WHAT AUDREY OVERHEARD
The two young people remained alone, looking at one another, and
feeling quite aghast at the position in which they now found
themselves. They had not expected Sir Joseph's appearance, much less
that he would behave in so brutal a manner. Moreover, he had repelled
the hinted accusation so calmly, and had admitted so freely that he
had been in Walpole Lane, that both Audrey and Ralph felt certain he
was completely innocent. Certainly, they had not directly accused him
of committing the crime--the girl especially would have been horrified
at the mere idea--but Sir Joseph had taken what they said to mean that
they suspected him, and so had revenged himself in the cruel way he
had done.
The bang of the door startled both from the momentary state of stupor
into which the unexpected behaviour of Branwin had plunged them.
Audrey, with a white face and startled eyes, looked at her lover.
"What is to be done now?" she asked in a low voice.
"You must drive back home at once," said Ralph, determinedly.
She shook her head. "It is useless. My father will go straight home
and give orders that I am not to be admitted."
"Oh, that is impossible. Think of the scandal."
"Papa does not mind the scandal. Already he has shown how far he is
prepared to go by having me watched by Ranger. Oh"--she clenched her
hand--"think of the disgrace of it all!"
"Then you must stay the night at some hotel."
"I cannot--I have no baggage. What hotel would take me in with no
baggage? I have very little money too, and only the clothes I stand up
in."
"Oh, the money doesn't matter, my darling. I can provide you with what
you require," said Ralph, hastily; then muttered through his teeth:
"But it is a confoundedly awkward situation in any case. Your father
is a brute."
"He is what he has always been," said Audrey, with a tired sigh, for
the late conversation had quite broken her up--"a man who has always
had his own way. There is only one thing to be done"--and she rose.
"What is that?" asked Shawe, hopefully.
"I must go to the Pink Shop and throw myself on the mercy of my aunt."
Ralph brightened. "You clever darling to think of that," he said,
looking at his watch. "It's half-past ten o'clock. I wonder if she
will be still up?"
"I daresay; if not, we can rouse her. Come, Ralph"--she pulled down
her veil to hide a very white face--"let us go at once. Oh, I do hope
that my father will say nothing of my being here to anyone. I now see
how rash I have been. It's terrible."
"Darling, I really don't think your father will say anything; for very
shame he cannot. He will account for your absence by saying that you
refused to obey him with regard to this marriage with Anvers, and that
he turned you out. Everyone who knows what an animal he is will
believe this version. I am quite sure that your visit here will never
be known."
Thus comforted, and seeing the commonsense view taken by Shawe, Audrey
went down the stairs with her lover, and they passed out of the great
block of buildings and through the Gardens. The porter was not
visible, and as Audrey wore such a thick veil, it was not likely that
he would be able to recognise her on any future occasion. In Fleet
Street the barrister procured a cab, and they drove westward in
silence. The whole thing seemed like a nightmare, and Audrey shivered
like a leaf. It was terrible to think that she had no home. If Madame
Coralie refused to take her in, Heaven only knew what she could do;
but she had every hope that her aunt would stand by her at this
crisis, particularly as she seemed to hate Sir Joseph.
"Audrey darling, I think we must get married," said Ralph, after a
long silence; "things can't go on in this way."
"But your career?" said Audrey, faintly.
"Never mind my career. Your father has deserted you, so you must
become my wife, in order that I may have the right to protect you.
Madame Coralie can keep you with her until we can arrange matters."
"But if Mrs. Mellop comes to hear of--"
"When you are my wife no one will dare to say a word," said Ralph,
decidedly. "If anyone does, he or she will have to reckon with me.
Besides, as I told you before, your father, brutal as he is, will not
be such a fool as to soil the name of his own daughter. Popularity is
the breath of his nostrils, and people would cry out on him if he
talked of your visit to me."
"Yes." Audrey felt cheered when Ralph talked in this way. "I think you
are right. But I do hope my aunt will take me in."
"From what you told me of the interview I think she will, dear. She
seems to hate Sir Joseph in a very healthy manner. Audrey, I really
don't know how you came to have such a father. I don't believe that
you are his daughter. There must be some mistake."
"I wish I were anyone else's daughter indeed," said the girl, sighing.
"You will soon be my wife, so that will settle everything," said
Ralph, as the cab turned into Walpole Lane. "Here we are, dearest.
There is a light in the upstairs window, so Madame Coralie has not yet
retired."
Having dismissed the cab, Shawe rang the bell, and shortly Badoura
appeared to open the door, and to look with astonishment at the pair.
