Fergus Hume
The Red Window

CHAPTER I
COMRADES

"Hullo, Gore!"

The young soldier stopped, started, colored with annoyance, and with a surprised expression turned to look on the other soldier who had addressed him. After a moment's scrutiny of the stranger's genial smile he extended his hand with pleased recognition. "Conniston," said he, "I thought you were in America."

"So I am; so don't call me Conniston at the pitch of your voice, old boy. His lordship of that name is camping on Californian slopes for a big game shoot. The warrior who stands before you is Dick West of the – Lancers, the old Come-to-the-Fronts. And what are you doing as an Imperial Yeoman, Gore?"

"Not that name," said the other, with an anxious glance around. "Like yourself, I don't want to be known."

"Oh! So you are sailing under false colors also?"

"Against my will, Conniston – I mean West. I am Corporal Bernard."

"Hum!" said Lord Conniston, with an approving nod. "You have kept your Christian name, I see."

"It is all that remains of my old life," replied Gore, bitterly. "But your title, Conniston?"

"Has disappeared," said the lancer, good-humoredly, "until I can make enough money to gild it."

"Do you hope to do that on a private's pay?"

West shrugged his shoulders. "I hope to fight my way during the war to a general's rank. With that and a V.C., an old castle and an older title, I may catch a dollar heiress by the time the Boers give in."

"You don't put in your good looks, Conniston," said Bernard, smiling.

"Dollar heiresses don't buy what's in the shop-windows, old man. But won't you explain your uniform and dismal looks?"

Gore laughed. "My dismal looks have passed away since we have met so opportunely," he said, looking across the grass. "Come and sit down. We have much to say to one another."

Conniston and Gore – they used the old names in preference to the new – walked across the grass to an isolated seat under a leafless elm. The two old friends had met near the magazine in Hyde Park, on the borders of the Serpentine, and the meeting was as unexpected as pleasant. It was a gray, damp October day, and the trees were raining yellow, brown and red leaves on the sodden ground. Yet a breath of summer lingered in the atmosphere, and there was a warmth in the air which had lured many people to the Park. Winter was coming fast, and the place, untidy with withered leaves, bare of flowers, and dismal under a sombre, windy sky, looked unattractive enough. But the two did not mind the dreary day. Summer – the summer of youth – was in their hearts, and, recalling their old school friendship, they smiled on one another as they sat down. In the distance a few children were playing, their nursemaids comparing notes or chatting with friends or stray policemen, so there was no one near to overhear what they had to say. A number of fashionable carriages rolled along the road, and occasionally someone they knew would pass. But vehicles and people belonged to the old world out of which they had stepped into the new, and they sat like a couple of Peris at the gate of Paradise, but less discontented.

Both the young men were handsome in their several ways. The yeoman was tall, slender, dark and markedly quiet in his manner. His clear-cut face was clean-shaven; he had black hair, dark blue eyes, put in – as the Irish say – with a dirty finger, and his figure was admirably proportioned. In his khaki he looked a fine specimen of a man in his twenty-fifth year. But his expression was stern, even bitter, and there were thoughtful furrows on his forehead which should not have been there at his age. Conniston noted these, and concluded silently that the world had gone awry with his formerly sunny-faced friend. At Eton, Gore had always been happy and good-tempered.

Conniston himself formed a contrast to his companion. He was not tall, but slightly-built and wiry, alert in his manner and quick in his movements. As fair as Gore was dark, he wore a small light mustache, which he pulled restlessly when excited. In his smart, tight-fitting uniform he looked a natty jimp soldier, and his reduced position did not seem to affect his spirits. He smiled and joked and laughed and bubbled over with delight on seeing his school chum again. Gore was also delighted, but, being quieter, did not reveal his pleasure so openly.

When they were seated, the lancer produced an ornate silver case, far too extravagant for a private, and offered Gore a particularly excellent cigarette. "I have a confiding tobacconist," said Conniston, "who supplies me with the best, in the hope that I'll pay him some day. I can stand a lot, but bad tobacco is beyond my powers of endurance. I'm a self-indulgent beast, Gore!"

Gore lighted up. "How did your tobacconist know you?" he asked.

"Because a newly-grown mustache wasn't a sufficient disguise. I walked into the shop one day hoping he was out. But he chanced to be in, and immediately knew me. I made him promise to hold his tongue, and said I had volunteered for the war. He's a good chap, and never told a soul. Oh, my aunt!" chattered Conniston. "What would my noble relatives say if they saw me in this kit?"

"You are supposed to be in California?"

"That's so – shootin'. But I'm quartered at Canterbury, and only come up to town every now and again. Of course I take care to keep out of the fashionable world, so no one's spotted me yet."

"Your officers!"

"There's no one in the regiment I know. The Tommies take me for a gentleman who has gone wrong, and I keep to their society. Not that a private has much to do with the officers. They take little notice of me, and I've learned to say, 'Sir!' quite nicely," grinned Conniston.

"What on earth made you enlist?"

"I might put the same question to you, Bernard?"

"I'll tell you my story later. Out with yours, old boy."

"Just the same authoritative manner," said Conniston, shrugging. "I never did have a chap order me about as you do. If you weren't such a good chap you'd have been a bully with that domineering way you have. I wonder how you like knuckling under to orders?"

"He who cannot serve is not fit to command," quoted Gore, sententiously. "Go on with the story."

"It's not much of a story. I came in for the title three years ago, when I was rising twenty. But I inherited nothing else. My respected grandfather made away with nearly all the family estates, and my poor father parted with the rest. Upon my word," said the young lord, laughing, "with two such rascals as progenitors, it's wonderful I should be as good as I am. They drank and gambled and – "

"Don't, Conniston. After all your father is your father."

"Was my father, you mean. He's dead and buried in the family vault. I own that much property – all I have."

"Where is it?"

"At Cove Castle in the Essex Marshes!"

"I remember. You told me about it at school. Cove Castle is ten miles from Hurseton."

"And Hurseton is where your uncle, Sir Simon, lives."

Gore looked black. "Yes," he said shortly. "Go on!"

Conniston drew his own conclusions from the frown, rattled on in his usual cheerful manner. "I came into the title as I said, but scarcely an acre is there attached to it, save those of mud and water round Cove Castle. I had a sum of ready money left by my grandmother – old Lady Tain, you remember – and I got through that as soon as possible. It didn't last long," added the profligate, grinning; "but I had a glorious time while it lasted. Then the smash came. I took what was left and went to America. Things got worse there, so, on hearing the war was on, I came back and enlisted as Dick West. I revealed myself only to my lawyer; and, of course, my tobacconist – old Taberley – knows. But from paragraphs in the Society papers about my noble self I'm supposed to be in California. Of course, as I told you, I take jolly good care to keep out of everyone's way. I'm off to the Cape in a month, and then if Fortune favors me with a commission and a V.C. I'll take up the title again."

"You still hold the castle, then?"

"Yes. It's the last of the old property. Old Mother Moon looks after it for me. She's a horrid old squaw, but devoted to me. So she ought to be. I got that brat of a grandson of hers a situation as messenger boy to old Taberley. Not that he's done much good. He's out of his place now, and from all accounts, is a regular young brute."

"Does he know you have enlisted?"

"What, young Judas – I call him Judas," said Conniston, "because he's such a criminal kid. No, he doesn't. Taberley had to turn him away for robbing the till or something. Judas has spoiled his morals by reading penny novels, and by this time I shouldn't wonder if he hasn't embarked on a career of crime like a young Claude Duval. No, Gore, he doesn't know. I'm glad of it – as he would tell Mother Moon, and then she'd howl the castle down at the thought of the head of the West family being brought so low."

"West is your family name, isn't it?"

"It is; and Richard is my own name – Richard Grenville Plantagenet West, Lord Conniston. That's my title. But I dropped all frills, and here I smoke, Dick West at your service, Bernard, my boy. So now you've asked me enough questions, what's your particular lie?"

"Dick, Dick, you are as hair-brained as ever. I never could – "

"No," interrupted Conniston, "you never could sober me. Bless you, Bernard, it's better to laugh than frown, though you don't think so."

Gore pitched away the stump of his cigarette and laughed somewhat sadly. "I have cause to frown," said he, wrinkling his forehead. "My grandfather has cut me off with a shilling."

"The deuce he has," said Conniston coolly. "Take another cigarette, old boy, and buck up. Now that you haven't a cent, you'll be able to carve your way to fortune."

"That's a philosophic way to look at the matter, Dick."

"The only way," rejoined Conniston, emphatically. "When you've cut your moorings you can make for mid-ocean and see life. It's storm that tries the vessel, Bernard, and you're too good a chap to lie up in port as a dull country squire."

Bernard looked round, surprised. It was not usual to hear the light-hearted Dicky moralize thus. He was as sententious as Touchstone, and for the moment Gore, who usually gave advice, found himself receiving it. The two seemed to have changed places. Dick noticed the look and slapped Gore on the back. "I've been seeing life since we parted at Eton, old boy," said he, "and it – the trouble of it, I mean – has hammered me into shape."

"It hasn't made you despondent, though."

"And it never will," said Conniston, emphatically, "until I meet with the woman who refuses to marry me. Then I'll howl."

"You haven't met the woman yet?"

"No. But you have. I can see it in the telltale blush. Bless me, old Gore, how boyish you are. I haven't blushed for years."

"You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of my trouble."

"The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass.

"A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?'"

"I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote that song, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice."

"What's her other name?"

"Malleson – Alice Malleson!"

"Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of Miss Berengaria Plantagenet?"

"Yes! Do you know – ?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Of course. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt."

"My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd only die. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair, and you'll marry her."

"Conniston, don't be an ass. If you know the story of Miss Malleson's life, you must know that there isn't the slightest chance of her inheriting the money."

"Ah, but, you see, Bernard, I don't know the story."

"You know Miss Plantagenet. She sometimes talks of you."

"How good of her, seeing that I've hardly been in her company for the last ten years. I remember going to "The Bower" when a small boy, and making myself ill with plums in a most delightful kitchen garden. I was scolded by a wonderful old lady as small as a fairy and rather like one in looks – a regular bad fairy."

"No! no. She is very kind."

"She wasn't to me," confessed Conniston; "but I daresay she will have more respect for me now that I'm the head of the family. Lord! to think of that old woman's money."

"Conniston, she would be angry if she knew you had enlisted. She is so proud of her birth and of her connection with the Wests. Why don't you call and tell her – "

"No, indeed. I'll do nothing of the sort. And don't you say a word either, Bernard. I'm going to carve out my own fortune. I don't want money seasoned with advice from that old cat."

"She is not an old cat!"

"She must be, for she wasn't a kitten when I saw her years ago. But about Miss Malleson. Who is she? I know she's Miss Plantagenet's niece. But who is she?"

"She is not the niece – only an adopted one. She has been with Miss Plantagenet for the last nine years, and came from a French convent. Miss Plantagenet treats her like a niece, but it is an understood thing that Alice is to receive no money."

"That looks promising for me," said Conniston, pulling his mustache, "but my old aunt is so healthy that I'll be gray in the head before I get a cent. So you've fallen in love with Alice?"

"Yes," sighed Gore, drawing figures with his cane. "I love her dearly and she loves me. But my grandfather objects. I insisted upon marrying Alice, so he cut me off with a shilling. I expect the money will go to my cousin, Julius Beryl, and, like you, I'll have to content myself with a barren title."

"But why is Sir Simon so hard, Gore?"

Bernard frowned again. "Do you notice how dark I am?" he asked.

"Yes! You have rather an Italian look."

"That's clever of you, Dick. My mother was Italian, the daughter of a noble Florentine family; but in England was nothing but a poor governess. My father married her, and Sir Simon —his father – cut him off. Then when my parents died, my grandfather sent for me, and brought me up. We have never been good friends," sighed Bernard again, "and when I wanted to marry Alice there was a row. I fear I lost my temper. You know from my mother I inherit a fearful temper, nor do I think the Gores are the calmest of people. However, Sir Simon swore that he wouldn't have another mésalliance in the family and – "

"Mésalliance?"

"Yes! No one knows who Alice is, and Miss Plantagenet – who does know – won't tell."

"You said no one knew, and now you say Miss Plantagenet does," said Conniston, laughing. "You're getting mixed, Bernard. Well, so you and Sir Simon had a row?"

"A royal row. He ordered me out of the house. I fear I said things to him I should not have said, but my blood was boiling at the insults he heaped on Alice. And you know Sir Simon is a miser. My extravagance – though I really wasn't very extravagant – might have done something to get his back up. However, the row came off, and I was turned away. I came to town, and could see nothing better to do than enlist, so I have been in the Yeomanry for the last four months, and have managed to reach the rank of corporal. I go out to the war soon."

"We'll go together," said Conniston, brightening, "and then when you come back covered with glory, Sir Simon – "

"No. He won't relent unless I give up Alice, and that I will not do. What does it matter if Alice is nameless? I love her, and that is enough for me!"

"And too much for your grandfather, evidently. But what about that cousin of yours, you used to talk of? Lucy something – "

"Lucy Randolph. Oh, she's a dear little girl, and has been an angel. She is trying to soothe Sir Simon, and all through has stood my friend. I made her promise that she would put a lamp in the Red Window when Sir Simon relented – if he ever does relent."

Conniston looked puzzled. "The Red Window?"

"Ah! You don't know the legend of the Red Window. There is a window of that sort at the Hall, which was used during the Parliamentary wars to advise loyal cavaliers of danger. It commands a long prospect down the side avenue. The story is too long to tell you. But, you see, Conniston, I can't get near the house, and my only chance of knowing if Sir Simon is better disposed towards me is by looking from the outside of the park up to the Red Window. If this shows a red light I know that he is relenting; if not, he is still angry. I have been once or twice to the Hall," said Gore, shaking his head, "but no light has been shown."

"What a roundabout way of letting you know things. Can't Lucy write?"

Gore shook his head again. "No. You see, she is engaged to Julius, who hates me."

"Oh, that Beryl man. He comes in for the money?"

"Now that I'm chucked I suppose he will," said Bernard, gloomily; "and I don't want to get poor Lucy into his black books, as he isn't a nice sort of chap. He won't thank her if she tries to bias the old man in my favor. And then there's the housekeeper who doesn't like me – Mrs. Gilroy her name is. She and Julius will both keep Sir Simon's temper alive. I can't write to him, or my letter would be intercepted and destroyed by Mrs. Gilroy. Lucy can't write me because of Julius, so my only chance of knowing if the old man is thinking better of his determination is by watching for the red light. I shall go down again twice before I leave for Africa."

"And if you see the red light you won't stick to soldiering?"

"Yes, I will. But I'll then walk boldly up to the Hall and tell Sir Simon how sorry I am. But in any case I intend to fight for my country. Alice herself wouldn't ask me to be a coward and leave. I go to the Cape with you, Conniston," said Bernard, rising.

"Good old chap," said Conniston, delighted, "you're the only fellow I'd care to chum up with. I have often thought of you since we parted. But you rarely wrote to me."

"You were the better correspondent, I admit," said Gore, as they walked across the bridge. "I am ashamed I did not continue our school friendship, as we always were such chums, but – "

"The inevitable woman. Ah, Delilah always comes between David and Jonathan."

"Don't call Alice by that name!" fired up Gore.

"Well, then, I won't. But don't get in a wax. What a fire-brand you are, Gore! Just as fierce as you were at school."

"Yes," said Bernard, quieting down. "I only hope my bad temper will not ruin me some day. I tell you, Conniston, when Sir Simon pitched into me I felt inclined to throw something at his head. He was most insulting. I didn't mind what he said about me, but when he began to slang Alice I told him I'd pitch him out of the window if he didn't stop. And I said many other foolish things."

"Shouldn't do that. He's an old man."

"I know – I know. I was a fool. But you have no idea how readily my temper gets the better of me. I could strangle anyone who said a word against my Alice."

"Well, don't strangle me," said Conniston, laughing. "I won't call her Delilah again, I promise you. But about your Red Window business – you needn't go down to the Hall for a week or so."

"Why not?"

"Because Sir Simon is in town."

"Nonsense. He never comes to town."

"He has this time. Queerly enough, his lawyers are mine. I saw him at the office and asked who he was. Durham, my lawyer friend, told me."

"How long ago was that?"

"Three days. I came up on business, and was in plains!"

"Plains?"

"What! you a soldier and don't know plain clothes are called so. You are an old ass, Bernard. But, I say, I've got digs of a sort hereabouts. Come and dine with me to-night."

"But I haven't any dress clothes. I got rid of them, thinking I was going to the Cape sooner."

"Then come in khaki. You look A 1 in it. Here's the address," and Conniston hastily scribbled something on his card. "I shall expect you at seven."

The two friends parted with a hearty handshake, and Gore walked away feeling happier than he had been. Conniston, gazing after him, felt a tug at his coat. He looked down, and saw a small boy. "Judas," said Conniston, "you young brute! How did you know me?"

CHAPTER II
SIR SIMON GORE

Avarice, according to Byron, is a gentlemanly vice appertaining to old age. It certainly acted like Aaron's rod with Sir Simon, as it swallowed up all his more youthful sins. During the early part of the Victorian epoch, the old man had been a spendthrift and a rake. Now, he never looked agreeably upon a woman, and the prettier they were the more he frowned upon them. As he was close upon eighty, it was not to be wondered at that his blood ran thin and cold; still, he might have retained the courtesy for which he was famous in his hot youth. But he eschewed female society in the main, and was barely civil to his pretty, fascinating niece, who attended to him and bore with his ill-humors. Only Mrs. Gilroy succeeded in extorting civil words from him, but then Mrs. Gilroy was necessary to his comfort, being a capital nurse and as quiet as a cat about the house. Where his own pleasure was concerned Sir Simon could be artful.

Long ago he had given up luxury. He never put liquor to his withered lips, he ate only the plainest food, and surrounded himself with merely the bare necessities of life. All his aims were to gather money, to see it increase, to buy land, to screw the last penny out of unwilling tenants, and to pick up a farthing, in whatever mud it might be lying. He never helped the poor, he grudged repairs to the property, he kept Lucy on short commons, and expressed such violent opinions concerning the rector's tithes that the poor man was afraid to come near him. As Sir Simon, like a godless old pagan, never went to church, the absence of the clerical element at the Hall troubled him little. He was a typical miser in looks, being bent, withered and dry. As a young man he had bought, in his spendthrift days, a great number of suits, and these he was wearing out in his old age. The garments, once fashionable, looked queer in the eyes of a younger generation; but Sir Simon minded no one. He was always scrupulously dressed in his antique garb, and looked, as the saying goes, as neat as a new pin. His health was tolerable, although he suffered from rheumatism and a constant cough. Owing to his total abstinence, he was free from gout, but could not have been worse tempered had he indeed suffered, as he assuredly deserved to. With his withered skin, his thin, high nose, his pinched features and his bent form he looked anything but agreeable. When walking he supported himself with an ebony cane, and had been known on occasions to use it on the backs of underlings. From this practice, however, he had desisted, since the underlings, forgetful of the feudal system, brought actions for assault, which resulted in Sir Simon losing money. As the old Baronet said, radical opinions were ruining the country; for why should the lower orders not submit to the stick?

It was rarely that this agreeable old gentleman came to town. He lived at the Hall in Essex in savage seclusion, and there ruled over a diminished household with a rod of iron. Mrs. Gilroy, who had been with him for many years, was – outwardly – as penurious as her master, so he trusted her as much as he trusted anyone. What between the grim old man and the silent housekeeper, poor Lucy Randolph, who was only a connection, had a dreary time. But then, as the daughter of Sir Simon's niece, she was regarded as an interloper, and the old man grumbled at having to support poor relations. Bernard he had tolerated as his heir, Lucy he frankly disliked as a caterpillar. Often would he call her this name.

As usual, Sir Simon came to town with the least expense to himself, since it agonized him to spend a penny. But an old friend of his, more open-handed than the baronet, had lent him his town house. This was a small residence in a quiet Kensington square, by no means fashionable. The central gardens, surrounded by rusty iron railings, were devoid of flowers and filled with ragged elms and sycamores, suffered to grow amidst rank grass untrimmed and unattended. The roads around were green with weeds, and the houses appeared to be deserted. Indeed, many of them were, as few people cared to live in so dull a neighborhood; but others were occupied by elderly folk, who loved the quietness and retirement. Crimea square – its name hinted at its age – was a kind of backwater into which drifted human derelicts. A few yards away the main thoroughfare roared with life and pulsed with vitality, but the dwellers in the square lived as in the enchanted wood of the sleeping beauty.

