The sting
Date: 2025-12-22T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Aristocracy (Social class) -- England -- Fiction

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Title: The sting

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: December 22, 2025 [eBook #77530]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Macaulay Company, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77530

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STING ***

THE STING

By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of “The Crime Code,” etc.

New York
THE MACAULAY COMPANY

[COPYRIGHT]

Copyright, 1928, by
The Macaulay Company

CONTENTS

I. ON THE RACK

II. A GRIM STORY

III. AN ENCOUNTER BY NIGHT

IV. THE HAND OF DEATH

V. DR. LAIDLAW TAKES A HAND

VI. ARRESTED!

VII. THE HIDDEN DOOR

VIII. COMEDY BY NIGHT

IX. THE APPROACHING HOUR

X. A MIDNIGHT SCUFFLE

XI. SEALED LIPS

XII. MR. BENSON FORMS A PLAN

XIII. TRAPPED

XIV. A DOCTOR IN DURANCE

XV. THE DOCTOR’S STORY

XVI. HELP FROM WITHOUT

XVII. MR. TRING TRIES IT ON

XVIII. JOE LITT’S ENTERPRISE

XIX. THE EVE OF THE TRIAL

XX. GREAT ARGUMENT ABOUT

XXI. THE TRIAL

XXII. THE VERDICT

XXIII. A SURPRISE FOR ALL

THE STING

CHAPTER I.
ON THE RACK

“Well! You! Here again! What do you want now, eh?”

The speaker, Sir Michael Evenden, crossed the pretty room which overlooked Lake Geneva, to confront his visitor, who just had been announced by a manservant as Dr. Laidlaw.

There was a great contrast between the two men as the latter entered. The baronet was tall, with an athletic, willowy frame, of classic profile, and his slightly upturned grey mustache and well-brushed grey hair added distinction to an already striking personality.

The man whom he confronted was a little, meager, gimlet-eyed fellow, who seemed meanness personified. His sandy hair and foxy features were as unpleasant as the grating tones of his voice.

“Only the usual, Sir Michael,” he replied after a short pause. At first, as the baronet spoke, an evil glint had shown in the little ferret eyes, but this was quickly replaced by a smile as he made his reply. The baronet thought he detected contempt in the smile, and frowned his intense exasperation. His right hand clenched and crumpled a newspaper he had been reading, as he determinedly spoke again.

“I will not be bled like this continually,” he said, as he took a step nearer to his unwelcome guest. “You had a thousand pounds three months ago, and you said then that you would not make another call upon me for at least twelve months. Only yesterday I was turning up our account. Do you realize that in the last seven years you’ve had over eighteen thousand pounds out of me—you—blackmailer!”

“Is it really worth while to rake all this up again, Sir Michael?” the little man asked with a provocative expression meant to convey extreme indulgence.

The baronet lost control of himself as he shouted:

“I refuse to give you another farthing.” Then, as the little man was about to speak, the baronet continued: “If you are not out of this villa and off the premises in two minutes I’ll have the local gendarme arrest you for blackmail. They’re giving men like you life now, you know.”

Dr. Laidlaw deliberately cleared his throat. Then, with an effort, he raised his voice to the level at which Sir Michael had been shouting.

“Right you are, my noble swindler. You want your servants to hear all my pedigree. Now let them hear yours. How did Sir Michael Evenden repair the family fortunes? Very simply. He——”

“Stop! Stop! You wretched little cur,” interrupted Sir Michael. “Do you realize what you are doing?”

It was pathetically evident that the little doctor had won. The baronet almost gasped as he put out a hand, then stepped—almost staggered—back into a chair, wiping the beads of perspiration from his brow with a large yellow silk handkerchief.

“It is my duty to warn you, Sir Michael, that you must not give way to these outbreaks of passion—your heart simply won’t stand them. One of these days——”

The little doctor moved forward, towards the baronet’s chair, but Sir Michael stopped him with a gesture and, interrupting him with rather a whimsical smile, said:

“I shall have a fatal attack, eh?—and then your source of income will have gone.”

“Sir Michael, why can’t you look at these things reasonably?”

Dr. Laidlaw, unasked, seated himself opposite the baronet, and his accents took on a tone of sweet reasonableness. “You know in all these years, on your own showing, what I have had? Eighteen thousand, you say. Well, what if I have?—I have not troubled to keep count. But if I have, look at the hundreds of thousands that you have had in the interim! You know it is an exceedingly hard thing for a poor country practitioner to make ends meet, unless, of course, he follows your example and——”

“We need not discuss that,” interrupted Sir Michael. “What is it you want to-day? Tell me—and then get out.”

“Well, Sir Michael, I must have a thousand, if you don’t mind. I——”

“But I do mind!” stormed the baronet. “I do mind very much. A thousand three months ago and another thousand to-day. You’ll be coming weekly next.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, Sir Michael,” returned the little man. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been having a small flutter on the Stock Exchange—and gone down.”

“Now, look here!”—Sir Michael, somewhat recovered, sat upright in his chair. “I want some sort of a guarantee that there is to be a limit to your encroachments. How do I know but that you will be back again in no time?”

“Well, Sir Michael—you have my word,” replied Dr. Laidlaw innocently enough.

“Your word!” sneered the baronet. “Now—seriously—if I give you a check to-day it must be the last for at least a year. Understand this. I have felt sometimes like chancing everything and having you prosecuted. Judges are very sympathetic towards men in my position who are being steadily bled until——”

“Judges are not always sympathetic,” interrupted Laidlaw, “towards baronets who suddenly emerge from being poor men of title into rich people. What would your family think—nay, what would every decent man and woman in England think—when they read of your perfidy towards the unfortunate people whom you got the Bolsheviks to send to their deaths? What——”

“Oh, for the love of heaven, stop!” almost pleaded Sir Michael; and it was pitiful to see the distress in his face. “You know I have always resented that interpretation——”

“Then why not have it tried in open court?” interrupted Dr. Laidlaw.

“Here!” The baronet rose and crossed to a small bureau, took from a drawer a check-book, and wrote a check. “Take this—your thousand—and go!”

“Good-day, Sir Michael, and thank you,” said the little man, but the baronet made no reply. He waited until the door closed behind the doctor, then he buried his face in his hands and remained silent.

Minutes went by, and still Sir Michael sat there. The door opened and a woman entered. She looked at the silent figure at the bureau, gave a little gasp, then hurried across the room.

“Mike, dear, Mike,” she said anxiously, and touched her husband lightly on the shoulder.

The baronet turned a strained face up to her, and she bent down and kissed him.

“Whatever is the matter, dear?” she asked. “Have you had one of those awful attacks, again?”

“Only a very slight one, Margaret?” he replied, patting her hand gently. “I’m all right again, now.”

“Dear, you look terrible! When is your appointment with Professor Gaspari?” Lady Evenden laid her cool hand on her husband’s brow.

“I am driving over to Lausanne to-morrow,” Sir Michael replied. “But I don’t want you to worry so much, Margaret. Gaspari is a very clever chap, by all accounts, and I have little doubt but that he’ll be able to fix me up all right.”

“Well, in the meantime, do take a rest,” she urged him. “Leave business or anything that distresses you. Will you?”

“Yes, yes,” he assured her. Then he rose and kissed her tenderly. “I just want to glance through an account of something in the paper, dear; then I’ll join you in the garden.”

“Do,” she smiled. “By the way, Frank is coming to-morrow, Mike—he’s just wired.”

“Splendid,” exclaimed Sir Michael. “Great news! The rest here will do him good.”

Lady Evenden smiled her acquiescence and left the room by the French windows. Sir Michael watched her progress through the beautiful rose-garden down the steps to the lawns, which, tier by tier, dropped down to the very shores of the lake, where the boathouses were. Sir Michael did not resume his perusal of the newspaper at once. But, with a quiet smile on his face, he watched his wife until she was joined by her present companion, a pretty girl, Jill Kilby, near the boathouses.

Lady Evenden was the baronet’s second wife, and their union was ideally happy. Each had one son. By his first marriage the baronet had a son—Jack—and by her first marriage his wife, Margaret, had a son—Frank Gough.

Jack, of course, was the heir; but, the baronet felt, sometimes, that it was difficult to tell which of the lads he liked best. Jack was a navigating lieutenant in the Navy; Frank was a law student, reading for the bar. Indeed his projected visit to the lakeside villa was to enable him to devote, in quietude, time to preparation for his final examinations.

The Evenden family was an exceedingly united and happy one. Only once had the two boys, Jack and Frank, met in any sense as rivals, and that was all forgotten now. Even at the time no quarrel had arisen, though the baronet and his wife, watching events, with at first amused, and later some alarmed, interest, never had found it necessary to intervene. The facts were that three years ago Lady Evenden had employed as companion a very pretty girl called Brenda Trenchard.

Jack and Frank had promptly fallen in love with her. Their parents, when attention was called to it, at first, looked on and laughed.

Later, Frank, after playing with Brenda’s affections for a while, retired in favor of Jack. Nothing came of the affair at the time; and Jack, feeling his interests becoming too diversified, threw himself more deeply into his naval duties and—as he imagined—put Brenda forever from his mind, declaring himself to be a confirmed bachelor.

This little affair had not disturbed the great friendship of the two young men; but, as Lady Evenden met Jill Kilby, the incident recurred to her for a second, with inward amusement. Jill was an exceedingly pretty girl, rather diminutive, but with pretty ways and wonderfully expressive eyes. Lady Evenden knew that her son Frank, at any rate, was attracted very deeply to Jill; and, as she met her by the lake, she wondered what her attitude would have to be if the affair developed more seriously.

“Frank is coming to-morrow,” she announced, taking the girl by surprise.

The slightest suggestion of a frown crossed Jill’s face; but, it was quickly followed by a bright smile as she replied:

“Oh, really! Such a nice time to come, isn’t it, with all the roses out, and the lake banks so pretty?”

“Yes,” Lady Evenden rejoined. “But I think his holiday will be largely taken up with his studies.”

“Will you come out in the long canoe, your ladyship?” asked Jill. “I want to show you a perfectly sweet family of squirrels that have taken possession of the big pine tree, just beyond the point.”

Lady Evenden glanced at her watch.

“Not just now, my dear,” she replied. “I want to do something—and I expect Sir Michael out in a few minutes.”

With a little nod she left the girl. Again glancing at her watch, she cut across the lawn and entered a shrubbery. Then, with one glance over her shoulder, she hurried along a narrow walk until she came to an arbor set back from the path. The arbor was open in the front, disclosing a rustic seat all around.

From this seat arose the mean little figure of Dr. Laidlaw. Lady Evenden, her beautiful features dark and angry, stepped up to him. As a matter of fact, she towered above him, almost as much as her husband did.

“What on earth do you want with me here?” she asked. “Surely you know how stupidly dangerous this is.”

“Yes, but it is necessary, Lady Evenden,” replied the little man. “I want to see you——”

“You won’t get any money out of me to-day, Dr. Laidlaw,” interrupted Margaret Evenden.

“I don’t want any—to-day,” replied the little doctor. “I want to have a long talk with you when you get back to London, Lady Evenden. There are one or two things that will have to be put in order. Do you realize that Sir Michael——”

“Hush—there’s someone coming. Go,” she ordered in alarm, as she heard the crackling of twigs on the path behind.

“See you in London—quickly as possible,” the doctor whispered, and ran on tiptoe along the path to the main road. He was just in time; for, as Lady Evenden turned to retrace her steps, she came upon her husband at the first turn in the path.

“What on earth are you doing here, Margaret?” he asked in some amusement. “Got an assignation?”

She laughed merrily as she replied: “Yes, with a family of squirrels that Jill has found somewhere in one of these trees—but I can’t find them.”

“Oh! Suppose we try to find them together,” laughed Sir Michael. “I saw you turn into the shrubbery as I came down the garden.”

They spent a happy hour before dinner in the vain quest of squirrels. All the time Margaret Evenden felt her heart still beating irregularly as she thought of the narrow escape she had had. What if her husband knew that it was unavoidable that she must meet the little blackmailing doctor, from time to time? What could he wish to say to her so urgently that he took the unwarrantable risk of seeking a clandestine interview in the very grounds of her husband’s villa?

However, Lady Evenden betrayed in her manner nothing of the cares that burdened her. At dinner she was beautiful and scintillating as ever, presiding so ably at her end of the long table.

There were several guests—friends staying in the vicinity, and a Swiss professor of geology.

Only occasionally, Jill Kilby, who was keenly observant, saw a shadow flit across the lovely face of her mistress. Jill had long believed that some dark shadow rested in the background of Lady Evenden’s life. Occasionally she would have a faraway look in her eyes; and sometimes, as she took her letters, Jill thought she had seen positive terror there.

Then, again, Jill had a great friend, Dr. Wilfred Barlow, a young surgeon in London to whom she just had become secretly engaged. The engagement had to be secret for the reason that Lady Evenden, who only had met him once, and had seemed quite charmed at the time, had taken a curious and inexplicable attitude towards him, afterwards. She would not hear his name mentioned, and forbade Jill to have anything to do with him, or, alternatively, to leave her service.

On all these things Jill pondered as she watched her mistress—watched the shadows occasionally descend upon her beautiful face, like threatening thunder-clouds obscuring the sun for a few minutes and then passing and leaving the sky again blue, the sun still bright.

Quite early the next morning, after he had attended to his correspondence and had eaten a light breakfast, the baronet entered his Rolls Royce car and drove over to Lausanne, where he soon was closeted with the great Professor Gaspari, the world-famous heart specialist.

Dr. Gaspari sat at a table. He wore the long white linen smock that nearly all continental doctors affect. His keen eyes twinkled behind strongly magnifying spectacles; his right hand stroked his full brown beard.

Soon, he had completed his examination, and he asked two or three questions.

“Would you like an attendant to assist you?” he asked, as Sir Michael began to put on his coat and vest, again.

“No—no! that’s all right, thanks,” Sir Michael answered, anxiously watching the sensitive face of the great man, which, however, betrayed nothing.

Not until the baronet had finished dressing and had reseated himself at the table did the specialist speak.

“Be extremely careful,” he began in French. “My régime, which you must follow, will do all that I can for you. Carry it out very carefully—very strictly. But I beg of you to put your affairs in order, my dear friend. You may live for another fifteen or twenty years. But I regret most deeply to tell you that you may collapse in as many hours.”

As he listened, Sir Michael’s face turned a shade paler, and the muscles of his right hand twitched. But he just bowed his head slightly, as if acknowledging a decree of fate that he was powerless to oppose. The great specialist saw the effect of the blow he had delivered—and admired the grit of the man who had received it. As he saw Sir Michael to his car, the specialist shook his hand warmly. Sir Michael entered his car, dropped his head back wearily upon the cushions, and closed his eyes.

On his arrival at the villa he was met by Lady Evenden. She was entertaining a party of friends, to meet Frank on his arrival, later in the day, but she left them a moment to learn from her husband the news.

He smiled bravely as he kissed her lightly.

“I’ll tell you all about it later, dear,” he said. “It’s all right.”

Reassured, she rejoined her friends, and Sir Michael went to his study alone, where he spent three hours reading papers, writing notes, and burning others.

At dinner that night all was gay—none gayer than the doomed man. Margaret Evenden thought how well he looked, and was glad. She could brave anything else so long as he remained, she thought. Frank had managed to get himself a place next to Jill Kilby, and the baronet, despite his inward misery, could not but be a little amused as he watched what he believed were Frank’s advances rebuffed.

Frank was a tall, clear-eyed young man, handsome in a slightly domineering way. He had all the presence of his mother, but she charmed to domineer—Frank domineered to charm.

Before retiring, Sir Michael called his wife into his dressing room.

“Now, my darling,” he said. “I know you won’t make it any harder for me, will you? I’m going to tell you exactly what Gaspari said.”

“Oh, my dear! my dear!” she exclaimed, instantly divining the worst, and flew to her husband, throwing her arms about his neck—passionately, but in some strange way protectingly also—as if she would hold him and protect him from anything that would tear him from her—even death itself.

“Margaret, my dear,” Sir Michael softly continued, “don’t—don’t distress yourself. It might be worse. The old chap said I might live twenty years if I follow his treatment. But—but—you see, my dear——” The baronet found it impossible to put into cold words the remainder of the tidings.

“You mean that it might—any—time?” she asked fearfully.

“H’m——” Sir Michael slowly inclined his head, and for a few moments both remained locked in each other’s arms, their emotion too strong for tears or words. They just cowered there, under the wing of the angel of death.

At last Sir Michael spoke.

“My darling,” he said. “It is necessary to talk of things—of certain things that must, yes, must be discussed. There is the question of my will——”

“Oh, in heaven’s mercy, don’t,” cried Lady Evenden. “Don’t! How can I bear to hear of wills. What is money, or property, or anything, to me if you are gone? You mustn’t go, Mike. Let us try another doctor. Oh, Mike! Mike! I can’t bear it! If you go, I’ll come, too! Oh, Mike! my Mike!”

Her distress was terrible to witness, and for a few more minutes Sir Michael simply soothed her as best he could; then he managed to get her to listen as he outlined what his views were about certain things that would happen in the event of his early death. John, his son, would be the heir, of course; but, adequate settlements would be made for her; and something—he did not quite know yet—something would be arranged out of the estate to give Frank a good income.

Margaret Evenden listened in abject misery. Her devotion to her husband was quite unfeigned and would rise superior to anything else in her life. Anything that he thought right would be right, and she said so. Three hours elapsed before they parted. But for neither of them was there peaceful sleep that night. Each thought of the horrible shadow that had descended upon their lives, and each thought in terms of its effect upon the other.

The next day, a new and unpleasant matter cropped up. Sir Michael came down to his library to find that the London papers were embarking upon a terrific campaign against Soviet oil. Anything might happen. If the campaign was wholly successful he would be nearly a ruined man.

He decided at once, without saying anything to his wife, or to anyone else, about this new trouble, to get to London as quickly as possible. So, he merely told Lady Evenden that he felt he would like to be back at Evenden Priory, his family seat near Norwich; and, though a little surprised at the sudden change, Lady Evenden made arrangements to travel in two days.

Meanwhile Frank Gough had been meeting with quite unforseen resistence in his suit for Jill’s hand. She told him plainly that she did not care for him—that she did care for some one else. Frank was furious. He thought once of getting his mother to intercede and then changed his mind; for he was not at all sure what his mother would think of the affair. On the journey home, which he made with them at his stepfather’s request, he spent a good deal of time with Jill—but with no better success. Desperate, as the journey neared its end, Frank Gough conceived the most cattish thing of his career.

On the train Jill occupied a single compartment; and, in the night, Frank crept along the corridor to her compartment, knocked peremptorily, and, when she asked what was wanted, replied in a gruff voice that he wished to see her passport. After a little delay she opened her door—only to find the alleged passport officer none other than her importunate lover.

With a gasp of astonishment, the girl moved towards the alarm signal. But, Frank rushed in, caught her in his arms, partially closed the door with his foot, and passionately declared his love for her, though her composure did not entirely desert her. Vainly did she struggle. Presently she threatened to shout.

“Will anybody believe you?” Frank asked. “Can’t you see you’re hopelessly compromised already? Why not marry me, Jill darling?”

The girl replied with scorn, and renewed her struggles. What would have happened is difficult to say had not an assistant guard in passing, noticed the door ajar and heard the noise. He entered. And, immediately Frank desisted and left the compartment with the guard.

Evidently it was nothing in the official’s eyes which a little pourboire and a pleasant laugh could not well settle; for, nothing more was heard of the incident.

Jill wondered whether or not to tell Lady Evenden, but decided that first of all she would tell Wilfred Barlow.

The family stopped the night in London upon arrival. So Jill sought an early interview with Wilfred, when she told him all that had happened. Wilfred’s first intention was to go at once and see Frank, but Jill persuaded him otherwise. Finally Wilfred insisted that, if she suffered any more persecution, Jill must consult Lady Evenden immediately.

Jill allowed him to accompany her only part of the way to the hotel, for fear Lady Evenden might see him.

They were just saying good-by, however, when suddenly Jill gave a startled exclamation, and pulled her lover back from the edge of the curb. At the same time, she indicated a taxicab which had stopped in the traffic block, just a yard or two from them.

There, seated side by side in the taxi, in earnest conversation, were Lady Evenden and the rat-faced Dr. Laidlaw.

CHAPTER II.
A GRIM STORY

When Jill Kirby recognized her mistress in the taxi with Dr. Laidlaw, her first impulse was to withdraw with her companion out of the range of Lady Evenden’s vision. But, the effect upon her fiancé was more startling still.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I say, Jill, does your mistress know that little scoundrel, Laidlaw?”

“You mean the man she is with?” Jill replied. “I don’t know, really, but I have seen him once before. He called upon Sir Michael once. I remember seeing him standing in the hall waiting for Sir Michael to receive him.”

“I wonder what on earth Sir Michael Evenden has to do with him?” Wilfred Barlow mused aloud. “And, more particularly still, do I wonder what Lady Evenden has to do with him?”

“Why, Wilfred?” Jill asked. “Who is he? What do you know about him?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” replied Barlow. “And I don’t mind telling you he hates me like anything. Wait a minute—they’re just moving on.” At that moment the traffic block was released, and the car containing Lady Evenden and Dr. Laidlaw passed on.

“Do tell me what you know about that man, Wilfred,” persisted Jill.

“Well, briefly—this,” Wilfred answered, frowning slightly as at the recollection of some unpleasant memory. “Some years ago, when I was attached to St. Lawrence’s Hospital, an elderly man was admitted suffering from unmistakable signs of poisoning. In his semi-conscious state he told me that it was the second time his wife had tried to poison him. I took a statement and passed it on to the police, who came and interrogated the man, but he completely reversed the statement when the police came, saying that his mind must have been wandering.

“Nothing could be done of course, and later on he recovered and left the hospital. I saw his wife once—an unpleasant type. Just three months afterwards the man died, and his death was unobserved by anyone of importance until after he was buried, when some question from the insurance company arose which drew the police’s attention. I think the total amount of the dead man’s insurance had been recently increased—and that to a suspicious degree.

“The police made inquiries and found that Dr. Laidlaw had issued a death certificate for angina pectoris—a heart trouble, my dear.

“The insurance people insisted upon exhumation, and obtained the necessary order from the Home Office. Upon a post-mortem, he was found to have been poisoned with arsenic—the same poison from which he was suffering when admitted to St. Lawrence’s.

“Well, after an inquest—and an inquiry before the Medical Council—our friend Laidlaw just managed to scrape through. The coroner’s jury exonerated him—to the chagrin of the coroner, who censured him in round terms. I had to attend the inquiry, and my evidence was in constant opposition to Laidlaw’s.

“He had to leave London. That is my knowledge of Laidlaw—a nasty little fellow—a disgrace to our profession.”

Jill was thoughtful for a few moments, then she spoke.

“You know, Wilf,” she said, “I’ve always been under the impression that there is some dark secret in Lady Evenden’s life, and I’m sure that man has something to do with it. Otherwise why should she want to meet a man like that?”

“So you’ve told me before,” responded Wilfred, “and yet you have very little evidence to go on. In any event it isn’t your affair so long as it doesn’t directly affect you. The best thing you can do is to keep your eyes open and say nothing. Far more important at present is your avoiding the attentions of her caddish son, Frank.”

“Yes, yes,” Jill replied, adding hastily, “but now I really must go. Lady Evenden will be back at the hotel and will miss me. Good-by, dear.”

Jill found Lady Evenden in her sitting room, looking perfectly composed. Certainly, at present, there were no traces of any dark secret in her life.

Dinner that night was late; for, the baronet had not returned from the city, and Lady Evenden insisted on waiting. Frank Gough had gone on to Evenden Priory to arrange certain things in advance; so, Jill and her mistress were alone.

At last, very late—it was nearly eight o’clock—Sir Michael arrived, looking very tired and weary. He greeted his wife and Jill, then passed straight to his dressing room to prepare for dinner.

When dinner was served he ate next to nothing, and throughout the meal he seemed preoccupied, replying to questions monosyllabically. At last it was over. But, evidently the day’s work was not yet done; for, Sir Michael said he would have to go out again. When his wife remonstrated, and begged him to rest, he almost curtly told her not to interfere. Jill heard him say to Lady Evenden that he had an important appointment at the Russian Consulate.

Jill had retired for the night when he ultimately returned, but the next day Sir Michael seemed frenziedly active. The telephone bell rang all the morning, and in the afternoon he made a round of visits. Three telephone calls were made to New York, and Jill gathered that some serious crisis had developed in his affairs.

In point of fact the baronet did not take even his wife into his confidence. The fact was that the oil-war was still waging, and causing him terrible anxiety. Millionaire manipulators came over from the Continent to see him, and one magnate was even at that moment on his way from America, as fast as the Olympic could bring him.

A conference was held in London when all the interested speculators had arrived, and the results soon were forthcoming. A great newspaper suddenly changed hands—and incidentally changed its policy. Two other newspapers, which, up to now, had not taken sides, stated a fair case for the purchasing of Soviet oil. Within a week the battle was over—the attack on Soviet oil had been defeated by the tremendous interests involved, and Sir Michael Evenden announced his intention of proceeding to Evenden Priory at once.

So, it came about that, a week after their arrival in London, Sir Michael, Lady Evenden, and Jill, arrived at the wayside station of Little Evenden, where a car was waiting to drive them the three miles to the Priory.

Evenden Priory was a most delightful old residence. Dating from the eleventh century, it was the seat of the Priors of Evenden (“Evenedene,” as it was then called), who had certain far-reaching powers over a wide tract of country. They held their temporalities from the Abbots of Yeleham and the Bishops of Norwich, and great was the early history of the Priory. It was a seat of learning, for many valuable early histories and theological works had been compiled there by the diligent monks, in the far-off days of its activity.

Great had been the charity of the brothers; indeed, it had been made the subject of many a folk song. The old Priory Church, now in ruins, once had been a marvel of architectural beauty. The Priory lay in a grassy hollow, sheltered by banks of woodland.

Long and low in style, like all the buildings of monastic character in the early Middle Ages, it had been added to in Elizabethan times, after it had passed into the Evenden family.

At the time of the dissolution in 1537, Henry the Eighth had presented the Priory, with its rich demesne, to Sir Thomas Evenden, a gentleman of his Court. And, in the Evenden family it had remained since, from generation to generation, right down to the year before the war. Then the present baronet, crippled in finance, and indeed on the verge of bankruptcy, reluctantly had to let it go to cover debts and mortgages that had been increasing through the last two generations. But circumstances had since altered with Sir Michael; and, when Dame Fortune later smiled on him, the first thing he had done was to buy back his old heritage from a plum-and-apple jam manufacturer.

There seemed to be a spirit of peace enshrined in the Priory and in the green woods that formed its setting—a spirit that might have descended from the old monks who, in the long ago, had lived so quietly and happily there. Certainly, under the peaceful influence of his surroundings, Sir Michael seemed to rally. Possibly it was in part the happy issue from his financial troubles; the fact remained, however, that the baronet seemed to take a new lease on life. In the late summer days, he walked about his estate with his keepers and watched the young clutches of partridge that were particularly strong that year. He talked of the prospects of an excellent shooting season. And he and Lady Evenden prepared the lists of guests to be invited.

Needless to say, Lady Evenden was intensely happy. The dark threat to her husband’s life that came at Montreux seemed very unreal at Evenden. She had a curious sort of feeling that if her husband would remain at Evenden all would be well. She felt she hated the villa at Montreux. She never wanted to go there again. Meanwhile, she was happy to live in the present, accompanying her husband on visits to friends in the county, and entertaining the various neighbors who called on her husband and herself.

Jill also would have had a very happy time had it not been for the constant and unwelcome attentions of Frank Gough. Though he never attempted any distressing love-making, that young man had far from given up his intention of winning Jill Kilby.

Many and strange were the maneuvers he employed for getting a tête-à-tête with her. Frequently he would be very disarming for a while. But, invariably, he would return ultimately to the old subject. Her constant refusals only spurred him on to stronger efforts. It is probable that if, in the first place, Jill had consented to flirt with him, he would have got as tired of her as he had got of Brenda Trenchard, three years ago. Frank Gough possessed a curiously persistent nature. The refusals in themselves made the girl precious to him. He never stopped to think of what she would actually represent to him if he did win her.

Jill Kilby divined something of this, and she hated him for it; but she determined to accept the challenge. She would not consult his mother, but would simply stand her ground. He was determined? Then she would show him that she was not less so. Nevertheless, as the months went by, the nervous strain began to tell on her. Only one interval of relief did she have, and that was when Frank went away to sit for his law examinations.

He was away a fortnight, and that fortnight was heaven to Jill; but, at the end of that time, he came back with the light of battle in his eyes and full of the encouragement of victory; for, he had done well in the examinations.

So, with everyone happy except Jill, the summer wore away very pleasantly at Evenden Priory, and very gently, almost imperceptibly, ushered in autumn.

At last the invitations were sent out for the first shooting-party of the season, and amongst the intimations was one sent to Jack, the baronet’s eldest son. It was a pleasant custom in the Evenden family that, when it was necessary to write to Jack, Lady Evenden always wrote the longer letter, her husband sending merely a note. With Frank the same was applied, his own mother merely sending a note, while his stepfather sent a long and affectionate letter.

On this occasion the invitation to Jack was accompanied by a long letter from Lady Evenden, his stepmother. Also, she enclosed a copy of the latest studio portrait she had had taken.

Jack was proud of his beautiful stepmother, and set the photograph upon the bureau in his cabin aboard H.M.S. Invulnerable. The day before he left to join the party at Evenden—for he had secured fourteen days leave—his great friend, Basil Towers, the gunnery lieutenant, dropped in for a chat and a whisky-and-soda.

