Mrs. Braxfield herself opened the door of Woodland Cottage to Mr. Fransemmery, and making out his identity by the light of the lamp in her hall, bade him enter in tones of warm welcome.

“Never rains but it pours!” she exclaimed, as she ushered the visitor towards her parlour. “I’ve got one caller already, and now here’s another; glad to see you, Mr. Fransemmery!”

Mr. Fransemmery stepped into a well-lighted, cosy sitting-room, and found himself staring at Blick. Blick smiled and nodded; he recognized the newcomer as the bland and spectacled gentleman who had acted as foreman of the jury at the recent inquest. Mr. Fransemmery, of course, knew who Blick was. He hesitated on the threshold.

“If you’re talking business matters—” he suggested.

“Not at all!” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield. “This young gentleman—too young, I tell him, to have such a job as he has!—simply came to ask me what he calls a pertinent question about my evidence the other morning. I’m a very good-tempered woman, as you well know, Mr. Fransemmery, or I might have given his question another name, and called it impertinent! What do you think he wanted to know, Mr. Fransemmery? If I was certain that the man I saw on the hill-side the morning of the murder was Mr. John Harborough? The idea!”

Blick, who looked very much at home in an easy chair, gave Mrs. Braxfield a whimsical glance.

“Well, you haven’t told me yet if you were certain!” he said.

Mrs. Braxfield bridled.

“I’m not so old that I’ve lost the use of my eyes, my lad!” she exclaimed. “I can see as well as you can!—better, for anything I know.”

“It was very early in the morning,” remarked Blick. “The light was uncertain—I’ve learned that there was a good deal of mist about on the hill-sides—Hobbs, the man who found Guy Markenmore’s body, says that about here it was very misty indeed that Tuesday morning——”

“How does he know?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield sharply. “Was he about here at that time—four o’clock?”

“He was about here an hour and a half later, and if it was misty at five-thirty it would be still more so at four-fifteen,” retorted Blick. “Now, if it was—as it was!—misty you might easily mistake one person for another, Mrs. Braxfield. And, at that time you referred to in your evidence, there was a man, closely resembling Mr. Harborough in height, build, and general appearance—I don’t refer to facial resemblance—who was somewhere in this immediate neighbourhood.”

“What man?” asked Mrs. Braxfield suspiciously.

“Baron von Eckhardstein,” said Blick. “That’s a fact!”

Mrs. Braxfield turned to Mr. Fransemmery, who had been standing during the exchange of words, and pointed him to an easy chair, opposite that in which Blick sat. She took another, between the two men.

“Oh!” she said. “So he was up here, was he? That foreign man, staying at Mrs. Tretheroe’s? Oh! Indeed! Well, I never saw him!—the man I saw was Mr. Harborough. To be sure, now to think of it, that foreigner is about Mr. Harborough’s height and figure.”

“Now that you think of it again, don’t you think that you may have been mistaken?” suggested Blick. “Don’t you think that the man you saw may have been von Eckhardstein, and not Harborough? Come, now!”

“No!” said Mrs. Braxfield. “You won’t come it over me, young man! I’ve been in a law-court before today, and you’re suggesting answers to your witness. The man I saw, and that I spoke about in that witness-box was John Harborough! Do you think that I shouldn’t know a man who’s been well known to me ever since he was that high? Ridiculous!”

“You hadn’t seen Harborough for seven years,” said Blick.

“What’s seven years out of thirty-five?” retorted Mrs. Braxfield, with scorn. “I remember John Harborough being born, there at Greycloister. I tell you it was him that I saw on Tuesday morning—of course it was! It is ridiculous, isn’t it, Mr. Fransemmery?”

Mr. Fransemmery, utterly puzzled to know what all this was about, glanced at the detective.

“I—er—thought that Mr. Harborough fully admitted that he was up this way on Tuesday morning about four o’clock?” he observed.

“Mr. Harborough did; Mr. Harborough was up here,” agreed Blick. “There’s no question of that. But, so was another man—von Eckhardstein. It’s all—for me—a question of exact times and places. I thought that Mrs. Braxfield might have been mistaken, but as she was not, I can only congratulate her on her excellent eyesight! Oh, by the way, Mrs. Braxfield,” he added, with a smile. “There’s another matter—a pleasanter one—-on which I must congratulate you! I heard in the village, just before I came up, of the event which you had announced. I wish your daughter every happiness in her new station; from what I’m told she’ll fill it admirably.”

