 
Transcriber's Notes:
The Crimson | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | A Midnight Surprise. |
| II. | The Writing in Blood |
| III. | An Open Verdict |
| IV. | The Reading of the Blood Signs |
| V. | Mrs.Moxton seeks Counsel |
| VI. | A Fresh Discovery |
| VII. | What the Cabman knew |
| VIII. | A Music-Hall Star |
| IX. | The Austrian |
| X. | A Strange Denial |
| XI. | A Half Confession |
| XII. | Mr. Busham, Solicitor |
| XIII. | Mrs. Moxton's Surrender |
| XIV. | The Pimlico House |
| XV. | What Mrs. Amber knew |
| XVI. | Another Mystery |
| XVII. | A Life History |
| XVIII. | What Really Happened |
| XIX. | The Red Pocket-Book |
| XX. | Busham at Bay |
| XXI. | The Blind Girl |
| XXII. | Janet's Discovery |
| XXIII. | The Beginning of the End |
| XXIV. | The Truth |
| XXV. | A Confession, |
| XXVI. | The End of the Story. |
The Crimson Cryptogram
CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE
"Poverty, naked and unconcealed! One can endure that, with some patience, as a beaten soldier in the battle of life. But genteel pauperism--the semi-poverty of the middle-class, that lives a necessary lie at the cost of incessant worry and constant defeat--there you have the true misery of life. Believe me, Cass, there is no torture like that of an ambition which cannot be attained for lack of money."
"I did not know you were ambitious, Ellis."
"Not of setting the Thames on fire. My desires are limited to a good practice, a moderate income, a home, and a wife to love me. These wishes are reasonable enough, Heaven knows, yet some cursed Fate prevents their realisation. And I have to sit down and wait; a doctor can do nothing else. I must listen with such philosophy as I have for the ring of the door bell to announce my first patient, and the ring never comes. The heart grows sick, the brain rusty, the money goes, the temper sours, and so I pass the best days of my life."
"All things come to him who knows how to wait," said Cass, knocking the ashes out of a well-smoked briar.
"And the horse is the noblest of all animals," retorted Ellis. "I never did find consolation in proverbs of that class."
The two men sat in their dingy sitting-room talking as usual of a problematical future. Every night they discussed the subject, and every discussion ended without any definite conclusion being arrived at. Indeed, only Fortune could have terminated the arguments in a satisfactory manner, but as yet the fickle deity showed no disposition to make a third in the conversation. Therefore, Robert Ellis, M.D., and Harry Cass, journalist, talked, and talked, and talked. They also hoped for the best, a state of mind sufficiently eloquent of their penniless position. Unless they or their relatives are sick, rich people have no need to hope for the best. The second virtue dwells almost exclusively with the poor and ambitious, as do her two sisters.
Supper was just over, but even cold beef, pickles and bottled beer, with the after comfort of a pipe, could not make Ellis happy. The more philosophical Cass lay on the ragged sofa and digested his meal, while the doctor walked up and down the room railing at Fate. He was a tall young man, clean-limbed, and sufficiently good-looking. Poverty and former opulence showed themselves in the threadbare velveteen smoking suit he wore; and the past recurred to him as he flicked some ash off this relic of bygone days.
"O Lord!" he said regretfully, "how jolly life was when I bought these clothes some five years ago! My father had not died a bankrupt country squire then; and I was a rowdy medico, with plenty of money, and a weakness for the other sex."
"You haven't strengthened in that direction, Bob."
"Perhaps not; but I never think of women now--not even of a possible wife. Matrimony is a luxury a poor man must dispense with, if he wants to get on. I have dispensed with every blessed thing short of the bare necessities of existence, yet I don't get any reward. Every dog has his day, they say: but the day of this poor cur never seems to dawn."
"You are more bitter than usual, Ellis."
"Because I am sick of my life. You have some compensations, Harry, in connection with that newspaper you write for. You mix with your fellow-men; you exchange ideas; you have your finger on the pulse of civilisation. But I sit in this dismal room, or walk about this B[oe]otian neighbourhood, in the vain hope of getting a start. I can't rush out and drag in someone to be dosed; I can't go from house to house soliciting patients. I can only wait wait, wait; until I feel inclined to blow my brains out."
"If you did that, Bob, the folly of the act would prove that you have none," said Cass. "Come, old man, buck up; something is sure to turn up when you least expect it."
"Then nothing will turn up, for I am always in a state of expectation. I wish I hadn't set up my tent at Dukesfield, Harry. It is the healthiest London suburb I know: no one seems ill, and the graveyard is almost empty. I don't believe people ever fall sick or die in this salubrious spot."
Cass ran his fingers through a shock of bronze-coloured hair, and laughed at this professional view of the situation. "Haven't you seen any likely patient?" he asked, in his most sympathetic manner.
"Not one!" rejoined Ellis, sitting down and relighting his pipe. "Oh, yes, by the way, that young Moxton."
"Who the deuce is he?"
"A young ass I have met several times in the underground train, and with whom I have had some conversation at various times."
"Why do you call him an ass?"
"Because he is one," growled the doctor; "he is burning the candle at both ends, and killing himself with dissipation. Tallow face, blood-shot eyes, dry lips. Oh, Mr. Moxton is making for the graveyard at racing speed!"
"Why don't you warn him?"
"It isn't my business to meddle with a stranger. I don't care if he lives or dies--unless he takes me as his medical attendant. Even then my interest in him would be purely professional. He is a detestable young cub."
"There is a want of pity about that speech, Bob!"
"Want of money, you mean. I have no pity for anyone save mine own poor self. Give me success, give me an income, and I'll overflow with the milk of human kindness. Poverty and disappointment is drying it all up. Hullo! Come in, Mrs. Basket."
This invitation was induced, not by a rap at the door, but by the sound of stertorous breathing outside it. Mrs. Basket's coming was audible long before she made her appearance; so Ellis, forewarned, usually saved her the trouble of knocking. She rolled heavily into the room, labouring like a Dutch lugger in a heavy sea. Indeed, she was built on similar lines, being squat and enormously stout--so bulky, indeed, that she could hardly push herself through the door. Like most fat women, Mrs. Basket had a weakness for bright colours; and now presented herself in a vividly blue dress, a crimson shawl, and a green tulle cap decorated with buttercups of an aggressive yellow hue. Her unshapely figure, her large proportions and barbaric splendour, would have made the eyes and heart of an artist ache; but as Mrs. Basket's lodgers knew little of art, they never troubled about her looks. Moreover, they liked and respected her as a kindly soul, for on several occasions, when funds were low, she had pressed neither of them for rent. Mrs. Basket was immensely proud of having a medical man under her roof; and always personally polished the brass plate with "Robert Ellis, M.D.," inscribed on it. For Cass she had less respect, as being merely a "writing person;" but she tolerated him as the doctor's friend. Like the moon, he shone with a reflected and weaker glory.