Jack and Basil were very close friends; and, it was Jack’s intention to take Basil with him to Evenden. But, unfortunately they could not both get leave together.

Presently Basil’s eyes roamed over the small cabin and rested on the photograph, on the bureau. He gazed for a second, with puzzled eyes; then he got up and crossed the cabin, still looking almost unbelievably at the features. Jack watched him with amusement—he was accustomed to hearing compliments passed on the beauty of his stepmother—but he certainly did not expect what came next.

“Good Lord, Jack, old man, you don’t mean to say you know her?”

There was a world of horror and contempt in the voice of his friend. Jack sat for a second—petrified. He was on the verge of assuming the outraged dignity he felt, and of pointing out that it was his stepmother, when he reflected in a flash that Basil Towers was one of the cleanest, straightest fellows living. No retailer of foul gossip this; indeed, Jack had never heard him speak of any woman in terms of anything but respect. He made up his mind to “draw” Basil, and replied:

“Well—slightly. Do you?”

“I should say I do—or, rather, did,” Basil replied, taking up the photograph and examining the beautiful features closely.

“Tell me about her, old man,” Jack begged.

“Well, one hardly likes to—— Is she a friend of yours, Jack?” Basil gazed at his friend with a troubled face.

“Better say acquaintance,” Jack responded, wondering what gave him the power to be so cunning, or even so perfidious, as to deny his stepmother like this. But, he knew that, if he told his friend the truth, nothing would drag the story from him. He felt a little reassured now, however. There must be some mistake. After he had listened to his friend’s yarn, he would prove it to be untrue and tell him the truth. Basil’s chagrin would be amusing. It was not quite sporting, perhaps; but, then, the beggar should be more careful of what he said about ladies!

“How long have you known her?” Basil asked.

“Oh, not long,” Jack replied. “For heaven’s sake, man, get on with your yarn. You’re like a confounded Joanna Southcott’s box of mystery, standing there like a great goat. Let’s have your yarn, man.”

“Well, it isn’t a pleasant one,” replied the other. “Her name is Margaret Gough—or was. Old John Gough was a friend of my father, and he was considerably older than his wife. They lived in a little house on the shores of Loch Lomond. I believe there were many rows. I remember going there once with the pater, and there was a furious time. He—old Gough—accused her of meeting men friends, visitors to the district, you know. My pater said afterwards that old Gough probably suffered from delusions.”

Jack listened intently, while Basil poured himself out a drink and continued.

“One night, there was the devil of a trouble.” He shuddered at the remembrance. “We lived about three miles from the Goughs, and Margaret Gough came over in great distress. Her husband had accused her of some improper friendship with an artist fellow, with whom, as a matter of fact, she had been seen once or twice. She said her husband threatened to murder her. My father went back with her. He found the husband foaming at the mouth—he had had a paralytic stroke—couldn’t move. They put him to bed and sent for a doctor. The doctor was away and had a locum tenens, a little fellow called Laidlaw. He came over and saw the man, said it was a stroke, gave some directions, and said he would send a nurse in the morning. Mind you, in all this, Margaret Gough was in a state bordering on hysterics. She did not appreciate what was said about her husband, but only exhibited absolute terror of him. My father ultimately left, and Margaret Gough and two maids remained in the house with the stricken man—who could not walk, mark you…”

Again Basil stopped, knocked the ash off his cigarette, then continued.

“In the morning old John Gough was found drowned in the lake.”

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Jack in horror, realizing the significance of the statement.

“In Scotland,” Basil continued, “there is no coroner’s inquest, but there is a court of inquiry, and at that court the little locum tenens deliberately reversed a previous verdict of total paralysis. My father gave no evidence, but he said at the time that the legs of the man dragged like lead when they were putting him to bed.

“Dr. Laidlaw said the stroke was partial and had certainly affected his brain, and that, in his view, the man committed suicide, while temporarily insane.”

“Well, damn it all, Basil,” Jack burst out, “mightn’t it be so? Why think the worst? He might have recovered and got up. He seemed to be a mad sort of chap, anyhow.”

“Well, that may be—I don’t know,” Basil returned. “But you can’t escape the facts of the figures. At ten o’clock at night the man is helpless—totally paralyzed; at seven in the morning he is found in the lake. The artist chap, who had been a well-known figure in the neighborhood, completely disappeared. Margaret Gough was never heard of again after selling the cottage—and, the little doctor who gave the evidence, which, in my opinion, saved her, disappeared from the scene.”

“Well, it’s a very sad story,” Jack said slowly. “I am sure I would not condemn—off hand. I——”

“My dear old chap,” Basil broke in, “if she is a very close friend of yours, why didn’t you tell me? You seem quite bowled over.”

“No, no—that’s all right,” Jack replied. “I asked, and I’m glad you told me. I can’t believe, mind you, that that woman would do anything terrible like that.”

“Well, of course, I was very young when it happened, Jack,” replied Basil. “I have always carried it in my mind as an awful secret—something never to let out. I wouldn’t have done so to-day but for the curious fact of finding her photograph in the possession of my best pal.”

“You’ve done quite right, old son,” Jack assured him. “And now I’m going to chuck you out. I’ve a thousand and one things to get done before the good ship sails for home in the morning.”

“Good-night, old man.” Basil rose. “You’re sure——”

“Of course, of course; good night.” Jack patted his friend jocularly on the shoulder, saw him out, then closed the door.

For long he remained deep in thought. His cigarette went out and fell from his hand unnoticed, but he sat motionless. At last he rose, and there was resolution on his face. He took up the photograph and, as if speaking to the lovely woman there portrayed, he said:

“No, mum, I’ll not condemn you unheard. I’ll ask you if dad knows. If he does, then that’s good enough for me. Good night, mum dear—see you soon.” He kissed the photograph, placed it back in its place of honor, then tumbled into his bunk.

CHAPTER III.
AN ENCOUNTER BY NIGHT

At Evenden Priory the preparations were complete for the first shooting party of the season. Jill Kilby for several days had been engaged altogether in writing letters of invitation, interviewing tradesmen on her mistress’s behalf, arranging accommodation for the servants of the expected guests, and the thousand and one other duties that fell to her lot; for, she acted as secretary, as well as companion, to Lady Evenden.

Jill was glad of the distraction, because it freed her, in great degree, from the attentions of Frank Gough, who still remained at the Priory.

For Jack, when he arrived, the Prior’s Room had been prepared. This was a room seldom used; it stood in a tower at the extreme eastern gable of the Priory. Tradition had it that it was the room occupied, in the old days, by the Lord Prior himself; and, for several hundred years, generation after generation of Evendens had declared it haunted. It was said that on the eve of the feast of St. Michael and All Angels, the day on which Cromwell’s soldiers had arrived long ago to work their havoc, the ghost of the last prior, John Paseley, appeared and sadly walked his ancient haunts.

Certainly many tales were told of members of the family and their guests who had braved the alleged terrors of the Prior’s Room on that fateful day, and had experienced some nameless horror. All had hurriedly left the room, unable to describe the experience, yet determined never to set foot in it again.

As, however, the house was full, and Jack was the least superstitious man in the world, Sir Michael laughingly gave his consent to the room being prepared for his eldest son.

Meanwhile, Jack had left Portsmouth for London, en route for Evenden Priory, with a mind still troubled by the disclosure of his friend, Basil Towers, about the earlier life of his beautiful stepmother.

As he lay back in the corner of his compartment, he turned over, and over again, the details of that tragedy on the shores of Loch Lomond, and wondered if it could be possible that his stepmother, with her sweet nature, possibly could have been associated with an act of such unspeakable horror. Jack refused to believe it. There must be, he felt, some good explanation.

He determined to ask her about it; and, if she told him that his father knew all about it—well, then, he would let it go at that. His father probably knew best.

He had several purchases to make in London; so, he drove first of all to Liverpool Street Station and deposited his luggage in the cloakroom. Then he set off on a round of shopping. He made a call at his tailor’s in Savile Row; then he called at a shop in the Burlington Arcade to buy a present for his stepmother. It was when he emerged from that shop that he encountered a figure that caused him to halt for a second and catch his breath.

The girl—for it was a girl—was tall, slim, clad in a closely-fitting fashionable black tailored suit; her face was pale, her lips—rather generous lips—were a deep red, and her eyes, large, violet-hued, and wonderfully expressive. Jack would have remained silent and allowed her to pass. But, the girl also caught sight of him at the same time and immediately stopped.

“Hello, Jack!” she exclaimed. “Wonders will never cease. Imagine meeting you in the Burlington Arcade!”

“How are you, Brenda?” Jack responded, taking her proffered hand. It was no other than Brenda Trenchard, the companion of his mother of three years ago, whose rejection of him had caused him to declare himself a bachelor for life.

“I’m very well, Jack, and I see you look well. I am glad to see you. Do tell me all the news. How long have you been married, Jack?” She smiled roguishly as she asked the question.

“I am not married—why should you imagine such a stupid thing?” Jack asked rather seriously.

The girl laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “when a man says to a girl that he will never marry because she refuses him, watch the papers! You will possibly see his engagement announced within three weeks!”

“You’ll have to watch the papers a long time before you see my engagement announced,” Jack responded rather bitterly. “Did you think me the type to change much, Brenda?”

“Well, I don’t know—you never can tell.” The girl spoke half-seriously, half-mockingly; then, with a laugh, she shrugged her shoulders. “But, my dear Jack, we’re getting quite serious, and that will never do. Do you want to take me to tea?”

“I should be delighted,” Jack eagerly replied. “Where shall we go?”

Brenda laughed. “I really do believe you are, after all, a confirmed bachelor, Jack. Imagine a man not asking a girl to tea, and not knowing where to take her!”

“Well,” Jack began, in some confusion, “I hardly know—I stay at the Charing Cross Hotel myself when in London, but——”

“Poor, dear old Jack!” (Brenda looked charming as she laughed, Jack thought.) “Take me to Rumpelmyer’s if you like, or the Piccadilly.”

“Very well, let’s go to the Piccadilly,” Jack agreed.

Arrived at the Piccadilly, they had tea, and, as he watched Brenda in charge of the cups, Jack thought how much more beautiful she was than, even in the old days, when she represented to him the most beautiful thing on earth. They chatted lightly of the events of the years that had passed since they had parted.

It appeared that Brenda had inherited a small competency from an aunt, and was secretary to a Cabinet Minister. Two hours slipped by very quickly; and, as Brenda rose, Jack felt once more all the power of the love he once had declared to her. He determined to make one more attempt to win her. Fearful that she would laugh at him—Brenda seemed to laugh at everything now—awkwardly, self-consciously, he began.

“Brenda, Brenda—I—do you think—— I——”

“Yes?” Brenda interrupted his stammering with a sweet smile. “What is it, Jack?”

“Forgive me, Brenda.” Jack’s confusion was pitiful; his honest face was flushed, but Brenda gave him no help. Had he noticed it, however, a very tender smile played about the corners of her mobile lips. “I—— oh, don’t laugh at me too much, Brenda, darling, I can’t help it. I used to love you and I do love you. Do you think there will ever be a chance?”

“I’m certainly not going to allow any scenes in this lounge, if that’s what you mean,” Brenda replied, with a glance about her. “Get a taxi, you old chump, and drive me to my flat—Sloane Street, Knightsbridge. Come along.” As she spoke, she arose and led the way out of the lounge. Like a man in a dream, Jack followed her, hailed the taxi, assisted Brenda in, and automatically got in himself. For a moment or two he did not speak. Brenda watched him with a little smile from her corner. He turned to her.

“Brenda—you heard what I said. I’m not good at this sort of thing——”

“You certainly are not,” Brenda agreed.

“But I love you, Brenda, I——”

Then happened the most wonderful thing which had ever come to Jack. Two arms were wound about his neck, and kisses were rained upon him. Lips that he had loved to kiss were pressed to his—this time in complete and happy yielding. A little voice, very sweet, with a sob in it, said ever so gently:

“Dear, dear old Jack—I’ve wanted you all the time. Why have you been so long?”

Then Jack knew that fairy tales were actualities, and that dreams do come true.

* * * * * * * *

Dinner was in process of being served at Evenden Priory that night when a telegram arrived which Sir Michael opened and read. He frowned, then handed it to Lady Evenden. It merely said:

“Delayed in London on most urgent business for at least three days; expect me about Friday. Don’t be surprised if I bring some one else. Love.—Jack.”

“Fancy that,” said Sir Michael in some annoyance. “I wonder what can have detained him. I was counting upon him to-morrow. We’re a gun short now.”

Several of the guests, who knew Jack well, expressed their polite disappointment. But, soon the talk spread to other topics, and the dinner went merrily on.

After dinner, when the ladies, taking their cue from Lady Evenden, had withdrawn, chairs were moved up and port was served. Sir Michael always sat for three quarters of an hour after the ladies had gone, and many a good joke, that set those at the table in a roar of laughter, was told, many a tale of prowess in the shooting-field, and many a local anecdote was dished up by the same old squires, in the same old way, that they had been since Sir Michael could remember.

He did not mind that. It was music to his ears. A great sense of security came to him as he sat there in the center of his friends. The Evenden estates were more soundly endowed than they had been in any period of their history. The oft-told tales of some of his guests were not boring to Sir Michael; they were part of the Priory—part of the home he had always loved so well, worked for so hard to get back—aye, he thought as he sat there, even sinned to get back.

As the thought occurred to him, Sir Michael shuddered, but quickly recovered himself, shrugged his shoulders, helped himself to another glass of the famous ’34 port, and joined in the laughter that followed a tale of Frank’s.

Immediately after telling it, Frank excused himself and left the room. He made his way direct to the drawing-room in search of Jill; but she was not there. The night was warm for September, and one of the French windows stood wide open; so, thinking that perhaps Jill had stepped out, on to the lawn to take the air, Frank followed.

There was an autumn nip in the air, and a slight mist had spread over the park. In the distance an owl hooted; while, nearby, he saw the erratic flight of a couple of bats. He threw away the stump of his cigar the better to enjoy the scented air; then he walked slowly across the lawn.

Arrived at the point where the lawn joined a shrubbery bordering the main carriage drive, he halted, discerning two figures—a man and a woman. Wondering who they were, he approached more closely, being careful not to be observed. From the shadow of a tree he recognized them. They were members of the house party, and he smiled to think of what the wife of the one and the husband of the other would say if they had the view he had. But, the girl was not Jill; so, he passed on.

Giving up all hope of meeting her, he walked along the shrubbery path to where it joined the drive. There, to his astonishment, he found that the small wicket gate was open. This gate invariably was kept locked, and all members of the household had a latchkey to fit it. Frank walked through and continued down the drive.

He walked on, until in the distance the lights of the lodge-keeper’s place twinkled, then, about to return, he again changed his mind. He decided he would stroll down and have a word with old Middlemas, at the lodge. With this intention he proceeded, but he had not gone far when he heard voices quite close at hand. He stopped, withdrew into the shadow of a huge oak tree, and listened. Unmistakably there were two voices—a man’s and a woman’s. He started—the woman’s voice was Jill Kilby’s—and she was here—talking to a man!

Frank stood, silent as a statue, and listened. At first, the faint breeze, ruffling the leaves, interfered with his hearing. But, presently he accustomed his ears to the sound, and distinctly heard Jill speaking.

“But I don’t like to tell his mother, Wilfred. I can manage him quite well. If I were to tell his mother I should certainly lose my position. And I don’t want to do that. I like Lady Evenden and I like Sir Michael, and I like the life. Don’t be silly, dear. I know best.”

“What the devil’s this?” muttered Frank to himself.

“Oh, I wish you would let me speak to Lady Evenden, Jill darling,” the man replied. “I am sure if she is the decent woman you say she is, she would listen to reason, and stop that young cad of hers from pestering you.”

“By all the gods, that’s a bit hot,” Frank again muttered. “So, this is the other man she mentioned, is it?” His ruminations were cut short, for Jill was talking again.

“You must be content to leave things to my judgment, Wilfred,” she said. “I told you before you came down that you were taking a great risk by coming and staying at the village inn. That was bad enough in all conscience, but to expect me to meet you in the very grounds is positively stupid, you dear old thing. You know, I have already told you that Lady Evenden hates you for some reason. What would happen if she found out that you were here?”

“This is all very interesting, I’m sure,” said Frank to himself. “I seem to have stumbled on a pretty little intrigue.”

“Well, darling, you know how I long to be beside you,” the man replied. “Do you blame me very much, Jill dear?”

“N-o,” Jill replied, and there was a sound of kissing. Frank ground his teeth in fury. Very little more was said, and the lovers separated.

It took a great effort on Frank’s part not to come out and declare himself, but prudence dictated his silence for the time being. He would find out a little more about this astonishing affair, and then decide what course to pursue. He waited in the shadow of the oak until he saw Wilfred Barlow stride off down the drive in the direction of the lodge, and Jill, after waiting a moment, walk hurriedly towards the house. Then he followed.

“I wonder what it all means,” he mused. “That she has a lover is simple enough. But what do they mean by the tale about my mother hating him, whoever he is? I must find out something about that. What interest can my mother have in the confounded man, anyhow? I shall find some way of dealing with both, or my name isn’t what it is.”

Still deep in thought, Frank returned to the house and, after glancing in the drawing-room and seeing Jill there, made for the billiard room, played one or two games, then went to bed. Before he slept he had decided on a plan of action. He would find out the identity of the stranger at the inn, then find out from his mother what she thought of him, and why. If only he could get Jill away somewhere. Then an idea came, and Frank chuckled with delight. He had decided on a course that was unscrupulous, but what matter? Was not all fair in love?

The next day he found out, by careful inquiry, the identity of Dr. Wilfred Barlow, and for the next two or three days he set himself to watch the movements of Jill. With wicked cunning he managed, without raising his mother’s suspicions, to invent duties which kept Jill busy all day long, and every evening as she left the drawing-room to walk on the lawn, he intercepted her and talked to her until, in despair, she was glad to get back into the room under the protection of Lady Evenden.

Such was the position on Friday when a telegram came announcing the near arrival of Jack Evenden. He came just before five o’clock, while Lady Evenden was dispensing tea in the huge hall-lounge.

Very affectionately did his stepmother greet him. Jack hated the task he had set himself. Nevertheless he firmly believed it his duty to speak to her on the subject, and he could not conceive of a better opportunity. His father was out with the guns, and only two or three ladies were present. After drinking his tea and eating a toasted muffin, Jack said he had a letter to write and retired to the library, which he knew would be unoccupied at that hour.

He seated himself at a desk and wrote a little note to his stepmother, begging her to join him in the library, as he had something of importance to tell her. He dispatched the note with a servant, and in a moment or so his mother appeared.

“You wanted to see me, Jack?” she smilingly asked. “I am glad you sent for me like that. How clever you are. I had been wondering how we could have a little chat before dinner, and you’ve managed it splendidly. Now tell me all about yourself, dear. How did you leave your friends aboard ship? And, Jack, you dreadful boy, tell me why you spent all those days in London, when we were waiting for you here.”

His stepmother was so transparently glad to see him—so unaffectedly sincere in her motherly love for him—that Jack quailed again at the dreadful task his conscience dictated. Almost, he decided to cut the whole thing out; then, stubbornly fighting down sentiment and giving rein to what he considered his duty, he began:

“Mum, dear, I can’t put this thing as it ought to be put. A friend of mine aboard ship, Basil Towers is his name, told me he knew you when you were Mrs. Gough, and said there was a row when your husband died. He said the doctors said your husband was paralyzed—unable to walk, and you and two maids were alone with him and—— Good heavens! What’s the matter, mum?”

The last words were spoken in pitiful anxiety, and Jack rushed forward just in time to catch his stepmother before she struck the floor, for Lady Evenden had fainted.

CHAPTER IV.
THE HAND OF DEATH

Jack carried his stepmother over to a couch, laid her gently down, then crossed the room for some water from the carafe that stood on a side table. Soon, the color began to show again in Lady Evenden’s face; and, to Jack’s manifest relief, she opened her eyes.

At first she smiled, bewildered. Then memory seemed to return to her; for, a pained look, followed by a hard expression that Jack had never seen before, settled on her face.

“Don’t try to get up, mum,” Jack begged. “I can’t say how sorry I am for this——”

She interrupted him with a little imperious movement of her arm.

“You were saying that your friend told you there were circumstances in the death of my first husband that reflected upon me, I think. What precisely do you charge me with, Jack?”

“Oh, mum, dear! I make no charge at all. How can you think that I would?” Jack replied hurriedly. “The thing is that when this rotten story was told to me I felt that there must be some explanation of it, and it was only right that you should have the chance to give the proper story. Then, don’t you see, I know what to reply?”

“Jack”—Lady Evenden spoke slowly, and her eyes searched her stepson’s face keenly—“how did you come to be discussing my affairs? What possible interest could my early life have for you? Is there anything since you have known me that would justify you picking about in the dead past? In what have I failed? You were only a little boy of eight, Jack, when I came into your life, and I always loved you——”

“Stop, stop!” Jack seized his stepmother’s hand, leaned forward, and gently kissed her. “You make me feel an awful brute. I don’t presume to criticize you at all. But, when I heard this story it became my duty to tell it to you. Can’t you see that? Obviously, it would have been the same if you had been my own mother—you have been equal to that to me.”

“You have not told me how this arose.” Lady Evenden spoke quietly. In her eyes a wistful look had appeared as she gazed at the troubled countenance of her stepson.

“Basil Towers, my messmate, saw your photo and——” Jack began, when she interrupted him.

“Ah, yes! The Towers of Ardlui. What did he say exactly, Jack?”

Jack related to her exactly what the gunnery lieutenant had said. She listened intently and shuddered slightly when he came to the part where the paralyzed man was found in the lake. Then, for a moment or two after Jack had finished she sat silent, her hand shading her eyes. At last she spoke.

“Jack, my life with John Gough, Frank’s father, was a terrible one. It is a memory that I would bury—a nightmare and worse. On the last night—that awful night young Towers told you about—I never slept. I spent the whole night in packing up my things. Ill or not ill, I intended to leave my husband the next day. I had come to the limit of human endurance. Jack, you don’t know—you can’t realize—what a fiend that man was. Look”—with a rapid movement she unloosened her dress and bared one shoulder, revealing a permanent scar. Jack shuddered. “That is a pleasant little memory of John Gough,” she continued bitterly; “John Gough and a red-hot poker.” She refastened her dress, her breath came quickly, as if the fear of the terrible days came back to her for a moment; then she resumed.

“I don’t pretend to know what was the condition of my late husband on the night the doctor and Mr. Towers saw him. All I know is that in the morning—he had gone. He was found in the lake. That is all I know. Of course I left the district—the district that had nothing but miserable and humiliating memories for me. My one desire was to forget.”

“But, my dear,” Jack asked, “was no one left to attend to the man in his room if he was paralyzed like that?”

“It was the first seizure he had had, Jack,” she replied. “Drink and uncontrolled passion had left him often before foaming at the mouth, and gibbering. I saw him put to bed, and I warned the maids to listen carefully to his bell, and to be sure and go together—not one—it was not safe, with that man. Then I locked my door, and packed, as I told you.”

“It is very terrible, mum,” Jack said. “And I am very sorry for raising such a tragic chapter in your life. There is only one thing I want to ask you. Of course I believe what you say. But, does father know all about this?”

Lady Evenden stiffened; there was almost defiance in her eyes as she spoke.

“No, he does not.”

Jack felt like one who has had a blow in the face. Lady Evenden merely looked at him, unflinchingly, challengingly. He gulped—then spoke.

“Mum—why not? Don’t you think he should?”

“Yes—he ought to have known, at the time. In fact I meant to tell him. I began to tell him that there was something in my earlier married life that was very terrible that I wanted him to know; but, your father saw my distress, and said that if it was anything of a painful nature he did not want to hear it. His trust in me was absolute. I have never abused your father’s trust, Jack.”

“Still, mum, I’m not unduly criticizing you—but, don’t you think he ought to know now? He would believe you just as I do. It would be terrible if he got to know of it accidentally as I did,” Jack persisted.

“It is too late.” Lady Evenden shook her head sadly.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“I had not meant to cloud your home-coming with this, Jack dear, but you must know now what I intended to break more gently. Your father’s heart is in a terrible condition. A shock like this would kill him.” Lady Evenden leaned back in her corner of the couch, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. Jack was aghast.

“Since when has this been so, mum?” he asked kindly.

She proceeded to tell him of the frequent heart attacks of Sir Michael, culminating in his visit to Professor Gaspari at Lausanne.

Time had passed without either noticing it, and now the first gong was sounding for dinner. Lady Evenden rose; so did Jack.

“Oh, I say,” he said as they walked to the door. “There is some more news to-day that I must tell you. You remember Brenda Trenchard——”

“Jack, Jack,” Lady Evenden interrupted him impatiently. “How can you follow up two subjects like the things we have been discussing with a reference to my flirtatious little companion of three years ago? Listen, Jack—we have only a moment. Will you give me your word to preserve my secret from your father?”

“Yes, of course, I will. But I must tell you about Brenda——”

“Some other time, Jack. Believe me, I’m asking you to do the right thing where your father is concerned, and I know I can rely upon you. You’re a dear boy, Jack; kiss me.” Jack felt as though she wanted him to kiss her to testify his faith in her still, and he put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her very tenderly.

She gave him a smile, then quickly made her way to the butler’s pantry to speak to Evans, the butler, about some last-moment arrangements before she dressed.

Jack proceeded slowly up the east staircase to the Prior’s Room to dress. His mind clung to the interview he just had had with his stepmother. He felt an overwhelming sympathy for her. He trusted her and believed her version of the circumstances in which the brutal John Gough had died. Nevertheless, why, he asked himself, had she never told his father? His meditations were cut short by a tap on the door, which he had locked. He went over and opened it, and was immediately confronted with Frank Gough.

“Hello, my dear old wig-and-gown merchant,” Jack greeted him in undisguised pleasure, putting out both hands, which were immediately taken and held by his stepbrother.

“Well, I’m jolly glad to see you, old admiral,” Frank replied laughing. “I thought I’d run in on you and have a chat before we go down.”

“I’m jolly glad to see you,” Jack said cordially. “Help yourself to cigarettes, and there’s a syphon there. But wait! Look at this.” Jack took a large wickered jar from a trunk. “I’ve brought you this, a jar of eleven o.p. Navy rum.”

“Splendid fellow!” Frank took the jar. “I shall love a little of this at the end of a long day’s shooting or hunting. I say—got a corkscrew, we’ll just sample it now, shall we?”

“In the senior service, my lad, we are trained to carry every article of prime importance,” Jack announced as he flung his stepbrother a corkscrew. While Jack completed his dressing, Frank withdrew the cork from the rum jar, and poured two small glasses of the pungent spirit. The brothers were toasting each other when there came a second tap on the door.

“What is it?” Jack called, and the door opened revealing Roberto, Sir Michael’s valet, who had come to see if he could be of assistance to Jack, having dressed Sir Michael. Jack refused his services, and the two brothers continued their talk.

“I say, Jack,” Frank presently said, “I want your advice, old man, seriously. You know Jill Kilby?”

Jack nodded and smiled.

“No, no!—this is serious,” Frank averred. “Well, I’ve been keen for a long time—and it isn’t a bit of good. She won’t have anything to do with me. I’ve tried everything I can. I’ve acted the cave man and the sheik business, you know——”

“What does the cave man and the sheik business consist of, Frankie?” Jack asked, laughing.

“Well—you know——” Frank replied, “for instance, on the way through France, I managed to get across to her compartment on the train, and I made furious love to her until a guard came and I had to get out.”

“The devil you did!” Jack gazed at him, first in horror, and then he forced a laugh. “I am afraid I could never get to that point,” he said, “though a certain lady of my acquaintance tells with some complacent satisfaction that her husband kidnaped her aboard a destroyer that he commanded, and utterly refused to allow her to land until she promised to marry him. They’ve been married for twenty-six years now, and got one lieutenant, one sub, one middie, and one fleet-surgeon’s wife; so, I suppose it sometimes works out all right.” Both the brothers laughed. Then Frank spoke again, seriously.

“For some reason or other the confounded girl seems to hate me, Jack,” he said, frowning and taking a fresh cigarette. “She’s got a lover, too—got him staying down in the village inn, here. I have seen them together in the drive after dinner. Couldn’t help hearing them speak. They referred to me; and this man—Dr. Barlow, they call him—spoke of me as a cad!”

Jack could not refrain from laughing heartily.

“Listeners, you know, old chap, never hear any good about themselves. But, seriously, if the girl doesn’t want you—why worry? Have another dip in the lucky bag. There goes the bell; come on, we’ll have a chat later.”

The brothers left the room and descended the great winding stairs, traversed the main corridor of the first floor, finally reaching the hall together, where Jack immediately was pounced on by a score of old friends and acquaintances. At dinner, he found himself next to Jill Kilby, and, as he glanced down at her, he could not forbear a misgiving when he thought of the story Frank had told him.

She was pretty, Jack thought, but compared to Brenda—his Brenda—— As he thought of Brenda, a happy glow pervaded everything. What would they all say when they knew that he and Brenda had made things up? He glanced across the table. What would his father think? Sir Michael was in the midst of an animated conversation with Muriel Daneley, the pretty American heiress married to the middle-aged Earl of Daneley, who sat farther down the table.

“I’ve been hearing some rather dreadful things about you,” said Jack, smiling down at the little companion on his left.

Jill started, and involuntarily glanced furtively down the table to where Frank was sitting, his eyes fixed on her.

“What do you mean, Mr. Evenden?” she asked.

“Well, I’m told that a certain very great friend of mine is positively in the throes, because of you. Eating his heart out, and every other thing he can eat out—because you spurn him! You must be a cruel little lady!”

