the white-haired lady

The two young people who bent over this mysterious message in the shelter of that old-fashioned pew were each conscious of a similar feeling—they were thankful that they were together. Peggie Wynne had never been so glad of anything in her life as for Selwood’s immediate presence at that moment: Selwood felt a world of unspeakable gratitude that he was there, just when help and protection were wanted. For each recognized, with a sure instinct and intuition, that those innocent-looking lines of type-script signified much, heralded some event of dire importance. To save Barthorpe Herapath’s life!—that could only mean that somebody—the sender of the note—knew that Barthorpe was innocent and some other person guilty.

For a moment the girl stared with startled eyes and flushed cheeks at the scrap of paper; then she turned with a quick, questioning look at her companion. And Selwood reached for his hat and his stick, and murmured one word:

“Come!”

Peggie saw nothing of the surprised and questioning looks which were turned on Selwood and herself as they left the pew and passed down the aisle of the crowded church. She had but one thought—whom was she going to meet outside, what revelation was going to be made to her? Unconsciously, she laid a hand on Selwood’s arm as they passed through the porch, and Selwood, with a quick throb of pride, took it and held it. Then, arm in arm, they walked out, and a verger who opened the outer door for them, smiled as they passed him; he foresaw another passing-out, whereat Peggie would wear orange blossoms.

The yard of this particular church was not a place of green sward, ancient trees, and tumble-down tombs; instead it was an expanse of bare flagstones, shut in by high walls which terminated at a pair of iron gates. Outside those gates an automobile was drawn up; its driver stood attentively at its door. Selwood narrowly inspected both, as he and Peggie approached. The car was evidently a private one: a quiet, yet smart affair; its driver was equally smart in his dark green livery. And that he had received his orders was evident from the fact that as the two young people approached he touched his cap and laid a hand on the door of the car.

“Be watchful and careful,” whispered Selwood, as he and Peggie crossed the pavement. “Leave all to me!”

He himself was keenly alert to whatever might be going to happen. It seemed to him, from the chauffeur’s action, that they were to be invited, or Peggie was to be invited, to enter the car. Very good—but he was going to know who was in that car before any communications of any sort were entered upon. Also, Peggie was not going to exchange one word with anybody, go one step with anybody, unless he remained in close attendance upon her. The phraseology of the mysterious note; the clandestine fashion in which it had been brought under Peggie’s notice; the extraordinary method adopted of procuring an interview with her—all these things had aroused Selwood’s suspicions, and his natural sense of caution was at its full stretch as he walked across to the car, wondering what he and Peggie were about to confront.

What they did confront was a pleasant-faced, white-haired, elderly lady, evidently a woman of fashion and of culture, who bent forward from her seat with a kindly, half-apologetic smile.

“Miss Wynne?” she said inquiringly. “How do you do? And this gentleman is, no doubt, Mr. Selwood, of whom I have heard? You must forgive this strange conduct, this extraordinary manner of getting speech with you—I am not a free agent. Now, as I have something to say—will you both come into the car and hear it?”

Peggie, who was greatly surprised at this reception, turned diffidently to her companion. And Selwood, who had been gazing earnestly at the elderly lady’s face, and had seen nothing but good intention in it, felt himself considerably embarrassed.

“I—well, really, this is such a very strange affair altogether that I don’t know what we ought to do,” he said. “May I suggest that if you wish to talk to Miss Wynne, we should go to her house? It’s only just round the corner, and——”

“But that’s just what I am not to do,” replied the lady, with an amused laugh. “I repeat—I am not exactly a free agent. It’s all very strange, and very unpleasant, and sounds, no doubt, very mysterious, but I am acting—practically—under orders. Let me suggest something—will you and Miss Wynne come into the car, and I will tell the man to drive gently about until you have heard what I have to say? Come now!—I am not going to kidnap you, and you can’t come to much harm by driving round about Portman Square for a few minutes, in the company of an old woman! Dickerson,” she went on, as Selwood motioned Peggie to enter the car, “drive us very slowly round about here until I tell you to stop—go round the square—anywhere.”

The car moved gently up Baker Street, and Selwood glanced inquiringly at their captor.

“May we have the pleasure of——”

The elderly lady brought out a card-case and some papers.

“I am Mrs. Engledew,” she said. “I live in the Herapath Flats. I don’t suppose you ever heard of me, Miss Wynne, but I knew your uncle very well—we had been acquaintances, nay, friends, for years. I thought it might be necessary to prove my bona fides,” she continued, with a laugh, “so I brought some letters of Jacob Herapath’s with me—letters written to me—you recognize his big, bold hand, of course.”

There was no mistaking Jacob Herapath’s writing, and the two young people, after one glance at it, exchanged glances with each other.

“Now you want to know why I am here,” said Mrs. Engledew. “The answer is plain—if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter of Jacob Herapath’s murder! That sounds odd, doesn’t it?—nevertheless, it’s true. But we can’t go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!” she continued, laying a hand on Peggie’s arm, “you do not wish to see Barthorpe Herapath hanged?”

“We believe him innocent,” replied Peggie.

“Quite so—he is innocent—of murder, anyway,” said Mrs. Engledew. “Now—I speak in absolute confidence, remember!—there are two men who know who the real murderer is. They are in touch with me—that is, one of them is, on behalf of both. I am really here as their emissary. They are prepared to give you and the police full particulars about the murder—for a price.”

Selwood felt himself grow more suspicious than ever. This lady was of charming address, pleasant smile, and apparently candid manners, but—price!—price for telling the truth in a case like this!

“What price?” he asked.

