 
Transcriber's Notes:
THE SCARLET BATA Detective Story
ByFERGUS HUMEAUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE GOLDEN IDOL," | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | Sowing The Wind |
| II. | Reaping The Whirlwind |
| III. | A Friend In Need |
| IV. | Two Hundred Pounds Reward |
| V. | The Inquest |
| VI. | A Scrap Of Paper |
| VII. | Cupid's Bargain |
| VIII. | A Pleasant Surprise |
| IX. | The Old Romance |
| X. | A Queer Mark |
| XI. | Frank's Story |
| XII. | The Unexpected Happens |
| XIII. | A Quaker Lady |
| XIV. | A Public Clue |
| XV. | A Strange Disappearance |
| XVI. | What Mildred Knew |
| XVII. | The Sealed Letter |
| XVIII. | A Queer Visitor |
| XIX. | A Story Of The Past |
| XX. | A Strange Will |
| XXI. | An Unexpected Meeting |
| XXII. | Miss Cork Explains |
| XXIII. | Balkis |
| XXIV. | Tamaroo Speaks |
| XXV. | Nemesis |
| XXVI. | A Wedding Present |
THE SCARLET BAT
CHAPTER I
SOWING THE WIND
"I say you're a bad lot!"
"And I reply that you're a liar!"
"Take that!"
"Here's the repayment!"
The man who had spoken first went down like a log. He was a red-headed creature, with a rasping voice and an aggressive manner, evidently one of those who bullied his way through the world, for want of a bold spirit to stand up to him. In this instance he found his match, for the handsome face of the young fellow he insulted was sternly set and considerably flushed. After the war of words came the blow from the bully. His fist passed harmlessly by the head of this antagonist, and a well-delivered return blow caught him fairly on the jaw. Then red-head lay down to consider the lesson he had been taught.
"You confounded scoundrel!" said the other, standing over him. "You may be thankful that I don't wring your neck. You're no good in the world that I can see, and would be better out of it."
"Guess you'd like to send him on the journey into Kingdom Come?" suggested a weather-beaten little man near at hand, who looked like a sailor.
"I just would," said the young man, panting. "What does the ruffian mean by making me a target for his brutal wit? He'd leave the world fast enough if I had my way. Lie still!"
This to red-head, who was rising. But the prostrate man did not obey the injunction, having some fight left in him yet. He scrambled to his feet, and rushed with a lowered head at his enemy like a bull. But the other was ready. He skipped aside, and the red-head met the wood of the counter with a sickening thud. This time he dropped insensible. The sailor man knelt beside the defeated. "I guess you'd better skip, Lancaster," said he. "You've done it this time. An' the police are coming."
It was not the police, but the attendants, who forced their way through the crowd in the bar. Seeing this, Lancaster's friend, by name Dicky Baird, and by profession an idler of the West End, seized his chum's arm and dragged him out of the bar by main force.
"No use waiting for a summons," said Dicky, when the two were in the vestibule. "I think you'd better get home, Frank."
The other stared at a poster which announced that a new musical comedy would be produced that night at the Piccadilly Theatre, with Miss Fanny Tait in the chief part.
"I'm not going till I see her," he said, pointing to this name.
"What, Fairy Fan? Why, all the row was about her."
"Because he abused the woman. She's a good sort, and I like her very much. You know I do, but there's no love."
"Not on your part, perhaps, but Starth loves her, and you knocked him down."
"I wish I'd killed him," said Lancaster, between his teeth.
"Don't talk rashly, Frank," said the other, with uneasiness. "If anything goes wrong with Starth you'll get into trouble."
"Malice aforethought," said Lancaster, carelessly. "Pshaw The man isn't hurt. He'll be up and swearing before the play begins."
It seemed that he was right, for a tall, bulky dark man approached with a smile. "Starth's all right," said he, with a nod. "You've swelled his eye a bit, Frank, but that's all. Berry's going to put him into a hansom. And now we'd better get to our seats."
The others assented, and the trio moved into the theatre. As they passed down the steps leading to the stalls, they caught a glimpse of Captain Berry conducting a swaying figure to the door.
"How did the row begin?" asked Dicky, when they were seated.
"Starth said I didn't know who my father was," said Frank.
"Well, you don't, do you?"
"That's neither here nor there. Starth has nothing to do with my domestic business."
"H'm!" said Baird to himself, thoughtfully.
Frank Lancaster was a dark horse, and although Dicky had known him for some years, he was not aware of his private history. Lancaster kept that to himself, and seemed unnecessarily annoyed by the question of Baird. Dicky could see nothing in Starth's remark which should lead to a free fight, though to be sure Fairy Fan's name had likewise been mentioned. However, Frank seemed indisposed to speak, and like a wise man Baird held his usually too-free tongue.
Miss Tait, commonly known as Fairy Fan, was a popular music-hall star, who danced gracefully and sang sweetly. For a salary largely in excess of her merits, she had deserted the halls for the theatre, and to-night was her first appearance in "The Seaside Girl." Hence the large audience and the subdued excitement. At the present moment she was dancing like a fay and singing like a lark, but the three men nevertheless talked all the time.
"Jolly little thing, ain't she?" said Dicky. "She comes from the Californian Slopes."
"Did she pick up those diamonds there?" asked the dark man, who was a Rhodesian called Darrel, and acquainted with stones of price.
"No. Banjo Berry, who is her uncle, gave them to her. He's a rich man, and lavishes his money on his niece."
"Why does he let her appear on the boards, then?" asked Darrel, heavily.
"Ask Frank, here. He's a friend of Berry's."
"I'm not," growled Lancaster, still ruffled by his late encounter. "I can't bear the creature. His niece is worth a dozen of him."
"Is she his niece?" questioned the Rhodesian millionaire.
"Yes. There's no doubt about that. I respect Miss Berry immensely."
"I thought her name was Tait."
"On the bills. In private she's Miss Fanny Berry. Her uncle is rich, but, in spite of that, she's so vain that she likes to appear on the stage. I like her, and--"
"You're in love with her," contradicted Baird.
"A trifle. Anyone would love such a pretty woman. But I wouldn't ask her to marry me."
"No, Starth will do that."
"She won't have him," said Frank, snappishly. "He's a bad lot."
"A very sore lot at present," put in Baird, smiling.
"It's his own fault," replied Lancaster. "Why can't he leave me alone. It's not the first time he's quarrelled with me."
"Because he knows you are a rival in the affections of Fairy Fan."
