E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 35205-h.htm or 35205-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/35205/pg35205-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/35205/35205-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/whobyelizabethke00kentiala
WHO?
by
ELIZABETH KENT
Author of "The House Opposite," etc.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1912
Copyright, 1912
By G. P. Putnam's Sons
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration: "Here, quick, I hear footsteps on the stairs!"
From the drawing by John Cassel, (Chapter XX)]
CONTENTS
I. THE WOMAN IN THE COMPARTMENT
II. "MRS. PETER THOMPKINS"
III. THE TRIBULATIONS OF A LIAR
IV. ON THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY
V. THE DETECTIVE DETECTS
VI. THE MYSTERIOUS MAID
VII. THE INQUEST
VIII. LADY UPTON
IX. THE JEWELS
X. THE TWO FRENCHMEN
XI. THE INSPECTOR INTERVIEWS CYRIL
XII. A PERILOUS VENTURE
XIII. CAMPBELL REMONSTRATES
XIV. WHAT IS THE TRUTH?
XV. FINGER PRINTS IN THE DUST
XVI. THE STORY OF A WRONG
XVII. GUY RELENTS
XVIII. A SLIP OF THE TONGUE
XIX. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
XX. "I KNOW IT, COUSIN CYRIL"
XXI. THE TRUTH
XXII. CAMPBELL RESIGNS
Who?
CHAPTER I
THE WOMAN IN THE COMPARTMENT
It was six o'clock on a raw October morning, and the cross Channel boat
had just deposited its cargo of pale and dishevelled passengers at
Newhaven. Cyril Crichton, having seen his servant place his bags in a
first-class compartment, gazed gloomily at the scene before him.
It was the first time in three years that he had set foot on his native
shore and the occasion seemed invested with a certain solemnity.
"What a mess I have made of my life! Yet God knows I meant well!" He
muttered in his heart. "If I hadn't been such a good-natured ass, I
should never have got into all this trouble. But I won't be made a fool
of any longer. I will consult Campbell as to what--" He paused. It
suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to let the latter know of
his impending arrival. "I will send him a wire," he decided.
The telegraph-office was farther off than he expected, and to Crichton's
disgust, he found it shut. He had forgotten that in well-regulated
England, even matters of life and death have to wait till the offices
open at eight A.M.
He was still staring at the closed window, when he was startled by the
guard's whistle, and the slamming of the carriage doors. Turning
quickly, he ran back, trying to find his compartment, but it was too
late; the train was already moving. Flinging off a porter's detaining
hand, he jumped on to the foot-board and wrenched open the nearest door.
The impetus flung him headlong into the lap of a lady,--the sole
occupant of the carriage. To his horror and amazement, instead of
listening to his apologies, she uttered a piercing shriek and fell
forward into his arms. For a moment Crichton was too dazed to move.
There he knelt, tightly clasping her limp form and wondering fearfully
what would happen next. At last he managed to pull himself together, and
staggering to his feet, laid her gently on the seat near the window.
Strangely enough, he had had no idea, so far, as to the appearance, or
even the age, of the lady with whom fate had thrown him into such
intimate contact: consequently he now looked at her with considerable
curiosity. Her slight, graceful figure proclaimed her youth, but her
face was completely concealed by a thick, black veil, which prevented
him from so much as guessing the outline of her features. As she
continued to show no sign of returning consciousness, Crichton looked
helplessly around for some means of reviving her. More air was what she
needed; so with much trepidation he decided to unfasten her veil. His
fingers fumbled clumsily over their unaccustomed task, but finally the
last knot was disentangled, the last pin extracted. The unknown proved
to be even younger than he expected, and to possess beauty of the kind
which admits of no discussion. At present, however, it was sadly marred
by a red welt, probably the result of a fall, Crichton decided, which
disfigured her left cheek. A minute before he had been cursing his luck,
which invariably landed him in strange adventures, but at the sight of
her beauty, our hero suddenly ceased to find the situation annoying. His
interest, however, increased his alarm. What if she were dead or dying?
Heart attacks were not uncommon. Bending over her, he laid his hand on
her heart, and as he did so, the long lashes lifted, and a pair of
sapphire blue eyes looked straight into his. Before he had time to move,
she threw out both hands and cried: "Oh, let me go!"