"Lor', gentlemen, how them stairs do try me!" said the good lady, panting in the doorway and patting her ample breast; "they're that steep and that narrer, as to squeeze the breath out of me."
"You'll stick halfway up some day!" said Cass, chuckling, "then we shall have to send for a carpenter to saw you out!"
Mrs. Basket laughed, in nowise offended, and announced that she had come to clear away supper, which she did with much clatter and hard breathing. Once or twice she glanced at the doctor's gloomy face, and blew a sigh with considerable noise. She knew of her lodger's bad fortune, and pitied him profoundly; but not daring to speak, she resumed her work with a mournful wag of the buttercup cap. Ignoring this by-play, which invited conversation, the young men resumed the subject of Moxton. Mrs. Basket, dying to join in, at once espied an opportunity of doing so. The mere mention of the name was enough to set her off.
"Lor', gentlemen, you do turn me cold to my bones. Moxton! Why, the name makes me shiver," and Mrs. Basket shivered duly to prove the truth of her words.
Usually the lodgers did not encourage their landlady to talk, as her tongue, once set wagging, was difficult to stop. But on this occasion her speech was so significant of mystery that Ellis wheeled round his chair to face her, and the reporter on the sofa, with true journalistic instinct, was at once on the alert for news. Mrs. Basket, pleased with these tokens of interest, improved upon her speech.
"He has a wife!" said she, and closed her eyes with another shiver.
"Is that a remarkable circumstance?" asked Cass, drily.
"P'r'aps not, sir," replied Mrs. Basket, with great dignity. "But what that pore young thing suffers the butcher and the baker do know."
"Does Moxton ill-treat her?"
"'Eaven only knows what he do do, doctor. Nobody's ever seen her save the telegraph boy as called after dark, to be met with a carving-knife."
"A carving-knife! This is interesting. Who had the carving-knife, Mrs. Basket?"
"Mrs. Moxton, of course. She is young and pretty, I do assure you, gentlemen, yet she came on the child with a knife in her 'and like Lady Macbeth in the play."
"What was that for?"
Mrs. Basket wagged her head and the buttercups responded. "She told the boy as she thought he was robbers, and came out with the wepping to protect the silver. But it looks like loonatics to me."
"Do you mean to say she is mad?"
"Doctor, I says nothing, being above scandal, But this I do say, as she ought to be mad if she ain't. That Moxton"--Mrs. Basket shivered like a jelly--"goes out night after night, leaving her shut up in that lonely 'ouse."
"Is the house lonely?"
"Mr. Cass, I won't deceive you. It's that lonely as graveyards is company to it. Myrtle Viller they calls it, and it's the larst 'ouse of the row as is spreading out in the brickfield direction. The other villers are unfinished, the contractor as was building them 'aving died with only Myrtle Viller ready to move into. His relatives is a-quarrelling so over his money as they've let the villers be for six months. Mr. and Mrs. Moxton took up 'ouse in the larst of 'em three months come next week, and they're the only pair as lives in that 'orrible lonely road."
As Mrs. Basket drew breath after this long speech and lifted the tray, Ellis put a leading question: "Don't they keep a servant?"
"No, they don't, sir, not as much as a work'us orfan. She is all alone in the 'ouse night after night, as I tells you, and it ain't no wonder as she keeps the carving-knife 'andy."
"Where does Moxton go so regularly?"
"Ah, Mr. Cass, where indeed? P'r'aps the perlice may know."
"Come now, Mrs. Basket, you have no ground for making such a statement."
"Oh, 'aven't I?" cried Mrs. Basket, indignantly. "Why, he's well orf and passes his days indoors doing nothing. 'Ow then does he earn his money? Why does he leave her alone? What's she doing with no servant and a carving-knife? No grounds!" Mrs. Basket waddled towards the door, nose in air, and paused there to deliver a last word: "I shouldn't be surprised at 'earing of a tragedy between 'em. Oh, that dratted bell! And at half-past eleven, too! Decent folk should be a-bed."
The night-bell of Ellis's was ringing furiously, and Mrs. Basket, putting down the tray, squeezed through the door as hurriedly as her unwieldy form permitted. As the tail of her blue skirt whisked out of sight, Cass jumped up from the sofa and smote the doctor's shoulder.
"Here is your first patient, Bob. Fortune is knocking at the door!"
"Ringing, you mean," said Ellis, joking, to hide his agitation.
As he spoke, the voice of Mrs. Basket was heard in wordy expostulation, and a light-footed visitor flitted along the passage and into the room. The new-comer proved to be a woman, young and pretty, bareheaded, and apparently wild with terror. Her entrance and appearance were dramatic.
"The doctor!" she gasped, leaning against the door-post to support her trembling limbs.
"I am a doctor," said Ellis, advancing. "What is it?"
"My husband--my husband is--dead!" She paused with a catching in the throat, then her voice leaped to alto: "Murdered!"
"Murdered!" exclaimed both men, with a simultaneous movement forward.
"Murdered, in the garden! Doctor, come! come!"
"Who is your husband?" stammered Ellis, his wits not quite under control. "What is his name?"
"Moxton! Moxton!" she answered impatiently. "Come, doctor, don't lose time! I am Mrs. Moxton. My husband has been murdered!"
CHAPTER II
THE WRITING IN BLOOD
The long arm of coincidence was startlingly apparent in this instance. Both men were so amazed at the terrible news fitting in so neatly, not only with the subject of conversation, but with Mrs. Basket's prophetic remark when the bell rang, that they looked at one another dumbfounded. Mrs. Moxton stared at their motionless figures with indignant eyes.
"Are you not coming?" she demanded vehemently, seizing the hand of Ellis. "Don't I tell you my husband is dead!"
"I am coming, Mrs. Moxton," said Ellis, hurriedly. "But if he is dead my presence will be useless. This is a case for the police."
If Mrs. Moxton was pale before she became even paler at this last remark, and, shrinking back, spread out her hands with a terrified gesture. "No, no, not the police! Why the police?"
"You say your husband has been murdered," cried Cass, with sudden suspicion; "therefore the police must be called in at once. Who murdered the man?"
