THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS

As Paul expected, the next letter from his father contained a revocation of all that had pleased him in the former one. Beecot senior wrote many pages of abuse—he always did babble like a complaining woman when angered. He declined to sanction the marriage and ordered his son at once—underlined—to give up all thought of making Sylvia Norman his wife. It would have been hard enough, wrote Beecot, to have received her as a daughter-in-law even with money, seeing that she had no position and was the daughter of a murdered tradesman, but seeing also that she was a pauper, and worse, a girl without a cognomen, he forbade Paul to bestow on her the worthy name of Beecot, so nobly worn by himself. There was much more to the same effect, which Paul did not read, and the letter ended grandiloquently in a command that Paul was to repair at once to the Manor and there grovel at the feet of his injured father.

To this despotic epistle the young man answered in a few lines. He said that he intended to marry Sylvia, and that nothing would make him give her up, and that he would not meet his father again until that father remembered that his son was an Englishman and not a slave. Paul signed his letter without the usual "your affectionate son," for he felt that he had small love for this imperious old man who declined to control his passions. So he now, knew the worst. The breach between himself and his father was wider than ever, and he had only his youth and his brains to depend upon, in making a living for himself and a home for Sylvia. Strange to say, Paul's spirits rose, and he braced himself bravely to do battle with fortune for his beloved.

Sylvia, under the charge of Deborah, and escorted by Bart Tawsey, had duly left Gwynne Street, bag and baggage, and she was now established in Rose Cottage, Jubileetown. The house was a small one, and there was not a single rose in the garden around it. Indeed, as the cottage had been newly erected, there was not even a garden, and it stood amidst a bare acre with a large drying-ground at the back. But the cottage, on the outskirts of the new suburb, was, to all intents and purposes, in the country, and Sylvia's weary eyes were so gladdened by green fields and glorious trees that she forgot the nakedness of her immediate surroundings. She was assigned the best room in the small abode, and one of the first things she did was to write a letter to Paul asking him to repair to Rose Cottage to witness the marriage of Deborah and Bart. The handmaiden thought this was necessary, so that she could make full use of her intended husband.

"If he wasn't here allays," said the bride-elect, "he'd be gadding about idling. I know him. An' me getting a business together won't be easy unless I've got him at 'and, as you may say, to take round the bills, let alone that he ought to sleep in the 'ouse in case burgulars gits in. And sleep in the 'ouse without the blessin' of matrimony he can't, my pretty, so that's all about it."

Deborah, as an American would say, was a "hustler," and having made up her mind, she did not let grass grow under her feet. She called on the vicar of the parish and explained herself at great length, but suppressed the fact that she had formerly lived in Gwynne Street. She did not want the shadow of the murder to cast a gloom over her new home, and therefore said nothing about the matter. All the vicar, good, easy soul, knew, was that Deborah had been a servant in a respectable family (whereabouts not mentioned); that the father and mother had died, and that she had brought the only daughter of the house to live with her and be treated like a lady. Then Deborah demanded that the banns should be put up, and arranged that Bart should take up his abode in the parish for the necessary time. This was done, and for three Sundays Deborah had the pleasure of hearing the banns announced which foretold that Bart Tawsey and herself would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage took place.

The future Mrs. Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart produced a snuffy old grandmother from some London slum who drank gin during the wedding-feast, much to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best man to Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was bridesmaid. Mrs. Purr, the grandmother, objected to the presence of black at a wedding, saying it was unlucky, and told of many fearful incidents which had afterwards occurred to those who had tolerated such a funeral garb. But Deborah swept away all opposition.

"What!" she shouted in her usual style, "not 'ave my own sweet pretty to arsk a blessing on my marriage, and she not able to git out of 'er blacks? I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Purr, and you an old woman as oughter know better. I doubt if you're Bart's granny. I've married into an ijit race. Don't talk to me, Mrs. Purr, if you please. Live clean an' work 'ard, and there's no trouble with them 'usbands. As 'as to love, honor and obey you."—And she sniffed.

"Them words you 'ave t' saiy," mumbled Mrs. Purr.

"Ho," said Deborah, scornfully, "I'd like to see me say 'em to sich a scrub as Bart."

