"WEDDING-BELLS."
When Mallow returned to Casterwell he found the village keeping high
holiday in honour of Olive's marriage. The streets and houses were gay
with flowers and flags. Under the arches of green boughs, festooned
with many coloured blossoms, the people moved about gazing--not
without admiration, it must be confessed--at their own handiwork. The
same profuse hospitality, which had distinguished the coming-of-age of
the Lady of the Manor, was repeated on a still larger scale. The bells
of St. Augustine's were clamorous in the old tower; the sleepy old
churchyard was for the nonce alive with voices, and the sun, in
sympathetic mood at so brave a sight, was shining with all his
splendour. But the idol does not ever rejoice with the worshippers,
and she was the most miserable girl in the whole village.
Laurence was perhaps scarcely less so. He had not advised Aldean of
his return, but had come from Reading in the hired fly. Dusty and
battered, it contrasted discordantly with the spruceness and gaiety of
the street; and Mallow, seated far back in it, his cap drawn over his
eyes, winced more than once as the full meaning of it all forced
itself upon him.
"I wonder, does she feel as wretched as I do," he thought, bitterly.
"I suppose she does. My poor Iphigenia! my poor girl! Her father has
much to answer for."
Lord Aldean received his friend in unbounded astonishment. He had not
expected that Mallow would return on this of all days, and he fell to
the conclusion that he must have been successful in his search, and
have returned to stop the marriage at the eleventh hour. Yet Mallow
certainly did not look as if he had succeeded. His dress was careless
and his face was haggard; and he formed a striking contrast to Aldean
in the smartness of conventional wedding-going garments. Indeed, as he
arrived, Jim was on the point of leaving for the church. He signalled
to his coachman to wait, and drew Mallow into the library.
"Well," he said, breathlessly, "what have you done?"
"Nothing; absolutely nothing," replied Mallow, throwing himself into a
chair with a weary sigh.
"I was afraid your journey would turn out a wild goose-chase," said
Aldean, with a shrug. "So Carson is the right man after all?"
"I have found nothing to prove that he is not."
"What about the sandal-wood perfume?"
"That is still a mystery, Jim, and, so far as I can see, is likely to
remain one. I went to Athelstane Place, and I saw most of the
witnesses who gave evidence at the inquest, but I could find out
nothing new. I called at New Scotland Yard, but with no better result.
The case remains exactly as it did when the man was buried."
"Has his name not been discovered?"
"No. Nor have his friends, if he had any, communicated with the
police."
"Then you can't in any way connect Carson with the dead man?"
"In no way. Two parallel straight lines cannot meet. Carson's
existence can have nothing to do with the unknown man who was
murdered."
"I suppose you made no inquiries about Carson?"
"Well, yes, I did; and I found out something."
"Oh, come, that's better; I thought you said you had done absolutely
nothing."
"Well, what I did learn is of so little moment, Jim, that it amounts
to nothing. I called at the P. and O. office and inquired about
Carson. The clerk I spoke to told me that I was the second man who had
asked for him."
Aldean looked surprised. "Considering that Carson has no friend in
England, that's curious. How long ago was the first inquiry made?"
"Two days only before the _Pharaoh_ arrived."
"Did you ask what kind of man he was who inquired for him?"
"Yes; a black-haired, black-bearded man, shabbily dressed. He wished
to know if Carson was on the _Pharaoh_, and if so, when he would
arrive. The clerk showed him the name of Angus Carson in the passenger
list, and told him that the boat was due on July 24th."
"Did this man ever return?"
"No; he thanked the clerk and left the office. That was the last seen
of him."
"He gave no name?"
"Of course not," said Mallow, peevishly. "Why should he give his name
in connection with so simple an inquiry? You can see now for yourself
that this information amounts to practically nothing. It neither
proves nor disproves Carson's identity, and it certainly does not in
any way connect him with the murder."
"Still, the mere fact of Carson's being inquired for is strange, when
we know that he has not a single friend in England," said Jim,
reflectively; "before his arrival, too. That is even more strange."
Mallow shook his head. "I thought of that myself," he said, "but it
does not help us in any way."
"It certainly cannot assist us towards circumventing this wedding. I
see you are going to it," running his eye over Jim.
"Of course. There is an invitation for you also, if you care to accept
it."
"I do not are to," replied Mallow, quietly. "It is quite painful
enough for me to be here on the day of the sacrifice, without
attending it."
"Then why did you come, my poor old chap?"
"Because I wish you to take this letter and deliver it personally
to----" Mallow paused, "to--Mrs.--Carson," he finished, slowly.
With some hesitation Lord Aldean took the envelope extended to him. He
was doubtful. "I hope it does not contain reproaches," he said.
"No; it merely sets her mind at rest about--about--her husband"
(Mallow could hardly get the word out), "and tells her that, if she
needs me, I am always ready to do her bidding."
"Well," said Jim, placing the letter in his pocket, "I'll deliver it
with the greatest of pleasure. It is not unlikely that she will need
you some day."
"What do you mean, Jim?"
"Oh, I don't mean anything in particular," he said carelessly. "You
know I neither like nor trust Carson."
"I am quite with you," said Mallow, bitterly; "but, unfortunately,
neither our dislike nor our distrust can assist us to avert this
ceremony."
"No, that's true. What will be will be;" and with this morsel of
philosophy they parted--Aldean for the ceremony at the church; Mallow
to rail at fate for having so cruelly deprived him of Olive.
It was not until after the breakfast that Aldean found any opportunity
of delivering Mallow's note to Olive. As he slipped it into her hand
she flushed crimson, guessing instinctively from whom it came. With a
grateful glance at Aldean, she ran upstairs and hastily tore it open.
It contained only a few lines, "Forget what I said in my anger about
your husband. He is truly Angus Carson, and I pray heaven that you may
be happy with him. But if in trouble you should need a friend,
remember that I claim the right to serve you."
The lines were unsigned and ill-written. Olive sat with them crushed
in her hand, the tears falling down her face. Tui discreetly held her
tongue, for she had guessed that the letter was from Mallow. She
roused Olive to action, whilst the maid busied herself with her
mistress's clothes. A frown on her face and dark circles under her
eyes, Clara seemed little less sorrowful than her mistress.
"Come, dear," said Tui, "you must dress quickly; your husband is
waiting for you."
Clara looked round strangely.
"My husband," said Olive, hopelessly. "Yes, he is my husband now."
"But, dear," said Tui, "you married with your eyes open."
"Yes; and with my hands bound," retorted Mrs. Carson, rising. "Well, I
suppose I must go on now to the bitter end. Help me, Clara."
On the terrace below Dimbal was conversing hurriedly with the
newly-made husband. "In a few days the stocks and shares will be
transferred in your name," he said, rubbing his hands; "but I suppose
you won't care to be troubled with business for a while?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Carson, smiling. "I don't believe
in neglecting business for pleasure. I will run up and see you next
week. I presume I have full control of this money."
"You are aware, of course, that the capital is charged with the
payment of a thousand per annum to your wife?"
"Yes; I will pay her the first year's income at once," said Carson,
generously. "I suppose I can realize quickly?"
"Certainly, without difficulty; but I hope, Mr. Carson, you won't sell
out. The money is admirably invested."
Before he could answer, Olive came out of the house in her
travelling-dress. She looked pale, though composed. With a nod to the
lawyer, Carson hurried forward and offered his arm. Having already
said good-bye, Olive took it and stepped into the carriage. Then amid
a shower of rice and shoes, amid smiles and congratulations, and the
usual sprinkling of tears, they drove off.
Major Semberry chuckled complacently as the carriage disappeared.
"Thank God," he muttered.
From the terrace of Kingsholme Mallow watched them. He looked ill and
haggard. "Heaven help her and me," he said, with a sigh.
_THE SECOND SCENE: AT SANDBEACH_.
CHAPTER I.
"THE HAPPY PAIR."
Sandbeach is a rising watering-place on the south coast. It has been
rising for the last ten years, yet, in the opinion of its inhabitants,
it has not yet reached that pitch of elevation to which its merits
entitle it. The guide-book emphatically declares that it is healthy,
pleasantly situated, within easy distance of London, and inexpensive.
But for all this eulogy, Sandbeach remains unpopular. A sand and
shingle beach curved between headlands of crumbling chalk, a
stone-faced esplanade with wooden shelters like dolls' houses, three
or four dozen Queen Anne residences fronting some public gardens--a
courtesy term, surely--such is Sandbeach. In the rear huddle a score
or more of untidy cottages. These represent the original village of
thirty years back. There is the usual monster hotel, invariably "under
entirely new management," for each season it succeeds in bankrupting
its unhappy proprietor. There is also an aggressively ornate
band-stand, where play local musicians who seemingly vie with their
predecessors in the staleness and worthlessness of their music.
Golf-links, tennis-courts, bicycle-track, all are there, but all are
more or less deserted. Sandbeach possesses every attraction of the
modern seaside "resort," yet people, for some inscrutable reason,
decline to fill its hotel or to occupy its apartments. Even in what is
facetiously termed its "season" it is but sparsely populated. 'Tis a
marine Doctor Fell, and no man knoweth the reason of its unpopularity.
Olive it was who had selected this dismal spot in which to pass her
honeymoon. Her one desire was to have solitude--no solitude _à deux_,
but solitude absolute and complete. Her husband in no way interfered
with her desire. He sauntered about smoking endless cigarettes, and
scanning such samples of modern French fiction as came to hand. Every
few days he ran up to town. What he did there Olive knew not, nor did
she trouble herself to inquire. But she did notice that he invariably
appeared highly delighted with himself on returning from these jaunts.
Left to her own devices, Olive amused herself as best she could. But
she thought more of Mallow that was consistent with her own peace of
mind.
"Olive," said Angus, one day at luncheon, "I have paid your first
year's income in to your account."
"Thank you, that is very kind of you," replied Olive, cheerfully; "but
was it necessary to pay in the whole amount at once?"
"No; I need only pay it quarterly; but as I wished to be perfectly
free to handle the money, I thought it best to get it done."
"Is it about the money that you have been so often up to London?"
"Well, yes; I have been seeing after it."
"And how is Mr. Dimbal?"
"I have not seen him. Mr. Dimbal has nothing to do with the business
now, save in so far as your income is concerned. My affairs are in the
hands of another firm of lawyers."
Olive was vaguely troubled.
"Of course, I have every confidence in you," she said; "but I am sorry
you did not leave the business with Mr. Dimbal. He is so very
trustworthy."
"There are other honest men in London," replied Carson, with his usual
smile. "By-the-way, how long do you intend to stay here? We have now
been exiled for three weeks."
"I was thinking of going home in another fortnight or so, if that will
suit you."
"Oh, as to that, don't consider me. I am going to London myself."
"You surely do not mean to let me return alone? You really must not.
Think how everybody will talk."
Carson shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not care what they say," he replied, without the least show of
temper. "To tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this farce. You
refuse to treat me in any way as a husband; you surely cannot complain
if I betake myself elsewhere."
