddenly a snarling roar
like that of an angry lion broke out, followed by the shrill scream of
a human voice, calling in the last extremity of agony. At the dreadful
sound, Vera stood still.

"It is Bruno," Lord Ravenspur said hoarsely. "The dog is utterly out
of control. He has got hold of that Italian to a certainty. There may
be time to save his life yet."



CHAPTER XL.
BROKEN WINGS.


The hoarse yell for assistance rose yet again, this time more feeble
than before. It was horrible to stand there in the darkness, looking
helplessly around and trying to locate the direction from which the
call came. It was horrible, too, to listen to the mumbling and
snarling of the dog, just as if he were worrying a bone. Vera clung
terrified to Lord Ravenspur. It was in vain that the latter whistled
and called to the dog.

"We must have a light here," he said hoarsely. "There is no other way
of discovering where the trouble lies. Fool that I was not to think of
it before. That man, Perks, has a lantern."

Ravenspur strode back to the house again, and yelled aloud for Perks
and his lantern.

"What is wrong?" Venables demanded.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough," Ravenspur said grimly. "For heaven's
sake, bring Perks here with the lantern. Unless I am greatly mistaken,
our troubles are over as far as the Italian is concerned. Bruno has
got hold of him."

They all raced together down the garden path in the direction of the
gate. There was no mistaking where the trouble lay, for that mumbling
snarl was close at hand now. It seemed to proceed from the foot of a
tree. Even Perks, hardened as he was, shuddered and turned pale as the
shining disc of the lantern showed a picture so horrible and revolting
that Perks staggered back.

"Take the young lady away sir," he said. "This is no place for her.
You go back to the house, and leave Lord Ravenspur to carry this poor
chap back again. We can't tackle the dog unless there is someone here
who knows him."

One glance at the prostrate body, and Venables turned away without
further question. Obviously Perks was right, and assuredly it was no
place for Vera. Silva lay there on the broad of his back, his arms
thrown out, and crouched upon his body was the enormous weight of the
dog. The pressure in itself was enough to cause suffocation. But the
mischief lay in the terrible gash in the throat where the hound's
teeth had met. Bruno crouched there now with evil, bloodshot eyes; a
long, deep terrifying growl came steadily and persistently. Perks drew
cautiously near.

"Well, if this doesn't beat everything," he said. "Why, there are two
bodies. One of them is Mr. Lance."

"That is the cause of all the mischief, as you will see presently,"
Ravenspur explained. "Never mind about my nephew for a moment. Unless
I am greatly mistaken, there is very little the matter with him. But
this poor fellow is in a different condition altogether."

As he spoke, Ravenspur stepped forward, and gave Bruno a tremendous
blow with a stick which he had pulled from the hedge-side. At the same
time he uttered a few words in a harsh tone, and immediately the dog
slunk away and crossed the road. His tail was between his legs now,
his attitude one of deep dejection.

"I will deal with him presently," Ravenspur went on. "You take the
head, and I'll take the feet, and we'll get this poor fellow back to
the house again. It is a terrible business altogether, but, mind you,
that dog is not very much to blame. As far as I can make out, what has
happened is this: Silva managed to drug my nephew, and was getting his
body out of the way when he accidentally came in contact with the dog.
And if there is one human being more than another to whom Bruno is
devoted, that person is my nephew. The dog would scent him at once,
and--well, the rest you can imagine."

They conveyed the unconscious body of Silva upstairs, and laid him on
a bed. Once Walter had been brought under cover also, there was only
one thing to be done, and that was to send for a doctor without delay.
It was obvious enough to Ravenspur and his companions that Silva's
wounds were exceedingly critical. The throat seemed to be almost
bitten away. The man had lost a deal of blood. He lay there absolutely
unconscious. His swarthy features were deadly pale. It was impossible
to say whether he breathed or not.

"You leave the doctor to me," Perks said. "I know the neighbourhood. I
can be back here well within the hour."

The doctor came at length. He shook his head seriously after he had
made his examination.

"Oh, of course, recovery is possible," he said; "whilst there is life
there is always hope. But if this man pulls round it will be little
less than a miracle. How did it happen?"

There was nothing for it but to explain. After all, it would be more
or less impossible to avoid the scandal now. But nothing was said as
to the real cause of the accident, nor did Ravenspur deem it prudent
to ask the doctor's advice as to the best thing to do with Walter.

"Will the poor fellow recover consciousness?" he asked.

"That is quite possible," the doctor replied. "He has a splendid
constitution, and possibly may linger on for some days. He can take no
direct nourishment, of course. But medical science can do so much
now-a-days in the way of injections. I shouldn't be at all surprised
if my patient were able to give an account of what has happened. But
in all human probability, he will be in his grave before the week is
out. And now, will you leave it to me to obtain a nurse, or would you
like to send one of your own?"

On the whole, it would be better to leave it to the doctor, Ravenspur
thought. An hour or so passed, and the nurse was established in the
sick-room. It was now getting towards daylight, but no one thought
of rest or sleep. There was nothing for it but to make the best of
the extraordinary situation; nothing for it but to remain where they
were and explain as well as they could to the servants when they came
back in the morning. Vera flung herself down upon a couch in the
drawing-room, and closed her eyes. She was tired and worn out, though
it seemed to her that sleep was impossible. Nevertheless, when she
came to herself again the sunshine was streaming into the room, the
birds were singing noisily in the trees outside. On the lawn Ravenspur
was walking up and down in grave consultation with Venables. Presently
Vera saw Walter join the group. He looked dreadfully white and
haggard; his head was bent, and his step was shaky. A thrill of
thankfulness passed over her. She had never hoped to see him walk
again. As Vera left the drawing-room and crossed the hall, a
maidservant looked at her curiously. Vera advanced with a smile.

"I am afraid we have greatly distressed you," she said. "But perhaps
you already know exactly what has happened?"

"His lordship explained to me, miss," the girl said timidly. "I
understand that my new master is a friend of yours. You were coming
down to see him, and a great dog attacked him."

"Yes; that is so," Vera said, relieved to find that she had to make no
prevarication. "And now, if you will be so good, you might show me to
a bedroom where I can wash."

The maid seemed to anticipate such a request, for she led the way up
the stairs to one of the bedrooms. Vera wondered what the maid would
have said could she only have looked into the room at the top of the
house under the roof. Feeling much fresher and brighter from the touch
of cold water, Vera went down and joined the other two in the garden.

"I am glad to see you looking none the worse for your adventure,"
Ravenspur said. "I have managed to convince the servants that our
appearance here is quite natural. One had to tell a few falsehoods,
but in the circumstances it was necessary. Still, servants are
suspicious creatures, and I don't want their curiosity to go too far.
Already they are wondering where the mistress of the house is, so that
there is no help for it, and we must have your mother here without
delay. Do you happen to know her London address?"

"No; I don't," Vera replied. "I saw her for an hour last night."

"What, down here?" Walter exclaimed.

"Yes; she came here on purpose to see me. She only stayed a little
time, because I understood that it was necessary for her to be back in
London again. But I would rather not talk about that if you don't
mind, You will quite understand why."

Walter murmured something in reply. Then his face brightened.

"You are quite right, uncle," he said. "It is absolutely necessary
that the Countess Flavio should be here at once. We can get her
address from Mrs. Delahay. If you like I will go up myself."

"Do you feel equal to it?" Vera asked anxiously.

"Oh, I'm all right now," Walter said, "with the exception of a certain
shakiness and a splitting headache. It must have been a pretty severe
dose that our interesting friend gave me last night. But I don't think
there is any occasion to worry about me."

"Then we will have some breakfast, and get up to London at once,"
Venables said, in his quick, decisive fashion. "We can leave Lord
Ravenspur and Miss Rayne here till we come back. I don't think that
Lord Ravenspur has anything to fear from his enemy now."

Breakfast was despatched without delay, and immediately Venables and
Walter left for London. The house was now quiet and still, for as yet
practically nothing was known as to the cause of Silva's action, and
public curiosity still slept.

It was some time after luncheon before Vera had a chance of speaking
to the nurse, with an inquiry as to how the patient was getting on.
The nurse smiled in reply.

"He is slightly better," she explained; "in fact, he is as well as he
is likely to be. He has been conscious for the last half hour. He
seems to want something, only I can't understand what it is. We may be
able to find out when the doctor comes."



CHAPTER XLI.
A RAY OF LIGHT.


It was no difficult matter to find Mrs. Delahay, who, when the late
startling developments were laid before her, made no demur in giving
her sister's address. Maria Delahay was looking just as pale and
haggard as usual. It seemed impossible to rouse her from the state of
apathy into which she had fallen. When the two friends were standing
on the steps of the hotel they ran against Inspector Dallas.

"Any fresh news?" Walter asked.