"Rubbish, Dicky! Don't get that bee in your bonnet. Starth can marry her for all I care. I merely admire her, and only came into contact with her when Berry wrote asking if I could write her a couple of songs. I came and saw, and--"
"And she conquered," said Darrel. "Who is Berry? I fancy I've met him before. If he's the same man, he hasn't any morals."
"We'll say principles," remarked Baird. "Berry's a fiery-tempered Tom Thumb, who talks 'American' slang through his nose concerning an interesting past of a superlatively shady description. 'Been a South Sea blackbirding skipper from the looks of him, and I expect he made his money in that way. Ever met him?"
"Los Angeles, now I come to think of it," said Darrel.
Frank looked up uneasily. "Who is he, anyhow?"
"Don't know," responded the millionaire, imperturbably. "He was running an apple orchard when I dropped across him. Clean shot, too."
Baird laughed. "Sounds like a retired pirate of sorts. But he's on the square now. He and Miss Berry have rooms in Bloomsbury, and go to church and have the entry of some decent houses. Frank knows all about them."
"Only that she's a nice woman and a good woman, and that Berry is a ruffian. He won't let Starth marry her."
"I hope not," said Darrel, darkly. "I've known Starth a long time, and he's a bounder. But he's got an uncommonly pretty sister, as beautiful and sweet-tempered as he is the reverse. Hush! Let's stick to the play; we're talking too much."
Frank certainly couldn't be accused of chattering, as he was rather silent. Even the rattling chorus and the jokes of the low comedian could not banish the frown from his brow. And he became aware that a man was looking at him--a fair-faced, effeminate little man, with light eyes and a deprecating manner. Lancaster, in no very good temper, scowled at the man, who immediately turned away his head. As he did so the first act ended amidst loud applause.
"An eighteen months' run if the other act is as silly," pronounced Baird; "but the management won't keep Fan all that time. She's as freakish as a cat, and her uncle is rich enough to allow her to snap her fingers at the Treasury."
"She _is_ a cat from the looks of her," said Darrel, grimly. "Come out, boys, I'll put up the drinks."
Dicky assented affably, as the night was warm. But Frank remained behind. "I don't want to run the risk of meeting Starth again. He might come back."
"To fetch his sister," said the big Rhodesian. "Yonder she is in a box with an old lady."
"What a pretty girl," said the frivolous Dicky, and departed.
Lancaster raised his glasses, rather curious to see what Miss Starth was like. He beheld a slender, dark girl, as unlike her brother as possible. Plainly dressed in some gauzy stuff, with a string of seed pearls round her neck, she looked about twenty years of age, but might have been even younger. Apparently she had all the unappeasable curiosity of youth, for her dark eyes roved round the theatre with great eagerness. Finally they rested on Frank, and she flushed when she found he was looking directly at her. First she looked away after the manner of girls, then she stole a stealthy glance at the rude young man, and finally became engrossed in conversation with the elderly lady who was her companion. Frank still looked. He was most polite to the sex, but this face interested him so much that he stared almost rudely. Twice their eyes met, in spite of Miss Starth's ostentatious indifference. She coloured, and he--to his astonishment--likewise blushed. There was something about her which took his heart by storm. To be sure he was susceptible where a woman was concerned, but it seemed absurd to be fascinated by a girl after a few league-long glances. Still, she was distinctly agreeable to him. Fairy Fan he admired after the manner of youth, but she was a pink-and-white doll beside this glorious creature who looked like a queen. Where could his eyes have been to admire the fragile charms of Miss Berry, when true beauty was to be found alone in a stately brunette with coils of shining hair, and eyes like fathomless lakes in the starshine? Fan had been Frank's Rosaline; this vision of loveliness was his Juliet, which means in plain English that he had fallen in love at first sight. But, as he assured himself calmly, such a passion was at once ridiculous and impossible. All the same he continued to "behold vanity," until his divinity grew really angry, and concealed herself behind an envious curtain, which shielded her beauty. At once Lancaster became aware of his bad manners.
"Hang it! I should like to apologise," he thought as his friends returned, and then considered dismally that he had quarrelled past all reconciliation with the brother of his angel, and that there was no chance of a meeting.
Starth hated Frank virulently, because Miss Berry openly approved of the young man's good looks and genuine talents. But even before Fairy Fan appeared to enchant a London public, Starth and Lancaster had never been able to meet without snarling at one another like dogs. Frank was not to blame, being good-natured and much too indolent to fight. But Starth snapped at everyone. That he should have so charming a sister was extraordinary. Even Dicky, the most critical of men, thought so. "Ripping girl, Miss Starth," said he.
"I didn't notice," grunted Lancaster, not wishing to have Baird know too much on account of that gentleman's long, long tongue. He might repeat things to Starth, who could find offence everywhere.
The second act requires no description. It was like the first, but slightly more incoherent. Fairy Fan had it all her own way, as the low comedian had not yet had time to invent his part. When the curtain fell on a pronounced success, with Fan standing in the midst of flowers, Baird bustled out to the bar again with Darrel and his chum. It was to discuss the prospects of the play that they went.
Frank did not notice that the neat man with the light eyes was following them. He was taken up with the weather-beaten Berry, who rejoiced over the triumph of his niece. He was a small man, and had a hard face that might have been hewn out of iron-wood. His lips were tightly closed, his eyes were grey and close-set, and he carried himself in a bouncing, aggressive way, which must have cost him many a fight in the Naked Lands where bounce is not approved of. Berry--Captain by courtesy--looked quite out of place amidst civilised surroundings. A pea-jacket, a tarpaulin hat, a streaming bridge and a rocking, plunging tramp ship would have been more in keeping with his piratical appearance. Why such a Captain Kidd should accompany his niece to London and play the part of a sober citizen puzzled a great many people, Baird amongst the number. But Banjo Berry--such was his odd name--always explained profusely, having no call to do so. Whereby the more astute assumed, and not unreasonably, that he had something to hide.
"Well," said this mariner, gaily, "I guess the play's a go."
"A great success," said Frank, so indifferently that the little man looked at him sharply. Lancaster was wont to be more enthusiastic where Fairy Fan was concerned.
"She sang your chanty well," he remarked, following them to the bar.
"First rate," assented Lancaster. "How's Starth?"
"Sent him home in a cab of sorts," replied Berry, still puzzled. "I guess he'll wake up and apologise to-morrow morning."
"Not to me," said Frank, aggressive at once, in spite of the charming sister. "I don't want to have anything to do with him."
