The sombre silence in which the constable departed endured for some
time. Mr. Howard folded his arms and stared at the cornice. Mrs.
Witherby gleamed upon him, in a mocking triumph which he affected
neither to see nor to comprehend the reason for.
“Well, Mr. Howard,” she said presently, being no longer able to contain
herself, “the plot thickens.”
Howard coughed, artificially it must be admitted.
“Er--the fellow’s statement--er ...” he sought to waive it with a
waving hand.
“I am very sorry that I brought Corinne. But how could I imagine such a
thing of Mrs. Mearely?”
At this there was another wail from Corinne, who was in the dark
concerning the cause of this strained situation. To her young mind, the
constable’s tale brought no black suspicions.
“Oh, mamma! Are you going to invent something _more_?”
“Corinne, be silent. You shall come home with me at once.”
Howard saw that something definite must be done immediately. After all,
he said to himself, he was the deceased husband’s kinsman and, in an
emergency like this, his should be the voice of authority in Villa
Rose. _No master_ at Villa Rose--there was the whole trouble.
“Mrs. Witherby, kindly listen to me. You are jumping
to--er--conclusions hastily and with insufficient grounds. This
apparent--tangle--is due to stupidity, of course. It will be cleared
up. The important thing is, that this absurd story should not be
repeated outside this house.”
She raised her eyebrows in simulated amazement at his implied charge.
“Of course _I_ shall say nothing. I hope gossip is the _last_ thing
I shall _ever_ be guilty of. But such things reveal themselves, Mr.
Howard.”
He tried another tack.
“You will please consider Mrs. Mearely’s standing in the community. Any
aspersions cast on her will ultimately reflect on _you_ and on all her
friends.”
This was a new view to her. Did she really wish to lead a boycott
against Villa Rose? She calculated swiftly.
“We must prevent _that_ at all hazards,” she decided.
“We ought to wire to her sister not to come,” Corinne suggested. “Mrs.
Mearely is not sick.”
“No indeed! It is more necessary than _ever_ that she should come
_at once_. Until she arrives, _I_ will stay here--in a position of
authority--then nothing can possibly be said. I shall go home now and
gather up such things as I may need for my brief visit, and return
immediately. Corinne, of course, will remain at home.”
Howard bowed formally.
“I shall appreciate it. So will Rosamond.”
Corinne’s face had gone glum at the prospect of being left at home.
“Mamma!” she protested, “_I_ want to be in it, too.”
“Come, Corinne,” solemnly, “and don’t argue.”
“I will remain to get the--er--real facts from Rosamond,” Howard said
pointedly. She nodded.
“Of course. I’m sure you’ll hit upon _some_ explanation that will do.
You’re so intelligent. And _I_ shall stand by you. Depend on me.”
“Mamma, mamma, _why_ must I remain at home?” Corinne’s voice could be
heard, still protesting, as the two women disappeared. After waiting
till he heard them drive off, he walked resolutely to the stairway door
and rapped on it smartly. He repeated the raps until a voice answered
him, joyfully.
“Yes. In a moment, Prince Run-Away.”
Howard left the door open and returned to his former position. From the
centre of the room, with one hand resting on the solid antique table,
and the portrait of Hibbert Mearely behind him, he felt that he should
be able to dominate the situation. He glanced at the painting and his
own lip curled thinly. How he had secretly hated that old man, while
openly doing him homage! Because of the trivial legacy, how he hated
him still!
“You would marry a farmer’s daughter!” he thought. “Well, blood will
tell. How the disgrace would have stung you! I’ve no love for you, you
callous old skinflint, but I’m a Mearely; and I’ll save the family
honour from being smeared by buttery fingers.”
“Wilton!” Mrs. Mearely was astounded at the sight of him. She hesitated
an instant on the threshold, staring at him; then, closing the door,
came swiftly toward him.
“What is it? Why are you here?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze dwelt on her, noting the fact
that she still wore her rose-and-silver gown. Before he spoke she had
discerned the change in him. In manner he was a replica of Hibbert
Mearely.
“Sit down, please.” He waited for her to do so. “I have something to
say; and it must be said quickly before Mrs. Witherby returns.”
“Mrs. Witherby?--returns?” she repeated mechanically.
“Please hear me out. It appears that a man has been shot and brought
in here. You sent for the doctor, but omitted to say why. Mrs. Wells
supposed that _you_ were seriously ill. Knowing that you were alone,
she telephoned Mrs. Witherby, asking her to come to you. Mrs. Witherby,
in her turn, called me up, and I came as quickly as I could. I may add,
she has also wired for your sister.”
