THE LOST BROOCH
The police authorities with Henshaw and Morriston went off with the rope
to experiment in the room of the tragedy.
"I don't suppose we are wanted," Kelson said quietly to Gifford; "let's
go for a turn round the garden. I wonder where Muriel has got to."
They found Miss Tredworth on the lawn. "I am waiting for Edith," she
said.
"We'll stroll on and Gifford can bring Miss Morriston after us," Kelson
suggested, and the lovers moved away, leaving Gifford, much to his
satisfaction, waiting for Edith Morriston.
In a few minutes she made her appearance. Gifford mentioned the
arrangement and they strolled off by the path the others had taken.
It seemed to Gifford that his companion's manner was rather abnormal;
unlike her usual cold reserve there were signs of a certain suppressed
excitement.
"I hope," she said, "that Major Freeman and his people are satisfied with
our discovery that the marks on Muriel's dress and mine came there by
accident."
"Evidently quite convinced," Gifford answered.
"That's well," she responded with a rather forced laugh. "It was
rather too bad to suspect us, on that evidence, of knowing anything
about the affair."
"I don't suppose for a moment they did," Gifford assured her.
"I don't know," the girl returned. "Anyhow it was rather an embarrassing,
not to say painful, position for us to be in. But that is at an end now."
Nevertheless Gifford could tell that she was not so thoroughly relieved
as her words implied.
"Completely," he declared. "You have heard of the new piece of evidence?"
he added casually.
For a moment she stopped with a start, instantly recovering herself.
"No; what is that?" in a tone almost of unconcern.
Gifford told her of the statement made by the country girl and its
corroboration in the finding of the rope. As he continued he felt sure
that the story was gripping his companion more and more closely. At last
she stopped dead and turned to him with eyes which had in them intense
mystification as well as fear.
"Mr. Gifford, do you believe that story?"
"I see no reason for disbelieving it," he answered quietly. "It is
practically the only conceivable solution of the mystery of the
locked door."
"Surely--" she stopped, checking the vehement objection that rose to her
lips. "This girl," she went on as though searching for a plausible
argument, "is it not likely that she was mistaken? We know what these
country people are. And she could not have seen very clearly."
"But," Gifford argued gently, "her statement is confirmed by the finding
of the rope."
Edith Morriston was thinking strenuously, desperately, he could see
that. The words she spoke were but mechanical, the mere froth of a
seething brain. Yet her splendid self-command--and he recognized it with
admiration--never deserted her, however supreme the struggle may have
been to retain it.
A seat was by them; she went across the path to it and sat down. Gifford
saw that she was deadly pale.
"I fear this wretched business is upsetting you, Miss Morriston," he said
gently. "Let me run to the house and fetch something to revive you."
She made a gesture to stay him, and by an effort seemed to shake off the
threatening collapse. "No, no," she said; "please don't. It is very
stupid of me, but these repeated shocks are rather trying. You see one
has never had any experience of the sort before."
"It was more than stupid of me to blunder into the story," Gifford said
self-reproachfully. "But it never occurred to me--"
"No, no; of course not," she responded. "And, after all, I am bound to
hear all about it sooner or later. Sit down and tell me your opinion of
the affair. Supposing the girl was not mistaken who do you think the
person seen escaping from the window could have been?"
"That is difficult to say."
"A thief, no doubt."
"That is a natural conclusion."
"Have the police any idea?"
"Not that I know of. I should say decidedly no definite idea."
"Or Mr. Henshaw?"
"Whatever Mr. Henshaw's ideas may be he keeps them to himself."
Miss Morriston checked the remark she had seemed about to make, and for a
few minutes there was an awkward silence. Gifford broke it.
"I am so sorry that I have been unable to get any hint of his intentions.
Believe me, it has not been for want of trying. But the man, for reasons
best known to himself, seems determined to remain inscrutable."
The girl was staring in front of her. "Yes," she responded, with a catch
of her breath; "that is evident. But it does not much matter. I know you
have tried your best to do what I was foolish enough to ask you. And now
please do not think any more of it. In my ignorance of the man's
character I set you an impossible task. All I can do now is to thank you
for your sympathy and devotion."
Her tone pained him horribly. "I hope, Miss Morriston," he replied
warmly, "you are not asking me to end my devotion."
She gave a little bitter laugh. "Seeing that it is useless I have no
right to ask its continuance," she replied almost coldly, "nor to expect
you to involve yourself in my--in our worries."