"Ah, pistols and coffee for two is your idea of a meeting," was the Captain's reply. "You'd like to see him buzz into the everlasting darkness, I guess?"
Before Frank could reply, his arm was plucked. In the crowd he did not see who it was for the moment. There was a rush of thirsty souls to the bar, and Berry disappeared in the mob. Still the unknown kept his hand on Lancaster's arm, and drew him towards the door with a gentle pressure. Rather surprised, Frank allowed himself to be so drawn, thinking it was one of his friends. But when the crowd grew thin he found himself face to face with the small, neat man.
"Well?" said Frank, interrogatively.
"I'm glad you didn't answer," said the man with the light eyes. "It is dangerous to answer that man."
"Captain Berry. Why?"
The stranger opened the swing door and stepped into the street. He did not even wait for Frank, but walked along the pavement, dexterously avoiding the people as he walked. Taken by surprise by this odd demeanour, Lancaster followed, and managed to catch up with the man as he was turning into a side street which was deserted. "What do you mean?" asked Lancaster, catching the man by his coat. "Who are you?"
The other stopped under a lamp-post, and laughed in an elfish way. "No matter who I am," he said in a precise voice, "but what I am is another and more important matter."
"Well, what are you?" asked Lancaster, more and more puzzled.
"A man who can read faces and hands and tell the secrets of the future," said the other, gravely.
"Bah!" was Frank's disgusted exclamation. "A charlatan."
"Just so. A charlatan. Yet I am sufficiently interested in you to warn you against coming danger."
"Do you know me?"
"No. I don't know your name or your face, nor anything about you. I happened to be in the bar when you hit that red-headed man, and I saw that the little fellow--"
"Captain Berry?"
"Is that his name? Well, he was trying to foment the quarrel. He is your enemy."
"Nonsense! He has no cause to be my enemy."
"That is the worst kind of enemy to have--one who pretends friendship and strikes in the dark. I read your face, sir, and the face of the red-headed man. If you two meet again--" He hesitated.
"Well?" asked Frank, sharply. "If we meet?"
"One of you will die."
In spite of his scepticism Lancaster felt a chill run through his veins at this speech. "Rubbish!" he said, roughly. "Which one?"
"I sha'n't tell you that," replied the unknown. "You may consider my reply rubbish also. But there is that in your face, sir, which hints at coming trouble. Your fate and the fate of the red-headed man are bound up together. Also, there is a woman."
"How do you know that?" asked Frank, thinking of Fan.
"She is a relative of the red-headed man," said the unknown, "and it is probably--" Here he broke off abruptly. "I sha'n't tell you any more. I may be wrong, I may be right, but the signs are there."
"What signs?"
"Good-night, sir," said the man, and passed swiftly away before Frank could retain him. Lancaster walked to his rooms without returning to the theatre. He laughed at the warning, so vague and absurd did it seem. All the same it haunted him, and he had cause to remember the man afterwards. He never saw the seer again, but, as after events proved, undoubtedly the man was no charlatan.
CHAPTER II
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
Lancaster was by way of being a journalist, and managed to struggle along on an inadequate income. He had no influence, and sweated freely for his money. A few far-seeing editors assured him of a brilliant future, but did not seem anxious to assist him to realise their prophecies. No one knew who Lancaster was, or where he came from, as he never spoke of his past. For five years he had been in town, and, unable to do anything else, had drifted into journalism. But in his heart he cherished the notion of startling London with an up-to-date novel. Pending the joy of waking up to find himself famous, he acted as theatrical critic for the _Daily Budget_, a paper which paid the lowest prices for the best procurable talent, and eked out his income with stray articles. Occasionally he wrote verses, and in this way had made the acquaintance of Fairy Fan, who had read some of his attempts in the papers and thought that he might compose words fit for her rosy mouth to sing.
She took a fancy to him, for he was handsome and well-bred. But even Miss Berry, pretty and astute woman as she was, could not learn anything of Lancaster's past, cleverly as she tried to find out. Her uncle, using coarser methods, tried also, but failed likewise. Only to one man had Frank unbosomed himself, and that was to Eustace Jarman, who had first extended to the lonely young man a helping hand. A memory of Starth's words made Lancaster wonder if Jarman had revealed anything, and he would have sought out his friend to ask him directly had not Jarman dwelt in Essex. However, Frank concluded that Starth had merely made the remarks about his parents in a casual way, and without any real knowledge, so he dismissed that matter easily from his mind.
But he could not so easily dismiss the memory of the quarrel, especially as the charming face of Miss Starth floated persistently before his mental vision. Jarman had introduced Frank to Starth three years before, and the two men had never got on well together. By mutual consent they avoided one another, until Miss Berry brought them together to quarrel over her beauty. Starth thereafter became more and more insulting, until his behaviour resulted in the row of the previous night. Had Frank not seen the beautiful sister he would not have cared much, having small regard for the brother. As it was, he felt depressed the next morning, seeing in that final quarrel an insurmountable barrier to making acquaintance with his divinity.
Being in this frame of mind he was both surprised and pleased to receive a note from Starth asking him to call that afternoon between four and five. It seemed that Starth wished to apologise as he had gone rather far--so he stated in his note--on the previous night. Lancaster was astonished that Starth should behave thus reasonably. The action was unlike him. But as the olive branch was held forth, and as there was a chance of meeting the sister, Lancaster decided to accept. No answer was required, so Starth evidently expected him to come. Frank finished his work for the day, and went to his rooms to dress himself more smartly. If Miss Starth were to be present he wanted to appear at his best, but if she were not--
It was at this point that Lancaster sat down to consider. How did he know that the note might not be a trap? He thought it strange that Starth should come forward in this way, and at a second meeting the man might try to revenge himself for his punishment. A black eye is not forgiven easily by any man, and Starth was the last person to let bygones be bygones. Then, again, if there was to be trouble Miss Starth would not be there, and the careful dressing would be wasted. Lancaster was no coward, but he did not wish to accentuate his bad relations with Starth. He had half a mind to send round stating that he could not come, but the hope that, after all, his divinity might be present, decided him to go. Having made up his mind he completed his toilet, and ended by stowing away a pistol in his hip pocket. It was a loaded Derringer, which Frank sometimes took with him when he went round the slums on dangerous business connected with his journalistic work. On the present occasion it was taken merely to intimidate Starth should he have arranged a trap.
"The man's a coward," thought Frank, as he issued forth into the July sunshine, "so if he threatens in any way I can show him the pistol if necessary. I'd rather use my fists as I did last night, but for all I know he may have a revolver handy. It's as well to be on the safe side."
