Between the time when Lord Penlyn, Mr. Fordyce, and Stuart had
consulted together as to the way in which some endeavours should be
made to discover the murderer of Walter Cundall, and when the Señor
Guffanta paid his visit to the former, a week had elapsed, a week in
which a good many things had taken place.
The rewards offered both by the Government and by "the friends of the
late Mr. Cundall," had been announced, and the magnitude of them,
especially of the latter, had caused much excitement in the public
mind, and had tended to keep the general interest in the tragedy
alive. The Government reward of "five hundred pounds and a free pardon
to some person, or persons, not the actual murderers," had been
supplemented by another of one thousand pounds from the "friends and
executors;" and the walls of every police-station were placarded with
the notices. There was, moreover, attached to them a statement
describing, as nearly as was possible from the meagre details known,
the man who, in the garb of a labourer or mechanic, was last seen near
the victim; and for his identification a reward was also offered.
But it was known in London, or, at least, very generally believed,
that out of these rewards nothing whatever in the way of information
had come; and, although the murder had not yet ceased to be a topic of
conversation in all classes of society, it was generally spoken of as
a case in which the murderer would never be brought to justice.
Whoever had committed the crime had now had more than a week with
which, either to escape from the neighbourhood or the country, or to
entirely conceal his identity. It was not likely now, people said,
that he would ever be found. And the world was also asking who were
the friends, and, presumably, the heirs of the dead man, who were
offering the large reward? To this question no one as yet had
discovered the answer; all that was known, or told, being that two
lawyers of standing, Mr. Bell, of Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Fordyce, of
Paper Buildings, were acting for these friends, and for Mr. Cundall's
City representatives.
The detectives themselves, though they were careful not to say so, had
really very little hope that they would ever succeed in tracing the
assassin. Dobson (who, in spite of the stolidity of manner, and
heaviness of appearance that had excited the contempt both of Señor
Guffanta and of the landlord, Zarates, was not by any means lacking in
shrewdness) plainly told Stuart, in one of their many interviews, that
he did not think much would be done by finding the man called _Corot_,
even if he were successful in doing so, which he very much doubted.
"You see, sir," he said, "it's this way. He evidently had some claim
or other upon Mr. Cundall, or else it isn't likely that every time he
wrote for money he would have got it, and that in good sums too. Then
we've only seen the notes made by Mr. Cundall on the letters, saying
that he sent this and that sum; but who's to know, when he sent them,
if he didn't also send some friendly letter or other, acknowledging
the justice of this man's demands? He evidently--I mean this
_Corot_--did have some claim upon him; and supposing that he was--if
we could find him--to prove that claim and show us the letters Mr.
Cundall wrote him in return, where should we be then? The very fact of
his being able to draw on him whenever he wanted money, would go a
long way towards showing that he wouldn't be very likely to kill him."
"He threatens him in the last letter we have seen. Supposing that Mr.
Cundall stopped the supplies after that, would not that probably
excite his revengeful passions? These Spanish Americans do not stick
at taking life when they fancy themselves injured."
"He evidently didn't stop them when he answered that letter, because
he sent five hundred dollars. And it was written so soon before they
both must have started--almost close together--from Honduras, that it
wouldn't be likely any fresh demands would have been made," Dobson
answered.
"They might have met in London, and quarrelled," Stuart replied; "and
after the quarrel this _Corot_ might have tracked him till he found a
fitting opportunity, and then have killed him."
"Yes, he might," Dobson said, meditatively. "Anything _might_ have
happened."
"Only you don't think it likely?" the other asked.
"Well, frankly, Mr. Stuart, I don't. He had always got money out of
him, and it wasn't likely the supplies would be stopped off
altogether, so that to kill him would be killing the goose with the
golden eggs."
"Who on earth could have killed him, then? Who would have had any
reason to do so? You know everything connected with the case now, and
with Mr. Cundall's life and strange, unknown, real position--do you
suspect any one?"