No. 32 was the house occupied by Sir Simon, and it was distinguished from its neighbors by a coat of white paint. Its spurious, smart air was quite out of keeping with the neighborhood, and Sir Simon made ironical remarks when he saw its attempt at being up-to-date. But the house was small, and, although furnished in a gimcrack way, was good enough for a month's residence. Moreover, since he paid no rent, this enhanced its value in his avaricious eyes. It may be mentioned that the servants of the owner – a cook, a housemaid and a pageboy – had stopped on to oblige Sir Simon, and were ruled over by Mrs. Gilroy, much to their disgust. The housekeeper was by no means a pleasant mistress, and turned their intended holiday into a time of particularly hard work.

It was about the servants that Mrs. Gilroy spoke to her master one morning shortly after the occupation of the house. Sir Simon, accurately dressed as usual, and looking like a character out of Dickens as delineated by Phiz, was seated beside a comfortable fire supping a cup of plasmon cocoa, as containing the most nutriment in the least expensive form. While enjoying it, he mentally calculated various sums owing from various tenants about which he had come to see his lawyers.

The room was of no great size, on the ground floor, and had but two windows, which looked out on the dreary, untidy gardens. Like the exterior of the house, it had been newly painted and decorated, and was also furnished in a cheap way with chairs and tables, sofas and cabinets attractive to the uneducated eye, but detestable to anyone who could appreciate art. The scheme of color was garish, and, but that the blinds were pulled half-way down, so as to exclude too searching a light, would have jarred on Sir Simon's nerves. Lucy Randolph, who sat reading near the window, shuddered at the newness and veneer of her surroundings and thought regretfully of the lovely, mellow old Hall, where everything was in keeping and hallowed by antiquity. All the same, this too brilliantly-cheap room was cosy and comfortable, bright and cheery, and a pleasing contrast to the foggy, gray, damp weather. Perhaps it was this contrast which its decorator had desired to secure.

Mrs. Gilroy, with folded hands, stood at her master's elbow, a tall, thin, silent, demure woman with downcast eyes. Plainly dressed in black silk, somewhat worn, and with carefully-mended lace, she looked like a lady who had seen better days. Her hair, and eyes, and skin, and lips, were all of a drab color, by no means pleasing, and she moved with the stealthy step of a cat. Indeed, the servants openly expressed their opinion that she was one, and she certainly had a somewhat feline look. But, with all her softness and nun-like meekness, an occasional glance from her light eyes showed that she could scratch when necessary. No one knew who she was or where she came from, but she looked like a woman with a history. What that was only she and Sir Simon knew, and neither was communicative. Lucy Randolph hated her, and indeed no love was lost between the two. Mrs. Gilroy looked on Lucy as a pauper living on Sir Simon's charity, and Miss Randolph regarded the silent housekeeper as a spy. Each annoyed the other on every occasion in that skilful way known to the sex. But the war was carried on out of the old man's sight. That autocrat would speedily have put an end to it had they dared to skirmish in his presence.

"Well! well! well!" snapped Sir Simon, who talked something like George III. in reiterating his words. "What's the matter? What?"

"I have to complain of the housemaid Jane, sir."

"Then don't. I pay you to keep the servants quiet, not to bother me with their goings-on. Well! well! well!" somewhat inconsistently, "what's Jane been doing?"

"Receiving a follower – a soldier – one of those new young men who are going to the war."

"An Imperial Yeoman?" put in Miss Randolph, looking up with interest.

"Yes, Miss," responded Mrs. Gilroy, not looking round. "Cook tells me the young man comes nearly every evening, and makes love to Jane!"

"What! what!" said the baronet, setting down his cup irritably. "Tell the hussy to go at once. Love?" This in a tone of scorn. "As though I've not had enough worry over that with Bernard. Tell her to go."

Mrs. Gilroy shook her head. "We can't dismiss her, sir. She belongs to the house, and Mr. Jeffrey" —

"I'll see him about it later. If he knew he certainly would not allow such things. A soldier – eh – what? Turn him out, Gilroy, turn him out! Won't have it, won't have him! There! you can go."

"Will you be out to-day, sir?"

"Yes, I go to see my lawyers. Do you think I come to town to waste time, Gilroy? Go away."

But the housekeeper did not seem eager to go. She cast a look on Lucy eloquent of a desire to be alone with Sir Simon. That look Lucy took no notice of, although she understood it plainly. She suspected Mrs. Gilroy of hating Julius Beryl and of favoring Bernard. Consequently, all the influence of Mrs. Gilroy would be put forth to help the exiled heir. Lucy was fond of Bernard, but she was engaged to Julius, and, dragged both ways by liking and duty, she was forced to a great extent to remain neutral. But she did not intend to let Mrs. Gilroy have the honor and glory of bringing Bernard back to the Hall. Therefore she kept her seat by the window and her eyes on her book. Mrs. Gilroy tightened her thin lips and accepted defeat, for the moment. A ring at the door gave her an excuse to go.

"It's Julius," said Lucy, peeping out.

"What does he want?" asked Sir Simon, crossly. "Tell him to wait, Gilroy. I can't see him at once. Lucy, stop here, I want to speak."

The housekeeper left the room to detain Mr. Beryl, and Lucy obediently resumed her seat. She was a handsome, dark girl, with rather a high color and a temper to match. But she knew when she was well off and kept her temper in check for fear of Sir Simon turning her adrift. He would have done so without scruple had it suited him. Lucy was therefore astute and assumed a meekness she was far from possessing. Mrs. Gilroy saw through her, but Lucy – as the saying goes – pulled the wool over the old man's eyes.

Sir Simon took a turn up and down the room. "What about Bernard?" he asked, abruptly stopping before her.

Lucy looked up with an innocent smile. "Dear Bernard!" she said.

"Do you know where he is?" asked the baronet, taking no notice of the sweet smile and sweet speech.

"No, he has not written to me."

"But he has to that girl. You know her?"

"Alice! yes, but Alice doesn't like me. She refuses to speak to me about Bernard. You see," said Lucy, pensively, "I am engaged to Julius, and as you have sent Bernard away – "

"Julius comes in for my money, is that it?"

"Not in my opinion," said Miss Randolph, frankly, "but Alice Malleson thinks so."

"Then she thinks rightly." Lucy started at this and colored with surprise at the outspoken speech. "Since Bernard has behaved so badly, Julius shall be my heir. The one can have the title, the other the money. All the same I don't want Bernard to starve. I daresay Julius knows where he is, Lucy. Find out, and then I can send the boy something to go on with."

"Oh!" said Lucy, starting to her feet and clasping her hands, "the Red Window, – I mean."

"I should very much like to know what you do mean," said Sir Simon, eyeing her. "The Red Window! Are you thinking of that ridiculous old legend of Sir Aymas and the ghost?"

"Yes," assented Miss Randolph, "and of Bernard also."

"What has he to do with the matter?"

"He asked me, if you showed any signs of relenting, to put a light in the Red Window at the Hall. Then he would come back."

"Oh!" Sir Simon did not seem to be displeased. "Then you can put the light in the window when we go back in three weeks."

"You will forgive him?"

"I don't say that. But I want to see him settled in some reputable way. After all," added the old man, sitting down, "I have been hard on the boy. He is young, and, like all fools, has fallen in love with a pretty face. This Miss Malleson – if she has any right to a name at all – is not the bride I should have chosen for Bernard. Now you, my dear Lucy – "

"I am engaged to Julius," she interposed quickly, and came towards the fire. "I love Julius."

"Hum! there's no accounting for tastes. I think Bernard is the better of the two."

"Bernard has always been a trouble," said Lucy, "and Julius has never given you a moment's uneasiness."

"Hum," said Sir Simon again, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I don't believe Julius is so good as you make him out to be. Now Bernard – "

"Uncle," said Lucy, who had long ago been instructed to call her relative by this name, "why don't you make it up with Bernard? I assure you Julius is so good, he doesn't want to have the money."

"And you?" The old man looked at her sharply.

"I don't either. Julius has his own little income, and earns enough as an architect to live very comfortably. Let me marry Julius, dear uncle, and we will be happy. Then you can take back Bernard and let him marry dear, sweet Alice."

"I doubt one woman when she praises another," said Sir Simon, dryly. "Alice may be very agreeable."

"She is beautiful and clever."

The baronet looked keenly at Lucy's flushed face, trying to fathom her reason for praising the other woman. He failed, for Miss Randolph's face was as innocent as that of a child. "She is no doubt a paragon, my dear," he said; "but I won't have her marry Bernard. By this time the young fool must have come to his senses. Find out from Julius where he is, and – "

"Julius may not know!"

"If Julius wants my money he will keep an eye on Bernard."

"So as to keep Bernard away," said Lucy, impetuously. "Ah, uncle, how can you? Julius doesn't want the money – "

"You don't know that."

"Ask him yourself then."

"I will." Sir Simon rang the bell to intimate to Mrs. Gilroy that Julius could be shown up. "If he doesn't want it, of course I can leave it to someone else."

"To Bernard."

"Perhaps. And yet I don't know," fumed Sir Simon. "The rascal defied me! He offered to pitch me out of the window if I said a word against that Alice of his. I want Bernard to marry you – "

"I am engaged to Julius."

"So you said before," snapped the other. "Well, then, Miss Perry. She is an heiress."

"And as plain as Alice is handsome."

"What does that matter? She is good-tempered. However, it doesn't matter. I won't be friends with Bernard unless he does what I tell him. He must give up Alice and marry Miss Perry. Try the Red Window scheme when you go back to the Hall, Lucy. It will bring Bernard to see me, as you say."

"It will," said Lucy, but by no means willingly. "Bernard comes down at times to the Hall to watch for the light. But I can make a Red Window here."

"Bernard doesn't know the house."

"I am sure he does," said Lucy. "He has to go to the lawyers for what little money he inherits from his father, and Mr. Durham may have told him you are here. Then if I put the light behind a red piece of paper or chintz, Bernard will come here."

"It is all romantic rubbish," grumbled the old man, warming his hands. "But do what you like, child. I want to give Bernard a last chance." At this moment Julius appeared. He was a slim young man with a mild face, rather expressionless. His hair and eyes were brown. He was irreproachably dressed, and did not appear to have much brain power. Also, from the expression of his eyes he was of a sly nature. Finally, Mr. Beryl was guarded in his speech, being quite of the opinion that speech was given to hide thoughts. He saluted his uncle affectionately, kissed Lucy's cheek in a cold way, and sat down to observe what a damp, dull day it was and how bad for Sir Simon's rheumatism. A more colorless, timid, meek young saint it would have been hard to find in the whole of London.

"I have brought you some special snuff," he said, extending a packet to his host. "It comes from Taberley's."

"Ah, thank you. I know the shop. A very good one! Do you get your cigars there, Julius?"

"I never smoke," corrected the good young man, coldly.

Sir Simon sneered. "You never do anything manly," he said contemptuously. "Well, why are you here?"

"I wish, with your permission, to take Lucy to the theatre on Friday," said Mr. Beryl. "Mrs. Webber is going with me, and she can act as chaperon."

"I should think she needed one herself. A nasty, flirting little cat of a woman," said Sir Simon, rudely. "Would you like to go, Lucy?"

"If you don't mind, uncle."

"Bah!" said the old man with a snarl. "How good you two are. Where is the theatre, Julius?"

"Near at hand. The Curtain Theatre."

"Ah! That's only two streets away. What is the play?"

"As You Like It, by – "

"By Chaucer, I suppose," snapped the old man. "Don't you think I know my Shakespeare? What time will you call for Lucy?"

"At half-past seven in the carriage with Mrs. Webber."

"Your own carriage?"

"I am not rich enough to afford one," said Julius, smiling. "Mrs. Webber's carriage, uncle. We will call for Lucy and bring her back safely at eleven or thereabouts."

"Very good; but no suppers, mind. I don't approve of Mrs. Webber taking Lucy to the Cecil or the Savoy."

"There is no danger of that, uncle," said Lucy, delighted at gaining permission.

"I hope not," said the old man ungraciously. "You can go, Lucy. I want to speak to Julius."

A look, unseen by the baronet, passed between the two, and then Lucy left the room. When alone, Sir Simon turned to his nephew. "Where is Bernard?" he asked.

A less clever man than Julius would have fenced and feigned surprise, but this astute young gentleman answered at once. "He has enlisted in the Imperial Yeomanry and goes out to the war in a month."

Sir Simon turned pale and rose. "He must not – he must not," he said, considerably agitated. "He will be killed, and then – "

"What does it matter?" said Julius coolly – "you have disinherited him – at least, I understand so."

"He defied me," shivered the baronet, warming his hands again and with a pale face; "but I did not think he would enlist. I won't have him go to the war. He must be bought out."

"I think he would refuse to be bought out now," said Beryl, dryly. "I don't fancy Bernard, whatever his faults, is a coward."

"My poor boy!" said Sir Simon, who was less hard than he looked. "It is your fault that this has happened, Julius."

"Mine, uncle?"

"Yes. You told me about Miss Malleson."

"I knew you would not approve of the match," said Julius, quietly.

"And you wanted me to cut off Bernard with a shilling – "

"Not for my own sake," said Julius, calmly. "You need not leave a penny to me, Sir Simon."

"Don't you want the money? It's ten thousand a year."

"I should like it very much," assented Beryl, frankly; "but I do not want it at the price of my self-respect."

The old man looked at him piercingly, but could learn nothing from his inscrutable countenance. But he did not trust Julius in spite of his meek looks, and inwardly resolved to meet craft by craft. He bore a grudge against this young man for having brought about the banishment of his grandson, and felt inclined to punish him. Yet if Julius did not want the money, Sir Simon did not know how to wound him. Yet he doubted if Julius scorned wealth so much as he pretended; therefore he arranged how to circumvent him.

"Very well," he said, "since Bernard has disobeyed me, you alone can be my heir. You will have the money without any loss of your self-respect. Come with me this morning to see Durham."

"I am at your service, uncle," said Julius, quietly, although his eyes flashed. "But Bernard?"

"We can talk of him later. Come!"

The attentive Beryl helped Sir Simon on with his overcoat and wrapped a muffler round his throat. Then he went out to select a special four-wheeler instead of sending the page-boy. When he was absent, Mrs. Gilroy appeared in the hall where Sir Simon waited, and, seeing he was alone, came close to him.

"Sir," she said quietly, "this girl Jane has described the young man's looks who comes to see her."

"Well! well! well!"

"The young man – the soldier," said Mrs. Gilroy, with emphasis – "has come only since we arrived here. Jane met him a week before our arrival, and since we have been in the house this soldier has visited her often."

"What has all this to do with me?" asked Sir Simon.

"Because she described the looks of the soldier. Miss Randolph says he is an Imperial Yeoman."

Sir Simon started. "Has Miss Randolph seen him?" he asked.

"No. She only goes by what I said this morning to you. But the description, Sir Simon – " Here Mrs. Gilroy sank her voice to a whisper and looked around – "suits Mr. Gore."

"Bernard! Ah!" Sir Simon caught hold of a chair to steady himself. "Why – what – yes. Julius said he was an Imperial Yeoman and – "

"And he comes here to see the housemaid," said Mrs. Gilroy, nodding.

"To spy out the land," cried the baronet, in a rage. "Do you think that my grandson would condescend to housemaids? He comes to learn how I am disposed – if I am ill. The money – the money – all self – self – self!" He clenched his hand as the front door opened. "Good-bye, Mrs. Gilroy, if you see this Imperial Yeoman, say I am making a new will," and with a sneer Sir Simon went out.

Mrs. Gilroy looked up to heaven and caught sight of Lucy listening on the stairs.

CHAPTER III
THE WILL

Mr. Durham was a smart young lawyer of the new school. The business was an old one and lucrative; but while its present owner was still under thirty, his father died and he was left solely in charge. Wiseacres prophesied that, unguided by the shrewdness of the old solicitor, Durham junior, would lose the greater part, if not all, of his clients. But the young man had an old head on young shoulders. He was clever and hard-worked, and, moreover, possessed a great amount of tact. The result was that he not only retained the old clients of the firm, but secured new ones, and under his sway the business was more flourishing than ever. Also Mark Durham did not neglect social duties, and by his charm of manner, backed by undeniable business qualities, he managed to pick up many wealthy clients while enjoying himself. He always had an eye to the main chance, and mingled business judiciously with sober pleasures.

The office of Durham & Son – the firm still retained the old title although the son alone owned the business – was near Chancery Lane, a large, antique house which had been the residence of a noble during the reign of the Georges. The rooms were nobly proportioned, their ceilings painted and decorated, and attached to the railings which guarded the front of the house could still be seen the extinguishers into which servants had thrust torches in the times they lighted belles and beaux to splendid sedan chairs. A plate on the front intimated that a famous author had lived and died within the walls; so Durham & Son were housed in a way not unbecoming to the dignity of the firm. Mr. Durham's own room overlooked a large square filled with ancient trees, and was both well-furnished and well-lighted. Into this Sir Simon and his nephew were ushered, and here they were greeted by the young lawyer.

"I hope I see you well, Sir Simon?" said Durham, shaking hands. He was a smart, well-dressed, handsome young fellow with an up-to-date air, and formed a striking contrast to the baronet in his antique garb. As the solicitor spoke he cast a side glance at Beryl, whom he knew slightly, and he mentally wondered why the old man had brought him along. Sir Simon had never spoken very well of Julius, but then he rarely said a good word of anyone.

"I am as well as can be expected," said Sir Simon, grumpily, taking his seat near the table, which was covered with books, and papers, and briefs, and red tape, and all the paraphernalia of legal affairs. "About that will of mine – "

"Yes?" inquired Durham, sitting, with another glance at Beryl, and still more perplexed as to the baronet's motive for bringing the young man. "I have had it drawn out in accordance with your instructions. It is ready for signing."

"Read it."

"In the presence of – " Durham indicated Beryl in a puzzled way.

"I can go, uncle, if you wish," said Julius, hastily, and rose.

"Sit down!" commanded the old man. "You are interested in the will."

"All the more reason I should not hear it read," said Julius, still on his feet.

Sir Simon shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his too particular nephew. "Get the will, Durham, and read it."

It was not the lawyer's business to argue in this especial instance, so he speedily summoned a clerk. The will was brought, carefully engrossed on parchment, and Durham rustled the great sheets as he resumed his seat. "You wish me to read it all?" he asked hesitatingly.

Sir Simon nodded, and, leaning his chin on the knob of his cane, disposed himself to listen. Beryl could not suppress an uneasy movement, which did not escape his uncle's notice, and he smiled in a grim way. Durham, without further preamble, read the contents of the will, clearly and deliberately, without as much as a glance in the direction of the person interested. This was Julius, and he grew pale with pleasure as the lawyer proceeded.

The will provided legacies for old servants, but no mention was made of Mrs. Gilroy, a fact which Beryl noted and secretly wondered at. Various bequests were made to former friends, and arrangements set forth as to the administration of the estate. The bulk of the property was left to Julius Beryl on condition that he married Lucy Randolph, for whom otherwise no provision was made. The name of Bernard Gore was left out altogether. When Durham ended he laid down the will with a rather regretful air, and discreetly stared at the fire. He liked young Gore and did not care for the architect. Therefore he was annoyed that the latter should benefit to the exclusion of the former.

"Good!" said Sir Simon, who had followed the reading with close attention. "Well?" he asked his nephew.

Beryl stammered. "I hardly know how to thank you. I am not worthy – "

"There – there – there!" said the old man tartly. "We understand all that. Can you suggest any alteration?"

"No, uncle. The will is perfect."

"What do you think, Durham?" said Gore, with a dry chuckle.

"I think," said the lawyer, his eyes still on the fire, "that some provision should be made for your grandson. He has been taught to consider himself your heir, and has been brought up in that expectation. It is hard that, at his age, he should be thrown on the world for – "

"For disobedience," put in Beryl, meekly.

Sir Simon chuckled again. "Yes, for disobedience. You are not aware, Durham, that Bernard wants to marry a girl who has no name and no parents, and no money – the companion of a crabbed old cat called Miss Plantagenet."

"I know," said the young lawyer, nodding. "She is the aunt of Lord Conniston, who told me about the matter."

"I thought Lord Conniston was in America," said Julius, sharply.

"I saw him before he went to America," retorted the solicitor, who did not intend to tell Beryl that Conniston had been in his office on the previous day. "Why do you say that? Do you know him?"