Jill glanced up and flushed a little. But as she saw the honest, humorous eyes of her bantering neighbor, she did not express the annoyance she felt.

“I am so glad the weather is holding for the shooting,” she said. “The men all say they have never had a better season.”

“Self-possessed little monkey,” Jack mused to himself; then aloud he said: “I’m very glad to hear that. You see, my time is essentially limited. Most of these chaps can stay on if a bad patch of weather comes, but with me it is—now or never. My leave finishes in just over a week’s time—and there’s no appeal.”

“Yes, I quite understand—that’s why I’m so glad——”

“Jack, I’ve particularly wanted to ask you one or two questions of a rather important nature.” Jack turned contritely to the lady on his right; then he groaned. Lady Nina Cockett was the wife of the old rector. He knew her of old—but there was no help for it. “I’ve been troubled for some time, Jack,” she said, “by what I am afraid I must call the insidious permeation of Anglo-Catholic views and practices in the chaplaincies of the Crown forces. Now I wonder if you can tell me. Does your chaplain take the eastward, or the northward, position at the altar?”

“I really don’t know,” Jack replied. “I suppose it depends on what course the ship’s on.”

“Jack, my dear,” the dominant voice of Lady Nina came in retort, “I know the tendency of the day is for young people to treat serious matters lightly, but I do trust that you render to your pastor that fitting respect that you have been taught to show.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Jack tried to break away so as to resume his conversation with Jill, but the dragon had him, and the rest of the meal was occupied by Lady Nina’s questions and statements. Jack was sorrier than ever for the dear old rector, who bore his cross with such exemplary patience. But all things end—and presently the port was served and the ladies departed. For the usual three quarters of an hour the men sat on, smoking their cigars and sipping their port.

“To-morrow I want a long chat with you about a number of things, Jack, old man,” said Sir Michael as he and Jack walked from the dining room towards the drawing-room. “Yes,” Jack replied. “You look very well to-night, dad. Do you feel fit?”

“Yes—and no,” replied the baronet slowly. “But that, and a number of other things, I’ll go into with you to-morrow morning. I think I’ll retire early to-night. I’ve rather overdone it to-day. I feel the strain a little, but a good night’s rest will put me right, without doubt.”

“What time will suit you, dad?” Jack asked.

“Oh, we’ll take an early walk round together before breakfast—You’re used to early rising, I know. Come to the gun room at seven-thirty,” replied the baronet.

“That’s fine,” Jack answered. “I used always to look forward to our rambles round the woods in the mornings, dad, as you know.”

“So did I, my boy, and so I do still,” responded Sir Michael. “Now run off and join the ladies, or play bridge, or billiards, or what not. If you should see your mother tell her I’ve retired early—just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Righto, dad.” Jack bade his father “good-night”; then he made for the billiard room. There, he played two games of billiards, looked about for Frank, but failed to find him, went to the drawing-room to see if Jill Kilby was there, but left hurriedly as Lady Nina Cockett caught his eye and began to clear her throat preparatory to another onslaught. Perhaps Frank would stop up to the Prior’s Room to have a chat with him, Jack thought, making his way there. But Frank did not come; so, presently, he undressed and prepared for bed.

Jill Kilby had taken advantage of the fact that there was some good chamber music in the drawing-room which held everyone’s attention, to slip out to meet Wilfred Barlow. She told him all the news of the last three days, and of Jack’s arrival and his jest at dinner; then she returned to find her mistress in great distress.

Lady Evenden had asked repeatedly for Jill in the last hour; and, despite her distress, was somewhat annoyed that she should be absent without letting her know. It appeared that Sir Michael had been suffering from an acute pain in his chest, and the local doctor had been sent for. He arrived almost simultaneously with Jill, and, knowing the case thoroughly, declared that it was something that might be expected after a tiring day—certainly nothing alarming. He gave a soothing draught and left, reassuring Lady Evenden about her husband.

Sir Michael lay down again to rest. Downstairs the dancing went on, the cards were well patronized, and the billiard room was occupied by a merry young crew of both sexes. Harmless little flirtations developed in the conservatories, until, at length, the last guest was in bed.

It was three o’clock in the morning when Roberto, the valet sleeping in the box room opening off Sir Michael’s bedroom, heard strange groans issuing from his master’s room. He rushed in—to find Sir Michael in fearful agony, his hands clutching his breast.

The valet rushed to the bedside, raised his master’s head; even as he did so, Sir Michael gave a low groan—and all was over.

CHAPTER V.
DR. LAIDLAW TAKES A HAND

As soon as he found that his master was dead, the valet, Roberto, immediately raised the alarm, and Lady Evenden was quickly upon the scene. Her grief was terrible. For some time she could not realize that the dreaded end had come so suddenly—so almost nefariously. Jill Kilby was sent for by the butler, and she tried to get her mistress to leave the death chamber; but Lady Evenden would remain there, half-kneeling, half-lying, by her husband’s bed, her arms thrown round the neck of the man who could never respond again to her caresses.

Frank and Jack were both sent for, and they came almost together. Horrified and bewildered, they stood for some time helplessly gazing at the tragic tableau formed by the living and the dead.

Jack, at last, getting a grip of himself, sent for the local doctor, who came speedily and pronounced life extinct. Sir Michael, he said, had suffered another seizure. This time the heart had been unable to resist the strain, and death had followed. He was surprised—he had not thought from his examination of Sir Michael, earlier in the evening, that the contingency was remotely possible.

Lady Evenden, after great persuasion, was induced to go to her room, and the doctor gave her a draught to insure a certain amount of sleep. Jill stayed by her side, in her room, while Jack and Frank jointly worked out the immediate arrangements to be made. Neither of them returned to bed. They were occupied sending messages to the lawyers and relatives throughout the remaining hours of the night.

In the morning, the guests were quietly informed of the tragic event, and of the impossibility of Lady Evenden’s receiving them in person. With expressions of deep sympathy, they all left the house which, so suddenly, had changed from a bright home of gladness to a place of unutterable gloom.

During the forenoon, Mr. Christopher Benson of the firm of Benson, Waugh & Musgrave, solicitors, arrived, and, after going to the room in which his distinguished client lay, and remaining there in respectful silence for some time, he sought an interview with Jack, in the library.

Mr. Benson was an old gentleman who had served the late baronet’s father in a legal capacity, and had known Jack since babyhood. He was a small man, standing about five feet four. Seventy-six years of age, he looked about sixty—ruddy of countenance, and dressed in a fashion of thirty years ago. He affected small white side-whiskers, which he brushed back to his ears. His hair, plentiful at the sides, was very thin on top. He wore tremendously high Gladstonian collars, which had the effect of framing his face completely between whisker and neck. But the most remarkable features, of Mr. Christopher Benson, were his eyes and his ears.

His ears were unusually large, and his eyes—surmounting a certain pouchiness in the cheeks—were disconcertingly bright and alert. He was immaculately dressed in his old-world style, wearing a grey morning coat and vest with perfectly creased, striped trousers, patent shoes, and a huge stock tie—black to-day in respect to the Evenden family.

He stood before the great fireplace in the library as Jack entered, his hands behind him, the flames from the fire throwing flickering shadows over his venerable face—for the windows were darkened.

As Jack entered, he switched on several lights.

“Good morning, Sir John,” the old man greeted him, and Jack started. The title sounded exceedingly strange; it was the first time it had been addressed to him.

“This is a sad morning for all of us, my boy,” went on the old man. “Yet what a mercy you are home I was afraid you might have to be sent for to your ship.”

“I arrived last night, as a matter of fact,” Jack replied. “How are you, Mr. Benson?” He shook hands cordially with the old man.

“I am very well, thank you, my boy,” Benson said. “I don’t need to ask you how you are. How is Lady Evenden taking this?”

“Terribly,” Jack replied with a shiver. “I have just left her room. It is awful to behold her grief! She does not cry, you know, but just sits in the window mumbling to herself occasionally, and sometimes she seems to be talking to—to him.” Tears welled up in Jack’s eyes at the memory. The old man patted his shoulder.

“H’m! H’m!” he growled. “I’ll have to see her before I go. These strong, capable women, like your stepmother, are the ones to watch in a crisis like this, my boy. They wrap themselves up in some single person and, when anything happens, they simply crumple up. You must be very careful of her, Jack. She’s a good woman.”

“Oh, I know! I know!” Jack agreed.

“Now, my boy”—the old man coughed slightly—“it is most disagreeable to think of matters of business at a time when one’s whole soul is steeped in emotion. Yet, there are certain things that must be attended to at once, and I must—I am sorry—but I must ask you to accompany me through a certain number of papers——”

“Oh, I say, Mr. Benson,” Jack broke in, protestingly, “can’t it wait? Is it really necessary to discuss anything like that yet?”

“Yes, it is,” almost snapped the old man. Then he proceeded more kindly. “You must remember that you were born a privileged person. Great privileges carry with them great responsibilities, and certain crosses, as it were, that are not always the lot of those in humbler circumstances.”

“Quite, sir.” Jack saw the old lawyer in a new light. There was tremendous personality in the little man. And, as he stood there, his fine old face set, and his clear, sharp eyes flashing, he looked an embodiment of duty, bequeathed from an older and sterner generation, for the guidance of a generation to come.

“There are certain papers for you to sign that I have prepared for such a contingency as the present,” he said, unfolding a bundle of papers tied with pink tape, and adjusting a pair of heavy old-fashioned eyeglasses to his nose. “We will just run through them.”

A quarter of an hour was so occupied, then the old man folded his papers, removed his glasses, lay back in his chair; and, with the tips of his fingers just touching from time to time, addressed Jack.

“Now there is one other point I must mention to you this morning,” he said. “There is a will, of course, which will be read after the funeral—But, did your father take you into his confidence at all about his affairs?”

“No,” Jack replied. “As a matter of fact, only last night he told me he wished to consult me about a number of things this morning, and I arranged to meet him in the gun room at seven-thirty.”

“H’m! I see.” The old man crossed his legs, glanced with his sharp eyes towards the door, then leaned forward, and, speaking more quietly, said: “The will with which we shall have to proceed to probate, the only existing will, my boy, is an absolute travesty of your late father’s wishes. The reason why he wanted to consult you this morning was to secure your co-operation and agreement in making such provision for your stepbrother and your stepmother as was just and reasonable.”

“But you don’t mean to say that he didn’t provide for us all, do you?” Jack asked in bewilderment.

“He intended to,” Mr. Benson replied. “I’ll tell you what happened. Some time ago—only a few weeks ago—your father was absolutely in the throes of financial difficulty. Things looked as black as thunder in the Russian oil markets, from which, of course, his great wealth was derived. Now he had a positive horror of this estate slipping out of the family again. I don’t blame him for that; but, when he thought he might possibly come very near to ruin, he determined that every available penny left, should be concentrated in the estate, so that the heir would not be forced to mortgage or sell. The former process invariably ends in the latter, in my long experience.

“Now, in the event of his death, there would have been sufficient to carry on with, but only just sufficient, and he relied upon you to look after your stepmother by way of pension, to what extent the estate could afford. Are you following me?”

Jack nodded.

“Well now”—the old man looked around—“get me a little whisky, will you?” Jack could scarcely repress a smile. He apologized for his lack of thought, rang, and ordered the refreshment. When it was served, and the door closed behind the retreating servant, Mr. Benson, after taking a sip, continued: “Since then the situation has entirely changed. Your father and his associates won their way through, and your father died worth probably half a million, after these iniquitous death duties are paid. Now it is for you, in honor, to meet your father’s wishes and provide an adequate sum for your stepbrother and stepmother. Do you understand?”

“Certainly, Mr. Benson. You know perfectly well I will do whatever you think right in that regard.”

“Well, that’s all I want to say now, my boy. I keep on calling you ‘my boy’ and ‘Jack.’ I must get into the habit of calling you ‘Sir John.’ That is one of the penalties of age, my boy, a vain hankering after the things that were—and garrulity.”

The old man rose, finished his whisky, then turned to Jack.

“Now take me to Lady Evenden,” he ordered.

“Well—I don’t really know whether you can do any good, Mr. Benson——” Jack began doubtfully.

But the old man cut in brusquely. “Tut, tut! Take me to Lady Evenden—and leave the rest to me.”

Jack, without more ado, led the way up the great staircase to his stepmother’s room, softly opened the door, and called Jill. Mr. Benson pushed past him and crossed the room to where Margaret Evenden sat, a tragic figure indeed, in the wide window overlooking the park. Her eyes, roaming incessantly, were searching every bit of the landscape within view. It was all holy ground to her. Not an inch but her beloved husband and she had trodden in the happy years that were ended now.

Jack withdrew, and Jill Kilby, looking a little doubtfully at the lawyer as he crossed the room, advanced and touched his coat sleeve.

“Her ladyship is not herself——” Jill began.

“I knew her ladyship before you were born, girl. Leave the room,” ordered the old lawyer sternly. Jill hesitated. “Leave the room, will you?” Mr. Benson’s eyes flashed, completely intimidating. Jill flushed and left the room. Mr. Benson then approached Margaret Evenden, who had not shown the slightest interest in the duel of wills that had just taken place within three yards of her. A very different Mr. Benson it was who touched her on the shoulder.

“Lady Evenden, my poor child!” whispered the old man. “This won’t do, you know.” She looked up, and the old lawyer took her hand.

“Who told him?” Margaret Evenden whispered “John did.”

Mr. Benson looked closely at her. There was a tremor in his voice as he asked:

“Lady Evenden, my dear child, do you know me?”

She stared vacantly at him for several moments, then replied:

“Of course—you’re Mr. Benson, but nothing matters now. I kept my secret safely all these years, and then somebody told him—and he died.”

“Will you please listen to one who has sought to serve you ever since he met you, my dear?” Mr. Benson asked, and his magnetic eyes held hers.

She replied in spite of herself. “Yes—I know I can trust you. I think I can trust you. But it doesn’t matter now, anyhow.”

“You can trust me, my child, and, what’s more, you must obey me. Now listen to me. Your dear husband died because his heart was in a terrible condition, and he had been overstraining it lately. He loved you, and he expected you to remain the strong helper of the weak in this district that you have ever been. The charities that he and you inaugurated still need your presiding genius. You have work still to do.”

She was silent. He paused a moment, then proceeded.

“I am no priest, my dear, only a rather cynical old lawyer; but an overwhelming majority of civilized people firmly believe that death is not the end of existence. Now on that basis, my dear child, does it not behoove you, at this time, so to act that your dear husband will be proud of your victory over evil circumstance, when you are once more reunited?”

“I shall not fail him,” she replied. “Only he would not have left me if some one had not told him.”

“Never mind that,” counseled the old man. “Remember what I say. I will see you to-morrow. Good-day, my dear Lady Evenden.”

She bade him “good-day,” and with frowning brows Mr. Benson left the room. At the door he found Jill talking to Jack Evenden. He ignored the girl, drew Jack aside, and spoke directly and firmly.

“Listen to me, Jack. Your stepmother is on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. I know the signs. When the great crises of life come, these strong, capable women are bowled right over. They feel too deeply, my boy; they feel too deeply. Now listen to me and take my advice. Anything might happen with that unfortunate lady. You must get—and get at once—a strong, capable, experienced woman into the house, as a nurse or companion. That flibbertigibbet of a flapper that presumed to teach me my business is utterly useless—worse than useless. Now get one at once, will you?”

“Yes, certainly, if you say I must,” replied Jack, looking frightened. “Do you mean there is danger of her sanity——”

“Yes, I do,” interrupted Mr. Benson. “She’s got all sorts of ridiculous delusions now. Who’ll you get?”

“I’ll send for Lady Porter, she——”

“Capital,” agreed the lawyer. “The very woman. Send at once, and in the meantime have the housekeeper somewhere about your stepmother. Don’t leave her in the care of that flapper.”

Jack agreed, though in his heart he felt that the old man exaggerated the state of his stepmother, as he did Jill’s incompetence. Nevertheless, he knew in what esteem his father had held the old man, and he knew that Mr. Benson was considered the greatest lawyer in four counties. Besides, he personally liked the old man as well as respected him. He determined therefore to send for Lady Porter, his father’s cousin from Lincoln, immediately. He accompanied Mr. Benson to the hall, where a little man was waiting. The butler approached him.

“This gentleman says he must see Lady Evenden, sir,” he announced.

“Well, he can’t whoever he is”—Mr. Benson spoke before Jack could reply.

“No—it is impossible for anyone to see Lady Evenden, at present.” Jack agreed, with a glance at the little man.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the little man coming forward, “but I am a very old friend of Lady Evenden, and at this moment it is very important that I should see her—even imperative.”

“What is your name?” asked Jack.

“Laidlaw—Dr. Laidlaw,” replied the little man with a quick glance at the lawyer, who was observing him keenly.

“Well, then, you must write, Dr. Laidlaw,” said Mr. Benson. “You certainly cannot see her. She is not fit to receive anybody.”

“I am sure if she knew——” commenced Dr. Laidlaw.

“You cannot see her. You cannot see her!” thundered Mr. Benson. “Can you not take an order, man?”

“It is very important——” Again the doctor was interrupted.

“Will you please go, sir?” The lawyer looked like a judge and an executioner in one.

Dr. Laidlaw, coloring, and with an evil glint in his eye, left without another word.

“I don’t know who that man is, but he’s a nasty little fellow,” observed Mr. Benson to Jack, and Jack agreed that the doctor’s appearance was certainly not prepossessing. The lawyer took his leave and Jack returned to the library.

Late that afternoon, when Jack paid a call at his stepmother’s room, he was astonished to meet Dr. Laidlaw leaving it, just as he was about to enter. He halted a moment to question him. But, Laidlaw rushed past him and was on the staircase before Jack could think of anything to say.

“Lady Evenden is trying to sleep, and wishes you to excuse her,” Jill announced, as Jack was about to enter the room.

“Well, I think I’d better see her for a moment,” Jack hesitated.

“Forgive me,” Jill said. “You can, of course, if you like, Mr. Evenden—but she seems so upset just now that I think, if I might presume to advise, I should suggest you let her have a rest for an hour or so.”

“All right,” Jack rather reluctantly agreed. “But just one moment, Miss Kilby. Who admitted that little man who has just gone?”

“Oh, his name is Dr. Laidlaw,” Jill said. “Her ladyship saw him in the grounds somewhere, and sent word down that she would receive him, so I informed the butler, and he came.”

“I see—all right,” Jack said after a pause. Then, as he moved away, he said to himself, “I wonder who the little fellow is? He seemed sure of his welcome—and he apparently was welcome. Laidlaw? Laidlaw? Where have I heard the name—— Great heavens! the name of the doctor who attended her first husband at Loch Lomond! What on earth does this mean?”

Deep in meditation, Jack walked to the smoking room, then to the library, afterwards making a round of the likeliest places to find his stepbrother. Failing, he returned to the library, rang for the butler, and told him to send Mr. Frank to him in the Prior’s Room, if he should come in.

But Frank did not come in, and later in the evening Jack dined alone in the great dining room. Afterwards, obsessed by loneliness, he retired to the Prior’s Room, leaving instructions again with the butler to send Frank along if he should return before midnight.

Roberto, the valet, went to attend his new master at seven-thirty the following morning, but got no reply when he knocked. He decided therefore to wait until eight o’clock.

At eight, he was equally unsuccessful; so, he turned the handle of the door, which was not locked, and entered. The next thing that happened was that the household was startled by a piercing cry as Roberto, completely unstrung, ran along the corridors shouting:

“Master Jack, Master Jack is dead—murdered.”

CHAPTER VI.
ARRESTED!

If the death of Sir Michael, unexpected as it was, had given the household of Evenden Priory a shock, this new calamity was overwhelming. Roberto’s wild shrieks were only too justified. The butler and a footman visited the Prior’s Room immediately, and there, lying on the floor in his pyjamas, his body twisted and contorted, was the young master of Evenden. Jack had enjoyed his baronetcy for something under twenty-four hours.

The police and the doctor were immediately sent for. The latter pronounced Jack dead, and added that death had probably taken place eight hours previously.

When the superintendent of the local police arrived, accompanied by an inspector, Frank Gough received them in the library. Frank stated all he knew. He said that on the previous evening he had been rather late returning from a visit to Norwich, where he had ordered some black clothes from his tailor. On the way back, his car had given trouble, and it had been necessary to have it repaired. The delay made him late for dinner, which he subsequently ate alone.

He then had received a message from the butler to the effect that his brother had retired, and that he would expect him to come up to the Prior’s Room. He did so, and had found the dead man strangely perturbed. Jack had been very nice, but it had been necessary for him to make a certain disclosure, the nature of which Frank had resented very much.

While Frank was still worried and shocked—because, he said, the disclosure was certainly shocking—his dead brother had gone on to explain that, as the apportionment of money for both Frank and his mother was entirely in his hands, it left him in a very difficult position. Frank then lost his temper, and accused Jack of deliberately raking up a cock-and-bull story to avoid his manifest duty, financially, to his stepmother and stepbrother.

High words had followed. The brothers had almost come to blows. Then Frank had said that as soon as the funeral of his stepfather was over he would leave the place forever. After that he left the room, going direct to his own bedroom. Half an hour later, he stated, Jack had come to his room to apologize. He understood, he had said, how Frank must have felt, and very quietly told him more details of the story. The two brothers had at last arrived at a common policy of silence in regard to the matter; and, before he left, Jack had told Frank that it was his intention to carry out religiously his father’s wishes with regard to money—and that with a generous interpretation.

Both had apologized to each other for the previous high words and unkind aspersions. Then, after shaking hands, Jack went back to the Prior’s Room.

All this was carefully taken down by the police inspector. The superintendent darted a keen glance at Frank from time to time; but, not until the statement was completed did he speak. Then he asked a number of questions. But Frank remained unshaken.

The superintendent then asked Frank to remain with him while he interrogated the servants.

The butler’s story was a complete confirmation of the early part of Frank’s story. The late young baronet, he said, had dined alone and then he had retired, after expressing a wish that his stepbrother should be asked to visit him in his room. He had delivered the message to Mr. Frank whom he later saw depart in the direction of the Prior’s Room. He knew nothing more until he had the report of Roberto in the morning that Mr. Jack was dead.

The housekeeper, two footmen, and Roberto were then examined. Roberto merely repeated his first statement. At eight o’clock he had found his master dead—that was all he knew.

The housekeeper knew absolutely nothing, and said so. Just before she left, however, she startled her hearers by declaring:

“Of course I know how he died, all the same.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Turnbull?” asked the superintendent.

“Last night was the eve of St. Michael and All Angels,” declared the old lady, “and there never has been, in the history of the Priory, a case of a single person who has been allowed to remain the night through in the Prior’s Room on that awful night. Some have tried—but they have escaped in time—terrified.”

“What is this?” asked the bewildered superintendent.

Frank told him the ancient tradition of the haunted room and the supposed visit of the dour figure of the last of the priors, John Paseley, on the anniversary of his murder, in defense of his priory. The inspector, who was a good catholic, surreptitiously crossed himself.

“Is there any record of any authentic experiences?” asked the superintendent.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “There is an old book in the locked strong room, there. Shall I get it?”

“Yes,” replied the superintendent. “I would like to see it.”

Then the question of keys arose. Jack had had the key to that room. After a moment’s reflection, the superintendent said:

“Never mind, I will finish the inquiry first; then I will look. Perhaps I had better take the keys, for the moment.”

The next to be examined was the senior footman—he knew nothing and was quickly dispatched. He was followed by a young under-footman called Thomason—country-bred and raw. He entered the room with gaping mouth, his goggle-eyes fixed on Frank, and quickly had his hearers alert.

“I dunno whether I ought to say what I gotta say, sir,” he began helpfully. The superintendent immediately fixed on him a keen glance. “Tell us all you know,” he ordered. “Everything, mind you.”

“Well, sir,” began Thomason, “about nine o’clock I had occasion to go to the small pantry adjoining the Prior’s Room, and I heard awful quarreling, sir.”

“Did you recognize the voices?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Thomason.

“Who were they?” demanded the superintendent. Thomason turned a frightened glance in the direction of Frank.

“I can’t help telling, sir, can I?” he faltered, looking the picture of rustic stupidity.

“Get on, you fool, get on—tell the truth,” ordered Frank.

“Well, the voices was Mr. Jack and Mr. Frank,” Thomason declared, gasping in his horror.

“Could you hear what they were saying?” the superintendent next asked.

“Not exactly,” replied the footman. “There was something about greediness—and something about her ladyship—and something about Mr. Frank leaving the place forever.”

“But they were quarreling—fiercely?”

“Oh yes, sir—something scandalous!” replied Thomason solemnly.

“You stayed there for some time, I take it?” asked the superintendent.

“Yes, sir.”

“Cocking your ear?” The interruption came from old Evans the butler who, with rising disgust, had watched the exhibition his footman was making of himself.

“Be quiet, Mr. Evans,” ordered the superintendent. “This man may be an important witness.”

“He’ll never be an important footman if I have anything to do with it,” heatedly replied the butler. “The very idea—a servant trained by me——”

“Mr. Evans, I must ask you to leave the room!” The superintendent stood up and pointed to the door. With a venomous look at his ungainly assistant, old Evans left the room, but it said much for his authority at the Priory that Thomason stood and shivered like a whipped baboon after he had gone.

Nothing more was got out of Thomason—indeed, he tried to withdraw something of what he already had said, until the superintendent frightened him severely by telling him the terrible things that happen to people who mislead the police.

While the inquiry was in progress, Mr. Benson arrived. Frank had sent for him earlier. The former was thunderstruck by the news. The first thing he asked was whether Lady Evenden knew about it?

Frank did not know—he had been fully engaged all the time since the discovery.

The old lawyer asked Frank to accompany him. The superintendent seemed on the point of demurring. But, Mr. Benson was accustomed to rule even superintendents of police; and, he and Frank went together to Lady Evenden’s room.

The news had been broken to her by the housekeeper and Jill Kilby. She was terribly distressed. But, singularly enough, Mr. Benson thought her in much better mental condition than she had been on the previous day. Jill Kilby stated that, earlier in the morning, Lady Evenden had broken down and had cried bitterly and passionately, for the first time since her husband’s death.

She said very little now. She took her son’s hand and gripped it. Then she turned to Mr. Benson, gripping his hand tightly, as though it were some pillar of rock in a moving sea of trouble.

“There must be a curse fallen upon the house,” she cried. “Oh, Mr. Benson, don’t let anything else terrible happen to us, will you?”

The old man answered as reassuringly as he could, and then he and Frank left the room to return to the library.

The superintendent and inspector had completed their interrogation of the servants, and were poring over the great tome which told of the recurring phenomena of the Prior’s Room.

“How did you get hold of that?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Mr. Frank Gough told me it was in the strong room, and I had the keys that were found in the pockets of the murdered man,” answered the superintendent.

“My dear Dodgson!” Mr. Benson’s eyebrows lifted and his forehead wrinkled. “Since when has it been customary for police officers to take keys from the pockets of deceased people without consulting lawyers, or anybody else? What are you thinking about?”

“I am searching in this book to see if I can find any possible clue to the murder. It has been stated that no one has remained throughout a whole night in that room—called the Prior’s Room—on a certain day—that is, the eve of Michaelmas.”

“By Jove, that is certainly remarkable—and it is true, too, I can tell you that,” said Mr. Benson thoughtfully.

“I want to see you a minute privately, in any case,” the superintendent proceeded. Mr. Benson nodded, and they left the room together. He led Superintendent Dodgson to a small morning room; then the superintendent coughed a little and spoke.

“You are, of course, acting for the family?” Mr. Benson nodded. “Well, roughly,” continued the superintendent, “this is the position at present. The following statements taken—will you read them? This is Mr. Gough’s, and this is the last one—by the footman Thomason.” There was silence for ten minutes while Mr. Benson digested the contents. The longer he read, the more he frowned. Without a word, he folded the papers, handed them back to the superintendent, removed his eyeglasses, and fixed the other with the piercing eyes that had intimidated many a county bench. Then he spoke.

“Well?”

The superintendent was undoubtedly embarrassed—his position was delicate. He coughed again, once or twice.

“I feel like calling Scotland Yard,” he began. Mr. Benson nodded approval. “But in the meantime—I say in the meantime—I don’t see how I can avoid arresting Mr. Gough.”

Mr. Benson never flinched. Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray the slightest emotion. In silence for quite a minute he continued to stare at the superintendent; then, shaking his head a little, he said very quietly:

“At present that would seem inevitable, Dodgson, but I wouldn’t do it, if I were you. He certainly didn’t do it—I have not the slightest doubt upon that point—And equally, I have no doubt but what, as the inquiry proceeds, evidence will be forthcoming to substantiate the story he tells. It is not the duty of the law as I see it—and as I’m sure you do—to place a young man, newly shouldering great rank, in a position that will cast a certain stigma upon him for life? Frank Gough as you know, is now the heir. Reversion to him was long since arranged. Will you arrange with him to remain here and be at your call?”

“I would like to, Mr. Benson.” The superintendent was visibly troubled. “But I’ve thought it over, and I cannot see how I possibly can do anything but arrest him. My position in the event of his going away, or committing suicide, would be untenable. Don’t you see, sir,” he went on, “that even what you’ve just said, from a strictly impartial point of view, increases, prima facie, the case against him. Take the facts: there has been a quarrel; the elder brother has the power, and means to use it, of depriving the other of any inheritance. Further than that, there is some talk of scandal in connection with the mother. The removal of the first leaves the way open for the inheritance of the second, and that completely, as well as quieting the alleged scandal. In the face of that, what can I do?”