"Will you tell Madame Coralie that Miss Branwin wishes to see her,"
said Shawe. "She is just returning from the theatre, and we called in
here on our way to Camden Hill."
As Audrey wore a long cloak over her dress Badoura could not see that
she was in walking costume, and quite believed the story. Of course,
she knew who Shawe was, since that young gentleman had accompanied
Miss Branwin on the morning when the death of the poor woman had been
discovered. She, therefore, readily accepted the false explanation as
a true one, and invited the two into the shop while she went upstairs
to Madame Coralie, who was, it appeared, working late in the
still-room at some newly-invented lotion. In the perfumed and
dimly-lighted shop the lovers waited.
"That girl does not suspect the truth, you see," whispered Ralph,
hurriedly.
"Thanks to your clever explanation," replied Audrey, in the same low
voice. "But what am I to say when I stay here all night?"
"Your aunt will invent an explanation. Don't trouble. Here she is."
Even as Shawe spoke the heavy footfall of the woman was heard, and she
came into the shop hurriedly. Her eyes, which were visible above the
black silk of the yashmak, looked startled and anxious, although the
rest of her face could not be seen. Evidently, and with very good
reason, she was alarmed by this late and unexpected visit.
"Aunt Flora," began Audrey, and had only uttered the name, when Madame
Coralie pointed to Shawe with an alarmed gesture. "Oh, that is all
right!" went on the girl, rapidly. "He knows all about it. I told you
that I would tell him; don't you remember?"
"Yes," said Madame Coralie, in her harsh voice, and peering at the
young man anxiously, "I gave you permission to tell him. But mind you
hold your tongue, Mr. Shawe." Then, without waiting for a reply, she
turned to Audrey: "What is the matter that you come here at this
hour?"
"My father has turned me out of the house, Aunt Flora, and I come to
you for shelter," said Audrey, rapidly. "I have nowhere to go."
Madame Coralie clutched her yashmak and stamped her foot. When she
spoke her voice was almost inarticulate with rage. "Do you mean to say
that Joseph has dared to turn you from your home at this hour?"
"Yes." And Audrey, assisted by Shawe, rapidly related all that had
taken place, although they both suppressed, for obvious reasons, any
account of the suspicions they entertained on the evidence of
Parizade's keen sense of smell. "So you see," ended the girl, with a
sob, "that unless you take me in I have no place to shelter my head."
"My dear!" Madame Coralie made as though to catch her niece in her
arms, but checked herself abruptly. "Of course you shall stay here as
long as you like. But Badoura told me you had come from the theatre."
"My excuse for this midnight visit," said Ralph, quickly; "and now,
Madame, you must invent some reason for Audrey stopping here for the
night."
"Oh, that is easy enough"--she stepped back and looked at the slender
figure of the girl, scarcely visible in the dim light--"you are too
thin, Miss Branwin, and you wish me to treat you."
"Will Badoura accept that excuse?" asked Audrey, timidly.
"Yes," said Madame, bluntly; "she will accept any excuse that I like
to give her. If she doesn't she loses her situation. Don't trouble,
Miss--"
"Why don't you call me Audrey, Aunt Flora?"
"Because I don't want the relationship known," said the woman,
promptly; "it is just as well, therefore, that I should call you Miss
Branwin. But we can't stay talking here all night. Go away, Mr. Shawe,
and don't come here again until I give you permission."
"But I want to see Audrey."
"You can do so when she walks in Kensington Gardens as usual," replied
Madame Coralie, sharply; "but if you come here people will talk, and
the quieter this business is kept the better it will be for everyone."
"But if papa talks"--began Audrey, only to be cut short.
"Papa won't talk," said Madame Coralie, in a hard, dry voice. "He will
have quite enough to occupy his mind in marrying Miss Rosy Pearl--that
is, if he ever does marry the creature."
"Madame"--Ralph started forward--"what do you mean?"
"Never mind; go away at once." Madame unlocked the door. "It is too
late to chatter, and Miss Branwin looks quite worn out."
Shawe admitted the truth of this speech, and after a farewell embrace,
at which Madame Coralie looked benignly, he took his leave. When the
door was once more closed, Audrey followed her aunt up the stairs to
the still-room, wherein the four assistants were working.
"You can all go to bed now," said Madame Coralie, with a glance at the
clock on the mantelpiece. "Zobeide"--she used her fingers at this
point--"you can go to bed. Badoura, Miss Branwin is staying here for
the night. We spoke, when she saw me the other day, about treating her
for the figure, as she is much too thin. She only made up her mind to
come to-night. See that the bedroom opposite--No. 10--is made ready,
Badoura."