"I know that he has a castle near my uncle's place."

"Cove Castle," snapped Sir Simon. "All the county knows that. But he never comes near the place. Did you meet Lord Conniston at Miss Plantagenet's, Julius?"

"I have never met him at all," rejoined the meek young man stiffly, "and I have been to Miss Plantagenet's only in the company of Bernard."

"Aha!" chuckled Sir Simon. "You did not fall in love with that girl?"

"No, uncle. Of course I am engaged to Miss Randolph."

"You can call her 'Lucy' to a near relative like myself," said the baronet, dryly. "Do you know Miss Malleson, Durham?"

"No. I have not that pleasure."

"But no doubt Bernard has told you about her."

Durham shook his head. "I have not seen Gore for months."

"Are you sure? He inherits a little money from his father; and you – "

"Yes! I quite understand. I have charge of that money. Gore came a few months ago, and I gave him fifty pounds or so. That was after he quarrelled with you, Sir Simon. Since then I have not seen him."

"Then he does not know that I am in Crimea Square."

"Not that I know of. Certainly not from me. Is he in town?"

It was Beryl who answered this. "Bernard has enlisted as an Imperial Yeoman," said he.

"Then I think the more of him," said Durham quickly. "Every man who can, should go to the Front."

"Why don't you go yourself, Durham?"

"If I had not my business to look after I certainly should," replied the lawyer. "But regarding Mr. Gore. Will you make any provision for him, Sir Simon?"

"I can't say. He deserves nothing. I leave it to Julius."

"Should the money come into my possession soon," said Julius, virtuously, "a thing I do not wish, since it means your death, dear uncle, I should certainly allow Bernard two hundred a year."

"Out of ten thousand," put in Durham. "How good of you!"

"He deserves no more for his disobedience to his benefactor."

Sir Simon chuckled yet again. "I am quite of Julius's opinion," he declared. "Bernard has behaved shamefully. I wanted him to marry a Miss Perry, who is rich."

"Why can't you let him marry the woman he loves?" said Durham, with some heat. "They can live on ten thousand a year and be happy. What is the use of getting more money than is needed? Besides, from what I hear, this Miss Malleson is a charming girl."

"With no name and no position," said Sir Simon, "a mere paid companion. I don't want my grandson to make such a bad match. If he does, he must take the consequences. And he will – "

"Certainly he will," said Beryl, anxious about the signing of the will. "He has been hard-hearted for months, and shows no signs of giving in. Since I am to inherit the money I will allow Bernard two hundred a year, or such sum as Sir Simon thinks fit."

"Two hundred is quite enough," said the baronet. "Mr. Durham, we will see now about signing this will."

"Can I not persuade you to – "

"No! You can't persuade me to do anything but what I have done. I am sure Julius here will make a better use of the money than Bernard will. Won't you, Julius?"

"I hope so," replied Beryl, rising; "but I trust it will be many a long day before I inherit the money, dear uncle."

"Make your mind easy," said Sir Simon, dryly. "I intend to live for many a year yet."

"I think I had better go now," observed Julius, rising.

"Won't you stop and see the will signed?"

"No, uncle. I think it is better, as I inherit, that I should be out of the room. Who knows but what Bernard might say, did I remain, that I exercised undue influence?"

"Not while I am present," said Durham, touching a bell.

"All the same I had better go," insisted the young man. "Uncle?"

"Please yourself," replied Gore. "You can go if you like. I shall see you on Friday when you come for Lucy."

"To take her to the Curtain Theatre. Yes! But I trust I will see you before then, uncle." And here, as a clerk entered the room and was apparently, with Durham, about to witness the will, Julius departed. He chuckled to himself when he was outside, thinking of his good luck. But at the door his face altered. "He might change his mind," thought Beryl. "There's no reliance to be placed on him. I wish – " he opened and shut his fist; "but he won't die for a long time."

While Julius was indulging in these thoughts, Sir Simon had taken up the will to glance over it. He also requested Durham to send the clerk away for a few moments. Rather surprised, the lawyer did so, thinking the old man changeable. When alone with his legal adviser the baronet walked to the fire and thrust the will into it. Durham could not forbear an ejaculation of surprise, "What's that for?"

"To punish Julius," said Sir Simon, placidly returning to his seat, as though he had done nothing out of the way. "He is a mean sneak. He told me about Bernard being in love with that girl so as to create trouble."

"But you don't approve of the match?"

"No, I certainly do not, and I daresay that when I insisted on Bernard marrying Miss Perry that the truth would have come out. All the same it was none of Beryl's business to make mischief. Besides, he is a sly creature, and if I made the will in his favor, who knows but what he might not contrive to get me out of the way?"

"No," said Durham, thoughtfully, but well pleased for Bernard's sake that the will had been destroyed. "I don't think he has courage to do that. Besides, people don't murder nowadays."

"Don't they?" said Sir Simon; "look in the newspapers."

"I mean that what you think Julius might do is worthy of a novel. I don't fancy novels are true to life."

"Anything Julius did would be just like a novel. I tell you, Durham, he is a villain of the worst; I don't trust him. I have led him on to think that the will has been made in his favor; and when he learns the truth he will be punished for his greed."

"But, Sir Simon," argued the lawyer, "by letting him think the will is made in his favor, you have placed him in the very position which, according to you, might lead to his attempt to murder."

"I'll take care of myself," said the old man, somewhat inconsistently, for certainly he was acting differently to what he said. "By the way, you have the other will?"

"Yes! It leaves everything to Bernard save the legacies, which remain much the same. Of course, in the first will is mentioned an annuity to Mrs. Gilroy."

"Hum, yes. I left her out of the new will. The fact is, I don't trust Mrs. Gilroy. She's too friendly with Julius for my taste."

"I understood her to be on the side of Bernard."

"Oh, she's on whatever side suits her," said Sir Simon, testily. "However, let the first will stand. She's a poor thing and has had a hard life. I have every right to leave her something to live on."

"Why?" asked Durham, bluntly. He found Mrs. Gilroy something of a mystery, and did not know what was the bond between her and Sir Simon.

"Never you mind. I have my reasons, so let things remain as they are. Bernard can marry Miss Malleson when I am dead if he chooses."

"He thinks he has been disinherited?"

"Yes! I told him so. The truth will come as a pleasant surprise."

"Won't you take him back into favor and tell him?" urged Durham.

"No! not at present. If we met, there would only be more trouble. He has a temper inherited from his Italian mother, and I have a temper also. He behaved very rudely to me, and it's just as well he should suffer a little. But I don't want him to go to the war. He must be bought out."

"I fear Bernard is not the man to be bought out."

"Oh, I know he is brave enough, and I suppose being bought out at the eleventh hour when war is on is not heroic. All the same, I don't want him to be shot."

"You must leave things to chance," said Durham decidedly. "There is only one way in which you can make him give up his soldiering."

"What's that?"

"Make friends with him, and ask him to wait till you die."

"No, no, no!" said Sir Simon, irritably. "He must keep away from me for a time. After all, he is the son of his father, and, bad as Walter was, I loved him for his mother's sake. As for the Italian woman – "

"Mrs. Gore! She is dead."

"I know she is. But her brother Guiseppe is alive, and a scoundrel he is. The other day he came to the Hall and tried to force his way into the house. A gambler, a rogue, Durham – that's what Guiseppe is."

"What is his other name?"

"Tolomeo! He comes from Siena."

"I understood Mrs. Gore – your son's wife – came from Florence."

"So she said. She declared she was the member of a decayed Florentine family. But afterwards I learned from Guiseppe that the Tolomeo nobles are Sienese – and a bad lot they are. He is a musician, I believe – a plausible scamp. I hope he has not got hold of Bernard."

"Bernard is his nephew."

"I know that," snapped the old man. "All the same, the uncle is sadly in want of money, and would exercise an undue influence over Bernard."

"I don't think Gore is the man to be controlled," said Durham, sagely.

"You don't know. He is young after all. But you know, by the will, I have put it out of Bernard's power to assist Tolomeo. If he gives him as much as a shilling the money is lost to him and goes to Lucy."

"That is rather a hard provision," said Durham, after a pause.

"I do it for the boy's good," replied Gore, rising; "but I must get home now. By the way, about that lease," and the two began to talk of matters connected with the estate.

Sir Simon after this refused to discuss his erring grandson, but Durham, who was friendly to Bernard, insisted on recurring to the forbidden subject. However it was just when the old man was going that he reverted to the bone of contention, "I wish you would let me tell Bernard that you are well disposed toward him."

"Ah! you plead for the scamp," said Sir Simon, angrily.

"Well, I was at Eton with him, you know, and we are great friends. If he is an Imperial Yeoman there will be no difficulty in seeing him."

"Leave matters as they are. I have ascertained that he won't go to the war for six weeks. Julius found that out for me, so wait till he is on the eve of sailing. Then we'll see. If nothing else will keep him at home, I'll make it up. But I think a little hardship will do him good. He behaved very badly."

"Bernard is naturally hot tempered."

"So am I. Therefore, let us keep apart for a time. Who knows what would happen did we meet. No, Durham, let Bernard think that I am still angry. If Lucy sets a lamp in the Red Window that's a different thing. I shan't interfere with her romance."

"The Red Window. What's that?"

"A silly legend of the Gore family of which you know nothing. I have no time to repeat rubbish. I'll come and see you again about that lease, Durham. Meanwhile, should Bernard be hard up, help him out of your own pocket. I'll make it up to you."

"He wouldn't accept alms. Besides, he has enough to go on with. I have two hundred of his money in hand."

"Then I have nothing more to say. I'm sorry the fellow isn't starving. His conduct to me was shameful." And Sir Simon went grumbling home.

"All the same, I'll see Bernard," thought Durham, returning to his office.

CHAPTER IV
A STRANGE ADVENTURE

Conniston and Bernard Gore were as much as possible in one another's company during the stay of the former in town. Thinking he would go out to the Cape sooner than he did, Bernard had impulsively got rid of his civilian clothes, and therefore had to keep constantly to his uniform. But in those days everyone was in khaki, as the war fever was in the air, so amongst the throng he passed comparatively unnoticed. At all events he managed to keep away from the fashionable world, and therefore saw neither Sir Simon nor Lucy. Beyond the fact that his grandfather was in town Bernard knew nothing, and was ignorant that the old man had taken up his abode in Crimea Square. So he told Durham when the lawyer questioned him.

The three old schoolfellows came together at Durham's house, which was situated on Camden Hill. Faithful to his intention to see Gore, the lawyer had sent a note asking Conniston where Bernard was to be found. Already Conniston had told Durham of his chance meeting in the Park, so when he received Durham's letter he insisted on taking Gore to dinner at the lawyer's house. Bernard was only too glad, and the three had a long talk over old times. The dinner was excellent, the wine was good, and although the young man's housekeeper was rather surprised that her precise master should dine with a couple of soldiers, she did her best to make them comfortable. When the meal was ended Durham carried off his guests to the library, where they sat around a sea-wood fire sipping coffee and smoking the excellent cigars of their host. Durham alone was in evening dress, as Gore kept to khaki, and Conniston, for the sake of company, retained his lancer uniform. Their host laughed as he contemplated the two.

"I feel inclined to go to the front myself," said he, handing Gore a glass of kümmel, "but the business would suffer."

"Leave it in charge of a clerk," said Conniston, in his hair-brained way. "You have no ties to keep you here. Your parents are dead – you aren't married, and – "

"I may be engaged for all you know."

"Bosh! There's a look about an engaged man you can't mistake. Look at Bernard there. He is – "

"Pax! Pax!" cried Gore, laughing. "Leave me alone, Conniston. But are you really engaged, Mark?"

"No," said Mark, rubbing his knees rather dismally. "I should like to be. A home-loving man like myself needs a wife to smile at him across the hearth."

"And just now you talked of going to the front," put in the young lord. "You don't know your own mind. But, I say, this is jolly. Back I go to barracks to-morrow and shall remember this comfortable room and this glimpse of civilized life."

"You were stupid to enlist," said Durham, sharply. "Had you come to me, we could have arranged matters better. You knew I'd see you through, Conniston. I have ample means."

"I don't want to be seen through," said Conniston, wilfully. "Besides, it's fun, this war. I'm crazy to go, and now that Bernard's coming along it will be like a picnic."

"Not much, I fear," said Bernard, "if all the tales we hear are true."

"Right," said Durham. "This won't be the military promenade the generality of people suppose it will be. The Boers are obstinate."

"So are we," argued Conniston; "but don't let us talk shop. We'll get heaps of that at the Cape. Mark, you wanted to see Bernard about some business. Shall I leave the room?"

"No, no!" said Gore, hastily. "Mark can say what he likes about my business before you, Conniston. I have nothing to conceal."

"Nothing?" asked Durham, looking meaningly at his friend.

Gore allowed an expression of surprise to flit across his expressive face. "What are you driving at, Mark?"

"Well," said Durham, slowly, "your grandfather came to see me the other day on business – "

"I can guess what the business was," put in Bernard, bitterly, and thinking that a new will had been made.

The lawyer smiled. "Quite so. But don't ask me to betray the secrets of my client. But Sir Simon knew you were in the Imperial Yeomanry, Bernard. He learned that from Beryl."

"Who is, no doubt, spying on me. It is thanks to Julius that I had the row with my grandfather. He – "

"You needn't trouble to explain," interrupted Durham. "I know. Sir Simon explained. But he also asked me if you knew he was in town."

"I told Bernard," said Conniston, "and you told me."

"Yes. But does Bernard know where Sir Simon is stopping?"

"No," said Gore, emphatically, "I don't."

"Neither do I. What are you getting at, Mark?"

"It's a queer thing," went on Durham, taking no notice of Conniston's question, "but afterwards – yesterday, in fact – Sir Simon wrote saying that he heard from Mrs. Gilroy of an Imperial Yeoman who had been visiting in the kitchen of Crimea Square – "

"What about Crimea Square?" asked Gore, quickly.

"Your grandfather is stopping there – in No. 32; old Jefferies' house."

"Oh! I knew nothing of that. Go on."

"Sir Simon," proceeded the lawyer, looking at Gore, "stated in his letter that the description of the soldier, as given by the maid, applied to you, Bernard."

Gore stared and looked puzzled, as did Conniston. "But I don't quite understand," said the former. "Do you mean that my grandfather thinks that I have been making love to some servant in Crimea Square?"

"In No. 32. Yes. That is what Sir Simon's letter intimated to me."

The other men looked at one another and burst out laughing. "What jolly rubbish!" said Lord Conniston. "Why, Bernard is the last person to do such a thing."

"It's all very well to laugh," said Durham, rather tartly, "but you see, Gore, Sir Simon may think that you went to the kitchen, not to make love to the maid, but to see how he was disposed towards you."

"But, Mark, I haven't been near the place."

"Are you sure?" asked Mark, sharply.

Bernard, always hot-tempered, jumped up. "I won't bear that from any man," he said. "You have no right to doubt my word, Durham."

"Don't fire up over nothing, Gore. It is in your own interest that I speak. I knew well enough that you wouldn't make love to this housemaid mentioned by Sir Simon – Jane Riordan is her name. But I fancied you might have gone to see if your grandfather – "

"I went to see nothing," replied Gore, dropping back into his chair with a disgusted air. "I don't sneak round in that way. When my grandfather kicked me out of the house, I said good-bye to Alice and came to London. I saw you, to get some money, and afterwards I enlisted. I never knew that Sir Simon was in town till Conniston told me. I never knew he lived in Crimea Square till you explained. My duties have kept me hard at work all the time. And even if they hadn't," said the young man, wrathfully, "I certainly wouldn't go making love to servants to gain information about my own people."

"Quite so," said Durham, smoothly. "Then why – "

"Drop the subject, Mark."

"Sit down and be quiet, Bernard," said Conniston, pulling him back into his seat, for he had again risen. "Mark has something to say."

"If you will let me say it," said Durham, with the air of a man severely tried by a recalcitrant witness.

"Go on, then," said Bernard, and flung himself into his chair in a rather sullen manner. His troubles had worn his nerves thin, and even from his old schoolfellow he was not prepared to take any scolding. All the same, he secretly saw that he was accusing Durham of taking a liberty where none was meant.

"It's this way," said the lawyer, when Gore was smoothed down for the time being. "We know that Beryl hates you."

"He wants the money."

"I know that." Durham smiled when he thought of the destroyed will; but he could hardly explain his smile. "Well, it is strange that the description given by the maid of this soldier – and a yeoman, mind you – should be like you. Have you a double?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then someone is impersonating you so as to arouse the wrath of your grandfather against you. Sir Simon is a proud old man, and the idea that you condescended to flirt with – "

"But I didn't, I tell you!" cried the exasperated Gore.

"No. We know that. But Sir Simon, judging from his letter, thinks so."

"He has no right to do that. My conduct never gave him any reason to think I would sink so low."

"My dear chap," said Conniston, with the air of a Socrates, "when anyone has his monkey up, he will believe anything."

"Conniston is quite right," said the lawyer, "though he expresses himself with his usual elegance. Sir Simon, with Beryl at his elbow, is inclined to believe the worst of you, Bernard, and probably thinks you have deteriorated sufficiently to permit your making use of even so humble an instrument as a housemaid."

"Bah!" said Gore, in a rage. "What right has he to – "

"Don't be so furious, my dear man. I am advising you for your own good, and not charging seven-and-six either."

This made Bernard laugh. "But it does make a fellow furious to hear his nearest – I won't say dearest – think so badly of one."

"One's relatives always think the worst," said Conniston, oracularly. "Miss Plantagenet thinks so badly of me that I'll never see that five thousand a year. Miss Malleson will have it, and you, Bernard, will live on it. Pax! Pax!" for Bernard gave him a punch on the shoulder.

"Dick, you're a silly ass! Go on, Durham."

"Well," said Durham, beginning in his invariable manner, "I fancy that Beryl is up to some trick. You have not been near the place; so someone made up to impersonate you is sneaking round. Of course, there is the other alternative, Mrs. Gilroy may be telling a lie!"

"She wouldn't," rejoined Gore, quickly. "She is on my side."

"So you told me. But your grandfather thinks otherwise. We were talking about you the other day."

"And Sir Simon said no good of me," was Bernard's remark. "But what is to be done?"

"Only one thing. Go and see your grandfather and have the matter sifted. If Mrs. Gilroy is lying you can make her prove the truth. If she tells the truth, you can see if Beryl has a hand in the matter."

Gore rose and began to pace the room. "I should like to see my grandfather," said he, "as I want to apologise for my behavior. But I am afraid if we come together there will be trouble."

"I daresay – if Beryl is at his elbow. Therefore, I do not advise you to call at Crimea Square. But when Sir Simon goes down to the Hall again, you can make it your business to see him and set matters right."

"I am afraid that is impossible," said Gore, gloomily, "unless I give up Alice, and that I won't do." He struck the table hard.

"Don't spoil the furniture, Bernard," said Conniston, lighting a cigarette. "You do what Mark says. Go down to Hurseton."

"I don't want to be known in this kit, and I have parted with my plain clothes," objected the other.

"You always were an impulsive beast," said Conniston, with the candour of a long friendship. "Well, then" – he rose and crossed to the writing-table – "I'll scrawl a note to Mrs. Moon telling her to put you up at Cove Castle. She can hold her tongue, and the castle is in so out-of-the-way a locality that no one will spot you there. You can then walk across to Hurseton – it's only ten miles – and see if that Red Window is alight."

"Your grandfather said something about the Red Window," said Durham, while Conniston scribbled the note in a kind of print, since Mrs. Moon was not particularly well educated. "What is it?"

Bernard explained the idea of Lucy, and how she was playing the part of his friend, to let him know how matters stood. "I am always startled by a red window now," he said, laughing at his own folly, "as it means so much to me. The other night I saw a chemist's sign and it made me sit up."

"It's an absurdly romantic idea," said Durham, with all the scorn of a lawyer for the quaint. "Why revive an old legendary idea when a simple letter – "

"Mrs. Gilroy and Julius would stop any letters," said Bernard, "that is, if she is hostile to me, which she may be. I am not sure of her attitude."

"What is the legend of the Red Window?" asked Durham.

"It's too long a story to tell," said Bernard, glancing at the clock, which pointed to a quarter to ten, "and I'm due at barracks. I'll tell you about it on another occasion. Meantime – "

"Meantime," said Durham, rising, "I advise you to drop red windows and legends and go down to see Sir Simon boldly. A short interview will put everything right."

