The murder of Barton made a considerable stir not only in the parish of Lesser Thorpe but throughout the county. From Southampton came the police to take charge of the body and the case; to discover, if possible, the murderer, and close the black chapter of the Squire's life. Barton had evidently been strangled about ten o'clock. Upon this Dr. Marsh insisted; the child had come into the library at half-past and had taken a fit from fright. Half an hour later they had both been found. The window was open, there were confused footmarks on the terrace, and the assassin—whoever he was—had had ample time in which to effect his escape. On such evidence did the police begin to build up their case. Needless to say that they were completely unsuccessful.

But the strangest part of the whole strange business was, that the will in favour of Gerald had disappeared. And upon this disappearance Mrs. Darrow, if no one else, was inclined to base the motive for the crime. Her mouth was now no longer closed—the only person who could close it was dead—and she was not long in venting her spite on Miriam. Communication with Barton's lawyers had elicited the fact that a new will had been executed by their client a day or two before his death. The old will in favour of Dundas still remained in their office. But although search was made everywhere for the more recent document, it could not be found. No one at the Manor House had seen it, Miriam alone having done so, but she thought it best to keep her own counsel; and indeed she was only too pleased to think that Gerald would now be compelled to earn his own living.

As soon as the will leaving the property to Major Dundas was read, and Mrs. Darrow learned that her three hundred a year was secure for life, she sent for Miriam. The moment of her triumph and revenge had arrived, and she determined to make the most of it. Throned in an arm-chair she threw off all disguise, and received her governess like the culprit she held her to be.

"You wish to see me, Mrs. Darrow," said Miriam quietly. She knew pretty well what was coming.

"Yes, Miss Crane, I sent for you to request that you leave my house to-morrow."

"I am quite willing to go," replied Miriam quietly; "indeed, if you wish it, I can go to-day."

"You will go when I please, and not before," cried the widow quivering with petty spite, for Miriam's impassiveness exasperated her beyond endurance. "And be good enough to remember that while you are here you are my servant. You forget yourself. Because Mr. Barton engaged you is no excuse for the insolence to which you treat me. I am of course not liable for your money."

"In that case, Mrs. Darrow, I must apply to Major Dundas, as Mr. Barton's heir."

"Oh, I daresay you will," sneered Mrs. Darrow, "but there is no chance there; I know your tricks and your sly deceit. You think you'll catch him, but you shan't, not if I can help it. The county gaol—not the Manor House—is the proper place for young women of your stamp!"

"If you have nothing more to say I will go," said Miriam, keeping her temper wonderfully well under the woman's insults.

"But I have more to say. Don't be insolent, I tell you. I hold you in the hollow of my hand."

"What do you mean?" asked Miriam imperiously.

"Mean! you know well enough what I mean. You know you were in love with Gerald Arkel and tried your best to marry him; and as Hilda Marsh beat you and upset your little plans, you thought you would steal the will so that her husband should not get the property. Yes you did—and you are Mr. Barton's murderer—that's what I mean!"

"You must be mad!" gasped Miriam, thunder-struck. "I gave my evidence at the inquest as everyone else did; and the jury brought in a verdict that Mr. Barton had been murdered by some person unknown. You know what you say is a dastardly falsehood. I was in the drawing-room singing when Mr. Barton met his death; and Dicky saw the body half an hour before I did. I found the poor child in a fit, and rushed back to call you all. How dare you make such accusations against me—dare to say that I killed one of the few men who have been kind to me?"

"Oh, I daresay there are plenty of men who have been kind to you," scoffed Mrs. Darrow venomously. "We know all about that, Miss Crane—if Crane is your name, which I very much doubt. But I don't want your infamous London life dragged up here, thank you!"

"Mrs. Darrow," cried Miriam in a cold fury, "if you dare to slander me in this way I will bring you into Court to prove your charges."

"Do—do. It's what I wish. I have held my tongue so long for my dead uncle's sake, but no longer now, my young lady—no, I go straight to the inspector of police."

"There you will have to give some proof of what you say!"

"I can do so—in one word—Jabez!"

Miriam reeled, deadly white, and but for the support of a chair she caught she would have fallen. The blow was so unexpected, so suddenly delivered, that she knew not how to parry it.