"No," the detective said after a pause; "I can't say I do. Of course,
at first, when I heard everything, the idea did strike me that Lord
Penlyn, as the most interested person, might have done it."
"So it did me," Stuart said; "but after the interview Mr. Fordyce and
I had with him the idea left my mind."
"Where does he say he was on the night of the murder--the night he was
staying at that hotel?"
"He says he stayed at his club until twelve, and that then he walked
about the streets till nearly two, thinking over the story his brother
had told him, and then let himself into the hotel and went to bed."
"It is strange that he should have been about on that night alone. If
he was going to be tried for the murder, it would tell badly against
him; that is, unless he could prove that he was in the hotel before
Mr. Cundall started to walk to Grosvenor Place from his club."
"He couldn't prove it, because all the servants were asleep; but,
nevertheless, I am certain he did not do it."
"I don't think he did," Dobson replied, "and, at the same time, I
can't believe _Corot_ did it. But I wish I could find him, all the
same."
"Do you think there is still a chance of your doing so?"
"There is always a chance," the other answered; "but I have exhausted
nearly everything. You see, I have so little to go on, and I am
obliged to say out openly, in every inquiry I make, that I am looking
for a certain man of the name of _Corot_. And they all give me the
same answer, that they never heard of such a name. Yet his name must
have been _Corot_."
"I do not think so," Stuart said. "A Spaniard would sign an initial
before his name just the same as an Englishman would, and no
Englishman would sign himself simply 'Jones,' or 'Smith.'"
"It can't be a Christian name," Dobson said, "or they would have been
sure to say so, and ask me 'What _Corot?_' or '_Corot_ who' is it that
you are looking for?"
"Lord Penlyn thinks it is a nickname," Stuart remarked.
"Then I shall certainly never find him. A man when he is travelling in
a strange country doesn't use his nickname, and, as far as I can
learn, there isn't any one here from the Republic of Honduras who ever
heard of him; and it isn't any good asking people from British
Honduras."
"Well," Stuart said, "we must go on trying by every means, and in the
hopes that the amount of the rewards will lead to something. But there
seems little prospect of our ever finding the cowardly assassin who
slew him. Perhaps, after all, that labourer killed him for his watch
and chain, and any money he might have about him. Such things have
been done before."
"I don't believe that," Dobson said. "There was a motive for his
murder. But, what was that motive?"
Then they parted, Stuart to have an interview with Lord Penlyn, and
Dobson to again continue his investigations in similar resorts to the
Hôtel Lepanto.
Meanwhile, Penlyn had nerved himself for another interview with Ida
Raughton, an interview in which he was to tell her everything, and he
went down to Belmont to do so.
He found her alone in her pretty drawing-room, Sir Paul having gone to
Windsor on some business matter, and Miss Norris being out for a walk.
She was still looking very pale, and her lover noticed that a paper
was lying beside her in which was a column headed, "The murder of Mr.
Cundall." Had she been reading that, he wondered, at the very time
when he was on his way to tell her of the relationship that had
existed between him and that other man who had loved her so dearly?
When he had kissed her, wondering, as he did so, if it was the last
kiss she would ever let him press upon her lips after she knew of what
he had kept back from her at their last interview, she said to him:
"And now tell me what you have done towards finding Mr. Cundall's
murderer? What steps have you taken, whom have you employed to search
for that man?"
"It is thought," he answered, "that there is some man, now in England,
who may have done it. A man whose name is _Corot_, and who was
continually obtaining money from him."
"How is this known?"
"By some letters that have been found amongst Cundall's papers.
Letters asking for money, and, in one case, threatening him if some
was not sent at once; and with notes in his handwriting saying that
different sums had been sent when demanded."
"_Corot_," she said, repeating the name to herself in a whisper,
"_Corot_." Then, after a pause, she said, "No! That man is not the
assassin."
"Not the assassin, Ida!" Penlyn said. "Why do you think he is not?"
"Because I have never known him, because the form of the man who slew
him in my dream was familiar to me, and this man's form cannot be so."