"But if I ask to be allowed that privilege?" he urged.
She shook her head. "No, no, my friend," she insisted, with less warmth
than the words implied, "it can lead to no good and would be a mistake.
Let the man alone. To involve yourself with him can bring you nothing but
trouble. Promise me you will take no further heed of this unhappy
business."
She turned to him as she spoke the last words, and there seemed less
trouble in her face than in his. For at his heart there was a sickening
fear and suspicion of what the words portended.
"I can't promise that," he objected.
"But I ask you; it is my wish," she returned with a touch of command.
"For my sake, or yours?" he rejoined.
"For both. Give me your promise. You must if we are to remain friends."
Her look and the fascination in her voice seemed to pull the very heart
out of him.
"You are asking a cruelly hard thing of me," he replied, with a tremor in
his voice. "I don't understand--"
"No, you don't understand," she interrupted quickly. "It is enough to
know that you have taken a girl's foolish commission too seriously, so
seriously as to run the risk of making things even worse than they
threatened to be. Now I ask you to leave well alone."
"If it is well," he said doubtfully.
"Of course. Why should it not be?" she rejoined, in a not very convincing
tone. "Now I shall rely on you--and I am sure it will not be in vain--to
respect my wishes. Things seem to be in a horrible muddle," she added
with a rather dreary laugh, "but let's hope they will right themselves
before long."
She rose, compelling him to rise too. Something in the tone and manner of
her last speech made him quite unwilling to end their conference, and
desperately anxious to speak out everything that was in his mind and try
to bring matters to a crisis.
"Don't go for a moment," he said as she began to move away towards the
house. "I have something to say to you."
She turned quickly and faced him with a suggestion of displeasure in her
eyes. "What is it?" she said with a touch of impatience.
"Only this," he answered quietly. "Have you lost a brooch, Miss
Morriston?"
At the question the blood left her cheeks as it had done a little while
before; then surged back till her face was suffused.
"A brooch? Yes; I have missed one. Have you found it?" The words were
spoken with a calmness which failed to hide the eagerness behind them.
"I think so," he answered, taking out his letter-case. "A pearl, set in
diamonds mounted on a safety-pin?"
He opened the case and showed it pinned into the soft lining.
"Yes; that is mine," she said; and for a moment or two by a strange
attraction each looked into the other's eyes.
Gifford bent his head over the case as he unfastened the brooch and
took it out.
"Where--where did you find it?" Something in the girl's voice made him
glad that he was not looking at her.
"In the garden," he said.
"In the garden?" she repeated. He was looking up now and saw the intense
relief in her face. "To-day?"
"No; last time I was up here. I ought to have taken it to the house at
once but--but it was a temptation to me to keep it till I could give it
back to you like this. Do forgive me."
It was plain she divined what he meant, but her cold manner came to the
aid of her embarrassment.
"I am only too glad to have it again. I am so glad you found it."
"So am I," he responded with a touch of fervour. "I wish I could relieve
your mind of everything else as easily."
"I am sure you do," she said wistfully, and impulsively half put
out her hand.
He caught it as she was in the act of checking the action and drawing it
back. "You may be sure--quite sure, of my devotion," he said, and raised
her hand to his lips.
An exclamation and a sudden start as the hand was quickly withdrawn made
him look up. Edith Morriston's eyes were fixed with something like fear
on an object behind him. An intuition told him what it was before he
looked round to see Henshaw, with his characteristic, rather stealthy
walk, coming towards them.
Gifford set his teeth hard as the two faced round and awaited
Henshaw's approach.
"This man shall not annoy you," he said in an undertone.
"Don't quarrel with him, for heaven's sake," she entreated in the same
tone, under her breath, as the disturbing presence drew near. There was
a strange excitement in her voice, though none in the set face.
"I think your brother is looking for you, Miss Morriston," Henshaw said
in his even voice when he was within a dozen paces of them.
"I was just going to look for him," the girl replied in a voice strangely
changed from that in which she had talked with Gifford. "Isn't it lucky?
Mr. Gifford has picked up in the garden a brooch I lost some days ago. I
did not dare to tell Dick, as it was his gift."
Henshaw gave a casual glance at the ornament. "I congratulate you," he
responded coolly. Then Gifford saw his eyes seek hers as he added: "Where
was it found? Near the tower?"
The covert malice of the insinuation was plain in the questioner's look,
although the tone was casual enough.
"No. On the lawn," Gifford replied quietly.