"I don't know," murmured Mrs. Moxton. Then his imperious, suspicious tone seemed to stir her indignation. She threw back her head haughtily. "I don't know," she repeated deliberately. "My husband went out this evening. I sat up for him as he promised to return about midnight. Shortly after eleven"--here she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece--"I heard a cry, and thinking something was wrong I ran to the door. There was someone moaning on the garden path. I went to see who it was, and found my husband bleeding to death from a wound in the back. He died a minute afterwards, and I came for you."
"How did you recognise your husband in the dark?"
"I--I had a candle," she replied, in a low voice and with hesitation.
"It's blowing awful," wheezed Mrs. Basket at the door, and the other woman turned towards her abruptly. The landlady's full moon of a face had suspicion written in every wrinkle. "Had you the carving-knife?" she asked.
"The carving-knife?"
"Yes, the same as you frightened the telegraph boy with?"
"I had no carving-knife," returned Mrs. Moxton, haughtily. "What do you mean by these questions?" She turned again to the men and burst into furious speech. "Have I come to a lunatic asylum?" she cried. "You talk, this woman talks, and I want help. Doctor, come! Come at once! And you, sir, go for the police if it is necessary."
Ellis hastily threw on a cap, snatched up some needful things for a wounded man, and followed Mrs. Moxton out of the house. Mrs. Basket and Harry were left face to face with the same thought in their minds.
"What did I say about her 'aving the carving-knife, sir?"
"Yes, by Jove! And her talking of exploring with a lighted candle in this wind!"
"She's afraid of the police, too, Mr. Cass," said Mrs. Basket, in tragic tones. "She's done for him, sir."
"Well--she--might--No," cried Harry, rumpling his hair. "If she was guilty she would not come for Ellis."
Mrs. Basket snorted in a disbelieving manner.
"Oh, wouldn't she, sir? You don't know the hussies women are. That Mrs. Moxton's a deep 'un as ever was."
"Here," cried Cass, rummaging about for his cap, "I'm losing time. I must go for the police at once."
"Come back and tell me if they takes her," shouted Mrs. Basket after him with morbid glee. "I believe she's done it with the carving-knife."
But Cass did not hear her, as the wind was high and he was already some distance away. As he sped along the silent streets storm-clouds were racing across the face of a watery moon, and a drizzle of rain moistened his face. Being a reporter, Cass was friendly with constables, and knew the station at Dukesfield well, having often gone there to glean paragraphs. This time he went to give more terrible and sensational news than he had ever received, and stumbled almost into Inspector Drake's arms in his haste.
"Steady there," said Drake, gruffly, then recognising the agitated face of Cass in the flaring gaslight, he added, in a tone of surprise: "You, sir; whatever's come over you at this time of night?"
"Drake, there has been a murder at Myrtle Villa down the Jubilee Road, leading to the brickfields. A man called Moxton has been stabbed. His wife came for Dr. Ellis, and I ran on to tell you!"
The inspector heard this startling intelligence with a phlegm begotten by twenty years' experience of similar reports. "Who done it, Mr. Cass? Does the wife know?"
"No; she says she heard a cry, and ran out to find her husband dying on the garden path. He died in her arms."
"Did she see anyone about?"
"I don't know. I never asked her. That is your business, Drake. Come along, Ellis is with her and the dead man."
"Oh, he is dead, then?" remarked the inspector, leisurely putting on his cap and cloak.
"So Mrs. Moxton says. Come!"
Leaving the station in charge of an underling, Drake called a policeman, and followed Cass into the windy night. The two, with the constable tailing after them, marched military fashion along several deserted and lampless streets, until they turned into the Jubilee Road, a dark thoroughfare of empty, roofless houses and incomplete pavements. Civilisation had not yet established order in this region, and the street in embryo ended suddenly on the verge of naked lands. Beyond twinkled the red and green signal lights of the railway, and between, piles of bricks were heaped in Babylon-like mounds. Myrtle Villa was the last house on the right abutting on this untrimmed plain; and the three men were guided to it by a winking light in the garden. It was that of a lantern held by Mrs. Moxton, and shed yellow rays on the face of the dead man. Ellis, kneeling beside the corpse, completed a startling and dramatic picture.
"Oh!" cried the woman, with something like dismay, as the light revealed uniforms, "the police!"
"Yes, ma'am," said Drake, glancing sharply at her white cheeks, "we have come to see about this matter. Is the gentleman dead, doctor?"
"I should think so. Look here!" Ellis rolled over the body and showed a wound under the left shoulder-blade, round which the blood had coagulated. "The poor devil must have died within ten minutes after the blow was struck."
"He died in my arms," moaned Mrs. Moxton. "Oh, Edgar!"
"Did he tell you who stabbed him, ma'am?"
"No; he never spoke a word."
The inspector took the lantern from her shaking hand, and swung it round between corpse and gate. The path was of beaten gravel, and no footmarks were visible; but here and there a stain of blood soaked into the ground, and from this Drake drew his conclusions.
"He was stabbed from behind while opening the gate," he said judicially, "and fell forward into the garden. Look at this stain, and this; the poor gentleman had strength enough to crawl these few yards. Wanted to reach the door, no doubt. What brought you out, ma'am?"
"His cry! I was waiting up for him in the back bedroom, and I heard a shriek. At first I was afraid, as this place is very lonely. Then I came to the door with a candle, and ran down the path. Edgar was moaning dreadfully, and died almost immediately afterwards."
"The wind is high, ma'am?"
Mrs. Moxton understood his inference directly. "It blew out the candle," she explained; "but I ran from the door, shading it with my hand, and as there was a lull for a moment, I had just time to catch a glimpse of his face and recognise my husband."
"About what time was this, ma'am?"
"Some time after eleven. I can't say when. I did not look at my watch."
"It was exactly half-past eleven when you entered my house," said Ellis.
"Then Edgar was murdered between eleven and half-past. I wound up my watch for the night at eleven, and at that time I had not heard the cry. I ran all the way to your house."
"That would take five minutes, more or less," said Cass.
"And the man must have lived some minutes after the blow, to crawl this distance," observed the inspector, measuring the space with his eye. "Did you come out at once, ma'am?"
"No!" replied Mrs. Moxton, with some hesitation. "I was afraid. I heard the cry and waited for a time, thinking I was mistaken. It was about ten minutes, more or less, before I summoned up courage to open the front door."
"On the whole," said Ellis, "it would seem that the murder was committed at a quarter past eleven. Well, Mr. Drake, what is to be done?"
