WHEREIN TWO WOMEN TAKE THE FIELD
Some tears, some tea, a bath, a change of clothing--where is the woman
who will not vie with the Phoenix under such conditions, especially if
she be sound in mind and limb? An hour after her arrival at Porchester
Gardens, Rosalind was herself again, a somewhat pale and thin Rosalind,
to be sure, but each moment regaining vigor, each moment taking huge
strides back to the normal.
Of course, her ordered thoughts dwelt more and more with Osborne, but
with clear thinking came a species of confusion that threatened to
overwhelm her anew in a mass of contradictions. If ever a man loved a
woman then Osborne loved her, yet she had seen him in the arms of that
dreadful creature, Hylda Prout. If ever a man had shown devotion by word
and look, then Osborne was devoted to her, yet he had taken leave of her
with the manner of one who was going to his doom. Ah, he spoke of "a
felon's cell." Was that it? Was it true what the world was saying--that
he had really killed Rose de Bercy? No, that infamy she would never
believe. Yet Furneaux had arrested him--Furneaux, the strange little man
who seemed ever to say with his lip what his heart did not credit.
During those weary hours in Poland Street, when she was not dozing or
faint with anxiety, she had often recalled Furneaux's queer way of
conducting an inquiry. She knew little or nothing of police methods, yet
she was sure that British detectives did not badger witnesses with
denunciations of the suspected person. In newspaper reports, too, she
had read of clever lawyers who defended those charged with the
commission of a crime; why, then, was Osborne undefended; what had
become of the solicitor who appeared in his behalf at the inquest?
Unfortunately, she had no friend of ripe experience to whom she could
appeal in London, but she determined, before that day closed, to seek
those two, the solicitor and Furneaux, bidding the one protect Osborne's
interests, and demanding of the other an explanation of his gross
failure to safeguard her when she was actually carrying out his behests.
Mrs. Marsh, far more feeble and unstrung than her daughter, was greatly
alarmed when Rosalind announced her intention.
"My dear one," she sobbed, "I shall lose you again. How can you dream of
running fresh risk of meeting those terrible beings who have already
wreaked their vengeance on you?"
"But, mother darling, you shall come with me--there are lives at
stake----"
"Of what avail are two women against creatures like these Anarchists?"
"We shall go to Scotland Yard and obtain police protection. Failing
that, we shall hire men armed with guns to act as our escort. Mother, I
did not die in that den of misery, but I shall die now of impotent wrath
if I remain here inactive and let Mr. Osborne lie in prison for my
sake."
"For your sake? Rosalind? After what you have told me?"
"Oh, it is true, true! I feel it here," and an eager hand pressed close
to her heart. "My brain says, 'You are foolish--why not believe your
eyes, your ears?' but my heart bids me be up and doing, for the night
cometh when no man can work, and I shall dream of death and the grave if
I sleep this day without striking one blow for the man that loves me."
"Yet he said----"
"Bear with me, mother dear! I cannot explain, I can only feel. A woman's
intuition may sometimes be trusted when logic points inexorably to the
exact opposite of her beliefs. And this is a matter that calls for a
woman's wit. See how inextricably women are tangled in the net which has
caught Osborne in its meshes. A woman was killed, a woman found the poor
thing's body, a woman gave the worst evidence against Osborne, a woman
has sacrificed all womanliness to snatch him from me. Ah, where is
Pauline Dessaulx? She, too, is mixed up in it. Has she discovered the
loss of the daggers? Has she fled?"
Rosalind rose to her feet like one inspired, and Mrs. Marsh, fearing for
her reason, stammered brokenly her willingness to go anywhere and do
anything that might relieve the strain. When her daughter began to talk
of "daggers" she was really alarmed. The girl had alluded to them more
than once, but poor Mrs. Marsh's troubled brain associated "daggers"
with Anarchists. That any such murderous-sounding weapons should be
secreted in a servant's bedroom at Porchester Gardens, be found there by
Rosalind, and carried by her all over London in a cab, never entered her
mind. Perhaps the sight of Pauline would in itself have a soothing
effect, since one could not persist in such delusions when the demure
Frenchwoman, in the cap and apron of respectable domestic service, came
in answer to the bell. So Mrs. Marsh rang: and another housemaid
appeared.
"Please send Pauline here," said the white-faced mother.
"Pauline is out, ma'm," came the answer.