"Well, no," Dallas admitted. "I am simply waiting on events at
present. If you could only get Mrs. Delahay to be more candid with me
it might save her a deal of unpleasantness in the long run."

"Do you mean that she is in danger?" Venables asked.

"I think you can see that for yourself, sir," Dallas replied.
"Naturally, I am hesitating as long as possible----"

"Then hesitate a little longer," Walter said. "Quite by accident Lord
Ravenspur has stumbled upon a clue which I think will astonish you
when you come to know his story. We are going off now to a place
called Cannon Green. We shall probably be back by the last train
tonight, and I want you to meet us at Waterloo Station. I think you
will be well rewarded for your trouble."

Dallas promised, and, like the wise man he was, asked no questions.
The two companions proceeded in a cab to Isleworth Road, where they
asked to see the mistress of the house. The maid who answered the door
was somewhat reticent, but she admitted that her mistress was at home,
whereupon Walter and his companion entered without further ceremony.
Perhaps their manner impressed the maid, for she came back a moment
later saying that her mistress would see the visitors. The Countess
entered the drawing-room and glanced with cold displeasure at the
intruders.

"What can you possibly want with me?" she demanded.

"Perhaps I had better explain," Walter began. "My name is Lance, and I
am a nephew of Lord Ravenspur. Lord Ravenspur has a ward who is called
Miss Vera Rayne. In other words, I understand that Miss Rayne is
really your daughter."

The Countess's cold face flushed slightly.

"I am not prepared to contradict you," she said.

"My dear madam," Walter said, "this is no time for diplomacy. Rightly
or wrongly, my uncle came to Italy eighteen years ago and kidnapped
your daughter. You see, I am quite candid, and I hope you will be good
enough to be as candid in your replies. My uncle will himself explain
why he took this bold step, but I understand that your late husband
did not consider you a desirable parent for a child, and he made my
uncle promise to remove the child from your influence. Into the
morality of that question I am not disposed to go. For nearly eighteen
years nothing happened, and my uncle began to regard Vera quite as his
own child. Then the truth came out, and some emissary of yours came to
England, prepared to go to any length to regain possession of your
daughter. I need not say I am alluding to the man called Silva, also
known to many people as Valdo, the flying man. This servant of yours
made no fewer than three attacks on my uncle's life, none of which,
fortunately, was successful. And then, I understand, you came on the
scene. I believe you were instrumental in luring your daughter from
Lady Kingmar's the night before last, and getting her imprisoned at a
place called Cannon Green. One moment, please. I would not deny it, if
I were you----"

"I am not going to deny it," the Countess said in a hard, dry voice.
"There is no occasion to."

"Ah, well, that being so, we shall get on all the better. Directly we
discovered what had happened we set off in pursuit, fortunately aided
by a bloodhound of my uncle's, who had followed us to Lady Ringmar's
from Park Lane. To make a long story short, we broke into the house,
and Miss Rayne is once more under the protection of Lord Ravenspur.
But your man, Silva, does not lack resource, and he managed to drug me
and drag me out into the garden. Unfortunately for him, the dog was
prowling about, and, knowing me and recognising my peril, he made a
furious attack upon Silva, with the result that your friend lies in a
critical condition and is not expected to live. After what I have told
you, I think you will see the necessity of coming down to Cannon Green
with us without delay."

During this recital the Countess made no sign. She listened with a
calmness and unconcern which moved Walter to anger. After all,
whatever Silva's faults might have been, his devotion to his mistress
left nothing to be desired. The Countess sat thoughtfully for a few
moments before she replied.

"I think I see what you mean," she said presently. "You want as far as
possible to avoid a scandal?"

"Well, naturally," Walter said warmly. "In your daughter's interests
it is your duty to assist us. If you fall in line with this idea, the
general public will be none the wiser. And when you come to know what
manner of man it is that your servant has been attempting to murder in
absolutely cold blood----"

"Oh, I know what manner of man he is," the Countess cried. "He is the
same manner of man as my husband. And a more cold-blooded scoundrel
never drew the breath of life. But make no mistake about one thing--I
was a party to no violence. All I wanted was to have my child back
again, and I hoped that when once this was done, I should be able to
induce Silva to forego the vengeance which to him was a part of his
religion. You will understand presently why I have appeared to act so
strangely. Not but what Lord Ravenspur deserved whatever fate he got
at the hands of Silva. Still, we are wasting time in talking like
this. I am ready to come with you to Cannon Green at once, more
especially because you are right in saying that it is my duty to try
and avoid anything in the shape of a scandal. If you will give me five
minutes and call a cab, I am absolutely at your service."

It was a little before five when this strangely assorted group reached
Cannon Green. The doctor was just coming away, and Walter asked
eagerly after the patient.

"Oh, practically he is no better," the medical man explained. "I mean,
he isn't going to get well. Just for the present he is buoyed up with
a strong stimulant, and is in full possession of his faculties. He
seems to want something, but I can't make out what it is. We gave him
a sheet of paper and a pencil just now, and he scribbled a word or
two, which, being Italian, we could not make out."

"I think I know what he wants," Walter said. "May I suggest, Countess,
that you go up to the poor man's bedroom at once?"

Silva's face lighted up as his eyes fell upon his mistress. He pointed
to the bandages about his throat. His lips moved, but no sound came
from them.

"I know exactly what has happened," the Countess said. "No, pray don't
distress yourself. You must not try your strength. You will never get
better if you exert yourself."

A melancholy smile came over Silva's face. The expression of his eyes
told as plainly as possible that he had no delusions on the score of
his recovery. Then he went through the motion of writing with an
imaginary pencil upon an invisible paper. Countess Flavio turned
impulsively to the nurse.

"Is it quite safe?" she asked. "I don't think the poor fellow will
rest till he makes me understand; and you see, being Italian myself,
anything he may write----"

"I think it will be a very good thing," the nurse replied.

She came to the bedside with a sheet of paper and a pencil, which she
placed in Silva's hand. His unsteady fingers began to trace certain
signs on the paper. The marks were feeble and straggling enough, but a
little care on the part of the Countess enabled her to make out what
the characters represented.

"It is quite plain to me now," she said, looking down into Silva's
eager face. "You want me to find the diary, do you not? You mean the
Count's diary, which was not produced at the trial?"

Silva nodded feebly. Evidently he was fast lapsing into
unconsciousness again. But with an effort he managed to concentrate
his mind upon what the Countess was saying.

"The diary is locked up in a little desk in your bedroom," the
Countess went on. "I am to find it and give it to Mr. Walter Lance to
read. My good Silva, this is most extraordinary! What possible
interest could Mr. Lance take in that diary? Are you quite sure that I
have not made a mistake?"

Again Silva opened his eyes and nodded almost vigorously.

"Very well," the Countess said reluctantly. "I see you are in earnest.
I will get the diary at once, and Mr. Lance shall have it without
delay. If there is anything more----"

It was idle to speak to Silva any longer. Just for an instant a smile
flickered over his face, and then he was completely lost to the world
and his surroundings. Puzzled and mystified, the Countess crept from
the room. Silva had made this request on what was practically his
dying bed, and he must be obeyed. What good it would do at this moment
the Countess was quite at a loss to see. She found the little desk
presently and broke it open. Inside lay a small parchment-covered
volume with gilt lettering on the outside. With this in her hand the
Countess Flavio walked out on to the lawn where Walter was strolling
up and down and accosted him.

"This is for you," she said. "I don't know why, but Silva told me to
deliver it into your hands, and perhaps when you have read it you will
have a different opinion of Vera's mother."



CHAPTER XLII.
RUN TO EARTH.


Without waiting for a reply the Countess turned away, and went back
into the house again. In the drawing-room Vera was seated, talking
earnestly to Lord Ravenspur. There was an awkward pause as the
Countess Flavio entered the room. Then Vera rose with a crimson face,
and came in the direction of her mother.

"I suppose there is no occasion," she said, "to introduce you to one
another, though it is so many years ago--"

"I have never seen Lord Ravenspur before in my life," the Countess
said coldly, "and I am quite sure that he has never seen me, either.
We are absolute strangers."

"But I thought," Vera stammered, "that Lord Ravenspur and
yourself---- Oh, I don't know what I thought."

The girl paused abruptly, conscious that she was saying too much. For
some time past she had been hugging what appeared to be a shameful
secret to her breast. Her face paled with remorse now when she thought
how she had misjudged these two people. But the embarrassment was not
all Vera's, for Ravenspur was looking unhappy and uncomfortable. Only
the Countess appeared to retain her cold self-possession. For some
time no one spoke.

"Sooner or later, I suppose, I shall be entitled to an explanation,"
the Countess said at length. "It is now eighteen years since I was
cruelly deprived of my child. It is just possible that Lord Ravenspur
can explain his extraordinary conduct."