"I thought our relative positions were quite clear," said Mrs. Carson,
coldly. "I married you simply and solely in obedience to my father's
dying wish; you married me--well, you married me, I suppose, for the
fifty thousand pounds that went with me."
"In other words, our marriage is a bargain."
"If you please; it matters little what we call it."
"A pleasant position for me," said Carson, good-humouredly.
His wife sat silently looking at her plate, while he continued to eat
his luncheon with the utmost indifference.
"Perhaps the position is a trying one for you," she said, at length;
"but I dictated the terms of our union very clearly in the first
instance; you were perfectly free to accept or reject them. You
accepted them; your reasons were your own. No doubt they were good
ones."
"Quite right; ours is purely a business marriage, or bargain. We can
call it that between ourselves."
"If you were a different kind of man, if you cared for me, things
might perhaps be different. But you do not care for me; you do not
know what love is."
"Excuse me if I say that you are hardly in a position to judge,"
replied Angus, quietly. "And are you not a trifle inconsistent? If I
loved you, in what position should I stand, seeing that your
affections are very definitely engaged?"
"Excuse me if, in my turn, I say that you are not in a position to
speak as to that."
"You may think so, but I am not blind. Oh no; it's too late in the day
to talk of love."
"I wish to do my duty," retorted Olive, rather weakly, it must be
confessed.
"You have done your duty," said Carson, amiably; "you have obeyed your
father, and you have brought me fifty thousand pounds. You do not love
me, neither do I care two straws about you."
"Then why did you marry me?"
"For the money solely," he replied, shamelessly. "I served your turn,
you served mine. Were I in love with you, do you think I would rest
content with the purely nominal position of your husband? By no means.
For the money's sake I made you my wife. I agreed to your terms
because it suited me to do so. Have I ever gone contrary to you in any
way?"
"No; you fulfil your part of the bargain admirably," she said
scornfully.
"Then you can ask no more of me. I shall not return to the Manor House
with you to hold an ignominious position. Our mutual ends are
accomplished: let us part."
"Do you intend to leave me, then?" she asked, feeling herself at a
disadvantage.
"I do. I shall go to London--perhaps even abroad. At all events, I
intend to lead my own life."
"But think of the position I shall be placed in."
"Think of the position I am placed in," he replied emphatically.
"People will talk if you leave me so soon after our marriage."
"I must leave you to make the best excuses you can; the position is of
your own making. You can say that my health is bad, or that the doctor
has ordered me abroad. I'll pay you a visit every now and then to keep
up appearances. More you cannot ask of me--more I am not disposed to
grant."
Olive rose and struck the table with her open hand.
"I protest against your attitude," she cried indignantly.
"As I do against yours."
"You are not treating me fairly," she said, keeping back her tears
with an effort.
"As fairly as you treat me, surely?"
"If I agree to be your wife, if I----"
"No," he interrupted. "I prefer matters to remain as they are. It is
useless to feign what we neither of us feel."
Having so far humiliated herself, Olive was not prepared to go
further. She realized that his position was every whit as strong as
her own. She could resent his behaviour in no way, seeing that the
original compact was of her own making. Dismayed at the predicament in
which she found herself, she retired to her room to consider what she
should do. Finally, she determined that, should he leave her, she
would go to London for a few months. Mrs. Purcell was on her way to
England, and had expressed her intention of taking a house in London.
The old lady would gladly have her to stay with her; perhaps she might
even invite Tui to join them. She would blind the Casterwell people,
at all events; they would not know that Angus had left her so soon. It
was the only possible solution she could think of.
That evening she dined in her room. She had no fancy for a renewal of
the discussion. It could avail her nothing. If her husband had made up
his mind to go, go he would; all she could say or do would not serve
to deter him. Silence was the only dignified course open to her. So
she brought to bear upon herself as much of her little stock of
philosophy as she could muster. But she had to confess it was poor
consolation. She felt lonely and very miserable.
Later in the evening her maid came to her with a request that she
might take a walk. The girl was looking far from well, and Olive did
not hesitate to let her go. She had become attached to Clara. She
found her a woman of refinement and capacity, and withal respectful.
Never had she shown the slightest inclination to take advantage of any
favour Olive might have shown her. Yet there was something strange
about the girl which puzzled her mistress not a little. More than once
she had surprised her weeping bitterly, and there were times when
Olive had thought she was unnecessarily jubilant. Olive had questioned
her about these emotional outbursts, but with no satisfactory result,
so in time she ceased to notice them. The girl was always perfect in
the performance of her duties.
She saw Clara go out for her walk; but no sooner had she gone than
Olive felt more restless and ill at ease than ever. The atmosphere of
the house stifled her. She wished she had asked the maid for her hat
and things before she went. She felt she must give way to hysterics
unless she did something. She could neither read nor write, nor could
she sit still. She felt she must get into the fresh air. She put on
her hat and cloak and went out. The night was windy and rather cold,
but this suited her overstrung nerves. Rapidly up and down the
esplanade she walked, drinking in the keen air, and watching the dark
clouds drive across the sickly moon. Up and down, up and down, until
her limbs grew weary; and with her fatigue her excitement abated. At
last, slowly climbing the steps to the top of the cliffs, she returned
to the hotel. Her way lay through a small shrubbery, parted from the
road by a slight iron railing, beside which a gas-lamp flared in the
wind. She could see a man and woman talking earnestly together. They
did not hear her. As she drew near, the man stooped and kissed the
woman. The next moment she swept past them wrathful and resentful. She
had recognized her husband.
CHAPTER II.
"THE BROOCH."
Half an hour later Carson sauntered into the sitting-room. He found
Olive awaiting him. He had not seen her as she passed him in the
darkness, and was, therefore, at a loss to comprehend the full
significance of her present expression. He was at a loss to know why
she was waiting for him. She did not usually seek him at so late an
hour. However, he opened the conversation in his usual easy-going way.
"Hallo!" said he, "not in bed yet? You'll lose your beauty sleep."
"Will you be so kind as to sit down?" replied Olive coldly. "I wish to
speak to you."
"And on no very pleasant subject, I should say," returned Carson,
taking a chair. "Well, what's the matter?" with a yawn.
"Have you no regard for decency, Angus?"
"As much as my neighbours, I suppose. How have I been transgressing?"
"By meeting that woman to-night."
Carson started. "What woman?" he asked irritably.
"I do not know," retorted Olive, with some heat. "I did not see her
face, nor would I have recognized her if I had. Your associates are
not mine."
"Still, I do not understand," said Angus composedly, but seemingly
relieved.
"There are none so blind as those who won't see. I was taking a walk
just now, and I saw you speaking to a woman under the gas-lamp
opposite this hotel. Dare you deny it?"
"I don't deny it. Why should I?"
"Angus, how can you be so shameless? I saw--I saw--that--well, that
you were more than friendly with her."
"You seem to have seen a great deal," sneered Carson, coolly. "May I
ask what right you have to spy upon my actions?"
"What right? The right of your wife."
"Pardon me, you are not my wife," he returned ironically. "You are my
partner in a business transaction. I thought we were agreed on that
point once and for all."
"When do you go to London again?" she asked. "To-morrow," he answered.
"Have you anything to urge against my going?"
"No; I claim no right to control your actions. I can only say that as
you agreed, for a large sum of money, to act as my nominal husband,
you should fulfil your part of the bargain so far as to treat me with
respect."
"And how have I failed to do so?"
"By meeting that woman to-night."
"Nonsense! No one saw me but yourself; and I must deny your right to
call me to account in any way. However, that has nothing to do with my
going to London. Have you any objection to that?"
"I would advise you to stop there. I never wish to see you again."
"The wish is mutual, I assure you," said Carson, rising in his turn.
"I am glad that we have come to an understanding at last. I will do as
you suggest."
"I think it very much better that you should. Our marriage is a very
great mistake."
"Pardon me, I do not agree with you. It is surely an unqualified
success, inasmuch as we have both attained our aim. But any blame
there is must attach itself to you as much as to me. You might, of
course, under ordinary circumstances, have had the right to object to
my meeting a lady as I did; as it is, you can have no shadow of a
right to do so."
"At least, you might conduct yourself as a gentleman whilst you are
here," returned Olive bitterly. "But I suppose that is asking too
much."
"A great deal too much; you can ask me nothing." Carson shrugged his
shoulders. "This is hardly conversation," he added. "At all events,
you must excuse me if I say it does not interest me. As you say, we
had better part. After I leave for town in the morning, I will trouble
you no more."
"Thank God," said Olive, moving towards the door of her room. "At
least I shall be spared the indignity of living with you."
"Allow me," said Carson, stretching forward to open the door for her.
"Good-night, and good-bye."
"You contemptible cur," said his wife, disappearing and slamming the
door behind her.
He smiled as he looked after her. "A cur, am I? It is lucky for you,
Miss Bellairs, that I do not use my teeth more fully to substantiate
your simile; I could, you know. Ah, well!" drawing a long sigh of
relief, "thank goodness, that's over. What a weary, dreary time it has
been. However, at last, I can enjoy the fruits of my labours. After
all, the money is well worth the trouble;" and Mr. Carson proceeded to
the bar to drink a toast to his release in a glass of lemonade.
Temperance was one of his good points.
When Olive rose next morning he was gone, bag and baggage. He said no
word of farewell, nor did he even leave a note behind him. She felt
immensely relieved, yet she could not help feeling she had debased
herself, that her self-respect was sullied. It had been a fatal
mistake.
But Olive was not the woman to sit down with ashes on her head and
bemoan her fate. Suppressing the fact that her husband had left her
(that she intended to explain personally later), she wrote to Miss
Slarge that, after a further two weeks' stay at Sandbeach, she
intended leaving for London. "I don't feel like returning to
Casterwell at present," she wrote, "I would rather spend the winter
months in London. Please let me know when you expect Mrs. Purcell. I
am most anxious to see her. When I am settled in town, you and Tui
must come up that we may all be together." She sent kind messages to
Mr. Brock and to Miss Ostergaard, and she inquired if Mallow was still
with Lord Aldean. Miss Slarge did not omit to answer this last query.
He was still there; it was the greatest comfort to her to know that.
A few days later came a letter from Mr. Dimbal, which seriously
alarmed her. It drew her attention to the fact that Carson had
recently sold the securities in which her money was invested, and
transferred the proceeds to the Crédit Lyonnais, in Paris. Suspicious
of Carson's behaviour generally, more especially when it came to
taking things altogether out of his hands, Mr. Dimbal had made
inquiries, and had ascertained what he now wrote to Olive. She could
not understand it at all, and had she known his whereabouts, would
straightway have written to him for an explanation. But he had left
her without an address. He had vanished completely out of her life.
Apparently it was his intention that these funds should vanish with
him. Probably, the thousand pounds paid to her credit was all she
would ever see of it. The position was certainly becoming serious.