"Don't be alarmed. Notwithstanding my unceremonious entrance, I assure
you, I am a perfectly respectable member of society. My name is
Crichton."
The girl staggered to her feet. "Crichton?" she gasped.
He looked at her in surprise.
"Yes, Crichton. Do you know any member of my family by any chance? My
cousin, Lord Wilmersley, has a place near here."
"No," she faltered, "I--I am quite a stranger in this part of the
country."
He was sure she was lying, but what could be her object in doing so? And
why had his name caused her such alarm? What unpleasant connection could
she possibly have with it? The only male members of his family who bore
it, were, a curate, serving his probation in the East End of London, and
a boy at Eton.
"That is a pity," he said. "I hoped we might find some mutual friends
who would vouch for my inoffensiveness. I can't tell you how sorry I am
to have given you such a fright. It was unpardonably stupid of me. The
fact is, I am rather absent-minded, and I should have been left behind
if I had not tumbled in on you as I did. Please forgive me."
"On the contrary, it is I who should apologise to you for having made
such a fuss about nothing. You must have thought me quite mad." She
laughed nervously.
"Madam," he replied, with mock solemnity, "I assure you I never for a
moment doubted your sanity, and I am an expert in such matters."
"Are you really?" She shrank farther from him.
"Really what?" he inquired, considerably puzzled.
"A--a brain specialist? That is what they are called, isn't it?"
He laughed heartily.
"No, indeed. But you said----"
"Of course! How stupid of me!"
"Why should you know that I am a soldier?"
She blushed vividly. "You don't look like a civilian."
"At all events I hope I don't look like the keeper of an insane asylum."
"No, indeed. But you said----"
"Oh, as to being an expert. Was that it? I must plead guilty to having
attempted a feeble joke, though as a matter of fact, it so happened that
I do know something about lunatics."
"Aren't you dreadfully afraid of them?"
"On general principles, of course, I am afraid of nothing, but I fancy a
full-grown lunatic, with a carving knife and a hankering for my blood,
would have a different tale to tell."
"Oh, don't speak of them!" She covered her eyes with her hands.
"I beg your pardon."
"Why should you beg my pardon?" she asked looking at him suspiciously.
"I really don't know," he acknowledged.
"I know that I am behaving like a hysterical schoolgirl. What must you
think of me! But,--but I am just recovering from an illness and am still
very nervous, and the mere mention of lunatics always upsets me. I have
the greatest horror of them."
"Poor child, she must have been through some terrible experience with
one," thought Crichton.
"I trust you may never meet any," he said aloud.
"I don't intend to." She spoke with unexpected vehemence.
"Well, there is not much chance of your doing so. Certified lunatics
find it pretty difficult to mingle in general society."
"I know--oh, I know--" Her voice sounded almost regretful.
What an extraordinary girl! Could it be--was it possible that she
herself--but no, her behaviour was certainly strange and she seemed
hysterical, but mad--no, and yet that would explain everything.
"I am sure it was the horrid crossing which upset you--as much as
anything else," he said.
"I didn't cross, I--" She stopped abruptly, and bit her lip.
It was quite obvious that for some reason or other, she had not wished
him to know that she had got in at Newhaven. He knew that politeness
demanded he should not pursue a subject which was evidently distasteful
to her. But his curiosity overcame his scruples.
"Really? It is rather unusual to take this train unless one is coming
from the continent."
"Yes. One has to start so frightfully early. I had to get up a little
before five." That meant she must live in Newhaven, and not far from the
station at that--but was it true? She had about her that indescribable
something which only those possess whose social position has never been
questioned. No, Newhaven did not seem the background for her. But then,
had she not herself told him that she did not live there? She might have
gone there on an errand of charity or--After all, what business was it
of his? Why should he attempt to pry into her life? It was abominable.
She settled herself in a corner of the carriage, and he fancied that she
wished to avoid further conversation. Serve him jolly well right, he
thought.
