DORA IS STARTLED.
The next day Dora excused her absence to Joad on the plea of a visit
to a friend living the other side of Canterbury, and stated
furthermore that she would not return until late that evening. It was
absolutely necessary to make some such statement, as she knew not what
conclusion would be drawn by the old man did he learn that her true
destination was London. She suspected him of knowing more of Lady
Burville than he chose to confess; and, with such knowledge, he might
guess her intention. If so, it might be that he would warn Lady
Burville, did he know her address, which was by no means unlikely;
therefore Dora was resolved to keep him in ignorance of her plan. To
blind Joad was no easy task, as he was artful, dangerous, and--she
more than suspected--merciless.
To avert all suspicion, she rode to Selling on her bicycle, and there
caught the early train to London. Resolved on economy, she purchased a
third-class ticket, and had just time to stumble into a carriage
before the train started. Then she became aware that she had but one
companion in the compartment--a man. He turned his head as the train
began to move, and she saw with astonishment and some annoyance that
it was Mr. Pride. "Never mind," she thought, returning his greeting
with a stiff nod; "he can tell Joad on his return if he pleases. It
will then be too late for the old man to do anything, as I shall have
seen Lady Burville."
Like Joad, this man was another _protégé_ of Edermont's, who had
procured for him a small post in a private school at Chillum. Pride
was not unlike his late patron, being short and insignificant-looking,
with a white beard, hardly so luxuriant as that of Edermont, and
silvery-white hair. In the distance the resemblance was striking, but
a closer inspection showed the difference between the two men, as
Pride was plump and rosy, with mild eyes and a good-natured smile. He
rubbed one fat hand over the other, and saluted Miss Carew in his usual
cheery fashion.
"I am glad to see you looking so well, Miss Carew," he said brightly.
"You go to London?"
"Only for the day, Mr. Pride," replied Dora coldly.
"Ah! no doubt you wish to get away from those pests who swarm round
the Red House in the hope of gaining a fortune."
"Those amateur detectives?" said Dora quietly; "do you think they will
discover the truth?"
"Who knows?" was Pride's reply; "they will do their best to do so.
Fifty thousand pounds is worth the earning."
Dora considered for a moment, then turned on him suddenly.
"You were at Canterbury on the night the murder was committed?"
"Till close on eleven," returned Pride easily; "then I walked back to
Chillum."
"And you went into Mr. Joad's house?"
"I did. I was with him at one o'clock."
"Did you meet anyone on a bicycle as you walked to Chillum from
Canterbury?"
"Why," replied the schoolmaster after a moment's pause, "I met two
people, and each rode a bicycle. One, a man, was riding towards
Chillum; the other, a woman, was making for Canterbury."
"Did you know who they were?"
"I, my dear Miss Carew!" said Pride in great surprise--"why, no. I
took no particular notice of them, in the first place; and in the
second, they flitted along so swiftly and noiselessly that I was
hardly aware of their passing."
"I suppose you have no clue to the assassin?" said Dora abruptly.
"No. If I had, I should not scruple to earn the fortune."
"Can you conjecture the motive for the crime, Mr. Pride?"
"I--am--afraid--not," said Pride slowly. "I knew Mr. Edermont well;
but there was nothing in his past life likely to endanger his safety."
"He thought otherwise. Mr. Edermont was always haunted by the dread of
a violent death."
"I knew that, Miss Carew. Monomania, my dear lady--monomania."
"It could not be monomania if it came true," said Dora impetuously.
"Why not?" replied Pride in an argumentative tone. "Monomania is the
dwelling on one particular idea until it fills the thoughts and life
of the thinker. Mr. Edermont may have had reason to suppose that his
life was in danger; but the original cause may have passed away.
Nevertheless, the habit may have continued; and so," added Pride with
a shrug, "we may reasonably ascribe our friend's death to a creature
of his imagination."
"Your argument is weak," replied Dora spiritedly. "Mr. Edermont
believed that he would die a violent death, and what he believed came
to pass. That does away with all your sophistries."
"But, Miss Carew, the cause of his fear was done away with before your
guardian died."
"How do you know that?"
"Joad told me. We were discussing the possibility of the existence of
this unknown enemy whom Mr. Edermont feared; and Joad mentioned that
Mr. Pallant had set that fear at rest."
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Pallant told him his enemy was dead?"
"Joad thought that such was the case."
"Then you must see," cried Dora triumphantly, "that such a supposition
does away with your theory of monomania. Evidently Mr. Edermont's fear
was founded on no fancy, but on fact."
"Well, I will agree with you for the sake of argument;" said Pride
hastily; "but granted that all you say is true, it brings us no nearer
the solution of the mystery. Admitting that the enemy whom Mr.
Edermont feared really existed: if such enemy died, as we suppose Mr.
Pallant told our poor friend, who killed him, and verified his
lifelong prediction that he would come to a violent end?"
"I understand your meaning," was Dora's reply; "but I do not think all
the talking in the world will aid us to discover the actual assassin.
What is your belief, Mr. Pride?"
"I cannot say that I have any particular belief, Miss Carew. These
criminal problems are too intricate for me."
"Don't you wish to earn the reward?"
"I should not mind doing so," replied Pride, with a good-natured
laugh. "No man in his senses would lose the chance of gaining fifty
thousand pounds. All the same, I am not clever enough to win it. I do
not see where to begin."
