A CHANCE MEETING
Although Torry doubted the truth of Donna Maria's answer he was too
clever to let his face and tongue betray him. To contradict so
high-spirited a woman would be to reduce her to haughty silence;
perhaps to send her out of the room, with no chance of resuming the
conversation. The detective desired to learn all she knew, while she
was in the humour to speak; therefore he held his peace in the face of
her doubtful statement. He then recollected that Meek had declared
that the lady who had visited the Duke street chambers on that fatal
Saturday had worn a peculiar ring--a silver hoop set with three
turquoise stones. Incidentally he looked at Maria's hands, and noted
with some chagrin that she wore no rings at all. This discovery made
him doubt his own perspicuity, and he half-believed that she might
have spoken the truth after all.
"The last time I saw Mr. Grent," said Maria, seeing that the man did
not speak, "was on Friday evening. He dined here, and afterwards said
good-bye to his wife and myself, as he intended to leave for Italy on
Sunday. A few days afterwards we heard that he was dead."
"Who informed you?"
"Mr. Leighbourne and Mr. Vass; they came down to break the news as
gently as possible to my aunt."
"I suppose these two young gentlemen were often here?" said Darrel,
with an afterthought that one or both might love the beautiful Creole.
"Naturally," she replied coldly. "Especially Mr. Vass, who was
secretary to my uncle. His duties brought him often to Wray House."
"Miss," said Torry, looking sharply at the lady, "have you any idea
who murdered Mr. Grent?"
"No!" she exclaimed passionately. "I swear by all the saints I do not
know."
"Had he any enemies?"
"None that I know of."
"Did Julia Brawn ever speak ill of him?"
"Certainly not; she would not have dared to do so to me, under pain of
instant dismissal. But you surely don't suspect her."
"No," confessed Torry dismally, "I do not. It was a man's arm which
dealt the fatal blow. But what was your maid doing in Mortality-lane?"
"Are you sure it was Julia?"
"Certain! We found her dead near the Needle on the Embankment, and the
lace of her mantle was torn. A portion of it was in the death-grip of
her former master. Oh, it is the same woman without a doubt."
"How was she dressed?" said Maria with feminine curiosity.
"In that hat, a fawn-coloured mantle trimmed with black
lace--why--why! what is the matter?"
"A fawn-coloured mantle," stammered Maria, who had half risen from her
chair, and was staring at Torry with horrified eyes--"with lace,
and--and black braid?"
"Yes, yes; do you know it?"
"I do--I do! Mother of Sorrows have pity on me!" She crossed herself
rapidly, and walking to the window, looked out, quivering with
emotion. The two men stared at one another; then Torry walked forward
and touched the girl's arm. She shrank away with a cry.
"What do you know of that mantle?" he asked softly.
Maria hesitated and shook her head; then, evidently making up her
mind, she turned to face Torry. "I have to ask your pardon," said she
in low tones. "I doubted if the woman who met my uncle was Julia. Now
I know that it was her. I gave her that mantle. Ah, God! to think she
should be so evil!"
"We do not know that," replied Torry, accepting the explanation as
sufficient. "She may have been more sinned against than sinning. In
any case, she has paid for all her follies with her life."
"Poor wretch! And who killed her?"
"I don't know; but I am sure her lover--the man she went away to
marry--killed Mr. Grent. If I could only learn that fellow's personal
appearance! He must have done his courting here, as Julia was in your
service for so long. You never saw him, Miss?"
"No; but the servants might have done so."
"An excellent idea!" cried Torry, rubbing his hands. "Mr. Darrel, will
you be so kind as to remain here? Miss Sandoval, please take me to see
your butler; he, if anyone, will know the truth. Failing him, I'll try
the housekeeper."
"Very well, sir," said Donna Maria, rising and walking towards the
door. "I hope you'll be able to discover the truth."
"You wish to punish the assassin of your uncle?" said Darrel, more for
the sake of asking a last question than because he needed a reply.
"Punish him!" cried the girl, drawing herself up to her stately
height. "I would give ten years of my life to see a rope round his
cowardly neck!"
After which passionate speech she passed out of the room.
"Spice of temper there," chuckled Torry, and went after her, leaving
Darrel alone in the room.
The young man walked up and down to calm his spirit and quiet his
brain. Always of a passionate and sensuous nature, he had hitherto
curbed his instincts by a strong will, and subdued his love of
pleasure in order to serve his art the more faithfully. He had never
been in love, and in a somewhat cold-blooded fashion had regarded the
other sex more or less as object-studies, to be analysed mercilessly
for the creation of types in fiction. But the god of love, who will
not be denied, and who sooner or later, asserts his empire over all
born of the flesh, had come to Frank Darrel, in all his might, and the
heart-free man of an hour since was now in danger of becoming the
slave of a woman. It was incredible, Darrel argued, that he could have
fallen in love with one whom he had known scarcely an hour, who had
entered into his life only on that day. Yet, how otherwise was he able
to account for the strange excitement which possessed him? He was hot
one moment, cold the next; burning as with fever, chilled as with
ague; and ever before his eyes appeared that lovely face with the
glorious eyes and rich colouring. Donna Maria was a tropical flower,
burning and gorgeous; and the splendour of her beauty, the passion of
the spirit which flamed in her eyes, and governed the inflexions of
her voice, moved the heart of Darrel strangely. The miracle of the
man's life had occurred; and--although he scarcely knew it--he was in
love. And why should not love be born of a glance? The improbable is
always the possible.