During the rest of the journey his behaviour was almost ostentatiously
discreet. If she feared that he was likely to take advantage of the
situation, he was determined to show her that he had no intention of
doing so. To avoid staring at her he kept his eyes fixed on the rapidly
changing landscape; but they might have been suddenly transported to
China without his observing the difference. In fact, he had not realised
that they were nearing their destination, till he saw his companion
readjust her veil. A few minutes later the train stopped at Hearne Hill.
Crichton put his head out of the window.
"There is something up," he said, a moment later turning to her. "There
must be a criminal on board. There are a lot of policemen about, and
they seem to be searching the train."
"Oh, what shall I do!" she cried, starting to her feet.
"What is the matter?"
"They will shut me up. Oh, save me--save me!"
For a moment he was too startled to speak.
Was it possible? This girl a criminal--a thief? He couldn't believe it.
"But what have you done?"
"Nothing, nothing I assure you. Oh, believe me, it is all a mistake."
He looked at her again. Innocent or guilty, he would stand by her.
"They will be here directly," he said. "Have you enough self-control to
remain perfectly calm and to back up any story I tell?"
"Yes."
"Sit down then, and appear to be talking to me."
"Tickets, please." The guard was at the door, and behind him stood a
police inspector.
Crichton having given up his ticket, turned to the girl and said: "You
have your ticket, Amy."
She handed it over.
"From Newhaven, I see." The inspector stepped forward:
"I must ask the lady to lift 'er veil, please."
"What do you mean, my man? Are you drunk?
"Steady, sir. Do you know this lady?"
"This lady happens to be my wife, so you will kindly explain your
extraordinary behaviour."
The inspector looked a little nonplussed.
"Sorry to hinconvenience you, sir, but we 'ave orders to search this
train for a young lady who got in at Newhaven. Now this is the only lady
on board whose ticket was not taken in Paris. So you see we have got to
make sure that this is not the person we want."
"But, man alive, I tell you this lady is my wife."
"So you say, sir, but you can't prove it, can you, now? You're
registered through from Paris, and this lady gets in at Newhaven. How do
you explain that?"
"Of course, one doesn't travel about with one's marriage
certificate--but as it happens, I can prove that this lady is my wife.
Here is my passport; kindly examine it. Mrs. Crichton returned to
England several months ago, and went down to Newhaven last night so as
to be able to meet me this morning. As to lifting her veil, of course
she has no objection to doing so. I thought it idle curiosity on your
part, but as it is a question of duty, that alters the case completely."
"Thank you, sir." The inspector opened the passport and read aloud.
"Cyril Crichton--Lieutenant in the--Rifles, age 27 years, height 6 ft.,
1 inch, weight 12 stone. Hair--fair; complexion--fair, inclined to be
ruddy. Eyes--blue. Nose--straight, rather short. Mouth--large.
Distinguishing marks: cleft in chin." And as he read each item, he
paused to compare the written description with the original.
"Well, that's all right," he said. "And now for the lady's. Will you
kindly lift your veil, m'm?"
To Crichton's surprise, the girl did so quite calmly, and her face,
although deadly pale, was perfectly composed.
The inspector read: "Amy Crichton, wife of Cyril Crichton, age--26
years--H'm that seems a bit old for the lady."
The girl blushed vividly, but to Crichton's infinite relief she smiled
gaily, and with a slight bow to the inspector said: "You flatter me."
Crichton breathed more freely. Her manner had done more to relieve the
situation than anything he had said. The inspector continued in quite a
different tone.
"'Height--5 ft., 4 inches.' You look a bit shorter than that."
"Measure me, if you doubt it." She challenged him.
"Oh, well, I am sure it is all right. 'Weight--9 stone, 4 lbs.'" He
paused again, but this time made no comment, although Crichton felt sure
that his companion weighed at least ten pounds less than the amount
mentioned. "Hair--black. Complexion--fair. Eyes--blue. Nose--straight.
Mouth--small. Oval chin. Distinguishing marks--none. All right, m'm!
Sorry to 'ave disturbed you, but you understand we 'ave got to be very
careful. We'd never 'ear the last of it if we let the party we're after
slip through our fingers."
"What is the woman you are looking for accused of?" asked Crichton.
"Murder," replied the inspector, as he closed the door.