"Nothing can be done until the morning," replied Drake. "The man who did this is no doubt far enough away by this time."
"A man!" cried Mrs. Moxton. "Do you think a man did it?"
The inspector was on the alert immediately. "Have you any reason to think that a woman killed him?" he asked sharply.
"I! No. I cannot guess who committed the murder." Mrs. Moxton seemed anxious, nervous, and sorry she had said so much. "Shall we take the body into the house, sir?" she asked in a low tone.
"It will be as well, ma'am, and I shall leave this constable to look after it for the night."
"Thank you, thank you," said the widow, shuddering. "I should be afraid to stay by myself."
"Let me stay also!" said Ellis, moved by her beauty and distress.
"Oh, do, do. Would you mind?"
"I'll stay," replied the doctor, briefly, and assisted the others to lift the body. They carried it up the path, Mrs. Moxton lighting them onward with the lantern. It was a strange and gruesome procession pacing through the black and stormy night; and to imaginative Cass the house and garden, commonplace as they were, reeked of the shambles.
When the body was laid on the bed, Drake gave some directions to his subordinate, and departed with Cass. Ellis and the policeman remained behind, and the doctor's first care was to give Mrs. Moxton a bromide tabloid.
"You are worn out with anxiety and nerves," he said. "I saw that at my house, and so brought these tabloids with me. Lie down and sleep."
"Shall I ever sleep again?" sighed Mrs. Moxton. However, she obediently did as she was told, and then the men turned their attention to the corpse.
It was that of a lean young man with scanty light hair, and a thin, fair moustache. The lines of dissipation, the marks of premature ageing from debauchery, had been smoothed out by death, and the white face was as unwrinkled and placid as a waxen mask. The body was clothed in evening dress, with a light-coloured overcoat, and the constable pointed out to Ellis that the watch, chain, studs and links--all costly--were untouched.
"Robbers didn't bring about this murder," said the policeman.
They undressed the body slowly. As Ellis drew off the shirt, the cuffs of which were dappled with blood, he noticed strange marks on the left arm. From wrist to elbow, on the inner part of the arm, various signs appeared on the white skin. These were rudely streaked with blood, and Ellis afterwards copied them into his note-book, thinking they might be useful later on, as indeed they proved to be.
"What do these signs mean?" he asked the policeman.
"I dunno, sir; but he did 'em hisself. See, doctor," and he lifted the right hand of the corpse.
Ellis looked eagerly and saw that the forefinger of the hand was black with dried blood.
CHAPTER III
AN OPEN VERDICT
Next day the body of the unfortunate man was removed to the Dukesfield morgue, and twenty-four hours later the coroner held an inquiry in the coffee-room of the Lancaster Hotel. Public interest was greatly roused over the matter, and the ubiquitous reporters of the great "dailies"--amongst them Harry Cass--attended, note-book in hand, to supply their readers with sensational details. A rumour--first set afloat by the babbling tongue of Mrs. Basket--was prevalent that Mrs. Moxton had killed her husband with a carving-knife. It was known from the same source that she had lived a lonely life since taking up her abode in Myrtle Villa, that Moxton had neglected her shamefully, that he had left her nightly by herself, and had even denied her the comfort and company of a servant. Hence it was openly declared that cruel treatment and contemptuous desertion had driven Mrs. Moxton to commit the crime. But this theory found no favour in the sight of Dr. Ellis, and he avowed himself the champion of the pretty widow.
"If she were guilty she would not have announced the crime as she did," he argued with Cass. "It would have been easy for her to let the corpse lie on the path all night, and pretend ignorance when it was discovered by the milkman. Also, if she struck the blow she had a whole night at her disposal to vanish into the unknown."
"Flight would have proved her guilt, Bob. Besides, she would have been tracked down on that tacit confession of her crime."
"I don't agree with you. Nothing is known of the Moxtons, as they kept very much to themselves. Hardly anyone saw her or knew her by sight. She could have disappeared like a drop of water into the ocean of London, without leaving a trace for the most cunning detective to follow. Instead of doing this--her wisest plan if she killed her husband--she stays and faces the matter out in all innocence."
Cass produced a newspaper from his pocket. "I can suggest a theory for her remaining. Here"--he pointed to a paragraph in the death column--"three days ago, Edgar Allan Moxton, the great picture-dealer of Bond Street, died, leaving a large fortune behind him. Now this dead man, as I judge from the similarity of Christian and surname, is probably the son of Moxton. If so, he, had he lived, would, no doubt, inherit the money. As he is dead, Mrs. Moxton, the widow, may do so. A fortune is worth running some risk for, Bob."
But the faith of Ellis was not to be shaken.
"The similarity of names may be a mere coincidence, such as occurs more frequently in real life than in fiction. Also, even if you can prove the relationship, it does not show that Mrs. Moxton is waiting for the fortune, or that she is even aware of the death. Give her the benefit of the doubt, Harry."
"I give her much more than the jury will do, Ellis. Public opinion is against her."
"Bah! what do the tinker and tailor and candlestick maker know of the matter?"
"They may not know much now, but they will soon be primed with sufficient evidence to give a verdict. The jury is chosen from the class you mention so contemptuously."
Dr. Ellis knew this very well, and knew, moreover, that rumour spoke ill of the widow. Therefore, it was with some doubt whether she would have a fair hearing that he attended the inquest. By the time he arrived the hotel was so crowded that the people overflowed into the road. The young man pushed his way into the public room and found that the proceedings had already commenced. He glanced round for Mrs. Moxton, and saw her seated near the coroner, clothed in black, closely veiled, and listening attentively to Drake's evidence.
The inspector's testimony was brief and meagre, for the police had, as yet, discovered nothing. He described the finding of the body, the futile search for the weapon with which the murder had been committed, and the failure of his attempt to learn where the deceased had so regularly spent his nights. Nevertheless, the identity of the dead man had been established, for he was the son of a Bond Street picture-dealer, Edgar Allan Moxton. Strange to say, father and son had died within a few hours of one another, the former in the morning from natural causes, the latter shortly before midnight by violence. Finally, Drake stated that hitherto the police had found no clue likely to lead to the identification and capture of the murderer.
"Which shows that the police don't suspect Mrs. Moxton," murmured Ellis to Cass.
The doctor himself was the next witness, and deposed as to his summons by Mrs. Moxton, and his examination of the corpse. Deceased had died from the stab of a broad-bladed knife which had pierced the left lung. The blow must have been struck by a strong arm, he averred, since the blade had penetrated through an overcoat, inside coat, waistcoat and shirt.