But say them she did at the altar, being compelled to do so by the vicar. But when the ceremony was over, the newly-made Mrs. Tawsey took Bart by the arm and shook him. He was small and lean and of a nervous nature, so he quivered like a jelly in his wife's tremendous grip. Deborah was really ignorant of her own strength.

"You 'ark to me, Bart," said she, while the best man and bridesmaid walked on ahead talking lovingly. "I said them words, which you oughter 'ave said, 'cause you ain't got no memory t' speak of. But they ain't my beliefs, but yours, or I'll know the reason why. Jes' you say them now. Swear, without Billingsgate, as you'll allays love, honor an' obey your lovin' wife."

Bart, still being shaken, gasped out the words, and then gave his arm to the lady who was to rule his life. Deborah kissed him in a loud, hearty way, and led him in triumph to the cottage. Here Mrs. Purr had prepared a simple meal, and the health of the happy pair was proposed by Paul. Mrs. Purr toasted them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal, tearful old woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about to open her mouth, in order to explain what she thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs. Tawsey stopped her.

"None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor. "I won't have my weddings made funerals. 'Old your tongue, Mrs. Purr, and you, Bart, jes' swear to love, honor an' obey my pretty as you would your own lawful wife, and the ceremonies is hoff."

Bart performed the request, and then Paul, laughing at the oddity of it all, took his leave. On walking to the gate, he was overtaken by Mrs. Purr, who winked mysteriously. "Whatever you do, sir," said the lean old creature, with many contortions of her withered face, "don't have nothin' to do with Tray."

"Tray," echoed Paul in surprise. "Mr. Pash's office boy?"

"Him and none other. I knows his grandmother, as 'as bin up for drunk two hundred times, and is proud of it. Stretchers is as common to her, sir, as kissings is to a handsome young gent like you. An' the boy takes arter her. A deep young cuss," whispered Granny Purr, significantly.

"But why should I beware of him?" asked Beecot, puzzled.

"A nod's a wink to a blind 'un," croaked Mrs. Purr, condensing the proverb, and turning away. "Jus' leave that brat, Tray, to his own wickedness. They'll bring him to the gallers some day."

"But I want to know—"

"Ah, well, then, you won't, sir. I ses what I ses, and I ses no more nor I oughter say. So good-night, sir," and Mrs. Purr toddled up the newly-gravelled path, and entered the cottage, leaving an odor of gin behind her.

Beecot had half a mind to follow, so strange was the hint she had given him. Apparently, she knew something which connected him with Tray, and Paul wondered for the fiftieth time, if the boy had picked up the opal brooch. However, he decided to leave the matter alone for the present. Mrs. Purr, whom Deborah had engaged to iron, was always available, and Paul decided, that should anything point to Tray's being implicated in the finding of the opal serpent, that he would hand him over to Hurd, who would be better able to deal with such a keen young imp of the gutter. Thus making up his mind, Paul dismissed all thought of Mrs. Purr's mysterious utterance, and walked briskly to the nearest bus-stand, where he took a blue vehicle to the Bloomsbury district. All the way to his garret he dreamed of Sylvia, and poor though was the home he had left her in, he was thankful that she was there in the safe shelter of Mrs. Deborah Tawsey's arms.

It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed out À la Kaiser, and he affected an eye-glass as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully changed individual.

"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.

"It's my voice told you. But now—" he spoke a tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign accent—"vould you me discover, mon ami?" he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.

"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?"

"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, À votre service," and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it.

"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?"

"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked over between us."

"No bad news, I hope?"

"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his usual genial voice, "you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!"

"I have lost the money, certainly," said Beecot, lighting his lamp, "but the wife will be mine as soon as I can save sufficient to give her a better home than this."

Monsieur le Comte de la Tour sat down and gracefully flung open his overcoat, so as to expose a spotless shirt front. "What?" he asked, lifting his darkened eyebrows, "so you mean to marry that girl?"

"Of course," said Paul, angrily; "do you think I'm a brute?"

"But the money?"

"What does that matter. I love her, not the money."

"And the name. Her birth—"

"I'll give her my own name and then we'll see who will dare to say a word against my wife."

Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that of Beecot's, shook it warmly. "Upon my word you are a man, and that's almost better than being a gentleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything from Mr. Pash, and I honor you Mr. Beecot—I honor you."

Paul stared. "You must have been brought up in a queer way, Hurd," he said drily, "to express this surprise because a man acts as a man and not as a blackguard."

"Ah, but you see in my profession I have mixed with blackguards, and that has lowered my moral tone. It's refreshing to meet a straight, honorable man such as you are, Mr. Beecot. I liked you when first I set eyes on you, and determined to help you to discover the assassin of Aaron Norman—"

"Lemuel Krill you mean."

"I prefer to call him by the name we both know best," said Hurd, "but as I was saying, I promised to help you to find out who killed the man; now I'll help you to get back the money."

Paul sat down and stared. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The money can't be got back. I asked a legal friend of mine, and put the case to him, since that monkey of a Pash has thrown us over. My friend said that as no name was mentioned in the will, Maud Krill would undoubtedly inherit the money. Besides, I learn that the certificate of marriage is all right. Mrs. Krill undoubtedly married Aaron Norman under his rightful name thirty years ago."

"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Hurd, producing a dainty silver cigarette case, which was part of his "get-up." "Mrs. Krill is the widow of the murdered man, and the silly way in which the will has been made gives the five thousand a year to her daughter, whom Mrs. Krill has under her thumb. It's all right as I say. But I shouldn't be surprised to learn that there were circumstances in Aaron Norman's past life which led him to leave his wife, and which may lead Mrs. Krill into buying silence by giving Miss Norman half the income. You could live on two thousand odd a year, eh?"

"Not obtained in that way," said Beecot, filling his pipe and passing a match to Hurd. "If the money comes legally to Sylvia, well and good; otherwise she will have nothing to do with it."

Hurd looked round the bleak garret expressively and shrugged his shoulders again. "I think you are wrong, Mr. Beecot. You can't bring her here."

"No. But I may make enough money to give her a better home."

"Can I help you?"

"I don't see how you can. I want to be an author."

"Well," said Hurd, whose British speech was in strange contrast to his foreign appearance, "it's not a bad game to be an author if you get a good serial connection. Oh, don't look surprised. I know about newspapers and publishers as I know about most things. See here, Mr. Beecot, have you ever tried your hand at a detective story?"

"No. I write on a higher level."

"You won't write on a more paying level," replied Hurd, coolly. "I know a newspaper which will give you—if I recommend you, mind—one hundred pounds for a good detective yarn. You apply for it."

"But I couldn't make up one of those plots—so intricate."

"Pooh. It's a trick. You set your puppets in such and such a way and then mix them up. I'll give you the benefit of my experience as a 'tec, and with my plot and your own writing we'll be able to knock up a story for the paper I talk of. Then, with one hundred pounds you'll have a nest-egg to start with."

"I accept with gratitude," said Beecot, moved, "but I really don't know why you should trouble about me."

"Because you're a white man and an honorable gentleman," said the detective, emphatically. "I've got a dear little wife of my own, and she's something like this poor Miss Norman. Then again, though you mightn't think so, I'm something of a Christian, and believe we should help others. I had a hard life, Mr. Beecot, before I became a detective, and many a time have I learned that prayers can be answered. But this is all beside the question," went on Hurd quickly, and with that nervous shame with which an Englishman masks the better part of himself. "I'll see about the story for you. Meanwhile, I am going to a card-party to meet, incidentally, Mr. Grexon Hay."

"Ah! You still suspect him?"

"I do, and with good reason. He's got another mug in tow. Lord George Sandal, the son of Lord—well I needn't mention names, but Hay's trying to clear the young ass out, and I'm on the watch. Hay will never know me as the Count de la Tour. Not he, smart as he is. I'm fly!"

"Do you speak French well?"

"Moderately. But I play a silent part and say little. I shut my mouth and open my eyes. But what I came here to say is, that I intend to find out the assassin of Aaron Norman."

"I can't offer you a reward, Hurd," said Paul, with a sigh.

"Oh, that's all right. The widow, by the advice of Pash, has doubled the reward. One thousand pounds it is now—worth winning, eh?"

"Humph!" said Paul, moodily, "I shouldn't think she loved her husband so much as that."