“Well, there are all sorts of things you can do—that is your trouble. One of the first things I would do, if I were you, would be to get your pathological people down to conduct a post-mortem on the body. I suppose you don’t mind my having a chat with Mr. Gough privately, do you?”

“Not in the least, Mr. Benson,” agreed the superintendent, rising.

“And there’s just one other thing—I’m in charge now. Do you mind turning over those keys to me?” The little man held out his hand, and, after a second’s hesitation, Superintendent Dodgson placed the bunch of keys into it. Then he left the room, having agreed to send Frank to the lawyer.

Frank entered the room. The lawyer drew up a chair for him close to his own, and said:

“Frank, my boy, we’re in for a very unpleasant few days, from what I can see of things. Now, in whatever you have to undergo, I conjure you to be strong—never let yourself go. You are about to be tested in very fierce fires indeed, my lad, but remember you are not fighting alone. All the time the best brains that I can buy, and all that I can do, will be done. Victory is a foregone conclusion, boy—get that on your mind. We don’t need to even dream of defeat. But, in the meantime be strong.”

“What—what——” Frank stammered, for the earnestness of the lawyer was an indication of the terrible nature of the experience in store for him.

“When we shall have finished our chat,” said Mr. Benson gravely, “the superintendent of police will arrest you for the murder of your stepbrother.” Frank turned very pale. “Now, remember what I have told you—they will not win, but much depends upon your calmness, and the complete manner in which you take me into your confidence.”

“But—this is awful——” stammered Frank.

“Of course it is,” agreed the lawyer. “Now pull yourself together, and tell me, absolutely word for word, what your late brother said to you when you joined him in the Prior’s Room last night.”

Frank, after some difficulty in starting, told Mr. Benson as nearly as he could remember, word for word, what had occurred on the evening before. He repeated the whole story that had been told to Jack by Gunnery Lieutenant Towers, and he told of its connection with the visit of Dr. Laidlaw. The old man raised his eyebrows when he heard that. Then Frank told him how the quarrel was occasioned, how that, feeling pretty sick about the terrible tale of his own father’s death, his mind was still dwelling on it when Jack, having finished that subject, was talking about the terms of his father’s will. In the bitterness of his heart Frank accused him of coupling the two things together, and if making the one an excuse for the other.

Jack had been furious to have such meanness attributed to him. Frank had been equally furious to have this awful story told him of his father’s death—which would seem to shatter the ideal his mother stood for, to him.

Then he told of how Jack had come to his room later, unable to sleep without putting the unfortunate misunderstanding right, and how the interview had ended in perfect amity—with deep sympathy expressed on both sides, each for the position of the other.

When the interview was over, and Mr. Benson had asked him many questions, the old lawyer rang the bell, and upon a servant appearing, ordered brandy and soda. He insisted on Frank taking a stiff glass; then he accompanied him to the hall, where the superintendent was waiting.

“Have you prepared Mr. Frank Gough, Mr. Benson?” he asked.

“I have informed Sir Frank Evenden, Dodgson, and he is quite at your service. See to it that you treat him in every way——”

“You can leave that to me, sir,” interrupted the superintendent. “Sir Frank, I regret this most painful duty; but, until such evidence appears as will clear you, it is my duty to arrest and detain you for the wilful murder of the late Sir John Evenden.”

“I understand your position, superintendent,” Frank replied calmly. “I am, of course, innocent of any knowledge of the causes of my brother’s death. I place myself entirely at your disposal.”

The old lawyer nodded his approval, and a minute later he was standing on the steps of Evenden Priory, the autumn breeze ruffling his white locks—for he stood bareheaded—while a retreating motor car carried the heir to Evenden Priory, to answer a murder charge.

“Two dead baronets in the Priory, and another facing death at the hands of the law,” muttered the old man. “Surely, John Paseley, you are celebrating this Michaelmas in high and solemn order.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE HIDDEN DOOR

To Jill was given the task of informing Lady Evenden that Frank had been arrested—charged with the murder of his stepbrother. For some moments Lady Evenden was too utterly bewildered to grasp what Jill was saying—too utterly overwhelmed to realize this new calamity—Then, as the full meaning dawned on her, her conscious brain at last rebelled—declined any longer to hold the gathering stream of troubles, and she fainted. Her condition became extremely serious; for, when after a dangerously long interval of unconsciousness, she partially recovered, she rambled in her conversation, and spoke of her husband, of Jack, and of Frank as if they were all still well and about her.

Lady Porter, the cousin of the dead baronet, arrived later in the day, and she was welcomed by Mr. Benson, who remained in the house. Lady Porter was a stout woman of fifty, comely, and normally very jolly. She was extremely capable, and what she lacked in brain power she made up for in amiability and in tact and in sound common sense.

Mr. Benson told her all that had happened, and she listened carefully, expressing horror and surprise, but still retaining a cool demeanor. She went to take charge of Lady Evenden; and, in the meantime, until the stricken lady was well enough to do so, to run the house.

All day long Mr. Christopher Benson sat in the library, writing letters, calling up people on the telephone, sending telegrams, and interviewing such callers as he agreed to see. Late in the afternoon Dr. Laidlaw called, and Mr. Benson, at once, sent for him.

Dr. Laidlaw entered the room, and Mr. Benson indicated a chair.

“I wished to see Lady Evenden,” Laidlaw said.

“That is quite impossible. At the moment she is dangerously ill,” replied Benson. “Nevertheless, I should like a chat with you.”

“I think if I could see Lady Evenden a moment I might be able to—er—make her a little easier in mind,” said the doctor.

“How?” Mr. Benson’s keen eyes were fixed on Laidlaw.

“Well, you can hardly expect me to tell you that, sir,” Laidlaw protested. “I am an old friend of Lady Evenden.”

“Dr. Laidlaw, tell me now, without further quibbling, what it is that you want with Lady Evenden.” The lawyer never removed his gaze from the rat-faced little man opposite. He noticed that the sharp eyes glanced up for a moment, as if to read what was in the mind of his interrogator, then they fell again to the carpet; for, Dr. Laidlaw did not look people quite straight in the face.

“I am an old friend of Lady Evenden,” he repeated, “and I wanted to see her—to comfort her in her present distressing troubles.”

“Will you tell me at once, Dr. Laidlaw, what brings you here this afternoon? Or shall I ring up the police forthwith?” Mr. Benson leaned a little nearer to the doctor, who paled visibly, glanced at the door, as if measuring a possible means of quick retreat. Then, he gazed again at the lawyer and, with a certain degree of insolence, replied:

“The police?”—his little voice became stronger—“the police? You lawyers are always talking of sending for the police. Why the devil should you talk of sending for the police when a man, a perfectly respectable professional man, calls to condole with a lady whose friendship he has enjoyed for many years?”

A harder look came into the old lawyer’s eye. He crossed the room to a telephone, called a number; then, in answer to some one at the other end, he said:

“Put me through at once to Superintendent Dodgson. This is Mr. Christopher Benson speaking—I am speaking from Evenden Priory.”

Dr. Laidlaw, terror on his face, ran across the room, through the door, and along the corridor like a hare; whereupon, Mr. Benson merely asked the superintendent if Frank was all right and as comfortable as possible. He was assured that every arrangement that could be made for his comfort had been made. He was temporarily in Norwich police station. On the following day, he would appear before a magistrate at Norwich, when a formal remand would be asked for. Then he would be sent to Nottingham Jail for a week, or perhaps ten days, until the next hearing.

When he left the telephone, Mr. Benson looked out of the window. There was no sign of Dr. Laidlaw.

“If I could find the exact nature of the power of that little scoundrel, I think it would be very helpful in this present crisis,” he murmured to himself. For some time he remained in thought. Then he determined upon a course of action. He went to the private safe of the late Sir Michael Evenden, and carefully examined the titles of bundles of papers and letters there contained. Bundle after bundle Mr. Benson glanced at and carefully set to one side. He nearly had completed his examination when he came upon a bundle tied neatly with green tape. On the cover was the title: “Laidlaw.”

Mr. Benson took the bundle, replaced all the other papers, and sat down in a chair to investigate thoroughly the papers he held in his hand. An hour and a half slipped by before the lawyer again fastened the papers up. But, he did not return them to the safe. He placed them, instead, in a small brief bag which contained his own documents, and he carefully locked it.

As was expected, Frank’s appearance before the magistrates at Norwich the following day was purely formal; nevertheless, the news had gone round, and all approaches to the court were blocked by crowds.

Chief Inspector Huntley arrived from Scotland Yard on the day of the first police-court proceedings, and he had an interview with Mr. Benson. He preserved an open mind on the murder, preferring to await the report of Sir Werner Scatterhyde, the eminent Home Office analyst.

The report was forthcoming on the day previous to the double funeral of Sir Michael and Sir John.

The position in which the body had been found had led the police, up to the present, to believe that death was caused by a violent blow on the right side of the head, a blow which had been delivered with force sufficient to break the neck of the dead man, and yet with some padded instrument which had not broken the scalp bones. There was the dark discoloration of a fearful bruise—probably arising at the moment before death.

The fact that the dead man was wearing his pyjamas pointed to the theory that he had got out of bed—for the bed had been occupied—and that, while standing on the floor, he had been struck from the side.

But now that the analyst’s report came to hand, a completely new question arose. Traces were found in the brain of a curious and little-known, but absolutely deadly, muscarin alkaloid.

This new discovery complicated the issue, to a tremendous degree. No longer was the story of a fight, following a quarrel, in itself sufficient. The neck was certainly broken—but had that caused death, or had the poison?

The police authorities informed Mr. Benson of their discoveries; and, while the new element was more mysterious still, he felt that, at any rate, it increased Frank’s chances of clearing himself.

Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., was retained to defend Frank. And he came down to the Priory during the week between the first and the second police court proceedings.

The double funeral, of Sir Michael and Sir John, was attended by thousands from miles around, and even from neighboring counties.

Lady Evenden, whose condition continued to give rise to great anxiety, insisted on attending. Occasionally, she appeared quite herself; then she had lapses, when she appeared to be wandering in her mind. On the day of the funeral she seemed considerably better. Before the departure of the cortège, she spent some minutes alone by the open coffin of her husband. After that, though her face was deadly white, and her step uncertain, she took Mr. Benson’s arm and later entered the first coach, behind the farm wagon, which carried the two coffins.

Six great shire horses drew the funeral wagon—each from a separate farm on the estate, and each led by the farmer. Through the bareheaded thousands, the mournful procession wended its way to the little churchyard of Evenden, where it was met by the old rector. No near relations except the Porters attended. Sir Michael had only another cousin besides Lady Porter, and he was in Australia.

The solemn church service over, the vicar led the way to the open vault in the tiny side-chapel, and there Lady Evenden stood, watching the bearers, carefully and reverently, carry down to its last resting place the massive ebony casket which contained the remains of him who had meant everything to her.

John’s coffin followed, and all the piles of wreaths were placed upon them. Then, as the last solemn sentences fell from the lips of the rector, and the bishop of the diocese had given his benediction, Lady Evenden’s feet slipped from under her. Stout arms were immediately forthcoming, however, to help the old lawyer to get her back to her carriage.

She revived, a little, on the way home. Mr. Benson watched her carefully, but did not speak. He thought it better to let her gradually find her way back to the ordinary things of life. Suddenly she startled him by addressing him.

“Mr. Benson, do you think they will hang my son?”

“My dear lady, my poor child,” protested Mr. Benson. “What are you thinking about? Certainly not. Certainly not. He will be acquitted.”

“You really think so?” The large eyes were perfectly sane now.

“Yes I do—I more than think so. I have an infallible instinct in these matters, my dear lady. I am nearly eighty years of age, and have six junior partners, and I’ve never been wrong, yet. Now, remember that, Lady Evenden—he’s safe.”

“Mr. Benson, I don’t know what I should have done without you.” She gratefully pressed his wrinkled old hand. And, Mr. Benson felt that, as far as she was concerned, the tide at last had turned, that now her condition, which had caused him so much anxiety, was more normal. There were things—important things—he wished most particularly to ask her, before Frank’s trial; but, he decided that the time was not yet opportune.

On returning to the Priory, Lady Evenden went direct to her room, where she was attended by Lady Porter and Jill, while Mr. Benson returned to his everlasting papers, and his telephoning, in the library.

In the circumstances no guests were received after the funeral, and the great house remained strangely silent and solemn, as if the shadow of death still hung very close over it, though the rooms were no longer darkened.

Late that evening, as Mr. Benson sat in the library, he was visited by Lady Porter. He looked up in some surprise.

“Margaret is sleeping,” she announced. “I think she is much better, don’t you, Mr. Benson?”

“Yes I do,” he replied.

“I say, Mr. Benson,” Lady Porter began after some hesitation, “I am the last person in the world to indulge in stupid scandal-mongering”—Mr. Benson nodded his head in agreement—“but there are two things I think I ought to mention to you. One is that, in her sleep, Margaret is forever rambling about some secret that has been betrayed—or something. I put it down at first as mere delirium. I do now, for that matter. But, it is curious how the ramblings should be always the same, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the lawyer agreed. “I suppose it is. Does she say what the nature of the secret is?”

“Never,” was the reply. “All the time it is a sort of constant lamenting of the fact that some one betrayed a secret—to her husband, one gathers—and that the knowledge of that secret caused his death.”

“I should certainly say nothing about it if I were you,” Mr. Benson counseled, “and I would see to it that the girl doesn’t either.”

“I certainly agree,” said Lady Porter, “and that brings me to the other thing. I like that girl, Jill, well enough, but there is one thing that I feel it is my duty to tell you. She slips out at nights to meet some man in the drive.”

“The hussy!” said Mr. Benson with a slight smile.

“No, no! It isn’t that,” said Lady Porter with a little deprecating smile; “I don’t live in the year dot. But don’t you see, Mr. Benson, when a girl fills the responsible position of companion to a woman in the condition, and in the circumstances, of Margaret, one expects a rather vigorous degree of absolute reliability. If she has a fiancé, why can’t she have him call openly, or go to see him openly?”

“What is there exactly that has disturbed you, Lady Porter? I gather there must be something more than the mere fact that you suspect she goes out to meet a man?” Mr. Benson asked seriously.

“Well, at about nine o’clock, she invariably excuses herself to go to her room. Last night I happened to see her just afterwards, crossing the lawn. There is a nearly full moon now, and, when she came to the tower, where the Prior’s Room is situated, she was joined by a man, and they stood together there—they must have stood there in the shadow of the wall; for, although I watched, I never saw them go. The curious part about it is that Jill returned along the corridor without my seeing her either cross the lawn or leave that wall.”

“Are you sure of that? I mean did they disappear under the tower—the Prior’s Tower?” Mr. Benson’s eyes positively sparkled with excitement.

“Yes,” replied Lady Porter. “Well—I don’t say disappeared. I said I lost sight of them there. They must have been standing under the shadow of the wall.”

“But you say that, although you watched the spot, you did not see them emerge from the shadow, and that Jill returned without your seeing her come back by the way she went?” he asked.

“Yes, that is true,” Lady Porter agreed.

“Where is she now?” The lawyer rose.

“I left her in Margaret’s sitting room,” said Lady Porter. “Mind you, I don’t say for a moment that there is necessarily anything seriously wrong——”

“You leave that to me,” interrupted the old man. “What time does she usually pop out?”

“In about half an hour from now. It is about half-past eight now. It is usually just on nine when she goes.” Lady Porter also rose.

“You leave the matter to me, Lady Porter; I’ll take a little stroll now, I think. Thanks ever so much. You’re a woman in a thousand. I always said that Ned Porter got the pick of the whole basketful when he chose you.” The privileged old lawyer smiled and patted her plump ladyship on the shoulder. She blushed slightly, then said with a smile:

“Well, the basket was certainly full, wasn’t it? And, as you have arranged the marriage settlements for the whole eight of us, I daresay you have told each of us at various times that we are the pick of the basket. It doesn’t matter, though; I know I am, without being told!” she finished complacently. Mr. Benson opened the door for her, and in his old-world manner he bowed as he ushered her out.

Then Mr. Benson moved quickly. He went to his room, put on a heavy overcoat and took from his old black portmanteau a traveling cap. Next he picked out a stout stick; then he returned to the library.

Drawing the curtains closely, he took down a row of books from a shelf. Then, he moved his fingers about at the back of the empty shelf until he found the spring he sought, which he pressed, and immediately the back of the shelf dropped, revealing a cavity.

Mr. Benton struck a match and looked carefully into the hole. Seeing what he wanted, he pulled out two or three rolled up articles which looked like maps. These he carried to the table, examined the first, then the second, and set them to one side; after that he pored over the third, which was evidently the one he sought.

“Let me see,” he muttered, “it must be fifty-six years since I—— Ah! that’s it. Yes, yes! I remember now. But where the devil did the confounded girl get the key—that’s what I want to know?”

He rolled up the plan, replaced them all in the recess in the wall, closed the aperture by pressing another spring, but not before he withdrew a rusty key, which he looked at a little doubtfully.

“Could do with a bit of an oiling, I think. Never mind, perhaps it’ll do,” he muttered. Then he opened the French window of the library and looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. “Just about right, I think,” he muttered as he stepped out upon the lawn.

The huge September moon hung low in a clear sky, while the faintest white mist arose from the water meadows in the distance. In the kennels, a dog barked. But, to none of these things did the old lawyer give the slightest attention. Quickly, keeping in the shadow of the wall, he traversed the whole front of the house, until he came to the point where the main front wall joined the tower called the Prior’s Tower.

There he halted, turned to the wall, which was ivy-covered, and counted four steps. Again he stopped, dropped on one knee, and felt about at the base of the wall for a moment, drew out a square stone, inserted his key into a lock which turned gratingly, and immediately a paving stone beside him dropped silently on a hinge.

Mr. Benson replaced the square stone, descended a flight of stone steps at the bottom of which was an iron lever. He pulled this over, and immediately the stone went back into position.

The underground room into which Mr. Benson now entered was large, covering the whole basis of the tower. The lighted match which he struck revealed two candles on a stone shelf beside him.

“Ah-ha!” grunted the old man. “That proves it. Now where should I hide?” He lit a candle. In the distance was a stone altar—crucifix and candlesticks complete—all covered with green mould, while its tapestries hung in tatters. To the left of the altar an open doorway gave entrance to a small room, an ancient vestry.

Mr. Benson entered—then waited. Presently he heard a step on the flags of the outer room, and heard the rasping noise of the lever replacing the stone. Cautiously, the old man peeped round the doorway, gripping his stout stick. Two figures were revealed by the light of a candle newly fit. One was a man, well-built, and ruddy-complexioned—the other was Jill Kilby.

CHAPTER VIII.
COMEDY BY NIGHT

Cautiously, Mr. Benson, keeping to the shadow of the wall, advanced from his hiding-place to endeavor to hear what the two newcomers were saying, for they talked in whispers, and it was quite impossible from where he was to catch a sound.

“But there is nothing to fear, my dear,” he heard the man say with a little laugh. “I am astonished that you should attach any importance to these old wives’ tales, Jill.”

“If it were only in the daytime,” the girl replied, “it would be a different matter; but at night—ugh, it’s terrible, and in any case I don’t see that we can find out anything more.”

“Some day or, rather, some night the incident will repeat itself. I refuse to believe that what happened that night was the first time the murderer visited the Prior’s Room. Didn’t you see lights before?” said the man.

“But, Wilfred, why not let the police do this horrid investigation. We know enough now practically to clear Frank Gough,” said Jill.

“We know nothing of the sort,” Wilfred replied. “We have formed certain theories, and I found out about these passages through the medium of that old medieval book I found in the antique shop in Ghent. But, because a rather unexpected person uses certain secret passages it doesn’t necessarily follow that they have evil intent, any more than we have.”

“Very well, Wilfred, you must know best,” replied the girl. “Come along and let us get it over.” The girl turned towards the entrance through which they had come, and the man stooped down and moved something, whereupon a large slab of stone bearing the inscription in Latin “R.I.P.,” and a lot of half undecipherable words below, swung around disclosing an opening. Into this opening both the man and the woman entered, and immediately the stone closed again.

“This is a very serious development,” Mr. Benson muttered to himself. “Evidently the young man—equally evidently her fiancé—is doing a bit of amateur detective work. A sort of free-lance. The appalling cheek of it! To say nothing of the indefensibility of it. Here we have a man about to take his trial for murder, and one of them says she knows enough to clear him, or words to that effect, and the other speaks of the recurring visits to the Prior’s Room of ‘an unexpected person.’ Well,” the old man finished with a grim chuckle, “they’ll find another unexpected person there to-night. Wait a bit—let’s do the thing properly.”

He turned and, with lighted candle, went back to the little vestry. There, on the ground, was a huge iron-bound chest, the padlocks long since gone. With an effort Mr. Benson raised the lid, it was metal-lined and terribly heavy. Holding his candle above the box, he began moving the contents. There were copes, chasubles, stoles, maniples, and all manner of richly-embroidered Mass vestments that had remained there secretly ever since the Reformation.

Mr. Benson took out a great heavily-embroidered red cope and a gold miter. The cope probably had been worn on many a high occasion by the last of the priors, John Paseley, and the miter by the lord abbot when he had visited the Priory. Putting the cope over his shoulders and setting the miter on his head, Mr. Benson set off. He walked to the wall, the cope trailing, moved the mechanism, and again the slab moved. Mr. Benson appeared quite familiar with the dark passage he entered; for, he turned and moved something which reclosed the stone, and then set off, up a dark winding staircase. Arrived at the top, he saw light coming through chinks in the opening of what was the door to the passage and at the same time the back of the great wardrobe which was a fixture in the Prior’s Room.

There in the room were Wilfred Barlow and Jill Kilby. Jill was standing still, looking around apprehensively, while Wilfred Barlow was intently examining the bed on which the murdered man had lain. He had the mattress turned back, and was inspecting the wooden laths that formed the base of the bed.

Very quietly, Mr. Benson opened the door of the passage and stood in the wardrobe looking into the room through the open door; for, the wardrobe door was swung open upon its hinges. In silence, he gazed for a minute. Then, as Jill looked in his direction, gave a gasp, and jumped back towards Wilfred, the lawyer spoke.

“How dare you disturb my rest?” he growled in booming accents. Jill gave a shriek and fainted. Wilfred Barlow, his eyes staring at first incredulously, then with genuine fear, grabbed Jill with one hand, his eyes still fixed on the apparition which the old lawyer made in the open wardrobe. Then, stooping quickly he picked Jill up bodily and made for the door. The lawyer still stood there, his stout stick clutched under his cope, and, as Wilfred opened the door and gave a hasty look backwards before he disappeared, Mr. Benson chuckled, stepped out of the wardrobe, and began to make an investigation of the Prior’s Room. He found nothing new, though he examined the bed closely. He was still continuing his examination when the door opened, and Wilfred Barlow’s head appeared around it. For a moment or two, the lawyer did not notice him. Wilfred stared in silence for some time. Then, stepping quietly across the room, he laid his hand upon the little man’s shoulder.

“Well! What the dickens do you think you’re playing at?” he asked. Instantly the lawyer sprang upright and from the folds of his cloak brought out the stick, which Wilfred grabbed.

“Do you know who I am, you young ruffian?” spluttered Mr. Benson, his miter falling off in the struggle. Wilfred paused, then sprang backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Why, you’re Mr. Benson, the family lawyer. I couldn’t see before on account of the ecclesiastical millinery.”

“And who may you be, my violent young friend?” asked Mr. Benson. “And by what right do you intrude into this house and into its secret passages?”

“I can assure you that I have a good explanation of that, Mr. Benson, which I will put forward at the proper time,” Wilfred replied.

“You will put it forward now,” declared Mr. Benson with some truculence. “The very idea! You, a complete stranger to me, tell me calmly that you have a perfectly good reason for wandering about a mansion through its secret passages, and then with equal calmness say that you will state your reason at the proper time. Proper time indeed!” Mr. Benson repeated, looking a comic figure, at which Wilfred could scarce forbear to smile, for, the lawyer’s scarlet and gold cope hung from his small frame at a rakish angle, and his white locks were ruffled by the miter coming off in the struggle. But, for all that, there was something in the old man’s eyes which dispelled very quickly any thoughts of laughter in Wilfred Barlow’s mind.

“I can assure you, sir, that I speak the truth——” he began, but Mr. Benson would have none of it. With an impatient wave of the hand, he interrupted:

“Your name, sir?”

“Wilfred Barlow,” replied the other man. “I am a doctor of medicine, and at present staying at the White Hart, in the village here. I am not unknown to the chief constable of Norwich.”

“And I should think not either,” instantly snapped Mr. Benson. “Most people who prowl about houses of a night are well known to the police!”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Wilfred Barlow replied with a little smile.

Mr. Benson decided his smile was rather disarming. He began to take stock of his new acquaintance. Wilfred had a clean, healthy appearance—a ruddy complexion and a clear brown eye. His hair was naturally curly and fair, while he was of good physical bearing—perhaps a shade stouter than the average man of his size. A likeable man, Mr. Benson decided, and reliable.

“In the name of goodness,” Mr. Benson persisted. “Tell me what you are doing here—and also what was that girl doing here with you?”

“Miss Kilby and I are engaged—secretly,” replied the young man, “and——”

“It seems to me that there is too much confounded secrecy in your manifestations, my lad,” again the old lawyer broke in.

“Well, I can assure you that I cannot help that,” Wilfred replied. “It appears that, although I have only had the honor of meeting her ladyship once, she took a profound dislike to me afterwards and ordered Jill—Miss Kilby—not to see me again.”

“And I’m not surprised to hear that, either,” said the lawyer, “if you are given to prowling round the houses of your acquaintances and friends. Come along now, tell me what you mean by it.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Benson, that, if you were to insist upon my telling you all that I could, you would curse me for the information.”

The old lawyer looked in surprise, and Wilfred continued: “There is a man at present in custody, but I can assure you that, were I to place in your hands the facts that I have at present established, they might possibly clear him, but they would probably place some one else, equally innocent, in his position. I have found out one or two valuable things, and this you can be sure about—that, should it be necessary, then for good or ill, I shall table the facts. I’ll bring them to you first, and with you must rest the responsibility.”

“Well, well, my lad,” said Mr. Benson, wiping his brow. “You rather take my breath away. That is, after all, as it should be—I mean my taking of responsibility. I have carried responsibility all my life. The only thing that I simply cannot bear is to know half a story—to work in the dark. Now, look here, my boy, tell me the full story. I see you know something—now tell me.”

“With great respect—no, sir!” Wilfred replied definitely. “I assure you——”

“Damn you, sir!” Mr. Benson roared. “Do you realize that I can have you locked up?”

“Of course, I do!” Wilfred replied. “Please bear with me a moment, Mr. Benson. I will tell you something—just give you an indication. But, for everybody’s sake, don’t press me further. I honestly think that, in a day or so, I’ll be able to come to you with a complete story. At present some one that you would probably give your life to protect would be really absolutely menaced—I put it as high as that—if I were to tell you all.”

“Are you collaborating with the police?” asked Mr. Benson more quietly.

“No, sir!” Wilfred replied.

“Well, now, what is it you can tell me?” the lawyer asked.

“Do you know a Dr. Laidlaw?” Wilfred asked, and Mr. Benson started. Keenly, he surveyed the serious face of Wilfred Barlow as he replied:

“Yes, what of him?”

“Well, I also have some slight knowledge of that gentleman,” Wilfred replied. “Now, you probably know far more about him than I do—I don’t know—but this much I can tell you: on the night when Sir John Evenden was murdered, Dr. Laidlaw entered the same passage that you entered to-night.”

“By the heavens above!” ejaculated the old man. “Can you prove that?”

“Practically,” the other replied. “But there are certain reasons why I feel sure he will come again. In the present state of affairs, were he to be apprehended there is very little doubt that he could clear himself at someone else’s expense. Do not ask me to say more.”

“Where are you to be found—the White Hart, you say?” asked the old man. “Very well, call openly and see me to-morrow, will you?” asked Mr. Benson. “By the way, how did you get into this?”

“You must not question me on that,” Wilfred replied. “I will tell you this much—Miss Kilby came by certain knowledge which led us to watch this man Laidlaw.”

“You are certain that that girl will keep her counsel?” asked Mr. Benson anxiously.

“Certain,” replied Wilfred.

“Then I presume you know your way out?” Mr. Benson asked with a grim smile, and the other smiled and nodded, then turned towards the cupboard. Mr. Benson remained in the Prior’s Room in absolute silence for ten minutes, then he, too, went down the stairs, through the various secret ways, and ultimately he arrived again in the library.

He then took his brief bag and extracted from it the bundle of papers labeled “Laidlaw,” lit a pipe, and, as he blew clouds of smoke about him, he read over again the strange words written in the handwriting of the late Sir Michael Evenden.

The following day Wilfred Barlow called on Mr. Benson, and by that time the lawyer had decided on a course of action.

First of all he tried again to get Barlow to reveal all he knew. But, finding that policy fruitless, as he expected it would be, he said:

“Now this man Laidlaw. Do you know anything of the relationship existing between Lady Evenden and him? Has the Kilby girl nosed anything out about that?”

Wilfred was inclined to resent the reference to Jill, but he saw that it was only the lawyer’s manner, so he replied:

“I know nothing beyond this: Lady Evenden will see him, at any time he desires an interview, without any condition upon her state of health or mind. I am assured by Miss Kilby that, during her most intense grief following the death of Sir Michael, she saw him in the park and had him admitted. She saw him alone. But, Miss Kilby has not the remotest idea what Lady Evenden can desire with him.”

“I think you said last night that you personally had some knowledge of him?” the lawyer next asked.

