CATINKA.
Before Iris departed for Barnstead with her stepfather, she contrived
to have a short talk with Paul. The girl was touched by the kindly way
in which her old playfellow had behaved to Dr. Lester and herself in
their trouble; and she wished to thank him for his disinterested zeal.
Seizing the opportunity when her step-father was conversing with Miss
Clyde, she took Mexton by the hand.
"How can I ever thank you for all you have done?" she said.
Her face was flushed with a rosy hue, her eyes sparkled like stars;
and at the moment, stirred by generous emotion, Iris Link was a
beautiful woman. Paul had never noted the fact before--perhaps from
long familiarity with her face, and an unavoidable comparison of it
with the brilliant beauty of the dead Milly. The revelation of the
soul which rendered her beautiful came on him with unexpected force,
and he wondered how he could have been so blind as not to have admired
her before. In that moment love germinated with unexpected suddenness
in his soul; and he pressed the girl's hand warmly.
"Don't thank me at all, my dear," he said in a low voice. "I am only
too glad to help you and yours."
"Will you come to Barnstead this evening, Paul?"
"No, Iris. I have a great deal of work to get through before going to
London."
"You are going to London?"
"To-morrow morning. I fancy I have a clue to the identity of the
person who killed Milly."
"Does the clue guide you to London?"
"Yes. I have ascertained that a third person was in the Winding Lane
on that night when Milly and Lovel met."
"Who is the person?"
"Catinka, the Polish violinist," replied Paul; and forthwith he told
Iris all that he had learned regarding the rainbow feather from Dr.
Lester.
"It certainly looks as though she had been there," said Iris
thoughtfully; "but it is impossible that she could have killed my
sister."
"Why? From all accounts she is in love with Herne."
"I don't believe she is!" insisted Miss Link. "Mr. Herne's explanation
to my father is far more likely. I fancy her association with him is
founded on patriotic grounds. She knows that he is rich and
enthusiastic, and wishes to secure him as a member of her ridiculous
society. With his money she could do a great deal towards her object
of inciting a revolt against Russia."
"That is very probable. But on these grounds I do not see why she came
to Barnstead on the night of the murder."
"Nor I. You must ask her that yourself, Paul," added Iris suddenly.
"Is not this the lady you love?"
Paul blushed in his turn. "It is Catinka whom I admired," he replied
with an emphasis on the last word; "but I do not love her--at least,
not now. My fancy for her has passed away. My heart is free--far more
so than yours, Iris."
"What do you mean?" asked his companion, a trifle coldly.
"Why," said Paul in surprise--"surely you know! Do you not love Darcy
Herne?"
"No, Paul; my fancy for him has died away, like yours for Catinka."
"For what reason?"
"One which satisfies myself," said Iris resolutely, "but one I cannot
tell you."
Paul looked searchingly at her, but the cold look on her face baffled
his scrutiny. "I do not understand you," he said, turning away his
eyes.
"I don't understand myself," replied Iris bitterly, "but some day I
may do so. At present, my dear Paul, you may be sure that my heart is
as free as your own."
"Our hearts may not always remain in such a forlorn condition," said
Paul suggestively.
Iris looked at him suddenly, and saw something in the expression of
his face which made her blush. With the evasive instinct of a woman,
she turned hastily away.
"See--papa is going," she said hurriedly. "I must follow him.
Good-bye, Paul."
"Good-bye, Iris," was his reply; and when the two went away from the
house with Miss Clyde--who had to return to Barnstead also--Paul stood
looking after them with a smile on his lips.
"Strange if Iris should turn out to be my fate after all," he said to
himself; and then went off to the office of the "Tory Times." His
presence there was much needed, and he had to discard all speculation
about Iris and a possible wedding, in order to plunge into
journalistic work connected mostly with the dry subjects of politics.