She recalled Mrs. Purcell's letter, and her description of Carson. She
read over the extracts she had made, with the result that she wrote
again to Casterwell; this time--of all people--to Mrs. Drabble. That
lady's reply roused the strongest suspicions in her regarding her
husband, and she felt the time had come when she could no longer cope
with things unaided. Her first impulse was to call in the assistance
of Mr. Dimbal, but on second thoughts she refrained. The little
jog-trot solicitor was hardly the man to deal with a clever scoundrel
of Carson's type, for scoundrel she now fully believed him to be.
There was Mallow; he was capable beyond a doubt, and by his love for
her had he not claimed the right to serve her in time of need? She
would write to him without loss of time. The next day he was at
Sandbeach.
Olive was in her sitting-room when the servant brought up his name. In
the adjacent bedroom Clara was attending to her work.
"Ah, Mrs. Carson," he said (he had schooled himself to say the name),
"I am indeed glad to see you again. But--but, you are not looking
after yourself!"
"Oh, I am well enough, really," said Olive, giving him her hand, "but
I am terribly worried."
"Worried?" repeated Mallow, sitting down near her, "worried? what
about?"
Before Olive could reply, the door leading to the bedroom opened
abruptly, and Clara came in with a hat in her hand. "I beg your
pardon, ma'am," said the maid, "but do you wish this hat left out from
the packing?"
"Yes, of course," replied Olive, astonished at her asking so
unnecessary a question.
"Thank you, ma'am." The girl retired. Olive would have been more than
astonished, had she seen her a minute later. The door was left
slightly ajar, and the girl's ear was taking in every word she could
catch.
"That young woman is still with you, I see," observed Laurence.
"Yes, she is a very excellent servant," replied Olive. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I merely remarked the fact," said Mallow, who had his
reasons for keeping his own counsel. "But, to continue our
conversation, why are you worried?"
"I will tell you everything shortly. Meanwhile I want you to read
this." Olive placed in his hands the extracts she had copied from Mrs.
Purcell's letter, and pointed out to him one paragraph in particular:
"Mr. Carson has had golden wrist-buttons made to match his unique
bracelet, wrought in the same style, but of vastly inferior
workmanship."
"Well?"
"Now look at this." She detached her brooch and laid it on the table.
It was a circular gold ornament, carved with the three faces of the
Hindoo trinity encircled by a lotus wreath; a handsome, but odd, piece
of workmanship.
"An Indian wrist-button," said Mallow, looking at it carefully.
"Imitated from Carson's bracelet, no doubt. I suppose it is one of
those referred to by Mrs. Purcell."
"It is; I am sure of it."
"Carson gave it to you?"
"No, he did not. It was a wedding present from Margery Drabble; she
told me it was her doll's locket. I did not notice it particularly at
the time. But on reading Mrs. Purcell's letter again it suddenly
dawned upon me that it was one of Carson's wrist-buttons."
"And how did Margery come by it?"
"Well, I wrote to Mrs. Drabble about that, and she replied that
Margery had taken it from her father's desk on the mine-is-thine
principle. Now," said Olive, "what possible connection can there be
between Dr. Drabble and my husband?"
CHAPTER III.
"CLARA'S LETTER!"
Mallow stared at her, astonished at the earnestness with which she
spoke. "I am afraid I don't quite follow you," he said at length. "Of
course Carson knows Dr. Drabble. He met him at Casterwell."
"That is just the point. Was it for the first time he met him at
Casterwell?"
"I--I suppose so; but, so far as I could see, he was never very
intimate with the man."
"Then why should he present him with a pair of gold wrist-buttons,"
said Olive--"especially the pair he wore himself; the pair he had made
to match that bracelet?"
"Yes that is strange," admitted Mallow.
"It would be, if it were a fact," said Olive. "But I do not for one
moment believe that he gave them to Drabble at all."
"Then how do you suppose Drabble came by them?"
"That," said Olive, "is just where I am at a loss, and where I need
your help. That is what we must find out."
"But, Mrs. Carson----"
"One minute, Mr. Mallow. Am I Mrs. Carson?"
"Well, I presume so. You were married to him," said Mallow, somewhat
bewildered.
"I was married to some one, yes; but is that some one Angus Carson?"
Mallow jumped up hurriedly.
"You are not thinking of that absurd story I told you?"
"I am. Not that I think it absurd now. On the contrary, I am coming to
believe more in the sense of it each hour."
"No, no," said Mallow. "I made every possible inquiry in London
immediately before your marriage. I visited Athelstane Place; I
questioned the police. But I could find nothing, absolutely nothing,
to connect your husband in ever so remote a degree with that murder.
Besides, look at the facts in his favour. Mr. Brock recognized him
simply from his resemblance to his father, and his appearance
corresponds exactly with the description of him given by Mrs. Purcell,
even to the wearing of his bangle."
"I don't remember seeing him wear the wrist-buttons," said Olive.
"Women, you know, are observant of these little things. Do you
remember Mrs. Slarge reading out her sister's letter in the presence
of Angus?"
"Yes, perfectly. It was then Carson showed us the bangle."
"Yes. Well, I looked then for these wrist-buttons, but I noticed he
wore silver sleeve-links."
"On that particular occasion, perhaps?"
"But he never wore the others," retorted Olive. "Again and again I
watched for them. This is the first I have seen, and it comes from
Margery, not from Angus."
"Did you speak to your husband about it?"
"No; as I say, I was busy when Margery gave it to me, and I slipped it
into my pocket without thinking. It was only on looking at it again,
the other day, that its resemblance to the bracelet struck me. I wear
it as a stud rather than as a brooch; you see, it has no catch-pin."
"Well, I think perhaps the best way would be to ask your husband how
Dr. Drabble comes to possess a wrist-button so similar to his
bracelet."
Olive turned suddenly pale, and hung her head. "I cannot," she said,
faintly; "he has left me."
"Left you?" repeated Mallow, scarcely able to believe his ears.
"Why--when?"
"Nearly a fortnight ago. It was not possible for us to continue living
together. I hated him, and he did not care in the least for me. It was
solely for my money that he married me; and now that he has it, he has
no further use for me. We agreed it was best to separate. I was glad
to do so."
"And this is the man you left me for!"
"Not of my own free will. You know I was the victim of circumstances.
I told you everything about my father's letter. Here it is; read it
yourself, and tell me if I could have acted otherwise."
In silence Mallow took the letter from her. He noticed that her hand
trembled. In silence he read it through.
It was a strange letter, and it had apparently been written under
stress of great mental excitement. The man might have been in mortal
terror when he penned those lines. The warning at the close was a very
cry of anguish.
"What do you say now?" asked Olive.
"I can say nothing. We seem to move in a world of mystery."
"You admit that I acted rightly?"
"I admit that you were forced to obey the letter," answered Mallow.
"Whether you acted rightly is not quite the same thing."
"You are not just to me," cried Olive, passionately. "I loved my
father dearly. He was always so good to me. I should have been wicked
to ignore so solemn a command. Had it been only a question of money, I
would readily have surrendered it all to Mr. Brock. But my father's
dying wish--I could not disregard it, I could not."
"I admit that," said Laurence, reluctantly. "But what a miserable
result it is!"
Olive covered her face with her hands. "I know, I know!" she cried.
"The sins of the father are visited on the children. Oh, what can
there have been in my father's life to make him sacrifice me so
cruelly?"
"Mr. Brock was your father's oldest friend. He might, perhaps, know."
"He does not know, for I asked him the very day before this hateful
marriage of mine. He could give me no answer. He could not understand
the letter. Both in India and in England, he said, my father's life
was above reproach."
"Yet there must be something," mused Mallow. "There are few men who
have not a turned-down page somewhere in the book of their life, and
as a rule it is not shown even to the dearest and closest of friends.
'We mortal millions live alone,' as Arnold puts it."
"Well, it can't be helped," said Olive, despairingly. "There is
nothing to be gained by probing the past. But in the present we may be
able to do something. To return to those wrist-buttons: in the first
place, Carson never wore them----"
"One moment," interrupted Mallow. "You must be quite sure of that
before we can accept it as evidence of any value. It is always
possible he may have had them by him, yet not have worn them. Whether
or no he gave them to Dr. Drabble is another matter; you had, perhaps,
better write and get Mrs. Drabble to ask her husband."
"That is exactly what I did. But she replied that it was more than she
dared to do. You know she is frightened to death of him. On the
contrary, she implored me not to tell him lest Margery should get into
trouble."
"The man can hardly blame her for following his own teaching," said
Laurence, grimly. "He has been at some pains to teach her to look upon
other people's belongings as her own; naturally the child thought she
was doing no wrong. So Mrs. Drabble won't speak to her husband? Well,
I must do so myself, then, when I get back to town."
"Have you the doctor's address there?"
"Yes. It so happens that he has been trying to enlist my sympathies
towards his revolutionary projects. He gave me his town address
and asked me to call." Mallow took out his pocket-book. "49,
Poplar-street, Soho; that's where he lives. A veritable hotbed of
foreign rascality, no doubt. Well, that disposes for the present of
one more piece of evidence. What else have you?"
"Two days ago," said Olive, "I received this from Angus" (producing a
letter). "He said that he was going to London, possibly even abroad.
He has evidently gone abroad, for this is written from Florence."
"So I see," said Mallow, glancing over the letter. "Florence as an
address is somewhat vague."
"He fears I may follow him, I suppose. Pray read the letter, Mr.
Mallow."
Laurence did so. There were merely some half a dozen lines to the
effect that the writer did not intend to return, that he gave his wife
her full freedom, and apologizing for anything he might have done to
distress her.
"He is a bad lot," said Mallow, in disgust, "Still, I cannot see how
this letter is going to help you, nor, for that matter, what doubt it
casts upon his identity."
"Can't you see," burst out Olive, "why he wrote that himself--and,
moreover, he wrote it with his right hand. I have seen the writing of
his left. It can be read only with great difficulty. This is perfectly
plain and easily legible. Yet, when he was here, he always declared
his right hand was much too painful to use in any way."
"Yes, I admit there may be something in it," said Mallow; "but might
not some one else have written it for him?"
"Perhaps; that is, of course, just possible. But I doubt it. I don't
believe his right hand was hurt at all. He merely feigned its
uselessness for his own ends."
"But Mrs. Purcell declared that it was useless."
"She alluded to Carson's hand. This man, I tell you, is not Carson. I
remember one day when we were out we climbed a slight cliff. I
scrambled up first. On looking back, I saw Angus climbing up with both
hands. There were other times, too, when he forgot himself. I have
even seen him take his arm right out of the sling and use his hand
perfectly freely. When I spoke to him about it he always would have it
I was mistaken. I tried to get him to remove the bandages and show me
his hand, but his excuse was that the doctor had strictly forbidden
him to do so. No, believe me, Mr. Mallow, I am right. That letter was
written by the man himself, and with his right hand. Carson is an
impostor."
"Really that is very well argued," said Mallow, puzzled. "But there
are flaws. However, we can consider those later. Pray go on. What is
your third reason?"
"Mr. Dimbal writes to me that Angus--let us call him that for the
present--has realized all securities, and has placed the proceeds to
his own credit at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris. Now, the real Angus
Carson would not do that."