Wilfred Barlow then outlined to him all he knew of Dr. Laidlaw. When he had finished, Mr. Benson said:

“He had a certain connection with this family, not with Lady Evenden though, but with the late Sir Michael. Still, I don’t think that has anything to do with his seeing Lady Evenden; in fact I’m pretty sure it hasn’t. Now, look here, I’m having an inquiry set afoot to find Laidlaw. He sold his practice in Leicestershire, I find, several months ago. I expect a message from my detective people presently. Should you see him or hear of him, communicate with me at once, will you?”

Having got his assurance, Mr. Benson dismissed him. He then rang for the butler.

“Convey my compliments to her ladyship, and say that I wish to see her, if it is convenient,” ordered Mr. Benson.

Then he got through on the telephone to the chief constable of Norwich.

“Do you know a young fellow called Barlow, by the way?” he asked; “Wilfred Barlow—doctor, I believe?” He was assured that Wilfred Barlow and the chief constable’s younger brother had been at school together, and that Wilfred was altogether a desirable young man. They then proceeded to discuss the case for some minutes, and the chief constable said that the Scotland Yard inspector would be calling that evening to discuss certain points with Mr. Benson.

“How many more remands will you take to complete?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Well, in the present state of the evidence, I cannot see us requiring more than three,” replied the chief constable, “But it is always impossible to say beforehand what is coming forward in a murder trial.”

“Well, I sincerely hope that you will complete in time for this winter assize,” said Mr. Benson. “I don’t want that unfortunate chap left in jail over Christmas.”

“We’re working for a committal for the winter assize,” promised the chief constable, “and, for my part, I hope things go well for Mr. Frank. I’ve got an instinct that when this murder is solved, it will be something quite outside present calculations. Something that none of us knows anything about.”

“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Benson, replacing the receiver as the butler entered the room.

“Her ladyship will see you now, sir,” he announced.

Mr. Benson made his way to Lady Evenden’s room and was admitted at once. She looked very pale; but, the solicitor noticed that the eyes were steady. Although they looked infinitely sad, they were perfectly sane.

“How do you do, dear Mr. Benson?” she greeted him.

“I am perfectly well, thanks, and you, my dear lady, how are you?” Mr. Benson asked anxiously.

“A slight headache, but that’s all, thank you,” she replied with a little wan smile. Mr. Benson turned to Jill.

“Girl,” he greeted her unceremoniously, then with a snap of his fingers in the direction of the door—a snap that sounded like steel fingers cracking—he indicated his desire to be left alone with Lady Evenden. Jill flushed a little and withdrew, while Lady Evenden smiled—she knew the ways of the old lawyer.

When the door was closed, he turned to her.

“Now, my dear lady, do you know anyone that you would rather rely upon than me? Anyone with your interests more at heart?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Benson,” she replied wonderingly. “You are my very best friend.”

“That’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Benson taking her hand. “Now, without any reservations—without any qualifications—just tell me everything there is to tell about Dr. Laidlaw. What? Bless my soul!”

The old lawyer got up hurriedly and rang the bell. Lady Evenden had fainted.

CHAPTER IX.
THE APPROACHING HOUR

In response to the bell, Jill and Lady Porter quickly entered the room, accompanied by a maid. They attended to Lady Evenden, and very soon signs of returning consciousness appeared, to the great relief of Mr. Benson who, in truth, had been frightened greatly at the effect of his words. With returning consciousness, memory also returned; and, Lady Evenden had barely opened her eyes when a shadow passed over her face, and she gave a little shudder.

Jill looked at Mr. Benson as if to suggest that the lawyer was to blame for her mistress’s distress. But very quickly Lady Evenden, making a visible effort, spoke:

“How very stupid of me!” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, Millie,” she begged Lady Porter. “You must leave me with Mr. Benson for a few minutes; we have some business to discuss that my absurd attack interrupted.”

“I think perhaps it would be better to leave it over,” began Mr. Benson.

But Lady Evenden said: “No, no! I see the necessity of getting that matter put in order.” To Jill and Lady Porter, she added, “Do you mind?” And, with words of advice to the deathly white Lady Evenden not to overtax her strength, they left the room. As soon as they had gone, Lady Evenden leant forward.

“What do you know of Laidlaw?” she asked.

“Precious little,” said Mr. Benson. “But, my dear lady, I didn’t come here for you to question me about Dr. Laidlaw—I came to question you. If you are well enough, mark you; if not, we will leave the matter over.”

“No, I am quite well enough,” said Lady Evenden, “but I simply cannot discuss Dr. Laidlaw with you, Mr. Benson—I cannot.”

“The time may shortly arise when you will have to discuss him with others, Lady Evenden. I would spare you that; but, you must try to be strong enough to tell me all there is to know about him,” said Mr. Benson gravely.

“Whatever do you mean? Do tell me, Mr. Benson—you—you frighten me.” Lady Evenden again began to show traces of great agitation, and Mr. Benson glanced towards the bell.

“I say, Lady Evenden,” he protested, “I would far rather adjourn this talk until such time as you feel well enough. I must ask you certain questions, and I simply must have replies. But, I will not do that at risk of more of those attacks which, I am convinced, must be most dangerous for you—and distressing.”

“What is to be said will be said now,” the lady returned firmly. “Why is it suddenly important that you want to know all about my friends? What do you mean that I may shortly have to make statements about him?”

“As you will,” said the old lawyer with a lift of his bushy eyebrows. “Well, now, to let you realize that I know a good deal, let me tell you that Frank has informed me of all that Jack told him with relation to the death of John Gough, your first husband. Now wait just a minute”—for Lady Evenden was on the point of interrupting, but she stopped at the old man’s imperative gesture. “Now it doesn’t need me to tell you that neither Frank nor I believe, for a single second, that you were in any sense responsible for that. On the contrary, we both feel as everyone else must feel, that you had a terrible experience, and were in no sense whatever responsible either for the late Mr. Gough’s illness, or his death.

“I must point out here that even Jack, you know, when he was discussing this matter with Frank on the night of his death, made his position perfectly clear. He told Frank that not for a second did he impute any evil to you, but he rather censured you for two things. One was that you had not taken Sir Michael into your confidence, and the other was that you received Dr. Laidlaw here—almost clandestinely received the man with whose name yours could be coupled by scandal-mongers in connection with that affair at Loch Lomond.

“Now then”—the old lawyer vigorously blew his nose—“now then, my dear lady, you know this won’t do. You must have no secrets from me. Now come along and tell me exactly why you allow that little man to have private interviews?”

“I can tell you nothing,” she replied with trembling lips, but with a firm look in her eye. “I thank you for your confidence in me—and oh, Mr. Benson, believe me, it isn’t misplaced; but I can tell you nothing.”

Mr. Benson’s face indicated undisguised exasperation. He was about to speak when Lady Evenden spoke again.

“Jack believed that, did he? What you tell me, I mean—that I was innocent of that awful thing?” And as the lawyer nodded, she continued; “I’m very glad to hear you say so—but I don’t think he did.”

“But, my dear lady,” said Mr. Benson. “I have Frank’s word for it. He tells me that Jack was far more concerned about protecting your honor and preserving your good name from scandal than he was about anything else. He told Frank that he didn’t take second place to anyone in his love and regard for you. He was primarily concerned to collaborate with Frank to stop any scandal and to protect you. The story, coming to him as it did from outside the family, was a shock to him, as was the appearance of Dr. Laidlaw when his mind was distressed beyond description at the loss of his father. It was that which led him to consult Frank.”

As the lawyer talked, Lady Evenden watched him with wide open eyes, then, with apparent irrelevance, she asked:

“Frank will be safe, won’t he? You said he would be safe, you know, Mr. Benson.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Benson. “But I’m coming to that. Now, look here. Supposing Dr. Laidlaw were put into a tight corner, what could he say to your detriment? What could he do to you?”

“Oh, do stop talking about Dr. Laidlaw, Mr. Benson,” she entreated. “I am quite sure that Dr. Laidlaw would never say anything to my detriment.”

“Well, now, look here.” Mr. Benson stood over her, and looked down with severity in his keen eyes as he drew an old chased silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch before he continued. Then, speaking in his gravest tones, he said:

“In order to establish the innocence of your son, it is quite possible that I may have to call Dr. Laidlaw. Now, he was seen to enter the Prior’s Room on the night of the murder, from outside, too, by means of the secret passage. I shall not hesitate to call witnesses to prove that, Lady Evenden, and I personally believe that the establishment of that probably will precede the appearance of Dr. Laidlaw in the dock on charge of murdering Jack.”

If Lady Evenden’s face was pale before, it became positively ghastly as the lawyer proceeded. Fear—stark, unqualified fear—was depicted on her mobile face. She gasped and appeared to be on the point of fainting again; but, with a supreme effort, she rallied. Her voice was a hoarse whisper when she next spoke.

“You—must never do—that,” she declared with tragic earnestness. “Never!” she repeated.

“Not even to save your son?” Mr. Benson asked with uplifted eyebrows.

“Oh, do stop!” she begged. “You said he was safe.”

“I know, I did,” agreed the lawyer with exasperation, “but only so far as I am able to save him. Do you mean to say that you would endanger your son’s life rather than call this doctor? What are you thinking of, my dear lady? Look here, if the man is holding something over you, let me know what it is, and I’ll deal with him. Give me your confidence, my dear lady, give me your confidence.”

“I cannot—I cannot,” she moaned. “Don’t ask me—I cannot.”

“What about if you must?” Mr. Benson looked like a figure of inexorable fate as he stood insisting over her.

“Then I’ll die.” Promptly, defiantly, came the words. And it seemed that the lady gathered courage to defy where she lacked the courage to confide. For several minutes they stood there. Lady Evenden had risen on her last utterance.

“Well, for the moment, we can get no further, my lady,” Mr. Benson declared with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. “And it is useless for me to remain longer distressing you. I will bid you good-day.”

“But you’re not going?” she inquired anxiously.

“No, my place is here. I shall be within call,” he said. “Think over what I have said, my dear lady; think carefully. Secrets are safe with me, and I might be able to help you more than you dream of.”

Lady Evenden stepped impulsively forward and proffered her hand, which the lawyer took, and for a moment it seemed as if she were about to say something. Then she changed her mind, and with a muttered “Thank you” she went back to the couch, and Mr. Benson left the room.

Though the most exhaustive inquiries were made by the private detectives whom Mr. Benson employed, the weeks went by and the trial approached without a trace of Dr. Laidlaw being found.

Almost every day Mr. Benson went to see Frank in his cell, and every week he appeared before the magistrates. At last the police court proceedings ended, and Frank was committed to take his trial at the next Norwich assizes.

The decision was not arrived at automatically; for, a full bench of magistrates sat, and, after hearing the full police case, they asked Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., if he intended to open the case, for the defense, in that court.

Bearing in mind that on a murder charge a committal was almost inevitable, and that there remained little time before the winter assize, Sir Courtney decided to save time by reserving the case for the defense, and said so.

The magistrates adjourned to a room behind the court, and remained there for three hours. As the minutes developed into hours, Sir Courtney turned to Mr. Benson, who sat beside him.

“What’s the betting that they don’t commit?” he asked.

“I was just thinking the same myself,” said Mr. Benson. “He certainly has a lot of sympathy here. But, on a charge of this gravity I don’t think they would take the responsibility of deciding that there was no case for trial, do you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Sir Courtney thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you this much, if they stay away much longer I’ll begin to think we made a blunder in not opening our defense and giving them a chance to throw the case out.”

Mr. Benson stroked his chin. His keen eyes kept straying to the door through which the magistrates must return. Every now and then he left the court, to telephone to Evenden Priory, to let Lady Evenden know how things progressed. He positively got tired of having to say constantly that the magistrates were still considering the committal.

Ultimately they returned, and the chairman announced the decision of the court that, Frank Gough will be, on the finding of acceptable sureties, committed on bail, to take his trial at the forthcoming winter assize for the murder of the late Sir John Evenden.

Instantly there was a flutter in the court. Sir Courtney turned to Mr. Benson, and Mr. Benson looked back his surprise. Bail! and in a murder case! The Crown prosecutor, Mr. Assidell, K.C., was on his feet in an instant, purple of face.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Gentlemen, with very great respect, and with due appreciation of the excellent character hitherto borne by the prisoner, I am bound to point out that your proceeding is most irregular. I am not going to say that it is entirely without precedent; but, in an ordinary case of wilful murder, as this is, it certainly is without precedent.

“Magistrates have used discretion in the case of a girl charged with the murder of an infant, but even then they appoint hospital or workhouse authorities the safe custody of the prisoner. I feel it my duty to tell you, gentlemen, that, should you persist in offering bail in this case, I should have to refer the matter to the King’s Bench. I cannot accept—the Public Prosecutor cannot accept—the responsibility of conducting a prosecution on the capital charge if the prisoner, charged with wilful murder, is to be given an opportunity of absconding.”

“Our finding is not a unanimous one.” The interruption came from an old magistrate sitting towards the end of the bench. Sir Robson Tyndal was an old gentlemen of very definite opinions, and not afraid to air them.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Assidell, K.C., misunderstanding. “I am sure there must be amongst you those who take my view of the matter.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Sir Robson, “we don’t take your view of the matter, at all. What I mean to say is that our decision to commit for trial is not a unanimous one. There are some of us here who are bitterly disappointed that the learned counsel for the defense has not thought fit to give us a chance to discharge a young man whom we believe to be innocent—and, when the question of bail arises, well, we intend to exercise our authority, and you can go to the King’s Bench or any other bench. At present you address this bench—and I wish I were chairman this year, that’s all.” Sir Robson finished with a vigorous little nod which gave Mr. Assidell to understand that, had he been chairman, he would have had some one more difficult to deal with. Several other magistrates nodded their approval of their outspoken colleague. But the chairman, Mr. Deerham, of Deerham Grange, was palpably annoyed.

“I am quite sure Sir Robson does not infer——” he began when Sir Robson interrupted again.

“Certainly not, sir, certainly not. I beg your pardon sincerely. I was irritated for the moment that a King’s Counsel should come down from London to dictate to this bench!”

“It is far from being a case of my dictating to you, gentlemen,” said the unhappy Mr. Assidell. “I am merely performing my duty—I cannot do less. It is my duty to protest against the admittance to bail of a man charged with wilful murder. If I had thought that local feeling would prejudice this bench, I would have instituted the proceedings outside your jurisdiction.”

“We will reconsider the position,” announced the chairman, rising.

“I won’t reconsider mine,” snapped the defiant Sir Robson Tyndal, with a dark look at Mr. Assidell. The magistrates filed out again.

“What do you think of that?” asked Mr. Benson triumphantly.

“Wonderful,” replied Sir Courtney with a smile. “If we get the same mentality at the trial we’ll walk home.”

“They’re all members of the Grand Jury,” announced Mr. Benson, with a look round the court. Then, whispering in the great K.C.’s ear, he said, “And I’ve been round the lot, my boy.”

“Sh-sh!” exclaimed the K.C. with a glance at the remarkable old gentleman beside him. “You’ll get us all locked up, Mr. Benson.”

“I’ve been in the practice sixty years, my lad,” truculently replied Mr. Benson. “You can’t tell me anything about winning cases in this county!” There was the suspicion of a wink in the shrewd old eye nearest to the eminent barrister, who in turn contented himself by a sly tap on Mr. Benson’s leg and a chuckle, for the magistrates were returning.

“We have decided to accede to the wishes of the prosecution and with regret we commit the accused to take his trial at the winter assize, and to remain in custody,” said the chairman.

After all, Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., were not disappointed, for they had fully expected a committal, and never had the thought of bail entered their heads. What they were concerned with was what a High Court judge would think of the evidence as it stood. How would he direct a jury? Could they possibly get a grand jury to fling the bill out and save all the agony of a murder trial?

Sir Courtney returned with Mr. Benson to Evenden Priory, and dined with him and Lady Evenden, who was very strongly impressed with the powerful personality of the great advocate. And, when he gave her his assurance that her son would be safe, she seemed content. Mr. Benson half hoped that she might possibly confide in the K.C. the secret of Dr. Laidlaw, to arm him still more in his defense of Frank. But that hope was doomed to disappointment.

So, the days went by, and the greatest crisis in Frank Gough’s life approached.

Mr. Benson was gravely perturbed at the whole position, and his anxiety increased as the trial approached. What he knew, and what he suspected, he kept entirely to himself. And, as he sat alone in the library of Evenden Priory several nights before the trial, he surveyed the whole case again for the hundredth time. Finally, with a sigh, he laid the papers down upon the table.

“Was anyone ever in the plight that I’m in?” he asked himself. “The prosecution’s case is not by any means infallible, but it’s pretty strong. And where are we? We’ve got the mystery of the poison, which discounts the quick quarrel theory, and we’ve got local sympathy. And in my opinion that’s going to be the trump card.

“On the other hand, here’s this young doctor chap and his girl who admit that they know something. What it is I don’t know, but it concerns Laidlaw, and they talk mysteriously about it hurting someone else—obviously Lady Evenden. She, on her part, won’t say a word about Dr. Laidlaw, who helps matters by disappearing.

“What really happened was that Dr. Laidlaw committed that murder, and Lady Evenden knows about it and daren’t say. That’s about the weight of things.

“Well,” said Mr. Benson to himself finally, before he went to bed, “we’ll fight it out as best we can, and if we fail I’ll have an appeal entered and bring the whole lot of them to the appeal court—Lady Evenden, young Barlow, the cunning little companion, and the redoubtable Laidlaw. That’s what I’ll do, and now get to bed, you silly old chap. Much too late for one of your years to be up. What, a little whisky? Yes, you shall have just a tot; you deserve that, Chris Benson!”

So, having complimented himself and treated himself to his usual nightly tot, Mr. Benson went to bed to dream of all sorts of strange things foreign to the curriculum of a lawyer.

He dreamt of an old low-built manor house and a girl in a lilac dress, with a basket of roses on her arm. There was a young man walking beside her, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, riding boots, and spurs. It was himself. A smile played about the old lawyer’s lips as he moved uneasily in his sleep. Then the dream seemed to change. A shadow fell on the lawn upon which the young couple walked, and a man approached. He walked straight up to them, and the girl cried:

“Be careful, Chris! Be careful!” So vivid was the cry that Mr. Benson awoke with a start, perspiration on his brow.

“Phew,” he exclaimed. “What have I been eating? Hello, what’s that?” He waited a second. Then he distinctly heard a creak in the room. With surprising agility, for one of his years, Mr. Benson jumped out of bed on the side farthest from the creaking sound, at the same time switching on the light.

There, on the other side of the bed, surprise and dismay on his face, stood Dr. Laidlaw.

CHAPTER X.
A MIDNIGHT SCUFFLE

For a moment Mr. Benson was paralyzed by the unexpected identity of the intruder. But, his discomfiture was as nothing compared to that of the rat-faced doctor. Mr. Benson was the first to speak:

“Well?” he asked, “It is my turn to-night?”

The doctor moved a step toward the door.

“Come back,” ordered Mr. Benson, “or I’ll shoot you!”

The doctor looked at the quaint little figure opposite him. Mr. Benson stood there, a pointed blue nightcap on his head, one hand hidden in the folds of a voluminous nightshirt. In vain the doctor endeavored to see what the lawyer held in his hand.

“Well?” asked the lawyer again presently. “Are you struck dumb? Or, is it that you object to interruption in your murders?”

The doctor started. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said in cracked tones.

“Oh, yes you do,” Mr. Benson replied. “In fact, the thing is becoming quite a habit with you!”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Laidlaw moistened his lips before he could enunciate the words.

“I mean the little hobby of murder you seem to have adopted,” replied Mr. Benson frankly.

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” The sorry attempt of the little doctor to appear outraged and indignant was amusing. Mr. Benson laughed aloud. With a frightened glance towards the door Dr. Laidlaw said:

“Hush-sh! For heaven’s sake be quiet—you’ll waken somebody.” Then the lawyer, still watching the other, laughed louder than ever. Suddenly he stopped, and a fierce light appeared in his eye. He took a step towards the doctor, put out a hand, and rang the bell which hung beside the bed. Instantly Dr. Laidlaw sprang into activity. He dashed for the door, when a glass thrown by Mr. Benson from a bedside table caught him squarely behind the ear. He gave a yelp of pain and stumbled. Meanwhile, with his left hand, the lawyer was ringing the electric bell.

“If you don’t come back quietly, I’ll shoot you down,” Mr. Benson threatened. But Dr. Laidlaw picked himself up and fled along the corridor. Mr. Benson, cursing the dilatory habits of the servants, pursued him. The doctor made for the main staircase, then ran along the great corridor on the first floor, which connected the two wings of the Priory. With surprisingly fleet steps, Mr. Benson pursued. The corridor was dark, but the lawyer knew the geography of the house perfectly, and made for the staircase leading to the Prior’s Room, in case his midnight visitor was intending to use the secret corridors.

The old lawyer had just reached the heavy oak door, which gave entrance to the old stone staircase of the Prior’s Tower, when, without a second’s warning, something struck him a murderous blow on the side of the head. Singularly enough, even before the actual contact, for some extraordinary reason, Mr. Benson flinched, and as the blow fell he was already bending before it, attempting to dodge it.

“Take that, you interfering old hound!” snarled Dr. Laidlaw, and aimed another blow in the dark. But the lawyer was not unconscious, though his head was swimming and he felt something warm trickling down the side of his face. As soon as he reached the floor, he at once began to change his position.

Now he felt the doctor’s legs, and, as Laidlaw aimed another blow in the darkness, Mr. Benson closed his arms around the doctor’s legs and gave a push. The next second the little doctor was sprawled on the floor. He struggled like a cornered rat to get free, but the lawyer maintained his grip, the while he shouted lustily for assistance. At last a light appeared in the corridor, and there arrived the footman Thomason carrying a lighted candle and an old shot gun. The latter, open-mouthed, stood some distance off the combatants who were still struggling.

“If you don’t both surrender,” he announced, “I’ll shoot the pair of you.”

“Can’t you see that I am here, fighting a burglar, you great dolt?” Mr. Benson panted. The footman opened his mouth a shade wider, then seemed to grasp the position, and came forward. He took hold of Laidlaw and, despite the doctor’s struggles, pinned his arms to his sides and held them there.

Meanwhile the house was being roused. The butler, escorted by two frightened housemaids and a giggling parlormaid, arrived. Behind him several other servants were approaching, including Roberto, the valet, who kept well to the rear.

Truly the group presented a weird picture. There stood the lawyer, panting and puffing, his cheeks crimson with his recent efforts, his pointed blue nightcap pulled to one side at a rakish angle in the struggle, and his voluminous nightshirt torn. He stood there, a picture of triumphant indignation as he surveyed his adversary. But, as he turned to meet the butler to give instructions, the parlormaid’s giggles were turned to horror. The side of Mr. Benson’s face which, up to now, had been shaded by the wall, was seen to be covered with blood, and his white locks were stained crimson.

“What is the matter, sir?” exclaimed the butler. “Let me attend to you, sir.” The old butler moved forward solicitously. But Mr. Benson warned him off.

“Wait a bit,” he said. “I’ll attend to that in a minute. Meanwhile, have that man taken to the library, tie his hands, and sit by him until I dress. See to that now. H’m!” he exclaimed as he noticed the blood dripping upon his torn nightshirt. “Has the fellow cut me much?”

Dr. Laidlaw, trembling and disheveled, made a move.

“Mr. Benson, you are making a grave mistake,” he said. “I beg you, before you do something you will forever regret—let me go. Let me go at once.”

“Go?” thundered Mr. Benson. “Go?” He stepped towards the doctor. “Yes, I’ll let you go, you murdering little ruffian—to the scaffold! That’s where I’ll let you go—and soon.”

“I implore you——” but the lawyer roughly interrupted the next attempt of the doctor to plead.

“Silence!” he ordered. “You add insolence to your felony. Do you seriously suppose that, when I only forestalled your two attempts to murder me in cold blood to-night, I am to be appealed to in any way—except beg the county authorities to supply an extra quantity of quicklime to assist nature to get rid of your loathsome little body!”

The doctor turned paler than ever and his teeth rattled. But he made another attempt.

“For the sake—for the sake of the trusts you hold most sacred!” he entreated, with an earnestness that was convincing. And the lawyer knew perfectly well what he was driving at.

“I shall hear all you have to say when I come down to the library,” he said, “before I send for the police.”

“You mustn’t do that! You mustn’t do that!” Frantically, the little doctor called after the retreating form of the lawyer; for already Mr. Benson had begun to walk along the corridor with the butler. Mr. Benson paid no heed to him. The butler and a maid bathed the lawyer’s head, which had been struck by a hand bag the doctor carried. One of the fasteners had cut the temple. The wound was not deep, however, and Mr. Benson’s stoicism was a wonder to behold.

As soon as he was bandaged, Mr. Benson went to his room after giving instructions that, if they were not awakened already, the ladies were not to be disturbed.

Arrived there, he rang up the White Hart Inn, and, after some delay, got through to the landlord. The latter was annoyed at being called from his bed at such an hour. But Mr. Benson soon put an end to his expostulations.

“What the devil are things coming to,” he asked, “that a village pothouse keeper dares to address me in this manner? Do you realize that you are addressing Mr. Christopher Benson, my man?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon—a hundred pardons, Mr. Benson. I wouldn’t have spoken like that if I’d known it was you. You see these here motorists——” The landlord’s apologies and explanations were cut short.

“I know only too well you wouldn’t. But never mind all that now. Listen to me. You’ve got a young man staying there called Wilfred Barlow—doctor—haven’t you? Yes! Quite so! Well, now get him to the ’phone, and get him quick. I want to get my trousers on—I’m shivering here.”

With astonishing alacrity the landlord awakened Wilfred, who at once came to the telephone.

“That you, Barlow?” Mr. Benson asked, and, having got Wilfred’s assurance, continued: “Get dressed and come here as quickly as you can. I’ve got that little devil, Laidlaw—he came to murder me. Jolly nearly did too. Come quickly now.”

With an exclamation of surprise, Wilfred Barlow rushed off to dress. Mr. Benson put on some garments and a dressing-gown; then he poured himself out a stiff whisky-and-soda and waited the arrival of Wilfred Barlow, the while he examined his room for any traces of his nocturnal visitor.

“Now we really are beginning to move,” said the lawyer to himself. “This is eminently satisfactory. I’ve got him delivered into my very hands. To-night I’ll force the whole story from him on pain of charging him with attempted murder. Then Barlow, of course, will have to reveal all that he knows, and the girl, Kilby, will be corroborative evidence. Let me see now, if statements are filed to-morrow and the police accept the new—— H’m—Yes—I think we’ll have Frank off without a trial yet.”

His pleasant ruminations were cut short by the arrival of Dr. Barlow, whom the lawyer had instructed the butler to show to his room at once.

He told Wilfred exactly what had happened and the young doctor listened with amazement, horror, and admiration. Amazement, at the temerity of the sinister figure of Dr. Laidlaw daring to enter the lawyer’s very room; horror, at his manifest attempt at murder; and frank admiration, for the wonderful old man who could show fight, and run through the corridors and grapple with his man, although well-nigh four score years had passed over his head. He begged to be allowed to redress the wound, which he deftly did.

“I must say, sir, that I admire you tremendously,” Wilfred complimented the old man.

Mr. Benson looked up in frank surprise. “Whatever for—having saved my own life?” he asked.

“No—not exactly,” replied Wilfred, “but for the wonderful courage you showed. Your age——”

“Tut-tut-tut! my lad! Do you imply that you thought me decrepit? In senile decay or something? No, no”—he waved a protesting hand; for, Wilfred was about to interrupt. “I know what all you young pups of the present generation think about old stagers like myself. You think a breath of wind will blow us off the earth, and that we’re merely cumbering the ground. Let me tell you this, my lad! The present generation doesn’t know the first things about breeding the men turned out in my day. You live in luxury—we faced the snow and the tempest in open dogcarts, rode to hounds—— Oh, why talk about it? Sufficient to say, my lad, that I’m nearly eighty, but I’m not going to consider retirement from the direction of my firm for another forty years! Understand that!”

The lawyer looked at his companion with such a fierce light in his eyes that Wilfred was for a moment intimidated; then he smiled. He was a very fine old chap, this lawyer, Wilfred thought, and if he did boast a little he had earned the right to do so.

“Now then,” said Mr. Benson, “We’ll go downstairs and see that little vagabond. I’m looking forward to this interview, I must say; come along, come along.”

The lawyer led the way to the library and opened the door. There, standing in the centre of the room, was the butler, and Thomason was just entering through the French windows from the lawn. But of Dr. Laidlaw there was not a sign.

“Where’s that little murderer?” asked Mr. Benson with a quick glance at the butler.

“I’ve just released him,” announced the butler. “I was instructed——”

“What?” yelled Mr. Benson in tones which made the butler tremble. “Have some comprehension of what you are saying, man. Where is that little murderer?”

“I can assure you, sir,” replied the trembling butler, “that what I have said is true. I have released him on the instructions of her ladyship. She said he must be——”

“What the devil has her ladyship to do with it? What did her ladyship know of the man’s presence,” stormed the lawyer. “I told you distinctly to tie his hands and keep him here until I came. Why can’t you do as you’re told? What have you to say?”

Wilfred Barlow was amazed at the startling situation, now developed.

“Her ladyship heard the commotion,” the butler explained, “and sent down for particulars. Miss Kilby came down, sir, and I gave the requisite information, sir, after telling Miss Kilby that it was your wish that her ladyship was not to be disturbed.” Mr. Benson nodded. “Then, sir, her ladyship sent word down that, if it was Dr. Laidlaw, he was to be immediately released without question, and would you be good enough to go to her boudoir where she would explain it properly to you, sir.”