"My darling," he said, "you place too much importance on this dream.
Remember what fantasies of the brain they are, and how few of them
have ever any bearing on the actual events of life."
"This was no fantasy," she answered, "no fantasy. When the murderer is
discovered--if he ever is--it will be seen that I have known him. I am
as sure of it as that I am sitting here. But who was he? Who was he? I
have gone over and over again every man whom I have ever known, and
yet I cannot bring to my mind which of all those men it is that that
shrouded figure resembles." She paused again, and then she asked: "Has
it been discovered yet whether he had any relations?"
"Yes, Ida," he said, rising from his seat and standing before her,
while he knew that the time had come now when everything must be told.
"Yes, he had one relation!"
"Who was he?" she asked, springing to her feet, while a strange lustre
shone in her eyes. "Who was he? Tell me that."
"Oh, Ida," he said, "there is so much to tell! Will you hear me
patiently while I tell you all?"
"Tell me everything," she replied. "I will listen."
Then he told her, standing there face to face with her. As he
proceeded with his story, he could give no guess as to what effect it
was having upon her, for she made no sign, but, from the seat into
which she had sunk, gazed fixedly into his face. Once she shuddered
slightly, and drew her dress nearer to her when he confessed that he
had refused to part from him in peace; and, when she had read the
letter that he had written on the night of his death, she wept
silently for a few moments.
It had taken long in the telling, and the twilight of the summer night
had come before he finished and she had learnt everything.
"That is what I came to tell you, Ida. Speak to me, and say that you
forgive me for having kept it from your knowledge when last we met!"
"You said an hour ago," she replied, taking no heed of his prayer for
forgiveness, "that dreams were idle fantasies of the brain. What if
mine was such? What, if after all, I have seen the form of the man
who murdered him, have spoken to him and let him kiss me, and have not
recognised him?"
"Ida!" he said, "do you say this to me, to the man to whom you have
plighted your love and faith? Do you mean that you suspect me of being
my brother's murderer?"
"You did nothing," she answered, "to find out his murderer; you would
have done nothing had that Will not been discovered."
"I obeyed his behest," he said, "and what I did was done also through
my love of you."
Again she paused before she spoke, and then she said:
"It is time that you should go now, it is time that there should be no
more love spoken of between us. But, if a time should ever come when
it will be fitting for me to hear you speak of love to me once
more----"
"Yes?"
"It will be when you can come to me and say that his murderer is
brought to justice."
"And until that time shall come, you cast me off?"
"If you take it in that light,--yes."
"I have sworn," he said, and she could not but notice the deep
intensity of his voice, "upon his grave that my life shall be devoted
to avenging him, and no power on earth shall stop me if I can but see
my way to find the man who killed him. Even though I had still another
brother, whom I had loved all my life, and he had done this deed, I
would track him and bring him to punishment. I swear it before
God--swear that I would not spare him! And my earnest and heartfelt
prayer is that the day may arrive when, as you and I desire, I may be
able to come and tell you that he is brought to justice."
"Ah! yes."
"Only," he continued, still with a deep solemnity of voice that went
to her heart, "when I do so come I shall come to tell you that
alone--there will be with that news no pleadings of love upon my
tongue. You have doubted, but just now, whether you have not seen my
brother's murderer standing before you, whether the kiss of Cain has
not been upon your lips. You have reproached me for my silence, you
have cast me off, unless I can prove myself not an assassin. Well, so
be it! By the blessing of heaven, I will prove it--but for the love
which you have withdrawn from me I will ask no more. You say it is to
be mine again conditionally. I will not take it back, either with or
without conditions. It is restored to you; it would be best that
henceforth you should keep it."
Then, with but the slightest inclination of his head, he left her, and
went out from the house. And Ida, after once endeavouring to make her
lips utter the name of Gervase, fell prostrate on the couch.
"He will never come back to me," she wailed; "he will never come back.
I have thrown his love away for ever. God forgive and pity me."