All the same he rather despised himself for this precaution, and twice was on the point of returning to his room to discard the weapon. Still, Starth was a dangerous man, and might use something lethal only to be met with by a revolver; and if nothing happened no one would ever know that he--Lancaster was thinking of himself--carried a pistol. In spite of his experience of life, Frank was callow in many ways, else he would not have armed himself in so unnecessary a manner.
Starth lived in a South Kensington side street, a blind alley where the houses were small, and each was fronted by a weedy garden. Lancaster found himself after a brisk walk--he never took a cab unless forced to, and disliked a 'bus ride--facing a blank, dismal house of two storeys with green shutters. It had not been painted for years, and the front was blistered, weather-stained, discoloured, and generally dilapidated. Some attempt had been made to cultivate the patch of ground in front, but, beyond rearing a few marigolds and pansies, the attempt had not been successful. Up a path bordered by oyster shells, Frank advanced to a rustic porch of green latticework, entwined with dusty creepers, and rang a jingling little bell whose shrill summons he could hear. While waiting he casually noticed that the right-hand window was slightly open, although the blind was pulled down. Before he could observe further, the door opened so suddenly that it almost seemed as though the person behind had been waiting in the passage.
The person was a small sluttish servant, with gooseberry eyes and a pasty white face. She was attired in her best blue dress, and wore a large picture-hat trimmed with more flowers than adorned the garden. Also she had on gloves, and carried a yellow umbrella. As soon as she saw Frank she burst into voluble speech.
"Yer the gent as wishes to see Mr. Starth, and I am glad to see you, sir, for he said as you was goin' to be 'ere at four, it now bein' half-past, and I'm goin' out, my young man waiting for me. This way, sir, and please be quick, as I am in a hurry. Missus 'ave gone out too, but the tea's all ready and the kettle on the fire."
Almost before she finished this incoherent address, she conducted the astonished Frank up a stuffy staircase, and into a front room. Hastily shoving him into this, she banged the door, and hurried away, presumably to meet her young man. Lancaster, puzzled by this reception, and by the mean look of the room in which he found himself, halted at the door, waiting for his host to speak. Starth was sitting in an armchair by the window, with a book. He threw this down, and advanced to his visitor with outstretched hands.
"I'm glad you've come, Lancaster," he said, eagerly. "I am so ashamed of myself that I hardly know what to say."
"Say nothing more," said Frank, laying aside his hat and cane. "I am only too glad to come to an understanding. I can't comprehend why you quarrel with me."
"Jealousy," said Starth, quickly, and sat down.
"Of me and Miss Berry? Well, you needn't be. I don't love her."
Starth pulled down the blind so as to prevent his discoloured eye showing up too badly. "I thought you were to marry her?" he remarked.
"Certainly not. Such an idea never entered my head. Who said so?"
"Captain Berry."
Frank looked puzzled, then laughed. "I should have thought Berry more ambitious for his niece. I haven't any money."
"That's just it," said Starth, slowly. "If you are poor, how did you come to give her those diamonds?"
"I never did. I heard you gave them to her."
Starth laughed, and glanced round the stuffy room. "Would I live in this dog's kennel if I could afford such stones?" he said. "My dear Lancaster, I'm desperately hard up. Between my sister and myself there is enough to live on, no more."
"I saw your sister last night," said Frank.
"Yes. She lives in Essex, but happened to be in town, so I got her a box. She went back this morning with Mrs. Perth."
"Is that the lady who was with her?"
Starth nodded. "She and my sister live together in a small cottage at Wargrove. But I needn't bore you with my family history. I want you to accept my apology."
"I do, Starth. But why did you mention my parents?"
"It was the only thing I could think of."
"To make me angry, I suppose? H'm! You know nothing about me."
"No. Is there anything interesting to know?"
"I fear not," said Lancaster. "My story is a dull one. Still, I thought that Jarman might have said something."
"He said nothing. I never asked about you," responded the other, quickly. "Fact is, Lancaster, I don't think you and I ever got on well together. My fault, I'm afraid, as I have such a bad temper. I am jealous, too, as I love Miss Berry and want to marry her."
"You can, for all I care," said Lancaster, quietly. "I did admire her greatly, but I never had any intention of marrying her. As to the diamonds, who told you that I gave them to her?"
"No one directly. But Berry hinted--"
"Why should he hint?" said Frank, thoughtfully. "He knows I'm as poor as the proverbial church mouse. Do you think he wants me, or expects me, to marry his niece?"
"Yes, I do," said Starth, promptly; "and that was why I grew jealous."
"Then I can't see his reason. I have no money, no position, and no influence. Miss Berry doesn't love me--"
"The Captain says she does," said Starth, quickly.
"Oh, that's rubbish! She likes me because I write her songs, and we get on well together. As for love--" Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"Have you never been in love, Lancaster?"
Frank grew red and shook his head, looking down meanwhile. Starth's jealous eyes followed his every movement, and he eagerly waited for an answer. But none came. Frank could not bring himself to say that he had fallen in love with a girl he had seen but once, and to say it to her brother. In place of gratifying Starth's curiosity he changed the subject. "What a queer servant that was who admitted me," he said. "She was quite angered because I had delayed her appointment with her young man. Had I known, I'd have been punctual."
"It's Tilly," said Starth, carelessly. "A queer creature, as you say--a London slavey of the regular type. I believe Mrs. Betts--that's my landlady--gets her cheap from a workhouse. I let her go to see her young man because Mrs. Betts, who keeps her well in hand, is away at the wedding of some cousin or another. I've got all the house to myself till nine o'clock. But, I say, let's have tea."
Frank made no objection, as he was thirsty, and Starth went down to get the hot water. Pending his return Lancaster strolled about the room, and looked at the photographs. There was one of the beautiful girl he had seen on the previous night, and he nearly stole it. Also he was taken with a gorgeous portrait of a tall, thick-lipped negress, which had an Arabic inscription written at the foot. "Who is this, Starth?" asked Frank, when his host returned with the tea-tray and a kettle of hot water.
Starth glanced at the photograph. "A girl called Balkis. I believe she comes from Zanzibar. I met her at the Docks when I was exploring an opium den."
"H'm! She looks as though she had a temper."
"She has. Took a fancy to me, and gave me her picture, with that writing. It's something about Allah and good luck, I believe. I saw her a good many times at that opium shop. She runs it, I believe."