"Yes, Madame," said Badoura; and, whatever she may have thought of the
young lady's unexpected decision to remain for the night, she
certainly showed no astonishment in her face as she disappeared. The
other three girls departed swiftly, evidently glad to get to bed, as
they were tired with their work. Audrey and her aunt were left alone,
and the girl would have spoken.
"No," said Madame Coralie, quickly, raising her hand, "don't speak, or
you will faint. You are highly strung, my dear, and this position is
too much for you. Get a night's rest, and we can talk in the morning."
"But I must thank you, Aunt Flora, for your kindness."
"My kindness!" said the other, bitterly, and her harsh voice took on a
softer note. "It is a kindness your coming to me, to cheer me in my
loneliness. I hope you will stay long."
"But you have your husband, Aunt Flora."
"Eddy--oh, yes; but he does not sleep in this place. I found him such
a nuisance that I gave him money to take chambers. I see very little
of him, as I found what a mistake I had made in marrying him. He cares
nothing for me, but a great deal for what money I have. Don't speak of
him."
Before Audrey could say anything more Badoura returned with the
information that the bedroom was ready. Madame Coralie, who seemed to
be a singularly capable woman who knew her own mind, at once insisted
that her visitor should retire. So it was that in a very short space
of time Audrey found herself in a comfortable bed. For a few moments
she mused on the strange chance that had brought her to sleep in the
very house wherein her mother had been murdered; then the great
fatigue she felt overcame her and she fell into a profound slumber,
which lasted until the morning. So deep it was that she did not even
dream.
At ten o'clock next morning she awoke, and found her aunt standing
beside her with a cup of tea. Madame Coralie explained how she had
looked in once or twice before, but that Audrey had been sleeping so
quietly that she had not had the heart to waken her.
"Drink this tea and take another sleep," advised Madame Coralie,
wisely; "as the more you sleep after last night's experience the
better you will feel."
Audrey, who still felt languid, willingly consented, and Madame went
out quietly. She did not, however, through absence of mind, quite
close the door, and Audrey was therefore wakened some time later by
the sound of two voices conversing softly. At once she remembered that
the still-room was opposite to the bedroom she occupied. Evidently its
door was open, and, as her own door was not closed, she could hear
very plainly. Half awake and half asleep she listened, not meaning to
eavesdrop, but simply because she felt too tired to close the door or
to give any evidence of her presence.
The voices were those of a man and a woman, and Audrey recognised the
latter one as that of Badoura. But who the man was she could not
guess.
"You are very cruel," said Badoura, addressing her companion softly.
"You are tired of me, I am sure."
"Well, you always worry me so," said the man's voice, gruffly. "I
can't be always running after you."
"You would not have said that once, Eddy," replied Badoura, and the
name suddenly enlightened Audrey to the fact that the forewoman was
conversing with Madame Coralie's scampish husband. Ashamed of
listening, even half involuntarily, the girl would have risen to close
the bedroom door, when the next sentence of Badoura made her change
her mind.
"If you are going to throw me over," cried Badoura, passionately, "I
shall tell all I know."
"What do you know?" demanded Eddy, with a sneer. "There's nothing much
you can tell my wife, if that is what you mean. She thinks that I am
all that is bad, my dear silly girl."
"And so you are," snapped Badoura, sharply. "But does she know that
you put back the clock in the still-room half an hour on the night
Lady Branwin--"
"It's a confounded lie!" gasped Eddy Vail, interrupting.
"It's true, and you know it," said Badoura, triumphantly. "I was
behind the curtain with Parizade working when you came in about five
minutes to eight o'clock. Parizade is blind, and saw nothing, but I
did. You put back the hand of the clock to 7.30."
"What if I did?" stammered Eddy, evidently trying to bluff the girl.
"What if you did?" cried Badoura, shrilly. "Why, it means that you
were downstairs at the time Lady Branwin was murdered. You stayed
until the clock hand was again nearly at eight, and then your wife
came up, so that you were able to prove an alibi. I said nothing
because I loved you, but since you are going to treat me like dirt I
shall tell the police."
"You dare, and I'll kill you!" said Vail between his teeth.
"As you killed Lady Branwin," scoffed Badoura, who was in a towering
rage.
"I didn't kill her."
"Yes you did, and you stole the diamonds, and--Hush! there's Madame."
Then Audrey heard Badoura quickly leave the room, and the sound of
Eddy throwing himself into a chair. She gasped with horror. Was he the
criminal after all? The question was a terrible one, but the answer
seemed certain.