ONE FACT IS MADE CLEAR
Mrs Pennington's emphatic declaration was, to say the least, curious.
Whitlock looked calmly into her face and smiled.
The woman had, without a doubt, recognised the portrait of the victim
at Barnes. Her sudden resentment at the suggestion that her brother had
been in her company in London was, in itself, very suspicious that she
knew some ugly fact which she intended to conceal.
Was she privy to the cruel assassination of that defenceless girl whose
dead face ever haunted me?
"What makes you so positive that your brother, Mr Stonor, was never in
her company?" Whitlock asked, thrusting his hands into his trousers
pockets unconcernedly.
"Positive! Well, I am positive that he'd never walk about with that
woman," she declared, with an air of extraordinary resentment. Those
last words showed us plainly that she was the dead woman's bitter enemy.
"Why not with her as well as any other woman?" he queried. "Besides,
it's an uncommonly pretty face!"
"There are reasons, sir, why my brother Fred would never meet her," she
replied in a quiet, changed voice.
"But he was with her, Mrs Pennington. He took her to the photographer's
and paid for that very portrait you have in your hand."
"How do you know that?"
"The photographer told me so himself. The copies were sent here, to
this house."
"And who are you, that you appear to know so much?" she asked, frowning
slightly.
"As I have already told you, I'm a friend of your brother's--and I hope
a very sincere friend."
"Well," she declared, "I don't believe he was ever with that girl in
London. There's some mistake, evidently. The photographer has misled
you."
"I think not. He described your brother--rather stout and middle-aged."
"I can't believe it--no! I won't believe it!"
What my friend had told her certainly seemed to have wrought a great
change in her. I watched her face. It was that of a woman filled with
a deadly fear. Though struggling to conceal the misgivings that had
arisen within her, she could not refrain from those emphatic denials
which in themselves had, I saw, aroused Whitlock's interest.
"I have merely told you the truth," my companion said. "This morning
you expressed a wish to ascertain the identity of the lady with whom
he was in London, and for that reason I have ventured to show you her
portrait."
"But when I happen to know that that woman is the last in the world
whom he would meet--and more especially in secret--it is not surprising
that I refuse to believe you."
"And why is he so antagonistic towards her? Why should they not meet?"
"There are strong reasons--private reasons," was her answer, her eyes
cast upon the ground.
"Ah! I see--I understand," Whitlock remarked tactfully. "They
quarrelled--eh?"
"Er--well--I--I really don't know," was Mrs Pennington's lame answer.
"I only know that, for certain private reasons, he would never
willingly meet Louise Lorimer."
Whitlock smiled in gratification. The woman had unwittingly told us
exactly what we wanted to know--the name of the unfortunate girl who
had been found murdered in the empty house at Barnes.
"You seem to possess some secret knowledge regarding this Miss
Lorimer," he suggested, hoping that her hatred of the girl would lead
her to tell us something more.
"I only know what I've been told."
"Then you don't know her personally?"
"No. But why are you so inquisitive regarding her?" she asked. By her
manner I saw that she was lying. Her denial of all knowledge of the
dead girl was certainly not the truth. Her attitude was that of a
sister shielding her brother.
"I'm not unduly inquisitive, am I?" asked Whitlock. "This morning you
practically took me into your confidence because I am a friend of your
brother's. If your brother secretly meets Miss Lorimer in London,
then----"
"But he does not. He'd never do that," she declared, interrupting.
"But I repeat what I have already said," my companion remarked quietly.
"I, too, happen to know that Miss Lorimer is acquainted with your
brother, Mrs Pennington," I remarked.
"He was acquainted with her, I admit--but not now."
Her reply struck me as somewhat peculiar. Was she admitting secret
knowledge of the girl's death?
"Because they quarrelled," laughed Whitlock, carelessly. "Many men and
women quarrel and make it up again."
"Their quarrel could never be made up."
"How long ago, then, did the difference arise?" asked Whitlock, for in
this he scented a distinct clue.
"About two years."
"Well, it seems as though their differences were settled, and they have
become good friends again without telling you about it," he said. "Your
suspicions of him contemplating marriage were evidently well founded."
"Marriage!--with that hussy?--absurd!" she exclaimed. "Let's talk of
something else," and we could both see that she was very eager to
change the topic of conversation.
Whitlock's object, however, was to obtain some further facts concerning
the dead woman. That Mrs Pennington could furnish some very valuable
information was undoubted, but it was equally certain that she would
say nothing for fear of implicating her brother. Of what? Ah! that was
the problem.
"Well," Whitlock said, after we had been chatting for some time upon
other topics, "I'm sorry, Mrs Pennington, if I've caused you any
unpleasant thoughts by referring to your brother's knowledge of Miss
Lorimer; but, of course, when I mentioned it, I was quite unaware of
the state of affairs."
"Oh, sir, no apology is needed, I'm sure," the woman declared. "I--I'm
only thinking what a curious coincidence it is that you should come
here and then turn out to be one of Fred's friends."
"Yes; it is curious. What time do you expect him to-morrow? I'm longing
to see him."
"At four-thirty, I think."
"Ah, and then we'll have a good long chat. You'll find him a
first-class fellow," Whitlock added, addressing me. Then turning again
to Mrs Pennington, he said, with a laugh, "I suppose it isn't likely
he's gone to see Miss Lorimer now--eh?"