"And might put everything wrong."

"No," said Durham, earnestly, "believe me, your grandfather will be more easy to deal with than you think. I am his solicitor and I dare not say much, but I advise you to see him as soon as you can. The sooner the better, since Beryl is a dangerous enemy to have."

"Well, Lucy is my friend."

"And Mrs. Gilroy your enemy along with Beryl."

"I'm not so sure of that," began Gore, when Conniston lounged towards him with a letter.

"You give that to Mrs. Moon," said he, "and she will put you up and hold her tongue and make things pleasant. But don't say I am in town, as I have not dated the letter."

"Does she think you are in America?" asked Bernard, putting the letter into his pocket, and promising to use it should occasion offer.

"Yes. She thinks a great deal of the West family," said Conniston, taking another glass of kümmel, "and she would howl if she heard I was a mere private. And I don't know but what she may not know. I saw that young brute of a Judas when I left you the other day, Bernard."

"Judas?" echoed Durham, who was unlocking the spirit-stand.

Conniston sat down and stretched out his legs. "He's Mrs. Moon's grandson. Jerry Moon is his name – but he's such a young scoundrel that I call him Judas as more appropriate. I got him a place with Taberley, the tobacconist, but he took money or something and was kicked out. The other day when I met him he was selling matches. I gave him half a sovereign to go back to his grandmother, so by this time I expect he's at Cove Castle telling her lies. I instructed him to hold his tongue about my soldiering."

"Why didn't you send him to me?" said Mark. "I would have frightened him, and made him hold his tongue."

"If you could frighten Judas you could frighten his father, the Old 'Un down below," said Conniston, laughing. "He's what the Artful Dodger would call a young Out-and-Outer; a kind of Jack Sheppard in grain. He'll come your way yet, Mark, passing by on his journey to the gallows. He's only thirteen, but a born criminal. He'll hold his tongue about me so long as it suits him, and sell me to make a sixpence. Oh, he's a delightful young scamp, I promise you!"

All this aimless chatter made Bernard rather impatient. "I must cut along," he said; "it's rather foggy and it will take me a long time to fetch my barracks. No, thank you, Mark, I don't want anything to drink. Give me a couple of those cigarettes, Conniston. Good night."

"Won't you stop the night?" said Durham, hospitably. "Conniston is staying."

"He's on furlough and I'm not," said Bernard, who was now putting on his slouch hat in the hall. "Good night, Conniston. Good night, Durham."

"You'll think over what I told you," said the lawyer, opening the door himself and looking outside. "I say, what a fog! Stop here, Bernard."

"No! No! Thanks all the same." Gore stepped out into the white mist, buttoning his coat. "Give me a light. There! Go back and yarn with Dick, I'll come and see you again. As to Sir Simon – "

"What about him?"

"I'll think over what you said. If possible I'll go down and stop at Cove Castle, and see Sir Simon at night. By the way, what's the time, Durham?"

The lawyer was about to pull out his watch when Conniston appeared at the end of the hall in high spirits. "My dear friend," he said in a dramatic manner, "it is the twenty-third of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and – "

"Bosh!" interrupted Bernard. "The time, Mark?"

"Just ten o'clock. Good night!"

"Good night, and keep that wild creature in order. Conniston, I'll look you up to-morrow."

It was indeed a foggy night. Bernard felt as though he were passing through wool, and the air was bitterly cold. However, he thrust his hands into his pockets and smoked bravely as he felt his way down the hill. Hardly had he issued from the gate when he felt someone clutch his coat. Brave as Gore was he started, for in this fog he might meet with all manner of unpleasant adventures. However, being immediately under a lamp, he saw that a small boy was holding on to him. A pretty lad he looked, though clothed in rags and miserable with the cold. In one hand he held a tray of matches and in the other a piece of bread. His feet were bare and his rags scarcely covered him. In a child-like, innocent manner he looked up into the face of the tall soldier. "Well, boy," said Bernard, feeling for sixpence, "Are you wanting to get home?"

"Ain't got no home," said the boy, hoarsely. "I sleeps in a barrel, I does, when 'ard up. It's you as the lady wants to see."

"The lady!" Bernard looked down at the imp. "What do you mean?"

"It's this way, my lord," said the boy, looking like a cherub of innocence. "The lady, she says to me that in this street you'll see, before twelve, a soldier in yeller clothes. Tell him to foller to the Red Winder."

"What's that?" asked Gore, sharply, and quite taken aback by hearing these words on the lips of this ragged brat. "Where did you see the lady, boy?"

"Down Kensington way," said the boy jerking his head over his shoulder. "She says, 'Tell him to foller to the Red Winder.' Come along!" and he darted off in the fog.

"But you must explain," began Bernard, when he stopped. The boy had disappeared into the fog, and wondering how he came to be in possession of this information which concerned him, Gore walked along feeling his way by the brick wall. Perhaps Lucy had sent the message, and the Red Window was to be seen in the Crimea Square house. Bernard wished to ask the boy further questions, but the lad had vanished. In much perplexity the young man went down the hill towards Kensington High Street. As he paused at the corner wondering if it would be wise to go to the Square, and wondering also where it was, the boy suddenly appeared again at his elbow. "Come along acrost the road," he growled, and vanished again. Then Bernard got lost in the fog till the boy found him again.

Bernard, not thinking any harm could come of the adventure, as he had ample confidence in his right arm, went across the street. The boy reappeared and led him down a side street. Gore tried to seize the boy and to detain him in order to ask questions, but the imp kept well out of reach, and only appeared when he thought there was danger of the tall soldier losing his way. In this manner Bernard was led down the quiet street, 'longside a high wall and through the heart of the dense fog. He kept his eyes open for any possible assailant, and did not feel the least afraid. All the same, he began to think he was foolish to follow on such a will-o'-the-wisp errand. But that the boy had mentioned the Red Window, Bernard would have turned on his heel. As it was, he felt curious enough to proceed. Suddenly the boy – a few feet ahead – led him into a wide space which was densely filled with fog. Here his guide turned to the right, and then whistled. When Gore, who had followed, heard that whistle he tightened his hold on his stick. The boy had vanished, and there he was alone in the heart of the fog. No one appeared, and he could not even see his guide. Looking overhead, Bernard suddenly saw a Red Window on the first story of a house. The house loomed hugely through the fog and was in some measure revealed by the light of a street lamp which threw a dull glimmer on to steps ascending to the door. There was a light behind the glass over the door, but the young man did not look at that. He was staring at the window in the first storey, which showed a fiery red color.

"I wonder if this is Crimea Square and the house," muttered Bernard, stepping forward. "And whether Lucy put that light there, and sent the boy to tell me. But how could she know I was with Durham to-night?"

Again he heard the whistle, and then came a shriek which apparently came from the house. Bernard ran to the steps, wondering if anything was the matter. The door opened, and a woman burst out of the house shrieking at the pitch of her voice – "Murder! Murder! Murder!" she cried. "Oh, the police – the police! Murder!"

"Mrs. Gilroy!" Bernard saw her face in the light which streamed from the open door, and which was thrown by the street lamp vaguely through the fog. She stopped and clutched him, staring into his face.

"Come," she said in a harsh whisper, and dragged him forward. Quite bewildered, Gore suffered himself to be led. Mrs. Gilroy dragged him rather than led him up the stairs and into a room. There he saw his grandfather seated by the fire with a handkerchief round his neck, and another tied across his mouth – quite dead. "Murder!" said Mrs. Gilroy.

CHAPTER V
LOST IN THE DARKNESS

While the terrible word was yet on the housekeeper's lips, Bernard stepped forward and loosened the handkerchiefs. That round the neck was one of Sir Simon's own, a yellow bandana woven of strong silk, and eminently suited to the deadly purpose it had been used for. But how had the dead man's own handkerchief been so utilised by the murderer? While untying the knot, Bernard wondered; but he gained an inkling into the method pursued when he removed the white handkerchief which had been bound across the mouth. It exhaled a faint odor of chloroform, so it was apparent that the old baronet had been first rendered unconscious, and then strangled with his own bandana. But who was guilty of the crime?

"What do you know of this?" asked Gore, in a hoarse voice, turning to the housekeeper.

She had ceased to cry out, and was staring at him with glittering eyes. At the same time she appeared to be listening intently. Far off could be heard the sound of approaching footsteps echoing along the pavement. Evidently a policeman, summoned by Mrs. Gilroy's shriek, was hurrying to see what was the matter. As the door had been left open he would know where to enter. These thoughts flashed through Mrs. Gilroy's mind as she stared at the pale young man. Also there were sounds in the lower parts of the house hinting that the servants had been aroused. A distant clock struck the three quarters, and even at that terrible moment Bernard remembered that in his vague wanderings after the boy he had been forty-five minutes getting to Crimea Square. And Mrs. Gilroy still looked.

"What do you know of this?" repeated Gore, wondering at her silence.

She gave a gasp. "He is dead," said Mrs. Gilroy. "I wonder if he died hard. He was a strong old man."

Wondering more than ever at this strange speech, Bernard felt the pulse and the heart of his grandfather. There was no doubt that life was extinct, although it could not have been so long. The skin was still warm to the touch, but that might have been because the room was heated. Also, the dead man was seated close to the fire. "How terrible!" muttered Bernard, whose emotions were not yet under control. "I must get help."

He turned to go, but the housekeeper, suddenly becoming endowed with life, flung herself in his path. "No!" she said harshly. "Don't seek help if you value your life."

"What do you mean?" asked Gore, striving to shake off the hand she laid on his sleeve. "The servants are up – a policeman is evidently coming along. Hark! he is entering the hall. I must – "

"You go to the gallow," muttered Mrs. Gilroy clinging to him.

"I!" the perspiration burst out on Bernard's forehead, and he started back. "Are you mad?"

"You are, you are," went on the housekeeper, hurriedly, "you fool! It is known that your grandfather disinherited you, and – "

"You know I did not commit this crime."

"I know nothing. I – I" Mrs. Gilroy put her hand to her head. "It's the only way – the only way," she whispered to herself. "You killed him, you strangled him. I swear to it – I swear to it! Help!" she raised her voice to scream. "Help!"

"Let me go," cried Bernard, thinking he had been drawn into a trap.

But Mrs. Gilroy still clung with a force for which he would not have given her credit. Shrieking aloud she was dragged by the startled young man into the passage and towards the landing. Below, in the hall, the door of which was open, the cook and the housemaid were embracing a burly policeman, and terrified small page was looking up the stairs. On the vision of this alarmed group reeled Mrs. Gilroy, clinging and shrieking to Bernard – "Help me – help me! He will escape!" The policeman blew a shrill whistle and said a sharp word to the page, who scampered out of the door for dear life. The cook and housemaid receded towards the back of the hall as Bernard, dragging Mrs. Gilroy after him, flung himself down the stairs. He saw now that his position was dangerous, but his wits were so bewildered that he hardly knew what he was doing. As he reached the foot of the stair the policeman caught him by the coat. "I arrest you in the King's name," said the officer, promptly.

"Yes, yes! for murder – murder!" cried Mrs. Gilroy, breathlessly.

"Murder!" the other servants shrieked.

"Who is dead?" asked the policeman, with professional stolidity.

"Sir Simon Gore. This is his grandson. He has strangled him."

"It's a lie – a lie!" cried Bernard, very pale. "I did not enter – "

"Anything you say now will be used in evidence against you," said the policeman. "Come up the stairs, we must see this corpse. A titled man, too, and your grandfather – you audacious scoundrel!" and he shook the wretched young man.

"I tell you I am innocent," said Bernard, his lips dry and his face pale. "I came here – "

"To kill Sir Simon. Jane," cried Mrs. Gilroy, turning to the housemaid. "Don't you see who it is?"

Jane staggered forward supported by the cook. "Lor'," she gasped in terror, "it's Bernard. Whatever did you – "

"You know him, then?" asked the officer.

"Yes! he's been making love and visiting me for the last week?"

"I thought so," cried Mrs. Gilroy, triumphantly. "Cook."

"I know him too," said the cook, keeping well out of the way. "It's the young soldier as courts Jane. Bernard's his name."

"I was never in this house before," said Gore, quite unnerved.

"Is your name Bernard?" asked the policeman.

"Yes! but – "

"Then you are guilty."

"He is – he is!" cried the housemaid. "He was here this evening, but went away at six. Sir Simon said he would see him after ten. Oh, Bernard, how could you!" sobbed Jane. "To think I should have took up with a man as 'ull be put in the Chamber of Horrors."

"Policeman, let me go," said Gore, firmly. "There is some mistake."

"The magistrate will decide that. Help will be here soon, and then you'll be lodged in jail."

"Mrs. Gilroy," cried the young man, overwhelmed with horror, "you know I am innocent."

"No," she said fiercely, and with her eyes on his face. "You came to see Sir Simon after ten. I let you in myself. I waited below while you spoke with Sir Simon, and you left fifteen minutes ago. I went upstairs to see my master. He was dead – strangled. I ran out calling murder, and you were almost on the doorstep."

"I had only just come."

"Come back, you mean," said the officer.

"To see if poor master was dead," shrieked the cook.

"Oh, Bernard – Bernard!" sobbed Jane, "how could you kill him! Lor'! that I should have kissed a murderer."

"Hark!" said Mrs. Gilroy, raising her hand, "footsteps. The other police are coming. Take him away to jail, officer."

"This is a trick – a trap!" cried Bernard, struggling to get free. "I never was in the house before – "

"You have visited in the kitchen for over a fortnight," said Jane, weeping copiously.

"Someone like me has, but not me. Look well, girl. Am I the man?"

"Bring him under the lamp, policeman," said Jane, hesitating.

"No!" said Mrs. Gilroy, pushing the housemaid back, "there is no time. Here are the police. We must go upstairs and see Sir Simon. Miss Randolph is at the theatre with Mr. Beryl. Ah – hark!"

There was a sound of approaching wheels, and a moment afterwards a carriage drove up. Out of it stepped Lucy and Julius. They entered the hall and looked amazed, as they well might, on seeing Bernard in the grip of the policeman, and the alarmed women around him.

"What's this?" asked Julius.

"Bernard," cried Lucy, running forward, "what have you done?"

"Murdered his grandfather, miss," said the policeman.

Lucy uttered a wild shriek and sprang up the stairs, followed by the cook and housemaid. But Mrs. Gilroy still held her ground and caught hold of Beryl's arm. "Keep him fast, sir," she said savagely. "He came this night and murdered the master."

"Julius, it is a lie!"

"I hope so," said Beryl, who looked pale and startled; "but you know you quarrelled with my uncle."

"Ah, did he?" said the policeman, and felt for his pocket-book. In doing so, he slightly relaxed his grip, and Bernard was quick to take advantage of the chance. Had he but reflected for a moment, he would have stood his ground and have faced the worst; but with the accusing face of Mrs. Gilroy before him, and a memory of the housemaid's evidence and Beryl's enmity, he decided hastily to fly. In a moment he laid the policeman flat on his back by a quick wrestling trick, and darted out into the street. Mrs. Gilroy ran to the door shrieking murder, and the word was heard by three or four policemen who were tramping hurriedly along in the wake of the breathless page. At once they realized the situation, and plunged into the fog after the flying form of the soldier. The page followed also, but speedily returned with the news that the fugitive was running towards High Street.

"He's bound to be caught," said Mrs. Gilroy.

"I hope not," said Beryl, who was standing in the hall much disturbed. "After all, he is my cousin."

"And a murderer," added the housekeeper. "Wait here, policeman."

"But he's got away," said the officer, considerably ruffled by the escape. "I must follow."

"The others are after him," said Julius, drawing him back. "You can't follow in the fog. It's thicker than ever. Mrs. Webber."

"Oh, what's the matter?" asked a trembling voice, and a white face appeared at the window of the carriage which stood at the door. "Mr. Beryl!"

"Sir Simon has been murdered by his grandson," said Julius, running down the steps and speaking quietly.

Mrs. Webber threw herself back into the carriage and shrieked, "Oh, horrible! Drive away – drive away."

"No! no!" said Beryl, anxiously. "Lucy is upstairs with the corpse. Come and take her away. She can't remain here."

"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Webber, recovering from her momentary alarm, and getting hastily out of the carriage. "James, where is Francis?"

"He's gone off after the murderer, mum," said James, touching his hat; "but for the 'orses I'd have gone also."

"Wait – wait," said Mrs. Webber, hurrying up the steps. "How terrible – poor Sir Simon. Where is the body?" she asked, shuddering.

"In the sitting-room on the first floor," said Mrs. Gilroy.

"Where the red light is?" asked the lady.

"There is no red light," said Mrs. Gilroy.

"But I tell you there is," said Mrs. Webber. "I saw it when I heard the horrid cry of murder."

"The red light," said Julius, starting. "I wonder" – he hurried outside and looked up to the dark front of the house. "There's no red light, Mrs. Webber," he called out.

"I knew there wasn't," cried Mrs. Gilroy, sitting down, evidently exhausted. "You must be mistaken, ma'am."

Mrs. Webber ran out also. "I am not mistaken. Why" – she stared up also – "there is none. Yet I am sure – I'll ask Lucy," and she ran into the house again. "Come and show me where the poor man is."

This was to Mrs. Gilroy, who rose slowly and walked heavily up the stairs. "Are you in pain, Mrs. Gilroy?" asked Julius, who followed.

"Yes," she muttered, pressing her hand to her side. "Mr. Gore gave me a wrench when I struggled with him. My poor master," and sighing heavily, she panted up the stair.

In the room, Lucy was kneeling beside the dead, with the tears streaming down her cheeks and holding the limp hand. "How terrible it is!" she sobbed. "He was so well and bright when I left to go to the theatre, and now" – she broke down. Julius supported her to the sofa and strove to calm her.

"It is terrible," he said soothingly. "I think you had better go back with Mrs. Webber."

"No!" she said, drying her eyes. "I will wait here."

"Yes, do, miss," chorussed the cook and the housemaid, who were both in a state of wild alarm.

"Nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Webber, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Come home with me, dear."

Mrs. Webber was a small, dark, stern-looking little woman with a high color, although her face was very white at the present awful moment. She was possessed of considerable determination, as could be seen from her firm mouth. But Lucy, in spite of her youth and the crushing to which she had been subjected by Sir Simon, had the stronger will, and positively refused to leave the house.

"He was my only friend," she said, rising, "and I won't go away."

"You can do nothing, dear," said Julius, quickly.

"I can help the nurse with the body," she answered. "Don't say another word, Julius. My post is here. Send for someone at once to lay out the body, unless you – " She looked at Jane and the cook.

These cowards shrieked simultaneously, and with one accord fled to the lower regions, where they sat up for the rest of the night drinking strong tea, and discussing the tragic event with the gusto peculiar to their class. The policeman joined them here later, and asked after the courting of Jane.

Meantime Mrs. Webber, finding all remonstrance vain, had departed. Mrs. Gilroy remained alone with the dead body, and Julius, leading Lucy to another room, answered the inquiries of an inspector who had appeared on the scene. He noted all replies made, and explained that the fugitive had not yet been caught. "And I don't know if he will be," added Inspector Groom, shrugging his shoulders; "the fog is thick."

"And Bernard is very quick," said Lucy, sipping a glass of wine which she sorely needed. "Oh, I hope he'll get away!"

"Very natural," said Groom, nodding. "You don't want the scandal."

"I don't want Bernard hanged," said Miss Randolph.

"Ah! Then you think he is guilty."

"Mrs. Gilroy says he is," answered the girl, sobbing, "and I know Bernard was on bad terms with Sir Simon. Julius, perhaps after all Bernard may be innocent."

"I hope so," said Beryl, dubiously; "but according to Jane, Bernard has been hanging round the house for the last fortnight, and – "

"Ah!" said Groom, sharply, "hanging round the house, eh? I must speak to Jane. Who is she?"

"The housemaid. Bernard has been making love to her."

"I don't believe that is true," said Lucy.

"Young gentlemen do take strange fancies sometimes," said Groom, "and some housemaids are pretty."

Lucy's lip curled. "Jane is not pretty," said she, decidedly, "and Bernard is far too fastidious a man to lower himself in that way."

"Well, the long and the short of it is, that he has been hanging round the house," put in Beryl, biting his fingers impatiently. "Probably he came here this evening, and saw Sir Simon in answer to the signal of the Red Window."

"The Red Window!" echoed Lucy.