Lancaster sat down while Starth made ready the tea. It struck him, from these remarks, and from a certain strange odour in the room, that Starth smoked opium. Perhaps the drug was accountable for his queer tempers and utter disregard of decency. Frank began to be rather sorry he had quarrelled with the man, since, if he smoked opium, he was to a certain extent not accountable for his actions. Starth, with his swollen face and discoloured eye, looked queer and grim, and had a haggard look about him which hinted at excess of some sort.
"Here you are," said Starth, passing along a cup. "Do you take sugar Or perhaps," he added, as he handed over the basin, "you would like a drink of whisky?"
"Tea's good enough for me," said Frank, sipping. "Well, Starth, I'm glad we've come to some sort of understanding. I hate rows."
"So do I, but jealousy always makes my blood boil."
"But, you see, you've no cause to be jealous."
"I can see that now. But Berry kept hinting that it was an arranged thing between you and Fan."
"H'm! I'll have a talk with him. He's no right to make false statements of that kind. I wonder what his game is. I'm certainly not a desirable match for his niece, putting aside the fact that she doesn't care two pins for anyone but herself."
"Are you sure of that, Lancaster?" said Starth, with rather an anxious look. "I'm mad about her, and want to marry her."
"I shouldn't like Banjo Berry for a connection myself," said Lancaster, setting down his cup. "What a strange taste that tea has."
"They never clean the kettles here," said Starth, hastily. "It's smoke or fur inside the kettle, or something. My tea tastes bad also."
Frank refused another cup, and smoked a cigarette while Starth related his feelings for Fairy Fan in detail. Also he mentioned that he hoped to see much of Lancaster, and that he should like to introduce him to his sister. This last remark made Frank's heart leap with joy, but somehow he could not find words to thank his host. Starth seemed to recede a long way, and his voice sounded like that of a phonograph. Lancaster tried to rise, but sank back in his chair drowsily. He felt sure that there was foul play, as he saw faintly the man lean forward to scrutinise him. But his brain was clouded, his speech was thick, and wave after wave of something deeper than sleep poured over him. His last thought was something about opium being in the tea, but he could not put this into words. After that last effort of the mind to overcome the lethargy his head fell back, and he became unconscious.
In after days Frank never could be got to tell his dreams. The mere memory of them would make him shudder. Far away in the land of sleep he wrestled with unknown foes, and passed a time of sheer agony not to be paralleled by any experience of the waking hours. He seemed to have slept for centuries when he came to himself on the sofa, with a furred tongue and an aching head. There was a faint light in the room as the blinds were up, and for a few minutes the young man, still half stupefied with the drug, could not grasp the idea of his whereabouts. Then after an effort or two at thought, his self-consciousness came back with a rush. He rose slowly and staggered into the centre of the room, only to stumble over a body.
It _was_ a body, for he fell on top of it. His memory became clearer with the horror of the discovery. He remembered his visit, the empty house, the drugged tea, and, recalling his dread of foul play on the part of Starth, he slipped his hand round to his hip-pocket. The Derringer was gone. When he made that discovery, Frank leaped to his feet with a strangled cry. By this time he had his wits about him; but still remained a vague fear of the thing on the floor.
His frock coat had been removed and cast on the carpet beside the sofa. He found it by the feel, and obtained a match out of the ticket-pocket. Striking this he bent over the dead. It _was_ Starth. "Great Heavens!" said Frank, under his breath. "Starth--dead--shot!"
Assuredly shot, for there was a small hole under the left eye. The bullet must have passed into the brain, killing the poor wretch instantaneously. As the match flickered out, Frank was left alone in the half-gloom beside this dead thing, trying to think how the poor wretch had come by his death. Then it dawned anew on him that his pistol was gone, that the man had been shot. Who had slain him? What revolver had been used? The first question he could not answer, but the second answered itself. Since his weapon was gone, it assuredly had been used to commit the murder.
But was it murder? What about suicide? Frank tried to argue the case. As he did so, the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. The sudden tingle of the bell set his blood leaping. He recalled how Starth had expected Mrs. Betts and Tilly back at that hour, and making a dash for his coat, he hastily struggled into it. He must not be found here with the dead man. The row on the previous night, his foolish words, his weapon, his being alone in the house with a man with whom he was well known to be on bad terms--all these things would weave a rope to hang him. Realising his danger with a gasp, Frank lighted another match, and found cane and hat. But he had no more matches, although he desired to search for the Derringer. All he wanted now was to get away, and he hastened down the stairs in a state of agony, the perspiration standing on his brow, and his heart in his mouth.
There was no difficulty in opening the door. He closed it again, and went down the path, through the gate, and on to the road. Here a street-lamp threw a strong light. Under it stood a girl and a young man. "My, sir!" said Tilly, catching sight of his face, "you have been a time with Mr. Starth. I 'ope he ain't angered. He--"
Lancaster waited to hear no more, but walked rapidly down the lane, he knew not whither. All he wanted was to get away from the gallows, from the dead.
CHAPTER III
A FRIEND IN NEED
Popular prejudice regards Essex as a damp, marshy flat, inhabited by mosquitoes, rheumatic yokels, and children of the sea-mist. But Eustace Jarman dwelt on a far-extending plateau, whence from his study window he surveyed Tilbury, Gravesend, the mouth of Thames river, and vast tracts of meadow-lands divided into irregular squares by erratic hedges. His home was three miles from the nearest railway station as the crow flies, and, being cut off from civilisation, by acres of furze-grown common, was as isolated as his misanthropic soul could desire.
Jarman had the reputation of being a solitary man, and those who knew him in literary circles hinted at the destroying influences of the inevitable woman. But Eustace never explained. After a journalistic career in town he disappeared into the Essex wilds, and devoted himself to writing music-hall sketches, short tales, and articles on countries he had visited. As he had been round the world twice or thrice, and knew the manners and customs of various peoples, he was well paid for his contributions. The cost of living at Wargrove was nil, and Jarman was supposed to be saving money. At times he would vanish into the Far East, or seek South America when there was a chance of trouble between tin-pot republics, but he always returned to his Essex plateau, to live a hermit's life. Miss Cork waited on him, and looked after his simple needs, and Miss Cork mentioned frequently that he was the queerest gent she ever set eyes on.
