A WOMAN OF MYSTERY.
“Where does Jimmy say that his wife is staying?” asked Nick, after a
pause.
“He does not say—more than that she happens to be absent. He insinuates
that she is out of the country—visiting relatives in her own country,
in fact, although he does not state where that is, or who the relatives
are.”
“I see. At all events she is not in evidence just now, Nan. Is that the
idea?”
“Yes.”
“That is significant, Nan.”
“Is it? Why so?”
“It suggests to me that there is some reason why she prefers to keep
out of sight at the moment when so much attention is directed toward
her.”
“That is very possible.”
“That brings me to the point about which I wished particularly to
question you.”
“What is that, Mr. Carter?”
“Nan, do you remember the occasion of our first meeting?”
“As if I ever would forget it!” she said reproachfully.
“Oh, I don’t mean the part of it that you are referring to, Nan. What I
did then, in assisting you to put behind you forever the life you had
been leading with that man, I would have done for anybody. I would be
glad to do it again for any other woman, circumstanced as you were.”
“I know that; but it does not render me the less grateful, for all
that.”
“Possibly not. But, Jimmy was just out of Sing Sing, then, after
serving the best part of a four years’ sentence.”
“Oh, yes, I remember it quite well.”
“You told me then, and in subsequent conversation, that you had known
Jimmy when you were children; that both of you came from good families
in England; that you had gone to South Africa as governess in the
family of an army officer; that a considerable time afterward Jimmy
drifted to that part of the world also; that your acquaintance, and
your childhood’s romance was renewed, and that you married him. Then
you came to this country together, and it was not until long afterward
that you discovered what his real occupation in life was. That is
substantially correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Nan, I never knew any of the particulars of that old life of
yours—I refer to the time when you and Jimmy were children. Will you
tell me about that now?”
“Must I?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I think that this new woman in the case—this Juno who is now
his wife—also had to do with that old life.”
Nan shook her head in a decided manner.
“No,” she said, “I do not think that.”
“Nevertheless, it may be so. The woman is some one who has known all
about Jimmy, what he has been and what he is now. She did not marry
him, thinking he was Ledger Dinwiddie; she married him knowing who he
was, and helped him to carry out the deception—or, if the plot arose
after they were married, it is all the more proof that she is of his
own kind; a crook like he is.”
“Oh, yes, I agree to that. But—she might have known him after he went
to the bad, and I should assume that it is more likely that she did.”
“Nevertheless, tell me something about that old life.”
“No, Mr. Carter; please don’t ask me. At the risk of offending you I
must refuse. I am not the person I was then. That girl is dead; I will
not bring her to life. I am Nan Nightingale now, and no other. Even if
Jimmy should escape his just deserts, because of my reticence, I would
not speak.”
“Very well. Will you do another thing?”
“What is that?”
“Will you go with me and help to run Jimmy down?”
“Yes. Anywhere.”
“And for the sake of what I want to accomplish, will you become one of
my assistants for a time?”
“Yes.”
“Then that is settled.”
“Wait just a moment, Mr. Carter.”
“Well?”
“I don’t want you to think unkindly of me because I will not discuss my
girlhood, will you?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“I will say this much: My father and mother bore a title. By rights I
should have one now; but I am supposed to have died, and the title that
is mine is now borne by another—and I would not deprive her of it under
any circumstances. Also, there was an episode in my life then which I
do not care to have raked up again, now, that it is forgotten.”
“Then let it rest.”
“You are sure that you will not think me ungrateful?”
“Quite sure, Nan. Forget it.”
“Thank you. One thing more. You know that Jimmy’s real name is Howard
Drummond; you know that that is one of the proudest family names in
England.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if in searching and bringing to justice Bare-Faced Jimmy it
should develop to your understanding, will you keep my secret and never
talk about it?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“In that case I will assist you all I can.”
“Good. Now let us talk for a moment about this woman who is called
Juno, and who seems to be Jimmy’s present wife.”
“Yes.”
“Does the name she bears—Juno—suggest anything to you?”
“Do you mean that I may have known her in the past? No; it does not.”
“Nor her description?”
“I have not heard that. Describe her.”
“First, she seems to be a woman of extraordinary beauty, and of an
uncommon type I should say, from all that I have heard.”
“Light or dark?”
“A pronounced brunette—rather of the Spanish type, I should say, from
what I have been told; or the Italian.”
“No; it suggests nothing. Perhaps if I should see her, or a picture of
her, it might suggest something; but at the present moment I have no
information to offer.”
“When you were a child you were—as children are so—practically in love
with Jimmy, were you not?”
“Yes. I never got over it, either, until I discovered that he was a
professional criminal.”
“Was there not another young woman, or girl, at that time, who——”
She held up a hand and stopped him.
“Yes,” she said, “there was such a girl. It was to her that I referred
when I said that there was an episode in that past life of mine, when I
was a girl, which I did not care to recall.”
“I see. Tell me something about that girl.”
“Why? With the idea that she may be this Juno?”
“Yes.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why so?”
“Because that girl is—dead.”
“My dear Nan, the fact that one is reported dead does not make that
person dead. We have sufficient proof of that in the present existence
of Jimmy Duryea.”
“But I saw this girl in her coffin.”
“I supposed that I saw Jimmy in his coffin. You have not forgotten
that, have you?”
“No.”
“Nor that you were there on that island where he was supposed to have
died, just before his death was reported? That you, in person, attended
what was supposed to be Jimmy’s funeral?”
“No. I haven’t forgotten any of that. But this case is different.”
“How is it different? Tell me that.”
“Because in a way I was responsible for the death of that girl. Oh, I
do not want to go into it at all, please.”
“Well, never mind that part of it, then. Tell me something about the
girl herself. You can have no objections to that, can you?”
“No; only it pains me to speak of it at all. She lived near to where I
did, and where Jimmy did—or Howard, as I called him in those days.”
“Yes.”
“She was two years younger than I, but was more developed, and looked
and appeared that much my elder. She was a beauty, and, strangely
enough, since you will have it so, she was a pronounced brunette. Need
I tell you her name?”
“Only her given name, at the present time, and unless there is need of
it, I will not ask for the other one.”
“Her given name was Sarah, and that name became changed to Siren, which
was appropriate in every way. Everybody who knew her called her Siren,
and even the servants addressed her as the Lady Siren. I suppose,
really it came from that fact that the average cockney English servant
pronounce the letter A like the letter I. They say tyke for take, and
sy for say, and so they called her Lady Syra, for Lady Sarah, and Lady
Syra became Lady Siren. That is the only way in which I can explain it.”
“I think it a very reasonable explanation. She was beautiful as a
child?”
“Wondrously so. But I don’t see why we need speak of her at all.”
“Only because I have the notion that this woman, who is now Jimmy’s
wife, is associated in some manner with that early life of his. I may
be all wrong as to that view of it, but at least I want to try it out.”
“But this particular girl cannot be, I tell you. She is dead—more than
ten years.”
“And Jimmy has been dead—how long? Yet he is alive. I will ask you
just one more question about this Siren, and if you can reply to it
satisfactorily, I will drop the subject. The question is this: Did she
die in quite a natural manner, and at her home, or——”
Nan raised one hand as if to ward off a blow; then she replied:
“No. She did not. I see that I must tell you about it.”
“Please,” replied the detective.