TWO MONTHS PASS
Unwilling to give up prosecuting the Vrain case while the slightest hope
remained of solving its mystery, Lucian sought out Link, the detective,
and detailed all the evidence he had collected since the constituted
authorities had abandoned the matter. Although Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci
had exculpated themselves entirely, Denzil thought that Link, with his
professional distrust and trained sense of ferreting out secrets, might
discern better than himself whether such exculpations were warranted by
circumstances.
Link heard all that Denzil had to tell him with outward indifference and
inward surprise; for while unwilling, through jealousy of an amateur, to
flatter the barrister by a visible compliment, yet he silently admitted
that Denzil had made his discoveries and profited by them with much
acuteness. What annoyed him, however, was that the young man had pushed
his inquiries to the uttermost limit; and that there was no chance of
any glory accruing to himself by prosecuting them further. Still, on the
possibility that something might come of it, he went over the ground
already traversed by the amateur detective.
"You should have told me of your intentions when Miss Vrain spoke to you
in the first instance," he said to Lucian by way of rebuke. "As it is,
you have confused the clues so much that I do not know which one to
take."
"It seems to me that I have pursued each clue until fate or circumstance
clipped it short," retorted Lucian, nettled by this injustice. "Mrs.
Vrain has defended herself successfully, much in the same way as Count
Ferruci has done. Your only chance of getting at the truth lies in
discovering Wrent; and unless Rhoda helps you there, I do not see how
you can trace the man."
"I am of a different opinion," said Link, lying freely to conceal his
doubts of success in the matter. "As you have failed through lack of
experience, I shall attempt to unravel this skein."
"You attempted to do so before, and gave it up because of the tangle,"
said Lucian with quiet irony. "And unless you discover more than I have
done, you will dismiss the matter again as impossible. So far as I can
see, the mystery of Vrain's death is more of a mystery than ever, and
will never be solved."
"I'll make one last attempt to unriddle it, however," answered Link,
with a confidence he was far from feeling, "but, of course--not being
one of your impossible detectives of fiction--I may fail."
"You are certain to fail," said Lucian decisively, and with this
disheartening prophecy he left Link to his task of--apparently--spinning
ropes of sand.
Whether it was that Link was so doubtful of the result as to extend
little energy in the search, or whether he really found the task
impossible of accomplishment, it is difficult to say, but assuredly he
failed as completely as Lucian predicted. With outward zeal he set to
work; interviewed Lydia and the Italian, to make certain that their
defence was genuine; examined the Pegall family, who were dreadfully
alarmed by their respectability being intruded upon by a common
detective, and obtained a fresh denial from Baxter & Co.'s saleswoman
that Ferruci was the purchaser of the cloak. Also he cross-questioned
Mrs. Bensusan and her sharp handmaid in the most exhaustive manner, and
did his best to trace out the mysterious Wrent who had so much to do
with the matter. He even called on Dr. Jorce at Hampstead, to satisfy
himself as to the actual time of Ferruci's arrival in that neighbourhood
on Christmas Eve. But here he received a check, for Jorce had gone
abroad on his annual holiday, and was not expected back for a month.
In fact, Link did all that a man could do to arrive at the truth, only
to find himself, at the end of his labours, in the same position as
Lucian had been. Disgusted at this result, he threw up his brief, and
called upon Diana and Denzil, with whom he had previously made an
appointment, to notify them of his inability to bring the matter to a
satisfactory conclusion.
"There is not the slightest chance of finding the assassin of Mr.
Vrain," said Link, after he had set forth at length his late failures.
"The more I go into the matter the more I see it."
"Yet you were so confident of doing more than I," said Lucian quietly.
Link turned sulkily, after the fashion of a bad loser.
"I did my best," he retorted gloomily. "No man can do more. Some crimes
are beyond the power of the law to punish for sheer lack of proof. This
is one of them; and, so far as I can see, this unknown assassin will be
punished on Judgment Day--not before."
"Then you don't think that Signor Ferruci is guilty?" said Diana.
"No. He has had nothing to do with the matter; nor has Mrs. Vrain
brought about the death in any way."
"You cannot say who killed my father?"
"Not for certain, but I suspect Wrent."
"Then why not find Wrent?" asked Diana bluntly.
"He has hidden his trail too well," began Link, "and--and----"
"And if you did find him," finished Denzil coolly, "he might prove
himself guiltless, after the fashion of Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci."
"He might, sir; there is no knowing. But since you think I have done so
little, Mr. Denzil, let me ask you who it is you suspect?"
"Dr. Jorce of Hampstead."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried Link, with contempt. "He didn't kill the man--how
could he, seeing he was at Hampstead on that Christmas Eve midnight, as
I found out from his servants?"
"I don't suspect him of actually striking the blow," replied Lucian,
"but I believe he knows who did."
"Not he! Dr. Jorce has too responsible a position to mix himself up in a
crime from which he gains no benefit."
"Why! what position does he hold?"
"He is the owner of a private lunatic asylum. Is it likely that a man
like him would commit a murder?"
"Again I deny that he did commit the crime; but I am certain, from the
very fact of his friendship with Ferruci, that he knows more than he
chooses to tell. Why should the Italian be intimate with the owner of a
private asylum--with a man so much beneath him in rank?"
