A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Perhaps among all his friends Myles had no warmer supporter than
Spencer Ellersby. The young man appeared to be genuinely sorry that
his evidence about meeting Desmond in St. James' Street should be used
against him.
"Hang it!" he said to Marton, as they were seated at their club, "if I
had only known how it would have been twisted, I'd not have said a
word, but that detective fellow got it out of me somehow--brute of a
fellow--killed my dog, you know, Pickles."
"Well, I hear they'll not be able to prove the dagger in Desmond's
possession was the one used," said Marton, "good for poor old
Myles--hey!"
"I think it's d--d rubbish, the whole thing," retorted Ellersby,
hotly; "what the deuce should Myles kill this woman for, she was
nothing to him; more likely Calliston knows more about it."
"Well, he'll soon be asked at all events," said Marton, with a
chuckle. "The _Seamew's_ back at Brighton."
"What!" cried Ellersby astonished. "And Lady Balscombe?"
"Oh, she's on board also," said Marton. "Sir Rupert has gone down, I
hear, to see his wife--what a deuce of a row there'll be, hey!" and
the old reprobate rubbed his hands.
"Well, there is one thing to be said," observed Ellersby ringing for a
brandy and soda, "Calliston can't marry Miss Penfold now."
"All the better for Desmond, dear boy, hey?"
"I don't see that," retorted Ellersby coolly, "even if Desmond's
acquitted, he'll have a stain on his name--she won't marry him."
"Hey!" said The Town-crier, all on the alert for news. "What do you
mean?"
"Simply this, that I'm going to have a look in at the heiress myself."
"Bosh!"
"Fact, the matrimonial stakes are open to any one, and I don't see why
Miss Penfold shouldn't marry me."
"She might if Desmond was out of the way, but as it is--pish!"
"Well, we'll see," retorted Ellersby, lighting a cigarette. "I've
fallen in love with her, and I'm going to ask her to be my wife.
"Bet you a hundred to one she don't have you," said Marton, producing
his pocket-book.
"Done," and the bet was booked immediately.
"Why hang it," said Marton, when this little transaction was
concluded, "you're not fit to marry--drink, dear boy--bad thing, hey?"
"Oh, I'll give all that sort of thing up when I'm married," replied
Ellersby, carelessly.
"You'll have to give up half your life then," retorted his friend
rudely, "for you always seem to be at the brandy bottle."
Ellersby laughed, in nowise offended.
"If you had had as many agues and fevers as I have, you'd be at it
too; but you needn't be afraid, when I become Benedict I'll take the
pledge. By the way, come and see my new rooms, I've got 'em all done
up."
"Right, dear boy, right," said Marton, and the two gentlemen left the
club chatting about the Piccadilly murder and the possible result
thereof.
While this interesting conversation was going on, Sir Rupert, Dowker,
and Norwood were all in a first-class carriage on their way to
Brighton. As Marton had informed Ellersby, the _Seamew_ had returned
to England the previous day, and now the trio were going down to see
if Lady Balscombe could give them any information likely to solve the
mystery of the murder of Lena Sarschine. Of course Sir Rupert fully
recognised the truth of the proverb "Every man for himself," but now
the guilty passion of his wife appeared a secondary consideration to
the desire of saving an innocent man from a shameful death.
On the way down, Norwood told Dowker the discovery he had made about
the dagger, at which the detective was much astonished.
"If; as you say," he remarked, "the lodging-house servant can prove
the broken dagger was in the house all the time, it certainly cannot
have been the weapon used, and yet it corresponds in every particular
with the other weapon I took from Cleopatra Villa. I can quite
understand Miss Sarschine taking it and the manner in which it came
into Desmond's possession, but if this was not the weapon used, where
is the weapon that was."
"There are plenty of these daggers," suggested Norwood.
"Certainly--but the coincidence in this case is that the dagger found
in Mr. Desmond's rooms, which came from the house of the murdered
woman, was poisoned, and Lena Sarschine was killed by a poisoned
instrument."
"There were no other daggers taken from the house I suppose?" asked
Norwood.
"Not that I know of," replied the detective, "but I am convinced that
the whole secret of this crime lies in the conversation between Mr.
Desmond and Lady Balscombe."
"You do not say my wife is guilty of this murder?" said Sir Rupert
angrily.
"I say nothing," replied Dowker evasively, "till I see Lady
Balscombe."
When the trio arrived at Brighton it was growing late, so they went to
the "Ship" Hotel and had something to eat. Finding out from the waiter
that the _Seamew_ was lying a short distance from the pier they went
down, and hiring a boat rowed to the yacht. When they climbed up on to
the deck they were accosted by one of the officers, who wanted to know
their business.
"We want to see Lord Calliston," said Balscombe quietly.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," replied the officer, "as he went up to
town to-day on business."
"Is there not a lady on board?" asked Norwood.
"Yes--you mean----"
"Never mind telling us her name," said Balscombe shortly, feeling a
horror at hearing his wife's name mentioned. "Can we see her?"
"I will ask," answered the officer, and he went downstairs to the
cabin, from which he soon reascended with the news that they could go
down.
Dowker went first, followed by Norwood and Sir Rupert, all feeling in
a strange state of excitement at the prospect of the coming interview.
The cabin was small, but luxuriously fitted up in pale blue silk, and
the walls panelled in oak, with small medallions of seascapes around.
A lamp hanging from the ceiling shed a soft mellow light over all, and
on the table below was a work-basket and some embroidery.
"She has been working, I see," whispered Balscombe with a sneer as
they entered into the cabin. No one was present, but suddenly they
heard the rustle of a dress, and a curtain at the end of the cabin
parted admitting a woman--a tall fair faced woman, with shining golden
hair.
At this sight Norwood and Dowker turned to look on Sir Rupert, to
watch the effect of the sight of his wife on him, when they saw he was
pale as death and had made a step forward.
"You wish to see me?" asked the lady, advancing towards the group.
"You--you----" cried Sir Rupert in a choked voice. "You are not Lady
Balscombe."
"I!" in surprise. "No!--I am not Lady Balscombe."
Dowker and Norwood turned suddenly.
"Who are you?"
"Lena Sarschine!"