The next morning, having finished his work, and obtained the necessary
leave from his editor, Paul went up to London by the express train. It
was noon when he arrived at Victoria, and he had luncheon in a Strand
restaurant before calling on Catinka. Here Fate served him well, for
she brought him into contact with a rising musician, who might be
supposed to know all that there was to be known about the Polish
violinist. Signor Baldini was a young man of Italian blood on the
maternal side, and he had taken the maiden name of his mother, as more
likely to look well on music paper. He had written one or two songs
which had been more or less successful, and now he contemplated
composing the music of a comic opera, which was--in his own
estimation--to place him on a level with Sir Arthur Sullivan. Paul was
hailed cheerily by this individual, and they were soon in confidential
discourse.
After a chat about the comic opera, and people to whom they were both
known, Paul ventured to ask his companion concerning Catinka. At this
question Signor Baldini shrugged his shoulders.
"I have not seen her lately," he said, candidly. "She does not play so
frequently as she once did. You see her name rarely on the St. James's
Hall programmes now."
"Have the public got tired of her, then?"
"Not that I know of. I rather fancy it is she who has grown tired of
the public. The fact is, Mexton, that charming young lady has a bee in
her bonnet."
"What sort of a bee?"
"A political bee, that is intended to sting the Autocrat of all the
Russias. Catinka is a Pole, you know, and of late she has been mixed
up in politics of the Socialistic sort. I never take up a paper
without expecting to see her name figuring as the heroine who has
thrown a bomb at the Czar."
"Is she known to be a Socialist?"
"Well, it isn't in the papers, you know; but it is pretty generally
talked about. Catinka has a kind of society, of which she is the
leader."
"The Rainbow Feather Society?"
"Yes. I see you have heard of it, even in your native wilds. Did you
ever hear so absurd a name, or imagined so ridiculous a symbol? A
feather plucked from a goose and dyed in bars of red, blue, yellow,
and green. Symbolical, no doubt, but no one outside the society knows
the meanings thereof."
"Who belongs to this association?"
"Long-haired Poles and Russian exiles, and all that sort," replied the
signor in a tone of disgust; "the most respectable member is a fellow
called Darcy Herne."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes. I met him once at a musical party given by the lady. At least,
it was called so," said Baldini, correcting himself; "but I daresay it
was a gathering of conspirators. This Herne was there, and seemed a
cracked kind of creature, full of whims. Believes in equality, and
looking after the oppressed, and all that sort of rubbish. Religious,
too, and has the Bible at his finger ends. Do you know him?" asked the
musician in his turn.
"I do. He is the Squire of Barnstead, near which village I live."
"Then why doesn't he look after his preserves instead of mixing
himself up in Catinka's mad schemes? She'll get him into trouble."
"I met her once," said Paul thoughtfully, "but I had not much
opportunity of reading her character. What kind of young woman is
she?"
"Oh, one of the Charlotte Corday sort!"
"She lives in Bloomsbury Square, I believe?"
"Yes--Number one thousand," said Baldini, rising. "If you intend to
call on her, I warn you, my friend, you won't be well received. She
cares for nothing but Anarchists."
"And Herne?"
"Oh, that's nonsense. She only cares for him because she wants his
money to work up a plot against the Czar."
"Then there is no love in the matter?"
"Love!" echoed the signor contemptuously. "If you knew Catinka well
you wouldn't ask so absurd a question. She's got no more heart than
one of those bombs her friends manufacture. Well, good-day, Mexton;
glad to see you. Sorry to go, but awfully busy," and Signor Baldini
rattled himself out of the door, as though his life depended on speedy
movement.
Left alone, Paul finished his luncheon thoughtfully. The explanation
given by Baldini seemed to put the guilt of Catinka out of the
question; at all events, it removed the sole motive she could have for
such a wicked act--that of jealousy. If she was not in love with
Herne, she could not be jealous at hearing--as she must have heard--of
his engagement to Milly; and if she was not jealous, she had no reason
to commit so preposterous a crime. Yet she had been in Barnstead
Church on the night of the crime--as was proved by the Marborough
friend of Mrs. Drass--and she had been on the fatal spot also, as was
confirmed by the evidence of the rainbow feather picked up by Herne.
