A DILEMMA
The moment Audrey became certain of the name of the person accused by
her lover, she recalled what Mrs. Mellop had said about Sir Joseph. As
the thought came into her mind she turned very white, and leaning back
in the chair closed her eyes, feeling deadly sick. It really seemed as
though Ralph had spoken the truth, and that her father, of all people,
was guilty. No wonder the diamonds had not been stolen. Sir Joseph had
not crept into the Pink Shop to steal jewels, but to rid himself of an
undesirable wife. A nervous shiver shook the girl from head to foot,
and she almost lost consciousness. But the touch of a cold glass rim
on her lips made her open her eyes, and she saw that Shawe was
offering her some wine.
"Drink this, darling, and you will feel better," he said anxiously.
This time Audrey did not refuse, as she felt that she needed to be
sustained at the moment. Without a word she drank half the wine, and
then motioned Ralph to remove the glass. In a minute or so the colour
came back to her face, and she sat up with renewed strength.
"I am all right now," she declared firmly. "Ralph, sit down and
explain."
"What is there to explain?" said Shawe, replacing the wine-glass on
the table and resuming his former seat. "You know that I suspect Sir
Joseph, and why I suspect him."
"And for this reason you wrote the anonymous letter?"
"Yes," said the barrister, frankly. "After Perry Toat told me what
Parizade had said, and after what you mentioned about your father
going out at night--ostensibly to help the poor--I suspected him. You
mentioned your father's prowling before our Kensington Gardens
conversation. I knew if I told you face to face that you would either
be indignant with me or you would go straight to your father and make
trouble. It was my desire to keep my suspicions quiet, since they are
difficult to verify. For this reason I wrote you anonymously, and
advised you to stop the search. I knew what grief it would cause you."
Audrey leant back and looked at her lover. "I have no reason to love
my father, as you know," she said dully. "He has always been unkind to
me, and he was unkind to my poor mother; but I can't think that he
killed her."
"The evidence is slight, I admit," replied Ralph, gravely; "and
perhaps it is evidence that would not stand in a court of law. All the
same, to my mind, it certainly lays Sir Joseph open to suspicion."
"Parizade might have mistaken the smell?"
"No. Being blind, she has particularly keen olfactory nerves--her
sense of smell is almost as highly developed as that of a dog. And the
perfume of Harris tweed--if it can be called a perfume--that peaty
smell, I mean--is so strong and so characteristic that even an
ordinary person could guess that,--"
"Other people besides my father wear Harris tweed suits," interrupted
Audrey, trying to find excuses.
"Quite so. Ladies wear tailor-made dresses of it and men wear suits.
But as a rule that particular kind of cloth is mostly worn by those
who shoot, and is worn as a rule in the country. It is rarely that one
sees it in London--at all events amongst people of your father's
class."
"Yes," admitted Audrey, "father is always particular about his dress.
He goes to the City in a frock-coat and a silk hat, and invariably
dresses for dinner. In fact, he does what most people in Society do in
the way of dress. But remember that I told you how he went on the
prowl."
"Which people in Society do not do, as a rule," said Ralph. "Quite so,
my dear. But why I suspect your father is that he has quite a craze
for Harris tweed, and once or twice told me that for ordinary suits he
wears no other cloth. Besides, he certainly wants to marry Miss Pearl,
and--"
"Yes, yes, yes! I quite understand, and I admit that he might have
been lurking in the passage on that night. Certainly he was in Walpole
Lane during the evening."
"How do you know?" demanded Shawe, rather startled.
"Mrs. Mellop saw him. He was on the hither side of the lane when I
came to ask if my mother intended to remain for the night."
"Could Mrs. Mellop have been mistaken?"
"I don't think so, unfortunately," said Audrey, with a mournful look.
"She knew him so well, and also she saw him in his tweed suit early in
the evening when she came to take me to the theatre."
"I thought you told me that he was not at dinner, and went out very
early?"
"So he did," said the girl, quickly; "but Mrs. Mellop came early also,
and she passed him in the hall when he was going out. He did not stay
to dinner. It was six o'clock when he went out--about the time Mrs.
Mellop arrived. She mentioned the fact to me."
"And when did she say that she saw Sir Joseph in the lane?"
"To-day. That was one reason why I wished to see you. Mrs. Mellop has
been trying hard to get my father to marry her. Yesterday she learnt
from his own lips that he intended to marry Rosy Pearl, and lost her
temper. My father asked her to leave, and she returned to her own home
this afternoon. At our last interview she hinted that she believed my
father had something to do with the death of my mother, and stated
that she had seen him in the lane."