"I don't quite see why he should not," said Mallow; "but I admit, of
course, it is strange. Still, even so, I find it difficult to believe
the man is an impostor without more direct and convincing evidence."
"He is; I tell you he is," replied Olive, resolutely. "I truly believe
that man who was murdered in Athelstane Place was the real Carson. The
right hand--the diseased hand, you remember--was cut off, no doubt to
procure the bracelet for this impostor. This man's clothes smelt of
sandal-wood--a most unusual perfume--so did those of the poor wretch
who was killed. The newspaper description of the dead man corresponds
exactly with the man who calls himself my husband. He never by any
chance spoke to me of his father or of his life in India. He never
cared for me, and was only too ready to part from me. His only action
of note since we were married has been to sell the stock and transfer
the proceeds to a foreign bank, where he can deal with it. I am
convinced, Mr. Mallow, that he was not Angus Carson. I go even
further. I believe that he murdered Angus Carson in order to
impersonate him. I am as sure of it as I am that--well, that I am
alive; and, God help me, I am married to the wretch!"
Olive became so agitated that Mallow begged her to lie down. Do and
say what he would, he could not shake her conviction. When he saw her
somewhat more composed he left her and started off for a good brisk
walk, that he might turn things over in his mind.
It was quite dusk when he got back to Sandbeach. Half an hour later
and he would probably have failed to see a small white package lying
on the path-way. He was in a narrow side street leading from the
esplanade to the railway station. As it was, he not only saw it, but
took the trouble to stop and pick it up. It proved to be a somewhat
bulky letter addressed to Jeremiah Trall, Esq., 49, Poplar Street,
Soho, London. Mallow's instinct as soon as he read this was to drop
it. But the tall figure of a woman coming quickly round the corner
arrested his attention. He saw that she was eagerly searching for
something. She came up to him. "My letter sir," she ejaculated
hurriedly. "I dropped it. Thank you." She snatched it from him, and
before he had time to recover himself she was gone.
"Clara Trall!" he gasped, thunderstruck. "Shall I follow her? No, I
have no right to do that. Yet the address of that letter is the
address of Dr. Drabble in London. More mystery--more scheming. What on
earth can it mean?"
But it was many a long day before Mallow found an answer to that
question.
CHAPTER IV.
"MORE MYSTERY."
For various reasons, Mallow had not taken up his abode in the same
hotel as Olive. He had found a clean, unpretentious, little place near
the station, which suited him well enough in his present mood. Here he
ate a solitary dinner, cooked and served in thoroughly English style.
Invariably fastidious over his food, Laurence was not now inclined to
be any more particular about it than he was about his lodging. He ate
but little. A good cigar and some strong black coffee, he felt, would
do more for him just now than any food. He inquired from the waiter
how the trains ran to London, for he had no doubt that on the morrow
it would be necessary for him to use them. Curiously enough the waiter
knew all about the trains, notwithstanding the fact that he was an
aboriginal as well as a waiter.
"On'y two decent ones from 'ere to Lunnon," said this Ganymede;
"you'll see 'em, sir, in the time-tables. There's one leaves ten 'o
the mornin', an' another at six at night. You gits to Lunnon in about
three hours; so, yer see, they ain't express like even then."
"Ten in the morning," mused Mallow. "Ah! that's a trifle too early. I
may as well have another day with Olive, to cheer her up. The evening
train will suit me. I can see Drabble in Soho the next morning--that
is, if he is in town."
Mallow finished his coffee and cigar. Then he lit a fresh one, slipped
on his coat--for the night was chilly--and strolled round to the big
hotel. He was shown at once to Mrs. Carson's sitting-room. He found
her almost as much agitated as she had been when he left her.
"Oh, Laurence!" she said, calling him by his Christian name in her
excitement. "How glad I am that you have come. She has gone!"
"She has gone? Who has gone?" asked Laurence, pausing in the act of
removing his coat.
"Clara--my maid," replied Olive. "I cannot understand it at all. She
appeared perfectly content with her place, and said nothing about
leaving. It was only when I sent for her to dress me for dinner that I
found she had gone. What can it mean?"
"It probably seems extraordinary to you," replied Mallow, coolly; "but
I confess I am not surprised. Your Clara has gone to join Carson."
Olive gasped. "To join my husband?" she said incredulously. "What has
Clara to do with him?"
"That is what I should like to know. Carson has been in the habit of
meeting this girl for some time past. Before you were married, Aldean
saw them together; but he carefully refrained from letting me know
anything about it until quite recently. I suppose he was afraid of
what I should do to the scoundrel. Save, under the present
circumstances, I should not have told you. But, as I have little doubt
she has gone to him, it is right you should know."
"Oh!" cried Olive, suddenly recollecting; "then she was the woman I
saw! The night before my husband left me I saw him talking with a
woman quite close to the hotel. I recognized him but her face I could
not see. Yes, it must have been Clara."
"The scoundrel!" murmured Mallow, "there is clearly something between
him and the girl. She was probably a spy."
"A spy--on me? For what reason?"
"Semberry could probably explain that. I understand that he was
instrumental in finding the girl for you."
"That's true. A Mrs. Arne, whose address he gave me, was anxious to
find a place for her; so I wrote, of course, in the usual way for her
reference. It was an excellent one, and I did not hesitate to engage
her. So far as that goes, she was a first-class servant.'
"She probably was no servant at all," said Mallow, bluntly. "She had
neither the appearance nor the manners of one. Even Aldean noticed
that. By the way, have you Mrs. Arne's letter?"
Olive nodded. "I keep all my letters for six months before I destroy
them," she said, rising. "I should have hers. Wait one moment, I will
go and fetch it."
Mrs. Carson returned with the letter. Mallow read it through
carefully, but could gather nothing from it. He noted the address, 30,
Amelia Street, Kensington, and commented on the firm, masculine
character of the writing. "Mrs. Arne is evidently a woman of strong
will and considerable character," he said, replacing his pocket-book.
"For all we know, she may be mixed up in this plot."
"Plot?" echoed Olive, looking scared. "What plot?"
"Well," said Mallow, "I can hardly say definitely. There is certainly
a plot of some kind. Sooner or later we shall know more about it. At
present we must be content to know its object, which was undoubtedly
to secure this fifty thousand pounds."
"For whom?"
"That is the question. Carson, Semberry, Clara Trall, or even Dr.
Drabble--they all seem to have something to do with it."
"Then you think there is some connection between my husband and that
horrid doctor?"
"Yes, I do. I must tell you that shortly before six o'clock this
evening, as I was coming home from my walk, I picked up, in one of the
small streets here, a letter, dropped evidently by this Clara of
yours; for just as I was reading the address on it, she came rushing
round the corner, snatched it from my hand, and flew off with it
before I had time to do more than notice that it was she. It is more
than probable that she left by the six-o'clock train."
"For London?"
"No; I don't think she went to London."
"Oh! I see. You think she has gone off to Florence to my husband?"
"Yes, I think that; and something more, Mrs. Carson. The letter I
picked up was addressed to Jeremiah Trall, 49, Poplar Street, Soho."
"Clara's father, I suppose?"
"Well, it may be her father or it may be Dr. Drabble--49, Poplar
Street, happens to be the town address he gave me. It would not
surprise me in the least to find that in pursuit of his Anarchistic
schemes he found it useful to have--well, let us call it a _nom de
guerre_."
"But why should he take Clara's name?"
"We don't know that Trall is Clara's real name," retorted Mallow.
"Mind you, this is purely hypothetical. Jeremiah Trall may or may not
be Drabble. At all events, the address is the same; and Soho is the
hotbed of Anarchism in London. The possession of that wrist-button by
Drabble seems to me clearly to point to some intimacy with Carson."
"The so-called Carson?" interrupted Olive.
"Well, we have not quite proved that yet. The links of the chain run
something like this: Mrs. Arne, whoever she may be, gives Clara
(whoever she may be) a character which is palpably false. I mean false
as regards her identity, not her capability; for that you proved to be
all that was said for it. From this fact we are justified in
concluding that she, Mrs. Arne, is in some way implicated. I feel
convinced myself that Clara was not a servant. Semberry induces you to
engage her--that proves his connection; and Carson meets Clara several
times, and clearly is intimate with her. The wrist-button would seem
to connect Drabble with Carson, and the Soho address associates him
with Clara. Save the address and the wrist-button, which, of course,
are substantial facts, the rest is deduction pure and simple. But it
is logical deduction, and, to my thinking, it points strongly to a
secret association for some secret purpose between all these people.
The purpose, I take it, was to secure this sum of fifty thousand
pounds."
"But what makes you think that Clara has not gone to London?"
"That letter," replied Mallow, promptly. "It was very bulky. I
believed it contained a report of our conversation here to-day. Clara
was in the next room. You remember how, when she heard my voice, she
came in with an obviously feigned excuse? I noticed when she returned
to the bedroom she left the door ajar. Overhearing us, of course, she
became aware of your doubts as to Carson's identity. She probably
became alarmed lest you should go further and discover her connection
with him. That, I think, is the reason of her sudden departure; whilst
the very existence of the letter seems to me to show that London was
not her destination. Had she been going there, she need not have
written it. She could have called at Poplar-Street, Soho, and said
what she had to say. Do you follow? She has probably got out at some
station on the way up, and is now on her way to Dover, _en route_ for
Italy."
Olive passed her hand over her forehead. "It's all very confusing,"
she said, in a troubled voice.
"And all very fanciful, you might add," rejoined Mallow. "Are you sure
she has taken her box?"
"The chambermaid said so."
Mallow shook his head. "We had better not rest content with
second-hand evidence when we can have first," said he. "Where is her
room? Can we go and see?"
"Oh yes. I should have gone before, but I have been so confused with
one thing and another. Let us go and search it at once."
Taking a lighted candle from a side table, Olive led the way along the
corridor. The room was not far away. They could find no box there.
"She must have removed it while I was out," said Olive in dismay. "I
took a stroll shortly after you left; my head was aching so. Oh, what
a wicked, artful girl!"
"She is probably quite used to these fittings," said Mallow, looking
round the room. "Hallo! torn-up paper in the grate! We must look at
this. Hold the candle a moment, please, Mrs. Carson."
Clara had not been fool enough to leave behind anything likely to
betray her. But one envelope which Mallow found proved the truth of
one of his suppositions. It had an Italian stamp on the corner, and
was addressed "Miss Clara Trall, Grand Hotel, Sandbeach, Inghilterra."
"My husband's writing!" cried Olive, as Mallow rose and dusted his
knees.
"Yes; and from Florence--dated four days back. Look at the post-mark.
This puts the matter beyond a doubt, Mrs. Carson. Your husband wrote
to her to join him in Italy. She has gone to Dover, not to London."
"But, surely, what can Clara be to that man?"
"An accomplice, certainly."
They returned to the sitting-room. Mrs. Carson sat down looking
hopelessly bewildered. "What are we to do now?" she asked.
"Communicate with the police?"