“Explain it properly to me!” muttered Mr. Benson to himself as he walked up and down the room in thought; then, as the footman and the butler still remained there, he turned fiercely upon them:

“Well, do you propose standing there forever gloating upon your stupidity?” he asked. The butler shuffled uncomfortably, pain expressed in every line of his face.

“Get out!” ordered Mr. Benson. “Get out, before you make me quite sick!”

Then he turned to Wilfred Barlow.

“You appreciate what’s happened, of course?” Wilfred nodded. “Do you appreciate this?” pursued Mr. Benson, “that the murderer of Sir John Evenden has been released to-night from this room by the orders of a stupid woman who is afraid to expose the hound?”

“I am inclined to agree with you, at least that Dr. Laidlaw knows as much about the murder as anyone else. But although I simply cannot tell you the whole story, as I made perfectly clear to you before; yet, believe me, there is some one else besides Dr. Laidlaw concerned.”

“Who?” asked the lawyer.

“Another person. You simply mustn’t press me, Mr. Benson,” Wilfred replied.

“Mustn’t press fiddlesticks,” contemptuously scoffed Mr. Benson. Then, with determination on his face, he turned to Wilfred and said:

“Now, look here, young man. We’ve just seen an exhibition of interference of women in affairs they ought to keep clear of and leave to men. That little doctor—the murdering little knave!—came here to-night with the express purpose and full intention of murdering me, because he saw the net closing round him. How did he know that I suspected him? Well, there are several reasons. Never mind—although I’ll give them to you presently if you like. Now, Lady Evenden is terrified of that little scamp for reasons that are unworthy of serious attention. What?” The lawyer interrupted himself as Wilfred appeared on the point of breaking in.

“I was going to ask—are you sure she has no serious need to be afraid?”

“Absolutely,” replied the old man definitely. “The point of contact between them concerns a thing that happened years and years ago, which occasioned a little local scandal. It was in no sense a matter for which Lady Evenden was responsible, and I don’t think Laidlaw was either. Indeed, at the time, he behaved with exemplary discretion I should think; but I am afraid he has used his knowledge of the matter to blackmail Lady Evenden. Possibly he has twisted the implications or what not, but never mind that. The point I want to bring home to you to-night, my lad, is this:

“Women are not fit to handle certain things, and this is one of them. They love intrigue and mystery. They love the sense of power they wield by holding and keeping secrets, and sometimes, and probably primarily, by the delightful thought of the mischief they could make if they divulged their secrets.

“You have seen to-night a woman release a murderer, a murderer who murdered the man for whom her only and greatly loved son is to stand his trial. Now then, come on, my lad.” The lawyer leaned eagerly over the great library table, and his old hand pointed challengingly at Wilfred.

“What have you to say to that? Isn’t it damnable? What?” Wilfred could only nod his agreement.

“Well, now, you are a sensible young fellow. Tell me, are you going to be tied by the apron strings of that little companion? Are you going to keep from me the secret that will help me to release Frank?”

“You absolutely misread the position,” Wilfred said, equally earnestly. “Jill—Miss Kilby—is not putting pressure on me to keep something from you. On the other hand, it was her desire to acquaint you immediately with her discovery, and it was I who said that at the moment it would be ruinous—absolutely ruinous—to give you information which, if it is to be given, should be given by another person.”

“Meaning?” asked the lawyer.

“That I will not say.” For two full minutes the two men gazed at each other—neither budging an inch in his determination. Finally the lawyer stood up and leaned over Wilfred.

“At least tell me this,” he said. “Was there a woman in the Prior’s Room, or Prior’s Tower, on the night of Jack’s murder, besides Dr. Laidlaw?”

Wilfred looked at him in silence for a while, then he said slowly:

“There were three women there!”

CHAPTER XI.
SEALED LIPS

“Three women there?” Mr. Benson repeated incredulously.

“Three women,” repeated Wilfred gravely.

“Who were they?” asked Mr. Benson after a pause, during which both men surveyed each other—Wilfred determined to say no more, wishing that he had not said so much; Mr. Benson, at first astounded then determined to learn the full facts.

“That I certainly shall not say,” said Wilfred definitely.” But I have told you so much because it is true, and also to illustrate how important it is to take no steps that might cause unheard-of trouble to innocent people.”

“But, forgive me, my lad,” said the old lawyer with decision, “you have said much too much to leave matters there. The wisest thing you can do is to tell me the whole of the facts in your possession, and leave it to my discretion to take such steps as are necessary.”

“I will not, Mr. Benson,” replied Wilfred. “I have very carefully weighed all the possible consequences of my divulging the facts and also the possible consequences of my silence. And I can assure you that I am actuated only by a desire to have ultimate justice done, and at the same time to save innocent parties the frightful unpleasantness, to say the least of it, of premature and partial disclosure.”

“But, my dear chap,” Mr. Benson rejoined, “do you realize quite what you are doing? You are arrogating to yourself the functions of police, judge, and jury. Do you realize that a man—in my full conviction an innocent man—is at present lying in jail, about to take his trial on the capital charge, and you remain silent, with possession of facts that must have a very great influence upon the trial that is to open on Tuesday next, if they do not absolutely clear Frank?”

“I agree that they have an important bearing,” said Wilfred, “but they do not point to any definite conclusion. Will it be sufficient if I assure you that, should Frank Gough be endangered, I shall certainly come to you and place the facts in your hands?”

“But, my dear lad”—the lawyer leaned forward in his chair and looked very gravely into Wilfred’s troubled face—“don’t you realize that he is endangered already? Time, in these matters is very precious. I suppose you mean that if he were convicted you would table the facts for his appeal?”

Wilfred nodded silently.

“Quite so,” rejoined the lawyer. “In that event you would have no option; for, it has been my intention for some time to subpœna you, your observant little friend Miss Kilby, Lady Evenden, and the murderous little doctor. Don’t forget also, my friend, that I myself would state that I saw you and the Kilby girl in passages of this Priory in which, to say the least of it, you had no right to be in, or even to have knowledge of.

“I tell you quite frankly that your own position might be most dangerous—everybody’s position is dangerous when the whole atmosphere is clouded in doubt surrounding a murder. The suppression of germane information is a terrible thing in a case of this kind.”

“Only too well do I know that you are right,” replied Wilfred. “I take full responsibility, so far as I am concerned, and I beg you to believe that it is in the interests of those whom you seek to serve that I remain silent, even to you. Believe me, if I were to divulge what I know, another, and probably a perfectly innocent, person might be arrested—a person who might not survive the ordeal.”

There was a deadly earnestness written on Wilfred’s features which the lawyer could not but accept as genuine. He, in turn, looked very grave as he said:

“I cannot resist certain conclusions, my young friend. You have said that three women were in the Prior’s Tower on the night of the murder. Now, one of those women obviously was your little friend, the companion—hence your knowledge. It is equally irresistible to me that another was Lady Evenden, because of her connection with the little murdering doctor, and also because of your hints about my trust and my service to certain interests, and your concluding remark, ‘A person who might not survive the ordeal.’ ”

The lawyer leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and watched his visitor’s face. Wilfred frowned in embarrassment, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked from the lawyer to the fire and back again, then, taking a deep breath, he said:

“For good or ill, I cannot help it. I will neither confirm, nor will I deny, your conclusions. I have decided upon a course of action which I am persuaded is honest and right. Indeed, the very best thing, the only thing, under the dreadful circumstances. Please—please, Mr. Benson—trust me, and do not distress me by pressing me further.”

Mr. Benson crossed to a sideboard and poured himself out a whisky-and-soda.

“Have a drink?” he asked Wilfred.

“Thank you, yes,” Wilfred replied.

The lawyer did not speak again until Wilfred had taken a little whisky. Then, reseating himself, he said quietly:

“You ask me to trust you, Dr. Barlow. I do, because I like the look of you—that’s all. Listen to me. Let us take the position as it is, quite devoid of likes and dislikes, impressions and prejudices. You ask me to trust you. The first time I had the pleasure of meeting you, was in the secret passages of a mansion that you had never even been bidden to enter. You admit a certain knowledge of a murder, and that, mark you, when a man lies charged with that murder. You develop that again by speaking of three women being present in the tower, and two of those women are my client, Lady Evenden, and your fiancee, my client’s companion. Tell me now, what is there to base trust upon? Surely, surely, if my client is to be in any sense involved, it is I who must know all—no one else.”

“Mr. Benson,” Wilfred replied, “you have put in a few words the whole position. I fully realize the truth of what you say, and I repeat my readiness to take the full responsibility of my present silence. More than that, I know—I am certain—that in the not distant future you will thank me for adopting the line that I have taken.”

Mr. Benson took another sip of his whisky, gazed thoughtfully into the fire, then looked up sharply.

“Very well,” he said, “so long as you understand. Now tell me who was the other woman?”

“I do not know,” replied Wilfred. The lawyer looked at him incredulously, then, as Wilfred met his gaze, he became persuaded that this remarkable young doctor, who had managed to involve himself in so dangerous a predicament, was telling the truth. Nevertheless, the lawyer determined to press him.

“But surely you would be able to identify her?” he questioned. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

“I saw her—but at a distance, and in a bad light,” Wilfred replied.

“Then how do you know that it wasn’t one of the others?” questioned Mr. Benson.

“Because I saw all three at the same time,” said Wilfred.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed the old man. “You must tell me more. You really must. For everybody’s sake you must tell me all—aye, for your own sake.”

“I shall say no more,” said Wilfred steadfastly.

“Very well,” Mr. Benson rose. “That’s all we can do to-night. Will you come round to see me to-morrow? That’s right, come and lunch with me at one o’clock. Remember now—you mustn’t be surprised if I find it necessary to subpœna you for the trial.”

“You mustn’t do that, Mr. Benson,” Wilfred protested. “You will do untold harm, if you do.”

“That’s what the murdering little doctor said,” replied the lawyer. “None of you give me your confidence—and you must take the consequences. I will use my own judgment. What the devil do you expect? Do you expect me to fold my arms and let my client swing? Not likely! Look here, young man, what would you do in my position?”

“Oh, I know how difficult the whole position is,” replied Wilfred, “and it is with a full realization of that position that I still decide to maintain silence. I quite agree that you have every right to be annoyed, Mr. Benson. But again, I assure you that I am doing what I think is wisest and right. Knowledge that I could give you would only further embarrass you.”

Silently, the lawyer looked at him for a full minute, then he said: “I’m going to see Lady Evenden. If that young lynx-eyed girl Trilby, Kilby, or whatever her name is, is up and awake I’ll send her to you here, and you and she had better talk matters over. Two heads are better than one, you know, and I think she might influence you to use a modicum of sense in this most terrible matter. Dangerous rivers need an experienced pilot, not a smart amateur.”

Wilfred walked restlessly up and down the room after the lawyer had left, and then Jill entered.

“Wilfred,” she said, “Isn’t this awful? Poor old Mr. Benson has been nearly murdered to-night, and I believe it is Dr. Laidlaw who did it.”

“It is, my dear,” Wilfred replied, kissing her. “Did the old chap send you down?”

“Yes,” Jill replied. “He’s really rather wonderful, you know. Fancy him struggling, at his age, and holding the little doctor until some one came.”

“Yes, I agree,” said Wilfred. “What did he say to you before he sent you down?”

“He said, ‘You go down to the library and knock sense into your John Willie’s head,’ ” Jill replied, half-laughing. Then she added seriously, “We must tell him, you know, Wilfred—we must.”

“We cannot,” Wilfred replied. “The poor old chap is perplexed enough now. To tell him what we know would only make his head swim, and if we were to tell the police—why, they would arrest everybody remotely concerned. No, the position is simply damnable. As I see it, there is bound to be a certain amount of suffering for some one, and Frank is best able to bear it. Should he be convicted, then we would have to table the evidence to clear him on appeal. But, the awful part of that would be that some one equally innocent would have to undergo the whole process again. It is terrible. But there is nothing to be done.”

“I still think that we ought to tell Mr. Benson,” Jill persisted. “He is far more sensible and clever even than you dream of, and he is a lawyer, you know, used to all these queer things that so perplex us.”

“The full knowledge would do nothing but lay down certain threads in his defence of Frank that would cause an arrest. You must know whom they would arrest?”

Jill nodded miserably. “Oh, Wilfred, my dear, why is it so hard to do right? I hate to think that I am deliberately suppressing something that might save Frank Gough, more particularly because I hate him so. It seems an incredibly mean thing to do.”

“But, my dear,” Wilfred protested, “you are not doing this to hurt Frank, but to save a whole lot of further trouble. I have already pledged myself to tell Mr. Benson the whole truth if Frank should be convicted. That would be in ample time for witnesses to be brought up for the appeal.”

For twenty minutes the lovers talked—Jill wanting to take the lawyer into their confidence, Wilfred determined not to do so. Meanwhile, Mr. Benson was admitted to Lady Evenden’s boudoir, and found the mistress of the Priory seated on a settee, clothed in a satin quilted dressing-gown. She had a slightly defiant little smile on her face as the lawyer entered; but she was manifestly nervous.

“I am quite relieved to see you looking so well, my dear Mr. Benson,” she greeted him. “I was very, very sorry to hear of your distressing experience.” There was genuine concern in the beautiful face.

Mr. Benson had worn rather a hard look as he entered the room, but he melted somewhat. However, he asked severely enough:

“Why did you let that man go?”

“I knew you would want to know about that. Naturally you would,” said Lady Evenden. “That is why I stayed here and asked them to tell you I wanted to see you.” The lawyer nodded and waited expectantly. She paused; but he did not speak, so she continued: “Well, I think I told you before that Dr. Laidlaw is an old friend of mine. The unfortunate affair in your room to-night is most regrettable; but I am sure that the doctor could account for it. I know he has my interests at heart even as you have, and I had to—I simply couldn’t help myself—I had to release him when I learnt that he had been detained by your orders.”

She spoke nervously, her words came in jerking delivery. From time to time, as she spoke, she glanced at her stern-faced adviser. The growing severity of the old lawyer’s expression increased her nervousness. She finished lamely, “I knew that you would understand.”

“Understand?” broke out Mr. Benson indignantly. “Understand your release of the man who attempted to murder me? Understand your release of the man who murdered your stepson? Understand your release of the man who systematically had blackmailed your late husband for seven years? My dear lady, pray set a limit to your estimate of my understanding. I am completely mystified. So far from understanding, my visit to you now is to try to obtain a reasonable explanation. Will you give it to me?”

While he spoke Lady Evenden showed manifest signs of acute distress. She looked at him from time to time, then looked away as if unable continually to meet his eyes. Her hands clenched and relaxed, she moved her position on the settee. Then with a great effort, she replied:

“I can understand that you must feel annoyed—very annoyed. But, my dear Mr. Benson, that is no excuse for such extravagant statements as you have made. Murdered my stepson! Blackmailed my late husband! How can you say such terrible things?”

“Because I can prove them,” said the lawyer calmly. Lady Evenden turned paler than ever—and the lawyer had been struck by her pallor upon entering the room.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“What I say,” responded Mr. Benson. “Look here, Lady Evenden, the time is rapidly approaching when I shall have to ask myself whether I am justified in acting for you any longer. I have had the honor to serve your late husband and his father, and, before my time, my father served his grandfather. This I tell you to make you understand how I value my association with this house. But there are things that an honorable man must value even more than old associations. One thing you may be sure of, and that is that I will not drop the reins so long as your son remains in jeopardy. I will see him through, come what may; but, unless I can be assured of a client’s confidence, I will in no circumstances act for that client.”

“But, Mr. Benson,” she exclaimed. “I cannot do without you. You cannot be serious. I must have you to act for me. Oh, Mr. Benson, don’t say that you are deserting me!”

“I am not deserting you!” said Mr. Benson. “I am saying quite plainly that I cannot act without the confidence of my clients. Tell me—since you wish me to continue to act—why did you release that murderer to-night?”

“He is not a murderer! How can you say that he is a murderer?” she countered at once.

“How can you say that he is not?” The old man was very stern as he asked the question, and his gaze was fixed and relentless.

“What do you mean?” Lady Evenden asked with frightened eyes turned up to the little lawyer.

“Let us finish all this beating about the bush!” Mr. Benson exclaimed impatiently. “Listen to me. On the night that your stepson was murdered, Lady Evenden, Dr. Laidlaw was seen by credible witnesses to visit the Prior’s Tower, and that by means of secret passages which communicate with the Prior’s Room—the scene of the murder. Now, I have that information absolutely definitely, beyond a peradventure, and also I know that you yourself were in the Prior’s Tower that night. Now, what I require of you is that you tell me what you know of Dr. Laidlaw’s movements on the night of the murder, what you yourself were doing in the Prior’s Tower that night, and who was the third woman present besides yourself and your companion, Miss Kilby?”

The effect of the lawyer’s words was startling to behold. Lady Evenden showed, to begin with, great agitation, which increased terribly as he continued; but the old man was remorseless; he went to the root of the matter, as he had intended to do. As the lawyer continued, however, surprise, as well as distress, was patent in Lady Evenden’s face. And the old man felt that she was speaking the truth when she said:

“I don’t in the least know what you are talking about. What on earth has Miss Kilby to do with the Prior’s Tower, and who is the other woman?”

“I’ll tell you all that in a moment. Answer me this to begin with. Lady Evenden, I want to warn you. You were actually seen—actually seen, mark you—in the Prior’s Tower on the night of the murder. Now then, what were you doing there? Why did you meet Laidlaw there? What was Laidlaw doing there?” Mr. Benson could not help but feel sorry for her—Lady Evenden looked distressed beyond measure. He hoped she would not faint before she gave him the all-important information.

“Who saw me?” she asked.

“Two credible witnesses,” replied Mr. Benson, “and they will certainly give evidence at the trial. For the love of heaven, Lady Evenden, why don’t you take me into your confidence? Tell me, what were you doing there?”

For several minutes she was silent. She looked at him as a bird might look at the snarer; then she said quietly, resignedly:

“I went there to meet Dr. Laidlaw.”

CHAPTER XII.
MR. BENSON FORMS A PLAN

“You went to see Dr. Laidlaw!” Mr. Benson repeated. “Why?”

Lady Evenden seemed almost as if she had expected and prepared for the question; for, a hard light came into her eyes and her chin set determinedly.

“Mr. Benson,” she said, “I once told you that nothing on earth will make me divulge certain things that concern only Dr. Laidlaw and myself. It is sufficient for me to tell you that occasionally I have to see Dr. Laidlaw. I saw him that fatal night in the Prior’s Tower. My visit to him, and his visit to the tower, had not the remotest connection with the murder, any more than it would have any connection with your murder, supposing that you were found dead outside this room, and it were proved that I had received Dr. Laidlaw here.”

“In view of my earlier experiences to-night, my dear lady,” said the old lawyer dryly, “I can scarcely congratulate you on the happiness of your simile. The little rat-faced scoundrel made two attempts on my life to-night.”

“He did not, Mr. Benson.” Lady Evenden spoke with quiet conviction.

“My dear lady, are you in possession of your senses? Do you infer that I imagined his presence in my bedroom and imagined this crack on the head the murdering little hound gave me, and that he aimed another with a stick when he thought I was lying on the ground?”

“He did not come to your room to do you any harm at all,” said Lady Evenden.

“Why did he come at all? Just to have a friendly little chat?” asked Mr. Benson facetiously.

“He came to try to recover certain papers.” The lady frowned.

Mr. Benson stared at her in mingled astonishment and horror.

“Did you know he was coming?” he asked in tones as sharp as the crack of a whip. She saw what was moving in his mind, shivered slightly, and answered:

“Oh, Mr. Benson, if you could only understand. No, of course I did not know he was coming. I would not dream of doing anything to hurt you, my best friend. I want you to clearly understand that my association with Dr. Laidlaw is a perfectly innocent one. He is necessary to me for certain reasons. What those reasons are I cannot divulge. It must be sufficient for me to tell you that should evil—I am sure it would be unmerited evil—come upon Dr. Laidlaw, then that day I should probably suffer horrors beyond compare—horrors that would make death preferable, and I should take death in preference.”

There was great earnestness in the agitated face as she spoke, but Mr. Benson remained hard.

“You must tell me at once what he is holding over you,” he said. “I must insist upon that. If you say that you did not know he was coming to my room to-night, how do you know he came to recover papers?”

“Because he told me so—since,” she replied, biting her lip.

“You’ve seen him since?” asked the lawyer. “God bless my soul! Where?”

“Oh, does all this questioning really matter?” she asked wearily. “I saw him in the Prior’s Room.”

“How?” Mr. Benson asked. “By assignation?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I told you it is necessary for me to see him on certain occasions.”

“This is absolutely the most terrible state of affairs I have ever heard of in my life,” declared the lawyer. “Your son awaits his trial for murder, and you, his mother, shield Dr. Laidlaw, who bled your late husband white by blackmail for seven years, and is bleeding you!”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Evenden’s great eyes opened wide. “Dr. Laidlaw merely acted as an inquiry agent for my husband, and made certain visits to Russia because he knew the language so well.”

“Who told you that?” Mr. Benson asked.

“My late husband,” she replied at once. “And Dr. Laidlaw confirmed it.”

“Then answer me this, my dear lady,” said the lawyer. “Why should the little hound be so particular about recovering certain papers, not even stopping at murder to get them? Listen to me. I saw murder in that man’s eyes to-night, and if I hadn’t rattled him by staring at him, and, later, by fighting him, then I should have followed your stepson——”

“Dr. Laidlaw did not kill my stepson,” she interrupted.

“Who did then?” Benson snapped back immediately.

“I do not know—none of us knows,” replied Lady Evenden.

“Who are ‘none of us’?” asked Mr. Benson.

“I mean neither Dr. Laidlaw, myself, the police, you, nor anyone else,” she replied.

“Who was the other woman in the tower besides you and your companion?” he asked, reminded that he had not had a reply to his previous question.

A puzzled look came into the eyes of Lady Evenden. “My companion?” she asked. “And another woman?” She looked at him for a moment in doubt; then, with suspicion, she asked, “Have you been employing my companion to spy upon me?”

“Don’t add stupidity to your stubbornness, for heaven’s sake,” the lawyer said impatiently. “Certainly not. Now listen to me. On the night of Sir John’s murder, there were three women in that tower. One was you, one was your companion, and what I want to know is, who was the other?”

“But, Mr. Benson, you frighten me. Do you really mean what you are saying?”

Lady Evenden could not possibly be acting, the lawyer decided. Her agitation was far too real for that.

“Jill Kilby in the Prior’s Tower? Another woman? Who was the other woman, and what did she want?”

“That is what I am trying to find out, of course,” said the lawyer. “When we get an explanation of all these various things, then we shall have the secret of the murder.”

“Tell me”—Lady Evenden made a great effort to remain calm, but her agitation was betrayed by her dilated eyes and the continual movement of her hands,—“what was Jill Kilby doing there?”

“I suppose she felt it her duty to keep near you. She was certainly instructed to be very careful that you got into no danger during the time of your terrible collapse following Sir Michael’s death,” he replied.

“My God!” she exclaimed. “What did she see?”

“That I do not know,” replied Mr. Benson gravely. “This much I do know, that if it is necessary I am going to put her on the witness stand, and you on the witness stand, and that little blackmailing doctor in the dock—to save your son.”

“You must not dream of doing anything of the sort.” Now she made no attempt to disguise her perturbation. She rose from her seat and threw herself down on her knees at the old lawyer’s feet, clasped his hand with both hers, and pleaded, “You know nothing of what you are doing! Oh! for pity’s sake, don’t do that! I am innocent of any wrong, Mr. Benson. Dr. Laidlaw is not the blackmailer you think——”

“Yes, he is,” Mr. Benson snapped. “He blackmailed Sir Michael for seven years. I have absolute proof of it in Sir Michael’s handwriting, and all the bank evidence complete.”

“Well, I can’t believe it.” Mr. Benson made an impatient movement and gave vent to an expression of exasperation. “In any case,” she went on, “I know it is terrible, Mr. Benson; I can’t see why he blackmailed my husband—he has money without that, and I understood he got a good income from my husband for his inquiry work. But that has nothing to do with my terrible position now. Listen, Mr. Benson. The moment anything happens to Dr. Laidlaw, I die. He has been the very best friend in some respects. Certainly I should have been dead without him—dead or worse. I cannot and will not have any complication in this matter for Dr. Laidlaw.”

At the end of her excitedly-spoken sentences Lady Evenden completely collapsed, bent her face down on the old lawyer’s knees, and sobbed—great, bitter sobs that shook her whole frame. Mr. Benson was deeply moved. He did not attempt to speak to her, but bent forward, laid one hand upon her shoulder, and, with the other, gently patted her head. The hardness had quite gone out of his eyes, and there was a look of infinite pity there, as he bent over the woman who had at last broken down under the deluge of troubles and fearful buffetings of erratic fate.

There were pity and tenderness reflected in the fine old face of the lawyer, but there was no despair. Indeed, behind the emotions, that were at present predominantly represented, there was an indefinable power, also, expressed. Mentally he was a giant among men, this veteran lawyer, and even while he patted his fair client’s bowed head, and the pity of it all surged over his heart like a tidal wave, yet all the while his mind was working—and working at lightning speed.

After a time she ceased her heart-breaking sobs and looked up.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I simply——”

“Not another word, my child,” ordered the lawyer. “Now just obey me. I’ll not distress you by talking about Laidlaw to-night. You get back to bed, and, before you go, take a good stiff glass of brandy; it’ll do you good. Whatever you do, don’t worry. I’ll manage everything all right. Only, my dear, whatever the consequence may seem to be to you, take my word for it that you’d probably be a happier woman if you came and told me everything.”

Lady Evenden was about to speak, when he overrode her interruption. “No, no—not to-night. I’m not going to worry you any more now. Don’t come to any decision to-night at all. Just don’t worry. Good night, my dear lady.”

“Good night, my dear friend,” she said. “Oh! what shall I do about Jill——”

“Nothing,” he answered, “nothing at all. Don’t mention a word about that—just forget it.” With a gentle smile and an old-world kiss of the fair hand, the chivalrous old man left the boudoir and returned along the corridor to the main staircase on his way to the library. There he found a little note from Wilfred to say that he would keep the appointment on the following day—later that day it was, really, for the hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes past four—and that he had nothing further to say that night.

“Well,” said Mr. Benson to himself, “you’ve had an exciting night for an old man. You’d better get yourself a drop of that excellent old whisky and see what that does. Aye, that’s better,” he said, after drinking some of the old liquor. “That’s better. That’s the thing too. The whole key lies in that little doctor. If he’s arrested he might possibly do harm. I doubt it myself, but he might. Yet he is the key, and he must be turned in the lock, so to speak. Yes, I’ll do it. A bit hot, perhaps, for nowadays, but I’ll do it. I’ll kidnap the little devil, that’s what I’ll do, and take him to that old farm, Swinerigmire. The house is empty, and I’ll get Joe Litt to act as his jailer, and if necessary we can have a quiet little bit of gentle torture—The little worm! Now, let’s go to bed.”

Mumbling away to himself in his quaint manner when alone, the venerable old fellow made his way to his room and lay down again. Just before his eyes closed he might have been heard mumbling a little disconnectedly, “Just the same, Alice—just the same. You’ve been gone nearly sixty years but you’re just the same. You shouldn’t have gone, Alice—night before our wedding day—too lonely, Alice. Yes—yes—soon now, Alice—a little more work to do—then——”

* * * * * * * *

Mr. Benson awoke in the morning, like a giant, refreshed, and ate a hearty breakfast, discarded his head bandage, and set about the day’s work. He communicated with the superintendent of the Norwich police and learnt that there were to be no applications for additional evidence. The Crown case as presented in the police court would be submitted at the assize court, and that only.

He read a long letter from Sir Courtney Caldecott’s clerk commenting on the defense brief, to which he replied. He telephoned to his office, and listened to the acting senior partner as he posted his chief in all the various ramifications of the work of that important office. Then he went round to the stables and asked for a hunter to be saddled.

“They’re a bit fresh, sir,” said the head groom a little dubiously. “You see, we haven’t been giving them much exercise lately.”

Mr. Benson stared at him incredulously for a moment. Then, with indignation which made the groom tremble, he asked:

“Are you suggesting that Chris Benson can’t manage any damned thing on four legs—or two either, if it comes to that?” he added truculently. “Saddle something that can take a fence or two. One with a bit of blood about it, my lad!”

“ ’Mazing old gentleman, that,” muttered the groom as Mr. Benson left. “Shouldn’t like to get into his black books. Only good jumper in the stable is Prince—an’ he’s a devil, he is. Well, if the poor old gentleman breaks his skull open, I got witnesses to prove he asked for a good jumper with a bit of blood about him.”

Mr. Benson meanwhile got Roberto to rake him out a pair of riding breeches and leggings to fit. And presently the lawyer appeared in the hall wearing his morning coat and vest above the riding breeches and leggings. He might have stepped right out of the sixties, with his drab, flat-topped hat and old-fashioned stock.

Prince, a great black colt of sixteen hands, was led round by the head groom, who seemed to have difficulty in controlling him. His mouth frothed in his excitement, and there was a dangerous white gleam in his rolling eyes. As Mr. Benson surveyed him, he smiled. Prince was a goodly sight to a lover of horses.

The lawyer bent his leg and the groom took it. With surprising speed, the old man sprang into the saddle; and, before Prince could do any further “showing off,” he found his rider to be a person with a light but firm hand, and, if necessary, a resolute spur. Prince decided to behave himself.

It was some time later that horse and rider approached an apparently deserted farm in the midst of poor, derelict fen land. A tall man, uncouth in appearance, but with big, honest eyes, came out.