"Will she return soon?"
"I don't know, ma'm--I--I think she has run away."
"Run away!"
Two voices repeated those sinister words. To Rosalind they brought a dim
memory of something said by Janoc, to Mrs. Marsh dismay. The three were
gazing blankly at each other when the clang of a distant bell was heard.
"That's the front door," exclaimed the maid. "Perhaps Pauline has come
back."
She hurried away, and returned, breathless.
"It isn't Pauline, ma'm, but a lady to see Miss Rosalind."
"What lady?"
"She wouldn't give a name, miss; she says she wants to see you
perticular."
"Send her here.... Now, mother, don't be alarmed. This is not Soho. If
you wish it, I shall get someone to wait in the hall until we learn our
mysterious visitor's business."
Most certainly, the well-dressed and elegant woman whom the servant
ushered into the room was not of a type calculated to cause a pang of
distrust in any household in Porchester Gardens. She was dressed quietly
but expensively, and, notwithstanding the heat of summer, so heavily
veiled that her features were not recognizable until she raised her
veil. Then a pair of golden-brown eyes flashed triumphantly at the
startled Rosalind, and Hylda Prout said:
"May I have a few words in private with you, Miss Marsh?"
"You can have nothing to say to me that my mother may not hear," said
Rosalind curtly.
The visitor smiled, and looked graciously at Mrs. Marsh.
"Ah, I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you," she said.
"You may have heard of me. I am Hylda Prout." ... Then, seeing the older
woman's perplexity, she added: "Since you do not seem to know me by
name, let me explain that Mr. Rupert Osborne, of whom you must have
heard a good deal, is my promised husband."
Mrs. Marsh might be ill and worried; but she was a well-bred lady to the
marrow, and she realized instantly that the stranger's politeness
covered a studied insult to her daughter.
"Has Mr. Osborne sent you as his ambassador?" she asked.
"No, he could not: he is in prison. But your daughter and I have met
under conditions that compel me to ask her now not to interfere in the
efforts I shall make to secure his release."
"Please go!" broke in Rosalind, and she moved as if to summon a servant.
"I am not here from choice," sneered Hylda. "I have really come to plead
for Mr. Osborne. If you care for him as you say you do I want you to
understand two things: first, that your pursuit is in vain, since he has
given his word to marry me within a week, and, secondly, that any
further interference in his affairs on your part may prove disastrous to
him. You cannot pretend that I have not warned you. Had you taken my
advice the other day, Rupert would not now be under arrest."
Mrs. Marsh was sallow with indignation, but Rosalind, though tingling in
every fiber, controlled herself sufficiently to utter a dignified
protest.
"You had something else in your mind than Mr. Osborne's safety in coming
here today: I do not believe one word you have said," she cried.
"Oh, but you shall believe. Wait one short week----"
"I shall not wait one short hour. Mr. Osborne's arrest is a monstrous
blunder, and I am going this instant to demand his release."
"He has not taken you into his confidence, it would seem. Were it not
for his promise to me you would still be locked in your den at Poland
Street."
"Some things may be purchased at a price so degrading that a man pays
and remains silent. If Mr. Osborne won my liberty by the loss of his
self-respect I am truly sorry for him, but the fact, if it is a fact,
only strengthens my resolution to appeal to the authorities in his
behalf."
"You can achieve nothing, absolutely nothing," shrilled Hylda
vindictively.
"I shall try to do much, and accomplish far more, perhaps, than you
imagine."
"You will only succeed in injuring him."
"At any rate, I shall have obeyed the dictates of my conscience, whereas
your vile purposes have ever been directed by malice. How dare you talk
of serving him! Since that poor woman was struck dead by some unknown
hand you have been his worst enemy. In the guise of innocent friendship
you supplied the police with the only real evidence they possess against
him. Probably you are responsible now for his arrest, which could not
have happened had I been at liberty during the past two days. Go, and
vent your spite as you will--no word of yours can deter me from raising
such a storm as shall compel Mr. Osborne's release!"
For a second or two those golden-brown eyes blazed with a fire that
might well have appalled Rosalind could she have read its hidden
significance. During a tick of the clock she was in mortal peril of her
life, but Hylda Prout, though partially insane, was not yet in that
trance of the wounded tiger which recks not of consequences so that it
gluts its rage.
