CARMELA IS QUESTIONED.
Of course Ronald went straight to Foster's office, and there made his
report regarding the statements of Vassalla. The barrister listened to
Monteith in silence, and, when he was in full possession of the facts,
sat absently scribbling on his blotting-paper, much to Ronald's
disgust at what he deemed his inattention. "Hang it, Foster," said the
Australian, irritably, "I wish you'd say something; you've not lost
your tongue, have you?"
"No; nor my brains either," retorted Foster, lighting a cigarette,
"you'd better have a smoke; it will soothe you."
"I don't want to be soothed."
"Oh, yes, you do," returned Gerald, imperturbably; "try one of these;
they are real Russian cigarettes."
In order to propitiate his companion, Ronald took one and smoked away
in sulky silence. Mr. Foster settled himself deliberately in his
chair, and fixing his clear eyes on Monteith, began to talk.
"What do you think of the position of affairs now?" he asked, knocking
the ash off his cigarette.
"It seems to me that the game's up," retorted Ronald, sullenly.
"On the contrary, the game is just beginning to be interesting," said
Foster, calmly.
"What do you mean?" asked Ronald, sitting up straight in his chair. "I
tell you, Vassalla not only told me plainly that Mrs. Verschoyle was
not on board, but showed me a letter in her own handwriting which
confirmed it."
"Oh, yes," said Foster, satirically, "I must acknowledge it's all very
beautifully arranged."
Ronald looked at him in amazement.
"What is beautifully arranged?" he asked, shortly.
"The plot."
"Plot--what plot?"
Foster arose from his chair, and walked slowly to and fro with his
hands behind his back.
"I tell you what, my boy," he said, rapidly, "this thing is becoming
more mysterious with every fresh discovery. Verschoyle had no enemy,
as far as we know, but his wife; we have documentary evidence saying
she intended to murder him, and he was murdered at the very place
where she was staying. Roper says she did not leave the house.
Vassalla says she was not on board. Her own letter says she was
confined to her room with a headache. Fudge! I don't believe any one
of them."
"Then you think she was on board?" asked Ronald, eagerly.
"I'm certain of it. I ask you, as a logical man, whether a jealous
woman like Mrs. Verschoyle, knowing her husband was on board the
'Neptune,' could resist the temptation of seeing him? Nonsense! I tell
you she was on board, and if Vassalla says she was not, he
has a reason."
"What reason can he have?"
"He wants to shield her from the consequences of her crime. He is her
cousin, and blood is thicker than water."
"This is all very well," said Ronald, quietly; "but all your views are
quite theoretical, and we cannot obtain a single particle of evidence
to prove that she came on board at all."
"How do you know we cannot?"
"Well, there's Roper's letter--her own letter and Vassalla's denial.
Who else can prove she was on board?"
"Miss Cotoner."
"Oh!" Ronald arose and went to the window. "I don't think so," he
said, turning round. "If Mrs. Verschoyle quarrelled with her sister,
it's not likely she'd go near her."
"Perhaps not, but Miss Cotoner might have seen her. You'd better go
and ask her."
Ronald hesitated a moment, then made up his mind,
"Very well; I'll call at the Langham this afternoon, and may possibly
see her; but I think it's a wild goose chase."
"We'll see," said Foster, shortly, returning to his books, while
Ronald went off to his hotel, took a light luncheon, then dressing
himself carefully, ordered a hansom, and drove to the Langham.
Carmela was in, so Ronald sent up his card to her, and asked for the
favour of an interview. This, however, Carmela hesitated before
granting, as she was very angry with Ronald's supposed treachery
towards herself. Had she not seen her rival with her own eyes, and
been told of Monteith's infatuation for that detestable woman, as she
called innocent Mrs. Taunton? And now he had the bad taste to ask for
an interview--well, she would grant his request, and would show him
that she was not a woman to be lightly won and thrown over.
What consummate actresses women are! When Ronald entered her
drawing-room, he expected to find Carmela pale and anxious, through
fretting over his long absence from her side, and it was rather a blow
to his self-love when she came forward with a bright, smiling face and
outstretched hands.
"How do you do, Mr. Monteith?" she said, in her low, sweet voice; "you
are quite a stranger."
Ronald muttered something about business as he took her hand, and then
sat down, thinking to himself that this heartless coquette could never
have cared for him. Carmela on her part, rang for afternoon tea, and
then began to talk lightly of the most commonplace topics, much to
Ronald's secret irritation.
"Sir Mark and Miss Trevor are out," she said, gaily, leaning back in
her chair; "and it is a mere chance you found me in."
"When do you go to Marlow?" asked the Australian, abruptly.
"Next week, I think. I must confess I am a little tired of London."
"And Vassalla?"
She looked annoyed.
"I do not know what my cousin is going to do. Ah! here is the tea. Let
me give you a cup;" rising and going to the table.
"Thank you," said Ronald, mechanically; "I want to speak to you on
serious business."