“This is a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Benson,” he greeted the lawyer with a laugh. “I’ve seen you like this many a time when I was a lad, but never for the last thirty years, I’ll warrant.”

“There’s work to be done, Joe,” said the lawyer. “How many lads can you get in the next six hours—trusty and tight-mouthed?”

“Is it a poachin’ round-up?” asked Joe Litt, for that was the name of the man.

“No, it’s worse. But I’m backing it. How many?” the lawyer snapped.

“Three do?” asked the man.

“Ample,” agreed Mr. Benson, dismounting. “We’ll have a talk about it. Got an apple for this youngster?”

Joe Litt smiled and went back to the half-ruined house. When he returned he had two apples in his hand. Joe led Prince off to the stable. For an hour the lawyer and Joe were in close consultation. Then, at the end of that time, Prince was brought out again and the lawyer mounted.

“That’ll be all right, sir,” promised Joe Litt. “The four of us’ll be at the library window at nine o’clock.”

CHAPTER XIII.
TRAPPED

In ample time for his lunch appointment with Wilfred Barlow, Mr. Benson returned to Evenden Priory. The head groom’s astonishment, when he beheld the old lawyer sitting unconcernedly upon his mettlesome colt knew no bounds. He saw from the muddy condition of Prince’s legs that he had traveled across country, and the damp condition of his coat registered the speed at which he had been traveling.

Almost in awe, he watched the lawyer dismount, and remained stupefied as the latter handed him the reins. Mr. Benson grinned knowingly, left him, and went to his room, to change.

Punctually at one o’clock Wilfred came, and was ushered into the morning room, where Mr. Benson usually lunched. He was greeted with cordiality by his host, and the meal began. There was no other guest. Throughout the meal, Mr. Benson plied Wilfred with questions about his early days, his ambitions, and his connections. Never did the old man refer once to the all-important subject of the murder and the approaching trial.

He learnt that Wilfred was the son of a well-known Church dignitary whose benevolence had left his family very poor when, at the close of a comparatively short but strenuous career, he had passed on to another world. Wilfred had been at school then; and, with the assistance of an uncle of his mother, he had been enabled to complete his medical studies.

Mr. Benson showed keen sympathy, and soon Wilfred found himself talking to him as if he were an old friend. There was about Mr. Benson that which attracted confidence and compelled respect. Mr. Benson, Wilfred thought, as he watched the old man across the table, was one of the few men of whom it could be said that familiarity did not breed contempt. He could not imagine anyone being disrespectful to the possessor of those eyes—eyes which could twinkle with amusement, but could look like furnaces of fury in anger, and which conveyed continually an impression of power that was almost uncanny.

“I should think you would do fairly well in your exams?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes,” replied Wilfred. “Not too well—a good second class.”

The lawyer nodded approval. “I detest people who pass exams brilliantly,” he said. “When do you expect to get a country practice?”

Wilfred laughed. He had not told the old gentleman that he was seeking a country practice.

“Well,” he said, “I do want to get a decent country practice eventually, but they take a lot of acquiring. I must try to get in with some established practitioner who needs help. I cannot afford to buy a practice.”

“What about this part of the world? Would this suit you?” Mr. Benson watched his young friend closely. Wilfred looked up sharply, eagerness in his eyes.

“Rather,” he said. “Do you know of one, sir?” Mr. Benson ate in silence for a few seconds, then replied.

“I shall speak to a friend of mine in Norwich. I think it might be possible. I should judge that you are a pretty efficient all-round chap. You are obviously reliable, but I don’t think there is a great deal of brain power in you.”

Wilfred flushed a little in annoyance, then smiled. After all, this old man told the exact truth. He had never had any illusions about his capacity; but he knew, that as a country practitioner, he would be an unqualified success. Born in the country, he loved it, understood its people, gloried in its activities through its pageant of seasons, and drew his health and vigorous color from its clean winds and scented air.

Just before the meal was over, Mr. Benson made a reference to the case.

“You are a friend to the chief constable’s, by the way. Have you consulted him at all on this case?”

“Yes,” replied Wilfred, looking up from his plate; “we have had several chats about it. I have also met the Scotland Yard man.”

“Have you told them anything that you have not told me?” the lawyer next asked, watching him through shrewd eyes.

“No, I have not told them as much,” said Wilfred readily. “They gave me special facilities to look over the scene of the crime, and they thought I might learn something. They know the relations in which Miss Kilby and I stand to each other, and, without mentioning any name, I said I had seen a man prowling about outside the tower—the Prior’s Tower. I had Laidlaw in my mind. I thought that might make them doubt their present theory about Frank, who we all agree, is not guilty. I mean that you and I and all of us here agree he is not guilty.”

“I am rather sorry you told them that,” said Mr. Benson, looking towards the window. “Are they watching, do you know?”

“Yes, they are keeping the tower under observation,” Wilfred replied.

“Since when?” asked Mr. Benson.

“All the time, I suppose,” Wilfred replied. “I told them about Laidlaw, without mentioning his name, days ago—long before his last visit.”

“You didn’t say that anyone in the house knew, or received, this mysterious stranger, did you?” the lawyer asked, frowning.

“No—simply that I saw a man hanging around at the foot of the tower one night,” Wilfred replied. “I only told them that because I wanted, if possible, to give them some line to detract from Frank.”

“You see,” said the lawyer, “that is just the mistake an amateur always makes when dealing with the police. He imagines that they will look at the thing as through his eyes. They don’t. As soon as you gave them a line, the first thing they would do would be to set a fairly close watch; then, when that has failed, they would investigate the place where your mysterious stranger was alleged to have been seen; then, finding nothing there, they next pursue their investigations in the house—carefully, in a roundabout way. Finally, they begin to analyze your motives for putting them on what they think is a blind trail. The whole system in a murder inquiry is to gather a terrific quantity of information. They spend money like water, and put a whole army of people on, to gather information. Three or four experts tabulate the information at headquarters, and perhaps three men of something approaching genius are included in the whole gang conducting the inquiry. These three spend their time criticising each other’s brain waves and comparing them with their own. Marvel of marvels, the system actually succeeds! They get man after man. Yet little Laidlaw was not trapped. How do we account for that?”

“I think the police will watch the tower from the other side of the lawn,” replied Wilfred. “If anyone kept under the shadow of the wall they could reach the secret door without being in direct vision from the shrubbery, which is hidden by the contour of the tower.”

“Now, if I make a suggestion to you”—Mr. Benson leaned on his hands and looked keenly across at the young doctor—“will you give me your word not, under any circumstances, to divulge what I am about to say—even to your little spitfire?”

“Certainly,” replied Wilfred, “but really, Mr. Benson, Jill Kilby is not——”

“Tut-tut!” snapped the lawyer. “That’s beside the point. What I’m really saying is that you are pledged not to divulge this to a living soul.” Wilfred nodded wonderingly.

“Very well then, I’m going to kidnap the murdering little pest to-night, if he comes, in the tower, and I’m going to remove him to a nice quiet place where he can make statements with great facility and where he can practise his murdering tricks on the rats—a fine breed they are there, too. Now, what do you say about that?”

For a moment or two Wilfred was too greatly astonished to reply. There was evidently no limit to the astounding activities of the old lawyer. To kidnap a man! Yet, Wilfred reflected, the man was probably a murderer, and had actually tried to murder the lawyer. Above all this, there was such a look of confidence and self-assurance on the face of Mr. Benson that it inspired confidence in him, also.

If the great Mr. Benson, respected and sometimes feared in two counties, gave his sanction, even his active co-operation, to what seemed a terribly lawless proceeding, then there must be good reason for it. He made his decision.

“If I can help——” he began.

“Right!” said the lawyer. “I want some chloroform. I can’t have the little rat screeching the place down here before we tie him up. Will you get me some?”

“I’ll come myself and help you, if you like. It’s not easy to apply chloroform,” said Wilfred impulsively.

“Good man!” Mr. Benson shook hands with his young friend, and very shortly afterwards Wilfred left, promising to return in time to dine with the lawyer at seven o’clock and bring such things as were necessary for the work in hand.

“By the time he is up to the neck in this caper,” chuckled Mr. Benson to himself when Wilfred had gone, “he’ll be glad enough to tell me all he knows about the night of the murder. In any event, we’ll extract a tale out of that little pest, or my name isn’t Chris Benson.”

Then Mr. Benson went to have a confidential chat with the butler, and that gentleman promised to have a quantity of beer and sandwiches packed in the Prior’s Room by nine o’clock, and to maintain strict silence about the affair.

Then Mr. Benson sought Lady Evenden. She had risen late after the alarms of the previous night, and looked very ill. As soon as he saw her, Mr. Benson decided not to question her further, but contented himself by inquiring in his most fatherly manner after her health.

Then he returned to the library, his papers, and the telephone. Hour after hour went by, and still Mr. Benson was engaged. He telephoned through to London, three times, and he spoke to the governor of the jail, and to the chief constable of Norwich; then to a great detective agency.

It was twenty minutes to seven when the lawyer finally finished, locked certain papers away in the safe, and went to his room, to change. By seven he was welcoming Wilfred Barlow in the hall, where the young doctor stood talking to Jill.

The lawyer and his guest dined alone, Jill being engaged with her mistress and Lady Porter upstairs; for Lady Evenden rarely came down these days. Throughout the dinner, while the footmen waited on them, nothing was said about the coming “affair.” But, when they had retired to the library, Mr. Benson examined carefully the things the doctor had brought.

He took an impish delight in the bottle of chloroform, and listened with eagerness and ill-concealed glee as the doctor explained its effects and how it was to be administered. Nine o’clock came, and there was a light tap on the window-pane. Mr. Benson opened the long French window.

With a muttered “Come on!” to his followers, Joe Litt, dressed in his Sunday broadcloth jacket and vest, but with corduroy trousers, entered the room. Following at his heels were three sturdy farm hands. They entered the room sheepishly, caps in their hands. None of them wore an overcoat, though the night was cold, and several of them grinned a little foolishly at the strange surroundings.

Mr. Benson carefully closed the window, then turned to Joe Litt and said:

“Let me see now, here’s young Ben Howlett, Tom Sayers, and Bill Harris.” Each one of the rustic lads was known to Mr. Benson, and he had a word for each of them before he led them along the corridor, up the servants’ staircase, and along the service corridor of the first floor, to the Prior’s Tower. When the party entered the Prior’s Room, it was rather amusing to Mr. Benson to see the expressions of awe and wonder on the faces of the lads; and even Joe Litt seemed glad of company. There was not a man among those sturdy sons of Norfolk soil that would have dared to stay alone in that room all night. With awe-stricken looks they all took the oath of silence, and then Mr. Benson ordered them to pick up the two hampers the butler had left. Then, taking a lighted candle, he led the way through the great wardrobe, to the crypt chapel, below.

Arrived there, he established his party in the little vestry, where they sat on the great chest, and, by the light of a single candle, drank beer and ate sandwiches, to keep up their courage.

Strict silence was impressed upon them—quite unnecessarily, for none of them felt like talking, and the minutes began to lengthen into hours. Ten o’clock came, and then eleven. Finally it was nearly midnight; and Mr. Benson had almost given up hope for any success on this night, when there was a sound of something scraping, then a jolt, followed by a shuffling of feet, then the rasping sound of the moving lever replacing the hinged paving stone.

Mr. Benson looked carefully out and saw a man standing, bending over the bench where the candles stood. He struck a match; there was a flicker; then the candle was lit. The man shielded the flame with his hand and stood there until he was sure of its light. Then, he turned, and the light of the candle was reflected upon his face.

“Come on, lads,” said Mr. Benson. “Here he is.”

Instantly the six men left the little vestry; and, before the astonished intruder could realize what was happening, they were half way across the crypt. Instantly, Dr. Laidlaw—for it was he—realized the trap. With a startled expression, he jumped backwards, blew out the candle, and next instant there was a shot—followed by a yelp of pain from one of the yokels.

“Get him,” ordered Mr. Benson, holding aloft the candle he had brought out of the vestry, which was now near enough faintly to illumine the part from whence Dr. Laidlaw had fired. He tried to fire again. But, Joe Litt had his hand in an iron grip; and then he collapsed as Wilfred applied the chloroform mask to his face.

“Quickly now,” pressed Mr. Benson. “There may be some one else here shortly. That cursed shot! It may have roused heaven knows what. It sounded like a quarry being blasted. Anybody hurt?”

“Yes, me,” at once replied a man, holding a damaged wrist.

Wilfred Barlow quickly bound up the latter. Then, with two men carrying the unconscious figure of the little doctor, they set off, up the staircase which led to the secret door in the tower wall, Mr. Benson manipulating the mechanism. Arrived on the lawn, they skirted the tower, making their way to the circular sweep at the side of the house leading to the stables. There a large car was waiting, and they all entered it. The car set off. But, as it did so, a challenge rang out, and a police lantern shone.

CHAPTER XIV.
A DOCTOR IN DURANCE

“What’s that?” Wilfred Barlow asked nervously.

“A police lantern! What did you think it was?” replied the old man calmly. Then, putting his head out of the window, he ordered: “Sharp to the right, and through the low woods. Did you leave the gates open as I told you to?” The man on the driving seat mumbled something that was evidently satisfactory, and the car, swinging sharply to the right, rushed along a cart track used chiefly for communicating with the game preserves. Fainter and fainter grew the sounds of the whistles, and, as the driver got used to the road, the faster he drove the car.

“Through Eggleham and across the marsh!” again ordered Mr. Benson, and the driver nodded. They reached the main road after a run of two miles through woods and fields belonging to the Evenden Priory estate, and, for a few hundred yards, rushed along the great white thoroughfare, then turned down a by-road leading to the little hamlet of Eggleham. Swiftly, passing through the sleeping group of cottages, the car continued along the narrow road, until Joe Litt observed to Mr. Benson:

“Here’s the old occupation road, sir.”

“Then tell him to take it—if he knows it,” said the lawyer.

“Knows it like a book,” said Joe Litt, and spoke a word to the driver, who slowed the car down. Then, after crawling along for a few yards, he turned off the road and entered a grass-grown way, half field, half road.

In reality the road, or narrow field, belonged to no one now in these later days. Villagers with a cow or a horse could let the animals graze at will there. It wound erratically along, turning and bending for more than a mile, until it reached the marsh, when it lost itself in the treacherous, swampy waste ground that stretched for many miles to the Broads, in the south.

Now the car proceeded very carefully indeed; for, it was a work of great skill, even in the daytime, to thread a safe way through the hidden pools and morasses. The man driving, nearly stopped occasionally, but never quite, and only an anxious glance, that he kept giving over the side at the ground, told of their occasional nearness to disaster.

Through all the journey Laidlaw remained unconscious, Wilfred frequently feeling his pulse to make certain that he was in a safe condition.

At last the ruined farm was reached, and the car drew up at the door.

“I’ve made things as comfortable as I can,” said Joe Litt, “but there isn’t much need of comfort here, as you know, for me, sir.”

“That’ll be all right,” said Mr. Benson. “There’s not much comfort needed now, I give you my word. Take him in.”

The last words were addressed to the farm hands, who were alighting, and two of them immediately carried the insensible Dr. Laidlaw into the farm kitchen. A great fire was burning on the hearth, and another laborer got up sleepily from a settee on which he had been reclining.

“We’ll begin now as we mean to go on, Joe,” said the lawyer. “Appoint some one to remain with him, and never let him be alone for a single second, so that he can play no tricks. Where are you going to put him?”

“I’ve had a bit of fire lit in the old parlor, sir, and there’s big shutters to the window, and curtains, so no one can see a light there. I thought of putting him in there.”

“Yes, that’ll do all right, but I don’t see any reason to keep the window shuttered in the daytime. You can get warning of the approach of anyone within two miles, and then you can slip him in the barn, can’t you?”

“Yes, that was what I was thinking,” said Joe Litt. “If there was any search or anything, I would have him fastened up and muzzled and put under the hay.”

They carried the recumbent doctor through a door and along a damp-smelling passage, to a room which had once been the great parlor of the farm, but was now only the happy hunting ground of beetles and occasional rats.

The old farm of Swinerigmire—always pronounced locally in three words, Swine-Rig-Mire—had a curious history. Years ago it was in the occupation of a family called Foulder, and was a very prosperous farm on the outskirts of the marsh. The last of the Foulders married very late in life, and his wife bore him a daughter. She left him at the same moment that she presented him with the girl, who was to be the apple of his eye.

When Norah Foulder was sixteen she “kept company” with Joe Litt, then a lad of about twenty and her aged father’s right-hand man. Norah was wonderfully sweet, but her beauty turned out to be fatal to Joe Litt’s hopes. She met a young engineer taking a holiday in the Broad country, who had wandered afield in the marshes and met a vision of unexpected beauty in such a wilderness. Then, something happened that broke the old man’s life, and destroyed for Joe Litt any hopes of happiness.

The engineer deserted Norah, but he had told her enough of the life of the great cities to fire her imagination, and she went away with him. No one ever heard from her again. Joe Litt, who never before in his life had traveled beyond Norwich, journeyed to London, and for a week wandered round in pathetic helplessness, searching for Norah. Then he gave it up. Like her father, he gave up everything else, too, dismissed the staff, and just let the farm go to rack and ruin, only cultivating such acreage as was absolutely necessary to preserve life. The old man died a few months after his daughter had disappeared, leaving Joe the farm—and there he lived alone. His companions were a few sheep, a couple of cows, some poultry, and a horse which he yoked occasionally to a crazy old cart and drove to the market.

The marsh, ever jealous of ground once wrested from its depths, came into its own again after the centuries, slowly, ever so slowly, but with deadly certainty and little suckling sounds of satisfaction it encroached. Outlying fields were already bearing its mud and reeds in exchange for the poppies and gold of the days when the marsh was made to obey the behests of men, and reluctantly presented its master with rolling fields of grain.

But, though a recluse, Joe Litt was not a bitter man. The old lawyer was very fond of him. He had been of service to Mr. Benson on more than one occasion; and, indeed, Joe was always only too ready to help anyone. No farmer ever called to him in vain, and he was a giant among men as a worker. Uncouth in appearance, he was not without a gentleness of manner that endeared him to women and children and animals.

Joe’s life was in no sense an idle one—it was simply that he had lost interest in his own future, and took rather a sad delight in beholding the ruin of the once prosperous farm. It seemed suitable, he thought—a monument to the loss of the farm’s most precious inhabitant, a register of ruin.

The room into which the unconscious little doctor was now brought, still contained the faded furniture and the worn carpet of the old days. Everything suffered from damp; the room smelt musty, the walls were mildewed, the ceiling broken down in places, the floor boards dangerous and rotten. Joe knew that these were all heralds of the approaching marsh, but the lawyer sniffed.

“Joe, my lad,” he said, “this damp is enough to give a rhinoceros the rheumatics. Keep a good fire on, Joe, because I’m going to spend a bit of time with him to-morrow.”

Joe assented. And, after leaving two men in charge of Laidlaw, the others went to the great kitchen, where a huge pot of coffee was served, with rashers of ham.

“That smells good,” announced the lawyer. “Come on, Barlow, have a plate of ham. This your own curing, Joe?”

“Yes, Mr. Benson. I never buy nothing in the way of bacon and that sort of thing.” Mr. Benson nodded with his mouth full of the delicious ham.

“Now then, Joe,” he said presently, when the meal was over, “I shall be round about eleven o’clock to-morrow. Is my man ready?”

The driver was brought forward and the journey back across the marsh was begun. It was more difficult now; for, the moon that had been shining was set, and a mist was veiling the marsh. After a long time, however, they threaded their way safely back to the road. And then it was an easy matter to get to the Priory.

Mr. Benson stopped the car in the game coverts behind the house, and he and Wilfred walked the remaining quarter of a mile.

They approached the house from the rear, skirted the kitchens, and then very carefully surveyed the front of the building. There was not a sign of life. Keeping close to the wall, Mr. Benson approached the library window and opened it; then, followed by Wilfred, he stepped through.

“Now, my boy,” announced the old lawyer, “we’ll get some sleep; we’ve done a good night’s work, and we’ll do better work to-morrow, when we get that little murderer talking. I’ve arranged for a bed for you next door to me. Have a drink?”

The old lawyer and Wilfred talked for a further five minutes over a tot of whisky, then went to bed. In the morning, while Wilfred was still asleep, the old lawyer was up attending to his letters and telephoning. At breakfast, the butler said that the police had blown whistles and caused an alarm during the night. It appeared that a constable had seen some men appear, apparently from nowhere, near the Prior’s Tower, carrying a corpse to a waiting motor car.

“What had you been giving the constable to drink?” Mr. Benson asked the butler severely. “This is a very serious thing, you know.”

After a moment, during which the butler seemed unhappy, Mr. Benson looked up sharply. “What had you been giving the constable?”

“Well, sir,” said the butler, with a little cough, “the constable, sir, is rather partial to Helen, the housemaid, sir, and I am given to understand that he had a little game pie.”

“Game pies do not make constables see men appearing from nowhere, carrying corpses to waiting motor cars!” announced Mr. Benson with decision.

“No, sir, of course not,” agreed the butler seriously. “I am further informed, sir, that the constable had a little ale——”

“Send for Helen immediately,” interrupted Mr. Benson, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. Presently Helen appeared trembling. She was a pretty, buxom girl, very dark, with laughing blue eyes—an Irish type.

“What did the constable drink—your constable, I mean?” asked the lawyer.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she replied, “He had a little beer, if you please, sir.”

“How many quarts?” asked Mr. Benson, thumping his fist upon the table and looking terrible.

“Oh, only one, sir—well, not more than one-and-a-half at the outside, sir.” Mr. Benson nodded solemnly.

“How much whisky?”

“Oh, sir, only a nip. Just a little to keep the cold out, sir. He suffers with a weak chest. Oh, sir, I hope he will not get into trouble.”

“No, I’ll fix it up for him,” said Mr. Benson, nodding towards the door.

The girl withdrew, and soon Wilfred appeared. When the butler left the room, Mr. Benson told him of the fortunate incident of the discredited constable on watch. Wilfred enjoyed the joke heartily, and after breakfast Mr. Benson sent for the constable’s sergeant and obtained from him an assurance that no disciplinary action would be taken against the constable for his stupid mistake.

Mr. Benson found that Lady Evenden was not so well that morning, and decided not to see her. Wilfred took advantage of the opportunity to spend half an hour with Jill, who was exceedingly surprised to see her lover in the house. Wilfred told her that he was assisting Mr. Benson in the general inquiry, and that, as there might be another nocturnal visitor for the old lawyer, he had offered to sleep near him—an offer, he said, which the lawyer had accepted.

Not a syllable did he breathe about the strange adventure in the night.

At half-past ten, Mr. Benson was dressed ready for riding; and, as a mount also had been arranged for Wilfred, the two set off across country to the lonely farm of Swinerigmire.

Long before they approached, they were seen by Joe Litt’s trustworthy watchers, and when they pulled up at the farm door, the master of the ruined house himself met them.

“He’s been going on something terrible, sir,” said Joe to Mr. Benson. “Cursing and threatening and all sorts of things.”

“Never mind, Joe,” said Mr. Benson darkly. “It’s nothing to how he’ll go on in a few minutes. Come on, Wilfred.”

Followed by Joe Litt, Wilfred and Mr. Benson walked through the kitchen, and through the darkened, damp passage to the parlor where Laidlaw was.

The doctor sat by the fire in a huge armchair, looking very white and sick, and glowering fiercely at two laborers who sat opposite him on bench, smoking clay pipes. Their eyes never left him.

As the lawyer and Wilfred entered the room, the doctor was in the midst of a tirade of threats, which was absolutely wasted upon his audience; they merely sat stolidly there, watching him and smoking their pipes. When he saw who his visitors were, Laidlaw stood up.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” he asked. “I’ll have the law on you for this!”

“I certainly would, if I were you,” agreed Mr. Benson reasonably. “Your treatment includes a good many indictable offences. There is, for instance, the kidnaping—a most serious thing; there is the violence; then the question of illegal detention and false imprisonment arises. Oh, you have an unanswerable case against me—that’s why I’m going to murder you and bury you in the marsh.”

The lawyer spoke so quietly, and in such matter-of-fact tones, that, to begin with, the doctor could not understand whether he was being chaffed or whether the lawyer was actually stating a case seriously. At his last words, accompanied by a dangerous glint in Mr. Benson’s terrible eyes, Laidlaw positively quailed; he gasped, and, with eyes staring in horror at the lawyer, collapsed into his chair.

“Examine him,” said Mr. Benson briefly to Wilfred, and immediately the young doctor went over and felt the prisoner’s pulse and examined his eyes.

“H’m—not much wrong, beyond shock,” he declared. “I’ll give him a dose of something.”

“Yes, and I’ll give him a dose of something, too!” Mr. Benson said darkly, with an ominous nod of his head. And the unfortunate Laidlaw shivered again.

Wilfred Barlow gave the terrified man a stimulant, and, after a few moments, during which they watched the color return to his face, Mr. Benson dismissed the two laborers, and he and Wilfred were left alone with their prisoner.

“Now then,” began Mr. Benson, lighting a cigar. “To begin with, Dr. Laidlaw, we’ll just hear exactly what happened on the night of the murder of the late Sir John Evenden.”

“Ha! ha!” Laidlaw made a pathetic effort to laugh. “I thought as much. You daren’t hand me over to the police, in case I ruined Lady Evenden, so you struck the happy little idea of kidnaping me by violence, and trying to get me to talk. Well, Mr. Lawyer Benson, you’ve overreached yourself, for you’ll get nothing from me, understand? Nothing.

“What’s more, you’ll get punished—severely punished, the whole gang of you—toughs, crook lawyers, and kidnapers. Lady Evenden will be ruined, Frank Gough will hang, and I’ll laugh at the lot of you.”

In silence they listened to his outburst. Laidlaw was silent for a minute; he looked a little less at ease, then continued rather inconsistently: “What can you prove against me, anyway?”

“You’ve given the little rat too much stimulant, you know,” Mr. Benson said to Wilfred, with a disapproving shake of his head. “He imagines himself a man-eating tiger. Pity, because he might have told us something before he died.”

Mr. Benson walked to the door.

“Joe!” he shouted. “Joe Litt! Bring that coffin in!”

CHAPTER XV.
THE DOCTOR’S STORY

At the mention of “coffin” Dr. Laidlaw trembled. Fearfully, he looked at Mr. Benson, and then watched the open door.

“It will be ready in half an hour, sir,” shouted Joe Litt. “They are just lining it with pitch.” This little duologue had been prearranged between Mr. Benson and Litt. But the rat-faced little man, who did not know that, watched the lawyer gravely nod, heard him shout back:

“Don’t be longer, then; we’ll need it sooner than I thought.” Laidlaw feared the worst. Mr. Benson, with a glance at Wilfred, settled himself on one of the seats that had been vacated by the laborers who had guarded Laidlaw, and calmly smoked his cigar.

Absolute silence was maintained for fully five minutes. Wilfred gazed up at the damp and broken ceiling, Mr. Benson stared meditatively into the fire, while Laidlaw looked first at one of his captors, then at the other, occasionally glancing at the door.

At last the tension was too much for him, and he spoke.

“I might as well warn you that if anything happens to me, I shall be missed, and some one will have followed me here,” he said in sharp, nervous tones.

“You’re quite wrong,” Mr. Benson said. “You were not followed at all. Even if you had been, it wouldn’t really matter, for there are holes in the marsh deep enough to hold you and all your friends.”

“But—but——” Dr. Laidlaw swallowed; in the distance a door shut noisily. He shivered. “You can’t mean that you would commit a cold-blooded murder? Murder a defenseless man? It’s awful!”

“Normally speaking,” replied Mr. Benson calmly, “I certainly wouldn’t, of course. But, you see, this case is quite apart from normality. To begin with, I, who am a lawyer, have a great respect for the law. I believe in seeing the law properly administered if possible. But, where there seems to be every possibility of the law being defeated, then, by any means at all, however irregular, I believe in carrying out the law’s demands in the case of a murderer like yourself. The end justifies the means when it comes to visiting the prescribed penalty on a murderer.”

While he spoke, the old lawyer never took his eyes off Laidlaw, and his words were so quietly and yet so convincingly spoken that the doctor turned even paler than ever.

A cold sweat broke out on Laidlaw’s forehead, and in his despair he turned to address an appeal to Wilfred.

“You will not be a party to this terrible thing, will you, Dr. Barlow?” he asked. “Murder will out, you know—There are all sorts of curious ways in which your crime will become known.”

“I shall not interfere in anything that commends itself to Mr. Benson,” replied Wilfred decisively.

“But,” said Dr. Laidlaw, turning to the lawyer, “you are quite wrong. I have committed no murder. I give you my solemn assurance that I have committed no murder.”

“Will you prove that by telling us every detail of your relations with Lady Evenden?” asked Mr. Benson. “And also what you were doing in the Prior’s Room on the night Sir John Evenden was murdered?”

“I cannot—I simply cannot tell you the full facts of my association with Lady Evenden,” replied the little doctor. “Believe me, it would be no service to Lady Evenden for me to do so.”

“Very well,” agreed the lawyer. “You see, we are just where we began, and you must take the consequences. I personally think you murdered Sir John, and I shall act on that belief.”

“I did not! I did not!” replied Laidlaw, with terrible earnestness.

“Then who did?” the lawyer asked.

“I do not know,” said Dr. Laidlaw.

“We have wasted enough time,” said Mr. Benson. “Have you that hypodermic syringe ready?” He addressed his question to Wilfred, who immediately opened a pocket case and took out a syringe, a needle, and a small phial.

Dr. Laidlaw screamed at the top of his voice. Mr. Benson rose and went to the door.

“Come along, two of you!” he called, and immediately Joe Litt and another man came in.

