Many weeks went by. To Liane the days were long, weary and monotonous,
for George had left, and the Court had passed into the possession of
Major Stratfield, a proud, pompous, red-faced man, who often rode
through the village, but spoke to nobody. Since her lover had gone she
had remained dull and apathetic, taking scarcely any interest in
anything, and never riding her cycle because of the tragic memories its
sight always aroused within her. Her life was, indeed, grey and
colourless, for she noticed that of late even her father's manner had
changed strangely towards her, and instead of being uniformly courteous
and solicitous regarding her welfare, he now seemed to treat her with
studied indifference, and she even thought she detected within him a
kind of repulsion, as if her presence annoyed and distressed him.
He had never been the same towards her since that memorable evening when
he had forbidden her to accept George's offer. Yet her mind was full of
thoughts of her absent lover, and she sent him by post boxes of flowers
from the garden, that their sweet perfume should remind him of her.
Another fact also caused her most intense anxiety and apprehension. The
secret which she believed locked securely within her own bosom was
undoubtedly in possession of some unknown person, for having gone into
the garden one morning, a week after that night when she had buried the
small box from her jewel-case, she fancied that the ground had been
freshly disturbed, and that someone had searched the spot.
If so, her actions had been watched.
Thus she lived from day to day, filled by a constant dread that gripped
her heart and paralysed her senses. She knew that the most expert
officers from Scotland Yard were actively endeavouring to discover the
identity of Nelly's assassin, and was convinced that sooner or later the
terrible truth must be elicited.
Twice each week George wrote to her, and she read and re-read his
letters many times, sending him in return all the gossip of the
old-world village that he loved so well. Thanks to the generosity of
the Major, who had decided to give him a small property bringing in some
two hundred a year, he was not so badly off as he had anticipated;
nevertheless, were it not for that he must have been in serious straits,
for, according to his letters, work at the Bar was absolutely
unobtainable, and for a whole month he had been without a single brief.
Old Mr Harrison sometimes gave him one, but beyond that he could pick up
scarcely anything.
One evening in late autumn, when the air was damp and chilly, the
orchard covered with leaves and the walnuts were rattling down upon the
out-house roof with every gust of wind that blew across the hills, the
Captain received a telegram, and briefly observed that it was necessary
he should go to London on the morrow. He threw the piece of pink paper
into the fire without saying who was the sender, and next morning rose
an hour earlier and caught the train to Paddington, whence he drove in a
hansom to an address in Cork Street, Piccadilly.
A man-servant admitted him, and he was at once ushered upstairs to a
small, well-furnished drawing-room, which, however, still retained the
odour of overnight cigars. He had scarcely time to fling himself into a
chair when a door on the opposite side of the room opened, and Zertho
entered, well-dressed, gay and smiling, with a carnation in the lappel
of his coat.
"Well, Brooker, old chap," he cried, extending his white hand heartily,
"I'm back again, you see."
"Yes," answered the other, smiling and grasping the proffered hand.
"The dignity of Prince appears to suit you, judging from your healthful
look."
"It does, Brooker; it does," he answered laughing. "One takes more
interest in life when one has a plentiful supply of the needful than
when one has to depend upon Fortune for a dinner."
"I wonder that no one has yet spotted you," Brooker observed, leaning
back in the silken armchair, stretching out his feet upon the hearthrug,
regarding the Prince with a critical look from head to toe, and lighting
the cigar the other had offered him.
"If they did, it might certainly be a bit awkward," Zertho acquiesced.
"But many people are ready to forgive the little peccadilloes of anybody
with a title."
"Ah! that's so. It's money, money always," the luckless gamester
observed with a sigh.
"Well, hang it, you can't grumble. You've won and lost a bit in your
time," his friend said, casting himself upon a couch near, stroking his
dark beard, and blowing a cloud of smoke from his full lips. "If you're
such an idiot as not to play any more, well you, of course, have to
suffer."
"Play, be hanged!" cried Brooker, impetuously. "My luck's gone. The
last time I played trente-et-quarante, I lost a couple of ponies."
"But the system is--"
"Oh, the system is all rot. The Johnnie who invented it ought to have
gone and played it himself. He'd have been a candidate for the nearest
workhouse within three days."
"Well, we brought it off all right more than once," Zertho observed,
with a slight accent.
"Mere flukes, all of them."
"You won at one coup thirty-six thousand francs, I remember. Surely
that wasn't bad?"
"Ah! that was because Liane was sitting beside me. It's wonderful what
luck that girl has."
"Then why not take her back again this season?" his companion suggested.
"She wouldn't go," he answered, after a slight pause.
"Wouldn't go!" cried the Prince, raising his dark, well-defined brows.
"You are her father. Surely she obeys you?"
"Of late she's very wilful; different entirely from the child as you
knew her. Since poor Nelly's death she seems to have been seized with a
sudden desire to go to church on Sunday, and is getting altogether a
bluestocking," the Captain said.
"Poor Nelly!" sighed the Prince. "I have never ceased to think of that
sad evening when she grasped my hand through the carriage-window as the
train was moving, and with a merry mischievous laugh waved me farewell.