"I think I might manage to do that if we were alone," Ravenspur
replied. "But, after all, you are Vera's mother, and what I have to
say I could not utter in the child's hearing. Oh, I know that sounds
like a cowardly remark, but my conscience tells me that I am only
doing what is right."

Vera rose as if to go, but Ravenspur stretched out a hand and detained
her. There was a determined look in his eyes.

"Not yet," he said; "there will be time for that later on. After
dinner, if the Countess will give me the honour of an interview, I may
be able to satisfy her that I am not the scoundrel she takes me to be.
There are always two sides to a question."

"Yes, where the man is concerned," the Countess said coldly. "Let us
hope in this case the same remark will apply to the woman--that is, if
you are prepared to admit that I _am_ a woman."

Ravenspur murmured something in reply. It seemed to him only right
that mother and daughter should be alone. And, besides, he wanted to
think the situation over. He had formed his own opinion of the
Countess. He had implicitly believed all that his late friend Flavio
had told him about his wife. He had anticipated something quite
different to this. The woman was cold and self-contained and haughty,
and yet Ravenspur could see nothing in her face to which he could take
exception. Flavio had spoken of her as a fiend, a creature who had no
title to the name of woman. His pictures had been glowing and full of
colour. And now, before a word had been spoken, Ravenspur began to
have his doubts. And how like the Countess was to Mrs. Delahay. As
Ravenspur paced up and down the lawn, he began to see a little light
in dark places. He was still turning the matter over in his mind when
Walter and Venables came out of the house.

"Where are you going now?" Ravenspur asked. "What is that thing that
you have in your hand?"

"It is a new collar and dog-chain," Walter explained. "It suddenly
occurred to Venables just now that we had seen nothing of Bruno all
day. I have been whistling for him for half an hour, and though I am
almost certain he is hiding somewhere in the bracken on the common, I
can't get him to answer the call."

"Probably afraid of a good thrashing for his work last night,"
Ravenspur murmured. "But you must manage to get hold of him, Walter.
It will never do for a big hound like that to be roaming about the
common. Those dogs are all right when they are well fed. But if the
beast gets really hungry I wouldn't answer for the consequences.
Whatever else happens, or whatever is neglected, you must find Bruno,
and that at once."

Walter and Venables went off in the direction of the common, and for
the next couple of hours sought everywhere for the dog. It seemed to
them they could hear him every now and then. Presently Venables caught
sight of his lean, dark-brown side as he crouched behind a great
thicket of gorse. Walter called softly, and held a biscuit out in the
direction of the bush. Then slowly, with his body bent to the ground
and his head hung down, the great beast came, and Walter slipped the
collar round his neck. He had hardly congratulated himself upon his
success when a hollow groan close by attracted his attention. He
turned eagerly to Venables. "Oh, yes, I heard it," the latter said
with a smile. "Can't you guess who it is? I declare I had absolutely
forgotten all about him. Unless I am greatly mistaken, that is our
friend Stevens whom Perks tied up so neatly and artistically last
night."

It was precisely as Venables had said. Stevens lay there groaning and
shivering, quite helpless and almost unable to move. Even after his
bonds were cut away it was some time before he had strength to rise.
His teeth were chattering with the cold, although the day was quite a
warm one. He was a mass of cramps and aches from head to feet. When
once his blood began to stir again, he turned an angry face in the
direction of his rescuers.

"Oh, you need not laugh," he said. "It is no laughing matter. I'll
have the law against you for this, see if I don't."

"We will talk about that presently," said Venables coolly. "In the
meantime, you had better come as far as the house and have something
to eat. And you will be wise if you say nothing, or know nothing, of
what happened last night. Your accomplice, Silva, lies in bed at the
point of death, so you have nothing to fear from him. If you had gone
straight with us, you would not have fallen into this sorry plight.
Have you got any money?"

"I spent it all in coming down last night," Stevens said.

"Oh, well, we'll see you back to town again," Walter replied.
"Meanwhile, we have other work to do. We will take you to the house
and see that you are properly fed, and then you can kill time as best
you can for the evening. You can return by the last train."

It was dark before Stevens reached the station with the few shillings
in his pocket necessary to get him back to London again. As he stepped
into a third-class carriage he did not realise that Walter and
Venables were taking their places at the end of the train. It was just
the same at Waterloo Station, where Stevens got out, and a moment
later he was being followed by the pair, who had been joined now by
Dallas.

"What is the game, gentlemen?" the Inspector asked. "Surely that man
is the witness Stevens who gave such startling evidence at the Delahay
inquest?"

"That is right enough," Walter said. "We are going to follow him and
see where he goes to. Unless I am greatly mistaken, he can give you a
great deal more information than he did at the inquest. And now,
perhaps, I had better tell you of the discovery which Lord Ravenspur
made last night. But, before doing that, I want to know if you missed
anything from Mr. Delahay's studio. For instance, did you find a watch
on the body?"

"There was no watch," Dallas said, after a moment's thought. "We found
a purse in his trousers pocket with some gold in it, but nothing
besides. Was he wearing a watch?"

"I am sure if you ask Mrs. Delahay she will tell you so," Walter
replied. "He was wearing a watch and chain, and on the chain was an
ornament which my uncle had given him. My uncle bought that ornament
yesterday from a man who is obviously a receiver of stolen goods, and
that ornament was sold to the shady individual in question by John
Stevens. In proof of what I say, here it is."

Dallas' eyes gleamed as he took the trinket in his hand. He said no
more as he walked thoughtfully by the side of his companions, till at
length Stevens turned into a shady street, where he entered a dingy
public-house. Without the slightest hesitation Dallas followed. He had
quite made up his mind what he was going to do. For the time being, at
any rate, the public-house was empty. Stevens was sitting in an
armchair behind a partition with a glass in his hand. He started and
his face changed colour as his eyes fell upon Dallas. The Inspector's
manner was genial enough, but there was a grimness on his face that
Stevens did not relish.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he stammered.

"Well, unless I am greatly mistaken, you can do a great deal," Dallas
replied. "That matter of the Delahay murder, you know. You remember
what you told us at the inquest?"

"Yes, and every word of it was true," Stevens said tremulously. "If it
is the last word I ever say, it was true."

"And I believe it," Dallas went on. "The only fault I find in your
evidence is that you did not tell us enough. Why didn't you finish
your story while you were about it?"

Stevens looked stealthily at his tormentor. He gulped his glass of
liquor down hastily, for there was a queer dryness at the back of his
throat that almost choked him.

"Come," Dallas said, with a quick and sudden sternness. "Speak out, or
it will be all the worse for you. Tell us who it was who murdered Mr.
Louis Delahay?"



CHAPTER XLIII.
THE WHOLE TRUTH.


Stevens stared helplessly at the speaker. He tried to speak, but his
jaw dropped. He mumbled something that was quite impossible to
understand. But, at the same time, he recognised the peril of his
position. There was a ghastly green tinge on his face, his hand
trembled. Dallas regarded him pleasantly enough. There was nothing
harsh or stern in the detective's manner. His quiet air of assured
triumph struck a greater terror into Stevens than any sternness would
have done. The shabby little man wriggled about in his seat looking
very much like a rat behind the bars of a cage.

"Take your time," Dallas said quietly. "You will find in the long run
that it will pay you a great deal better to tell the truth."

"I have always told the truth," Stevens stammered.

"Up to a certain point, yes. But you didn't go far enough. For
instance, you might have told the coroner that you saw Mr. Delahay's
lady visitor a second time. You might have gone further, and told the
court that Mr. Delahay had other visitors long after his first one had
gone. You see, that would have helped the police a good deal, and it
would have effectually cleared an innocent lady whom we suspected of
having a hand in the murder. Now who was it that called at the studio
in the early hours of the morning?"

"How should I know?" Stevens said sullenly.

"That, my good man, is for you to say. But you need not answer unless
you like. It so happens that you are waiting here for the individual
in question this very moment."

The greenish hue crept over Stevens' face again. He could only stare
at the speaker with open-mouthed astonishment. Dallas' manner grew a
little more stern and curt as he rose from his seat.

"You will stay where you are," he said, "and with these two gentlemen
I will go into the next box. I think I can trust you not to betray our
presence there. In fact, your safety, to a large extent, depends upon
your actions in the next hour or so."

"I have done nothing," Stevens burst out. "I swear I have done
nothing. I had no hand in it at all."

"That I quite believe," Dallas replied. "It was afterwards that you
began to see your way to make some money out of it. And now let me
tell you something. You don't deserve any consideration at my hands,
but I am prepared to spare you as far as possible. Oh, I know you will
play me false at the first chance. But let me tell you, I know all
about your visit to your friend, Perks, of Cannon Green. I know how
you disposed of certain stolen goods which, until the night of the
murder, were in the possession of Mr. Louis Delahay. After that, I
don't think you will deem it prudent to try any of your nonsense with
me."