"No," said Mallow; "we have no facts to give them. We know that Carson
has possession of the money; but, you must remember, he has legal
possession of it. We know that he is in Italy, and that Clara has
joined him. There is nothing there for the police, is there? Beyond
this we can say nothing; not even that Carson is an impostor. But it
will not be long now before we are able to settle that point; Mrs.
Purcell arrives from India in a couple of days' time, and a portrait
of Carson----"
"I have one," interrupted Olive. "He was so vain that he actually had
some done by one of these men on the beach. There were some copies in
this room. I dare say I can find them. But tell me, Mr. Mallow, what
do you intend to do now?"
Whilst she was hunting for the photographs, Mallow explained. "I
think," he said, "I had better go to London and see this Mrs. Arne.
Then I shall look up Semberry, and after that--well, then, I think
I'll drop in on Dr. Drabble in Soho."
"Will you broach the matter directly?"
"No; I don't think it would be wise to do that. If things are as I
suspect, we have to deal with a dangerous lot. I'll find out all I can
without letting them have any suspicion--that is to say, from Mrs.
Arne and Semberry. As for Drabble, I intend to join him. I shall
become an Anarchist."
"Become an Anarchist?" echoed Olive, turning round, the photographs in
her hand.
"Yes; it is my only chance of gaining his confidence. I must do it if
I am to get at the truth."
"But you will bring trouble upon yourself."
"Oh no," laughed Mallow, "I shall stop short of throwing bombs, I
promise you."
"Oh, it is dangerous," said Mrs. Carson, sighing. "How can I thank you
sufficiently for all the trouble you are taking--here are the
photographs."
Laurence glanced at one. It represented Carson standing straight and
stiff against a stone wall for all the world as if he were going to be
shot. It was not a work of art, but the likeness was excellent. Mallow
nodded as if he were well satisfied.
"It will serve our purpose capitally," he said, putting it in his
pocket. "Mrs. Purcell should have no difficulty in saying if this is
or is not the man she saw in Bombay. Well, Mrs. Carson," he added
abruptly. "I must say good night."
"Good night. What time to-morrow do you leave?"
"Not until the evening train--six o'clock. Mrs. Purcell does not
arrive for two days yet, so I have plenty of time. Good night."
Thus did Mallow take his first step on the dark and tortuous way he
was to follow. It led him downward into an under-world of crime and
danger. But he found some good even in those sordid depths. Doubt and
mystery surrounding him, holding his life in his hand, on and on he
went, never flinching, never yielding, never losing sight of his clue
until at last it led him to the truth.
_THE THIRD SCENE: IN LONDON_.
CHAPTER I.
"MYSTERIOUS MRS. ARNE."
For a long time past Mallow had been turning over in his mind the
scheme of a new novel upon which he was most anxious to commence work.
But now that Mrs. Carson had called upon him to aid her to the
solution of the many mysteries by which she seemed to be surrounded,
he was obliged to put all thought of it from him. With all the energy
he could command he threw himself into the business on hand. Here was
a romance in real life surpassing the most elaborate inventions of
fiction. It was his task to round it off to a satisfactory finish. And
this was not easy. Of actual fact he had but little to guide him.
Neither could he hope to extract much from those chiefly concerned. He
was forced to grope his way in well-nigh utter darkness. Only by the
light of fresh material yet to be gathered would he be able to use to
advantage that which was already at his command. And of procuring such
fresh material he saw but small chance at present. Here, as in most
things, it was the first step which was so important. He inclined to
think that two heads were better than one. From Sandbeach he had
written at some length to his friend Aldean, telling him all that had
taken place there, and how he had shifted Olive's troubles (so far as
he was able) on to his own more capable shoulders. The result was that
Aldean came up to London almost immediately, and presented himself at
Mallow's chambers in Half-Moon Street, full of curiosity and anxiety
to assist in the crusade against Carson and Company. In substantiation
of his belief in the old proverb, Mallow accepted his offer. Here was
another head, at all events, if not an exceptionally brilliant one.
And so Aldean took up his quarters at his house in Kensington, and
prepared himself for an exciting time.
"It is good of you, Jim," said Mallow, at their first meeting. "I know
you would much rather be at Casterwell playing with Amaryllis in the
shade, according to your habit."
"Amaryllis comes to London next week," replied Jim, with something of
a blush. "Mrs. Purcell has invited her."
"Oh, in that case your patience will not be put to so great a test.
Has Mrs. Purcell arrived?"
"Yes, she is in town now, settled in a friend's house which she has
taken over for the winter. Miss Slarge showed me a long Johnsonian
missive, in which Mrs. Purcell stated she was 'elevating her shingle'
in Guelph Road, Campden Hill."
"And how, may I ask, did Mrs. Purcell translate 'elevating her
shingle' into English?"
"Oh, I can't remember the old lady's long-winded sentences, but she is
now in Guelph Road. Miss Slarge, with Miss Ostergaard, comes up next
week. Of course, Mrs. Purcell knows nothing of Mrs. Carson's
matrimonial troubles, or I dare say she would have asked her too."
"She must ask her," said Mallow, hastily. "I shall call on Mrs.
Purcell, and explain the circumstances. It will never do for Mrs.
Carson to be left alone in her troubles."
"Take care, Mallow; your interest in Mrs. Carson may be misconstrued."
"Oh, rubbish! Mrs. Purcell is a woman of sense, I am sure. So long as
I keep my own counsel, she can say nothing. I want Mrs. Carson to
revert, as much as possible, to the condition of affairs before this
unhappy marriage. When all this mystery is cleared up, she will be
able to start fresh."
"That will depend, of course, mainly upon the identity of this man
Carson," said Aldean.
"Nothing of the sort," contradicted Mallow, sharply, but wincing all
the same; "whatever he is she is his wife--there's no getting past
that fact."
"She may get a divorce. Carson's gone off with that girl."
"Quite so; but he has not so far treated her with cruelty, and--well,
you know the idiotcy of the D.C. For Heaven's sake, Jim, drop Mrs.
Carson."
"All right," assented Aldean. "I see your nerves are jumpy on that
subject. Let's get to the matters in hand. About this Carson mess;
what do you think of it?"
"A big business, Jim; a nasty painful business, with a strong element
of criminality it it. Of course it is all very vague and confused on
the surface, but beneath, I am convinced, there is a very orderly and
well-constructed conspiracy progressing."
Mallow sat down and lighted his pipe. "Now, let us look at the facts,"
he said. "There can be no doubt that Semberry forced that girl on Mrs.
Carson as a spy. Carson, too, must have known her before he came to
Casterwell, or he would not have been meeting her on the quiet so soon
after she came there. She overheard my conversation with her mistress
in the sitting-room of the hotel (unfortunately it was not till I was
about to leave that I noticed she had left the bedroom door ajar, or I
would have closed it). However, she lost no time in reporting what she
had heard to 49, Poplar Street, which, you understand, is the same
address that Drabble gave me as his own. That, I consider, brings him
into the business. Then she bolted to join Carson in Florence; that I
think is proved by the envelope which I found in the grate of her
bedroom. These are the main facts."
"And you really think that Drabble is in the swindle?"
"I do, from the fact of that address, and also from this wrist-button
turning up; so far as we know, he could only have got it from Carson.
That would seem to show that he knew Carson somewhere before he came
to Casterwell. Presents argue a certain degree of intimacy."
"That is one view," said Jim, quickly, "but there is another. If
Carson is a fraud, you may be sure that it was the real man who was
murdered in Athelstane Place. The sandal-wood scent forms a link
between the true and the false."
"Well, admitting that, even then the wrist-button must have passed
through the false Carson's hands to reach Drabble. We have nothing to
lead us to suppose that the doctor had anything to do with the
murder."
"Humph! The papers said, you remember, that only a surgeon could have
amputated the right hand so neatly."
"That is a wild theory," said Mallow. "Let us stick to the facts.
Whoever Carson may be, you forget we have yet to prove him an
impostor. The one thing we are sure of is that Clara Trall was a spy."
"Do you intend questioning Semberry about her?"
"No, that would put him on his guard at once. I shall go to Amelia
Street, and see this Mrs. Arne."
"The same thing applies to her, surely?"
"No. I shall merely call on Mrs. Carson's behalf to inform her that
Clara left her mistress's service without warning of any kind, and ask
her if she can throw any light on her eccentric behaviour. It is quite
natural Mrs. Carson should wish to know. I shall thus throw the onus
of any explanation on her."
"She will only lie to you. She may not even do that,--probably she
will express her very great regret, and confess her inability to
understand it."
"Well, of course, that is probable. I must chance it. She may let fall
something of value."
Aldean put on his hat and coat. "So you intend to begin with this
clue?" he asked dubiously.
"Well, I think it is the most likely to bear fruit."
"And what about the murder?" asked Aldean.
Mallow pointed to a neat pile of newspaper cuttings. "I am refreshing
my memory on that point. But, for the present, I think I shall leave
it alone. We have not yet anything sufficiently strong to connect
Carson with it. That sandal-wood is not enough. I believe in going
slowly and relying on facts only."
"Well, old man, good-bye and good luck," said Lord Aldean. "See you
again soon;" and he took himself off to transact some small business
of his own.
The same afternoon Mallow dressed himself smartly and strolled down to
Kensington through the park. Without any difficulty he found Amelia
Street. It proved to be in the centre of a fashionable locality, and
its inhabitants were evidently people of wealth. As he mounted the
steps of No. 30 he could not help wondering at Mrs. Arne's connection
with the very shady matter he had in hand. For the moment the clue did
not look promising.
"Is Mrs. Arne at home?" he asked the footman who came to the door.
"Mrs. Arne, sir?" said the man with a stare; "I know no one of that
name, sir."
Mallow felt a sudden shock of surprise at the unexpectedness of the
answer. "But this is Mrs. Arne's house, surely?" he asked hastily.
"No, sir," replied the man, "Mr. Dacre lives here."
"Is Mr. Dacre in?" demanded Laurence, after a few moment's reflection.
"He is not, sir; Mr. Dacre is at present out of town, sir. Mrs. Dacre
is at home, sir."
"In that case, please give her my card, and ask her if she will be so
good as to see me for a few moments."
The footman departed, and shortly returning conducted Mallow upstairs
to a magnificently furnished drawing-room, where he was received by a
pretty, though vulgar-looking woman, shrill of speech and horribly
over-dressed. At a glance Mallow guessed she had become possessed of
unlimited cash late in life. Mr. Dacre had probably made a fortune in
the rapid manner which is characteristic of our latter days, and his
wife was now in the throes of acclimatization to her altered
circumstances. In all directions there was copious evidence of a huge
banking-account.
"Mr. Mallow," said Mrs. Dacre, assuming a dignity which suited her not
at all, and looking at his card through an eye-glass.
"Yes, I have taken the liberty of calling upon you to ask you if you
know anything of a Mrs. Arne who lived here."
Mrs. Dacre looked at him in surprise. "I do, and I do not know Mrs.