Hurd's brown eyes shot a red flame which showed that he was excited, though he was cool enough externally. "Yes," he admitted in a careless manner, "she certainly does act the weeping widow in rather an exaggerated fashion. However, she's got the cash now—or at least her daughter has, which is the same thing. The two have taken up their quarters in a fashionable hotel in the West End, and are looking for a house. The old woman manages everything, and she will be one too many for Mr. Hay."

"What? Does he know Mrs. Krill? He said he didn't."

"Quite right. He didn't when the ladies went first to Pash's office. But Hay, on the look-out for a rich wife, got Pash to introduce him to the ladies, who were charmed with him. He's making up to the daughter, even in the few weeks that have elapsed, and now is assisting them to find a house. The daughter loves him I fancy, but whether the mother will allow the marriage to take place I can't say."

"Surely not on such a short acquaintance."

Hurd bent forward as about to say something, then changed his mind. "Really, I don't know—Hay is fascinating and handsome. Have you been to see him yet?"

"No. He asked me, but all these troubles have put him out of my head. Why do you ask?"

"Because next time he invites you, go."

"You warned me against him."

"And I warn you again," said the detective, dryly. "Don't ask me to explain, for I can't. But you go to see Hay when he invites you, and make yourself agreeable, especially to Mrs. Krill."

"Am I likely to meet her?" asked Paul, with repugnance.

"Yes, I fancy so. After all, you are engaged to the daughter of the dead man, and Mrs. Krill—I don't count Maud, who is a tool—is a deucedly clever woman. She will keep her eye on you and Miss Norman."

"Why? She has the money and need take no further notice."

Hurd closed one eye in a suggestive manner. "Mrs. Krill may not be so sure of the money, even though possession is nine points of the law. You remember that scrap of paper found by the maid?"

"In which Norman warned Sylvia against allowing his real name to become known? Yes."

"Well, the letter wasn't finished. The old man was interrupted, I suppose. But in the few lines of writing Norman says," here Hurd took a scrap of paper—a copy—out of his book and read, "'If the name of Krill gets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from the public, I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as I have written'—and then," said Hurd, refolding the paper, "the writing ends. But you can see that Aaron Norman wrote out an account of his reasons, which could not be pleasant for Mrs. Krill to hear."

"I still don't understand," said Paul, hopelessly puzzled.

"Well," said the detective, rising and putting on his smart hat, "it's rather a muddle, I confess. I have no reason to suspect Mrs. Krill—"

"Good heavens, Hurd, you don't think she killed her husband?"

"No. I said that I have no reason to suspect her. But I don't like the woman at all. Norman left his wife for some unpleasant reason, and that reason, as I verily believe, has something to do with his death. I don't say that Mrs. Krill killed him, but I do believe that she knows of circumstances which may lead to the detection of the criminal."

"In that case she would save her thousand pounds."

"That's just where it is. If she does know, why does she double the reward? A straightforward woman would speak out, but she's a crooked sort of creature; I shouldn't like to have her for my enemy."

"It seems to me that you do suspect her," said Paul dryly, but puzzled.

Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "No, but I'm in a fix, that's a truth," said he, and sauntered towards the door. "I can't see my way. There's the clue of Mrs. Krill's past to be followed up, and the hint contained in this scrap of paper. The old man may have left a document behind likely to solve the whole business. He hints as much here."

"True enough, but nothing was found."

"Then again," went on Hurd, "the request for the jewels to be delivered to that sailor chap was in Norman's handwriting and signed with his name."

"A forgery."

"No. Pash, who knows his writing better than any other man, says the document is genuine. Now then, Mr. Beecot, what made Aaron Norman write and sign those lines giving up his property—or a part of it—just before his death?"

"It may have been done in good faith."

"No. If so, the messenger would not have cleared out when Pash started for Gwynne Street. That nautical gent knew what the lawyer would find at the house, and so made himself scarce after trying to get the jewels. This scrap of paper," Hurd touched his breast, "and that request for the jewels in Pash's possession. Those are my clues."

"And the opal serpent?" asked Paul.

Hurd shook his head gloomily. "It's connection with the matter is beyond me," he confessed.

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