"Yes. You told me about the signal this evening."

"But I did not place a lamp in any window, and there is no Red Window here. Had I done that to attract Bernard, I should have told you."

"I don't think you would," said Beryl, with a significant expression; "but the fact remains, Mrs. Webber saw the Red Window."

"You did not."

"No. But a piece of red stuff may have been used to make the light, and then removed."

"Mrs. Gilroy may know about it."

But Mrs. Gilroy, when questioned, did not. She never knew anything about a red light. Sir Simon had expressed the wish to see the soldier, and had sent down to the kitchen before six. "He was then having tea with Jane."

"Did you see him?" asked the inspector.

"No. Had I done so I should have recognized him. But he always got out of the place when he heard me coming. Once he was concealed in a cupboard. On receiving Sir Simon's message sent by the page, he left the house – "

"Yes," interrupted Lucy. "I remember the message being brought back."

"And then he came after ten," went on Mrs. Gilroy. "I opened the door to him. He asked to see his grandfather."

"He was this man, then?" asked Groom.

"Mr. Bernard Gore? Yes, he was. He went to see the old gentleman, and I waited below. Then he left the house – "

"Did you let him out?"

"No. He went away quickly. Wondering at the length of the interview, I ran up the stairs and found Sir Simon dead. I came out at once, and found Mr. Gore almost on the doorstep – "

"Mr. Gore?" asked the inspector, looking up.

"Yes. Mr. Bernard Gore, the grandson of Sir Simon."

"And my cousin," said Julius. "You say he was at the door?"

"He was, Mr. Beryl. I made him come up the stairs and" – she made a gesture – "you know the rest."

Groom put the housekeeper through a thorough examination, and noted down her replies. She told a consistent story. Then he questioned Julius and Lucy regarding the quarrel between the deceased and his grandson. Finally he proceeded to the kitchen and questioned the servants. The result of these inquiries was that Inspector Groom left the house – with a policeman in charge – firmly persuaded of Bernard's guilt. All the evidence pointed to his committal of the crime. Groom was not ill-pleased. He thought he had secured a case likely to cause a sensation, and to prove remunerative to himself.

While the rope to hang the unfortunate young man was being woven, the outcast – for he was nothing else now – was racing through the fog. After the first plunge into the gray mist, he succeeded in shaking off the officers – all save one. This was a young fellow, quick on his legs. He followed Bernard towards the High Street, as had been reported by the page, who had seen the two dark forms shooting past him. Only a yard or two lay between pursued and pursuer, and Gore, in spite of all his efforts, could not increase the distance. But he was determined not to be taken. Undoubtedly he had been drawn into a trap, and howsoever innocent he was, it might be impossible to prove that he was guiltless in the face of the enmity of Mrs. Gilroy and Julius. Also, there was the evidence of Jane to be reckoned with, and she was doubtless a tool in the hands of her superiors. Bernard wanted to gain a place of refuge, so that he might think over his position and communicate with Durham and Conniston. They might be able to help him in this dilemma.

It was impossible to remain in the High Street, seeing that every moment he ran a chance of falling into the arms of a policeman. He therefore turned down a side street and raced through Cheniston Gardens. His pursuer, still close on his heels, followed, and by this time another officer had joined. Bernard made up his mind and ran for the river. He crossed Cromwell Road, Fulham Road, sped through Elm Park Gardens, and down to Chelsea. Many were after him by the time he reached the river's bank. Only one chance remained. He plunged into the stream and the fog covered his retreat.

"It's all up," said the policeman, who heard the plunge. "He'll be drowned."

CHAPTER VI
A MAIDEN GENTLEWOMAN

"Hurseton, in Essex, lies about ten miles from the coast, and is elevated on a wide plateau whence can be obtained a fine and picturesque view of the famous marshes. It is a quaint, old-world village, gathered round an ancient Saxon Cross, which occupies the centre of the village green. The church – eleventh century – is dedicated to St. Peter, and is, for the most part, sunken in the ground owing to its antiquity. The tower and spire are of wood. Many of the gentry have country seats in this popular vicinity. The rising watering-place of Market-on-Sea, five miles distant, is much frequented by Londoners during the holiday season. Hurseton can be reached from town by rail a little over the hour."

So far the guide-book; but the above-mentioned gentry referred to therein were not at all pleased by the advertisement, as many of the cheap trippers came to visit the place from Market-on-Sea, and by no means improved the countryside with their rowdy manners. Miss Berengaria Plantagenet was especially wrathful at the yearly plague of sightseers, and would have put them all in jail had she been able. She was a dignified old lady, small in stature, with a withered rosy face, white hair, and eyes as keen as those of a robin, if not so shallow. Her mansion – so she called it – stood at the end of the village, a little way back from the long, straight road which ran towards the coast and the marshes. But the term mansion was rather a misnomer. The place had originally been a small farmhouse, and Miss Berengaria – as she was usually called – had added to it considerably, so that it formed an irregular pile of buildings, all angles and gables, sloping roofs and stacks of twisted chimneys. Some of it was thatched, a portion was covered with mellow red tiles, and a kind of round turret, quite out of keeping with the rest of the building, was slated. Every species of architecture was represented in "The Bower," and the name did not fit it in the least. But Miss Berengaria had dwelt in it for forty years – ever since she had been disappointed in love – and, being a lady of singularly independent character, she gave the house its odd appellation. The low pile of buildings – for the most part of these did not exceed one story in height – looked quaint and queer, but then Miss Berengaria was queer herself.

Every morning she could be seen in her garden snipping and picking and clipping and scolding. The gardens were divided from the highroad by a low hedge of holly and hawthorn, carefully trimmed, and presented a pleasant spectacle of lawn and flower-beds. In summer the place was gay with cottage flowers, for Miss Berengaria, being old-fashioned herself, would have no new-fangled importations. The flowers she loved were snapdragon, sweet-william, heart's-ease, and all those homely blossoms such as John Bunyan loved. The house was covered with Virginia creeper, wistaria and ivy, and through the thick growth peeped the latticed windows under heavy eyebrows of gray thatch. It might have been a cottage out of a fairy tale for quaintness; and its mistress might have been a fairy herself in stature and oddity. The villagers liked her, though she was rather dreaded.

"A sharp old lady," said the host of the Conniston Arms, "and quite the lady, bless you! though she do keep fowls and ducks and though she do sell her fruit. She looks like a gipsy by way of dress in the day, but when she claps her diamonds on at night, bless you! she's as grand as the queen herself."

This report was perfectly true. Miss Berengaria always dressed – as she put it – anyhow during the day; but at night she appeared in silver gray silk covered with costly lace, and wearing jewels of great value. She had a weakness for jewels, and had many, which she wore every evening. People hinted that she would be robbed, as the cottage was situated in rather a solitary position, and a quarter of a mile from the village. But Miss Berengaria was a stout-hearted old lady and laughed such ideas to scorn.

As it was now winter, Miss Berengaria was attired in a wincey dress with a tartan shawl, and wore rubber boots on her feet and large gardener's gloves on her hands. Having finished clipping and pruning – she kept no gardener, saying she knew more than a trained professional – she tripped round to the back of the house, where a colony of fowls, pigeons, ducks, turkeys and geese welcomed her coming with much noise. Her hobby – amongst others – was fowl-farming, and she gave up a large portion of her time to rearing and fattening birds for the market. As her income was five thousand a year there was no need for her to work so hard, but she was out at all times and in all weathers attending to her feathered pets. A particularly ugly bull-dog, called Sloppy Jane, accompanied her. Miss Berengaria did not approve of the name, but the dog would answer to no other, so it had to be adopted. Sloppy Jane was devoted to her mistress and to Alice. While Miss Berengaria was feeding the fowls and wondering when the gong would sound for breakfast, Alice came out with a paper in her hand. She was a tall, slim girl with a fair face and brown eyes and hair. Not particularly pretty, perhaps, but with such a sweet expression and such a charming disposition that young men fell in love with her on the spot. Nor after a closer acquaintance did any see fit to change their opinions. Had Sir Simon seen her he might have approved of Bernard's choice, but there being a standing quarrel between the old baronet and Miss Berengaria, on the rights of a footpath, the old man had never come near "The Bower" for years. The old gentlewoman, in spite of a rather sharp manner, was fond of Alice, and Miss Malleson was devoted to her. The morning was sharp and cold, but there was a blue sky and occasional glints of sunshine. "And I shouldn't wonder if we had snow," said Miss Berengaria, looking up. "Perhaps a snowy Christmas. Ah, we had them when I was a girl. But there! the weather's deteriorated like everything else."

"Aunt," said Alice, in a faint voice – Miss Berengaria always liked to hear the name, although she was no relative – "Aunt!"

At the sound of the faint voice the old dame wheeled round – she was active in spite of being eighty years of age – and uttered an exclamation on seeing the white face of the girl. Alice was deathly pale and, clinging with one hand to some wire netting, held a newspaper in the other. "What's the matter, child? Anything wrong?"

"Bernard?" gasped Alice. "Oh, Bernard! Bernard!"

"This must be looked into," said Miss Berengaria, using her favorite expression. "Something is wrong with that silly boy. What's he been doing, child? It must be something bad if it's in the paper."

"I don't believe he did it," said Alice, trembling. "He is innocent."

Miss Berengaria trembled also and sat down. "Don't hint at horrors, Alice," she said, with an effort at self-command. "I'm not fit for such things. I don't suppose the boy's killed anyone – though, to be sure, as he's a soldier now, it's his trade."

"Murder!"

"Eh! What's that? Murder, Alice!" The old lady's ruddy cheeks grew white, and she stretched out her hand for the paper. "Show me!" she said resolutely.

Alice did not hand her the paper. She seemed almost incapable of understanding what was said.

"Bernard is dead!" she moaned.

"Dead! Great Heavens!"

"He is drowned. It's all in the paper. It's all – Oh – oh!"

Breaking off suddenly she dropped the paper, and fled towards the house like a creature suddenly aroused to life. Miss Berengaria did not lose a moment. With an activity wonderful in a woman of her years she sprang to her feet, and hurried up the path round to the front of the house, following in the wake of the weeping girl. She saw Alice disappear into the porch and enter the breakfast-room, where the meal was already waiting. There, on the hearth-rug, Alice fell prone. Miss Berengaria knelt down and took her hand. She had not fainted, but, cold and shivering, was sobbing as though her heart would break. And perhaps it would, under this unexpected and terrible calamity. Bernard was her idol, and now he was dead, and his memory fouled with the accusation of an awful crime.

Finding that Alice still had her senses Miss Berengaria nodded and sat down. "The best thing for you, my dear," she said in a soft voice. "Weep your heart out, while I read the paper."

These words sound rather heartless, but the old lady did not intend them to be so. She realized that tears would relieve the strain on the almost stunned girl, and welcomed them gladly. Alice knew that her friend spoke for the best, but she gave no sign as, lying prone on the rug, she concealed her agonized face, while Miss Berengaria adjusting her spectacles, glanced through the paper. Already the gong had sounded, the meal smoked on the table, and there was no fear of interruptions by the servants. But neither Miss Berengaria nor Alice was able to eat in the face of this bolt from the blue.

"Where is it, my dear? – oh, here! Murder and Suicide. A nice heading, upon my word. Rubbish! I don't believe a word of it."

"Read! Read!" moaned the girl at her feet.

"Alice," said Miss Berengaria, severely, "before reading a word I tell you that I don't believe a word of it. Bernard, though a silly boy, would not kill a fly, nor would he kill himself. Murder and Suicide! Oh, rubbish – rubbish!"

"But you know, and I know, he quarrelled with his grandfather."

Miss Berengaria looked at the girl's white face as she half crouched, half sat on the rug, with her eyes wild and her brown hair in disorder.

"I don't see what Sir Simon has to do with it," said she, tartly.

"He is dead."

"Dead!" – Miss Berengaria shivered. "You don't mean to say that."

"Read! Read! Everything is against him – everything. Oh, how can I bear my life? How can I live?"

"Alice," said the old dame again, although she was very white, "if this lying paper means to say that Bernard murdered Sir Simon, I tell you again that I don't believe a word of it. You, who love him, ought to believe in his innocence."

"But the evidence."

"A fig for evidence. Circumstantial evidence has hanged an innocent man before now. Bernard Gore kill that old tyrant – ?"

"Hush! He is dead!"

"And so we are to speak well of him," snapped Miss Berengaria. "Oh, well" – she rubbed her nose – "we'll tell lies about him like the majority of tombstones do of those who lie below, but I tell you, foolish girl that you are, Bernard did not kill the old man, nor did he kill himself."

"But the paper says – "

"I don't care what the paper says," said Miss Berengaria, resolutely. "No, indeed. I am a better judge of character than any paper. That poor boy was vilely treated by that – there! there! I won't say a word against Sir Simon. He's dead, and we must be lenient. But Bernard Gore is innocent. Before I read I tell you that."

"I hope it may be so," cried Alice, clasping her hands.

"It is so," said the other, sharply and in a truly feminine way. "All I know is that Sloppy Jane adored him, and she's not the dog to adore anyone who would shed blood."

Alice could not but see that this reasoning was not based on facts. But, all the same, ridiculous though it was, she derived a certain comfort from it. Miss Berengaria, who had been thus optimistic to quieten the poor girl, nodded, when Alice took a seat in the opposite chair more composed, and addressed herself to mastering the facts of the case. Alice, with clasped hands, stared at the old lady as she read silently but with frequent raising of her eyebrows and sometimes a sniff. The paper stated that Sir Simon and his grandson, Bernard, were enemies, that the young man, having been hanging round the house for a fortnight courting the housemaid, had secured an interview with the elder when Miss Randolph was at the theatre. He had evidently quarrelled with Sir Simon, and, having chloroformed him, had quietly strangled him with his own handkerchief, after which he left the house. Then followed an account of the pursuit and failure to capture Gore. "He escaped the officers by plunging into the river," said the journal. "Next morning his khaki coat and hat were found on the opposite bank, so doubtless he got rid of them when attempting to swim. But what, with the cold and the fog, undoubtedly he must have succumbed to the force of the current." Finally the paper stated that an inquest would be held within two days on the dead body. At the conclusion of this somewhat bald article, Miss Berengaria gave a short laugh and threw down the paper. "I don't believe a word of it," she said, folding her arms, "and I'm going up to London."

"What for, aunt?"

"To see into the matter myself. I believe that Beryl creature is responsible for the whole thing."

"But see," said Alice, picking up the paper, "he was at the theatre with Lucy and a Mrs. Webber."

"I don't care. Failing Bernard, Julius comes in for the money."

"He comes in for it even without that," said Alice, bitterly. "Don't you remember that Sir Simon disinherited Bernard because he would not give me up? I implored Bernard, for his own sake, to break our engagement, but he refused. He gave up all for me, and now he is dead – dea – dead. Oh," sobbed Alice, "how unhappy I am!"

"How foolish you are," said Miss Berengaria, her eyes hard and bright. "Do you think a man, who could act towards you in so noble a way, would commit a cowardly murder, and then shirk the consequences? Not at all. I'm ashamed of you. I once loved," said the old lady, rising and marching energetically about the room, "and my lover was a fool and a villain. Bernard is neither. He is a fine fellow, God bless him and bring him safely out of this trouble! He shall have my help – yes, my best help," added Miss Berengaria nodding.

"But he is dead."

"He is not dead, you weak-minded, silly, hysterical girl. That sort of man has as many lives as a cat. He's alive, to vindicate his reputation and to bring home the crime to the real assassin."

"But who can that be?" asked Alice, comforted by this assurance.

"I don't know," said Miss Berengaria, taking a seat at the table. "Come and pour out my coffee, and eat."

Alice dragged herself to the table and took up the silver pot. "I can't eat," she said faintly.

"Yes, you can; and, what's more, you're going to. No nonsense with me, miss. You and I have a hard task before us."

"What is that?"

Miss Berengaria laid down her knife and fork with which she was about to carve a piece of bacon. "Well, I am astonished," she said, glaring. "In my young days a girl in love would have been ashamed to make such a speech. Why, bless me! haven't we got to prove Bernard's innocence?"

"Will that bring him to life?" said Alice, bitterly.

"It would, if it were necessary; but it isn't. Bernard's in hiding."

"Can you be sure?"

"Alice Malleson," said the resolute old dame, "if you were younger I would shake you and send you to bed on bread and water. You don't deserve to be loved by such a man. He gave up all for you, and you believe the worst of him."

"Bernard has a temper, and he might have – "

"But he didn't. I know he has a temper. I admire his temper. I saw him thrash a tramp for throwing away a loaf of bread, and that warmed my heart towards him. Had I married the villain I didn't marry, and he hadn't been such a villain as he was, I would have had a son just like Bernard – perhaps two or three. Dear! dear, what a loss to the British Empire that I never married."

In spite of her grief Alice could not help smiling at this way of putting things. But certainly Miss Plantagenet was right. Had she been a mother, her dauntless nature was of the sort that would have bred brave sons for the motherland. The old lady was one of those strong people always to be relied upon in time of calamity. The worse the trouble the quicker Miss Berengaria rose to the occasion. She prided herself on facing facts, alleging that only in this way could things be settled. At the present moment she acknowledged silently to herself that things looked black against Bernard Gore and that he really might be dead for all she knew. But to Alice she refused to admit these thoughts.

"This must be looked into," she said energetically, "and I am going up to town to see about the matter. When I have heard the evidence at the inquest I'll know how to shape my course."

"What will you do?" asked Alice, brightening under this optimism.

"When acquainted with the facts," said Miss Berengaria, rolling up her napkin, "and when I have formed my theory – "

"Your theory, aunt?"

"Yes! My theory as to who murdered the old – Well, it's Sir Simon I mean – we must be lenient to his memory. But when I have formed my theory I'll see a detective and place the matter in his hands. I shall then advertise for Bernard and we must see if we can't get him to come here."

"He would be arrested if he did."

"Not at all. I know where to hide him. There's the haunted room in the turret. If he were hidden there no one could find him. And if anyone of my servants – my good servants," said the old dame, emphatically, "denounces him I'll eat my hat, and that's a vulgar expression," added she, as she placed the napkin on the table with a smart tap. "Child, come and help me to dress. I shall leave by the mid-day train. You can send all letters to the Waterloo Hotel, Guelph Street."

"But I am coming also," said Alice, rising resolutely.

"No, you are not," rejoined Miss Berengaria, patting the hand laid on her shoulder, and turning back from the door. "Though I am glad to see that you are ready to help."

"Who has the right to help my darling but I?"

"Ah!" Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose with satisfaction. "It does my heart good to hear you talk sense. Is Bernard innocent?"

"Yes," said Alice, emphatically.

"Is he alive?"

The girl faltered, but Miss Berengaria's eyes were on her, and she faltered out a faint "Yes."

"Not so strong as you ought to be," said the aunt, sadly. "My dear, you must believe that he is alive, because he is. I have no reason to give, so don't ask me for one. He is alive, and all you have to do is to remain here and watch for his coming. Yes. It is more than probable that Bernard will come here."

"But the danger," said Alice, faintly.

"Bernard knows neither you nor I will give him up, and this is the place he will come to. The poor soul is being hunted down, I daresay. But he knows where to come to, bless him! Watch, my dear child. It is probable he will come at night. Then take him to the turret room, and tell the servants to hold their tongues. What's that?"

It was a demure old woman – all Miss Berengaria's servants were aged – who advanced with a telegram for Alice. With shaking fingers, the girl opened it. "From Mr. Durham," she said. "He is Bernard's lawyer and wants me to come to see him at once."

"No," said Miss Berengaria, taking the telegram from her. "I'll go myself. You stay here and wait for the coming of that poor boy."

CHAPTER VII
BERNARD'S FRIENDS

The report of the murder caused great excitement in London. It seemed terrible that so old a man, and a titled man at that, should be murdered in his own house and by his profligate grandson. The general opinion was that Bernard should not only be hanged, but drawn and quartered, as his crime amounted to parricide. But this vengeful demand was made only by the extreme people, and the newspapers were on the whole very fair in their statements. Although it seemed quite certain that young Gore was guilty, yet the journals gave him the benefit of the doubt. Not till after the inquest did any newspaper venture to state that the man had really committed the crime. But this was as it should be, if the fair play instinct of the English race is to be lived up to.