Dallas turned away, and, with his two companions, entered the next
box. It was gloomy enough there, so that their presence was not likely
to be detected by anyone who came in. Walter turned eagerly to Dallas.
His curiosity was aroused now. He wanted to know how it was that the
inspector knew so much.

"It was mere conjecture on my part," Dallas said. "Of course, what you
told me gave me a great deal of assistance; but I did not begin to see
my way quite clearly until we followed Stevens here. The landlord of
this public-house has never got into trouble as yet. But we know
perfectly well that a good deal of stolen property is disposed of, and
when I saw Stevens turn in here, things became plain enough. He was
coming to meet his accomplice, and hand over his share of the money
which he had obtained from Perks. Before half an hour is over, the
real culprit will be here. Please stop talking directly anybody comes
in. It will spoil everything if our presence here becomes known."

It was precisely as Dallas had said. Some twenty minutes later a man
lounged into the bar and called for something to drink. He seemed to
suspect nothing, he appeared to be perfectly at his ease. He whistled
some music-hall air merrily. The man was fairly well-dressed. A gaudy
cap on the back of his head disclosed a plaster of greasy curls on a
peculiarly low and retreating forehead. The stranger might have been a
street hawker in his best clothes. Certainly he did not suggest a
professional criminal.

He swallowed his drink and strolled towards the fireplace without
noticing the three occupants in the recesses of the box. Then he
caught sight of Stevens, and took a seat by his side. The conversation
was conducted in whispers, but it was possible for the listeners to
hear most of what was taking place.

"Well, did you manage it all right?" the newcomer asked.

"Don't trouble about that," Stevens muttered. "But I didn't get half
as much as you thought I should. Forty pounds was the price my man
offered, and he wouldn't give another penny."

The newcomer growled something incoherent. Then there was a chink of
money stealthily passed, followed by a volley of oaths from Stevens'
companion.

"The game isn't worth playing," he muttered. "Fancy, twenty quid for a
job like that, and the chance of hanging into the bargain. I wish I
had never gone there, John. I wish I had never met you that night,
when you told me all about the house in Fitzjohn Square. I wake up in
the night in a bath of cold sweat when I think of it. Fancy going into
what you take to be an empty house, and finding a dead body staring up
in your face from the floor! Yes, I _took_ his watch and chain all
right, but I don't know where I got the pluck from. Took the risk of
being strung up for it, bli'me! And me ready to get married, and the
date fixed and all! Lord, if I could only see my way to get clear of
it all! Twenty quid against a man's life! You go and try it yourself,
and see what it's like, my ancient pal. When I recollect as it was you
as told me of the broken catch on the studio window, I could bash your
face in, I could. I can't forget it. I have tried drink, but that is
no use. You can stave it off for an hour or two, and then it comes
back worse than ever. And all for the sake of twenty quid!"

Stevens made no reply. He sat there quivering from head to foot, sick
with suspense and anxiety, wondering in his mind when Dallas was going
to strike. At any other time the ghastly colour of his face would have
attracted the attention of his companion, but the other man was
occupied with his own thoughts. He was staring moodily into the
fireplace.

"Don't talk about it," Stevens managed to say at length. "If you had
told me about it at the time, I never should have touched that stuff.
But I had got it in my pocket, and I had given my word before ever I
had heard of the murder. And how was I to know that there was a chance
of Mr. Delahay coming back? If anything happens you will say as much
for me, won't you?"

Stevens asked the question with trembling eagerness. He made his
request more with a view to impressing Dallas than anything else. But
the culprit by his side, apparently, had no idea of the drift of the
question, or why it was asked.

"Oh, you have nothing to fear," he said moodily. "At least, it is all
right as long as that stuff isn't traced. But what is the use of
sitting here jawing like this? Let us go to a music-hall or theatre or
something of that kind--anything to get away from one's thoughts.
Every now and again----"

The speaker rose to his feet, and Stevens dragged his trembling limbs
from the settee. At the same moment, Dallas appeared upon the scene
and touched the stranger lightly on the shoulder.

"I hope you know who I am," he said.

The other man heaved a sigh, which sounded almost like relief. Just
for a moment all the blood left his face. Then he recovered himself
and looked at Dallas steadily.

"Dallas, of Scotland Yard," he said. "Oh, I know you well enough, sir,
and I expect you know me."

"Name of Cooney," Dallas said briskly. "Jim Cooney. I arrest you for
burglary at the residence of Mr. Louis Delahay, in Fitzjohn Square."

"Yes, that's right enough," Cooney said. "I am not going to complain.
Upon my word, I am glad it is over. If you just let me have a
cigarette and another drink I'll tell you all about it; and a nice
sort of pal you are, Stevens. Oh, I'd give something to have you for
five minutes to myself. You sneaking rat!"

"I couldn't help myself," Stevens whined. "Upon my word, I couldn't.
Besides, what does it matter? Inspector Dallas knows all about it. He
even knew you were coming here tonight, though I swear he never had a
single hint from me. Isn't that so, Inspector? Am I telling the truth,
or am I a liar?"

"It is perfectly true, Cooney," Dallas explained. "I followed Stevens
here, knowing quite well that he was waiting for you."

The assurance seemed to be sufficient, for Cooney asked no further
questions. Nor was it for Dallas to explain that, till a few moments
ago, he had no idea of the real identity of the man whom Stevens had
come to meet. Cooney took a long whiff of his cigarette and pitched
the end of it into the fireplace.

"I am quite ready for you now," he said, "and I'll tell you all about
it if you like. Oh, I know everything I say will be taken down in
evidence against me; but it is little I mind that. I plundered the
dead body of Mr. Delahay, all right. He was dead when I got there, and
if I didn't tell you so, you overheard enough to jug me half a dozen
times. Don't look at me like that Mr. Dallas, sir. Don't think as I
had any hand in the murder, sir. May I die if I ain't as innocent of
that as a kid."

"Better not say too much," Dallas suggested. "Really, I am not curious
to hear. And now, come along. You can have a cab if you like. Perhaps
you may come out of this better than you expect--if you are only
candid."

"Don't be in a hurry," Cooney pleaded. "I'll tell you everything, sir,
I will--straight--everything from start to finish. Sit down and listen
to me; and you need not be afraid that I shall try and escape. I don't
want to."



CHAPTER XLIV.
THE STORY OF A CRIME.


Dallas shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Truth to tell he was both
annoyed and disappointed. He had looked forward with every assurance
to laying his hand on the actual culprit in the person of Cooney. As
it was now, the whole thing looked like beginning all over again. A
suspicion of the real truth was dawning on his mind. "It was like
this," Cooney said, in a harsh, strained voice. "I have been pretty
short of a job for some time, and I promised to pay for a lot of
furniture I bought for my house by a given time. I had the stuff on
the hire-purchase system, and I knew precious well what would happen
if I did not keep the instalments up. I had only a day or two to
spare, and I was getting pretty anxious. That same evening I met
Stevens in a public house. I hadn't seen him for some time, and,
naturally enough, I asked him what he had been doing. Then he told me
that on behalf of a party, whose name he didn't mention, he had been
shadowing a certain house in Fitzjohn Square. I wasn't particularly
interested until he let out that he could tell me a good deal about
the houses there, and how some of them would be easy work for the
likes of a chap such as me, for instance. Then I asks a few questions,
and hears all about Mr. Delahay's studio. Thinks I to myself, here's a
bit of luck for you, Jim Cooney. I had all the information I wanted.
The next night I goes round and has a look at the studio. The thing
was as easy as eating your dinner. I waited till it got pretty late,
and then I got into the house from the back. When I did get there, I
was rather alarmed to see a light in the studio. I crept along to the
door, and looked in. You can imagine my surprise when I saw a
gentleman painting there. When I looked at him again I had no
difficulty in recognising Lord Ravenspur.

"What he was doing there, I don't know. But seeing it wasn't his own
house, I reckoned he wasn't likely to stay long, so I just sat down to
wait patiently for such a time as I could have the place to myself. It
wasn't more than an hour before I heard the door open, and two other
people came in. They were a lady and a gentleman, but who the lady was
I don't know from Adam. The gentleman, as you will guess, was Mr.
Delahay himself. I suppose the lady was really Mrs. Delahay, too; I
mean, the woman who is suspected of the murder. But I am getting a bit
away from the point. I had hardly time to hide myself behind a recess
with a curtain in front of it before the newcomers came into the hall
and began to talk. They were conversing more or less in whispers, so
that I could not follow very well, but I could see that they were
annoyed to find Lord Ravenspur there, and they were casting about for
some means of getting rid of him. Presently the lady said something
about the light and the cable, and the gentleman seemed to fall in
with her suggestion. Anyway, I saw him take a knife from his pocket,
and go down into the basement. A moment later the whole place was
plunged in darkness----"

"You mean that the cable was cut?" Dallas asked. "Well, I am glad that
mystery is cleared up. I am bound to tell you, gentlemen, that that
cut cable has caused me no end of trouble. It started me on a dozen,
more or less impossible, theories. I see exactly what happened now.
Mr. Delahay and his companion doubtless thought that if they cut off
the light, they would get rid of Lord Ravenspur."