“Why, thank you, I think she will, and I’m much obliged to you,” responded Mrs. Braxfield. “But that’ll be so much Greek to Mr. Fransemmery—you don’t know what he’s talking about, Mr. Fransemmery, do you?

“I—I think I do, Mrs. Braxfield,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “I—the fact is, just before coming out, I had a visit from Miss Markenmore. She told me that her brother, now Sir Henry Markenmore, was married to your daughter, and that he intends to make public announcement of the fact to his kinsfolk and his solicitor tomorrow, after the sad ceremony of which we are all aware is over. But—er—I understood that no other announcement had yet been made?”

“Did you?” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield, a little contemptuously. “No doubt you would—from Valencia Markenmore! But they have me to reckon with, Mr. Fransemmery, and I intend that my daughter, Lady Markenmore, shall occupy her rightful position tomorrow! She’ll get home here tonight from London, where she’s been staying with friends—I expect her from Selcaster station about eleven o’clock. She’s coming by the last train, and tomorrow morning she’ll assume her proper place at Markenmore Court. As to whether she attends the funeral ceremonies of Sir Anthony and Mr. Guy she and her husband, Sir Harry, can decide; I’m nothing to do with that, Mr. Fransemmery. What I have to do with is making sure that my daughter, now that she is Lady Markenmore, is in her proper position as mistress of Markenmore Court when its late master is carried out for burial!”

Mr. Fransemmery made no immediate reply. He was conscious now that the ground had been cut from under his feet; there was no chance of fulfilling his promise to Valencia. Evidently, the new Lady Markenmore’s mother had assumed responsibility, mounted her high horse, and had her own way.

“I sincerely hope the young people will be happy,” he said lamely. “I—er—trust so!”

“Be their own fault if they aren’t!” declared Mrs. Braxfield sharply. “What’s to prevent it? I shan’t! I’ve been uncommonly good to them—especially to him; far more so than most mothers would have been in similar circumstances, I assure you, Mr. Fransemmery. You don’t know everything!”

“I know next to nothing, ma’am,” protested Mr. Fransemmery. “I am just acquainted with the bare fact of the marriage.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Braxfield. “I don’t mind your knowing, and I don’t mind this young man knowing, stranger though he is——”

“I’ve been trying to say good-bye for the last ten minutes,” said Blick good-humouredly. “But you were so engrossed with your family affairs that you didn’t notice I’d risen, Mrs. Braxfield. I wasn’t lingering to listen—out of curiosity.”

“Never said you were!” retorted Mrs. Braxfield. “Sit down again—as you’re concerned in Guy Markenmore’s affairs, you’re concerned in his brother’s, my son-in-law. I said I didn’t mind your knowing the facts of this marriage—I don’t mind anybody knowing; it’s not my fault that it hasn’t been open. It was like this, Mr. Fransemmery. You know that my daughter is a very pretty, very graceful, highly accomplished girl. She gets her good looks from my family—all our women have been distinguished for their good looks, though I say it myself.”

“You may safely and justly say it for yourself, ma’am!” murmured Mr. Fransemmery. “As I have frequently observed.”

“I join in Mr. Fransemmery’s sentiments, Mrs. Braxfield,” added Blick with a bow. “Precisely what I was thinking!”

“Well, I’ve worn very well,” said Mrs. Braxfield complacently. “We all do—and as I say, my daughter has inherited the family good looks. And as for her accomplishments—well, if she isn’t a well-educated young woman, it’s her own fault. She went to the Girl’s High School at Selcaster from being ten until she was fifteen; then she’d two years at the very best boarding-school I could hear of in London, and she finished off with twelve months in Paris. Cost me no end of money, I can tell you, her education did! And having brought her up like that, well, I sold my business at the Sceptre and retired here, so that the girl would have proper surroundings. And it was not so long after coming here, Mr. Fransemmery, that I found out that she and young Harry Markenmore were sweet on each other, and meeting in these woods and so on. I wasn’t going to have that going on unless I knew what it all meant, and what it was going to lead to, so I had it out with him. Then he got me to consent to an engagement, though he persuaded me to let him keep that secret from his father and sister for a while. And in the end he got round me about this marriage—he promised that if I’d only consent to that, he’d tell Sir Anthony of it very soon afterwards. So I gave way, and I saw them married, in a London church, and just afterwards Sir Anthony fell ill, and Harry made that an excuse for putting things off, and though there were times—plenty of them, Mr. Fransemmery!—when he could have told his father—and of course, he could have told his sister at any time—he was always making excuses. So when Sir Anthony died the other day, and this affair of Guy’s happened, and Harry came into the title and estates, I made up my mind that I’d have the thing seen to and put right at once, and I told him so. I’ve seen him twice today, and he’s just like every Markenmore that ever I knew—obstinate and self-willed! He wanted to put it off again—until his father and brother were buried. I said No!—my daughter was going to take her proper position as mistress of Markenmore Court tomorrow morning. And so she will!”