"Jabez," she murmured, pale to the lips; "Jabez!"

"Yes, Jabez," cried Mrs. Darrow, following up her advantage. "Fie on you, you horrible woman! meeting low creatures behind the church and plotting murder!"

"Ah! you followed. Yes, Mr. Barton told me you did."

"Yes, I did follow you in the interests of purity. And it is well I did, for I found out what you are, a low, wicked——"

Miriam held up her hand and stepped forward so suddenly that Mrs. Darrow stopped short.

She saw how perilous was her position; and she nerved herself to cope with it.

"Silence!" she cried peremptorily. "You shall not abuse me in this way. If you have any definite charge to make, state it, and the evidence on which you have it."

"I accuse your lover, Jabez, of killing my poor uncle to steal that will and ruin Gerald Arkel, and I accuse you of aiding and abetting him."

"That is at least concise," said Miriam bitterly; "and your evidence?"

"I heard Jabez say that he would 'knife' Mr. Barton if he interfered with him."

"Quite so; well, as Mr. Barton did not interfere with Jabez, evidently the motive was wanting. As to my having been a party to anything calculated to harm either Mr. Arkel or Mr. Barton, that is a foul lie, such as only yourself could invent."

Mrs. Darrow rose and drew her shawl round her.

"We shall see what the inspector says," she said savagely. "I shall tell him all I overheard, and formally charge you."

"There is no need for you to do that," replied Miriam. "I shall go to the inspector myself and tell him everything."

"You dare not," cried the widow.

"Not only dare, but will! I leave your house at once, and apply to Major Dundas for the salary due to me."

"Yes, and take to your heels, no doubt—but I'll see you don't get very far, my lady."

"As far as Southampton, whither Major Dundas will, I have no doubt, accompany me. There, fortunately, I shall be able to put it out of your power to harm me. I will not say what I think of you further than to pity from the bottom of my heart the poor dear little child who has the misfortune to call you mother." Then, without another word, Miriam left the room.

Upstairs she packed her box, dressed herself, and went off to bid good-bye to Dicky. The child's nervous system had received a severe shock at the sight of the dead man's body. Since the fatal night they had been obliged to keep him in bed. Now, although more composed, he was still acutely nervous. When Miriam entered the nursery he started up with a slight cry. She took him in her arms, and could feel that he was trembling.

"Hush, Dicky dear!" she said, kissing him, "I have come to say good-bye to you just for a little while."

"Oh!" the boy clung to her and wept. "You are not going away, Miss Crane?"

"Yes, dear—I must." She had not the heart to tell him the whole truth. "But I shall come back and see you again very soon. I am only going up to London; and while I am away Dicky is going to be a brave boy, isn't he?"

"I promise—I promise; but I was so afraid when I saw Uncle Barton like that."

"Yes, dear, I know. But poor Uncle Barton is very happy now; you mustn't think any more about him. Tell me, Dicky, do you remember if the library window was open when you went in to see him?"

"Yes, wide open, Miss Crane." Dicky shuddered. "And when I touched Uncle Barton he fell on one side just like a doll. And when I saw his face I was so afraid, and I felt so giddy and I fell right down——"

"Did you see anyone, Dicky?"

"Oh, no, I saw no one."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Oh yes, the wind. I was so afraid of it. And I was so afraid of Uncle Barton too—he was so white, and he couldn't speak, and his mouth was open, and his eyes looked funny. Oh, Miss Crane, dead people are horrid—I can't bear them!"

"Yes, dear; we won't talk any more about it. Look, here is my gold chain, and while I am away I want you to wear it for my sake—will you?"

Dicky's fancy was caught at once.

"Oh, thank you; thank you, Miss Crane," he said, kissing her. "Now I will be your knight. The Knight of the Golden Chain. Oh, I shall always wear it, and I shall never forget you, Miss Crane, never! Must you go?"

"Yes, dear; I must go now. But some day I'll see my Dicky again. Perhaps he'll be a big boy then, and be going to school. You'll think of me even then, dear, won't you?—and of the walks and the talks we used to have? Oh, Dicky, it is so hard for me to leave you! You won't forget me? You must never forget your Miriam!" She pressed the boy's face to her own and let the tears run freely. Then with one last effort she dragged herself from him, and passed quickly out of the room.