"That is exactly what they did," Cooney resumed. "I heard his lordship
fussing about, and trying the electric switches, but he gave it up as
a bad job, and after a bit left the house. Mr. Delahay appeared
presently from somewhere, with a lamp, which he carried into the
studio, and the lady followed him. I was close enough at hand to see
what took place. The lady had come, evidently for some valuable
jewelry, for Mr. Delahay produced a case from a safe, and handed it
over to her. My word, but those stones did sparkle! It seemed to me
that I was in luck that night. My game obviously was to take no
further heed of the studio, but to follow the lady as soon as she left
the house. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and there wasn't
a soul about. In my mind's eye I saw those stones already in my
pocket. But, unfortunately for me, Mr. Delahay walked with his visitor
as far as the front gate, and stood looking up the road until the lady
was safe in a hansom. It was as much as I could do to get back to the
house again without being discovered, but I managed it all right.
There were several valuable articles I had marked down, and directly
Mr. Delahay was back in the studio I began to gather them together. I
dropped one trinket, which tinkled on the floor, and my heart was in
my mouth. I thought that the sound didn't reach the ears of Mr.
Delahay. But I was mistaken. A minute or two later I heard him coming,
and I bolted through the window into the garden. I waited there
perhaps for an hour before it seemed safe for me to go back, and then
I went. I turned on the light. . . . My heart was fair in my mouth.
Then I looked down at the floor. There lay Mr. Delahay as dead as a
rabbit. I believe I howled for a moment, I was taken to! But there he
lay, and there was his watch-chain a-shining in the light, and then it
comes into my head that, if I'd got pluck enough, here was a way to
pay for them sticks of furniture of mine. It was hard work, but I
managed to screw myself up to it at last. After all said and done, I'd
only come here to take what I could get, and it wasn't me that knifed
the poor gentleman. Besides, he might have died a natural death for
all I knew. There was no sign of blood about, and nothing that
suggested violence. All the same, I couldn't go through it again if
you offered me ten thousand of the best."

Cooney paused and shuddered. Great beads of perspiration poured down
his face. Then he resumed once more.

"Well, he was dead, and there was an end of it. Just for the moment I
wasn't thinking about much besides my little happy home. I pocketed
all the valuables I could lay my hands upon, and carried them away.
You may say that that was a mad thing to do, but after I saw Mr.
Delahay lying dead at my feet, it seemed to me as if he wasn't likely
to miss 'em. Oh, I know as I stand in what the papers call a serious
position. But that's the gospel truth, and I can't tell you any more.
It seems to me I have said enough. And now, if you will call a cab,
sir, I am ready for you."

A cab was called, and Dallas drove off in the direction of Bow Street
with his prisoner. He stopped just a moment to exchange a few words
with Lance and Venables.

"There is no reason why Mrs. Delahay should not know this just yet?"
Walter asked. "You may be sure that she feels her position keenly.
Would there be any objection to getting her to accompany us as far as
Cannon Green tonight? You will understand why."

"None at all," Dallas said. "I'll send a message to the man who is
watching outside the Grand Hotel, and let him know that his presence
there is needed no longer. All the same, we have still got to find the
culprit. It isn't Cooney. He told us the truth, I'm certain. The
culprit is at Cannon Green! What a fool I've been!"

Mrs. Delahay received her visitors in a dull, apathetic way, which had
never left her since the night of the tragedy. But her face cleared,
and her manner became more soft and gentle as she listened to the
story which Walter had to tell. She dropped into a chair, and for some
moments the tears ran unrestrainedly down her cheeks. She wiped her
eyes presently. There was something like a smile on her lips as she
turned to Walter.

"I believe those tears saved my reason," she said. "I have not been
able to cry. I have not been able to feel the last few days. The death
of my husband was bad enough. The knowledge that I was suspected of
his murder was worse, but the feeling that my own sister possibly had
a hand in the tragedy was worse than all the rest. There are one or
two matters to be explained yet, but the great truth is growing plain,
and I feel like a living being once more. Oh, yes; I will come down to
Cannon Green with you; I am looking forward to it with something like
pleasure. I know that when I have seen my sister everything will be
cleared up."

It was a different woman who came down from her room half an hour
later, ready for the journey. She looked sad and pathetic enough in
her deep mourning. The trouble still brooded in her eyes, but the look
of stony despair was no longer there. They came at length to the house
on the common. The windows were lighted up, the hall looked
comfortable and cheery.

In the drawing-room were the Countess Flavio and Vera. They rose as
Mrs. Delahay entered.

"I have brought your sister," Walter explained briefly. "She has much
to say to you. Perhaps I had better leave you alone."



CHAPTER XLV.
COUNT FLAVIO'S DIARY.


It was getting exceedingly late now, but the two sisters Descarti,
together with Vera, were still in the drawing-room. Nobody cared to
disturb them. It was felt that they would have much to say to one
another. And no doubt, all they had to tell would be disclosed when
the proper time came. Valdo had not recovered consciousness again. He
lay there overhead, with a vigilant-eyed nurse watching him. Venables
had not come down with Mrs. Delahay and Walter. He had excused himself
on the plea of business, and on the understanding that he would visit
Cannon Green the following day. In the dining-room for the last hour
or two Walter had been seated, deeply engrossed in the slim,
parchment-covered volume which had been sent him by Countess Flavio at
the urgent request of her dying servant.

Time was going on, and still Walter did not look up from the book. It
was long past two before he, finished. Then with a firm step and a
determined air he went up to the little library where Lord Ravenspur
was busy writing letters. The latter looked up, and demanded to know
what his nephew wanted.

"I want you to look at this," Walter said quietly. "It is a diary
written by your late friend Count Flavio, whose handwriting you will,
of course, recognise. The diary came into the hands of Silva after his
master's death. Now Silva told me some time ago--in fact, during that
memorable interview in your studio--that he had in his possession
documentary evidence which would prove that his mistress was an
injured woman, and his master a scoundrel of the deepest dye. When I
asked him why he did not produce this book at the trial, he shrugged
his shoulders, and said that it would have been useless. Public
opinion against the Countess ran so high that nobody would have
believed that it was anything but a forgery. But that will be for you
to judge. Before we go any further, I want your assurance that this is
your dead friend's own handwriting."

Lord Ravenspur turned over the leaves of the manuscript, more or less
languidly. One leaf after another he fluttered over; then he handed
the book back to Walter again.

"I am not going to contest the point," he said. "Beyond question, this
is my unfortunate friend's handwriting; though the letters are quite
plain, the writing could not be easily forged. Indeed, to forge such
an amount as that would be the work of half a lifetime. But what do
you want me to do?"

Walter signified that he would like his uncle to read the whole of the
volume, but Lord Ravenspur shook his head.

"I am afraid I cannot," he said. "I can speak Italian fairly enough,
as you know, but that is merely colloquial, and I had never time
really to master the language. But, seeing that you spent three years
of your life there, don't you think that you had better read it out to
me. I suppose it is interesting?"

"I never read anything that fascinated me more," Walter said. "Mind
you, this is the secret diary of Count Flavio. He had no idea that
anybody would ever read it. I have gone through the volume from start
to finish, and I am forced to the conclusion that your friend was the
poisonous scoundrel that Silva declares him to be. I tell you, if this
book was published, it would cause a great sensation from one end of
Europe to the other. It is the work of a brilliant man with a fine
style and an imaginative mind--the history of an attempt to deprive a
woman of her will, and of her reason. For the three years during which
the Count and Countess Flavio lived together the woman's life was one
long, incessant torture. Mind you, there was no actual violence, but
the tortures were exquisite and cruel all the same. And here we have
them in the Count's own words. It is absolutely necessary that you
should listen to some extracts from this amazing work."

"Go on," Ravenspur said quietly; "I am all attention."

Walter bent back the book, and began to read:


"February 17th, 1887. What man is there who has ever succeeded in
penetrating the unfathomable depths of a woman's mind? What fools we
men are to assume a knowledge of the sex until we are married, and
have the object lesson before us day by day! There is Carlotta, for
example. Carlotta's prevailing trouble is that she is jealous of me.
She seems to think that because she cut herself off from her family
for my sake, I am to be at her beck and call henceforth and for ever.
This peculiar form of jealousy interests and amuses me. It is a
pleasure to study it from a scientific basis. This morning I told her
I was going to Florence for a day or two, and she wept because I would
not allow her to accompany me. I could see that she does not trust me,
wherefore I caused a friend of mine who can imitate a woman's writing
excellently, to write me a passionate love-letter, which fell quite
naturally into Carlotta's hands.