"The Shanty," as he called his place, was an old farmhouse, buried amongst elm and oak trees, and surrounded by an orchard and a flower garden, all more or less in ruins. Jarman would not allow the place to be tidied up, as Miss Cork suggested, loving better the eccentric untrimmed look of his property. The hedges grew sprawling at their own sweet will, long grass flourished up to the very door, and poppies, sun-flowers, and straggling rose-trees showed above this miniature jungle. Eustace possessed three rooms, two of which were occupied by beds for himself and any chance friend, and a third apartment, large and airy, which served as a study, a dining-room, a smoking-room, and a parlour. In this last were collected trophies of Jarman's travels, ranging from Japanese curiosities to South Sea oddities. Books also--but these were everywhere, and overflowed from the study into the passages, into the hall, up the stairs, and in some degree into the bedrooms. Everywhere there was a scent of tobacco smoke, and Eustace loafed about in flannel bags with an old shooting jacket and a worn cricketing cap on the back of his head.
The house was not very large, and Jarman was over six feet. But he moved with a dexterity remarkable in so huge a man, and was as handy as a woman in looking after his housekeeping. Miss Cork lived at the back, and merely acted as lieutenant in carrying out her master's orders. When she wished to introduce feminine innovations Eustace protested. He loved his savage bachelor life and his hermit-crab shell too much to desire new-fangled customs. Extra civilisation, especially of the womanly kind, meant extra work, and Eustace was a lazy man.
It was a wet July night when Lancaster sought this refuge. All day it had been raining hard, and Jarman was just thinking of putting on his waders for his usual walk, when Miss Cork entered to announce a visitor. On her heels followed Frank, and Eustace stared when he saw him. The stare was excusable, for Lancaster appeared in a silk hat, a frock-coat, and patent-leather boots. He was mired with clay from the roads, torn by the furze of the common, and dripped like an insane river-god. Also, without invitation, he collapsed into the nearest chair, while Jarman's jaw fell still lower at the sight of his white face, his clenched mouth, and his glassy eyes. Miss Cork, half blind, saw few of these things, but she withdrew to the kitchen to soliloquise on the costume of the visitor, inappropriate alike to the weather and the country. Meanwhile Jarman, behind closed doors, continued to stare.
"What is the matter?" he asked at last.
"I caught the last train from Liverpool Street," explained Frank, in faint tones, "and walked across the Common. I'm dead beat. Give me a whisky and soda."
Jarman supplied this refreshment speedily, and again demanded explanations. "But you'd better get into a dry kit before you make 'em," said he, bustling about. "What a crazy rig to negotiate the country in. Been drinkin'?"
"Do I ever drink, you ass?"
"Not your style, I know, but that's the sort that generally goes a mucker in the end. Cut into my bedroom and I'll hand you out a few things. Hang it, man, hold up!"
Lancaster, who had lurched against the big man's shoulder, pulled himself straight, and tried to smile. Jarman could see that the poor young fellow was on the verge of hysterics, being overwrought, and quite broken down. Therefore he spoke roughly to brace the slack nerves. With a few choice expletives he chased Frank into the bedroom, made him strip to the skin, and after a thorough towelling, saw him inducted into a pair of flannel trousers and a faded blazer, together with a woollen shirt and a pair of old slippers. Then he demanded if Frank was hungry, and led him back to the parlour.
"No, I'm not hungry," said Frank, dropping into a chair near the fire, for Eustace approved of a fire when the rain fell; "but another whisky--"
"Not a bit of it. You'll get squiffy. You must eat!"
"But I want to tell you--"
"Later! Later! Meantime, bread and meat."
Jarman looted the kitchen, and, having sent Miss Cork to bed, boiled the kettle and returned with a tray. This he placed before his guest, and stood over him while Frank forced ham and bread down a most unwilling throat. Then he gave the young man a pipe, mixed him a second glass of whisky of the weakest description, and demanded explanations.
"I can give them in one word," said Frank, now more composed. "Murder!"
Jarman stared again, and whistled. Then he went to see that the door was closed, and returned to his seat. "Who have you been killing?"
"No one. But I'm in danger of being accused. I am innocent--I swear I am innocent, Eustace?"
"All right, old man," replied Jarman, patting his junior on the back. "I know you wouldn't come to me if you were guilty."
"If I were, would you shelter me?"
"H'm! Depends upon the kind of murder. I don't mind a fair fight sort o' killing. 'Fact, I've shot a man or two myself in the Great Waste Lands."
"But I didn't shoot Starth. I really didn't."
"Starth! What, is he--"
"Dead! Dead! Shot dead. But not by me--not by me."
Eustace chewed his pipe, and stared into the fire, pulling hard. He appeared to be worried.
"Poor girl!" said he at length.
Frank understood on the instant. "Does she love her brother?"
"Do you know her?" asked Eustace, without looking up.
Lancaster shook his head. "I saw her last night at the theatre. Her brother insulted me, and asked me to see him to-day, as he wanted to apologise--"
"Wait!" Jarman threw up his hand. "The whole truth, if you please."
"I'm telling the truth, if you will only listen."
"Apologising doesn't sound like Starth," objected Eustace.
"I thought so when I got his note, and I am convinced now that his invitation was a trap."
"To have you shot?"
"How do I know?" He was shot himself.
"By whom?"
"I can't say. I was lying in a stupor when it happened."
"Drugged--with opium?" hinted Jarman.
"Yes. Did you know that Starth--"
"All along." Jarman placed the tips of his fingers together. "See here, Frank, I know Miss Starth very well. She lives here with an old lady called Mrs. Perth. Their cottage is only a stone's throw away from my diggings. I met the brother there in the long ago, and--"
"And introduced him to me. I wish you hadn't."
"It's too late now, seeing that the man's dead, to raise objections. I never approved of Walter Starth. A bad lot--a very bad lot. He never liked you. I don't know why. But I didn't think it would come to this."
"Jarman"--Frank started from his seat--"you don't suppose--"
"Sit down, you ass." Jarman pushed Lancaster back into his chair. "I wouldn't take things so quietly if you had killed him. Barring that, I'm glad the man's out of the world. He was no use in it."
"My own words--my own words!"
"When and where?"
"At the Piccadilly Theatre last night. I shouted them in the bar after I knocked him down."
"H'm! Shouldn't talk like that, Frank, it's foolish."
"I know it is. I'm in a fix, that's why I come to you."
"Well," said Eustace, refilling his briar, "the best thing you can do is to tell me everything from the start.
"Where am I to start from. You know about Fairy Fan?"
"Yes; and about Starth's love for her. He looked upon you as a rival, and the knowledge didn't increase his liking for you. Well?"