"Do you think that the manuscript in the bureau was the motive for the
crime?"
"No. Why should anyone have killed Mr. Edermont to gain a worthless
manuscript?"
"It might not have been worthless to the assassin," objected Dora; "it
contained the story of Mr. Edermont's past life."
"But what has his past life to do with his violent death?"
"Everything. You forget that Mr. Edermont believed himself to be a
threatened man."
"And so we get back to the starting-point of our argument!" laughed
Pride.
Dora laughed also; and, finding that they were arguing in a circle,
changed that particular line of conversation.
"You knew Mr. Edermont well?" she asked, after a pause.
"Yes--for quite fifteen years. He was very good to me, and helped me
to the post I now hold."
"Did you know Mr. Edermont at Christchurch?"
"Christchurch?" repeated Pride slowly. "No; I did not know him then.
Did he live there?"
"I believe so," said Dora curtly, and closed the conversation.
Evidently there was nothing to be learnt from Pride. His knowledge of
Edermont only extended back fifteen years; and Dora believed that the
motive of the crime was to be found as far back as twenty. Moreover,
if he knew anything conclusive, he would be certain to utilize it for
his own benefit, and thus gain the reward. Under these circumstances
Dora hardly regarded Pride in the light of an important factor in the
course she was pursuing, and took no further notice of him from that
point of view. They chatted on indifferent subjects until the train
arrived at Victoria Station. Here Pride took his leave, and Dora went
forward on her mission.
Jersey Place was easily found by asking a convenient policeman. Dora
was impressed with the magnificence of the houses and by the
aristocratic seclusion of the square. If possible, No. 22 was even
more imposing than the surrounding mansions, and as Dora rang the bell
she could not help thinking that she was undertaking a difficult task.
Here was a rich and titled lady, evidently a power in society, fenced
round, as it were, by wealth and position. Yet she proposed to accuse
this powerful personage of a crime; she intended to save her lover at
the cost of casting down this formidable goddess from her pedestal. It
was a dangerous, almost a hopeless, task, but Dora did not shrink from
its fulfilment. Too much depended upon the issue of the coming
interview for her to retreat at the eleventh hour.
She was introduced by the footman into a small anteroom on the left of
the entrance-hall, and there she remained while he took her card up to
Lady Burville. In a few moments he returned with the information that
his mistress would see her. Dora followed the man upstairs, and was
shown into the drawing-room. It was empty at the moment, and she had
ample leisure to survey the splendid room, and its still more splendid
furniture. The apartment was sumptuous in the extreme. Everything that
art and luxury could supply was gathered together between these four
walls. The East and the West had contributed to adorn this house. It
was more like a palace than the residence of a private person, and
gave Dora large ideas of the wealth of Sir John Burville.
His portrait--as she guessed--hung in a conspicuous part of the room.
A strong, burly man he appeared to be, with a shrewd, coarse face.
Parvenu was writ large on his whole personality, and Dora could guess
from his lowering looks that he possessed a violent temper. The
portrait was not prepossessing, and she left it to look at the picture
of a frail and delicate woman. This, without doubt, was Lady Burville,
and her suspicion was confirmed in a few minutes, for as she was
contemplating the portrait the door opened to admit the original.
Lady Burville was small, slender, and usually as daintily tinted as a
statuette of Dresden china. But at the present moment her face was
pale, and her eyes, filled with alarm, looked apprehensively at Dora
from under the loose fringe of her golden hair. Arrayed in a tea-gown
of some white filmy material, she looked like a ghost as she glided
towards the girl. Dora put these terrified looks down to a secret
knowledge of her guilt, and believed in her own mind that Lady
Burville had really slain Mr. Edermont. But again, she thought, it was
impossible that so frail a creature could have struck so deadly a
blow. Yet, why was she so terrified?
"Miss Carew, I believe?" said Lady Burville, trying to smile with
white lips. "Will you not be seated?"
"No, thank you, Lady Burville," replied Dora stiffly. "I am obliged to
you for granting me this interview."
"I am only too pleased. You are a ward of Mr. Edermont's, I believe?"
"I _was_ his ward, Lady Burville."
"Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I forgot about that terrible murder."
Dora deliberately produced the pearl brooch from her pocket, and held
it out towards the other.
"Perhaps this will refresh your memory?" she said slowly.
"My brooch!" said Lady Burville in surprise. "How did you come by it?
How did you find it?"
"I did not find it, but Dr. Scott did."
"Really! Where?"
"On the floor of the room in which Mr. Edermont was killed."
Lady Burville's face turned even whiter than it was before.
"I--I do not understand," she stammered, shrinking back.
"I can explain," continued Dora pitilessly. "You visited the Red House
on the night of the second of August; you dropped this brooch there,
and you there killed my guardian."
"No, no! I--I did not! Who dares to say such a thing?"
"I dare," said Dora calmly. "I say it again. You killed Mr. Edermont."
"What--what proof have you?" gasped Lady Burville, seizing a chair to
keep herself from falling.
"The proof of this brooch; the evidence of Dr. Scott, who met you
returning from the Red House. You need not deny it, Lady Burville. I
believe you to be guilty, and I shall denounce you."
"No, no! You cannot--you dare not!"
"Why?"
Lady Burville fell at her feet in a passion of tears.
"I am your mother," she cried, "your unhappy mother!"