"Could a woman have struck such a blow?" asked one of the jury.
"An exceptionally strong woman might have done so," responded Ellis.
All eyes were turned on the trim, slight figure of Mrs. Moxton, and there was a general feeling that the doctor's answer exonerated her from having personally committed the murder. She was of too frail and delicate a physique to have struck home the knife with so sure and deadly an aim. Yet she might have put the weapon into another's hand, for it seemed incredible that she should be ignorant of the tragedy which took place within a few yards of her. When Mrs. Moxton's name was called out, and she stood up to give evidence, those present drew a long breath and waited eagerly for her to speak. Hitherto public curiosity had been languid; now the appearance of the principal witness stimulated it to fever heat. From the dead man's widow, if from anyone, the truth of this strange tragedy should come.
Mrs. Moxton threw back her veil when she took the oath, and revealed a pretty face, somewhat marred by sleeplessness and weeping. She was colourless, red-eyed and low-voiced, but gathering courage as she proceeded, told her tale with great simplicity and apparent truth. The evidence she gave may be condensed as follows:--
"My name is Laura Moxton. I married my husband, Edgar, twelve months ago. He was the son of Mr. Moxton, of Bond Street, and the heir to great wealth. When he met me I was earning my living by typewriting, and although I refused twice to marry him he insisted that I should do so. At last I yielded and became his wife, whereupon his father cut him off with a shilling. Edgar had some money inherited from his mother, and with this we went to Monte Carlo, where he tried to increase his fortune by gambling. However, he was unlucky, and we returned to London in eight months poorer than when we left. For the sake of economy my husband took Myrtle Villa, as he obtained it at a low rental on account of the unfinished state of the road. For the same reason we dispensed with a servant and hired the furniture. I did all the housework, and for want of money rarely went outside the house. My husband was unkind and neglectful, and accused me of being the cause of the quarrel with his father which had cost him his inheritance. It is now three months since we took Myrtle Villa. My husband, for the first week, remained indoors at night; afterwards he went out regularly. I did not know what he did with himself, or where he went, as he always refused to tell me, and his temper became so morose that I was afraid to insist upon his confidence. He always dressed himself carefully in evening dress, and usually wore a light overcoat. As a rule, he returned shortly after midnight. Sometimes I waited up for him, at other times I went to bed. I was often afraid during the long evenings in the house, as it was so lonely and so near the waste lands where the brickworks stand. On the night of the murder my husband went out as usual. It was August 16th. I waited for his return and shut myself up in the bedroom at the back of the house. About eleven I grew tired of waiting and prepared to go to bed. I know it was eleven as I wound up my watch at that hour. I was brushing my hair when I thought I heard a cry, but as the wind was blowing strongly I fancied I was mistaken. Still, the belief was so strong that, after doing up my hair, I took the candle and went to the door. The light showed me someone lying on the path, halfway to the gate I also heard a moan. At once I ran down, shading the candle light in the hollow of my hand. For the moment there was a lull in the wind, and the light burnt long enough to show me that my husband was lying wounded on the path. Then the wind extinguished the light. I took my husband in my arms. He moaned feebly, but could not speak. Then he gave a gasp and died. I was dreadfully afraid, and without waiting to get my hat or cloak, I ran for Dr. Ellis. I saw no one; I heard no one; and I do not know who killed my husband."
"In what position was he lying when you came upon him?"
"On his back. As the light of my candle fell for a moment on his face, I recognised him at once."
"How did you know he was wounded, seeing that the wound was in his back?"
"I saw blood on his shirt-front and coat. Also, his face was so white and he moaned so much that I guessed he was hurt. When I took him in my arms I felt on my fingers the blood flowing from his back."
"Had your husband enemies?"
"I do not know. He introduced me to no one he knew. I lived a lonely life. All the time I was at Myrtle Villa I saw no one but my husband."
"Did you know any of his friends abroad?"
"No. He introduced me to no one."
"Did he ever speak of anyone as having a grudge against him?"
"No. He spoke of himself and his father, but of no one else."
"Did he know that his father was dead when he left the house on August 16th?"
"Not to my knowledge. He said nothing to me. Until I heard Mr. Drake's evidence I did not know myself that Mr. Moxton, senior, was dead."
"Did your husband receive any letter on the day of his death?"
"No. He never received letters, nor did he take in a newspaper. We lived quite isolated from the world. I did not like my position, but I feared to complain, on account of my husband's temper."
"Was your husband's temper such as would provoke enmity?"
"I think so: he had a very bad temper."
"Did he drink much?"
"Yes, he drank a great deal of brandy, and was very morose when intoxicated. When I saw him like that, I used to shut myself in the back bedroom."
"Did your husband treat you cruelly?"
"He neglected me and spoke harshly to me, but he never struck me."
"What were your feelings towards him?"
"I loved him when we married, for then he was kind and good. Afterwards I had no feeling towards him save one of terror."
"On one occasion it is reported that you came to meet a telegraph boy with a carving-knife. Is that true?"
"Perfectly true. But I did not know who was at the door. It was growing dark, and the house was very lonely. I took the knife in case it might be a tramp."
"Did you usually carry the knife to protect yourself?"
"Oh, no! On that occasion I was in the kitchen, and snatched it from the table when the knock came to the door."
"You never went to the door with it on any other occasion?"
"Certainly not. No one else ever came after dark. The tradespeople called always in the daytime. Then I was not afraid."
"For whom was the telegram?"
"For my husband. I did not open it, but left it on the table in the dining-room. He got it when he came home that night."
"Did he tell you what it was about?"
"No. He never mentioned the subject."
"Do you know anything about the marks in blood on the arm?"
"No. I was shown them by Doctor Ellis, but I do not know what they mean, or, indeed, what they are."
"Do they not look to you like secret writing? Like a cryptogram?"
"I don't know anything about secret writing. They look like blood smears to me. I do not understand them."
"Have you any idea why deceased wrote them on his arm?"
"Not the least in the world."
"Did you ever see your husband use a cypher of that kind?"
"Never. I never saw him use a cypher of any sort."
"Did you ever notice marks like them before?"
"No. I know nothing about them."
"Can you throw any light at all on this murder?"
"None whatever. I was amazed to find my husband dying."
"He said no word--no name?"
"He did nothing but moan, and died in a few moments."
This examination, which lasted some considerable time, concluded all available evidence for the time being. On the meagre intelligence to be gleaned from it the jury framed their verdict, and stated that the deceased, Edgar Moxton, had been murdered by some person or persons unknown.