"Has she any other grounds upon which to base such a statement?"
"I don't think so. And I don't believe she believes what she says. It
is simply the petty spite of a woman who has been disappointed. She
can do no harm to my father in any way."
"Singly, I don't think she can," assented the barrister, thoughtfully;
"but if Parizade's evidence became public property there would be
trouble if it were taken in conjunction with what Mrs. Mellop saw."
"I don't think that Perry Toat suspects my father," said Audrey, after
a lengthy pause; "at least, she did not say that she did. She told me
to ask you for an explanation, as she declared that you seemed
disturbed by Parizade's evidence."
"And with good reason," said the barrister. "No one but you and I know
how important that evidence is, seeing that we are aware of your
father's liking for Harris tweed."
"I can't think that he is guilty, all the same," said Audrey,
tearfully.
Shawe walked up and down the room thoughtfully. "Well," he said
finally, "I have kept my suspicions from you as long as I could; but
now that you know, Audrey, I think you should question your father."
"Oh!"--she shrank back in her chair--"I dare not."
"If you don't Perry Toat may get to know what we have discovered, and
as she is anxious to gain the reward she will certainly go to Sir
Joseph herself."
Audrey shivered. "Oh, how angry he would be!"
"If he is innocent he certainly would show Miss Toat no mercy; on the
other hand, if he is guilty, he would make terms."
"I can't think that he is guilty," cried the girl, in despair. "With
all his faults, he surely would not strangle his own wife." She rose
to her feet.
"It seems incredible, but--look at the evidence. Audrey, you must
speak to your father or let me speak. But tell me one thing"--he took
her in his arms--"have you forgiven me for my strange conduct, for I
know that it seemed strange in your dear eyes?"
"Yes. I know why you acted as you did. It was to save me from grief.
And if my father is guilty," said the girl, shivering, "it certainly
will be the greatest grief of my life, as you said in the letter. How
can I marry you should my father turn out to be a murderer?"
"My darling"--Ralph held her to his heart--"I don't visit the sins of
the father on the child. If he murdered a dozen women I should still
make you my wife; and I wish you would leave the whole of this
horrible affair alone and marry me at once."
"Unless my father can exonerate himself I shall have to leave it
alone. I dare not go on with a matter which involves his honour."
"And more than that. It involves his liberty and life, and--hush!"
He stopped short to listen, and Audrey listened also. It seemed for
the moment, so still were they, that they had been changed into stone.
"It's a ring at the front door," said Ralph, anxiously.
"Don't bring anyone in," pleaded Audrey, hastily letting down her
veil.
"Trust me," replied Ralph, and left the room. He had only been gone
two minutes and Audrey heard him open the door, when there came the
sound of a loud and domineering voice. The girl recognised it at once.
"Oh"--she clasped her hands and shrank against the wall--"my father!"
It was indeed Sir Joseph who burst into the room, looking as furious
as a mad bull. Ralph was trying to detain him, but in vain. "I'll
break your head if you try to stop me," bellowed Sir Joseph, who was
beside himself with rage. "Oh, there you are, you shameless girl. It
is no use your hiding your face with that veil. I know you. I have
followed you here."
"And what if you have?" demanded Audrey, throwing up the veil and
looking at the intruder with flashing eyes.
"What if I have--what if I have," roared her father, clenching his big
hands. "You jade, do you ask me that when I find you here in this
scoundrel's rooms at ten o'clock in the evening?"
Ralph closed the door with a crash and faced the millionaire. "I am
not a scoundrel."
"You are. Because I declined to allow you to see Audrey at my house
you have decoyed her here."
"I came here of my own free will," said Audrey, who was deadly pale
but quite firm.
"Then you go away at my free will," said her father, advancing. "I
have a cab below. Come away at once. Oh, you minx! You little thought
that I told Ranger to watch you." (Ranger was one of Sir Joseph's
footmen.) "Yes, he did watch you, and by my orders. He saw you leave
the house, and followed you to hear you tell the cabman to drive to
the Temple. When he informed me I guessed that you had come to see
this--this--" Branwin could not think of a name bad enough to call
this barrister, so contented himself by shaking his fist furiously.
"You set one of your servants to spy on your daughter?" said Audrey,
with a look of profound scorn.
