THE PARTI-COLOURED RIBBON
The beauty and high spirit of Diana made so deep an impression on Lucian
that he determined to aid her by every means in his power in searching
for the assassin of her father. As yet Denzil had reached the age of
twenty-five without having been attracted in any marked degree towards
woman-kind; or, to put it more precisely, he had not yet been in love.
But now it seemed that the hour which comes to all of Adam's sons had
come to him; for on leaving Diana he thought of nothing else but her
lovely face and charming smile, and, until he met her again, her image
was never absent from his mind.
He took but a languid interest in his daily business or social pursuits,
and, wrapped up in inwardly contemplating the beauties of Diana, he
appeared to move amongst his fellow-men like one in a dream. And dreamer
he was, for there was no substantial basis for his passion.
Many people--particularly those without imagination--scoff at the idea
that love can be born in a moment, but such is often the case, for all
their ill-advised jibes. A man may be brought into contact with the
loveliest and most brilliant of women, yet remain heart-whole; yet
unexpectedly a face--not always the most beautiful--will fire him with
sudden fervour, even against his better judgment. Love is not an affair
of reason, to be clipped and measured by logic and calculation; but a
devouring, destroying passion, impatient of restraint, and utterly
regardless of common sense. It is born of a look, of a smile, of a sigh,
of a word; it springs up and fructifies more speedily than did Jonah's
gourd, and none can say how it begins or how it will end. It is the ever
old, ever new riddle of creation, and the more narrowly its mystery is
looked into the more impossible does it become of solution. The lover of
to-day, with centuries of examples at his back, is no wiser in knowledge
than was his father Adam.
Although Lucian was thus stricken mad after the irrational methods of
Cupid, he had sufficient sense not to examine too minutely into the
reasons for this sudden passion. He was in love, and admitting as much
to himself, there was an end of all argument. The long lane of his
youthful and loveless life had turned in another direction at the
signpost of a woman's face, and down the new vista the lover saw
flowering meadows, silver streams, bowers of roses, and all the
landscape of Arcadia. He was a piping swain and Diana a complaisant
shepherdess; but they had not yet entered into the promised Arcadia, and
might never do so unless Diana was as kindly as he wished her to be.
Lucian was in love with Diana, but as yet he could not flatter himself
that she was in love with him, so he resolved to win her affection--if
it was free to be bestowed--by doing her will, and her will was to
revenge the death of her father. This was hardly a pleasant task to
Lucian in his then peace-with-all-the-world frame of mind; but seeing no
other way to gain a closer intimacy with the lady of his love, he took
the bitter with the sweet, and set his shoulder to the wheel.
The next morning, therefore, Lucian called on the landlord of No. 13 and
requested the keys of the house. But it appeared that these were not in
the landlord's keeping at the moment.
"I gave them to Mrs. Kebby, the charwoman," said Mr. Peacock, a retired
grocer, who owned the greater part of the square. "The house is in such
a state that I thought I'd have it cleaned up a bit."
"With a view to a possible tenant, I suppose?"
"I don't know," replied Peacock, with a rueful shake of his bald head,
"although I'm hoping against hope. But what with the murder and the
ghost, there don't seem much chance of letting it. What might you be
wanting in No. 13, Mr. Denzil?"
"I wish to examine every room, to find, if possible, a clue to this
crime," explained Lucian, suppressing the fact that he was to have a
companion.
"You'll find nothing, sir. I've looked into every room myself. However,
you'll find Mrs. Kebby cleaning up, and she'll let you in if you ring
the bell. You aren't thinking of taking the house yourself, I suppose?"
added Peacock wishfully.
"No, thank you. My nerves are in good order just now; I don't want to
upset them by inhabiting a house with so evil a reputation."
"Ah! that's what every one says," sighed the grocer. "I wish that
Berwin, or Vrain, or whatever he called himself, had chosen some other
place to be killed in."
"I'm afraid people who meet with unexpected deaths can't arrange these
little matters beforehand," said Lucian drily, and walked away, leaving
the unfortunate landlord still lamenting over his unlucky possession of
a haunted and blood-stained mansion.
Before going to No. 13, Lucian walked down the street leading into
Geneva Square, in order to meet Diana, who was due at eleven o'clock.
Punctual as the barrister was, he found that Miss Vrain, in her
impatience, was before him; for he arrived to see her dismiss her cab at
the end of the street, and met her half way down.
His heart gave a bound as he saw her graceful figure, and he felt the
hot blood rise to his cheeks as he advanced to meet her.
Diana, quite unconscious of having, like her namesake, the moon, caused
this springtide of the heart, could not forbear a glance of surprise,
but greeted her coadjutor without embarrassment and with all
friendliness. Her thoughts were too taken up with her immediate task of
exploring the scene of the crime to waste time in conjecturing the
reason of the young man's blushes. Yet the instinct of her sex might
have told her the truth, and probably it would have but that it was
blunted, or rather not exercised, by reason of her preoccupation.
"Have you the key, Mr. Denzil?" said she eagerly.
"No; but I have seen the landlord, and he has given us permission to go
over the house. A charwoman who is cleaning up the place will let us
in."
"A charwoman," repeated Miss Vrain, stopping short, "and cleaning up the
house! Is it, then, about to receive a new tenant?"
"Oh, no; but the landlord wishes it to be aired and swept; to keep it in
some degree of order, I presume."
"What is the name of this woman?"
"Mrs. Kebby."
"The same mentioned in the newspaper reports as having waited on my
unhappy father?"
"The same," replied Lucian, with some hesitation; "but I would advise
you, Miss Vrain, not to question her too closely about your father."