"I don't know, sir. But if you suspect Dr. Jorce you had better see him
when he comes back from his holidays--in a month."
"Where is he now?"
"In Italy, and the Count has gone with him."
Diana and Lucian looked at one another, and the former spoke: "That is
strange," she said. "I agree with Mr. Denzil, it is peculiar, to say the
least of it, that an Italian noble should make a bosom friend of a man
so far inferior to him in position. Don't you think so yourself, Mr.
Link?"
"Madam," said Link gravely, "I think nothing about it, save that you
will never find out the truth. I have tried my best, and failed; and I
am confident enough in my own power to say that where I have failed no
one else will succeed. Miss Vrain, Mr. Denzil, I wish you good-day."
And with this bragging speech, which revealed the hurt vanity of the
man, Mr. Link took his departure. Lucian held his peace, for in the face
of this desertion of a powerful ally he did not know what to say. Diana
walked to the sitting-room window and watched Link disappear into the
crowd of passers-by. At that she heaved a sigh, for with him--she
thought--went every chance of learning the truth, since if he, an
experienced person in such matters, turned back from the quest, there
could assuredly be no help in any one not professional, and with less
trained abilities.
Then she turned to Lucian.
"There is nothing more to be done, I suppose," said she, sighing again.
"I am afraid not," replied Lucian dismally, for he was quite of her
opinion regarding the desertion of the detective.
"Then I must leave this unknown assassin to the punishment of God!" said
Diana quietly. "And I can only thank you for all you have done for me,
Mr. Denzil, and say"--she hesitated and blushed, then added, with some
emphasis--"say _au revoir_."
"Ah!" ejaculated Denzil, with an indrawn breath of relief, "I am glad
you did not say good-bye."
"I don't wish to say it, Mr. Denzil. I have not so many friends in the
world that I can afford to lose so good a one as yourself."
"I am content," said Lucian softly, "that you should think of me as your
friend--for the present."
His meaning was so unmistakable that Diana, still blushing, and somewhat
confused, hastened to prevent his saying more at so awkward a moment.
"Then as my friend I hope you will come and see me at Berwin Manor."
"I shall be delighted. When do you go down?"
"Within a fortnight. I must remain that time in town to see my lawyer
about the estate left by my poor father."
"And see Mrs. Vrain?"
"No," replied Diana coldly. "Now that my father is dead, Mrs. Vrain is
nothing to me. Indirectly, I look upon her as the cause of his death,
for if she had not driven both of us out of our own home, my father
might have been alive still. I shall not call on Mrs. Vrain, and I do
not think she will dare to call on me."
"I'm not so sure of that," rejoined Lucian, who was well acquainted with
the lengths to which Mrs. Vrain's audacity would carry her; "but let us
dismiss her, with all your other troubles. May I call on you again
before you leave town?"
"Occasionally," replied Diana, smiling and blushing; "and you will come
down to Berwin Manor when I send you an invitation?"
"I should think so," said Denzil, in high glee, as he rose to depart;
"and now I will say----"
"Good-bye?" said Miss Vrain, holding out her hand.
"No. I will use your own form of farewell--_au revoir_."
Then Lucian went out from the presence of his beloved, exulting that she
had proved so kind as not to dismiss him when she no longer required his
services. In another woman he would not have minded such ingratitude,
but had Diana banished him thus he would have been miserable beyond
words. Also, as Lucian joyfully reflected, her invitation to Berwin
Manor showed that, far from wishing to lose sight of him, she desired to
draw him into yet closer intimacy. There could be nothing but good
resulting from her invitation and his acceptance, and already Denzil
looked forward to some bright summer's day in the green and leafy
country, when he should ask this goddess among women to be his wife. If
encouragement and looks and blushes went for anything, he hardly doubted
the happy result.
In the meantime, while Lucian dreamed his dreams, Diana, also dreaming
in her own way, remained in town and attended to business. She saw her
lawyers, and had her affairs looked into, so that when she went to Bath
she was legally installed as the mistress of Berwin Manor and its
surrounding acres. As Lucian hinted, Lydia did indeed try to see her
stepdaughter. She called twice, and was refused admission into Diana's
presence. She wrote three times, and received no reply to her letters;
so the consequence was that, finding Diana declined to have anything to
do with her in any way whatsoever, she became very bitter. This feeling
she expressed to Lucian, whom she one day met in Piccadilly.
"As if I had done anything," finished Lydia, after a recital of all her
grievances. "I call it real mean. Don't you think so, Mr. Denzil?"
"If you ask me, Mrs. Vrain," said Lucian stiffly, "I think you and Miss
Vrain are better apart."
"Of course you defend her. But I guess I can't blame you, as I know what
you are driving at."
"What about Signor Ferruci?" asked Denzil, parrying.
"Oh, we are good friends still, but nothing more. As he proved that he
did not kill Mark, I've no reason to give him his walking-ticket. But,"
added Mrs. Vrain drily, "I guess you'll be married to Diana before I
hitch up 'longside Ercole."
"How do you know I shall marry Miss Vrain?" asked Lucian, flushing.
"If you saw your face in a glass, you wouldn't ask, I guess. Tomatoes
ain't in it for redness. I won't dance at your wedding, and I won't
break my heart, either," and with a gay nod Mrs. Lydia Vrain tripped
away, evidently quite forgetful of the late tragedy in her life.