Frank straightened himself, and forthwith delivered a succinct account of all that had taken place, from the encounter on the previous night to his leaving the house in Sand Lane, South Kensington.
"I took the Underground to Liverpool Street and caught the down train by the skin of my teeth. I didn't even return to my diggings, as I was afraid of being arrested. I'm a marked man now, Eustace. The police will hunt me down. And I am innocent."
"Why didn't you give the alarm when you found Starth dead?"
"Man alive, that would have delivered me into the power of the law."
"I know that. Just asked the question to see what you'd say. H'm! It's a nasty case for you. The circumstantial evidence--"
"I know--I know. Who knows better than I?" Frank rose to pace the room anxiously. "I spoke foolishly about Starth being better out of the world, at the theatre. I took my pistol with me--I was alone in the house with him!--that servant saw me leave, and I daresay noticed my agitation. Jarman, it's awful. I don't see how I'm going to get out of the danger. They'll hang me."
"Steady, old man. They won't hang you. I won't let them."
"Then you'll help me to get out of the country?"
"No. If you cut, you'll surely be caught. By to-morrow every seaport in the kingdom will be watched. You must stay here."
"But I'll be traced."
"I don't think so. Plenty of men go up and down on this line in frock-coats and tall hats. I don't suppose anyone took particular notice of you."
"The train was crowded."
"All the better. There's safety in a crowd. No, Frank, don't leave England. Stop here, and I'll fix you up some sort of disguise. The very daring of the thing may be your salvation. The police will never think that you will remain so near town. I'll make things safe with Miss Cork, and she's the only person who has seen you. When we get time to turn round we can sift matters out."
"What a good chap you are, Jarman!"
"Nothing of the sort. If you were guilty I shouldn't chance the risk of being an accessory after the fact. As it is, I'll see you through the business. It's a nasty affair, there's no denying that. I expect the sister will come over to-morrow to ask for my assistance."
"Oh!" Frank jumped up nervously. "Do you think she'll recognise me?"
"Of course not. She only saw you once, and that at a distance, Besides, I don't suppose she inquired your name. Finally, as I intend to disguise you, she won't guess that anything is wrong. You work the typer?"
"Yes."
"Good! Then you'll stop here as my secretary. I'll dictate, and you'll work the machine. With your moustache cut off, dyed black hair, a stained face, and a pair of goggles for weak eyes, no one will recognise you."
"But no one hereabouts knows me, except Miss Starth, and she only saw me in the glare of the electrics for a few minutes."
"Frank, you're an ass! The _Police Gazette_ will have a full description of you. Everyone will be on the look-out. Thank Heaven, you're of the commonplace type. Pink and white, fair hair, blue eyes, well-groomed, military figure, and all the rest of it."
"How will my blue eyes match black hair?"
"We'll say you're Irish, and you can fix up a brogue. Trust me. I've been in several holes myself, and know how to get out of the deepest."
"But, Jarman, who do you think killed the man?"
"I can't say that until I know more. The reason is to be found in Walter Starth's past. He has sown the wind pretty freely, and I can hardly wonder at his reaping this whirlwind."
"Do you think he intended to trap me?" asked Lancaster.
"Yes. He's not the man to apologise. And the house being empty on that evening shows that Starth was up to some trickery. Maybe he intended to kill you. However, he never intended to die himself."
"How do you know? He may have committed suicide."
"Bosh! Starth was the last man in the world to have such an idea. He wasn't cowardly enough. I will say that. Besides, if he wished to commit suicide he would scarcely invite you to see him do it."
"I don't know. He might have left a letter saying I shot him, and then got out of the world to hang me."
Jarman shrugged his huge shoulders. "That's an extreme measure of revenge. If he wanted to get you into trouble, he would certainly like to be present to see how you took your gruel. Another thing, from what you say, your pistol was used."
"I think so. At all events, it was taken from my pocket."
"H'm! He searched you. Anything else missing?"
"The note in which he asked me to call."
"That proves Starth set a trap. I think--no I don't; I can't deliver an opinion until I know more. Go to bed and sleep."
"I can't sleep," said Frank, passionately. "I'm ruined."
But for all that he dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
"Worn out, poor wretch!" said Eustace.
CHAPTER IV
TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD
"What do you think of my new secretary, Miss Cork?" asked Jarman next morning, when his housekeeper was laying the table. He put the question purposely to arrange matters for the disguise.
"I didn't see quite rightly, Mr. Jarman, my eyes being weak. Young?"
"And dark and Irish. His eyes are weak to the extent of blue glasses."
"I didn't see them, sir."
"No, poor chap. He broke them crossing the Common, left his baggage in London, and got lost in our country."
"Oh, he'll know it soon, Mr. Jarman. I'm an Essex woman myself--Billericay way--and the country is easy. What's the gentleman's name, Sir?"
"Desmond," said Eustace, lying with an unmoved face. "Desmond O'Neil."
"I'll remember, sir."
"And, oh, Miss Cork, I shouldn't mention about his late arrival and loss of baggage if I were you. The Irish are sensitive."
"As well I know from politics, Mr. Jarman. No, sir, I'll say nothing."
Miss Cork was a tall, lean woman with watery grey eyes and grey hair screwed into a cast-iron knob behind. Her lips were thin, and her nose red by reason of tight-lacing. Miss Cork had a good figure and improved it, in her own opinion, by making her waist smaller. She usually wore a grey dress with cloth slippers, and moved like a shadow. For many years she had been with Eustace, who had produced her from a London police-court where she was being charged with vagrancy. But he never told anyone this, and Miss Cork bore a high character. But she was not popular, as she never gossiped. And a woman who does not gossip in a village is not fit companion for those who want to know their neighbours' affairs. Eustace knew that she would hold her tongue. Nevertheless, he was glad that her limited vision had not been able to take in Frank Lancaster as he had been.
As it was, Mr. Desmond O'Neil appeared late at the breakfast, and Miss Cork, bringing in the bacon and eggs, silently avowed the truth of her master's description. The new secretary was brown-skinned, with dark hair, and a clean-shaven face, shaded about the eyes with blue spectacles. Miss Cork was rather doubtful about the clean-shaving. From the glimpse she got of him on the previous night she fancied he had worn a moustache, and this she mentioned to Jarman. "It was a smear of clay," explained Eustace. "The poor chap was tumbling in the mud all the time. Were you mired, O'Neil?" he asked, aloud.
"I was that!" responded the Irish gentleman, wondering why his host kicked him under the table.