“I think, ma’am,” observed Mr. Fransemmery quietly, “you said just now that you had announced this marriage?”

“I have!” answered Mrs. Braxfield.

“To whom, may I ask?” enquired the elder visitor. “Mr. Blick, I think, has heard it from somebody in the village?”

“I announced it to the proper people,” replied Mrs. Braxfield with spirit. “I’m not the sort of person to do otherwise. I announced it to the Vicar; to Mr. Chilford, the Markenmore’s family solicitor; and to Mrs. Perrin, the wife of the principal tenant-farmer.”

“With leave, I suppose, to tell the news to any one?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery.

“Of course! Why not, Mr. Fransemmery?” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield. “My daughter is Lady Markenmore!”

Mr. Fransemmery coughed—a short, dry, embarrassed cough—and Mrs. Braxfield looked at him, suddenly and sharply. She had detected, or fancied she had detected, some meaning in that cough.

“What now?” she asked, a note of impatience in her voice. “What’s that mean, Mr. Fransemmery? I know you’re a lawyer, though you don’t practise it—are you implying that my daughter isn’t Lady Markenmore?”

“If her husband is Sir Harry Markenmore, ma’am, your daughter is certainly Lady Markenmore,” replied Mr. Fransemmery calmly. “But—is he?”

Mrs. Braxfield’s rosy cheeks turned pale. Blick, who was watching her closely, saw a sudden compression of her lips; he saw, too, an involuntary, mechanical lifting of her hand, upward. But the colour came back as she turned on Mr. Fransemmery.

“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded with an awkward attempt at an incredulous laugh. “Sir Harry! Of course, he’s Sir Harry! His father’s dead—his brother’s dead——”

“Supposing his brother left a son?” said Mr. Fransemmery, in quiet, level tones. “What then?”

Mrs. Braxfield turned paler than before. And now Blick, keenly alive to the new situation and possibilities, saw that she was really alarmed. She stared silently at Mr. Fransemmery—stared and stared, and still remained silent. And Blick spoke, looking at the elder man.

“You wouldn’t say that unless you’d some grounds for saying it,” he observed. “Have you? Because, if so, I’d like to know. It’s my duty to get all the information I can about Guy Markenmore.”

“Mr. Blick,” answered Mr. Fransemmery in his gravest accents, “your profession being what it is, I can speak freely to you. And I will speak freely to Mrs. Braxfield, things having developed as they have. What I am going to say has only been known to me for a few hours; I think it may be known to the Markenmores’ solicitor by now—it may be—and possibly to Harry Markenmore. But I’ll tell you and Mrs. Braxfield what it is, now—it may save some trouble. Mind, this is nothing that I can personally vouch for!—it is only something that I have heard. And it is this—I may tell you that I have spent the whole day searching for Baron von Eckhardstein; I have been all up and down in the lonelier parts of the woods and in some of the Down valleys. About noon I was in that very out-of-the-way valley on the other side of one hill, called Grayling Bottom—a wild, solitary place, Mr. Blick. There is just one human habitation in it, tenanted by a woman whom Mrs. Braxfield no doubt knows—Margaret Hilson. It was very chilly in that valley—a sunless, cold place always—and I asked Margaret Hilson to let me sit by her cottage fire while I ate my lunch, which I had carried out with me. This woman is a close, reserved person—the sort, I should say, who could keep secrets for ever if she chose—but she talked to me with some freedom about the present events and situation. And finding that I was a lawyer, she talked still more freely, and in the end—knowing, as she said, that things would have to come out—she said she would tell me something that she had kept entirely to herself for four years. Briefly, it was this: Margaret Hilson says that at just about the time of Guy Markenmore’s disappearance from these parts, there also disappeared a girl named Myra Halliwell, a very pretty girl, one of two daughters of a small farmer in this neighbourhood, whose sister, Daphne Halliwell, she said, went out to India as lady’s-maid to Mrs. Tretheroe, came back with her, and is now in her service at the Dower House. This Myra, says Margaret Hilson, was considered to be engaged to be married to a man named Roper—James Roper—a woodman, still, I believe, employed on the Markenmore estate. But, as I have said, she, according to Margaret Hilson, completely disappeared at the same time that Guy Markenmore left the Court. That,” observed Mr. Fransemmery, pausing in his narration and glancing significantly at the detective, “is an important matter to keep in mind—in view of what follows.”