Arne. She is hardly an acquaintance of mine; I only know her as a
dressmaker."
"A dressmaker?" repeated Mallow, with a gasp.
"She is not really even that," continued the voluble lady--"pray be
seated Mr. Mallow. Mrs. Arne is, in fact, a person who goes out
sewing. She was recommended to me as an intelligent needlewoman by one
of my friends. As I wished some costumes altered, I employed her for a
few weeks."
"Is she here now, Mrs. Dacre?"
"Oh dear no. She finished her work, and I dismissed her some weeks
ago."
"Do you happen to have her address?"
"No, indeed, I have not. What should I do with such a person's
address. I engaged the woman; she did my bidding; I dismissed her. I
am not likely ever to see her again. May I ask (this with increasing
stateliness) if this person is a friend of yours?"
"No, I have not even seen her," replied Mallow, hastily; "but a lady
friend of mine in the country requires a maid, and she heard that Mrs.
Arne had one for whom she wished to find a situation."
Mrs. Dacre grew scarlet with anger. "Absurd--ridiculous!" she burst
out. "Why, Mrs. Arne was quite a common person; clever with her
needle, I admit, and quite respectful. But the idea of her
recommending a maid!"
"Nevertheless she did so," said Mallow, taking a delight in touching
upon the weak spot of the purse-proud little lady. "My friend wrote to
Mrs. Arne at this address, and received this reply." As Mrs. Dacre's
eyes, through the medium of her double glasses, fell on the letter
which Mallow placed in her hand, she almost screeched.
"My own paper," she gasped, "the hussy! she must have stolen it. Clara
Trall?--she recommends Clara Trall, a creature of whom I have never
heard as a good maid--a maid! Oh! and she herself a sewing-woman too;
a common, vulgar dressmaker. Mr. Mallow, Mr. Mallow, what are the
lower orders coming to?"
"That is a very large question, Mrs. Dacre. At present, perhaps we had
better confine ourselves to this one. Do you happen to know a Major
Semberry?"
"No, I never heard of him."
"Did Mrs. Arne ever mention him?"
"Not that I know of. But, of course, I spoke but little to her. I will
say she knew how to hold her tongue. Did Major Semberry know her?"
"I believe so. At all events, he gave my friend this address as Mrs.
Arne's."
"And he a major too! Upon my word, it doesn't sound at all
respectable. 'Enry (she lost her h's simultaneously with her
temper)--'Enry shall know of this. Mrs. Arne recommending maids from
our 'ouse on my writing-paper."
Mallow shrugged his shoulders. He had got all the information he was
likely to get, so he prepared to take his leave. Mrs. Dacre was too
intent upon her own grievance to attempt to stop him. At the door
(whither she followed him) he asked her one more question.
"What was Mrs. Arne like, Mrs. Drace? Can you give me any description
of her appearance?"
"A dark, foreign-looking person, with eyes always on the floor, and a
tread like a cat. I think she was a foreigner, for all her English.
Never, never shall a foreigner enter these doors again."
Mallow bowed himself out, stopping at the door for a word with the
smart footman. "Mrs. Arne was in this house for some time, your
mistress tells me; how is it you did not tell me so?"
"I've only been here a week, sir," replied the man. Mallow gave him a
shilling and went off.
"A dark, foreign-looking woman," he repeated. "Strange again! that is
very much like the description the newspapers give of the housekeeper
at Athelstane Place. And Semberry knows her, and Carson of Casterwell
is Semberry's bosom friend. Humph! I shouldn't be surprised if the
murdered man was the real Carson after all!"
CHAPTER II.
"MRS. PURCELL."
After his interview with Mrs. Dacre, Mallow's first impulse was to see
Semberry and tax him with the deception he had practised upon Olive.
But he was not a man who gave way to his impulses. He quickly realized
that to do that at this stage would simply be to put the Major on his
guard. Plainly he was connected in some way with Mrs. Arne, and it
seemed more than likely, from the description of her given by Mrs.
Dacre, that this so-called dressmaker was identical with the so-called
housekeeper of Athelstane Place. In dealing with people so astute and
so dangerous, Mallow saw that his only chance lay in gaining their
confidence in some way. His next move must be to see Drabble, if
necessary, in the character of a convert to his views. The doctor's
vanity would be flattered, and in his enthusiasm he would not hesitate
to welcome him as a member of the band. Once let him become acquainted
with the schemes of these Anarchists, and he might hope for much
knowledge which, by any other means, would be unattainable. The risk
was considerable, that he knew well--for thus to connect himself with
a set of fearless fanatics, was to play with fire with a vengeance.
Once the oath taken, he was the tool of these ruffians; if he broke
it--and that might be necessary for Olive's sake--he became their
prey. He had no fancy to be blown to pieces or to be stabbed in the
dark. But that was a risk he must perforce accept if he was to carry
the thing through. He decided to take it, and affiliate himself with
the brotherhood. His mind made up on that point, he found himself even
looking forward with a certain thrill of excitement to the risks he
was about to run. Plainly speaking, he was a spy venturing into an
unknown land of snares and pitfalls. The least false step might prove
fatal, not only to his hopes, but to his life. However, before
actually involving himself, he called on Mrs. Purcell. He was anxious
to tell her all about Olive, and to induce her to take the girl under
her protection for the time being. He presented himself at Campden
Hill one afternoon about five o'clock, and was graciously received by
the old lady, with whom he was an especial favourite. Tui and Miss
Slarge had already arrived, and were established there as Mrs.
Purcell's guests, but Olive was still at Sandbeach. She shunned
meeting even Tui and Miss Slarge. She knew that they would ask
questions which would necessitate her explaining the invidious
position in which she was placed. They were still under the impression
that her husband was with her, and wondered why the happy pair did not
return to the Manor House. On this point Mallow preserved a judicious
silence for the present, though he had fully made up his mind to take
Mrs. Purcell into his confidence. That would be necessary in order to
enlist her sympathies for Olive, and to carry out his purpose. The
subject was a delicate one, and would require careful handling.
A majestic female was Mrs. Purcell, with a haughty eye and a Roman
nose. She was as stout as her sister was lean, and was draped with
funereal pomp in silk and crape, and ornaments of glistening jet. She
moved slowly and spoke slowly, and she modelled her speech on the best
traditions of her hero, Dr. Johnson. Her looks were monumental, her
conversations ponderous. She resembled the ideal Britannia--without,
be it said, helmet or trident--in domestic life. She had flippantly
been compared to Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," and, indeed, there was
something of the epic about her, awe-inspiring and stately. She had
never made or enjoyed a joke in her life. Pallas, Lady Macbeth, Hannah
More--Mrs. Purcell was a combination of all three.
"Mr. Mallow," she said, bearing down on the visitor with full canvas,
"I am glad to welcome you to my temporary hearth. With my sister, as
with the vivacious Miss Ostergaard, you are already acquainted. We
expect Lord Aldean, but for the time being our circle is limited, as
you observe."
Mallow greeted the two ladies.
"And how is your book getting on?"
The authoress sighed.
"Only moderately well, Mr. Mallow," she said wearily. "I am at present
employed in identifying the Etruscan lituus with the Pontifical
crosier, and some of the accounts are so contradictory that it is not
easy to reconcile them."
"How is Olive?" demanded Tui, irrelevantly. "Is she well and happy?"
"Is not that a superfluous question, under the circumstances?" replied
Mallow, evasively.
Tui looked at him.
"Hardly, or I would not have asked it. On the contrary,
her letters give me a different impression. I fear from them that she
does not get on well with her husband."
"Tis difficult," observed Mrs. Purcell, who had returned to the
tea-table, "for a newly-married pair to live in complete accord with
one another. The effect of their respective trainings has to be taken
into account, and only the influence of time, coupled with forbearance
on either side, can adapt the idiosyncrasies of one to those of the
other. Olive has been reared in our island home, Mr. Carson has not.
Therefore it is not unlikely that they experience some difficulty in
blending their respective dispositions into one harmonious whole."
"East is east, and west is west," said Mallow, "and two parallel
straight lines cannot meet."
"Let us hope that, in this case, judicious yielding on the part of
each of these young people will create an exception to the invariable
truth of that axiom, Mr. Mallow. Can I give you a dish of tea?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Purcell. Ah, here comes our mutual friend."
Aldean entered. He was welcomed by Mrs. Purcell with all the pomp she
considered due to a member of the nobility.
Tui was joyous. "I thought you were never coming," she said. "I see
that it is out 'of sight, out of mind' with you."
"By Jove! I wish it were," sighed Jim; "I should be a happier man."
"Oh, surely I don't make you miserable?"
"Never mind; it is misery I would not be without. Tell me, how is
Major Semberry?"
"Good gracious, Lord Aldean, how should I know? I have not seen him
for years."
"'Tis to be hoped that you will not again come into contact with Major
Semberry," said Mrs. Purcell, wagging her turban; "he is not a
suitable acquaintance for a young lady."
"No, I am quite sure he is not," assented Aldean; upon which Tui at
once took up arms on behalf of the absent.
"Major Semberry is the most charming of men," she declared, with a
pout.
"The serpent," rebuked Mrs. Purcell, "is ever beautiful to the eye but
unfortunately is possessed of noxious qualities which far exceed his
beauty. Rubina, in my letter to you I think I stated my opinion of
Major Semberry. From that opinion I have seen no reason to depart."
"In plain English, Mrs. Purcell, you consider Semberry a rascal?"
"Mr. Mallow, I consider him a profligate and an undesirable
acquaintance. How Dr. Carson came to entrust his son to such a man I
cannot understand."
"They got on very well together."
"Then the one or the other must have changed very much, Lord Aldean.
In Bombay, Mr. Carson was by no means friendly with his travelling
companion. His rigid sense of right and wrong did not allow him to
countenance Major Semberry's laxity of principle."
"You like Mr. Carson?" asked Mallow, quickly.
"My acquaintance with him was not of sufficient duration to enable me
to speak quite so definitely as that, but I consider Mr. Carson to be
an admirably conducted young man, calculated to render any woman happy
in the matrimonial state."
"Oh, lor!" muttered Jim; "how he must have altered!"
"Well," said Tui, outright, "I don't like Mr. Carson at all. I never
did."
"You surprise me," said Mrs. Purcell, in her most majestic manner. "My
judgment is seldom at fault, and I considered Mr. Carson, when I saw
him in Bombay, to be the type of all that is most excellent in the
male sex."
The discussion had not the remotest interest for Miss Slarge. Indeed,
she had already drifted back to Babylon. Observing vaguely that the
great red dragon of Revelations was the fiery serpent of Chaldean
worship, she left the room to return to her beloved studies, and Mrs.
Purcell was left with her three guests. Lord Aldean was carried off by
Tui to a distant corner where she could torment him without fear of
interruption, and Mallow at once seized the opportunity for a talk
with his hostess about Olive. It took all Mrs. Purcell's philosophy to
hear unmoved his tale of Carson's treachery.
