CROSSLEY.
The woman whom Nance had seen the night before came forward with quick
strides.
“None of this folly, Mrs. Cameron,” she said in a powerful voice. “Leave
that young lady alone this minute, or you know perfectly well what will
happen. Now take my arm. You have disobeyed me and you know you must be
punished.”
The miserable creature seemed to shrink and collapse into herself. She
gave Nance a piteous look.
Nance’s kind heart was immediately touched.
“Do not be hard on her,” she said, speaking to Leah; “she really meant no
harm. She came out on purpose to see me. She was curious, I suppose—it
was perfectly natural, was it not?”
“Yes, yes, that is it—it was perfectly natural,” said the mad woman. “You
hear her, Leah, she said I meant no harm. I only came out to tell her
what she ought to know. For instance—the cellars.”
“Hold your tongue this minute,” said Leah. “If you’ll have the goodness,
madam,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Rowton, “to leave us now, I think
I can take Mrs. Cameron home quietly. She was excited last night and is
not quite herself. Of course, you know well enough, that anything she may
tell you is not of the slightest consequence.”
“Ha! ha! Leah, you know better than that,” laughed Mrs. Cameron. Her
laugh was so wild that it was blood-curdling.
“Good-bye,” said Nance in a kind and steady voice. She held out her hand,
and the mad lady seized it in a fierce grip.
“I like you—I love you,” she said. “Yes, yes, even I—even I can love, and
I love you—you are a sweet little girl. I’ll be your friend. Be sure you
come to me when you _really_ want a friend. Good-bye, good-bye, pretty
little Mrs. Rowton.”
She turned as she spoke, and Nance walked away through the wood. She had
been brave enough during the interview, but now she trembled exceedingly.
She felt suddenly quite weak and faint. When Murray discovered her, she
was leaning against a tree too exhausted to proceed on her walk.
The boy’s eyes were red as if he had been crying, but when he saw Nance a
smile flitted bravely across his face.
“Oh! don’t think about me,” he said. “I am so glad you are safe. Of
course, you got a fright—you are not accustomed to this sort of thing. I
am—I mean there have often been scenes like this one, and mother has said
dreadful things of me. It is rather hard to hear your own mother speak of
you like that, is it not? but I know she does not mean it—it is just her
awful affliction. I love her very much. There is nothing I would not do
for her. She has been very badly used, but I will not go into that now.
May I take you home?”
“Yes, Murray, I am dreadfully tired,” said Nance in a faint voice.
Murray gave her his shoulder to lean on.
“Lean hard,” he said; “I am a splendid stick.”
By and-by they reached the house and Nance went away to her own room. She
lay down on her bed and made a great effort to shut away all thought.
This was by no means easy. There was much to think about—much to puzzle
and perplex her. Her husband’s mysterious absence; the near vicinity
of the poor insane lady; the strange words which the lady had used: “I
am here as a blind. Ask Adrian Rowton what goes on in the cellars at
night.” What did it all mean? What could it mean? Nancy’s heart beat with
great throbs—she felt excited and terribly overwrought. Her adventures,
however, were by no means at an end. She was just falling off into a
restful doze, when the door of her bedroom was softly opened, and her
maid, Hester, advanced across the room on tiptoe.
Nancy’s antipathy to this girl was decidedly on the increase, and she now
raised her head and spoke almost irritably.
“What is it, Hester?” she said.
The girl approached the bedside with alacrity.
“I just came in to find out whether you were asleep or not, madam,” she
said. “I am glad you are awake, for there is a man downstairs. I suppose
he is a gentleman, but I cannot say. Anyhow he has called to see you. He
said I was to tell you that Mr. Crossley was below.”
“Crossley,” said Nance with a start. She sat up in bed. A queer look came
into her eyes.
“When did he call?” she asked the girl.
“Half an hour ago, ma’am, I believe. Vickers has shown him in the
library. He said he would wait your convenience.”
“Go to Vickers and tell him to say to Mr. Crossley that I will be with
him in a few minutes,” replied Nance.
The girl left the room, walking with her usual absolutely noiseless tread.
“Mr. Crossley,” murmured Nance.
All her depression left her on the moment. Her thoughts were completely
turned into a new channel. Since her father’s death she had lived in a
dream of excitement, of adventure, of golden bliss. It was true lurid
lights were coming into this dream of hers; but the subject of all her
young life hitherto had been banished from view. Now she remembered
it with a pang and a thrill—a pang of deep pain and self-reproach, a
thrill of excitement. She thought of her father when he lay dying. She
remembered the mission which had been given to her. Her promise to her
dying father was abundantly recalled by the mere mention of Crossley’s
name.
She had taken off her dress, but she soon replaced it. She brushed out
her beautiful hair, gave one glance at herself in the long mirror and ran
downstairs.