“Their price is ten thousand pounds—cash,” answered Mrs. Engledew, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Seems a great deal, doesn’t it? But that is their price. They will not be moved from it. If Miss Wynne will agree to pay that sum, they will at once not only give their evidence as to the real murderer of Jacob Herapath, but they will point him out.”

“When?” demanded Selwood.

“Tonight!” replied Mrs. Engledew. “Tonight—at an hour to be fixed after your agreement to their terms.”

Selwood felt himself in a difficult position. Mr. Tertius was out of town for the day, gone to visit an antiquarian friend in Berkshire: Mr. Halfpenny lived away down amongst the Surrey hills. Still, there was Cox-Raythwaite to turn to. But it seemed as if the lady desired an immediate answer.

“You know these men?” he asked.

“One only, who represents both,” answered Mrs. Engledew.

“Why not point him out to the police, and let them deal with them?” suggested Selwood. “They would get his evidence out of him without any question of price!”

“I have given my word,” said Mrs. Engledew. “I—the fact is, I am mixed up in this, quite innocently, of course. And I am sure that no living person knows the truth except these men, and just as sure that they will not tell what they know unless they are paid. The police could not make them speak if they didn’t want to speak. They know very well that they have got the whip-hand of all of us in that respect!”

“Of you, too?” asked Selwood.

“Of me, too!” she answered. “Nobody in the world, I’m sure, knows the secret but these men. And it’s important to me personally that they should reveal it. In fact, though I’m not rich, I’ll join Miss Wynne in paying their price, so far as a thousand pounds is concerned. I would pay more, but I really haven’t got the money—I daren’t go beyond a thousand.”

Selwood felt himself impressed by this candid offer.

“Precisely what do they ask—what do they propose?” he asked.

“This. If you agree to pay them ten thousand pounds, you and Professor Cox-Raythwaite are to meet them tonight. They will then tell the true story, and they will further take you and the police to the man, the real murderer,” answered Mrs. Engledew. “It is important that all this should be done tonight.”

“Where is this meeting to take place?” demanded Selwood.

“It can take place at my flat: in fact, it must, because, as I say, I am unfortunately mixed up,” said Mrs. Engledew. “If you agree to the terms, you are to telephone to me—I have written my number on the card—at two o’clock this afternoon. Then I shall telephone the time of meeting tonight, and you must bring the money with you.”

“Ten thousand pounds in cash—on Sunday!” exclaimed Selwood. “That, of course, is utterly impossible.”

“Not cash in that sense,” replied Mrs. Engledew. “An open cheque will do. And, don’t you see, that, I think, proves the bona fides of the men. If they fail to do what they say they can and will do, you can stop payment of that cheque first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, that’s so,” agreed Selwood. He glanced at Peggie, who was silently listening with deep interest. “I don’t know how things stand,” he went on. “Mr. Halfpenny, Miss Wynne’s solicitor, lives a long way out of town. Miss Wynne would doubtless cheerfully sacrifice ten thousand pounds to save her cousin——”

“Oh, twenty thousand—anything!” exclaimed Peggie. “Don’t let us hesitate about money, please.”

“But I don’t know whether she can draw a cheque,” continued Selwood. “At least, for such an amount as that. Perhaps Professor Cox-Raythwaite can tell us. Let me ask you a question or two, if you please, Mrs. Engledew,” he went on. “You say you only know one of these men. Do you know his name?”

“No—I don’t,” confessed Mrs. Engledew. “Everything is secret and mysterious.”

“Are you convinced—has he done anything to convince you—of his good faith?”

“Yes—absolutely!”

“You don’t doubt his—their—ability to clear all this up?”

“I’m quite sure they can clear it up.”

“Have you any idea as to the identity of the real murderer?”

“Not the least!”

“One more question, then,” concluded Selwood. “Are the police to be there when Cox-Raythwaite and I come tonight?”

“That I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Engledew. “All I know is—just what I am ordered to say. Pay them the money—they will tell the truth and take you and the police to the real criminal. One more thing—it is understood that you will not approach the police between now and this evening. That part—the police part—is to be left to them.”

“I understand,” said Selwood. “Very well—we will get out, if you please, and we will go straight to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. At two o’clock I shall ring you up and give you our answer.”

He hurried Peggie into a taxi-cab as soon as Mrs. Engledew’s car had gone away, and they went hastily to Endsleigh Gardens, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite listened to the strange story in dead silence.

“Mrs. Engledew—lady living in Herapath Flats—old friend of Jacob’s—possessed letters of his—instrument for two men in possession of secret—willing to fork out a thousand of her own,” he muttered. “Gad!—I take that to be genuine, Selwood! The only question is for Peggie here—does she wish to throw away nine thousand to save Barthorpe’s neck?”

“The only question, Professor,” said Peggie, reprovingly, “is—can I do it? Can I draw a cheque for that amount?”

“Why not?” replied the Professor. “Everything’s in order. Barthorpe withdrew that wretched caveat—the will’s been proved—every penny that Jacob possessed is yours. Draw a cheque for fifty thousand, if you like!”

“And you will go with Mr. Selwood?” asked Peggie, with a touch of anxiety which was not lost on the Professor.

“Go with him—and take care of him, too,” answered the Professor, digging his big fingers into Selwood’s ribs. “Very good. Now stop here and lunch with me, and at two o’clock we’ll telephone.”

He and Peggie stood breathlessly waiting in the hall that afternoon while Selwood was busy at the telephone in an adjacent lobby. Selwood came back to them nodding his head.

“All right!” he said. “You and I, Professor, at her flat—tonight, at nine o’clock.”

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