"The scene which followed was exquisitely amusing. I have never seen a
woman weep to such an extent before. Positively my charming Carlotta
was enchanting. I was quite sorry at length when she assumed a mantle
of dignity, and left me. Still, this is only the first of many such
scenes if I engineered them properly. I see that Carlotta is in
possession of all the emotions, so that, by studying her alone, I
shall be in a position to add some really extraordinary chapters to my
great book on women and their ways.

"March 19th, 1887. Carlotta has afforded me a month of absolute
enjoyment. Why do people pay money to sit in stuffy theatres and watch
comedies and tragedies when they can see and hear the real,
palpitating thing for nothing? Outwardly, Carlotta and myself are at
daggers drawn. She thinks I am unrepentant and angry, but, as to
myself, I have never been more cheerful and happy in my life. And when
Carlotta threatens to leave me, I ask her why she is going, knowing
perfectly well that she has not the slightest intention of leaving me.
Women are very much like cats in these matters--they will make many
sacrifices for the sake of the domestic hearth. I was talking to Dr.
Sacci, the great surgeon, the other day, and he was telling me of the
fierce joy that comes through some new discovery which has been the
outcome of vivisection. But, then, Sacci is only working in the
interests of humanity, whereas my vivisection allows me to see the
exquisite suffering of the patient. I can study the nerves, and the
palpitating wound, at the very moment when the knife enters.

"December 21st, 1887. The last chapter in my book is by far the most
brilliant and searching which I have yet added to that fascinating
volume. Whatever Carlotta suffers in the present, she shall go down to
posterity as the martyr of her sex. I will place her on a pinnacle as
high as my own. Indeed, I was almost sorry when I had to tell her the
story of the love-letter, and how I had been playing on her feelings
all these months. At the same tune, I looked forward to the
explanation, because I knew that it would open up to me a fresh phase
of womanly nature. And I confess that it did with a vengeance.
Carlotta turned pale. She stood there looking as if she were filled
with the greatest physical agony, her eyes filled with tears which did
not fall. I don't know how many days it is since she spoke to me last,
but certainly it must be upwards of a fortnight. This is not exactly
what I expected. It is only when a woman talks that one can judge of
how the experiment is progressing. Tomorrow, all being well, I am
going to adopt a new scheme which I hope will have the desired effect.

"December 22nd, 1887. Our little Vera has disappeared. Evidently she
has been kidnapped with a view to a reward. The whole neighbourhood is
up in arms, and my wife is distracted. It has often been a favourite
theory of mine that every man takes a second place in a woman's
affections as soon as her first child is born. I look back now with a
vivid recollection of the early days when I first met Carlotta. I look
back to her passionate love scenes, and her declarations that I should
be first with her, then and always. Even though I was very much
enamoured, I had my doubts when I was alone, and in a position to
debate the matter clearly. The time has come to put the question to a
test, and thus it became necessary for Vera to disappear. I might say
at once that my theory has been vindicated to the letter. I now know
that Carlotta cares far more for Vera than she does for me. The
reflection is not soothing to one's vanity, but there it is. There is
a wildness and intensity in her grief, which she never would have
experienced had I been brought home to her in the last stage of
dissolution. I must keep this up. I must work this phase as long as it
lasts, which will not be an indefinite time, because I must not drive
my patient too far. She begins to show signs of collapse already. I
think at the end of a week I must have Vera brought back again. By the
expiration of that time, I fancy I can add another chapter to my
remarkable book."


Walter stopped for a moment, his voice was full of loathing and
disgust. An honest indignation almost choked him. He saw now that his
anger and contempt were reflected on the face of Ravenspur.

"Do you want me to read any further," he said, "or is that sufficient?
Shall I tell you, for instance, what happened after this inhuman
wretch brought his child home again? Shall I tell you of other
tortures and tyrannies, and how this scoundrel rejoices in the fact
that his neighbours like him and pity him because he is married to a
bad-tempered woman, who makes his life a burden? That is the note that
runs all through this extraordinary diary. The man uses it as a weapon
to play upon the feelings of his wife. If you are not yet satisfied I
will pick out----"

"No, no," Ravenspur cried, as he rose to his feet. "I have heard
enough and more than enough. Flavio must have been a madman; and yet I
regarded him as one of the best and noblest of men. I never dreamt he
had an enemy. I never knew anybody say a word against him. And to
think that a man of the world like myself should be deceived in this
way! Everything is now growing wonderfully clear before my eyes,
Walter. I can even understand why the Countess left her daughter
behind her. Fancy suffering all that trouble and humiliation to find,
later on, that the child you had done so much for was likely to turn
out as her father had done! In the last ten minutes you have proved
that I was wrong, and the Countess was right; and yet it seemed to me
that I was justified in my actions. I don't know what I am going to
do. I don't know what steps I can take to convince that unhappy woman
that I acted for the best. At any rate, I must make a beginning before
I go to bed tonight."

Ravenspur took up the volume and went down the stairs. In the
drawing-room, the Countess, Mrs. Delahay, and Vera were still seated,
talking earnestly together. Ravenspur crossed the room to the
Countess's side and held out the book.

"Do you know what this contains?" he asked. "I suppose you have read
it from cover to cover?"

"Once," said the Countess, with a shudder, "but never again."

"I can quite understand your feelings," Ravenspur said. "I have only
heard extracts, but they have been quite sufficient for me. And now
let me do my best to try and convince you that I acted in what I
conceived to be the true interests of your child. I know now how wrong
I was. I know that you have been made the victim of a scoundrel and a
madman; and if you can forgive me for what I have done, I will be your
grateful servant in the future."

"One moment," the Countess said. "There is another, and yet more
painful thing to confess. I understand from your nephew that the
police think that they have a most important clue to the murder of
Louis Delahay. The police are all wrong. It is incredible to me that
they have not discovered the truth before; that they have not
blundered on it. Surely you can guess who it is who is responsible for
the death of my poor sister's husband?"

"I am afraid," Ravenspur murmured, "that I cannot----"

"Not even after it was known that you were at work in the studio that
night?"

"No, unless, perhaps--good heavens, you don't mean to say Silva?"

"Nobody else. The man tracked you to Fitzjohn Square. There was not
one of your movements that he did not know. But come this way. I dare
say the nurse will not mind us talking to the patient for a few
moments alone. You shall hear Silva confirm what I have said to you."

Ravenspur stumbled to his feet. He was dazed and numbed with surprise;
and yet the more he came to think of it, the more plausible it seemed.
No, the nurse had no objection, it would not harm the patient. He was
very near to his end now. Weak as he was, his eyes gleamed as he
caught sight of Lord Ravenspur, the old wolfish look was on his face.

"We have been mistaken, my dear Silva," the Countess said. "Lord
Ravenspur has been one of my best friends if I had only known it. He
was deceived by my husband, as hundreds of others were. His lordship
was led to believe that the Count was a martyr to a dreadful wife, a
woman incapable of looking after a child. The kidnapping of my
daughter was part of his vengeance upon me, so that he could reach me
from the other side of the grave. Everything has been explained, the
diary has been read by Lord Ravenspur; and he has forgiven you, he has
come to your bedside to say so before you--you----"

"Die," Silva said, with an effort. "Curse his forgiveness. If I could
stand up now----"

He could say no more, the malignant hate, the fire of madness, still
gleamed in his dark eyes. He would hold the same tradition to the end.
There was no chance of anything like a reconciliation here.

"I expected nothing else," the Countess said sadly. "Only a Corsican
could understand his feelings. It is his blood, his religion. But if
you can't forgive, my poor Silva, you can confess. It may be the means
of saving an innocent life. It was you who were responsible for the
death of Mr. Delahay?"

Silva nodded quite coolly. There was an upward heave of his shoulders
that was very expressive. It was like one who confesses to a mistake.

"I understand," the Countess resumed. "It was a misunderstanding. You
had traced Lord Ravenspur to the studio. You were going to kill him
there. Only Mr. Delahay and myself interrupted you. You were probably
hiding somewhere outside, waiting for your opportunity, when we
arrived. You did not see us, you were not aware of anything till the
lights were out. I may make errors in details, but in the main I am
quite correct. No, don't try and talk--a nod is sufficient. When Mr.
Delahay returned to the studio, after Lord Ravenspur was driven away,
and after I had gone, you were in the studio. You mistook Mr. Delahay
for Lord Ravenspur, and killed him with a glass Corsican dagger. You
did not know till you saw the papers the next day that you had made a
mistake?"

Silva nodded again. He did not appear to feel the least remorse, but
his hungry eyes testified how he regretted that he had so signally
failed. The old wild spirit was still there, even the approach of
death could not quench it. Ravenspur turned away, filled with disgust
and sadness.

"Really, there is nothing more to be said," he murmured. "I should
like to put the heads of the confession down and get the unhappy man
to sign it."