Nance knew Crossley, the detective—she had often seen him before. During
the six years she had lived with her father at the Grange, he had come to
see them as a rule three or four times a year. At each interview she had
been present. It was perfectly true that she and her father had indeed
stood side by side in their intense eagerness to track the man who had
sent Anthony to an early grave. She was with her father now, heart and
soul. Her beautiful eyes shone as she entered the library.
“Mr. Crossley, I am glad to see you,” she said.
Crossley, a stout middle-aged man, with grizzly hair and bushy whiskers,
came out of the recess of one of the windows. He made a low bow to the
mistress of Rowton Heights.
“I thought it best to call, madam,” he said. “Since the letter which you
wrote to me announcing Dr. Follett’s death, I have been actively pursuing
inquiries, and with, I believe, a certain measure of success. In short,
I am now in possession of facts which can really lead to the ultimate
discovery of——”
“Hubert Lefroy?” interrupted Nance.
“Yes, or the man who called himself Hubert Lefroy.”
“You are certain, then, that the name is a feigned one?”
“I am positive; but do not say the word so loud—there may be listeners
about.”
“Oh! no, that is impossible,” said Nance, but she glanced nervously
behind her back as she spoke. “I am very glad you came,” she said; “sit
down, won’t you? My husband is away from home at present.”
“I am aware of that fact,” answered Crossley.
“Are you? How did you find out?”
“In the usual way, madam. When I take up a case of this kind I employ
emissaries all over the country, and nothing takes place with regard
to my clients’ movements that I am not acquainted with. Your father’s
strange case has, as you are aware, Mrs. Rowton, occupied my best
attention for many years. During his lifetime, owing to the absence of
almost all clues, we have been unsuccessful in bringing matters to an
issue. But since his death unexpected developments have taken place, and
these I may as well own have startled me considerably. I must repeat the
words which I have already uttered—I am, I believe, in a position to lay
my hands on the man who murdered your brother.”
“Then why don’t you do it?” said Nancy. “This excites me very much,” she
continued. She rose as she spoke, tugged at the neck of her dress as
though she felt her breathing a little difficult, and then crossed the
room to one of the windows.
“You understand my position,” she said after a pause. “I am my father’s
representative. It is my painful duty to carry out this search to the
bitter end.”
“Is it your duty?” asked Crossley.
“Is it my duty?” repeated the young lady; “need you ask? I am under a
vow.”
The detective gave Nance a long and earnest gaze. He had one of
those faces extremely difficult to read. It was smooth in outline,
commonplace in expression; it was a contented, slightly self-satisfied
face; the eyes were well open and of a serene tone of blue; the mouth
was hidden by a thick short moustache. Crossley was the sort of man
who would pass anywhere without exciting the least attention. He had
the sort of physiognomy which thousands of other people possess. No
one to look at him would suppose for a moment that he was one of the
shrewdest detectives of his day—a man practically at the head of his
profession—keen to read motives, capable of looking down into the hearts
of many apparently inexplicable mysteries.
While he gave Nance one of his slow and apparently indifferent glances,
he was really looking into her troubled heart.
“You are a happy young married lady now,” he said after a pause.
“Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she said, clasping her hands.
“You are much attached to your good husband, madam?”
“Need you ask?” Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
“Then for Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Rowton,” said the detective, speaking in
an altogether new voice for him, “give this matter up, let it drop. Nay,
hear me out”—he raised his hand to interrupt a flow of words which were
rushing to Nancy’s lips—“I am speaking against myself and against my own
interests when I so advise you; but I am not without heart, madam, and
I have seen in the past how sad your life was and how you suffered. It
is my profession to hunt down criminals—to scent crime to its source. In
this case let me do what is contrary to my profession—let me leave the
curtain unlifted. Mrs. Rowton, may I persuade you to leave justice and
revenge in this special case to Heaven?”
“I cannot,” said Nance. “I am amazed to hear you speak in that tone—you,
of all people. I cannot possibly do it. What do you mean? What can you
mean?”
“What I say, madam. I will tell you quite frankly why I came here to-day.
I came to Rowton Heights for a double purpose. I am, I believe, in
possession at last of a valuable clue which may lead to the arrest of the
man who took your brother’s life; but I find on looking into matters that
there are complications in connection with this search, and because of
these, I would earnestly beg of you, from a friendly point of view, to
give up the search. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I shall not explain myself. Once
again I beg of you to let the matter drop. Do not carry on this search
any further.”
“I wonder at you,” said Nance, with sparkling eyes; “and you call
yourself a professional detective!”
“I do, madam, I do; but even a professional detective may have a heart.”
“Well, listen to me,” said Nance. “I hate the man who killed my brother.
Two passions move me—love for my husband, and hatred for the man who
killed my young brother. When I think of that ruffian I have no heart;
when I think of my ruined father’s life, of my brother’s shameful death,
I have no heart—none. I am under a vow to the dead. I must carry on this
search. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Mrs. Rowton. Well, I have done my duty in recommending mercy to
you. Some day you may regret that you have not listened to me.”
“I shall never regret it. Now let us drop this side of the question. You
have a clue—tell me all about it.”