"Mrs. Purcell," said Mallow, plunging at once _in medias res_, "you
are aware that I have known Mrs. Carson for many years, and that I
take a deep interest in her welfare. I am sorry to tell you that she
is very unhappy in her marriage."
"Did she inform you of this fact?" said Mrs. Purcell, with some
displeasure.
"She did. I received a letter from her asking me to go to Sandbeach,
where she was spending her honeymoon. On arriving there I found that
her husband had left her."
"Mr. Carson has left Olive!"
"Yes; he is now in Italy, and, I believe, with another woman."
"You amaze me, Mr. Mallow; I may say, you pain me. What is the meaning
of this terrible state of affairs?"
"Ah! that is a difficult question for me to answer. My only way of
doing so is to tell you all that I have learned concerning Mr. Carson
and Major Semberry, and leave you to judge for yourself."
"That will be best, Mr. Mallow. I shall then be enabled to deliver my
unbiassed judgment."
Thereupon Laurence related all that had taken place since Carson's
arrival at Casterwell, and particularly detailed the steps which had
led to the engagement of Clara Trall.
"So you see, Mrs. Purcell," he concluded, "she can hardly help being
unhappy. Her husband has left her, and has taken her money--to spend
it, I presume, on another woman. She is now alone and worried, at
Sandbeach. I want you to ask her up here and take her under your wing.
She needs a friend. You will be that friend?"
"You may depend upon my doing what is just and right," said Mrs.
Purcell, vigorously. "I will communicate with Olive at once; yes, and
I will invite her to come here. That Mr. Carson should behave so
basely is a matter of the most profound astonishment to me. I had read
his character otherwise. I can but ascribe this deterioration to the
counsel and wiles of Major Semberry."
"That is one way of explaining it," said Mallow, taking out his
pocket-book; "but there is yet another and more conclusive one. This
is a portrait which Mr. Carson had taken at Sandbeach. May I ask you
to look at it carefully, and to tell me what you think of it?"
Mrs. Purcell took the photograph and examined it.
"This is either an extremely bad portrait, or Mr. Carson has altered
sadly for the worse," she said at length.
Mallow felt his heart beating furiously.
"In what way has Mr. Carson altered?" he asked, anxiously.
"Oh, his whole expression is quite different, Mr. Mallow. When last I
saw him, Mr. Carson's face was replete with intellectual vigour; he
was sad and sombre, too, not bright and smiling as he is depicted
here. His moustache was very much heavier, and he certainly was not so
tall as this picture represents him to be."
"It would not surprise you then, Mrs. Purcell, if I were to tell you
that this was not Mr. Carson's portrait at all?"
"No, Mr. Mallow, it would not. At first glance, I did not notice many
things that appear to me as I look into it. Mr. Carson's face may, of
course, have changed. The circumstances of his life may have caused
his expression to brighten. It is possible, too, that his moustache
may be of less luxuriant growth, but I confess I do not understand how
he can have become less of stature. No, Mr. Mallow, the man here
represented is not Mr. Angus Carson!"
CHAPTER III.
"A PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENT."
The same evening Laurence had a long and confidential conversation
with Mrs. Purcell. He made known to her all his suspicions and
theories, and the grounds upon which he based them. She listened
attentively to all he had to say. Then she read through the newspaper
reports, and once again scrutinized the portrait of Carson taken at
Sandbeach. She prided herself upon the possession of a clear head and
a logical mind, and she brought both to bear upon the case as Mallow
presented it to her. She arrived at the conclusion that Carson was an
actual impostor and a probable murderer--a stage further than that at
which Mallow had been able to arrive.
"If you believe, as I do, that the man is an impostor," she argued,
"surely he must be guilty of the murder also, else how could he have
become possessed of the bangle and the wrist-buttons?"
"But, Mrs. Purcell, I cannot absolutely prove that he is an impostor,
even though I firmly believe him to be one."
"Sir!" said the lady in her most impressive tone, "our human judgments
are fallible, I admit, but with such evidence as is before us, there
can be no possible doubt that the husband of Olive is not the man
whose name he bears. She herself does not believe in him, and her
reasons are in every respect sound; his dealings with her money, for
instance; his silence regarding his early days in Hindoostan; his use
of his right hand on several occasions when he forgot the part he was
playing. The letter from Italy, too, is of great weight, seeing that
the writer of it also wrote to the woman Trall. That is proved by the
handwriting, which is in all respects identical. The letter to his
wife, the man might possibly have dictated, but the peculiarly private
nature of that which he wrote to the girl makes it highly improbable
that any hand save his own was instrumental in penning it. Moreover,
this is no left-handed writing, the letters are far too firmly formed.
The right hand of the man must, therefore, have been uninjured, which
again proves that he was an impostor. Now, although I am not actually
prepared to swear in a court of law that this portrait is not the
portrait of Mr. Angus Carson, yet I feel quite satisfied in my own
mind that it is not, for the reasons which I have already given you."
"You make out an excellent case against him, Mrs. Purcell," said
Mallow, "but it is only right to say that the man did know something
about India."
"Naturally," she interrupted, "he would obtain whatever information
was necessary for his purpose from his friend, Major Semberry."
"Then you agree with me in making Semberry an accessory?"
"Certainly. You know my opinion of Major Semberry, Mr. Mallow. He is a
man utterly without conscience, without scruple, without religion. He
cultivates the most extravagant tastes, while possessing means
insufficient to gratify them. To place himself beyond the pinch of
poverty I am convinced that he would hesitate at no crime--so long, of
course, as he saw his way clear to avert the consequences."
"Well," said Laurence, "there is one method of throwing light on the
matter which I would like to propose; it is that you permit me to
bring Semberry here to you that you may tax him with this fraud to his
face, and in my presence."
"By all means do so, Mr. Mallow. You may depend upon my acting with
all discretion. In the mean time I will communicate with Olive at
Sandbeach, and invite her to come to me as soon as she can. And, Mr.
Mallow, permit me cordially to thank you for the infinite pains at
which you have been to place me completely in possession of the facts
of this very terrible matter. Together we will go into it, and see
whether we cannot unravel what at present appears to be a mystery of
the most complex order. Good-night, Mr. Mallow, good-night."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Purcell. I am afraid we shall find our task no light
one."
"Not light, perhaps, but not impossible; and what is not impossible is
always possible, is it not, Mr. Mallow?"
With this consolatory truism Mrs. Purcell dismissed her coadjutor and
addressed herself to the task of writing to Olive. She did not tell
her how much she knew of her story, but merely that she was aware of
her husband having deserted her. She invited her to come at once to
London, and urged the advantage of her being on the spot while affairs
were being investigated. Mrs. Purcell rejoiced in her character of
_dea ex machinâ_ and poured forth pages of ponderous English such as
would have done credit to the conduct of a political intrigue. The
rôle appealed to her. She imagined herself a true Madame de Staël.
Mallow could have chosen no better assistant.
He got no sleep that night. His mind was full of his projected visit
to Semberry. In the morning he started off for Marquis Street, but
found that, early as it was, Semberry had already gone out--on
business, according to his valet, though as to the nature of the
business the man maintained complete ignorance. Leaving word that he
would return about one o'clock, Mallow wandered about aimlessly,
until, bethinking himself that he was wasting valuable time, he
determined to try his luck in Soho, and look up Drabble. He had no
sooner turned into Poplar Street, than he came face to face with
Semberry. Judging from his expression, the Major was in no very good
tune. It was more than probable he had been calling upon Drabble, and
the interview had not been to his liking.
"Good-morning, Semberry," said Mallow, blocking the way, "I'm glad to
see you."
"Morning," he grunted, and made as to pass, a move which Mallow soon
thwarted.
"I see you're in a hurry," he said amiably, "so I'll just walk a bit
of the way with you. There is a friend of yours most anxious to renew
your acquaintance."
"Very kind of him; who is he?"
"It is not a he, but a she--Mrs. Purcell of Bombay."
As was his custom when nervous, the Major's fingers sought his
moustache.
"Oh, Mrs. Purcell," he said, with a desperate effort to appear at his
ease, "what does she want?"
"To see you--and Carson, if you can bring him."
"Nothing to do with Carson now--better ask his wife 'bout him. As to
m'self, no time to hang round old woman--leavin' town."
"Mrs. Purcell will be very sorry," said Laurence, smoothly. "Are you
going abroad?"
"Don't know; depends. What makes you think so?"
"Well, I fancied perhaps you might be anxious to join Carson."
"Join Carson?" He stopped short and paled a trifle. "What do y' mean?
Carson's on his honeymoon."
"Oh no, he isn't," retorted Mallow. "Carson's honeymoon is at an end;
has been for two weeks or more. He is in Italy now."
"In Italy? Damme, how d'you know that?"
"Well, about a week ago he wrote to his wife from Florence. It would
seem he has gone abroad to look after the money of which he has become
possessed by his marriage."
"What! You don't tell me he's got the money with him?"
"I believe so. Mrs. Carson heard from the solicitor that he had sold
the stocks and shares, to a large amount, and had transferred the
funds to the Paris branch of the Crédit Lyonnais."
With effort Semberry repressed himself. A string of forcible epithets
was obviously on the tip of his tongue. Although he was probably aware
that Carson had left Sandbeach, it was evidently news to the Major
that he and the money were together on the continent.
"Seems Carson and his wife don't pull," was all he said.
"I fear not," said Mallow, coolly. "In spite of the old adage, Carson
seems to have preferred the maid to the mistress."
"What d'ye mean?" growled the Major, tugging savagely now at his
moustache.
"I mean that the girl Clara Trall has joined Carson in Florence."
"It's a lie! She wouldn't dare----" Here the Major evidently thought
he had said more than enough, for he stopped short.
"I am not accustomed to be told I am a liar, sir!"
"Beg pardon, Mallow; excuse, slip o' the tongue."
"And why should Clara Trall not dare?"
"Don't know," replied Semberry, uneasily; "shouldn't think a maid
would dare clear out with her mistress's husband."
"I am afraid Clara is a bad lot, Major. Why did you recommend her?"
"Didn't. Mrs. Arne did."
"Who is Mrs. Arne?"
"Friend o' mine," snapped the Major, shortly. "'Scuse me, must be
getting on. Kind regards to Mrs. Purcell. See her when I get back;"
and the brave soldier, picking up his guilty conscience, under fire of
Mallow's too-searching questions, fairly ran away.
Mallow decided to postpone his visit to Drabble. He had gained nothing
of value from his brisk little interview with the Major. On the
contrary, he feared he had given away a very definite piece of
information, for he felt convinced that an hour ago Semberry had been
ignorant of the fact that Carson and Clara were in Florence. He was
fearful lest he should have aroused his suspicions in any way. He
might, perchance, act upon the knowledge he had just obtained. Mallow
determined he would have him watched. There and then he proceeded to a
private inquiry office, of which he had informed himself in case of
need. He asked for an agent to be placed at his disposal. The payment
of a sum down secured this without difficulty, and in due course a
personage--said by his employers to be one of the cleverest detectives
in Europe--was told off to serve him.