Silva affixed a straggling signature to the confession. Then he turned
over on his side and refused to listen any more. Evidently he was
going to die as he had lived--hard, unfeeling, carrying his bitter
hatred to the grave.

"According to his lights," Ravenspur murmured, "let us hope that he
will not be judged too harshly where he is going so soon."



CHAPTER XLVI.
A WOMAN'S HEART.


The hard, cold face had softened slightly. It seemed to Ravenspur that
there was something akin to a smile in Countess Flavio's eyes when
once more they were alone in the drawing-room together.

"Let us try and forget that dreadful scene," she said, "as I will try
and forget what a hard, misunderstood life mine has been."

"It must have been terrible," Ravenspur exclaimed; "and yet there was
not a man in Europe for whom I had a higher regard than I had for your
husband. To me he was the soul of honour. I always found him generous
and liberal-minded. I have seen him do the most spontaneous acts of
kindness to strangers. It seemed hard to think that he was wholly
bad."

"He was an enigma," the Countess replied. "In his brain lay a curious
vein of madness, which vented itself upon me. No one else suffered,
and, indeed, no one knew that I suffered, with the solitary exception
of that poor lost soul who is lying at death's door upstairs. When I
fled from my father's house, knowing that I had cut myself off
entirely from my own flesh and blood, Silva followed me. From the
first he began to see how I was suffering. From the first he began to
entertain a malignant hatred of my husband."

"And finally poisoned him," Ravenspur suggested.

"Ah, there you are wrong," the Countess exclaimed. "With all the
earnestness in my power I want to impress upon you that my husband
poisoned himself. As you have been informed, for generations there had
been a feud between the Descartis and my husband's family. After my
marriage it would have been an easy matter for my father to summon
some of his retainers, and command them to avenge the honour and
dignity of the family. My father chose not to do it. He was satisfied
with the solemn assurance that only one child of his remained. The
summons was sent out by Silva. He did not tell me. I did not know in
the least what he was doing till afterwards. But the sign went forth,
and my husband received his warning. There was no escape for him, and
he knew it. That is why he took his own life. No doubt in doing so he
was actuated by some extraordinary motive, for, with all his faults,
he was no coward; but even from beyond the grave he persecuted me. His
body was found in circumstances that pointed to me as the murderess.
Oh, you may start and shrink, but what I tell you is absolutely true.
The whole thing was planned, with diabolical ingenuity, by the Count
on the night of his death. Had it not been for Silva I should have
gone down to my grave execrated by all who knew me."

"But you were not there," Ravenspur expostulated. "It was proved that
you were in Florence at the time."

"That was where Silva's cunning and ingenuity came in. During the few
hours that preceded and followed that tragic event I saw nobody. I was
utterly worn out and prostrated. I could not drag myself from my bed.
But nobody saw me, for I had given strict orders that I was not to be
disturbed. I did not know then that my sister was alive. In fact, I
had got into such a state that I had no interest in anything. At that
time my sister Maria was taking a holiday in Florence, and Silva was
aware of the fact. When I ask you to notice the extraordinary likeness
between us, you will have no trouble in guessing what happened. Silva
was in a position to bring over scores of people from Florence, who
swore that I was in that town at the time of the tragedy. It was a
bold thing to do, and nobody guessed, nobody doubted the sincerity of
the witnesses, and thus my life was saved."

"It is a most extraordinary story," Ravenspur murmured. "But, really,
there is no reason for you to justify yourself any further. We know
that you are absolutely innocent of any sort of crime. I know now what
kind of a life Flavio led you. Had I been aware at the time I should
never have interfered. And yet Flavio managed to convey to me the
impression that you were the last woman in the world who ought to have
the custody of a child. I committed an illegal act at the earnest
request of my old friend. I ran a great risk, but it seemed to me that
I was justified in what I did."

"I see you are now," the Countess said thoughtfully. "For many, many
years no doubt you have rejoiced in the fact that you saved Vera from
a life of misery and unhappiness. You never expected to see or hear
from me again. You looked upon the child as your own. And now, to a
certain extent, I must justify myself. I stand in your eyes as a
deeply wronged and injured woman, and yet you might say to yourself
that as a mother I have been lacking in my duties. I tell you for a
long time after the death of my husband my mind trembled on the
borderline between reason and insanity. I was afraid to see my child.
I was fearful lest I should find in her some trace of her father; and,
if I had done so, I believe that I should have taken her life. But,
gradually, as the years went on and I grew older, a longing to see my
child came over me that amounted almost to a passion. I left my
retreat in the mountains, and came into the world again. It was at
this time that I met Silva once more, and for three years he was
looking for my child. I need not tell you, Lord Ravenspur, how he got
on the track."

Lord Ravenspur shivered and nodded in reply.

"I would have prevented that if I could," the Countess went on
quickly. "I wanted no violence. But I knew that Silva would go his own
way. I knew that nobody could check his fanaticism. In his eyes you
were marked down for slaughter. You had violated the dignity and
honour of the family, and therefore you must be removed. Let me be
quite candid--I think I hated you almost as much as Silva did. You had
robbed me of my child at the instigation of my cruel husband. Not
unnaturally, I regarded you as being little or no better than Count
Flavio. All the same, as I said before, I wanted no violence. That was
one of the reasons why I did not come to your house and claim my
child. I felt sure that you would defy me, and place Vera somewhere
beyond my reach."

"Most undoubtedly I should," Ravenspur said candidly. "You see, I did
not know then that you were capable----"

"Of looking after my daughter," the Countess interrupted. "And, from
your point of view, your actions would have been justified. As soon as
the danger threatened seriously you made arrangements to get away from
England until Vera was of age, and capable of acting for herself. But
Silva found out----"

"One moment," Vera cried eagerly. "Was your servant, Silva, in Park
Lane disguised as a blind organ-grinder?"

"I understand so," the Countess went on. "At any rate, Silva managed
things, in his usual able manner. He contrived to get Vera away from
Lady Ringmar's party, and bring here down her. I daresay you will
think that this was all very melodramatic and unnecessary, but, as I
pointed out to you before, I wanted no violence. I thought when
Silva's plan was successful that I should be able to persuade him to
forego the rest of his vengeance. I thought that once I had my
daughter back in my own hands, I could take her out of the country and
get Silva to accompany me. Then you, Lord Ravenspur, would have been
safe. But in certain matters Silva is quite as insane as my husband
was. It was in vain that I appealed to him. He had made his vow, and
he was going to carry it out. It is only fitting that he should have
brought so just a punishment upon his own shoulders."

"And yet there is something magnificent in a vengeance like his,"
Ravenspur said, thoughtfully. "Now that everything is cleared up, how
simple it seems. There is only one thing that puzzles me, and that is
your connection with my unfortunate friend Louis Delahay. It seems a
remarkable thing that both you sisters should have known Delahay. How
did it come about?"

"That I have just been explaining at some length," the Countess said.
"But for your benefit I will go over the ground again."

Ravenspur listened with the greatest interest to the story which the
Countess had to tell. She told him vividly enough of the eventful
night when she had made up her mind to leave her husband's roof, and
how her life had been saved at a critical moment by a total stranger,
who turned out to be Louis Delahay--the same Delahay who, years
afterwards, met Maria Descarti and made her his wife. She told the
story of the jewels, and how the time had come when she needed them,
to turn into money to aid her in her search for Vera. Then she went on
to speak of her meeting with Delahay.

"One moment," Ravenspur said. "When Louis married you, Mrs. Delahay,
did he not notice your extraordinary likeness to the Countess, whom he
had befriended so many years ago?"

"He couldn't," the Countess exclaimed. "Not only was our interview in
the dark, but I was wearing a veil. Oh, you may say it was an
extraordinary thing to trust my valuables to a perfect stranger, but
more amazing things happen every day, and I was beside myself with
grief and terror and despair at the time. At any rate, I did it, and I
got my jewels back again. I can tell you, if you like, the story of
that strange interview. I can describe how I went down to the studio
with Mr. Delahay, and how we saw you there. But we are wasting time
and it is getting late. There is only one thing to regret now, and
that is the death of my sister's husband; but it has always been
useless for a Descarti to expect anything like happiness in this
world. Never was one of our family yet, who was not born to misery and
despair. Still, one can now look forward to a more pleasant time. I am
quite sure, after what has happened, that you will not try to stand
between Vera and myself any longer, Lord Ravenspur. I can only thank
you from the bottom of my heart for what you have done."

"Vera has been very dear to me," Lord Ravenspur said, with some
emotion. "I daresay we shall be able to explain matters
satisfactorily, so that people will not be in a position to talk. And
now, as it is getting so very late----"



CHAPTER XLVII.
THE PASSING OF THE VENGEANCE.