She gasped.
“Wilton! What an absurd--what an impertinent thing to do!”
He motioned for silence.
“While we were waiting we found your pistol, then, blood-stains on that
chair--which are now explained of course; then--those dishes--plates
for two--which are not yet explained. Wait, if you please. Dr. Wells
informed us that a Mr. Mills had been shot, accidentally, by a
constable, as he was riding along the road....”
“Well, surely that is sufficient explanation,” she interrupted
haughtily, recovering herself. His lids narrowed, and his speech became
more incisive and more familiar, without the usual tinge of respect and
kinship that, until now, had coloured his accents in converse with her.
“It would be, my dear cousin, but for the entrance of the constable,
who gives quite a different version of the affair.”
This last piece of information took her off her guard completely. She
flattened perceptibly.
“The constable! He came back? Oh dear--oh dear!”
Howard thought she was carrying the affair off very clumsily--quite
like a butter-girl, without hereditary finesse.
“He came back--and recited, for Mrs. Witherby’s benefit, how he had
seen the man on your verandah and fired; how you had run out and
brought him in here and told this same constable that the man was
your chauffeur. This was plainly--er--an--evasion, as you have no
automobile. The Mr. Mills story does not explain the presence of the
man on your verandah, at that hour of the morning; nor the supper
for two; nor the fact that you are still in the gown you wore last
evening, and therefore did not retire immediately after we all took
leave, although you complained of fatigue and hurried me away on that
account.” He paused to let these points sink in. Rosamond began to
realize that matters were serious for her, but more so for the prince,
who was now in double danger of discovery.
“With Roseborough within, and the Woodse-all-the-rest-of-it secret
service outside Villa Rose, how can I save him from arrest?” her
anxious thought ran. Howard, knowing naught of His Highness and his
vagabond joys, saw that he had made a profound impression and he
hastened to follow up his advantage.
“Now, I think I need not impress upon you, the necessity of finding
some explanation to cover all these points before Mrs. Witherby
returns, or she will spread a scandal that will ruin you. You know her
as well as I do.”
She looked at him, growing consternation in her face.
“What _can_ I do? His identity must be kept a secret at any cost. You
have no idea of the sensation--the upheaval...!”
Howard avoided her pleading eyes, with painful delicacy.
“Indeed? He is well known among us, then? a man of position in
Roseborough? Married, I presume, or there would be no necessity for
this clandestine....”
Slowly she rose, staring at him, horrified. Until that moment, she had
taken it for granted that only Mrs. Witherby interpreted the prince’s
midnight advent as a scandal. She had supposed that Howard’s whole
concern was to prevent the Roseborough gossip from misinterpreting
an occurrence which he, as well as his cousin’s widow, knew to be
innocent. By a word he had awakened her, and she realized that he, too,
put the worst construction on the affair.
“Wilton! you can’t mean that _you_--that you who know me...! What are
you thinking of me?” she demanded passionately.
He was unmoved by this outburst, which he had expected at an earlier
stage of their interview; women always cried “insult,” when caught.
He replied, coldly, avoiding her eyes, and picking his words with the
care and delicate innuendo of a gentleman unfortunately compelled to
discuss unseemly matters with a beautiful but obtuse young woman from
the peasant sphere:
“I hope you will absolve me from trying to pry into your secrets from
any personal motives. My sole aim is to protect your reputation, as far
as possible after this indiscretion. The prominence of your position in
Roseborough makes it doubly my duty--not only for your sake, but for
the community. I can understand that a girl--young and beautiful but
not rich--might have a friend--some childhood’s sweetheart--who still
retained her affection, even after she had married prosperously and
above her own station. I can understand that, once having been lifted
to a position of importance, she might well hesitate to lose that
elevation by marrying the early sweetheart, who has probably remained
in his humble sphere--and yet, might yield to her affection for this
individual. All that is natural. The thing I deplore is, that you
should have been so thoughtless as to send for Dr. Wells. Mrs. Wells
and Mrs. Witherby, between them, have notified everyone who possesses
a telephone. And, in addition, we have the damning fact to get over,
of one story about the gentleman’s identity told to the doctor and
another told to the constable. Your friends naturally demand a
convincing explanation of a very compromising situation.”
She strode toward him, as if she would have enjoyed walking over him
and stamping on him, and almost shouted her repudiation of the whole
hideous suggestion.