Durham attended the inquest as Sir Simon's lawyer and executor, and Miss Plantagenet attended it with him. She saw the solicitor only for a few minutes and they had little time to exchange opinions. But Durham assured Miss Berengaria that he was certain Bernard was innocent, upon which the old gentlewoman clapped him on the back. Her good opinion was strengthened at the inquest by the sturdy way in which the lawyer maintained this point.

Beryl was also present with Inspector Groom. He looked pale and somewhat worried, and when his eyes fell on the withered, resolute face of Miss Berengaria, he winced, knowing she was a firm friend to his cousin. As yet the body of the young man had not been found, and both Durham and Miss Plantagenet were certain that Bernard was still alive. But the general opinion was that he had been drowned while escaping. Mrs. Gilroy was also present with Lucy, and these sat in the body of the court near Miss Berengaria. That old dame knew well that the housekeeper was no friend to the accused man, but she was not certain as regards Lucy. As Miss Randolph was engaged to Beryl, whom Miss Berengaria disliked heartily, she was prepared to think badly of the girl, going by the proverb that like draws to like. She therefore waited to hear Lucy's evidence before speaking to her, and although she was quite near her never turned her head to look or make any sign of recognition.

Inspector Groom, who was called first, detailed how he had been summoned in to see the dead body of the baronet, and related what evidence he had gathered, and gave also the names of the witnesses he proposed to call. Amongst these were Jane and the cook, also the page, for these three domestics had frequently seen the soldier who had courted Jane, and who was believed to be Bernard Gore. Durham, on the authority of Bernard, did not believe this, but he waited his time before contradicting the evidence.

After Groom came a doctor, who deposed to having examined the body, and gave it as his opinion that the deceased had been strangled some time after ten o'clock. Before being strangled he had been rendered unconscious by chloroform, thus had fallen an easy victim to the assassin. Mention was made of the bandana handkerchief with which the strangulation had been effected, and it was produced in court; but the handkerchief steeped in chloroform which had been bound round the mouth was missing. It was a white one according to the evidence of the housekeeper, and had been loosened from the mouth by Bernard himself when she brought him up to look on his victim. Groom expressed annoyance at this, as the handkerchief was an important piece of evidence. Being white it could not have belonged to the deceased, who used only colored bandana handkerchiefs. Therefore it was probable that the assassin had used his own, and the name on the corner would have settled the question beyond doubt. But the handkerchief was lost, and there was no more to be said. Groom hoped to prove Gore's guilt by the evidence of his other witnesses.

Julius Beryl deposed that Bernard and Sir Simon were at variance, and Mrs. Gilroy gave evidence about the quarrel which had taken place at the Hall when the young man had been turned away. She swore that Bernard then made use of threatening language and had hinted he would throw his grandfather out of the window. She also explained the cause of the quarrel and the name of Alice was mentioned, much to the wrath of Miss Plantagenet. Afterwards the housekeeper went on to state that Bernard had visited in Crimea Square. She had never seen him, as he was always smuggled out of sight by Jane when she was heard approaching the kitchen. But on the night of the murder Gore had presented himself at the door after ten o'clock and had intimated that Sir Simon desired to see him, having sent down a message to the kitchen to that effect.

Coroner: "Who carried the message?"

Mrs. Gilroy: "The page, William. Mr. Gore was alarmed and left the house at once, refusing to come up. Afterwards he had apparently changed his mind, for he came to the door. I took him up to Sir Simon and left them alone."

Coroner: "Did you see the meeting?"

Mrs. Gilroy: "No. I pushed Mr. Gore into the room then went down to wait. But I think Sir Simon was disposed to be friendly. Mr. Gore remained upstairs for about fifteen minutes, then left the house hurriedly. I saw him go out of the door. I called after him. He did not answer. I then ran upstairs, and found Sir Simon dead. I came down again and ran out in pursuit of Mr. Gore, crying out, 'Murder!' He was almost on the doorstep and came into the house with me. He denied that he had killed his grandfather and loosened the two handkerchiefs. Then the police came and he escaped."

She persisted in her statements, and said calmly that young Gore had certainly killed the old man. At the interview at the Hall, she had heard him use the word "strangle," and Sir Simon had been murdered in that way.

Lucy Randolph also gave evidence as to the quarrel. "Bernard had a fiery temper," she said, weeping, "and when Sir Simon spoke badly of Miss Malleson, he threatened to throw Sir Simon out of the window. I did not hear him use the word strangle. I never saw him when he came to the kitchen at Crimea Square, and it was only two days before the murder that Mrs. Gilroy recognized him by the description given by the housemaid. I am quite friendly with Bernard."

This evidence led to that of Jane, the housemaid. She was shown a photograph of Gore and swore positively that it was the face of the young soldier who had courted her. Before Sir Simon came to Crimea Square she had met him in the Park. He was in the uniform of the newly-formed Imperial Yeomanry. He made love to her, and asked if he might come to the house. He also seemed to be very inquisitive about Sir Simon. He came many times, and was introduced to the cook. Also William, the page, saw him. He called himself Bernard, nothing more, and did not make use of his name of Gore. Whenever Mrs. Gilroy was heard coming he always hid himself. He seemed afraid to meet her. Both witness and cook connived at the concealment as they feared the rebuke of the housekeeper. On the night of the crime a message came from Sir Simon by the page, William, asking Bernard to step upstairs. He displayed great alarm, and went away at once, saying he might return to see Sir Simon after ten. Witness gave other evidence, but the important point was, that she identified the photograph as that of Bernard Gore. Also the name was the same.

The cook and the page also identified the photograph as that of Mr. Gore. Evidence was then given by an officer of the Imperial Yeomanry as to Gore calling himself Bernard alone. He was known as Corporal Bernard. On the night of the murder he had obtained leave of absence to dine with a friend and had left the barracks before five. It was between five and six, according to the cook, that Bernard was in the kitchen. Bernard, added the officer, was not expected back till close on midnight. Since then nothing had been heard of him.

Durham then stepped into the box and stated that Gore had dined with him at his house on Camden Hill. There was another mutual friend present. Bernard had arrived at seven at the house and had left it at ten o'clock. Witness produced Sir Simon's letter stating that Gore was courting the housemaid Jane. But Durham swore that Bernard had denied this, and said that he had not been near the house. "Indeed," added the witness, "he did not know the whereabouts of the house till I told him."

Coroner: "Then he must have gone from your house direct to Crimea Square."

Durham: "I can't understand why he should do so. He had no intention of going, and certainly he had no idea of killing Sir Simon. I am quite convinced that he is innocent."

This expression produced incredulous smiles, as by this time everyone present was certain that Gore was the culprit. Thanks to Durham's representations Dick West (alias Lord Conniston) was not called. It is needless to say that the real name of this witness was not known. Had it been public the Coroner would have doubtless insisted on his production, if only to swell the scandal of the case by the addition of a title.

In summing up the Coroner was quite on the side of the prosecution and public opinion was with him. He pointed out that the evidence of the cook, the housemaid, the page and the officer all showed that Bernard Gore and Corporal Bernard were one and the same. Also there was the evidence of Mrs. Gilroy, who opened the door at ten o'clock to the man himself. Without doubt Gore was the person who had called to see his grandfather. As to the motive for the commission of the crime, the jury could see for themselves that there was a strong one. Mr. Beryl's evidence showed that a bitter quarrel existed, and this was confirmed both by Miss Randolph and Mrs. Gilroy. Even the word "strangled" had been used, and in that way Sir Simon had met with his death. Without doubt Gore, furious at being disinherited, had called to see Sir Simon, to see if he could be reinstated. Doubtless, as both had fiery tempers, a quarrel had taken place, and then the younger man, having rendered the older one unconscious by means of chloroform, had murdered him. It was certainly inexplicable that he should have returned to the house, but then the jury must take into consideration that perhaps Gore thought such a bold course might prove his innocence. Finally, his escape showed that he was guilty, as had he been an innocent man, he would have faced the matter out. It would seem that the criminal was dead. He had fallen into the hands of God, and thus had not escaped punishment. But on the facts before them the jury would have to give their verdict.

Biased both by the evidence and by the Coroner's speech, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty against Bernard Gore. Durham expected the verdict and so did Miss Plantagenet, but both of them, being Bernard's firm friends, felt a pang when they heard him thus condemned of wilful murder.

"Fools," said Miss Berengaria, as she drove back in her brougham with Durham to the office of the lawyer.

"I don't think that," expostulated Durham. "Under the circumstances the jury could hardly bring in a different verdict."

"You know that Bernard is innocent," snapped the lady.

"Certainly! But on the evidence before them – "

"A fig for the evidence!" interrupted Miss Berengaria. "I go by my own knowledge of the boy. He wouldn't kill a fly."

"Ah! But you see, the men on the jury never met Bernard."

Finding the lawyer too strong for her, Miss Berengaria changed the subject, being determined not to acknowledge defeat. "Have you heard from young Gore?" she asked.

"No. He may be drowned for all I know."

"For all you know, and you know nothing."

"More's the pity, Miss Plantagenet. Did I know anything I might be able to satisfy myself that Gore is alive."

"Of course he is alive."

"On what ground do you say that?" asked Durham, surprised.

"On the grounds of common sense. Bernard is not the man to die when his living is needed to prove his innocence."

This was so truly a feminine argument that Durham, with a shrug, held his tongue. "There's no more to be said," he remarked.

"I know that," snapped Miss Berengaria in a bad humor. "I am quite upset by all the rubbish those fools have been talking. What's to be done next?"

"I shall go down to Gore Hall and read the will."

"Ha!" said the old lady, brightly. "Can you do that until you are sure of the death of Bernard?"

"Yes. He may be dead after all – "

"He isn't, I tell you."

"Then it is all the better he should be thought to be so," said Durham, giving up the point in the face of this firm opposition.

"Why?" asked Miss Berengaria promptly.

"Because no search will be made for Gore should he be alive and in hiding. Yet I fear Beryl will search."

"I don't see why he should. Oh, I see what you mean. Sir Simon, the horrid old – Well, we'll say nothing about that. But he has left the money to Beryl, after disinheriting Bernard for keeping faith with my poor Alice."

"Not exactly that," said Durham, hesitating. "I can't tell you the contents of the will, Miss Plantagenet, as – "

"I know," she snapped. "You needn't tell me that. I'll come to the Hall and hear it read. But, of course, I know it already."

"In that case there's no more to be said," replied the solicitor, suppressing a smile. Miss Berengaria saw it.

"Ha!" said she, sharply and pondering. "So Bernard's not disinherited after all."

"I never said so."

"You smiled. That's quite enough for me. 'A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.' Not that I'm a horse or blind. Thank God I have my eyesight and can read print with glasses. Well, keep your professional secrets, but tell me this: Will Beryl – the deuce take him – hunt for Bernard?"

"Not if he thinks he is drowned, as is probable," said Durham, rather surprised at hearing strong language from the lips of the lady.

"And if he thinks otherwise?"

"He will certainly hunt," replied the lawyer determinedly.

"Ha!" said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose. "So that's it, is it?"

"What do you mean, Miss Plantagenet?"

"That Bernard has not been disinherited. That old scamp – no, we must talk better of him – that the good old man who is dead repented and left the money to his rightful heir. What a joke!" Miss Berengaria chuckled. "There! there!" she went on, catching Durham's eyes. "It's all right. You have told me nothing. I can guess. Well, well, we must wait till the will is read. Then we shall see what is to be done to prove Bernard's innocence."

"That will be a hard task," said Durham, with a sigh; then added, with some little hesitation, "Miss Plantagenet, should Beryl make advances to you in the way of friendship receive them."

"Hum," said the lady. "I detest the fellow."

"But for Bernard's sake – "

"What plan have you in your head?" she asked sharply and peering into his troubled face.

"None. But I think that after the reading of the will – "

Miss Plantagenet chuckled. "After the reading – well?"

"Beryl may make advances to you."

"I will receive them. But if he thinks I will tell him where Bernard is to be found he is mistaken."

"You don't know where he is, or if he is alive," said Durham, astonished to find how quickly she fathomed his thoughts.

"True enough. But I will know before many days are over my head. I quite expect that Bernard will communicate with Alice, and of course she will tell me. As Beryl will find that the money is left to – "

"I did not say that," interrupted Durham, quickly, as the brougham stopped at the office door.

"To Bernard," went on Miss Berengaria, coolly, "he will try and learn if he is dead or alive. If dead he will – no, I can't say what he will do as I don't know if the money, failing Bernard, is left to him. But if he thinks Bernard is alive he will hunt him down so as to get the money."

Durham stepped out of the brougham rather afraid of the old dame. She was so clever that she seemed to read his most secret thoughts. He was glad the drive was at an end, and held out his hand to say good-bye. To his surprise and vexation Miss Berengaria stepped out at his heels. "I'm coming in to talk," she said, and marched up the steps. "I go down to-night to Hurseton, and I want to arrange what is to be done. Not a word, young man. I am Bernard's friend and so are you. If we don't combine it's all up with the poor fool." Durham followed the energetic lady with a feeling of helplessness, not knowing very well how to get rid of her. And he had particular reasons for not having her in the office. Conniston was coming to see him, and a meeting between him and his aunt might be productive of trouble. Not that Miss Plantagenet was his aunt, as she was only a distant relative. But she always styled herself so, and would answer to no other term. Durham regretted that he had accepted the lady's offer to be driven to his office. But it was too late by this time, for Miss Berengaria was in the room. And in the room also sat Lord Conniston, now out of uniform, and looking much excited.

"Ha!" said Miss Plantagenet, not recognizing the young man, "and who is this?" She turned to Durham, who shot past her, making a sign of silence to his friend.

"A client of mine. Will you leave us for a moment, Conniston?"

The name slipped out before he was aware, and he could have stamped with vexation to see how quickly Miss Berengaria grasped the situation. With a grim smile she looked at the astonished young man. "So you are Dick," she said looking at him through a double eyeglass. "I haven't seen you since you made yourself sick in my garden. Bernard told Alice by letter that he met you. Where are you staying?"

"I don't understand," stammered Conniston, while Durham, giving up Miss Plantagenet as impossible, sat shuffling his papers.

"You ought not to be dense. Don't you remember me boxing your ears?"

Conniston burst out laughing. "Oh! by Jove! It's Cousin Berengaria."

"Aunt Berengaria," reproved Miss Plantagenet, giving him her hand. "I don't like league-long names. Come and sit down and tell me all about yourself."

"Miss Plantagenet," said Durham, hastily. "Lord Conniston and I have met to talk of Bernard."

"Then I'll form a third," said the old lady, sitting. "Dick – I shall call you Dick," she interpolated – "you are Bernard's friend, as his letter to Alice was all about you. Are you going to desert him?"

"No," said Conniston, taking her entirely into his confidence. "I have chucked the service to see him through his trouble."

"Chucked what service?"

"The army. I was going to the front. But I'll stop till I prove the innocence of Bernard, Aunt Berengaria."

"You don't know that he is alive, Conniston," said the lawyer.

"Ah, but I do," replied Dick. "Here's a letter from Bernard. He is safe and sound hiding at Cove Castle."

CHAPTER VIII
BERNARD'S ENEMIES

The deceased baronet was buried in the family vault under St. Peter's Church, with all the pomp of wealth. Sir Simon had never been popular, and had been known widely as a hard, gripping man. Yet his tragic fate, and a certain pity therefore, had drawn together a large concourse of people. Distant relatives who hoped to be mentioned in the will were present clothed in deepest black, although they cared very little for the dead. Julius, who already regarded himself as in possession of Gore Hall, was there with a long face and a satisfied heart. He was glad that he had inherited the wealth after which he had long hungered, and gladder still that his rival, Bernard, was dead with a stain on his name. In fancied security he moved along, not knowing what retribution was in store for him. Even the pitying angels must have laughed at his complacency.

Durham, as the solicitor and executor of the dead man, was present and directed operations. Conniston had gone to Cove Castle to see Bernard and hear his story; and Durham smiled as his eyes rested on the smug face of the presumed heir. There was no love lost between the two men, and Julius privately determined that, when in possession of the property, he would place the legal business in the hands of another solicitor. The young lawyer guessed somewhat of this, and smiled ironically as he thought how this spite would be frustrated.

From far and near people were gathered, for the murder had made a great stir. Everyone united in condemning Bernard, and not one person in the throng thought him innocent. Lucy was weeping alone at the Hall, with Mrs. Gilroy offering her such cold comfort as she could think of. For the girl was truly sorry for her cousin, although she believed him to be guilty. But her theory was that Bernard had been goaded into committing the rash act by the bitter tongue of his grandfather. It was a matter of disagreement between her and Julius that she should so mourn the downfall and death of Bernard. He reprovingly advised her to keep her tears for Sir Simon, from whose death both were likely to derive benefit. But Lucy, in spite of Beryl's evil influence, which had rather warped her better nature, persisted in weeping for the miserable cousin who had so suddenly been cut off in the midst of his wickedness. At least that – in the face of circumstances – was the view she took of the matter.

And Alice remained at The Bower, talking over the death with Miss Plantagenet. Her joy, when the old lady returned with the good news that Bernard was yet alive, had been painful to witness. She wished to go at once to Cove Castle, but this Miss Berengaria, by Durham's advice, would not permit. Suspicion might be excited, so it was decided that Conniston himself should visit his own castle, as that would seem a natural thing for him to do. The merest suspicion that Bernard was alive and in hiding would set the bloodhounds of the law on the trail, and Beryl would be the first to loosen them. Therefore, Alice waited at home with Miss Berengaria until the funeral was over. Then they intended to go to the Hall to hear the will read. Miss Berengaria had some idea of the punishment that awaited Julius, and would not have been absent for half of her income. She detested the young man with all the virulence of her honest nature. And she insisted on Alice coming also, although the girl was unwilling. This again was by Durham's advice. He wanted both ladies to understand exactly how matters stood. It would save him the trouble of an explanation. And then, since he and the two ladies and Conniston were bent upon proving Bernard's innocence, Durham wanted all who could be spared – which did not include Conniston to be present, so as to daunt Bernard's enemies. Should Julius lose his temper over the will, it was probable that he might say something likely to afford a clue to the true assassin. And then Mrs. Gilroy was an enemy also, and she might be unguarded in her speech. Durham had a vague idea that both knew more than they admitted. As to Lucy, it was impossible to say whether she was friendly or hostile.

Sir Simon's body was duly interred, and he left all his wealth behind him to take up his abode in the dark vault. After the service several people lingered in the graveyard, but the majority, thinking the spectacle was at an end, made haste to go. Julius with Durham returned in the carriage, and the rest of the relatives followed, flocking like vultures to the feast. While in the carriage Durham thought he would see if Julius suspected that Bernard had escaped.

"You have not heard if Gore's body has been found?" he asked.

"No," said Beryl, raising his pale eyes and looking as sad as any owl. "I fear he is dead in his sin."

"You can't be sure if he did sin, Mr. Beryl."

"The jury thought so."

"A jury is not always infallible!"

"I think the case had a fair hearing, Mr. Durham. So far as I am concerned I should have been pleased had the verdict been otherwise. It is not pleasant for me to have a relative accused of such a crime. But since he is dead let his evil rest with him. You will not hear me say a word against his memory," added the virtuous Julius.

"Perhaps it will be as well," replied Durham, dryly. "You never were a friend of Bernard's."

"All the more praise to me that I should not run him down."

"Tell me, Beryl, do you really believe he committed the crime?"

"I answered that indirectly before. Yes, I believe he was guilty."

"Then it is just as well he is dead."

"Just as well," asserted Beryl, quickly.

"You don't think he can have escaped?"

Julius started. "What makes you think so?" he demanded uneasily.

"Well, you see, Bernard was a good swimmer, and – "

"The best swimmer in the world could do nothing against the current of the Thames on a foggy night. On a fine day I dare say he might have gained the opposite bank, but in the fog he must have circled round and round until he was exhausted."

"Yet, his clothes were discovered on the bank," persisted Durham. "I wonder if I offered a reward, would anything be discovered?"

"His corpse might," said Beryl, unpleasantly, "but no reward shall be offered. Better let sleeping dogs lie."

"But surely, Mr. Beryl, if you inherit the property, you will seek for the poor fellow's dead body?"

"No," replied Julius decisively. "I think it is best to leave things alone. Bernard committed a vile act, and if his body has been swept out to sea all the better for his memory and the position of the family. I shall offer no reward."

Durham, seeing the young man was absolutely certain of his inheritance, and that he was prepared to act in a most niggardly spirit, looked out of the window to hide a smile. "Poor Sir Bernard," he said.