It was well into the following afternoon when the trained nurse came
quietly down the stairs, and announced to Lord Ravenspur that her task
was finished. Silva had died in his sleep. The troubled spirit was at
rest, the tardy confession had been made, and Lord Ravenspur had no
longer any occasion to fear the vengeance that had followed him so
long. There would have to be an inquest, of course--as there was. But
there was nothing much here to arouse public curiosity. A servant at
the house on the common had been severely mauled by a savage dog
prowling about, and he had succumbed to the shock. The newspapers had
a few paragraphs, but in a day or two the incident was forgotten, nor
was there any occasion to worry the owner of the house, seeing that
the place had been taken by Silva in the proper name of his mistress.
The servants had seen nothing either, so that scandal was entirely
checked. It would, perhaps, be a difficult matter later on to explain
the unexpected reappearance of Vera's mother, but it seemed to
Ravenspur that he could see a way to solve that problem. And after the
lapse of eighteen years, nobody would identify the Countess Flavio
with the Italian scandal that had been a sensation in Europe back in
the 'eighties. Ravenspur and the Countess were good enough friends
now, and Mrs. Delahay was beginning to recover her health and strength
again. Already the Fitzjohn Square murder had ceased to occupy public
attention now that the tragedy had been solved, and there was no
chance of the culprit being brought before an earthly tribunal. As to
Cooney, he got off quite as lightly as he deserved. And there are
always new sensations to follow the old.

"I think, on the whole, you had better remain here for the present,"
Ravenspur suggested. "You have the house on your hands for two months,
and, really, it is a very pleasant place. Everybody is out of town for
the present, and very few of my friends will be back in London again
before the autumn. This will give us time to invent some plausible
story to account for your reappearance. I don't like that kind of
thing as a rule, but is is quite essential in this case."

"What are you going to do yourself?" the Countess asked.

"I am going to have a couple of quiet months on the continent. As you
can imagine, my nerves are considerably shaken, and I am not so young
as I used to be. I shall miss Vera, of course, but I think it is far
better for her to stay here with you, so that you can get to know one
another properly. But has it ever occurred to you, Countess, that
before long Vera will have another and a closer guardian than either
of our two selves?"

"I suppose that is inevitable," the Countess said as she looked
thoughtfully across the flower-beds. "Still, the fault is my own. I
deliberately wasted eighteen years, and it is hardly to be expected
that Vera--but don't let us anticipate."

"I am afraid the mischief is done," Ravenspur smiled. "From a remark
that Vera let slip the other night, I learnt a great deal that has
been going on in her mind. Goodness knows how she got the impression,
but she honestly believed that I was something more than her guardian,
and that, between between you and myself--but I mustn't pain you by being
more definite. Anyway, I now know why Vera appeared to be so unhappy
and miserable a few weeks ago, and why she conceived the idea of
leaving my house, and going out into the world to get her own living.
To make matters quite plain, she and my nephew have fallen in love
with one another and she thought that I should oppose the match. As a
matter of fact, I did. But not for the reasons that Vera supposed.
What I was afraid of was that the vengeance intended for me might have
been transferred to Walter, had he married Vera then. Of course,
matters are on a totally different footing now, and nobody is more
delighted than myself. Walter is a fine fellow. He will be rich some
of these days. He will succeed to the title at my death. If I were
you, Countess, I would not interfere with that arrangement."

"I am afraid it would be too late in any case," the Countess said,
sadly. "I have no right to say a word. And, from what I have seen of
your nephew, I should say that he will make a good husband for any
girl. Still, it is rather a disappointment to find that I have been
supplanted in this way, though I am bound to admit that the fault is
entirely my own."

Ravenspur was quite content to leave it discreetly at that, and all
the more so because Vera herself was at that moment coming down the
garden path. The girl's face was bright and happy now. The look of
trouble had vanished from her eyes. The sun was shining full in her
face, and as the Countess regarded her daughter critically she could
see no suggestion of her father in her face. As Lord Ravenspur moved
away, Vera took her place by her mother's side.

"What have you two been plotting?" she asked gaily.

"We have been discussing your future," the Countess replied. "Lord
Ravenspur has been telling me something which, apparently, I ought to
have guessed before. I was looking forward to a year or two in your
company, but I am told that that is more than I can expect. There is a
certain young man----"

"You are speaking of Walter," Vera murmured. A little colour crept
into her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and smiling. "Positively there
has been no time to tell you about Walter. Do you know, mother, that
Walter and myself have been lovers ever since I was fourteen? There
has never been anybody like Walter in my eyes. And then, a few months
ago, it seemed to come to me in a different way altogether. I suppose
when I came to years of discretion I could see things more plainly.
But how could I marry Walter when I had no name of my own? I felt sure
that Lord Ravenspur would be sternly opposed to anything of the kind.
And that is why I wanted to leave his house and earn my own living.
But now that I am a Flavio, that is a different matter. We are quite
as well born as the Ravenspurs, and so far as my guardian is
concerned----"

"The path is smooth enough now," the Countess smiled. "Lord Ravenspur
told me just now that he was delighted with the turn of events. There
is no girl he knows he would rather have for a niece than yourself.
But I wasn't going to say that, Vera. What I want to impress upon you
is this--I am not going to stand between you and your happiness for a
moment. If your lover wants you now, go to him and don't consider me.
Take your happiness when you get the opportunity. Let me before I die
see one Descarti, at least, who has her heart's desire. And now we
won't say any more about it, my child. After all, I am better treated
than I deserve."

The dusk was beginning to fall at length. The garden was fragrant with
the scent of flowers, holding their heads high to reach the dropping
dew. It was a warm evening, and the French windows in the dining-room
were widely open. Dinner was almost over. The table was littered with
fruit. There was just the suggestion of scented tobacco smoke hanging
on the air. Ravenspur sat chatting almost gaily with the Countess and
her sister. The gloom had lifted from his face now. He appeared to be
years younger during the last few days. Vera rose from her chair and
stood by the window, drinking in the subtle delights of the evening.
Walter crossed over to her side, and placed his arm under hers.

"Come outside," he said. "It is a shame to stay indoors a night like
this. Besides, I have something important to say to you."

Vera turned and smiled into her lover's face. She had never felt the
least shy or awkward with him--they were too good friends for that.
They walked in silence together down the path, with the roses rioting
on either side. They came at length to a little secluded terrace
looking over the common. Behind the bracken and the heather the sun
was sinking in a track of golden glory. The after-light shone in
Vera's eyes, and rendered them glorious. Walter turned to her eagerly.
He had his arm about her waist now, her head bent towards his
shoulder. It all seemed the most natural thing in the world, the
fitting crown to their romance.

"How long is it," Walter asked, "since you wanted to run away and
leave us? I won't ask you why you wanted to go, because my uncle has
told me that. My dearest girl, there is no occasion for you to blush
and look uncomfortable. I am sure that your motives did you every
credit. But we will pass over that. We need never allude to it again.
I have spoken to your mother, and what my uncle's feelings are you
know for yourself. All the dangers and troubles have gone now.
Everything lies fair and smooth between us. And now, little Vera, when
are we to be married?"

Vera turned slowly and thoughtfully. She laid her hands upon Walter's
shoulders, and looked steadily and lovingly into his smiling eyes. Her
words were low and sweet.

"Dear old boy," she said, "we have always been friends, and more than
friends, and in my heart of hearts I have ever felt that it must come
to this, whatever obstacles stood in the way. I am not so brave as I
thought I was, Walter, and I don't believe I could have left you when
it came to the pinch. Oh, I'll marry you, dear; I'll marry you gladly
and willingly, and be the happiest girl in all the world. But not yet;
not till our time is up here; not till I have spent the next two
months with my mother. And you won't love me any the less because I
have thought of her as well as you?"

Walter kissed the sweet, serious lips.

"It shall be as you say, sweetheart. And now let us go back, and tell
the others all about it."


"There is only one thing that remains," Walter said, as he and Lord
Ravenspur walked up and down after dinner, with their cigars. "That
photo, uncle. The one that you were so worried about, in the studio on
the night when Sir James was attacked by Silva in mistake for you.
Where did it come from, and why did it agitate you so?"

"I had almost forgotten that," Ravenspur smiled. "Well, that photo was
tied, with a small packet of jewels, round Vera's neck when I carried
her away from Italy. I did not know till lately that it was a photo of
her mother. She must have been a lovely woman then. Being an artist, I
rather idealised that photograph--indeed, I painted the picture that
Silva stole from it. It was only when the picture was finished that I
discovered I had made a very strong likeness to Vera; and then I had
my doubts. Here was Vera's mother in the flesh again. Had I done
wrong? Had Flavio deceived me? The thing has troubled my conscience
ever since. A woman with a face like that to be a fiend! Never. And
yet----

"Still, it is all over now. There have been faults on all sides, so
that we can all afford to forget and forgive. And that, my dear boy,
is all I have to say."



THE END.





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