Mrs. Marsh, really frightened, rushed to the electric bell, and the jar
of its summons, faintly audible, seemed to banish the grim specter that
had entered the room, though unseen by other eyes than those of the
woman who dreamed of death even while she glowered at her rival. Her
bitter tongue managed to outstrip her murderous thoughts in the race
back to ordered thought.
"You are powerless," she taunted Rosalind, "but, like every other
discarded lover, you cling to delusions. Now I shall prove to you how my
strength compares with your weakness. You speak of appealing to the
authorities. That means Scotland Yard, I suppose. Very well. I, too,
shall go there, in your very company, if you choose, and it will then be
seen which of us two can best help Mr. Osborne."
The housemaid appeared.
"Please show this person out," said Rosalind.
"My carriage is waiting--Rupert's carriage," said Hylda.
"After she has gone, Lizzie," said Rosalind to the maid, "kindly get me
a taxicab."
Porchester Gardens is well out to the west, so the taxicab, entered in a
fever of haste by Rosalind and her mother, raced ahead of Osborne's bays
in the flight to Westminster. Hylda Prout had experienced no difficulty
in securing the use of the millionaire's carriage. She went to his
Mayfair flat, paralyzed Jenkins by telling him of his master's arrest,
assured him, in the same breath, that she alone could prove Osborne's
innocence, and asked that all the resources of the household should be
placed at her disposal, since Mr. Osborne meant to marry her within a
few days. Now, Jenkins had seen things that brought this concluding
statement inside the bounds of credibility, so he became her willing
slave in all that concerned Osborne.
Winter was sitting in his office, with Furneaux straddled across a chair
in one corner, when Johnson, the young policeman who was always at the
Chief Inspector's beck and call, entered.
"Two ladies to see you, sir," he said.
Furneaux's eyes sparkled, but Winter took the two cards and read: "Mrs.
Marsh; Miss Rosalind Marsh."
"Bring them here," he said.
"I rather expected the other one first," grinned Furneaux, who was now
evidently on the best of terms with his Chief.
"Perhaps she won't show up. She must be deep, crafty as a fox, or she
could never have humbugged me in the way you describe."
"My dear Winter, coincidence is the best dramatist yet evolved. You were
beaten by coincidence."
"But you were not," and the complaint fell querulously from the lips of
one who was almost unrivaled in the detection of crime.
"You forget that _I_ supplied the coincidence. Clarke, too, blundered
with positive genius. I assure you that, in your shoes, I must have
acted with--with inconceivable folly."
"Thank you," said Winter grimly.
Rosalind and her mother came in. Both ladies had been weeping, but the
girl's eyes shone with another light than that of tears when she cried
vehemently:
"You are the responsible official here, I understand. I have no word for
_that_ man," and she transfixed Furneaux with a tragic finger, "but I do
appeal to someone who may have a sense of decency----"
"You have come to see me about Mr. Osborne?" broke in Winter, for
Rosalind's utterance was choked by a sob.
"Yes, of course. Are you aware----"
"I am aware of everything, Miss Marsh. Please be seated; and you, too,
Mrs. Marsh. Mr. Osborne is in no danger whatsoever. I cannot explain,
but you must trust the police in this matter."
"Ah, so _he_ said," and Rosalind shot a fiery glance at the unabashed
Furneaux.
"Seen anybody?" he asked, with an amiable smirk.
"What do you mean?"
"Has anybody been gloating over Mr. Osborne's arrest?"
For the life of her, Rosalind could not conceal the surprise caused by
this question. She even smothered her resentment in her eagerness.
"Mr. Osborne's typist, a woman named Hylda Prout, has been to see me,"
she cried.
"Excellent! What did she say?"
"Everything that a mean heart could suggest. But you will soon hear her
statements. She is coming here herself, or, at least, so she said."
"Great Scott!"
Furneaux sprang up, and ran to the bell. For some reason which neither
Mrs. Marsh nor her daughter could fathom, the mercurial little Jersey
man was wild with excitement; even Winter seemed to be disturbed beyond
expression. Johnson came, and Furneaux literally leaped at him.
"Ring up that number, quick! You know exactly what to say--and do!"
Johnson saluted and vanished again; Winter had chosen him for his
special duties because he never uttered a needless word. Still, these
tokens of activity in the police headquarters did not long repress the
tumult in Rosalind's breast.
"If, as you tell me, Mr. Osborne is in no danger----" she began; but
Winter held up an impressive hand.