"Yes, I did, and it is lucky for you that I took such care of your
reputation, you hussy! I can silence the man, but if anyone else came
to know of your presence here, think what the world would say."
"I don't care what the world says," said Audrey, contemptuously.
"I care. It is my good name you are dragging through the mud."
"What of your own good name which your own wicked actions are dragging
in the mud?" cried Ralph, suddenly, and faced the millionaire
defiantly.
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"I shall tell you what I mean. I would not do so but that you are
treating Audrey so vilely. You were in the Pink Shop on the night your
wife was murdered. Deny it if you can."
Branwin staggered against the wall, and glared at the speaker. "Deny
it if I can!" he echoed wrathfully. "Of course I can deny it. You
fool, what do you mean by saying such a thing?"
"You were in the Pink Shop on that night," said Ralph, doggedly.
"I was not."
"At all events, you were in the lane," said Audrey, suddenly.
"You also! You also!" Sir Joseph raised his big arm, and would have
struck his daughter, but that Audrey swerved and Ralph caught him by
the wrist. "Let me go! Let me go, hang, you!" cried Sir Joseph, only
he used a much worse oath.
Ralph was the slighter man, but by a clever trick he succeeded in
taking the millionaire off his guard and sent him spinning across the
room.
"If you dare to lay a finger on Audrey I'll throw you out of the
window!" said the barrister, and flung his arm round the weeping girl.
Branwin glared, and wiped his heated forehead. "She and you accuse me
of--of murder?" he gasped, trembling with rage.
"No. We simply say that you were in Walpole Lane and in the Pink Shop
on the night of the murder. Perhaps you can explain?"
"I was not there, confound you! In the lane--yes, I was in the lane,
but I did not enter the shop. By what right do you accuse me of the
crime?"
"I say again, as I said before, that I do not accuse you of the
crime," replied Ralph, firmly. "But you wore a suit of Harris tweed on
that night?"
"I did. I always wear Harris tweed. It is my favourite cloth. Well?"
"One of the girls in the Pink Shop--a blind girl who has a very keen
sense of smell--told the detective that I am employing to learn the
truth how on the night of the murder she smelt the peaty scent of
Harris tweed."
"What has that got to do with me? Plenty of people wear Harris tweed
suits."
"Plenty of people don't wish to get rid of their wives," snapped
Shawe.
"Ah! so you do accuse me?" said Sir Joseph, who was now calming down.
"And my motive for wishing to get rid of my wife?"
"Miss Rosy Pearl can best answer that question."
"What do you know of Miss Pearl? Speak of her with respect, as she is
to be my wife."
"So I said," answered Ralph, calmly; "and she was stopping in the Pink
Shop also on that night."
Branwin winced and became very calm. It was wonderful to see how
rapidly he cooled down from his hot anger. "Miss Pearl was in the shop
as a client of Madame Coralie's," he said with an attempt at dignity.
"You can have no grounds for saying that she had anything to do with
the matter."
"I never said so," rejoined Ralph, drily, "and I only suspect you
because of your wearing Harris tweed. Someone clothed in such a cloth
certainly lurked in the passage on that night. Was that person you?"
"No," said Sir Joseph, coolly; "and I defy you to prove it."
"Oh! papa, we don't wish to prove it," said Audrey, quickly. "Your
word denying your presence there is sufficient."
Branwin turned on his daughter with a great show of courtesy. "Pardon
me, but I have not the honour of your acquaintance," he said politely.
"You are a stranger to me."
"Papa, what do you mean?"
"I mean that you have left my house to see your lover against my
wishes. I now cast you off, and you can stay here. You shall never
re-enter the home you have disgraced."
Audrey sank into a chair with a cry of dismay, and Ralph advanced
furiously on the millionaire.
"Sir Joseph, you can't mean this?"
"I do mean it. Audrey has disobeyed me, and, moreover, in conjunction
with you, she has accused me of committing a murder."
"I did not--I did not!" cried Audrey, wringing her hands.
"Pardon me, but you did," said Branwin, still ironically polite. "You
can take your own way henceforth, and I should advise you to change
your name as speedily as possible. You can't possibly care to keep my
name, when I am in danger of arrest as the murderer of my own wife.
Mr. Shawe"--he bowed to the barrister--"I congratulate you on your
approaching marriage."
"But, Sir Joseph--"
"Not a word more. My doors are closed on that woman"--he pointed
insultingly to Audrey. "Good-night--both of you!" and with a final bow
he walked heavily out of the room. A moment later, and they heard the
door bang.