"Why not? Ah! I see; you think her answers about his drinking habits
will give me pain. No matter; I am prepared for all that. I don't blame
him so much as those who drove him to intemperance. Is this the house?"
she said, looking earnestly at the neglected building before which they
were standing.
"Yes," replied Lucian, ringing the bell, "it was in this house that your
father came to his untimely end. And here is Mrs. Kebby."
That amiable crone had opened the door while the young man was speaking,
and now stood eyeing her visitors with a blear-eyed look of dark
suspicion.
"What is't ye want?" she demanded, with a raven-like croak.
"Mr. Peacock has given this lady and myself permission to go over the
house," responded Lucian, trying to pass.
"And how do I know if he did?" grumbled Mrs. Kebby, blocking the way.
"Because I tell you so."
"And because I am the daughter of Mr. Vrain," said Diana, stepping
forward.
"Lord love ye, miss! are ye?" croaked Mrs. Kebby, stepping aside. "And
ye've come to look at your pa's blood, I'll be bound."
Diana turned pale and shuddered, but controlling herself by an effort of
will, she swept past the old woman and entered the sitting-room. "Is
this the place?" she asked Lucian, who was holding the door open.
"That it is, miss," cried the charwoman, who had hobbled after them,
"and yonder is the poor gentleman's blood; it soaked right through the
carpet," added Mrs. Kebby, with ghoulish relish. "Lor! 'ow it must 'ave
poured out!"
"Hold your tongue, woman!" said Lucian roughly, seeing that Diana looked
as though about to faint. "Get on with your work!"
"I'm going; it's upstairs I'm sweeping," growled the crone, retreating.
"You'll bring me to you if ye give a holler. I'll show ye round for a
shilling."
"You shall have double if you leave us alone," said Lucian, pointing to
the door.
Mrs. Kebby's blear eyes lighted up, and she leered amiably at the
couple.
"I dessay it's worth two shillings," she said, chuckling hoarsely. "Oh,
I'm not so old but what I don't know two turtle doves. He! he! To kiss
over yer father's blood! Lawks! what a match 'twill be! He! he!"
Still laughing hoarsely, Mrs. Kebby, in the midst of her unholy joy, was
pushed out of the door by Lucian, who immediately afterwards turned to
see if Diana had overheard her ill-chosen and ominous words. But Miss
Vrain, with a hard, white face, was leaning against the wall, and gave
no sign of such knowledge. Her eyes were fixed on a dull-looking red
stain of a dark hue, irregular in shape, and her hands the while were
pressed closely against her bosom, as though she felt a cruel pain in
her heart. With bloodless cheek and trembling lip the daughter looked
upon the evidence of her father's death. Lucian was alarmed by her
unnatural pallor.
"Miss Vrain!" he exclaimed, starting forward, "you are ill! Let me lead
you out of this house."
"No!" said Diana, waving him back. "Not till we examine every inch of
it; don't speak to me, please. I wish to use my eyes rather than my
tongue."
Denzil, both as a lover and a friend, respected this emotion of the poor
young lady, so natural under the circumstances; and in silence conducted
her from room to room. All were empty and still dusty, for Mrs. Kebby's
broom swept sufficiently light, and the footfalls of the pair echoed
hollowly in the vast spaces.
Diana looked into every corner, examined every fireplace, attempted
every window, but in no place could she find any extraneous object
likely to afford a clue to the crime. They went down into the basement
and explored the kitchen, the servant's parlour, the scullery, and the
pantry, but with the same unsatisfactory result. The kitchen door, which
led out into the back yard, showed signs of having been lately opened;
but when Diana drew Lucian's attention to this fact, as the murderer
having possibly entered thereby, he assured her that it had only lately
been opened by the detective, Link, when he was searching for clues.
"I saw this door," added Lucian, striking it with his cane, "a week
before your father was killed. He showed it to me himself, to prove that
no one could have entered the house during his absence; and I was
satisfied then, from the rusty condition of the bolts, and the absence
of the key in the lock, that the door had not been opened--at all
events, during his tenancy."
"Then how could those who killed him have entered?"
"That is what I wish to learn, Miss Vrain. But why do you speak in the
plural?"
"Because I believe that Lydia and Ferruci killed my father."
"But I have proved to you that Mrs. Vrain remained at Bath."
"I know it," replied Diana quickly, "but she sent Ferruci up to kill my
father, and I speak in the plural because I think--in a moral sense--she
is as guilty as the Italian."
"That may be, Miss Vrain, but as yet we have not proved their guilt."
Diana made no answer, but, followed by Lucian, ascended to the upper
part of the house, where they found Mrs. Kebby sweeping so vigorously
that she had raised a kind of dust storm. As soon as she saw the couple
she hobbled towards them to cajole them, if possible, into giving her
money.
For a few moments Diana looked at her haughtily, not relishing the
familiarity of the old dame, but unexpectedly she stepped forward with a
look of excitement.
"Where did you get that ribbon?" she asked Mrs Kebby, pointing to a
scrap of personal adornment on the neck of the rusty old creature.
"This?" croaked Mrs. Kebby. "I picked it up in the kitchen downstairs.
It's a pretty red and yaller thing, but of no value, miss, so I don't
s'pose you'll take it orf me."
Paying no attention to this whimpering, Diana twitched the ribbon out of
the old woman's hands and examined it. It was a broad yellow ribbon of
rich silk, spotted with red--very noticeably and evidently of foreign
manufacture.
"It is the same!" cried Diana, greatly excited. "Mr. Denzil, I bought
this ribbon myself in Florence!"
"Well," said Lucian, wondering at her excitement, "and what does that
prove?"
"This: that a stiletto which my father bought in Florence, at the same
time, has been used to kill him! I tied this ribbon myself round the
handle of the stiletto!"