"You are here in order to help him," he said gravely. "Pray believe that
we appreciate your feelings most fully. If this girl, Hylda Prout, is
really on her way here we have not a moment to lose. No more appeals, I
beg of you, Miss Marsh. Tell us every word that passed between you and
her. You can speak all the more frankly if I assure you that Mr.
Furneaux, my colleague, has acted throughout in Mr. Osborne's interests.
Were it not for him this young gentleman, who, I understand, will soon
become your husband, would never have been cleared of the stigma of a
dreadful crime.... No, pardon me, not a syllable on that subject....
What did Hylda Prout say? Why is she coming to Scotland Yard?"
Impressed in spite of herself, Rosalind gave a literal account of the
interview at Porchester Gardens. She was burning to deliver her soul on
matters that appeared to be so much more important, such as the finding
and loss of the daggers, the strange behavior of Pauline Dessaulx, the
statement, now fiery bright in her mind, made by Janoc when he spoke of
his sister's guilt--but, somehow, the tense interest displayed by the
two detectives in Hylda Prout's assertions overbore all else, and
Rosalind proved herself a splendid witness, one able to interpret moods
and glances as well as to record the spoken word.
Even while she spoke a lurid fancy flashed through her brain.
"Oh, gracious Heaven!" she cried. "Can it be----"
Winter rose and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You have endured much, Miss Marsh," he said in a voice of grave
sympathy. "Now, I trust to your intelligence and power of self-command.
No matter what suspicions you may have formed, you must hide them.
Possibly, Mr. Furneaux or I may speak or act within the next half-hour
in a manner that you deem prejudicial to Mr. Osborne. I want you to
express your resentment in any way you may determine, short of leaving
us. Do you understand? We shall act as on the stage; you must do the
same. You need no cue from us. Defend Mr. Osborne; urge his innocence;
threaten us with pains and penalties; do anything, in short, that will
goad Hylda Prout into action in his behalf for fear lest you may prevail
where she has failed."
A knock was heard at the door. He sank back into his seat.
"Do you promise?" he muttered.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Come in!" cried Winter, and the imperturbable Johnson ushered in Hylda
Prout. Even in the storm and stress of contending emotions Rosalind knew
that there was a vital difference between the reception accorded to the
newcomer and that given to her mother and herself. They had been
announced, their names scrutinized in advance, as it were, whereas Hylda
Prout's arrival was expected, provided for; in a word, the policeman on
guard had his orders and was obeying them.
"Well, this _is_ a surprise, Miss Prout," exclaimed Furneaux before
anyone else could utter a word.
"Is it?" she asked, smiling scornfully at Rosalind.
"Quite. Miss Marsh told us, of course, of your visit, and I suppose that
your appearance here is inspired by the same motive as hers. My chief,
Mr. Winter, has just been telling her that the law brooks no
interference, yet she persists in demanding Mr. Osborne's release. She
cannot succeed in obtaining it, unless she brings a positive order from
the Home Secretary----"
"I shall get it," vowed Rosalind, to whom it seemed that Furneaux's
dropped voice carried a subtle hint.
"Try, by all means," said Furneaux blandly. "Nevertheless, I strongly
advise you ladies, all three, to go home and let matters take their
course."
"Never!" cried Rosalind valiantly. "You must either free Mr. Osborne
to-night or I drive straight from this office to the House of Commons. I
have friends there who will secure me a hearing by the Home Secretary."
Furneaux glanced inquiringly at Winter, whose hand was stroking his chin
as if in doubt. Hylda Prout took a step nearer the Chief Inspector. Her
dress brushed against the drawer which contained the daggers, and one of
those grewsome blades had pierced Rose de Bercy's brain through the eye.
"The Home Secretary is merely an official like the rest of you," she
said bitingly. "Miss Marsh may appeal to whom she thinks fit, but the
charge against Mr. Osborne will keep him in custody until it is heard by
a magistrate. Nothing can prevent that--nothing--unless----" and her
gaze dwelt warily on Furneaux for a fraction of an instant--"unless the
police themselves are convinced that the evidence on which they rely is
so flimsy that they run the risk of public ridicule by bringing it
forward."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Furneaux knowingly.
"I think I am wasting time here," cried Rosalind, half rising.
"One moment, I pray you," put in Winter. "There is some force in Miss
Prout's remarks, but I am betraying no secret in saying that Mr.