“Oh! this is an outrage! _I never saw this man before in all my life!_”
“What!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. He had thought himself prepared
for any and all excuses, but the novelty of this one took him by
surprise.
“Oh! Is _this_ what you think of me in Roseborough? But, you’ll be
punished for it--all of you--when the truth is known. You--you--oh!
Well, I’ll tell you _nothing_. There! I never saw the man before. He
came in here, like a tramp, and I fed him. I couldn’t tell that to Dr.
Wells, or to the constable, could I? _They wouldn’t have believed it!_”
“Exactly,” he answered, dryly. “And who else will believe it? _No one._
I regret that my offer of assistance has not been met with sincerity.”
“You can all think what you please,” furiously. “I will not sacrifice
him. I’ll tell you nothing. He entered my house like a tramp. I had
never seen him before.”
Mr. Howard felt justified in becoming seriously angry.
“You can hardly complain if I refuse to allow you to sacrifice your
honour, and my cousin’s name, and the feelings of Roseborough, for
a man you yourself say you never saw before to-night!” he asserted,
dictatorially.
She stamped her foot.
“I’ll tell you nothing of him! He shall not be discovered, and dragged
back to his prison. He shall be free.”
Howard started. Prison, did she say? Some poaching “rough” from Poplars
Vale, perhaps? This threatened to be a scandal indeed, unless he
crushed it under an iron heel.
“Prison. Ah. Very well. Now I think I understand this matter.”
He walked quickly to the anteroom.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, in new alarm. He gave her a
stern look under gathered brows.
“I am going to telephone to the police, and give this fellow in charge
as a common housebreaker. If he has been in prison before, let him have
another taste of it.”
“Wilton!” In the shock of this move she was wordless.
“With the man in gaol, your story may be believed.” He closed the
door behind him. She ran to it and listened. He was having the usual
midnight trouble in waking Central. There was only one thing to do;
she must get the prince out of the house before stupid, gossiping
Roseborough forced him either to declare his identity or go to gaol! If
he revealed his name here, he could no longer masquerade as a vagabond
and roam the world at will. He would be forced back to his palatial
prison in Woodseweedsetisky. It was still dark outside. There was a
bare chance that he might elude the black-whiskered secret service, if
he could only slip out of the house undetected.
Central still refused to answer.
“Oh, sleep, sleep, Maria Potts!” she invoked. She ran half way up the
stairs, calling softly, “Prince Run-away.”
“What is it, Madam Make-Believe?” She caught his hand in hers and made
him run down the stairs, chattering confusedly to him the while.
“You must get away, for both our sakes. There isn’t time to explain.”
“I don’t understand. Has anything occurred to...?”
“No time to tell you. Things have happened. Oh! _how_ things have
happened! You must go--go--and be free.”
“All right. I’ll ‘go--go--and be free;’ but I’ll come back to-morrow
and hear all about it.”
Together they tiptoed rapidly to the porch--and almost collapsed upon
the broad bosom of Constable Alfred Marks.
“No, you don’t, me ’earty!” said the Law. “Hi wants _’im_,” he said
to Rosamond, jerking his thumb at the prince. “The Chief don’t feel
contented-like with this affair. There’s too many stories habout ’im
wot don’t hagree. So ’e sends me back ’ere to take _charge_ of ’im, and
to make a hinvestigation all official and reg’lar.”
“_I’ll_ answer any questions,” she pleaded desperately, “but this
gentleman must go....” The constable silenced her, impressively.
“Hi ’opes ’e wont make no more trouble; cos, if Hi gets to
shootin’--_w’ich Hi would_”--he glared to enforce this--“Hi might ’it
some of your fondest nicknacks.” He pointed his revolver about at the
antiques on the walls.
“That is well, officer.” Howard stood in the doorway. “The fellow must
remain here.”
“But, I’m delighted,” the Incognito asserted. He addressed Howard,
gayly. “You know, this is my second attempt to leave this house. It’s
an adventure! A house with four doors and seven windows, and yet I
absolutely can’t get out of it!”
It was plain to Rosamond that, all unaware of his danger, his whimsical
nature was delighted with the new and odd turn his fortunes had taken.
“By your leave, ma’am,” Mr. Marks pulled the long bamboo settle across
the open width of the double French doors, and sat down, a war-like
speck in the centre of it, toying significantly with his weapon.
“Oh, Your Highness, I did my best to save you!” Rosamond whispered,
despairingly. She dropped into the nearest chair and softly wept.