"The mud do splash high in Essex," said Miss Cork. "I'm a Billericay woman myself, Mr. O'Neil." Then she left the room, and Jarman explained. But Frank continued uneasy.
"I don't like the looks of that woman," he said. "Is she honest?"
"Oh, quite, except what she says about Billericay. She's invented the idea of being a native of those parts, as the villagers here don't like strangers. But she's been with me for three years. I picked her up in London."
"Where?"
"Well, it isn't fair to give her away. She's had a past, although I don't know the rights or wrongs of it. But she'll hold her tongue."
"Suppose a reward is offered, will she?"
"Sure. She owes me too much to play me false," said Jarman, pouring out the coffee. "And where's the reward to come from?"
"The Government--"
"Pooh! Government won't offer much, even if it offers any, which isn't likely. No one else will plank down the money. Miss Starth hasn't much, and there are no relatives. Make your mind easy about the reward. There won't be a cent offered for your apprehension."
"What's Miss Starth's name?" asked Frank, who made a fair breakfast.
"Mildred," responded Jarman, with a flush. "She's the sweetest girl you ever met."
"I saw that from the glimpse I caught of her," said Lancaster, and wondered why Jarman coloured through his tan. He scented a rival, but could not be sure, and, of course, was unable to ask questions. Besides, in spite of his newly-born passion, his position was so dangerous, that he had but one thought, namely, how to escape being hanged on circumstantial evidence.
Frank wished to talk of the matter the moment breakfast was over, but this Eustace would not allow. "You'll have enough of it before you win free," he said. "We must wait until we hear what the newspapers have to say. I daresay there's nothing in the morning lot; but this afternoon we may read something. Then, again, I expect to see Mildred--I mean Miss Starth. She's sure to be wired for."
Frank noticed the slip, and became convinced that Eustace admired the girl more than a little. However, his brain was too filled with his own danger to think of anything else, and he accompanied Jarman on an exploring tour round the village. The idea was that his arrival and appearance and position as secretary should be made as public as possible, so that he might become an accepted fact. After the first few days the villagers would accept him as part of the Shanty household, and cease to discuss him. The subsequent indifference would be another element of safety.
So round the village that afternoon the two went, arm-in-arm. Jarman took his new secretary into several shops, and then to the post-office, which was conducted by a fat woman, who read all the letters and made all the mischief she could. Early as it was, she had a piece of news.
"Oh! Mr. Jarman," said she, puffing, for the day was hot and muggy after the rain, "whatever's come to Miss Starth? I saw her driving like a mad thing to catch the two train. And she only keeps a donkey too--leastways, it's Mrs. Perth who does."
"I suppose she was going to town, Mrs. Baker."
"Then I hope it isn't to a funeral, Mr. Jarman, for her face was as white as a winding sheet. Ah, well, it ain't none of our business."
"No!" said Eustace, emphatically; "it certainly is not."
"That's what I say," replied Mrs. Baker, not seeing the intended rebuke. "As I always says to Baker, if people managed their own affairs without being talked about, people wouldn't be so bothered. And how do you like the country, sir?" This last was to Frank.
"It is extremely pretty," replied Lancaster, cautiously.
"Ah, when you're here long enough, you'll say so, sir. But I suppose you've just come?"
"He came last night, Mrs. Baker, from Ireland?"
"Dear me! I get butter from there. And will you be staying long, sir?"
"I hope so," answered Lancaster, seeing why Jarman had brought him into the company of this inquiring lady. "I am Mr. Jarman's secretary."
"Well, I'm glad you've a companion at last, Mr. Jarman, though a wife would be more to a single gentleman's mind. And I always thought--"
"Good-morning!" interposed Eustace, hastily, and left the shop, tucking a bundle of newspapers and letters under his arm. When they got some distance along the road he laughed.
"What do you think of Mrs. Baker?" he asked.
"She seems to be a kind of gazette. I suppose you took me in so that she could talk of my personal appearance, and my engagement as a secretary, and all the rest of it."
"Precisely. The wider you are known the safer you will be. Mrs. Baker will describe your appearance, and detail how you came from Ireland where she gets her butter. We'll send a few letters through her hands, addressed to Desmond O'Neil, and then she'll drop talking. So even if you are traced by any chance, Frank, there will be no danger of a detective connecting you with the man who is wanted."
Lancaster shuddered. "It's like a nightmare," he said. "Yesterday I was a free man, with a career before me; now I'm an outlaw, with a price set on my head."
"It's unpleasant. But wait--wait. Time works wonders. The real criminal may be discovered. Let us hear what news has come to Rose Cottage."
"Is that where Miss Starth lives?"
"Yes. She and Mrs. Perth share the place. Their united incomes are just enough to keep them in comfort."
"Is Miss Starth engaged?" asked Lancaster, with a side glance.
"No," said the other, with unnecessary fierceness. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, she's so pretty that I thought--"
"Oh, bother your thinking!" broke in Eustace, testily. "Mildred isn't the girl to get engaged in a hurry."
"You seem to know her well, calling her by her name."
"I've known her for some years, and as she is something of a poetess I help her to get her poems into print. She looks on me as a kind of--of father," added Jarman, colouring.
Frank nodded. He guessed the truth, but was too languid to argue it. But he couldn't help asking what Mrs. Baker had been about to observe when Eustace left the shop. "Was she speaking of Miss Starth?"
"I don't know. Mrs. Baker is by way of being a matchmaker, and always couples names. There was a rumour that I was engaged to Mildred."
"It wasn't true?"
"No. I've had enough of women. Seven years ago in 'Frisco--" Jarman checked himself impatiently. "What's the use of raking up old tales. You seem very interested in Miss Starth?"
"Naturally," said Lancaster, sadly, "seeing what I am supposed to have done. If she knew, she would denounce me."
"Not on the evidence you have placed before me," said Jarman. "She's a sensible girl. And the death of her brother will add to her income."
"What an unpleasant speech!" said Frank, in vexed tones.
"We live in a world of facts, my boy. Besides, that beauty is no loss."
By this time they had arrived at the Common. Here Jarman turned down a shady lane, and passed through an arcade of chestnut trees. At the end of this was an open space surrounded by trees, and amidst these a thatched cottage that might have come out of a fairy-tale from the quaint look of it. The walls were whitewashed, the windows of lattice work, and in front of it flourished a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, evidently the delight of those who had planted them. A white paling fence separated it from the lane, and over the gate of this leant an elderly lady. Frank recognised Mrs. Perth.