"Sir Bernard?" questioned the supposed heir, raising his eyebrows.

"Certainly. On the death of Sir Simon, Bernard took the title!"

"He hasn't enjoyed it long," said Beryl, with so villainous a sneer that the lawyer longed to pitch him out of the carriage, "and seeing he is dead I suppose the title becomes extinct."

"It does," assented Durham gravely. "Bernard was the only heir in the direct line."

Julius shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'll be quite content with the money," said he.

"Here we are," said Durham, as the carriage stopped. "By the way, Miss Plantagenet and Miss Malleson have come to hear the will read. I hope you don't object."

"Yes, I do," retorted Beryl, angrily, as he alighted. "They would have shown better taste had they remained away."

"But remember Miss Malleson has lost Bernard."

"All the better for her. She would have had a miserable life with that fellow."

Durham suppressed a violent inclination to punch the man's head, but, knowing what punishment awaited him, he walked up the steps with a contemptuous smile. Here was a change indeed from the meek Julius of the old days. This presumed heir was obnoxious and insolent, thinking he was absolutely certain of entering into his kingdom. The lawyer was by no means a vindictive person, but it afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction when he thought of the irony of the situation.

However, when Julius reached the drawing room, in which those invited to hear the will read were assembled, he adopted a more conciliatory manner. Several relatives were present, and Mrs. Gilroy headed the servants at the end of the room. Miss Berengaria sat beside Alice in a recess somewhat screened by the window curtain. But Lucy was nowhere to be seen. However, when Durham took his seat at a small table and opened his bag, she entered in deep mourning. Julius went to meet her.

"Dear Lucy," he said, "we have buried our best friend."

Lucy made no reply, and, drawing her hand away, walked to where Alice was seated. She kissed the girl, whom Bernard had loved, in silence; and in silence was the kiss returned. Even Miss Berengaria, voluble as she was on all occasions, held her peace. She saw that Lucy was sincerely sorry for the loss of her cousin, and from that moment she entertained a better opinion of her. Alice drew Lucy into a seat beside her, and the two girls sat side by side, while Julius, already assuming the airs of a master, bade the company welcome.

"I am glad to see you all," he said in an important voice, "and I am sure that our deceased relative in his will has done all that his kind heart inspired him to do. Mr. Durham will now read the will."

When he sat down some of the relatives smiled at the phrase about a kind heart, for which the late baronet had been in no wise remarkable. Durham took no notice of Beryl's little speech, but opened the will and began to read. Julius listened with a complacent smile, which changed as the reading went on.

Legacies were left to nearly all the servants who had been with the testator a long time. Lucy became entitled to three hundred a year, and Mrs. Gilroy received one hundred. The sum allotted to her did not satisfy her, as she frowned when it was mentioned. Beryl's name was not mentioned, but he did not mind as he was waiting for the disposal of the residue of the estate. But when Durham read out that the estate had been left entirely to Bernard Gore, with the exceptions of the above-named legacies, he started to his feet.

"That is not the will!" he exclaimed loudly, and with a ghastly white face. "I am the heir."

"By a former will," interposed Durham, "or, rather, I should say, by a will which Sir Simon afterwards destroyed."

"He disinherited Bernard!" cried Julius savagely.

"No! the will – this will – which gives Mr. Gore the money was never cancelled."

"A new will was prepared leaving all to me. You read it to me yourself in your office and in the presence of Sir Simon."

"Quite so," rejoined the lawyer, smoothly folding up the parchment; "but after you left, Sir Simon, refusing to execute that will, put it into the fire."

"It is a lie!"

"It is the truth," said Durham, his color rising. "I can bring forward my clerks who were to witness the new will, and they will state that it was never executed. Sir Simon changed his mind. The estate goes to Sir Bernard Gore, the new baronet, and as the executor of the will, I will take charge of all monies and of the property until he comes forward to claim them."

"But you know he is dead," said Julius, clenching his hand.

"I know nothing of the sort. He is supposed to be dead, but we must have proof of the death. A production of his body will be sufficient, Mr. Beryl," added Durham, cynically. "I think on your own account you had better offer that reward I spoke of."

"You have been playing the fool with me," said Julius, hardly able to speak for passion.

"No, I advised you what to do!"

"One moment," said a precise man who had not been mentioned in the will. "If young Gore really is dead – which I for one, hope is not the case – who inherits the money?"

"There is a codicil to that effect," said Durham, "which I had intended to read when interrupted by Mr. Beryl." He re-opened the parchment. "In it Sir Simon leaves the property to charity with the exception of any legacies. This in the event of Bernard Gore making no will. But the property has been left unreservedly to him, and, should he be alive, he has the power to will it to whomsoever he wishes."

"And if he is dead the property goes to a charity."

"Yes! I will read the codicil!" and this Durham did to the dismay of the company. Only Miss Berengaria chuckled. She was delighted to see that Beryl had been punished, and smiled when she thought how correct had been her guess when talking to the lawyer. As for Alice, remembering that Bernard was alive and well, she found it hard to contain her satisfaction that he had been fairly dealt with. Even the thought of the crime, under the ban of which he lay, faded for the moment from her mind. Julius, with a certain malignancy, brought it back to her recollection.

"Even if Bernard is not dead he cannot inherit as a felon," said he.

"Pardon me," interposed the lawyer. "You have yet to prove his guilt."

"It was proved at the inquest."

"A jury at an inquest has not the right to condemn a man," said Durham, sharply. "If Sir Bernard" – Julius winced at the title – "is alive and comes forward, I shall do my best to prove his innocence."

"And in any case," said Miss Berengaria in clear tones, "Mr. Beryl does not benefit."

Julius turned on her with fury, and seemed on the point of breaking out into wrathful speech. But his habitual dissimulation came to his aid, and he suppressed himself. More than that, he attempted to smile.

"I don't say that I do not feel hurt," he said, with a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "Sir Simon distinctly named me as his heir, and, moreover, asked Mr. Durham to read the new will in which I was named as such."

"Perfectly true," said Durham, coldly. "But Sir Simon changed his mind and burnt the new will. It was never executed, as I say."

"Sir Simon had every right to do what he liked with his own," said the diplomatic Beryl, while Miss Berengaria, wondering what was in his mind, watched him with her keen eyes. "But, as I say, I am hurt. I quite understood that Sir Simon had disinherited my cousin, but I was prepared to allow him an income had I received the property."

"Two hundred a year," said the lawyer. "A munificent offer."

"It was approved by Sir Simon," said Julius, calmly. "However, it appears that Sir Simon rescinded the new will – "

"It was never executed."

"Then we will say he never executed it. The money goes to Bernard Gore. So far as I believe he is dead, but I hope Mr. Durham, as the executor of the estate, will offer a reward to prove if he is dead or alive.

"With regard to the commission of the crime, the jury at the inquest found Bernard guilty without one dissenting voice. However, I am willing to give my cousin the benefit of the doubt, and should he reappear (and I hope he may) I shall do my best to aid him to prove his innocence. I hope any words that may have escaped me in the heat caused by a disappointment will be overlooked."

Whether any of those present believed this statement it is impossible to say. Everyone looked down and no response was made, save by Miss Plantagenet. She rose, and walking across the room, offered her hand to the disappointed heir. "You are a good young man," she said heartily. "And I hope you will come and see me."

Julius, rather taken aback by this invitation from one whom he had cause to think loved him but little, grasped her hand and thanked her with great fervency. Her speech was a relief to him, and he sat down with a calmer face, when the old lady returned to her seat.

"Why did you do that, aunt?" asked Alice, dismayed.

"My dear," whispered Miss Berengaria, with a grim smile, "that young man means mischief. I am taking Mr. Durham's advice and making friends with him, that I may thwart his plans."

This was whispered so softly that Lucy did not overhear. Nor, had it been spoken aloud, would she have attended. Durham had come forward and was speaking earnestly to her.

"I trust you will stop at the Hall for the present," he said, "until Bernard comes home."

"Will Bernard ever come home?" asked Lucy, sighing.

"Let us hope so. I doubt if he is dead, and I will not believe he is until his body is laid before me. As to the crime, I do not believe he committed it. However, I want you to stay here as the chatelaine of the Hall. All things will go on as before."

"Am I to stay, sir?" asked Mrs. Gilroy, coming forward.

"Yes! nor will the servants be changed. Of course, any of them who wish to leave can do so. But you – "

"I will stop on in my old position, if Miss Randolph wishes."

Lucy nodded. "Yes! let all things remain as they were," she said.

Mrs. Gilroy made a stiff curtsey and returned to the other servants, who then filed in an orderly manner out of the room. The relatives also took their leave, amongst them Julius, now smiling. At the door Lucy said something to him about Bernard. He smiled darkly.

"We have yet to prove that Bernard is alive," he said.

"Danger!" thought Miss Berengaria. "I'll watch you, young man."

CHAPTER IX
AT COVE CASTLE

Five miles from Hurseton the marshes began and did not end until they touched the coast. There were acres of mud and reeds and succulent grasses, interspersed with narrow waterways. In rainy weather this low-lying land – if it could be called so – almost disappeared under water, and in summer the poisonous morass exhaled white mists which caused fever and ague. The people who dwelt on the border of the slough of despond were rarely healthy, but they were attached to the dismal neighborhood and refused to move to higher ground where they would have enjoyed better health. What was good enough for their fathers was good enough for them, was the argument upon which they based their refusal.

The road from Hurseton changed where the marshes began to a causeway and ran solid and high across the treacherous bog towards the coast. Here it took a sudden turn, and passed through several fishing villages on its way to Market-on-Sea. And thence between hedges it passed onward to London, a road once more. Some distance from the curve an arm of the causeway ran for a quarter of a mile to Cove Castle, which was built on a firm and elevated spot of ground, near a kind of estuary which communicated with the sea. The sea itself was only distant half a mile, and a fine view of it could be obtained from the castle. Why the building should be called by so high-sounding a name, it is hard to say. It was simply a large stone house of two story, with a kind of tower at one end. Formerly, in the reign of Elizabeth, it had been a fort, and afterwards, falling into decay, had been used by smugglers for the storing of contraband goods. In the reign of George III., the then Lord Conniston being disgusted with life, and anxious to isolate himself from the gay world, in which he had glittered to the detriment of his purse and health, had bought the property and there had lived and died. At that time the family possessed several seats and a town house. But the Georgian Conniston preferred this unhealthy neighborhood, as least likely to attract his former friends. So no one visited him, and he lived and died a recluse. Afterwards the castle was deserted again, the successors of this lordly hermit preferring to live in more healthy parts. But gradually the property had been sold bit by bit, until, when Dick, the present lord, inherited, nothing remained to him but Cove Castle and the few acres around. Also he possessed the family vault, which was underneath the Church of St. Agnes at the village of Benstow, three miles away. It was strange that the members of the family should have decided to be buried in this lonely place, when they could have rested in some green churchyard in the Midlands. But, seeing that Cove Castle alone remained to their descendants, it was just as well that the former holders of the title had entertained this odd idea. The present Lord Conniston at least retained, out of the wreck of the property, the vault wherein the remains of his forebears were laid.

When Conniston arrived at the castle he was met at the door by a gigantic female of uncommon ugliness, who answered to the name of Selina Moon. She was large enough to have earned an income by exhibiting herself in a caravan, being considerably over six feet, and sufficiently ugly to shame even the witches in Macbeth. Had Mrs. Moon lived in the Middle Ages, she would assuredly have been put to death for sorcery, as her looks seemed hardly human. She had the frame of a grenadier and the voice of a drill sergeant. Her face was large and round and pallid, from a long life in the midst of the marshes. A few grey hairs on her upper lip gave her a still more masculine look, and, indeed, the least observant would have taken her for a man in disguise. She wore a frilled cap, which surrounded her face like the rays of a sunflower, and wore a vivid red gown bound at the waist by a yellow scarf. Mrs. Moon loved bright colors, and apparently, if one could judge from her black eyes and beaked nose, had something of the gipsy in her. Not so far as wandering was concerned, though, for she rarely left the castle. This was because her great size, coupled with her love of finery, provoked comment from adults and insults from children whenever she ventured abroad.

This Amazonian female, from her height of six feet five, looked down on Conniston with a submissive air. She was as timid as a rabbit, the most harmless of her sex, and report went, that the late Mr. Moon, who had been almost a dwarf, had frequently beaten her in spite of her superior inches. However, the old man was dead, and for many a long day Mrs. Moon had lorded it over the one servant in the castle. But she still wore her submissive air, and when her master imperiously demanded a sight of the gentleman who was expecting him, led the way at once to an upper room.

"But I wouldn't take everyone," said Mrs. Moon in a thin, high voice like the midnight wind in a chimney. "He being wishful to keep hisself quiet. What have he done, my lord?"

"Nothing," said Conniston, promptly. "He only came down here for a rest. Do you think he has robbed the bank?"

"There's worse things than robbing banks," remarked Mrs. Moon, shaking her frilled cap portentously, "and the worse things is what he's done. And why shouldn't he tell me his name if he was a babe for innocence?"

"Didn't he do so when he arrived?" asked Conniston, halting on the landing with an anxious look.

"No, my lord, bless your heart! he didn't," said the giantess; "and but that he had your letter, which was as plain as print – "

"And was print," interpolated Dick, remembering his caligraphy adapted to the brains of Mrs. Moon.

"I shouldn't have let him in. But your lordship said he was to have the best room, and the best room he has, to say nothing of your lordship's clothes, he having arrived in tatters like a tramp, which he isn't from the princely looks of him. No one knows as he is here, he having asked me to say nothing. But Victoria – "

"What about her?" asked Conniston, rather sharply, for Victoria was a small servant, preternaturally sharp and mighty curious.

"She's allays asking questions as to what he's doing here."

"Then, don't answer her questions."

"I don't," said Mrs. Moon, plaintively, "and but that she's so strong I'd smack her hard. But only Jerry could manage her, and, bless me! your dear lordship, he's earning his bread in London, though I haven't heard of him for months."

"He's not in the place I obtained for him," said Conniston, stopping at the door of the room indicated by the housekeeper. "He's robbed the till and bolted."

Mrs. Moon was not all disturbed. "Just like his poor father, my second son," said she, shaking the frilled cap again. "He was a wonderful boy for money and never minded how he got it. Have they jailed Jerry?" she asked, with great simplicity.

Conniston could hardly help smiling at the calm way in which she took the report of her grandson's wickedness. "No, his master turned him out and gave him another chance."

"Bless and preserve your dear lordship, Jerry won't take no chance, as I always said, being advised by the cards. It's the gallers that boy will come to, and may I not be here to see him dangling at the end of a rope, much as he may deserve it. Jerry's a bad 'un, for sure, and takes after my old man's side of the family, several having been choked by the lawr for thieving and murdering and otherwise taking their enjoyment. Where is he now?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Moon. But if he comes here, don't you let him into the castle and don't you let him know that Mr. – Mr. Grant" – Dick gave Bernard a new name for the sake of concealment – "is here."

"Grant!" echoed Mrs. Moon. "But he don't look Scotch."

"Never you mind what he is. You hold your tongue and make Victoria hold hers."

"Only Jerry can manage her," said Mrs. Moon, firmly, "me not being strong enough for such a tearing cat. If your lordship would speak yourself – "

"I'll see to it," interrupted Conniston, quickly. "I'm stopping here for the night, Mrs. Moon. Can you give me and Mr. – er – Grant a good dinner?"

"I'll cook it myself, Victoria being fond of burning things and her pastery being lead for heaviness. The wine your lordship knows – "

"Is there any of that port left?"

"Plenty, save what Jerry drank, he being fond of his glass."

"What! a boy of thirteen, Mrs. Moon!" said Conniston, seriously. "If you had stifled Jerry in the mud years ago it would have been better for him and for you."

Mrs. Moon blew a gigantic sigh. "True enough, your lordship, seeing as he'll occupy a place in the Chamber of Horrors in the exhibition me and Moon saw in London. Ah, well, some of his grandfather's people were hanged and – "

Conniston waited to hear no more of this domestic Newgate's Calendar, but abruptly opened the door and entered the room.

It was a large, airy apartment, with two windows looking on to the shining expanse of the sea, and well furnished in an old-fashioned way. In a large grate a fire of logs was briskly burning, so that the atmosphere was less damp than in the other rooms of the castle. The furniture was all of black oak, and included a square table, a comfortable sofa which was drawn up close to the fire, and several arm-chairs. Also there was a sideboard and a bookcase well supplied with volumes of works long since out of print. The hangings were of faded brocade, and the carpet was patched and mended. Here and there was valuable china and a few silver ornaments. The whole room looked comfortable and home-like, and rather quaint in its faded and mellow beauty.

"Where are you, Bernard?" asked Conniston, seeing the room was empty.

For answer a window curtain was drawn aside and Gore came out, holding the heavy steel poker. "It's only you," he said, looking very pale. "I heard voices and concealed myself behind the curtain. I expected you, but didn't know but what someone else might come. That servant suspects me."

"Not Mrs. Moon," said Conniston, pitying the haggard looks of his friend.

"No, Victoria. She is as sharp as a needle and – "

"Don't distress yourself, old boy," said Dick, taking Gore's hand and leading him to the sofa upon which he had been apparently lying until startled by the sound of voices. "Mrs. Moon can be depended upon and I'll speak to Victoria myself. You are safe here."

"Are you sure, Dick?"

"Perfectly sure. And even if you were discovered I could manage to conceal you in the vaults below the castle."

"Are there vaults?" asked the fugitive, who was shivering and pale.

"Yes! The old smugglers used them to store goods and as hiding-places. There is a passage and door communicating with the arm of the sea which runs near the castle, and you could easily escape to foreign parts by means of a boat. Cheer up, old boy," added Dick, clapping his friend on the back, "you're not dead yet."

The poor, hunted young fellow threw his arm schoolboy fashion over Conniston's shoulder. "What a good fellow you are, Dick!" he said. "I fancied you might believe me guilty."

"I'd as soon believe myself guilty, you several kinds of ass."

"And Alice?" asked Bernard, under his breath.

"She believes you innocent, so does Aunt Berengaria and Durham. Yes! and Miss Randolph also. She's a ripping girl that. I wish she wasn't engaged to Beryl, the pig!"

"What does he say?" asked Gore, warming his hand and casting a look over his shoulder.

"He says nothing, because he thinks you are drown-dead, as Mr. Peggotty would say. And, by Jove! Bernard, I thought you really were dead. You have no idea what a relief it was when I got your letter. How did you escape?"

Bernard passed his hand through his hair and sighed wearily. The strain through which he had passed, and from which he still suffered, showed itself in his bloodless cheeks and his wild eyes. At every sound he started and shook. His nerves, and small wonder, were quite unstrung, and even while sitting safely beside his old school chum on the sofa near the fire, he kept a tight hold of him, like a child by its mother's knee. Seeing this, Conniston rose quickly. Bernard was on his feet in a moment, startled by the suddenness of the movement.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, looking anxiously around, and eyeing both door and window suspiciously.

"You are the matter," said Conniston, touching the bell. "I must get you some wine. You look so awfully ill, old chap. This will never do. I tell you, Bernard, you are all right. I'll stick to you through thick and thin."

"But if I was arrested?"

"You won't be arrested. Everyone thinks you are dead. You'll stay here until we sift this matter to the bottom, and then you can take your place again in the world as Sir Bernard Gore."

"Sir Bernard!"

"Of course. You inherit the title and the money also."

"Not the money, Dick?"

"Yes! Durham told me to tell you, as he couldn't come himself. He is now reading the will and Beryl will find himself left out in the cold. You get everything."

Bernard threw up his hands. "And I'm a hunted fugitive."

"Steady, old boy. Bite on the bullet. You're a dead man, and will remain one until we discover who killed your grandfather."

"And how can we – "

"Shut up, Bernard!" Conniston made an imperative sign as a knock came to the door. Gore at once turned his face to the fire and began to arrange the logs, while Lord Conniston spoke to a sharp, dark, wizen child who entered the room. She was no more than fifteen, but had such an old face and such a womanly appearance that she looked much older. Her eyes were as black as sloes and her thin lips tightly closed. A most unpleasant-looking creature with a waspish nature.

"Oh, Victoria," said Conniston, as this goblin dropped a curtsey, "I want you to bring up some port wine. – Mrs. Moon will give it to you – and some glasses also."

"Yes, m'lord!"

"Bring a plate of biscuits too."

"Yes, m'lord!"