CHAPTER IV
THE READING OF THE BLOOD SIGNS
In these progressive times, the duration of proverbial wonderment has been reduced from nine days to nine hours. The Dukesfield murder case was mysterious and dramatic, yet, even with these elements of popularity, it became stale and out of date within the week. The attention of the masses and the classes was more or less concentrated on the visit of an Eastern potentate, whose amazing jewels, and still more amazing barbarisms, appealed to the popular humour. Moxton's death and the strange circumstances attendant thereon ceased to be commented upon by the newspapers; they faded out of the public mind, and continued to be talked about only in the neighbourhood wherein the tragedy occurred. Yet even in Dukesfield, after a fortnight of discussion, the interest grew languid.
It was just as well for Mrs. Moxton that circumstances stood thus, for, in defiance of public opinion, she still continued to inhabit Myrtle Villa. Her husband's maltreated body was quietly buried in the Dukesfield cemetery, so quietly, indeed, that, save the necessary undertaker and his men, not a single person followed the unfortunate victim to his untimely grave. It is only justice to say that Mrs. Moxton would have done so but for the earnest advice of Ellis. Knowing her unpopularity and its cause, he warned her against thrusting herself forward. Like a wise woman, the widow took the hint, but passionately resented the reason for which it was given. When the ceremony was at an end, Ellis came to tell her about it, and she defended herself to him after the fashion of women, with many words and much indignation. As soon as he could obtain a hearing, the doctor assured her that in his case such arguments were needless.
"I am a firm believer in your innocence, Mrs. Moxton," he declared, in all earnestness, "and you must not trouble about the idle gossip of the neighbourhood. People will talk, and it is just a chance that they did not call you a martyr instead of a criminal."
"It is shameful that a friendless woman should be so abused!"
"You are not altogether friendless, Mrs. Moxton. If you will accept me as your champion, I shall be proud to occupy the position."
The widow looked steadfastly at Ellis, and something--perceptible to a woman only--which she saw in his eyes caused her to lower her own. She replied indirectly, with true feminine evasion,--
"I shall always be glad to have you for a friend, doctor. You have been--you are--very good to me."
But after this speech Mrs. Moxton became reserved and hesitating, finally silent; so that Ellis, aware that his eyes had revealed too much, took his leave in a few minutes. By this time he was conscious that he had fallen in love with the pretty widow, and marvelled that he should lose his heart after three weeks' acquaintance. In the opinion of some, love at first sight is a fallacy, and at one time Ellis had been of these wiseacres. Now his personal experience proved the truth of the saying. Mrs. Moxton was not a supremely beautiful woman, but she had a young and comely face, and an extraordinarily fascinating manner. It was to this last that Ellis succumbed, and he made scarcely any effort to resist its influence. Yet Mrs. Moxton was a woman with a humble--if not a doubtful--past, and there was a slur on her reputation as the widow of a murdered man. Ellis could not help admitting to himself that she was no wife for a struggling doctor, yet, in spite of such admission, he was bent upon marrying her, should the opportunity offer itself. In the meantime he kept his own counsel and told no one--not even Cass--of this new element in his life.
That same evening Ellis and his friend sat down after supper to discuss again their domestic affairs and the state of the exchequer. The outlook was now considerably improved, for Cass had returned with a good piece of news, which he lost no time in imparting to the doctor.
"The gods of things-as-they-ought-to-be have awakened to the injustice of my terrestrial treatment, Bob," he announced gleefully. "I have been made theatrical critic for the Early Bird, and a story of mine has been accepted by the Piccadilly Magazine."
"Good news, old boy; I congratulate you. What is the reason for this sudden discovery of your merits?"
"Moxton's murder, I think. My editor was pleased with the blood-and-thunder report I gave of it."
"Hence he sets you to criticise the drama," said Ellis, drily.
"I suppose so. Perhaps he thinks that if I can describe the murder of a human being I can deal with the slaughter of drama and comedy by incompetent actors."
"The profession would be flattered by your preconceived ideas of their capabilities, Harry."
"Nonsense! I am thinking of extreme cases only. But now that I have a better salary I can help you, Bob. I shall be like the Auvergnat carrier in Balzac's story, and aid a great physician to reach his rightful position for the benefit of humanity."
"Thank you, Harry, but I fear I am not sufficiently gifted to deserve your self-denial. Besides, I have been discovered also."
"What? You have a patient?"
"Yes, a morbid lady with nerves. She saw my name in connection with the discovery of that poor devil's body, and came to see me about her own trouble."
"Nerves and murder. I don't see the connection."
"She did, however," said Ellis, with a shrug, "and asked me to save her life. It is in no danger, as you may guess. She is nothing but an excitable female with too much money and no employment. I wrote her a prescription, humoured her hypochondria, and so pleased her that she departed, pronouncing me to be a charming young man who thoroughly understood her 'system.' She intends to send all her friends to me."
"That's capital," cried Cass, shaking hands with his friend. "Once you get the start you will soon roll on to fame and fortune. I'll meet you on Tom Tiddler's ground, Bob, and we'll pick up the gold and silver in company. Dr. Robert Ellis, of Harley Street, specialist in eye diseases, and Henry Cass, the great, the only novelist! But I say, Bob," added the journalist, "don't degenerate into a humbug, old man."
"My dear fellow, in dealing with women, one must be a humbug more or less. They like it."
"That is true in every case. Women always prefer the graceful humbugs of this world to the genuine, honest creatures. That is why I have not been snapped up by a rich heiress."
Ellis laughed absently, being more taken up with his own thoughts than with the humour of his friend. "Yes, I believe this patient will send me others, and that, sooner or later, I shall scrape together a practice in Dukesfield. In years to come I may even be able to set up as an eye specialist."
"In Harley Street, Bob, in Harley Street."
"In any street so long as I can make a good income. When I become known as an authority on diseases of the eye----"
"You are known, Bob," interrupted Cass, vigorously. "That book on the eye you wrote is well known."
"Stuff! My book fell still-born from the Press. Besides, if it is known, only my medical brethren have the knowledge. I wish to be popular with the masses, Harry, to have a name with them, for it is the public who pay."
"Well, well, that will come. I believe in your future, Bob. You will have all you wish for--an income, a name, and a wife."
"A wife!" Ellis turned restlessly in the comfortable old arm-chair, and laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. "A wife!" he repeated doubtfully.
"Of course; you don't intend to remain single all your days, do you? You must marry, Bob, for a doctor without a wife, a tactful wife, mind you, is like a coach without wheels. I hope, however," and here Harry's tone became serious, "that you will not marry a widow."