Taken up with his own thoughts, Darrel did not observe that the man
and woman who had been walking in the garden were entering the room
through one of the French windows. An exclamation of astonishment from
the lady roused him from his brown study, and he turned to explain his
presence. As he did so, the man, a light-haired, fresh-coloured young
fellow of thirty, ran forward with a smile and outstretched hand.
"Darrel, my dear boy, is this you?" he cried heartily.
"Roderick Mortimer!" said Darrel, clasping the stranger's hand.
"Not now. I am Roderick Blake. An Irish uncle left me property on the
condition that I took his name. The property has gone, but the name
remains. No wonder you didn't recognise your old schoolfellow by it."
"I should know you anywhere; you are not altered at all."
"Faith! that's a compliment," said Blake angrily; "but it's my manners
I'm forgetting. Lydia, my dear, let me present to you an old friend
and schoolfellow, Mr. Frank Darrel, barrister and novelist, which
means that he has left the law and taken to the profits. Darrel, my
boy, Miss Lydia Hargone, who will very shortly be changed into Mrs.
Roderick Blake, of Rainbow Castle, Cloud-cuckoo Land."
"Roderick, how you do rattle on!" said Lydia, smilingly. "I am very
glad to see you, Mr. Darrel."
The governess was a fair-haired, bland woman, with grey eyes and a
rather hard mouth. She was not beautiful, but possessed an attractive
manner, and was dressed with a quiet perfection that shewed excellent
taste. In spite of her lack of good looks, there was that about
her--what the Italians call _simpatica_--which would attract at least
eight men out of ten. As she pressed Frank's hand and smiled at him
with her grey eyes, he felt that here was a woman who could have made
him love her. But Miss Hargone, as Frank judged, needed to employ the
arts of Vivien to capture hearts; whereas, as in his own case, these
same hearts were thrown at the feet of Donna Maria merely because of
her splendid beauty. Each woman was attractive in her own way.
"And what are you doing down here?" said Blake, throwing himself into
a chair. "I did not know you knew Mrs. Grent."
"Nor do I," replied Darrel flushing a little. "I came down here with a
detective."
Lydia started, and with a little shudder raised her hands in dismay.
"Not about that dreadful murder?"
"Yes, Miss Hargone about that dreadful murder. I am assisting the
detective in charge of the case to investigate it."
"Are you, now?" cried Blake, whose brogue became marked when he grew
excited. "Sure, it's not thief-catching you've taken up?"
"Oh, no; I am merely investigating the case in an amateur way."
"Have you discovered anything, Mr. Darrel," asked Lydia softly.
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "A few things," he said, "but nothing
likely to lead to the detection of the assassin."
"But there are two of them, they say," remarked Blake. "It's in the
papers. One man killed poor old Grent; the other murdered that
wretched woman."
"Well," said Darrel deliberately, "for my part I believe that both
crimes were committed by the same man."
"Really!" cried Lydia, much astonished, "How do you know?"
"It is too long to explain the theory upon which my belief is
founded," said Frank; "but I am sure that the man who killed Grent
also assassinated Julia Brawn."
"Julia Brawn!" said Blake, starting up; "why, that is the name of
Donna Maria's maid!"
"So it is; the maid who left to get married a fortnight ago," said
Lydia.
"And the maid who was murdered a week since," remarked Frank, much
amused at the astonishment of the pair.
"Well!" cried Blake, slapping his thigh, "If that doesn't beat
Bannagher; and Bannagher beats the devil! Two people from the one
house! Begad, Darrel, I'd like to help you myself! It's fine work,
man-hunting."
"You'll have to ask Mr. Torry's permission first Blake."
"Torry--who is he?"
"The detective in charge of the case," said Frank. "At present he is
with Donna Maria, examining the servants. Ah! here he comes."
At this remark quite in the style of the old transpontine drama, the
door opened and Donna Maria, followed by Torry, entered the room.
Darrel explained to the lady that he had discovered an old
schoolfellow in Mr. Roderick Blake, and presented the detective to
his friend and to Miss Hargone. This accomplished, he asked Torry if
he had been successful.
"No," said the detective dismally. "I've found out nothing. Not one of
the servants have seen the fellow."
As he spoke Torry mechanically looked at Miss Hargone's face. She was
staring at him hard; therefore, with some embarrassment, his eyes
dropped to her hands. Then he made a discovery, for on the third
finger of her right hand was a silver ring set with three blue stones.