"Certainly not," she replied promptly. "He never goes to London now--or
at least very seldom."
"Then he isn't up in town?"
"No. He's been staying with some friends near Burton-on-Trent, and
to-day he's at Darlington."
By no manner of ingenious questioning could he induce her to say
anything further regarding Louise Lorimer. But we knew we were at last
upon the right trail. We had established the identity of the dead
woman, and, what was more, we knew who was her enemy--two facts of the
very utmost importance.
After Mrs Pennington had gone Whitlock raised his finger, commanding
silence. He was suspicious that she might be listening outside on the
landing. So he walked to the window and remarked upon the beautiful
evening.
"I must write a letter or two," he added. "Afterwards we'll go for a
stroll."
Then he lit a cigar and sat in thoughtful silence, while I took up a
paper and glanced through it.
Suddenly we heard a slight creaking of the boards outside the door.
Whitlock was not mistaken. An eavesdropper was creeping away!
We were undecided how to act. Whitlock seemed inclined to leave early
in the morning, so as not to meet the man Stonor, although, of course,
surveillance would be kept upon him.
For half an hour he fidgeted about the room; then, suddenly saying that
he must go out and find a telephone, asked me to remain there till his
return.
When he had gone, and I sat alone in silence, I again thought I heard
someone moving very stealthily outside the door. A floor-board creaked,
just as it had done half an hour before.
This Mrs Pennington and her brother were mysterious. Of that there
was no doubt. They were aware of something concerning the fate of the
pretty Louise Lorimer. Her denials in themselves condemned her. Still,
while we had been in Scarborough we had made important progress. We
had, at least, learnt the name of the victim. Why, I wondered, had the
second woman committed suicide? Was she the actual murderess? Whitlock
was convinced that she was not.
Evening had crept on, the blinds had been lowered, and the gas lit
by the fluffy-haired housemaid. But I still sat there, smoking
and thinking of Daisy. Every hard, cruel word of hers rang in my
ears--those words of dismissal--because of what? Because of the seeds
of suspicion that had been sown within her heart.
What was that "double life" of hers at which Whitlock had hinted? What
could it possibly be? Again, who had been his informant against her?
As a journalist I had vainly believed myself well acquainted
with life's seamy side, but here was I the victim of a plot, the
ramifications of which seemed spread on every hand.
What could I do? How could I act? Daisy had returned to the arms of her
lover--the criminal Drayton. She believed in him and doubted me. I had
been as wax in her hands ever since the first time I had known her, for
I loved her with a great, all-sacrificing devotion. Surely she had not
been deceiving me from the very first? No. I could never believe that;
I refused to believe it. Those love glances of hers were not feigned.
She had loved me until this man with the shady past--this man who was
my deadliest enemy--had come between us.
The little clock upon the mantelshelf chimed the hour, and the maid
entered to lay the cloth for dinner. The meal was subsequently brought
up, but Whitlock did not return. He was probably awaiting an answer to
a telephonic message to Scotland Yard, perhaps, for assistance, as we
should no doubt want to leave somebody to keep a watchful eye upon the
movements of the man Stonor.
Another half hour went by, and being hungry I ate my dinner alone.
Then, having finished and lit a cigar, I became anxious regarding my
friend. What, I wondered, had happened? He had particularly asked me
to await him there, so I could not go in search of him. He might, I
reflected, have had an object in keeping me there, for he was one of
those men who are full of tactful forethought in any emergency.
I pulled up the blind and looked out upon the moonlit bay. The night
was glorious, but the Esplanade was deserted save for a few loving
couples strolling upon the promenade before the house. From the
left, below the cliff, came up the distant strains of the band at
the Spa, while a prominent feature in the night landscape was the
many illuminated windows of the Grand Hotel standing boldly forth and
dominating the town.
I must have remained there fully half an hour, watching for his coming,
when of a sudden I espied his figure moving swiftly on the opposite
side of the road. When level with the house, he crossed straight over,
let himself in with the latchkey Mrs Pennington had given him, and
ascended to where I stood.
As he entered he lifted a warning finger.
"So sorry I'm late," he began; "but I couldn't get what I wanted in the
town. I tried a dozen shops."
Then, when the door was closed, he looked straight at me, and said in a
low voice, scarce above a whisper--
"This woman has warned him."
"How?"
"She's sent him a wire. I expected she would, so I went to the
post-office and waited for it."
"Then you've read her telegram?"
"Of course, and stopped it going through for an hour. I had some
difficulty with the postmaster, who refused at first to be convinced
of my identity till I showed him my card. She took the wire down to
Huntriss Row herself. Afraid to trust it to the servant. Besides, she's
lied to us. He's at the Hotel Russell."
"The Russell! Why, that's close to the house in Woburn Square!"
"Exactly. I've 'phoned to Kennedy to keep him under observation."
"What has she said in her wire?"
"Told him that we've been making awkward inquiries, that his
acquaintance with Louise is known, and urging him not to return here.
He'll bolt, most probably, but not far without Kennedy after him."
"And are we now on the right track?"
"Yes, Keene. I really believe we are," was his answer as he selected a
cigar and bit off the end. "We'll tell them to clear these things away.
I don't want any dinner."