What was the badge of a political society doing in the Winding Lane?
and why had Herne seemed so startled when he picked it up? It was
these questions which Paul wished to ask of Catinka; in the answering
of which he hoped to find a clue to the assassin. He was convinced
that the solution of the mystery was connected with the rainbow
feather.
Catinka, as he found, occupied the first floor of a gloomy old mansion
in Bloomsbury Square. When Paul ascended the wide staircase, which had
borne the tread of Georgian belles and beaux, he found himself before
a massive door, which bore a brass plate, upon which the name
"Catinka" was inscribed. No one knew what was the Polish girl's
surname, as she preferred to be known by that which she had made
famous in the world of music. Perhaps she intended to reveal who she
was when heading the intended revolt against Russia; but in all
artistic London she was known only by her first name; and then, as
everybody stated, "Catinka" by itself looked well on the bills.
A sallow maidservant with rather a foreign air opened the door, and
conveyed the card of Paul to her mistress. Speedily she returned, and
led him into a cosy sitting-room with two windows which looked out on
to the grimy trees in the centre of the square. It did not appear like
the den of a conspirator, for the paper was of a cheerful pattern, the
chairs and sofa were covered with rose-sprigged chintz, and on the
walls were portraits, signed by the leading musicians and singers of
the day. Judging from the number of these, Catinka was a favourite
with her fellow-artistes.
There was also a grand piano, covered with loose sheets of music, and
a violin lying carelessly on the top; but what attracted Paul most was
a fan of stained feathers, which was spread out in front of the mirror
over the mantelpiece. The four colours mentioned by Baldini stretched
in bars across the fan; and Paul became aware that he was looking at
the symbol of the Anarchist society of which he had lately heard so
much. Dyed feathers and an innocent-looking fan; yet the sign of the
hatred borne by a crushed country against its conqueror. Paul was
struck by the incongruity of the symbol and its meaning.
"Good-day to you, sir," said a voice behind him, with a slight foreign
accent. "You wish for to--ah!" broke off Catinka, as Paul turned--"it
is my nice critic of the English town! How do you do, Mr. Mexton?"
"You have not forgotten me," said Paul, in rather a faltering voice.
"Oh, my dear, no! I never forget those who speak well of me. Sit down,
you good young critic, and let us talk of what you wish."
The violinist was a pretty, sparkling brunette, of no great height,
with an olive-hued face, handsome and calm. She was dressed to
perfection in a tea-gown of amber-coloured silk, trimmed with black
lace; and her back hair was gathered into a kind of coronet, through
which was thrust a tortoise-shell silver-headed pin. She was all
vivacity and charm and sympathy; yet Baldini had assured him that she
had no heart and that she was a dangerous conspirator. Paul could
believe neither statement in the presence of this dainty little lady.
"And now, Mr. Mexton," cried Catinka, when they were seated, "why you
come for this visit--eh?"
"I want to ask you a question."
"Oh yes; assuredly. What you will, my dear sir?"
"It has to do with Barnstead," said Paul, in a hesitating manner.
Catinka's charming face hardened, and she shot a keen look at Paul.
"Ah!" said she, after a pause; "that is a place near to your city
where I was giving--a concert. Quite so. Oh, yes. And what you say
about Barnstead?"
"I want to know why you were in Barnstead Church three weeks ago?"
"Eh?" said Catinka, attempting no denial. "You see me there?"
"No, but I know that you were there--and also that you were in the
Winding Lane on the night a young lady was killed."
Catinka leaned her cheek on her hand and looked at him curiously. "You
are a police?" she asked.
"No, but I wish to know why you were there?"
"Oh, most certainly, my dear sir, you shall," said the violinist
calmly. "I was in your Barnstead to watch on Mr. Herne--Darcy
Herne--who was there on that night also."