"A widow! I don't quite understand."
"Or," continued Cass, inattentive to the interpolation, "or the wife of a man who has met with a violent death."
"Harry, what makes you think that Mrs. Moxton--" So far Ellis proceeded violently, then stopped with the conviction that he had betrayed his secret.
"The cap fits, I see," remarked Cass, pointedly, and shut up in his turn.
For the next few minutes there was an embarrassed silence, neither man being willing to speak, lest a word should act like a spark in a powder magazine. Ellis threw down his pipe, and, as was his fashion when annoyed, took to rapid walking in the limited space of the sitting-room. Cass eased his position on the sofa and waited developments.
"Yes, it is true," said the doctor, in a loud voice, so as to drown opposition. "I am in love with Mrs. Moxton. Now, what do you say?"
"Only this. It is hard enough for you to make a career without seeking for a clog which will prevent you rising in your profession."
"How do you know Mrs. Moxton would prove such a clog?"
"I don't know; I surmise only. I am ignorant of the lady's personality, save from what I have learnt in chance moments. You are in the like position."
"I know her better than you do."
"Possibly. But do you know her well enough to risk making her your wife?"
"I didn't say that I intended to ask her to marry me."
Cass laughed. "That is a quibble. With honourable men a declared passion is always the prelude to marriage."
"But I have not declared my passion," argued Ellis, in vexed tones.
"Not yet, maybe, but you will do so when the time comes."
"After all, Harry, she is a charming woman."
"Charming and pretty, no doubt. But is she the wife for you? Before you can answer that question, you must know her past and whitewash her present."
Dr. Ellis sat down aghast. "Good heavens, Cass! Surely you don't think her guilty?"
"I don't know enough about the case to say," said Cass, meditatively; "but Mrs. Moxton puzzles me, I confess. For instance, she tells lies."
"Tells lies!" repeated the widow's champion, with great indignation.
"Yes, and in the most unblushing manner. At the inquest she said that she took her husband's body in her arms and felt the blood flowing from the wound in his back. Now, it is my impression that she never touched the body."
"How can you prove that?"
"Very simply. When she came into this room she wore a plain black dress, with cuffs of white linen. Now, if she had handled the body and had touched the wound, it is only natural to suppose that those cuffs would be stained with blood. I noticed, however, that they were not."
"But that is all the stronger proof that she is innocent."
"Of the actual murder, maybe, Bob; but it does not prove that she is ignorant of who killed the man. She told lies about the handling of the body, as I said. It seems to me," added Cass, reflectively, "that Mrs. Moxton is shielding the assassin."
"But why should she shield a murderer?"
"Ah, that you must learn from the woman herself. But if she is completely in the dark about the matter, why does she tell falsehoods? Then that cypher, those blood signs on the arm--the dying man wrote them to indicate to his wife the name of the murderer."
"You can't prove that!" cried Ellis, much excited.
"Only by deduction. Why should the man write in a cypher if his wife did not know the cypher?"
"The information, whatever it is, might have been intended for someone else."
"I don't think so. Moxton knew that his wife would be the first to discover his dead body, and wrote the message in cypher for her information. It is only reasonable to think so."
"Mrs. Moxton says she does not know what the cypher means."
"Precisely. She is telling lies and shielding the true criminal."
"How do you know that the cypher contains the name of the criminal, Harry?"
"Because I can read the cypher," was Cass's unexpected reply. "I found out the key yesterday. Look here, Bob." He jumped up from the sofa and, crossing to the writing-table, hastily scrawled two diagrams. "You see," he added, "here is a criss-cross, and a St. Andrew's cross with two letters in each angle which exhausts the alphabet."
Ellis looked at the diagrams with amazement and shook his head. "I am as much in the dark as ever. Explain."
"Well, you use the angles and the central criss-cross square for letters, with an added dot for the second letter. If you wish to write your name, 'Ellis,' in signs, you take the first letter of the third angle in the criss-cross, the two second letters of the sixth angle; the first letter of the square, and the first letter first angle St. Andrew's cross."
"I see, and 'L' being the second letter of the sixth angle you put a dot."
"Of course. If I wrote 'K' I should put no dot," replied Harry, and took a morsel of paper out of his pocket. "Here," said he, "is a copy of the sign on the dead man's arm. The second letter of ninth angle criss-cross: the first letter second angle St. Andrew's cross, and the second letter fourth angle of the same. Do you see? Now take this pencil, Bob, and use the key to turn them into letters."
Ellis did so, and produced three letters on the paper given to him. "'R U Z,'" he read slowly. "What does that mean? Is it a word?"
"I don't think so. There is no word spelt 'Ruz' in any language that I am acquainted with. I believe those three letters are the initials of the man who killed Moxton. For some reason the dying man did not desire to give up his murderer to justice, but at the same time he wished to let his wife know who struck the blow, hence the cypher. Mrs. Moxton can read the meaning, depend upon it, Bob."
"It seems strange," assented Ellis, surveying the letters thoughtfully. "Do you think there are three names here, or only two?"
"I can't say. 'R U' may mean Rupert or Rudolph, but I am in the dark so far. I have discovered the letters, Bob; it is for Mrs. Moxton to explain them to you."
"What about this other sign?" said the doctor, evading a reply.
"Well, at first I thought it was a serpent, but as it has four feet and a wriggle of a tail, I conclude it is a lizard. Mere guessing, you understand."
"What connection can it have with the letters?"
"I don't know. Ask me something easier, or rather," said Cass, with a peculiar smile, "ask Mrs. Moxton. She knows the truth about letters, and lizard and murder. But she won't tell it to you."
"Why not?" asked Ellis, angrily.
"Because, my poor fellow, I firmly believe that the murderer of Mr. Moxton is the lover of Mrs. Moxton."
CHAPTER V
MRS MOXTON SEEKS COUNSEL
Needless to say, Ellis, in his then state of mind, declined to believe that the widow had intrigued with a lover, or had--according to the theory of Cass--armed his hand with the knife. In her evidence she declared that she knew no one in Dukesfield and went nowhere, and this statement was substantiated by Mrs. Basket. The landlady, with feminine curiosity about matters which did not concern her, was as good as a detective, and from the first coming of the mysterious Moxtons to Myrtle Villa, she had watched their movements. Knowing this, Ellis made a few inquiries when Mrs. Basket was clearing the breakfast-table. Harry having already departed to Fleet Street, the doctor was alone, and conducted the examination as he pleased and at his leisure. Mrs. Basket, only too willing to talk, chattered like a parrot, and, indeed, her green dress with yellow trimmings resembled the plumage of that bird in no small degree. She was a gaudy, irresponsible gabbler.