Osborne's apparently unshakable alibi can be upset, while we have the
positive identification of at least three people who saw him on the
night of the crime."
"Meaning the housekeeper, the driver of the taxicab, and the housemaid
at Feldisham Mansions?" said Hylda coolly, and quite ignoring Rosalind's
outburst.
"At least those," admitted Winter.
"Are there others, then?"
"Really, Miss Prout, this is most irregular. We are not trying Mr.
Osborne in this room."
"I see there is nothing for it but to carry my plea for justice to the
Home Secretary," cried Rosalind, acting as she thought best in obedience
to a lightning glance from Furneaux. "Come, mother, we shall soon prove
to these legal-minded persons that they cannot juggle away a man's
liberty to gratify their pride--and spite."
Hylda's eyes took fire at that last word.
"Go to your Home Secretary," she said with measured venom. "Much good
may it do you! While _you_ are being dismissed with platitudes _I_ shall
have rescued my affianced husband from jail."
"Dear me! this is most embarrassing. Your affianced husband?"
Furneaux cackled out each sentence, and looked alternately at Hylda and
Rosalind. There was no mistaking his meaning. He implied that the one
woman was callously appropriating a man who was the acknowledged suitor
of the other.
Hylda laughed shrilly.
"That is news to you, Mr. Furneaux," she cried. "Yet I thought you were
so clever as to be almost omniscient. Come now with me, and I shall
prove to you that the so-called identification of Mr. Osborne by Hester
Bates and Campbell, the chauffeur, is a myth. The hysterical housemaid I
leave to you."
Winter leaned back in his chair and waved an expostulating hand.
"'Pon my honor, this would be amusing if it were not so terribly serious
for Osborne," he vowed.
"If that is all, I prefer to depend on the Home Secretary," said
Rosalind.
"Let her go," purred Hylda contemptuously. "I can make good my boast,
but she cannot."
"Boasting is of no avail in defeating a charge of murder," said
Furneaux. "Before we even begin to take you seriously, Miss Prout, we
must know what you actually mean by your words."
"I mean this--that I, myself, will appear before Hester Bates in such
guise that she will swear it was me, and not Mr. Osborne, whom she saw
on the stairs that night. If that does not suffice, I shall meet
Campbell at the corner of Berkeley Street, if you can arrange for his
presence there, and tell him to drive me to Feldisham Mansions, and he
will swear that it was I, and not Mr. Osborne, who gave him that same
order on the night of the third of July. Surely, if I accomplish so
much, you will set Rupert at liberty. Believe me, I am not afraid that
you will commit the crowning blunder of arresting _me_ for the murder,
after having arrested Janoc, and his sister, _and_ Rupert."
Winter positively started. So did Furneaux. Evidently they were
perturbed by the extent of her information. Hylda saw the concern
depicted on their faces; she laughed low, musically, full-throated.
"Well, is it a bargain?" she taunted them.
"Of course----" began Winter, and stopped.
"There is no denying the weakness of our position if you can do all
that," said Furneaux suavely.
"Pray do not let me detain you from visiting the House of Commons,"
murmured Hylda to Rosalind.
"Perhaps, in the circumstances, you had better wait till to-morrow,"
said Winter, rising and looking hard at Rosalind.
This man had won her confidence, and she felt that she was in the
presence of a tragedy, yet it was hard to yield in the presence of her
rival. Tears filled her eyes, and she bowed her head to conceal them.
"Come, mother," she said brokenly. "We are powerless here, it would
seem."
"Allow me to show you the way out," said Winter, and he bustled forward.
In the corridor, when the door was closed, he caught an arm of each and
bent in a whisper.
"Furneaux was sure she would try some desperate move," he breathed.
"Rest content now, Miss Marsh. If all goes well, your ill-used friend
will be with you to-night. Treat him well. He deserves it. He did not
open your letter. He sacrificed himself in every way for your sake. He
even promised to marry that woman, that arch-fiend, in order to rescue
you from Janoc. So, believe him, for he is a true man, the soul of
honor, and tell him from me that he owes some share of the restitution
of his good name in the eyes of the public to your splendid devotion
during the past few minutes."
Not often did the Chief Inspector unbend in this fashion. There was no
ambiguity in his advice. He meant what he said, and said it so
convincingly that Rosalind was radiantly hopeful when she drove away
with her mother.