She was bright and happy then, as she always was; yet an hour later she
was shot dead by some villainous hand. I wonder whether the mystery
will ever be explained," he added, reflectively.
The Captain made no reply, but smoked on steadily, his head thrown back,
gazing fixedly at the opposite wall.
"The police have done their best," he answered at length. "At present,
however, they have no clue."
"And I don't believe they ever will have," answered Zertho, slowly.
"What makes you think that?" Brooker inquired, turning and looking at
him.
"Well, I've read all that the papers say about the affair," he answered,
"and to me the mystery seems at present one that may never be solved."
"Unless the crime is brought home to the assassin by some unexpected
means."
"Of course, of course," he answered. "You're a confounded fool to
remain down in that wretched, dismal hole, Brooker. How you can stand
it after what you've been used to I really can't think."
"My dear fellow, I've grown quite bucolic," he assured his companion,
laughing a trifle bitterly. "The few pounds I've still got suffice to
keep up the half-pay wheeze, and although I'm in a chronic state of
hard-up, yet I manage to rub along somehow and just pay the butcher and
baker. Hang it! Why, I'm so infernally respectable that a chap came
round last week with a yellow paper on which he wanted me to declare my
income. Fancy me paying an income-tax!"
The Prince laughed at his friend's grim humour. In the old days at
Monte Carlo, Erle Brooker had been full of fun. He was the life and
soul of the Hotel de Paris. No reverse ever struck him seriously, for
he would laugh when "broke" just as heartily as when, with pockets bulky
with greasy banknotes, he would descend the steps from the Casino, and
crack a bottle of "fizz" at the cafe opposite.
"If I were you I'd declare my income at eight hundred a year, pay up,
and look big," Zertho laughed. "It would inspire confidence, and you
could get a bit of credit here and there. Then when that's exhausted,
clear out."
"The old game, eh? No, I'm straight now," the other answered, his face
suddenly growing grave.
"Honesty is starvation. That used to be our motto, didn't it? Yet here
you are with only just enough to keep a roof over your head, living in a
dreary out-of-the-way hole, and posing as the model father. The thing's
too absurd."
"I don't see it. Surely I can please myself?"
"Of course. But is it just to Liane?"
"What do you mean?"
"It is essential for a young girl of her temperament to have life and
gaiety," he said, exhibiting his palms with a quick, expressive
movement. "By vegetating in Stratfield Mortimer, amid surroundings
which must necessarily possess exceedingly painful memories, she will
soon become prematurely old. It's nothing short of an infernal shame
that she should be allowed to remain there."
Brooker did not reply. He had on more than one occasion lately
reflected that a change of surroundings would do her good, for he had
noticed with no little alarm how highly strung had been her nerves of
late, and how pale and wan were her cheeks. Zertho spoke the truth.
"I don't deny that what you say is correct," he replied thoughtfully.
"But what's the use of talking of gaiety? How can any one have life
without either money or friends?"
"Easily enough. Both you and Liane know the Riviera well enough to find
plenty of amusement there."
"No, she wouldn't go. She hates it."
"Bah!" cried the prince, impatiently. "If, as you say, she's turned a
bit religious, she of course regards the old life as altogether
dreadful. But you can easily overcome those prejudices--or I will."
"How?"
"In December I'm going to Nice for the season," Zertho explained. "We
shall have plenty of fun there, so at my expense you'll come."
"I think not," was the brief reply.
"My dear fellow, why not," he cried. "Surely you can have no qualms
about accepting my hospitality. You will remember that when I was laid
up with typhoid in Ostend I lived for months on your generosity. And
heaven knows, you had then but little to spare! It is my intention now
to recompense you."
"And to endeavour to win Liane's love," added the Captain, curtly.
Zertho's brows narrowed slightly. He paused, gazing at the fine diamond
glittering upon his white finger.
"Well, yes," he answered at last. "I don't see why there should be
anything underhand between us."
"I gave you my answer when you came down to Stratfield Mortimer," the
other responded in a harsh, dry tone, rising slowly. "I still adhere to
my decision."
"Why?" protested his whilom partner, looking up at him intently, and
sticking his hands into his pockets in lazy, indolent attitude.
"Because I'm confident she will never marry you."
"Has she a lover?"
His companion gave an affirmative nod. Zertho frowned and bit his lip.
"Who is he?" he asked. "Some uncouth countryman or other, I'll be
bound."
"The son of Sir John Stratfield."
The prince sprang to his feet, and faced his visitor with a look of
amazement.
"Sir John's son! Never!" he gasped.
"Yes. Strange how such unexpected events occur, isn't it?" Brooker
observed, slowly, with emphasis.
"But, my dear fellow, you can't allow it. You must not!" he cried
wildly.
"I've already told her that marriage is entirely out of the question.
Yet she will not heed me," her father observed, twirling the moustaches
which he kept as well trained now as in the days when he rode at the
head of his troop on Hounslow Heath, and was the pet of certain London
drawing-rooms.