She went straight to the village inn and ordered a fly to call and take her to the station in an hour. Then she walked up to the Manor House, and inquired for Major Dundas. He was in, and saw her at once. Indeed, so marked was the eagerness of his greeting that Miriam instinctively became more reserved.

"Major Dundas," she said, coming to the point at once, "I am indeed sorry to trouble you, but I thought it only right to come straight to you and tell you how I am placed. Mrs. Darrow has dismissed me. That of itself is nothing; but on the plea that she did not engage me, she has refused to pay the salary due, so I——"

"My dear Miss Crane," interrupted the Major, "you astonish me. Surely Mrs. Darrow——"

"Mrs. Darrow hates me," said Miriam bitterly. "In that you have the explanation of everything. She is only gratifying her spite by turning me out of her house. Not, as I say, that I mind that; but I felt sure in the circumstances you would rather I came to you."

"Of course; you did perfectly right. I shall certainly remonstrate with Mrs. Darrow about this. Let me see, your salary is——"

"Fifty pounds a year," said Miriam coldly, "and there are six months due to me."

Something in her tone prevented the Major speaking further. In silence he sat down to write a cheque, and in silence he handed it to her. She put it in her purse.

"I should like to write you a receipt for this, Major Dundas, if you don't mind."

"My dear Miss Crane, there is not the least necessity."

"Oh, thanks, I think I should prefer to be quite business-like. And perhaps you will show this to Mrs. Darrow." She sat down to the table, and producing a stamp from her purse, affixed it to her acknowledgment of the money. "There," she said, handing it to him, "I think that is sufficient. And now, before I go, there is something else I must speak to you about. When I leave here, I am going straight to the Police Station at Southampton to see the inspector."

"In Heaven's name what for!" exclaimed the perplexed Major.

"Because Mrs. Darrow accuses me of having aided and abetted someone to murder Mr. Barton and steal his will."

"Mrs. Darrow has dared to say that? She is mad!"

"No, hardly mad—malicious," replied Miriam with a faint smile. "But you will hear all she has got to say very shortly. She is sure to come to you with it."

"But I can't understand how such an idea could enter her head. It is monstrous!"

"Let me tell you something," said Miriam. "Not long ago a young man—who for the present must be nameless, save to tell you he is known as Jabez—came down from London to see me here. His object was to obtain from me money to enable him to go to America. This young man and I were brought up together, and I was devoted to him. Years after we met in London. I was in terribly poor circumstances, and he—well, I must confess it, he had reached the lowest depths of dissipation and despair. I was sorry for him even so, and I helped him in the only small way I could. Whenever I had the money to give him he had it. Ever since he has always looked to me for help. He knew I was here and comfortably placed, and he insisted upon coming down to see me. Very much against my will I met him by appointment one evening—it was Christmas Eve—in the churchyard. Mrs. Darrow followed me and overheard my conversation with him. It is upon what she says she heard that she bases this charge. It is of course a very serious charge, and because of this clandestine meeting I feel more strongly impelled than I might otherwise do (seeing the sort of woman Mrs. Darrow is, and is known to be) to take immediate action to clear myself."

"But the facts! my dear Miss Crane—I don't see how——Oh, the whole thing is too ridiculous for words. Now come, you really must leave this to me. I will see Julia at once. This is going a little too far. Believe me, your character will be quite safe in my keeping. I——"

"Yes, yes, I know, Major. You are more than good. But I feel it is a matter in which I should act for myself. I shall go to Southampton and forestall Mrs. Darrow."

"But you will let me know where you are—we shall meet again soon?"

"That I cannot say. You see from Southampton I shall go straight to London. It is very unlikely that we shall meet."

"But, Miss Crane, you must not take yourself away like this. Don't, I beg of you. It is not quite fair on—I mean, at least you will tell me where I may find you in London? Believe me, I——"

"After Mrs. Darrow has said to you all she has to say about me, you may not be so anxious to resume our friendship, Major. Indeed, I sadly fear, quite the contrary."

"Miss Crane! You are unjust—how unjust you do not know. I——"

"Oh, I admit, you have been all kindness to me. But——However, there is my address; come and see me if you will."

She handed him a card upon which were written her name and address. The address was the Pitt Hotel, Craven Street.