"Bless your 'eart, sir, she didn't know no one," declared Mrs. Basket. "A prisoner in a gaol, that is what she was at Myrtle Viller; not but what she oughtn't to be in a real one. I don't say as that Moxton," Mrs. Basket shivered, "wasn't a brute in his treatment of her, but she did for him as sure as I'm a living woman. She did for him."
"The jury did not think so, Mrs. Basket!"
Mrs. Basket snorted. "A jury of them swindling tradesmen," said she, contemptuously. "What do they know of it? Mrs. Moxton killed him with the carving-knife, and threw it away arterwards.
"How do you know she threw it away?"
"'Cos it ain't in the 'ouse. Yes! you may look, an' look, doctor, but it ain't in the 'ouse. I've bin there and know."
"You have been in Myrtle Villa?" said Ellis, astonished. "Do you know Mrs. Moxton, then?"
"For the sake of law and order and Queen's justice I made it my business to know her, sir. The other morning I went over to offer to buy some of her furniture, 'earing as she was leaving Dukesfield."
Ellis jumped up. "She is not leaving Dukesfield," he denied.
"Oh, that was my idear of getting into the 'ouse," explained Mrs. Basket, complacently. "She said she wasn't, and told me so in the kitching, where it was I wished to be. Then she looked so poorly that I offered to make 'er a cup of tea, and she said I might, asking me questions about the people 'ere in the meantime."
"What sort of questions?"
"Oh, what was thought of her, and if they called her names," returned Mrs. Basket, incoherently. "But I made 'er the tea and she 'ad it. For a few minutes she went into the front parlour, and I looked in all the dresser drawers for the knife, but it wasn't there. No, doctor," repeated Mrs. Basket, with emphasis, "I do assure you it wasn't in the 'ole of that there kitching, though I searched most perticler."
"Someone might have stolen the knife."
"There weren't nobody in the 'ouse to steal it. Not a soul ever went near the viller but tradesmen, and they never got no further than the back door. Sir, I do believe as she murdered him with the knife, and 'id it way arterwards--p'r'aps in them brickfields," concluded Mrs. Basket, vaguely.
"Well, we can't be sure of that. You are certain that Mrs. Moxton had no visitors?"
"Quite, sir."
"And she saw no one?"
"Not a blessed soul save 'er 'usband as she did for. And if you'll excuse me, doctor, I've my work to look arter," whereupon the gossip waddled away with the breakfast tray.
It may appear strange that a cultured man like Ellis should listen to the coarse babblings of an uneducated woman, but he had a reason for doing so. For the sake of protecting Mrs. Moxton it was needful that he should know the gossip of the neighbourhood, and none could so well enlighten him on this point as Mrs. Basket. Several times her openly-expressed conviction of Mrs. Moxton's guilt made Ellis wince, and but for the above reason he would have ordered her out of the room. However, his self-control gained him two pieces of information; firstly, that Mrs. Moxton had received no masculine visitor since her arrival in Dukesfield, and, secondly, that the carving-knife with which the murder--from the nature of the wound--might have been committed, had disappeared. Ellis was now satisfied that the widow had no lover, but he was disturbed over the concealment or loss--he did not know which to call it--of the carving-knife. If no one but Mrs. Moxton was, or had been, in the house, she must know the whereabouts of the knife. For enlightenment on this point, and in order to satisfy his doubts, Ellis made up his mind to call on the widow, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, did so.
Strangely enough Mrs. Moxton not only welcomed him eagerly, but informed him that his arrival was opportune. "If you had not come I should have sent for you," said she, and conducted him into a cheerful little sitting-room all white paint, Chinese matting, and furniture covered with bright-hued chintz.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Moxton? There is nothing wrong, I hope."
"Oh, no! but I want your advice. You are my only friend."
"I am proud of the position, Mrs. Moxton, and I hope you will permit me, as a friend, to ask you a few plain questions?"
The little woman's resolute face grew pale. "About the death?" she murmured.
"Yes! You know that there is a slur on your name in connection with that. As your friend, I wish to remove that slur by assisting you to hunt down the murderer."
It was an odd but true thing that Mrs. Moxton had the same habit as Ellis of walking up and down the room when annoyed. At the conclusion of the doctor's last speech she rose suddenly and took a turn to compose her mind. "It is very good of you to think of helping me," she said abruptly, "but why should you?"
"Because I wish to be your friend, and I know that you are in danger."
"I am in no danger if you allude to this preposterous accusation that I killed my husband. If needs be I can protect myself should the occasion arise."
"By denouncing someone else?"
Mrs. Moxton turned on Ellis with a frown. "What do you mean?"
"Rumour says that if you did not murder Moxton yourself you know who did, and that you are shielding him."
"Him! Oh, I am shielding a man," said the widow, catching at the final word. "Set your mind at rest, doctor, I am shielding no man."
"Mrs. Moxton, why not be candid and tell me all?"
"I told all I knew at the inquest," she replied sullenly.
"Can you swear that you do not know who killed your husband?"
"I was on my oath at the inquest, I tell you," cried the woman, passionately. "I will not swear again--to you."
"Very good," said Ellis, coldly. "I see that you doubt me."
"I doubt you! I trust you more than you think. Doctor Ellis, in spite of what I said to you before, I am surrounded on all sides by difficulties and dangers. One false step and Heaven knows what may happen! I can't tell you all--I dare not. But you are my friend and must help me."
"How can I when you won't confess the truth?"
"If I only dare!" Mrs. Moxton took another turn up the room, and came back to Ellis with a more determined expression on her face. "Listen, doctor! I will tell you what I can. Afterwards you can ask me what questions you will, and I shall reply to the best of my ability. Thus we shall understand one another."
Ellis looked at her trim little figure in the black dress, at the widow's cap on the fair hair, at the candid face beneath it. As has been before stated, Mrs. Moxton was comely rather than pretty, but she had a firmly-moulded chin, a resolute expression on her lips and in her grey eyes, and was, on the whole, a woman of courage and resource. How one so sensible could have tied herself to a brute like Moxton, and could have submitted to neglect and cruelty for long months was more than Ellis could understand. Perhaps it was one of those unanswerable problems of the feminine nature which women themselves cannot explain. Ellis was puzzled, and in the hope of gaining some insight into this apparently contradictory nature, waited eagerly for the promised explanation.