"And, Victoria," said the young man, as she retreated, "there is no need for you to mention that I have visitors at the castle."

"No, m'lord," said Victoria, and, with a glance full of suspicion at Bernard's back, she withdrew as noiselessly as she entered, and with a final curtsey, such as might have been made by a wooden doll. Indeed, Victoria – a most inappropriate name – might well have been cut out of wood, so stiff and angular and hard did she look. Conniston did not wonder that placid Mrs. Moon could not control this embryo virago. A combat between them would be like that between an elephant and a mosquito, with the betting on the insect.

"That's a mistake, Dick," said Bernard, when the door closed.

"What is?" asked Conniston, staring.

"Telling that girl to hold her tongue. She has no reason to suspect me, and quite as likely as not thought me merely your guest. Now she will fancy all sorts of things."

"I hope not," said Conniston, uneasily, "but she's such a little devil that I thought it best to give her one for herself. And if she chatters she will lose her situation. I am so afraid lest she should be in communication with Jerry."

"Jerry?"

"Judas. The grandson of Mrs. Moon who robbed Taberley. He and Victoria were as thick as thieves, and are about equal in wickedness. If the girl suspected anything she might ask Judas to help her to learn more of the truth than we want known. Both would sell their nearest and dearest for a pound. But don't bother, Bernard," said the easy-going Dick, again crossing to the sofa, "everything is right."

"I hope so, I hope so," muttered Gore. "If I am arrested I cannot make any defence."

"We'll talk of that later. Here comes Mrs. Moon with the wine, and so speedily that I suspect she must have out a bottle for her private drinking. I say, Mrs. Moon," said Conniston, as the giantess entered with a silver tray and the wine, "don't let Victoria leave the castle on any account."

"I should think not," said Mrs. Moon, setting down the tray. "She works little enough as it is without trapesing about on holidays. I'd keep her under lock and key on bread and water if I had my way, and if she wasn't too strong for me, the besom that she is! – begging your dear lordship's pardon. Anything else, my lord?"

"No. You can go."

"And glad I am to go," said Mrs. Moon, withdrawing with a ponderous step, "being engaged in playing kings."

"Kings," said Conniston, when she vanished.

Bernard, in spite of his sadness, laughed and explained. "It's a game of patience," he said. "I asked Mrs. Moon for a pack of cards to pass the time, and was playing the game myself. She was curious; so, to keep her in a good temper, I taught it to her. Ever since she has been playing it unsuccessfully."

"Oh!" Conniston was not interested in his housekeeper's games. He opened the bottle of port and carefully poured out a full glass, which he passed to Bernard. "Drink that up, you sinner."

Gore sipped a little wine but finally drank the whole glass. Conniston made him take another in spite of his protestations, and then the color came back to his sunken cheeks. The poor fellow was thin with anxiety and want of sleep. When Conniston saw he was better he made him light a pipe and then sat down to hear an account of his escape. Bernard was grateful for these attentions and began to look less cowed.

"You're a good friend, Dick," he said, smoking luxuriously. "This is the first moment of peace I have known since that awful moment."

"How did you escape?" asked Conniston, lighting a cigarette.

"I threw myself into the river and swam across."

"In the fog?"

"Yes. I was guided by the piers of the Chelsea Bridge. On the opposite side I took off my coat and hat and left them lying on the bank, so that it might be thought I was drowned."

"Which is exactly what people do think," said Dick, complacently.

"Thank Heaven for that. Well, then I went into a public-house I found open – it was not yet midnight – and made up a story about having been robbed and thrown into the river."

"That was dangerous. The public-house people might have advised you to see the police."

"I don't think the landlord had any love for the police," said Gore, dryly. "He looked like an old convict himself and displayed a fellow-sympathy. I don't know if he believed my story. However, for a sovereign he gave me a coat and hat, and asked no questions. I walked across Waterloo Bridge in the fog and escaped observation. But for the fog I expect my military breeches and leggings would have betrayed me and provoked questions. But I managed to escape."

"I didn't sleep at all. I walked the whole night, and by dawn I was out of London. I lost myself several times in the fog and twice had a row with a tramp or two. Then I took a train at a wayside station to Gravesend, and crossed the river to Tilbury."

"Didn't anyone ask questions?"

Bernard shook his head. "The new Yeomanry uniform wasn't known in those parts. I expect the gaiters made people think I was a farmer. I took the train to Pitsea, and then came on here under cover of night. It was ten o'clock by the time I got here."

"What did you do in the meantime?"

"I loafed about the taproom of a pub, and made out I was a horse-dealer buying horses for the war. No one suspected me, and I managed to sustain my part perfectly."

"Did Mrs. Moon admit you at once?"

"No. She was in bed. But when she came to the door she seemed disinclined to admit me. I produced your letter, and after she read it, which took about a quarter of an hour, she let me in. Then next morning I wrote to you."

"What made you think of this place, Bernard?"

"I could think of nowhere to hide," said Gore, leaning back with a weary sigh. "And after all," he added, with a glance round, "this is a very good caché."

Conniston nodded. "You are quite safe here. I will show you the way to the vaults, and should there be any chance of your being discovered you can hide there."

"Does Victoria know about the vaults?"

"I can't say. Probably that Judas brat has told her. He was brought up here, and knows every nook and cranny of the castle. And now, Bernard, we must have a good dinner, and then you can tell me whom you suspect of committing the crime."

CHAPTER X
A STATEMENT OF THE CASE

Bernard, alias Mr. Grant, had made free with Conniston's clothes, as Mrs. Moon had stated. But, being much taller than his friend, he looked rather uncomfortable, and indeed had hidden the shortcomings of the garments under a gorgeous dressing-gown, a relic of Dick's 'Varsity days. But Conniston had procured through Durham several suits of Gore's clothes which had been left behind at the Hall when he was turned away by his grandfather. These he had brought with him, and Bernard was glad enough to get into comfortably-fitting garments. These, and the society of Conniston, a good dinner and the super-excellent port made him feel a new man.

After dinner the two friends piled the fire with great logs as it was freezing hard without. Mrs. Moon brought up coffee hot and strong, and when she left the room the young men produced their pipes. Then Conniston sat on one side of the fire and Bernard on the other, and both of them prepared to go into the case and to see exactly how matters stood.

"In the first place," said Dick, filling his pipe carefully, "let us consider what actually happened. Sir Simon was alone that evening."

"He was when I found him dead, unless you call Mrs. Gilroy anyone."

"I call her a very important person," said Dick, dryly. "I tell you what, Gore, you evidently don't know everything. Just tell me what you do know."

"I have told you," said Bernard, impatiently. "I left Durham's house at ten o'clock; you mentioned the time yourself."

"I did," responded Conniston, gravely, "and I mentioned also the day of the month. It was the – "

"The twenty-third of October. Shall I ever forget a date so ominous to me? I left the house, and a small boy stopped me. He said that a lady – he did not mention her name – had told him to inform me to follow him to the Red Window."

"Your cousin Lucy knew of that?"

"Yes. And I thought the lady in question was Lucy, but the boy did not mention any name. He simply said that he had been spoken to by the lady down Kensington way. Now I knew from Durham that Lucy was living with Sir Simon, who was in Crimea Square, Kensington, and that knowledge, coupled with the mention of the Red Window, made me follow the boy."

"Can you describe the lad?"

"Not very well. I caught a glimpse of him under a lamp-post, but the fog was so thick that I obtained only a vague impression. He seemed to be a fair, innocent-looking boy with fair hair – the kind of pure angelic creature depicted by painters as a chorister."

"By Jove!" Conniston dashed down his pipe excitedly. "You describe Judas to the life. The plot thickens."

"The plot – "

"The plot which was to involve you in the crime, and, by Jove! those who contrived it must have hired Judas to be your guide."

"Are you sure that this is the lad – Mrs. Moon's grandson?"

"As sure as I can be from your word-painting. Jerry – Judas suits him much better – is just what you say: an innocent, butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth sort of brat who looks like an angel and acts like a denizen of the infernal regions. And now I remember," went on Dick, "the little brute spoke to me after you left me when we talked in the Park. He was then bare-footed and selling matches."

"This boy must be the same," said Bernard, thoughtfully. "He also had bare feet and carried boxes of matches in his hand."

"It's Judas sure enough!" muttered Conniston, pulling his mustache and staring gloomily into the fire. "I wonder what he was doing in that galley? You followed him?"

"Yes, because he mentioned the Red Window. But for that I should have suspected something wrong. I don't care about following strange urchins. But only Lucy knew about the Red Window."

"She might have told Beryl."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Go on with your tale."

"Well, I followed the boy. He kept a little ahead of me, and several times when I got lost in the fog he reappeared."

"Judas is as clever as his father, the Accuser of the Brethren. How long were you getting to Crimea Square?"

"Allowing for stoppages, three-quarters of an hour. All the trouble took place about a quarter to eleven."

"Did you see the Red Window?"

"I saw a red glare in a window on the first floor. I don't suppose the glass was red, but think some red material must have been placed over a lamp and that placed close to the window."

"Might have been a blind," mused Dick, "and yet when Beryl looked and his friend Mrs. Webber they saw no Red Window. Are you sure?"

"I am certain," responded Gore, emphatically. "When I saw the Red Window I was convinced that Lucy had sent for me, and, thinking that she had persuaded my grandfather to relent, I would have entered the house for a personal interview but that Mrs. Gilroy came out."

"Could you be seen from the house?"

"I don't think so, the fog was very thick remember."

"Was any signal given?"

Bernard looked hard at his friend. "You think it was a trap?"

"I am certain. Was there any signal?"

"A peculiar kind of whistle. Something like this!"

Gore whistled in a kind of ascending scale shrilly and in a particularly high key. The effect on Conniston was strange. He jumped up from his seat and walked hurriedly to and fro.

"Judas," he said. "I remember when I was down here that the little scamp had a kind of whistle like that – something like it. Listen!" Conniston whistled also, and Bernard nodded.

"That's it," he declared; "the whistle was given twice."

"Then the boy was Judas. He used to signal to Victoria in that way when the pair were up to their pranks. Wait!" Conniston opened the door and whistled loudly in the same way. Twice he did this. Shortly after the second time the pattering of steps was heard and Victoria came running up the stairs with a lighted candle in her hand. She looked white and scared.

"Did you expect to see Jerry?" asked her master, blandly.

The girl stared and turned even whiter than she was. "I thought it was Jerry, sir," she murmured, leaning against the balustrade. "He used to whistle like that when he came home!"

"I learned it from Jerry," said Conniston, mendaciously, "and I tried to see if it would bring you. Go downstairs, girl. There's nothing wrong."

Victoria stared at Conniston with a suspicious look in her hard eyes, and then with a toss of her head ran down the stairs. Dick returned to the room and shut the door. "What do you think now?"

"It was Judas sure enough," said Bernard.

"Of course. And the signal was given to someone in the house to intimate that you were outside. Who came out?"

"Mrs. Gilroy?"

"Ah! Then she must have been waiting for the signal. By the way, you always seemed mixed over Mrs. Gilroy. When we first met you said that she didn't like you. Then you said she was your friend. Now which do you think she is?"

"I can hardly say. She always pretended to be my friend. I was never sure of her."

"Then you can be sure of her now. She is your bitter enemy."

"I am afraid so," sighed Gore, remembering the accusation.

"Well," said Dick, resuming his seat, "what next?"

"Mrs. Gilroy came out screeching 'Murder!' She dragged me upstairs and into the sitting-room – "

"Did you notice if there was a red lamp in the window?"

"No. I was too horrified by the sight of my dead grandfather. I loosened the handkerchief round the throat – "

"That was a bandana, Sir Simon's own, and was produced at the inquest. What about the one over the mouth?"

"The one steeped in chloroform? I don't know. I had it in my hand when Mrs. Gilroy accused me. Then I lost my head. I must have dropped it."

Conniston looked disappointed. "That's a pity," said he. "I fancied you might have unconsciously taken it with you. You see, it was a white handkerchief and Sir Simon never used one of that color. If there happened to be a name on the corner – "

"It would be that of the assassin. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that is what I mean. The assassin must have used his own handkerchief."

"Why do you think that?"

Dick made an impatient gesture. "Why, it's the most natural thing he would do," was his reply. "He enters the room, and talks with Sir Simon. In his pocket he has the handkerchief steeped in chloroform and uses it unexpectedly. It's as clear as day."

"Why do you think the assassin is a man?"

"I'll tell you that later. Go on."

"There's nothing more to say. Mrs. Gilroy said that I was the assassin and tried to hold me. The policeman came and arrested me. Seeing what a fix I was in I bolted."

"You should have stood your ground," insisted Dick.

Bernard rose and in his turn paced the room. "Man alive, how could I do that?" he said irritably. "The position was dangerous enough to appal the bravest man. Mrs. Gilroy accused me, saying that I had been in the kitchen and had left there about six; that I had returned after ten and killed my grandfather. Also the housemaid Jane recognized me as the soldier who had been courting her. Not only that, but she addressed me as Bernard. Can't you see how strong the circumstantial evidence was and is? I did not get to Durham's before seven, and I was by myself before that. I can't prove an alibi then, and I left at ten, after which hour Mrs. Gilroy said I had come into the house. In three-quarters of an hour there was ample time for me to kill my grandfather. It is barely a quarter of an hour's walk from Durham's house on Camden Hill to Crimea Square. I could not prove an alibi, nor could you or Durham have helped me. I was at Durham's in the evening, but where was I before six and after ten? Dick, had I stayed I should have been hanged. These thoughts flashed through my mind and I made a dash for liberty, so that I might have time to think out my position. How I gained this refuge you know. And here I have been thinking ever since how to extricate myself from the dilemma and prove my innocence. I can't see how to do it, Dick. I can't see how to act."

"Steady, old boy. Come and sit down and we'll thresh out the matter."

He led Bernard back to the chair, into which the poor fellow threw himself with a weary sigh. Conniston could not but acknowledge that the case against his friend was very strong. As he could not prove an alibi, the evidence of Mrs. Gilroy, of the cook, and page, and housemaid, would probably hang him. And also a sufficient motive for the crime might be found – by the jury – in the fact that Bernard had quarrelled with his grandfather and had been disinherited. Then, to perplex affairs still more, Judas had disappeared, and the Red Window, on the evidence of Beryl and Mrs. Webber, was non-existent. Certainly the lady declared she saw it, but afterwards she thought she had been mistaken. In the interval someone must have removed the red light. But that was a detail which could be argued later. In the meantime it was necessary to fix, if possible, the identity of the soldier who had haunted the kitchen and who apparently so strongly resembled Bernard as to be mistaken for him by Jane.

"It's a plot," said Conniston, at length, while Bernard gazed despairingly into the burning logs. "This fellow who resembled you and who took your name is the assassin."

"How do you make that out?"

"Why! He was in the kitchen before six and was sent for by your grandfather. He at once left. Then he came back after ten and was admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who might have made a mistake."

"She could not mistake another man for me."

"I don't know. This fellow evidently was your double, or at least was made up to resemble you. But that would not be easy," added Conniston, staring at his friend, "for you have no beard or mustache, and it is difficult to make up like another chap without such aids. At least I should think so. And remember the lamp in the hall did not give a very good light – so Durham told me. The housemaid saw you only in that light, and therefore might have mistaken you for the fellow who courted her. Mrs. Gilroy – "

"She saw me in the full glare of the light in the sitting-room. She recognized me."

"Yes. But according to her evidence she only admitted your double just after ten and introduced him into the sitting-room. She did not see him save under the hall lamp."

"That is true. But my grandfather would soon detect the imposition."

"Quite right," rejoined Dick, smoothly, "he did, and then the assassin murdered him after stifling him with the chloroform."

"But you forget my grandfather was a passionate man. He might and probably would have made a scene. Mrs. Gilroy below would have heard the row and would have come up."

"She may be lying when she declares she heard nothing," admitted Dick. "On the other hand, the assassin may have crossed directly over to your grandfather and have stifled his cries by placing the handkerchief at once over his mouth. Then he could strangle him at his leisure and clear out, as he did."

"And then Mrs. Gilroy runs up, finds the dead, and rushes out to accuse me. I must have been brought in the nick of time," said Bernard, ironically. "No, Dick, there's more in it than that. Mrs. Gilroy is in the plot whomsoever contrived it."

"Why, Beryl contrived it. He wanted the money."

"Was he in the house at the time?"

"No. He didn't commit the crime himself, if that is what you mean. He with Miss Randolph was at the Curtain Theatre, which is near Crimea Square. He drove up in his friend's Mrs. Webber's carriage just when the row was on."

"Yes." Bernard passed his hand across his forehead. "I should have remembered that. I was in the hall at the time with the hand of the policeman on my shoulder. But I have grown so confused, Dick, that it's all like a dream."

"A nightmare rather. But why do you think Mrs. Gilroy is – "

"Is in the plot. Because, before she accused me, she said to herself, but loud enough for me to hear, 'It's the only way!'"

"Ha, ho!" said Conniston, excited, "you can swear to that."

"Of course I can. But I can't swear in the dock, and that is the only place I'm likely to occupy should I be caught."

"Is Mrs. Gilroy a friend of Beryl's?"

"I can't say that she was ever anyone's friend. She even seemed to hate my grandfather, although he was so good to her. She and Lucy were always quarrelling, and though she behaved civilly to me, I was – as I said before – never sure of her."

"You can certainly be sure of her now. But I can't help thinking Beryl had something to do with this plot. He had a lot at stake. I have heard tales about his gambling that would open your eyes. Durham made it his business to find out when he heard that Sir Simon intended to disinherit you in favor of Beryl."

"Durham has always been my friend," said Bernard, wearily. "But as Beryl was out of the house he can't have anything to do with the crime."

"I'm not so certain of that. He might have set things in train, and then have arranged the theatre business so as to provide himself with an alibi."

"You think he hired someone to represent me?"

"I do, though, as I say, it would be hard for anyone to disguise himself like you. You haven't a double, have you?"

"Not that I ever heard of," said Gore, unable to restrain a smile; "but they say everyone has a double."

"Well, we must hunt out yours. If we find the soldier who resembled you, and who called himself by your name, we will be able to prove that he committed the crime."

"But how can you go to work?"

"I hardly know, Bernard. I must ask Durham. Meantime you can stay here. And there's Judas. I'll make it my business to hunt him out. I daresay he was employed by Beryl also."

"How you harp on Beryl."

"Because I am sure he has everything to do with the matter. It was a carefully-arranged trap, and you have fallen into it. What Mrs. Gilroy expects to gain I can't think. However, Beryl has found himself mistaken over the money. The new will – so Durham told me to tell you – was burnt by the old man, and so the old one, giving you all, stands. Both Mrs. Gilroy and Mr. Beryl are left out in the cold. And that is all the better for your safety."

"Why?" asked Bernard, looking puzzled.

"Because the person they hired to do the business – your double – will expect to be paid a large sum. If not, he will round on them."

"You forget. If he confesses he puts a rope round his own throat according to your theory."

"True enough. But there's Judas. He'll have his pound of flesh, or make an unholy row."

"Dick," said Bernard, seriously, "it's impossible that a lad of thirteen can be such a villain as you make him out to be."

"I tell you that lad is a born criminal, and if he goes on as he is doing he'll come to the gallows, where, according to his grandmother, his forefathers suffered before him. Judas is as cunning as a fox, and very strong as to his will. Also, he is greedy of money – "

"You describe a man of experience."

"I don't know where Judas got his experience," said Conniston, coolly, "but as Mrs. Gamp said of Bailly, junior, 'All the wickedness of the world is print to him.'"

"I can't believe it of such a lad."

"You'll have an opportunity of testing it some day," retorted the young lord. "I only hope Victoria doesn't correspond with Judas. If she does, she'll tell him about a stranger at Cove Castle, and Judas, having seen you with me in the Park, will be quite sharp enough to put two and two together. Then there will be trouble."

"But why should he connect me with the crime unless – "

"Unless he knows all. He does. You are a marked man, Bernard. However, it's getting late. We'll talk of this to-morrow. I must go and see Durham, and bring him down ostensibly for shooting."

"I wish you would bring Alice over," said Bernard. "My heart aches for a sight of her sweet face."

"And dearly her face has cost you," said Conniston. "However, I'll ask my dear aunt to come over, and bring Alice. As Miss Berengaria is a relative, it will be thought nothing out of the way. We'll save you yet, Bernard; only I wish we had that one piece of evidence – the handkerchief you lost. When that is found we shall know who is guilty."