Blick nodded. But he was not watching Mr. Fransemmery so much as he was watching Mrs. Braxfield. Obviously she was more than deeply interested in the story which was being so unexpectedly revealed to her, and since the introduction of Myra Halliwell’s name her interest had deepened almost to the point of agitation. Her colour came and went; her lips were alternately compressed and relaxed; clearly, thought Blick, this woman was distinctly anxious, not to say alarmed. And when Mr. Fransemmery paused, she kept her eyes on him with an expression which showed that she was waiting, with almost frightened eagerness, to know what was coming next.

“Well,” continued Mr. Fransemmery, “what follows is this: Margaret Hilson, some four years after the disappearance of Myra Halliwell from these parts, went to London to visit a sister of hers who lived near Wandsworth Common. Margaret usually went out on the Common of a morning, to take the air, while her sister, a working-man’s wife, was engaged on her household tasks. One morning, as she was strolling about, she saw a young, smartly dressed woman whose appearance seemed familiar to her, and who had with her a nursemaid in charge of a perambulator in which was a child. They came near, and in the smart young woman Margaret Hilson recognized Myra Halliwell. The recognition was mutual; they stopped and spoke to each other. And the result was that Myra Halliwell, pledging Margaret to secrecy, confided to her that she was married to Mr. Guy Markenmore, and that the child in the perambulator, now three years old, was their son——”

Mrs. Braxfield suddenly smote the table with her clenched fist.

“A lie!” she exclaimed hoarsely. “A lie—all through! Why!—he asked Mrs. Tretheroe to marry him, the night he was here! You both heard her swear it—in the witness-box; you know you did!”

Blick said nothing. He was watching Mr. Fransemmery now—convinced that there was more in and behind this story than he had at first imagined. Its various phases were opening up new ideas, new visions to him; he was becoming professionally excited over it.

“I have not yet finished, Mrs. Braxfield,” said Mr. Fransemmery quietly. “Allow me—now, Margaret Hilson, who, in my opinion, is just the woman to keep close thoughts—promised young Mrs. Guy that she would keep the secret, and she did. But, a year ago, Margaret Hilson went to visit her sister again—at the same place. Again, she took her walks on Wandsworth Common. And, one morning, she met, not Mrs. Guy Markenmore, but the same nurse, with the same child, then grown into a sturdy boy of five. She spoke to the nurse, who told her that the mother was dead—had died a year previously, of pneumonia; the child, she said, was being brought up by a lady to whose care he had been entrusted on his mother’s death, and she, the nurse, remained with him. The nurse, who probably saw no reason why she should not talk freely to a woman with whom she had seen her late mistress in close and intimate conversation, added some details. She said that the child’s father came to see him twice a week, and always spent Sunday afternoon with him; she, the nurse, spoke of him as a handsome and well-to-do man. She further said that the child was called after him—Guy. Finally, she told Margaret Hilson where her late mistress was buried, and Margaret Hilson went to see the grave. She found it easily enough from the particulars given her, and she saw the inscription on the tombstone—Myra, wife of Guy Markenmore. That, too, Margaret Hilson has kept to herself—but, Mrs. Braxfield, she was not going to keep it to herself longer than tonight! Her intention, when I called at her cottage, was to tell Mr. Chilford all that she knew, this evening; as I did call, she told me. I advised her to tell Chilford at once—by now, she may have done so—I suppose she has. I don’t think there’s the slightest ground for doubting the truth of her story—why should there be? And it is, of course, absolutely certain that if the late Guy Markenmore’s little boy is alive—why, he’s the heir to the title and the estates!”

CHAPTER XVIII