"Do you indeed?" carelessly. "Milk and sugar?"
"Both," he answered, annoyed at the flippancy of her tone; "this
business is very serious."
"It must be, judging from your tone," she replied, giving him his tea,
and returning to her own seat. "By the way, what did you think of the
Italian Exhibition?"
"What!" he said, with a sudden start. "Oh, yes, of course--I met you
there when I was with Mrs. Taunton."
Carmela winced; so her rival was a married woman!
"I do not know her," she said, idly balancing her spoon on the edge of
her cup.
"No," he said, bending forward; "but you know a relative of hers."
"Indeed!" carelessly; "and his name?"
"Leopold Verschoyle."
Carmela let her spoon fall with a crash, and turned her pale, scared
face to Ronald quickly.
"Leopold Verschoyle?" she said, rapidly, while her breath came quick
and sharp. "What do you know of Leopold Verschoyle?"
"I know he was your sister's husband."
"Was!" she smiled scornfully. "You speak in the past tense because of
his divorce."
"No; I speak in the past tense because of his death."
"Death!" She arose to her feet with a look of horror in her dark eyes.
"Is Leopold Verschoyle dead?"
"Yes. I will tell you all about it if you will answer a question."
She sat down again, pale but composed.
"And the question?"
"Was your sister, Mrs. Verschoyle, on board the night the 'Neptune'
left Malta?"
"Yes."
Ronald sprang to his feet in horror.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am," she answered, raising her eyebrows. "My sister and
myself had a quarrel during the day, and I did not say good-bye to her
at the house, so I suppose she was sorry, for she came on board and
took leave of me there."
"But Vassalla says she was not on board."
Carmela looked surprised.
"Why, he was with her all the time! I was separated from them by the
crowd, and I did not see my sister again, but Vassalla told me he had
seen her safely down the gangway before the ship sailed."
Ronald sat wrapped in thought; so Foster was right, there was some
plot on foot; he made another attempt.
"But I saw a letter from your sister to Vassalla, in which she says
she was not on board, being confined to her room with a bad headache."
"Why should my sister write such a letter?" asked Carmela, angrily. "I
don't understand all this mystery; there was no reason why she should
conceal the fact that she said good-bye to me on board the 'Neptune.'"
"I hope not," he said, gloomily.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your sister's husband was on board."
"What!" She rose to her feet, looking like a tall white lily; "how is
it I never saw him? I would know Leopold Verschoyle among a thousand."
Ronald, seeing the deep interest she took in this man, became brutal.
"The reason you did not see him," he said, coldly, "was because he was
murdered, and his name was Lionel Ventin."
"My God!"
A white heap on the floor, and Ronald bending over it, trying to bring
her back to consciousness. He sprinkled some water on her face, and
with a low moan she sat up, and pushing her dark hair off her
forehead, looked confusedly at him.
"I must have fainted," she said, as he assisted her to a seat, "but
the shock was too much. God knows I have forgotten Leopold Verschoyle
many long day since; but dead! oh, it is too horrible."
Ronald sat in silence, not daring to say anything.
"Who killed him?" she asked, suddenly looking up.
"I don't know."
She clasped her hands over her knees, and looked fixedly at him.
"You don't know for certain," she said, slowly; "but you have your
suspicions, and I want to know everything; tell me all."
Whereupon Ronald told her what had happened, and how the links were
being slowly added to the chain of evidence that seemed to connect her
sister with the crime. When he was done she was pale, but composed.
"It is very strange," she said, in her clear voice, "and I do not know
what to say. I do not like my sister; she is a woman of violent
temper, but I am certain she would not commit a crime."
"Then why does she deny being on board the night the crime was
committed?"
"I cannot say, because she certainly was. I must write and ask her. I
will also speak to Vassalla; there is something mysterious about this
affair; but my sister must clear herself; it is too horrible that she
should be suspected of such a crime; and this," with a sudden thought,
"is why you are always with Mrs. Taunton?"
"Yes; she is quite distracted over her brother's death."
"Vassalla said you loved her."
Ronald sprang to his feet with a cry of anger.
"Then he lies; the only woman I ever did love, and ever shall love
is----"
She placed her hand on his lips.
"Hush! Do not mention her name till the mystery of Leopold
Verschoyle's death is solved."
"And then?" he said eagerly, catching her hand.
She drew it away quickly with a stifled cry.
"I cannot say," she said wildly, wringing her hands; "God only knows
the end. My sister must defend herself from this charge. I will write
to her at once."
At this moment a knock came to the door, and Carmela had just time to
turn and conceal her haggard face when a servant entered with a
telegram, and Ronald took it while the man retired.
"This telegram is for you," he said, holding it out.
"For me?" she said, turning and taking it from him; "what can it be
about?" and she tore open the envelope, read the telegram, and gave a
cry of delight.
"What is it?" asked Ronald, anxiously.
"I need not write to Malta," she said, quickly; "my sister is on her
way to England."