"Then take her abroad, so that they cannot meet. Come to Nice in
December."
"I am to bring her, so that you may endeavour to take George
Stratfield's place in her heart--eh?" observed the Captain shrewdly.
"Marriage with George Stratfield is agreed between us both to be
impossible, whereas marriage with me is not improbable," was the reply.
Erle Brooker shrugged his shoulders as he again puffed vigorously at his
cigar. He now saw plainly Zertho's object in asking him to call.
"Well," continued his friend, "even I, with all my faults, am preferable
to any Stratfield as Liane's husband, am I not?"
"I don't see why we need discuss it further," said Brooker quietly.
"Liane will never become Princess d'Auzac."
"Will you allow me to pay my attentions to her?"
"If you are together I cannot prevent it, Zertho. But, candidly
speaking, you are not the man I would choose as husband for my
daughter."
"I know I'm not, old fellow," the other said, shrugging his shoulders
slightly. "And you're not exactly the man that, in ordinary
circumstances, I'd choose as my father-in-law. But I have money, and if
the man's a bit decent-looking, and sound of wind and limb, it's about
all a woman wants nowadays."
"Ah! I don't think you yet understand Liane. She's not eager for money
and position, like most girls."
"Well, let me have a fair innings, Brooker, and she'll consent to become
Princess d'Auzac, I feel convinced. You fancy I only admire her; but I
swear it's a bit more than mere admiration. For Heaven's sake take her
out of that dismal hole where you are living, and make her break it all
off with Stratfield's son. She must do that at once. Take her to the
seaside--to Paris--anywhere, for a month or two until we can all meet in
the South."
Brooker, leaning against the mantelshelf, slowly flicked the ash from
his cigar, meditated deeply for a few moments, then asked--
"Why do you wish to take me back to the old spot?"
"Because only there can you pick up a living. The police have nothing
against either of us, so what have we to fear?"
"Recognition by one or other of our dupes. Play wasn't all straight,
you'll remember."
"Bah!" cried Zertho with impatience. "What's the use of meeting trouble
half-way? You never used to have a thought for the morrow in the old
days. But, there, you're respectable now," he added, with a slight
sneer.
"If I go South I shall not play," Brooker said, decisively. "I've given
it up."
"Because you've had a long run of ill-luck--eh?" the other laughed.
"Surely this is the first time you've adopted such a course. I might
have been in the same unenviable plight as yourself by now if my
respected parent had not taken it into his head to drop out of this sick
hurry of life just at a moment when my funds were exhausted. One day I
was an adventurer with a light heart and much lighter pocket, and on the
next wealthy beyond my wildest expectations. Such is one's fortune.
Even your bad luck may have changed during these months."
"I think not," Brooker answered gravely.
"Well, you shall have a thousand on loan to venture again," his old
partner said good-naturedly.
"I appreciate your kindness, Zertho," he answered, in a low tone,
smiling sadly, "but my days are over. I've lost, and gone under."
The prince glanced at him for an instant. There was a strange glint in
his dark eyes.
"As you wish," he answered, then walking to a small rosewood escritoire
which stood in the window, he sat down and scribbled a cheque, payable
to his friend for five hundred pounds. Brooker, still smoking, watched
him in silence, unaware of his intention. Slowly the prince blotted it,
folded it, and placing it in an envelope, returned to where his visitor
was standing.
"I asked you to take Liane from all the painful memories of Stratfield
Mortimer. Do so for her sake, and accept this as some slight
contribution towards the expense. Only don't let her know that it comes
from me."
Brooker took the envelope mechanically, regarding his friend steadily,
with fixed gaze. At first there was indecision in his countenance, but
next instant his face went white with fierce anger and resentment. His
hand closed convulsively upon the envelope, crushing it into a shapeless
mass, and with a fierce imprecation he cast it from him upon the floor.
"No, I'll never touch your money!" he cried, with a gesture, as if
shrinking from its contact. "You fear lest Liane should know that you
are attempting to buy her just as you would some chattel or other which,
for the moment, takes your fancy. But she shall know; and she shall
never be your wife."
"Very well," answered Zertho, with a contemptuous smile, facing the
Captain quickly. "Act as you please, but I tell you plainly, once and
for all, that Liane will many me."
"She shall not."
"She shall!" declared the other, determinedly, looking into his face
intently, his black eyes flashing. "And you will use that cheque for
her benefit, and in the manner I direct, without telling her anything.
You will also bring her to Nice, and stand aside that I may win her,
and--"
"I'll do nothing of the sort. I'd rather see her dead."
Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited. Upon his dark
sallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil look
which his companion had only seen once before.
"Listen, Brooker," he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing close
to him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that none
might hear them save himself.
"Good God! Zertho!" cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips,
and glaring at him. "Surely you don't intend to give me away?" he
gasped, in a hoarse, terrified whisper.
"I do," was the firm reply. "My silence is only in exchange for your
assistance. Now you thoroughly understand."
"Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret! My God!" he
groaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in an
attitude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face with
trembling hands.