In appearance, Hiram Vraik--for that was the man's name--might well
have passed for one of the worst of the class he was employed in
pursuing. He was assuredly a most villainous-looking creature. He was
exceedingly small, and lithe as a ferret, his face was white and
pasty, his ears were enormous, and his eyes red-rimmed as those of a
rat. His crop would have done justice to any prison barber. He
approached Mallow with a cringing, slimy politeness, which, coupled
with his appearance, made him doubly repulsive. However, argued
Mallow, dirty work needs dirty tools.
"I want you to watch a man," he said, when he had got Vraik to himself
in the parlour of a public-house near at hand. "Here are his name and
address. Now, listen, and I'll tell you all about it."
"Yes, sir; it's best to trust me all in all, sir. If I know everything
I can do as much as any man, but if I don't--well, sir, I may as well
hand you back your money straight off."
As he proceeded to relate the details of the case to Vraik, the little
man's eyes lit up, and he became more rat-like than ever.
"It's a big job," he said. "But I'm your man, sir; and if I get there
with it I'll expect to be mighty well paid."
"Oh, you'll be paid well enough, I promise you that," replied Mallow.
"Very good, sir; I know what I've got to do, and I'd better go and do
it. Whatever this Major does, and wherever he goes, you shall know.
I'll lose no time as soon as I've got anything to report. Whew! The
Athelstane Place business! I am in luck!" And Vraik wriggled himself
off.
CHAPTER IV.
"ONE OF US."
"So, at last, you come to us!" roared Drabble, rubbing his hands.
"As you see," answered Mallow, equably; "though for me it is a leap in
the dark."
"Never mind, man; there'll be plenty of light soon."
"Yes, the light of infernal machines and incendiary fires, I presume,"
retorted the neophyte.
Drabble rubbed his hands again and winked devilishly. "You shall know
all our schemes as soon as you are fit to know them," said he,
significantly.
"When will that be, may I ask?"
"Of that Madame Death-in-Life must judge."
"Oh, I thought you did not know that lady?"
"Nor do I--in Casterwell. In Soho it is quite another matter."
They were in a dingy, mean room of the upper story of No. 49, Poplar
Street, Soho--a neighbourhood notorious for Anarchists--and pickles.
Any longings after wealth were ruthlessly repressed here. A deal
table, a few chairs, a bookcase filled with revolutionary literature,
and fiery pamphlets in every European tongue, and a ragged
chintz-covered sofa, with a hard and suspiciously round-looking pillow,
was all the room contained by way of luxury. The dirty floor boasted
no carpet or covering of any kind, and the iron shutters, by which the
solitary window was protected, and a brace of revolvers reposing on
the mantelshelf, added in no way to the cosiness of the apartment. In
all the force of blacklead and whitewash the walls displayed fierce
denunciations of many things, more particularly of the various forms
of law and order. Dust was over everything, and in the corners cobwebs
abounded. The triumph of Anarchy was here again the apotheosis of the
unwashed--the worship of the _sansculottes_.
Mallow contrasted strangely with these surroundings. Near him lounged
the doctor, sleek and pale, and still clothed in his invariable black.
But this was not the hearty, would-be-genial doctor of Casterwell, but
a savage, angry, vicious, Anarchical doctor, drunk with copious
inhalations of the atmosphere around him--the atmosphere of organized
disorder, of crime and ruffianism and bribery. This was the real
Drabble. He was at home here. No one would have known him, save
perhaps his wife. Mallow, as he looked at him, found himself pitying
her. The sheer abandonment of the man revolted him.
"Well, and how are the turtle-doves getting on?" he asked vulgarly.
"If you are speaking of Mr. and Mrs. Carson," replied Mallow, "they
have parted, I believe, and Carson has gone off to Italy."
"H'm," growled Drabble. "As a matter of fact Semberry told me so. The
maid Clara has joined him, I hear."
"It is highly probable. Carson is a blackguard."
"He is worse than that, Mallow; he is a thief. I understand he has
gone off with his wife's money."
Now it was quite clear to Mallow, that for "wife's money" he might
with safety substitute "our share of the plunder;" but for the present
he must keep that to himself. It did not do to be foolhardy,
especially at No. 49, Poplar Street. So he gave the doctor no hint.
"Perhaps the word 'thief' is a trifle strong, doctor," was all he
said. "After all, it is more a question of conscience--or, rather,
lack of it--than anything else. No man with a spark of decency would
have taken advantage of a position which gave him full possession of
his wife's money, by virtue of the mere fact of her being his wife.
Blackguard--my word--is I think the more applicable."
"He is a fool," said Drabble, fiercely; "but let him take care. I am
not to be trifled with. I wonder what Trall will say to his niece
bolting with Carson?"
"Oh," said Mallow, recalling Clara's letter; "then there is such a
person as Jeremiah Trall."
"Of course there is; he is one of us. But how did you know him?"
"Mrs. Carson told me," remarked Mallow, carelessly. "Clara used to
talk about her uncle."
"The fool!" muttered Drabble. "I always said that girl was not to
trusted."
"Not to be trusted?" echoed Mallow. "Then she, too, is one of us?"
The doctor looked at him with something approaching a scowl. "Your
wisest plan," he said, "is to ask no questions in this place."
"But you forget I am quite uninitiated yet," retorted Mallow. "I don't
care about committing myself to a definite course unless I am quite
sure what I am about."
"Do you know what the Jesuits do with their pupils?" asked Drabble,
irrelevantly.
"Yes, as a rule, they make scoundrels of them."
"Rather say they make machines of them--machines: because they are
blindly obedient to those set in authority over them. That is one of
their rules. It is one of ours also. Once you join us, you neither
think for yourself nor act for yourself, you become a machine."
"And if I transgress?"
"Once you have taken our oaths I don't think you will care to do
that," rejoined the doctor, coldly. "If you do--well, I won't answer
for the consequences."
"Are you a machine, Drabble?"
"No; I am one having authority. I direct--others execute."
"Really!" said Mallow. "And you fancy that a man of my capacity and
experience will consent to become your tool. Understand, then,
Drabble, if I join you I must know your ends, your aims, your ways,
and your means. I also must be one having authority. On no other
conditions will I join you. To speak plainly, I do not quite see why
you want me. It is not for my money, for I possess none. It is not for
my influence or my position, for what I have of either is not likely
to serve you. I can only conclude, then, that it is in an intellectual
capacity I am likely to be of use to you; yet you propose to place me
in a position subservient to your own. No, my friend," and Mallow
stood up, "if it is a fool you want, go out into the streets and
choose. If you want a man, and a man with brains, I am ready; but I
claim to be treated with the respect which is my due. If you cannot
assure me that this will be, I must bid you good-day."
"Sit down, my dear fellow," said Drabble, hastily; "you know one
cannot generalize in these sort of things, and that is what you have
been doing. I quite agree with all you say, generally speaking. But
whether it will apply to you individually, it is impossible to decide
for the moment. Rest assured that you will have every opportunity of
exercising your capacity. Ours is not a system of government under
which the clever man is repressed."
"Government?" said Mallow. "I always understood that no government was
the very essence of your being!"
"A common fallacy," replied the doctor, dryly, "on the part of many
who misunderstand our aims. There is considerable method in our
so-called madness. But Madame Death-in-Life will explain all this to
you far better than I can. We shall see her very shortly."
As he spoke a distinctive rap came at the door, and on the invitation
to enter being given by Drabble, a tall, bulky man, shabbily dressed,
with a puffy red face, entered the room. His whole appearance was
suggestive of alcohol in a severe form; but at his first words, Mallow
recognized that he was a man of breeding. For the present he was quite
sober, and he appeared to be in a bad temper--probably, Mallow
thought, as a result of his unwonted condition.
"I beg your pardon, Drabble," he said in a refined voice, "I did not
know you were----"
"Oh, I am not engaged to the extent of excluding you," said Drabble,
sharply. "This is Mr. Jeremiah Trall, Mr. Mallow."
"Mr. Mallow?" echoed Trall, with a stare. (It was evident to Mallow
that his thoughts straightway reverted to the report he had received
from Clara.)
"A new recruit," explained Drabble, looking at him sharply. "But Mr.
Mallow wishes to be quite sure of our aims before he finally consents
to join us."
"Our aims are to make a heaven out of a hell," said Trall, taking the
third chair. "That requires strong measures."
"Necessarily," replied Mallow; "one doesn't clean stables with
rosewater."
"No, our methods are a trifle more forcible than that," chuckled
Trall. "When we try this new----"
"There, there," interrupted Drabble, "that is quite enough. We will
not go into details just at present."
Mallow could see even thus early that there was no love lost between
these two. The alcoholic man scowled angrily at the doctor, and Mallow
made a mental note of his attitude. He evidently stood in fear of his
superior.
"What is it you want?" asked Drabble, after having reduced the man to
silence.
"Madame wishes to see you," replied Trall, sulkily. "She did not know
any one was with you."
"I am bringing this gentleman down to see her very shortly," said the
doctor coolly. "You can go."
"One moment," cried Mallow, as Trall shuffled to his feet. "Have I
ever seen you before?"
"Not that I know of."
"H'm. Your face seems familiar to me."
"Yes, it is the face of a sot," said Drabble, brutally--"not an
uncommon sight."
"I have to thank you for making it so," stuttered Trall savagely. "I
should not be what I am had I not come under your thumb. But take
care, I may be one too many for you some day."
"This is not the first time you have threatened me," said Drabble;
"take you care lest I make it the last. You drunken hound, clear out!"
"By the way, did you get your letter from Sandbeach?" asked Mallow of
Trall, as he slouched towards the door with fierce resentment in his
eyes.
"Eh, what?" cried Drabble, looking sharply from one to the other.
"What letter?"
"Oh, merely a letter from Clara, saying she was leaving Mrs. Carson,"
answered Trall, hastily.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think it worth while."
"Everything is worth while that concerns Carson," rebuked Drabble.
"Where is the letter, you fool?"
"In the fire; there were only half a dozen lines. But how do you know
that Clara wrote to me?" added Trall, turning to Mallow.
"Well, she happened to drop her letter when about to post it. I picked
it up, and naturally I saw the name and address."
"Oh, well, it was only a little letter--a very little letter," mumbled
Jeremiah, and slipped out of the room.
"Little or big," roared Drabble after him, "you bring the next one to
me. Come, Mr. Mallow, let us go and see Madame."
Mallow followed the doctor along a dark passage and into another room
in the front of the house. Here at a window overlooking the street sat
a pale little woman with dark hair arranged smoothly in bands. She
wore a plain black dress without trimming or ornament of any kind. Her
pallid face was bent intently over some wool-work she was knitting.
She looked up when the two men came in, and rose to her feet.
"Mrs. Arne," said Drabble graciously, "this is our new recruit, Mr.
Mallow."
Mallow turned pale and felt his heart beating wildly. In this woman,
introduced as Mrs. Arne, he recognized the housekeeper of Althelstane
Place.
CHAPTER V.
"MADAME DEATH-IN-LIFE."