“Hold him!” ordered the lawyer, and the little doctor was seized by the two powerful men; and, despite his yells, which, in fact, were quickly smothered by the large hand of Joe Litt, was soon lying on the bench, his feet held by one man, his arms and head by Joe Litt.

“How much does it take to kill him?” asked Mr. Benson with interest, watching Wilfred fill the syringe.

“This will be enough,” Wilfred replied. “He will suffer a good deal for a few minutes, then—probably in about ten minutes—the heart will give out.” Mr. Benson nodded.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Stick it into him.”

Frantically did the doctor struggle, and by vigorous movements of his head and eyes he indicated that he had something to say.

“What do you want?” asked Mr. Benson, with a sign to Joe Litt to uncover his mouth.

“My God!” gasped Laidlaw. “Oh, my God! I will tell—I will tell.” Mr. Benson gave a quick glance at Wilfred, then nodded in the direction of the door to Joe Litt and his assistant, who left the recumbent doctor and went out.

Several moments elapsed during which the doctor struggled for breath; then he turned to Mr. Benson, and there was cunning in his eyes as well as fear.

“If I tell—how do I know that I will be given my liberty?” he asked.

“I never said you would be given your liberty,” replied Mr. Benson at once. “Only this will I promise you—If you tell the whole truth, and out of what you tell you make it possible for me to secure the acquittal of my client without putting you on the witness stand—or, what is more likely, in the dock—then I will allow you to disappear.”

“But what guarantee have I?” pressed Laidlaw.

“None whatever,” said Mr. Benson, a hard line showing at the corners of his mouth. “I am not accustomed to give guarantees to such as you.”

“Well, don’t you agree that I would be a fool to speak——” began the doctor, when Mr. Benson again arose and went to the door.

“Come back, come back!” bleated Laidlaw. “I will take your word for it. Don’t—don’t call those terrible men back!”

“Well, what have you to say?” Mr. Benson seated himself again. “Have you got pen and paper?” he asked Wilfred, and Barlow immediately produced a notebook and fountain pen.

“Take it down as he speaks, or can you write shorthand? Good. Then put it down in shorthand, and have him sign it when you read it over to him. We can have it done fully, in proper form, later, and then he will sign the finished copy as well.

“Now you understand,” he said, turning to Dr. Laidlaw. “I take it that what you are going to say is the whole truth, without any qualifications or reservations. I shall submit your story to what test I can, and when I am convinced of its truth I will release you.”

Dr. Laidlaw nodded. “Have you a little brandy?” he asked. Wilfred gave him some. Then he began.

“I have known Lady Evenden for a good many years,” he said. “When I first met her she was the wife of an invalid called John Gough, and lived on the shores of Loch Lomond. I acted as locum tenens to a doctor there during his summer holidays, and was called in upon several occasions to attend the late Mr. John Gough. He suffered from G.P.I.—general paralysis of the insane.

“Her life with him was very unhappy. He had all sorts of delusions; indeed, he was quite certifiable. In the end, he became so much worse during my term of attendance upon him that I was inclined to have him certified for his wife’s sake. I considered him dangerous.

“One night he developed a frightful brain-storm—beyond anything that had gone before—and his wife sought refuge with friends. She brought back a friend—the head of a family living somewhere near—to find that her husband had suffered a stroke during the time she was out. He was lying on his back, foaming at the mouth, and in an unconscious condition. I was sent for, and found he had had an apoplectic stroke.

“We got him to bed, and I said I would call in the morning. In the morning he was found in the loch. There was an inquiry—they don’t have inquests in Scotland—and I said the stroke might have been only partial, and that he might have recovered sufficiently to rush out of the house, in a fit of madness, and drown himself in the lake.

“Well, Lady Evenden—Mrs. Gough, as she then was—went away, and I saw her frequently afterwards——”

“Why?” the lawyer asked.

“Well, I understood her condition. I had some considerable mental experience, as Barlow there can tell you, years ago.” The lawyer looked at Wilfred, who nodded assent. “Mrs. Gough’s condition at that time was very critical—I mean her mental condition. She was unfit to be left entirely alone. I was able to treat her, and I don’t hesitate to say that I saved her sanity. She followed a course of treatment that I outlined, and she consulted a mental specialist in Vienna, who endorsed my treatment and extended it, and she quite recovered.

“Later, as you know, she met Sir Michael Evenden, and lived many happy years—thanks to me,” Dr. Laidlaw finished complacently. He took a sip of brandy, then continued:

“I saw her from time to time——”

“Why?” Again it was the lawyer who spoke.

“Why, to see her, of course—to see that her mental condition remained strong and healthy. There is always danger of a relapse——”

“You blackmailed her!” Mr. Benson leant forward and bent the whole force of his terrible eyes on the quailing doctor. “Don’t lie, now!” he admonished him.

“Lady Evenden was very good to me,” the doctor said, after a pause. “When she became rich, she showed her generosity and her gratitude by rewarding me with various sums from time to time.”

“All the while you were blackmailing her husband,” said Mr. Benson.

“If I am to tell you all my relations with Sir Michael, and the journeys I went to Russia for him, I should never finish telling my story to-day,” protested Dr. Laidlaw. “Do you want me to tell you all that?”

“No—I know it,” said Mr. Benson. “Don’t you remember you came to my room to try to get the proofs? Don’t you remember you nearly murdered me for those proofs?”

The doctor turned white, looked nervously around him, then continued:

“I am very sorry. I did not intend murdering you, or harming you at all.”

“Never mind—get on,” said the lawyer. “I want to hear about John’s murder, and what you were doing there at all.”

“Well, as I said,” Dr. Laidlaw continued, “I saw Lady Evenden often. I saw her because I feared a relapse. Dr. Barlow there will tell you that in mental patients the great thing to avoid is intense emotional stress. The loss of a very close association—a husband or a wife, for instance—will frequently precipitate a relapse. Now, to put it at its lowest, I had reasons of my own for not wanting Lady Evenden shouting all sorts of wild things about the past. I did not want that Loch Lomond business raked up again, and so I lost no time in putting myself in touch, when I heard of the death of Sir Michael. I knew what he meant to her, and, to put it bluntly, I expected to find her insane—and I did.”

“What?” almost shouted Mr. Benson, while Wilfred stared, open-eyed.

“Yes,” repeatedly Dr. Laidlaw. “She was absolutely unbalanced. I’ll ask you a fair question, sir.” He turned to Mr. Benson, who watched him with eyes like those of an eagle. “Did you see Lady Evenden soon after the death of her husband?” Mr. Benson nodded without speaking.

“Well, what did you think of her mental condition yourself?” asked Laidlaw. With some reluctance the lawyer replied.

“I certainly thought she was very upset!” he said.

“Now do you remember the day you refused me an interview with her—when I succeeded in obtaining one later?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Benson.

“Well,” Dr. Laidlaw said, “throw your memory back to the morning following my interview with her. Did you not notice a decided improvement in her? Now, be fair.”

Keenly did Mr. Benson watch the little doctor, and the more he watched him, the more he hated him. He was plausible, this little blackmailer. But, despite himself, the lawyer had to admit that what the little man said was indeed true. He actually had noted an improvement, though the last thing he had thought of attributing it to was the man before him having visited her.

“I may have done. I certainly saw an improvement somewhere about that time, but I can’t say exactly when,” was the best reply that Mr. Benson felt he could make.

“If I had not come she would have been stark, raving mad,” said Dr. Laidlaw. “Well, to continue. It was not sufficient to see her once, but I had to see her frequently. I could not come openly, on account of my dealings with the late Sir Michael, which, by the way, she knew nothing about, and the possibility of the facts getting into some one’s hands who might have made trouble. So I had to see her privately, and, feeling the great need of me—for I assure you I can’t exaggerate that—Lady Evenden arranged to meet me in the Prior’s Tower. We used the secret room under her stepson’s bedroom.

“On the day he died I had seen her, as you know, in the afternoon, and I found it urgently necessary to get a certain drug from my bag and give her a draught that evening, hence our arrangement to meet in that secret room. Without the knowledge of a soul, she——”

“What treatment does Lady Evenden receive?” asked Wilfred.

“The Mohenloeffer treatment,” replied Laidlaw. Wilfred bowed.

“That includes a certain amount of psycho-analysis as well as certain injections, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“Precisely,” replied Laidlaw. “That is why it was necessary for me, and me only, who have been dealing with the case all along, to come at the time of its crisis.”

“Isn’t this psycho-analysis a sort of hypnotism, or mesmerism, or some other similar thing?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Not exactly,” said Wilfred with a smile. “I’ll explain it to you afterwards.” Mr. Benson nodded, and turned again to Laidlaw.

“That night we met, Lady Evenden and I, and I gave her a draught and an injection. I was just in time, for she was hysterical and her mind was tottering. She came by way of the secret staircase from the lawn. She used her own private staircase from her boudoir to her morning room, which has French windows opening on the lawn, only a few yards away from the Prior’s Tower. I waited in the angle of the tower, and we went into that crypt place, where I have met her since and where you kidnaped me.” Laidlaw shuddered a little as he spoke. “Well, we had been there only a short time, when suddenly I heard a shriek from upstairs—somewhere overhead—and I immediately rushed to the staircase which leads to the Prior’s Room.”

“How did you know of its existence?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Because I’d used it often when visiting Lady Evenden privately,” replied the doctor at once.

“Oh, then it wasn’t your first visit to that tower?” the lawyer asked.

“No,” replied Laidlaw, while Mr. Benson and Wilfred exchanged glances. “I rushed to the staircase, and, as I did so, I heard a thud—somebody falling helplessly on to the floor, it sounded like. Lady Evenden was behind me. I knew that any excitement would be fatal to her, so I begged her to go back—and, though she protested at first, she subsequently obeyed me and returned. I told her to forget the incident—and she forgot it.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” asked Mr. Benson, indignant and puzzled. “How could you tell her to forget—and she would——”

“Yes, he could,” interrupted Wilfred. “I’ll explain all that later. I know what he means perfectly well.”

“In my method of treatment it is necessary for the practitioner to have some definite control over the will of the patient,” explained Laidlaw. “Well, I was saying, she went by the way she had come, and I went up the secret staircase to the Prior’s Room. The light was full on, and on the floor was lying a man in his pyjamas—it was John Evenden.

“Beside him was standing a dark man. He looked bronzed, like a sailor to me, and on the other side of him was a girl, with her face covered with a handkerchief. I stepped forward into the room, and at the same moment the man saw me, turned round, and struck me a foul blow. I staggered and fell. When I recovered, the man and the girl had disappeared. I went down the staircase, and I thought I saw some one precede me up the stone stairs to the lawn. But, though I looked carefully when I got up, I saw no one.

“In view of the compromising circumstances, I decided to say nothing to anyone. That is all I know.”

CHAPTER XVI.
HELP FROM WITHOUT

When the doctor finished speaking he looked at his two listeners; and, if he expected to see surprise on their faces, he was not disappointed. Wilfred looked at him as if partly satisfied and yet partly amazed and perplexed. Mr. Benson looked at him in frank astonishment.

“Who were they, these people?” he asked. “Had you seen them before? Have you seen them since? Why on earth did you not accept my invitation to tell me what you knew, because you knew perfectly well that I was not acting for the police, but for Lady Evenden and Frank Gough?”

“I had never seen them before,” declared Laidlaw. “Nor have I seen them since. You see how hopeless was my position. If you don’t believe me, how much less would the police?”

“Yes, that’s all right,” said Mr. Benson, who was rapidly recovering his poise, “but what have you to give as evidence that there were indeed any people there at all, except your word? You say that you saw a man and a woman. What do you suggest was the reason of their visit there? How do you suggest that they knew of the existence of the secret passages? Your story is very thin, Dr. Laidlaw. Very thin.”

“Mr. Benson,” said the unhappy little doctor, “whether you believe me or not, I have told you the exact truth. You say you cannot accept my word. Very well, I will put the alternative to you. Tell me, if you don’t believe me, how do you account for the murder? If I, as you suggest, murdered Sir John Evenden, why did I do it? So far as I can see, from my knowledge, there is only one other person upon whom suspicion could possibly fall, and that is Lady Evenden. Do you, in your suspicion, suggest that she did it? If she did, why should she?”

“I do not suggest for a moment that she did,” replied Mr. Benson. “On the other hand, I am quite sure that she did not. But you do not clear the ground quite so easily as that. Don’t forget that the most mysterious thing about this murder is the presence of some curious poison in the brain of the late baronet. I am a layman, and profoundly ignorant of these matters, but it strikes me with irresistible force that some person with a considerable knowledge of medicine, and poisons, was responsible for the crime. I am not concerned to impute motives. I am concerned with facts.”

“I can only say that I have told you the exact truth,” said Laidlaw wearily. “You can do what you like. You can murder me in cold blood if you like, for I am helpless. But you will be committing a ghastly murder. I saw the man and I saw the woman—I know I saw them. That is all I know. Lady Evenden had nothing to do with the murder—nor had I.”

“Would you like to know what I think?” asked the old lawyer, standing up and bending over the shaking doctor. “I’ll tell you what I think happened. You probably went up that staircase, and through the Prior’s Room, for some reason best known to yourself, and at the point of safely leaving the room you were met by the late Sir John, returning from his visit to Mr. Frank Gough’s room. He, knowing of your sinister relation with his stepmother, grabbed you and insisted upon your telling him the truth. You probably tried to get away, and seized something and struck him. Probably, to give you your due, you did not intend to kill, but when you found that you had done so, you sought to confuse the issue by injecting some of your filthy poison into the dead man’s brain. I wouldn’t mind betting that I’m not far out in my calculation.”

“You are utterly wrong,” said the doctor earnestly. “I assure you that there were the man and the woman there, and that the murder had been committed before I came upon the scene. I did not even examine the dead man; I hurried away as quickly as I could.”

“I think I’d better have a word with you,” said Wilfred to the lawyer. Mr. Benson looked at him sharply, saw that his young friend had obviously something to say of importance, then went to the door.

“Joe,” he called, and almost as soon as he spoke Joe Litt and one of his assistants appeared.

“Watch him!” the lawyer instructed, and Wilfred and he left the room. They went out into the farmyard, and it was not until they were well out of earshot of the house that Wilfred spoke.

“He’s not telling the exact truth,” he said. “But, on the other hand, he’s telling some truth.”

“Surely by now,” said Mr. Benson, “you must see the advisability of taking me into your confidence?”

“I am determined to keep to my policy of absolute silence,” replied Wilfred stubbornly. “But I will tell you enough to enable you to check Laidlaw’s account. This is the serious divergence between what he says and what I know happened. He says that Lady Evenden went as far as the staircase leading to the scene of the tragedy. There he is wrong—both she and he went into the room. They remained there for perhaps three minutes, during which time there was a sound of some scuffling overhead, and after that Lady Evenden certainly came down alone. He followed—perhaps two minutes after that.”

“You saw all this?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, I saw it,” replied Wilfred.

“Then what do you think of his story about a man and a woman who were, I take it, the actual murderers?” asked Mr. Benson.

“I can’t say,” Wilfred replied slowly, gazing across the marsh. “I certainly saw no man, but immediately after Lady Evenden came down the staircase, crossed the crypt, and went out through the entrance to the lawn, a woman followed her. I saw no man.”

“Where were you?” asked the lawyer.

“In the crypt,” Wilfred replied.

“What did you do when you saw Lady Evenden come out? And this other woman? What sort of a woman was she?” The lawyer frowned as he put the question.

“It would be very difficult to say,” Wilfred replied. “I saw Lady Evenden leave, and I identified her because Miss Kilby was with me. She had followed her mistress out and had met me on the lawn. We descended the staircase after her, and first of all heard her talking to Laidlaw in the crypt. Then, as we heard them move to the other staircase, we followed. We hid in that little vestry place where all of us hid last night. I repeat, the first person to come downstairs was Lady Evenden, then another woman came down and went out. I saw her silhouetted against the moon light as she went up the stone staircase to the lawn. Then, after that, Laidlaw came.”

“But how did you know that Lady Evenden was ever in the Prior’s Room?” The lawyer surveyed his young friend, and noted the troubled look on his face.

“Well, as I told you, I was with Miss Kilby,” he said, after a pause. “When Laidlaw and Lady Evenden disappeared up the staircase to the Prior’s Room, Jill followed. She got as far as the wardrobe, then she came down again—terrified. Now that’s all you must ask me.”

“But, my dear chap, I differ from you,” said Mr. Benson. “I’m the last person in the world to cause any trouble for your fiancee or yourself, but don’t you see that you have said too much for the matter to be left there? Don’t you see that your fiancee’s evidence can probably clear Frank Gough and be sufficient to exonerate Lady Evenden? My dear chap, that evidence must be given.”

“That’s just the difficulty,” said Wilfred, in some excitement. “You really must not pursue this matter by ingenious roundabout ways such as I suppose lawyers delight in. Believe me, Mr. Benson, you will regret it to the last days of your life, if you do. I might be able to produce sufficient evidence to clear Frank Gough. But there is certainly not enough evidence to clear Lady Evenden, who, mark you, is, in my opinion and in Jill’s opinion, just as innocent of the murder.”

“Well, surely there is also her word,” said the lawyer. “She can testify to having seen this other mysterious woman and possibly the mysterious man that Laidlaw says was there, can’t she?”

“No, she can’t,” said Wilfred decidedly. “She doesn’t remember a thing about the whole affair.”

“How on earth do you make that out?” asked Mr. Benson, stopping in his walk, and turning to face Wilfred, bewilderment in his eyes.

“It will take me a long time to explain the exact circumstances governing the relations between that little doctor and Lady Evenden,” he said. “But in the meantime it is sufficient for me to tell you that there is a process, not unlike hypnotism, whereby a strong character—and Laidlaw is that, despite his appearance—can obtain a complete control of a weaker. Now that process is tremendously accelerated where circumstances permit of the exercise of some definite lever for the stronger to hold over the weaker. In this case the lever is obviously the unfortunate circumstances of Lady Evenden’s past.

“Laidlaw is probably letting the unfortunate lady believe that she murdered her first husband—I wouldn’t be surprised if he is, anyhow—hence the blackmail. Now, then, don’t you see that, having established that mental control, making her believe a certain thing, he can easily extend that and make her believe something else? The whole thing boils down to this. If Laidlaw were to be apprehended for this murder, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were to be confronted by a confession by Lady Evenden that she had done it.”

“God bless my soul!” The old lawyer was flabbergasted at the prospect.

“There you have the whole difficulty,” said Wilfred. “And there you have the keynote to my policy. Until you can table the evidence to convict either Laidlaw or some one else, Then, for the sake of Lady Evenden, who is manifestly in Laidlaw’s power, you must say nothing, and I, for my part, will not be moved to say anything. There it is.”

For ten minutes after Wilfred had finished speaking, they walked about the yard in silence; then Mr. Benson said.

“But you say that he is not telling the whole truth, even now? That is a sign of guilt, isn’t it?”

“Yes—it might be,” Wilfred partially agreed. “On the other hand, there is not a very great discrepancy between what he says and the truth. He might have wanted to emphasize that Lady Evenden was not actually in the room, purely in her interest. He is right about the strange woman. But if there was a man there as well, the question is, where did he get to? Miss Kilby and I saw no man.”

“For the love of heaven, what did Miss Kilby see?” asked the lawyer, removing his hat and mopping his brow.

“I shall certainly not say that, or allow her to say what she saw,” Wilfred replied. “You may be certain of this—she did not see the actual murder committed, she saw no other man but Laidlaw, and she certainly saw a woman standing with her back towards her, who afterwards came down the stairs—that’s all.”

Again there was silence. Presently the lawyer appeared to make a decision.

“Very well,” he said. “Come along.”

They went back through the farmyard to the kitchen, and through to the room where Laidlaw was sitting anxiously awaiting his fate.

“I have discovered a way of testing your story,” said Mr. Benson. “You will remain here until I decide to release you. Look after him, Joe,” he said, turning to Joe Litt. “See that he is under constant guard, and I’ll see you to-morrow.”

Wilfred and the lawyer rode home across the marsh almost in silence. Wilfred looked at the face of his companion, from time to time, and could not make out a certain look of almost triumphant satisfaction that he saw there. Arrived at the Priory, the horses were immediately given over to the groom, and the lawyer invited his companion to a late lunch, which was readily accepted. All through the meal Mr. Benson spoke but little, and immediately afterwards he suggested that perhaps Wilfred would like to see Jill, which offer was also accepted, more readily still.

So, for some time Jill and Wilfred strolled about the lawn together, talking over things that interested only themselves, forgetting even the tragic events so closely connected with them.

Meanwhile Mr. Benson was at his papers and on the telephone. He had called a London number, and soon the call came through.

“Is that Sir Francis Waveryon?” asked Mr. Benson. “Ah! this is Chris Benson! How are you, old man? Oh, yes, fit as a fiddle, and likely to be when your grandchildren are suffering from rheumatics in their old age. Look here, old man, do you know anything about this psycho-analysis business—hypnotism—strong-willed doctors governing patients who are inclined to be a bit on the mental side? Yes? Well, look here, who is the best—the very best man? Can you get him for me immediately? Ah, yes, my dear chap, but this is not a case of etiquette. Look here, I mean this—this is actually a case of life and death—a murder trial, no less, and a diabolical mess. You will? Thanks very much. Tring—Rushton Tring. I see. He’ll be here to-morrow, will he? Early? Oh, yes—any fee. To-night would be all the better. That’s the thing. What? Well! well! I’ve been so busy, Francis. You shall have a brace of the best to-night, sure. Good-bye, old man.

“That’ll do the trick,” said Mr. Benson to himself as he hung up the receiver and went to see Lady Evenden.

Lady Evenden was very much better, and received Mr. Benson in her boudoir as soon as he presented himself. He talked cheerfully of various subjects, spoke optimistically of the coming trial, and never referred to Dr. Laidlaw at all. He remained with Lady Evenden for half an hour, then returned to the library, where he went through a number of papers connected with the coming trial and saw the latest copy of the amended brief for Sir Courtney Caldecott, which awaited his initialing.

“I won’t initial the thing at all yet; let’s see what another day brings forth,” said Mr. Benson to himself. He saw Wilfred for a moment at five o’clock, when the young doctor presented him with a fully-written foolscap statement of what Dr. Laidlaw had said. Mr. Benson thanked him.

“Now look here, my young friend,” he said. “I’m going to be busy for the rest of the evening, and I don’t want you or anyone else to disturb me. I have someone coming down from London, and he and I will dine together. You get hold of your Mary Ellen, or Jill, or whatever your cunning little girl’s name is, and spend a bit of time with her. I’ll see you in the morning, and it is possible I may see you later to-night, though not probable. In any case, you have the room next to me if I do want you last thing, haven’t you?” Wilfred agreed to follow the old man’s advice, which was very palatable to him, and left the library, leaving the old man studying the statement he had written out.

At ten minutes past eight Mr. Rushton Tring arrived, and was shown immediately into the library, where he was greeted cordially by Mr. Benson. Mr. Tring was a tall man. He stood over six feet, three inches in his socks, and he wore very apparent socks—deep red with brown rings. He had a remarkable head, long and pointed. His forehead was high, but narrow; and his eyes, which were never still, were guarded by a pair of large gold-rimmed spectacles. His mouth was so thin that it rarely could be seen. There was just an indication of a sort of crease instead of a definite lip line. Mr. Tring’s nose was long and sharp—an inquisitive nose—but the whole effect of his features was good-humored. His eyes danced about, and though you could not see it, you felt that there was a perpetual smile somewhere hidden away on the face of Mr. Rushton Tring, the greatest alienist and psycho-analyst in London.

Dinner was throughly enjoyed by Mr. Tring. He complimented Mr. Benson on the Bordeaux, he complimented him on the pheasants, the port sent him into ecstasies, while he found no words with which to describe the old liqueur brandy. During the meal not a word was spoken of the case in hand. But, afterwards, when he was comfortably seated in the library opposite his host, Mr. Tring listened very carefully to all that Mr. Benson had to say.

Nothing was kept from him; he heard all that Mr. Benson knew, and very carefully read the statement of Dr. Laidlaw. When he had heard everything he asked unexpectedly:

“Have you a photograph of the lady? And another of the doctor?”

“I can get you one of Lady Evenden immediately,” said the lawyer, and left the room. He returned from the drawing-room with a studio-portrait of Lady Evenden, which he handed to the great psychologist.

“H’m!” said the great man, “H’m! Not a note of music! Not a scrap of art—a heart which obviously directs her head! Terribly strong capacity to feel, ruinously strong, and nowhere to divert the energy when customary channels are blocked. H’m! Very dangerous; very dangerous, indeed!”

He continued gazing at the portrait in silence, after making his first remarks; then he said:

“Well, now, we’ll find some excuse for taking our friend Lady Evenden out for a drive to-morrow. We’ll take her to your curious old farm in the marshes, and we’ll see what happens when I confront the two.”

“But, my dear chap,” said Mr. Benson, “she’s very awkward to deal with just now. What if she won’t go?”

“No one is awkward at all,” said Mr. Rushton Tring quietly. “We only imagine each other’s awkwardness. She will come the very minute I ask her.”

CHAPTER XVII.
MR. TRING TRIES IT ON

The morning following the arrival of Mr. Rushton Tring, Mr. Benson sent word to Lady Evenden that he and a colleague wished to see her most particularly, and at once. She agreed immediately, and looked in some surprise as the great psycho-analyst entered in the wake of the lawyer.

Mr. Benson managed the introduction with an easy grace, and Mr. Tring put out his hand, which Lady Evenden took in a rather puzzled, almost reluctant grasp. She could not understand this man with the curiously quiet, humorous, but penetrating eyes.

“You have had a very restless night, Lady Evenden,” observed Mr. Tring, and the lady nodded. “Mr. Benson and I have to drive over the country for a few miles this morning,” went on the specialist. “You had better come with us; the air will do you a power of good.”

“Thank you very much, but I am afraid I must excuse myself,” said Lady Evenden. “I have not been out recently, and I have no desire to go. I think I will try to rest presently. It may be that the sleep denied me in the night may be coaxed this morning with the aid of a draught my medical adviser prepares for me.”

“I am a medical man,” said Mr. Rushton Tring. “May I please see the draught?”

“Well,” said Lady Evenden, after some hesitation, “I really don’t know that it matters, Mr. Tring, does it? I can assure you that I am quite satisfied with it. It does me good.”

“All the same, I think I would like to see it, if you don’t mind.” The words were spoken quietly enough, but Mr. Benson noticed that as the specialist spoke his eyes were fixed upon those of the lady of the Priory, and, though he also noticed a little color of resentment rise in her cheeks, in a moment her eyes seemed to drop before the magnetic eyes fixed so quietly, and yet so keenly, upon her. She raised her eyes again, and seemed upon the point of refusing.

“Please!” Mr. Tring only spoke the one word, but it was sufficient.

“Very well,” said Lady Evenden resignedly, almost dreamily, as she rose to leave the room.

“Please don’t trouble to go for it,” said Mr. Tring. “Send.”

“I can get it quite easily, thank you,” she replied, moving towards the door.

“Please send.” Mr. Tring walked beside her, and, apparently accidentally, placed himself between her and the door. Again the lawyer watched with fascinated eyes the battle of will, and again he saw the specialist triumphant.

“Very well,” she replied again, and slowly walked back to her seat, looking with puzzled eyes on this strange man whom to hear seemed to mean to obey. Mr. Tring rang the bell, and, when a servant appeared, he turned expectantly to Lady Evenden.

“Ask Miss Kilby to give you my sleeping-draught,” said the latter, and the servant withdrew. In silence the three remained in the room until the maid returned with a bottle containing a brown mixture. Mr. Rushton Tring smelt it carefully when he had withdrawn the cork; his eyebrows contracted, and he smelt it again—longer the second time. He threw a quick glance at Lady Evenden; then he looked for a moment at the lawyer.

“I think you had better have something rather different,” he said, and, as she looked in annoyance at him, he met her gaze, smelt again, and said: “Rather stronger.”

“Now, my dear lady,” he continued, corking and pocketing the bottle, “you will go and put on your outdoor things and accompany Mr. Benson and me for a drive in the car. You will not be long. Don’t think about it at all—just go and get ready, will you?” She stared at him for a second, vacantly. “Will you, please?” he repeated, and, though he asked a question, the question was a command. Without a word she arose, looked at Mr. Benson for a second; then, after momentary hesitation, looked again at the specialist and obeyed him. Mr. Rushton Tring never took his eyes off her until the door had closed behind her; then he turned to Mr. Benson.

“This becomes exceedingly interesting,” he observed. “Now there are one or two points I want you to understand—quickly. The first is, I can in no circumstances undertake any responsibility for this kidnaping venture of yours. You must, in the remote chance of any trouble arising, say that I was not informed of that. The second is, you had better allow me to supply you with a specially-trained nurse for Lady Evenden. I will recommend one. Unless I am very seriously mistaken, the stuff that I have in this bottle contains a dangerous amount of heroin. I do not like to voice the suspicions at present very virile in my mind, but I tell you this much now: I am interested—keenly interested.”

Mr. Benson had not time to ask anything further; for, at that moment Lady Evenden appeared, wrapped in a fur coat and carrying a pair of gloves.

“Driver discreet?” whispered Mr. Tring, and the lawyer nodded his assurance.

Within a few minutes they were being driven along the road that led to the marshes by the same young chauffeur, who had shown his intimate knowledge of the dangerous marsh road two nights before.

Lady Evenden remarked that she had only twice before been over the part of the district they were covering, and then upon some expedition to try to see some specimen of the bittern’s nest which had been reported by gamekeepers.

Mr. Rushton Tring immediately manifested interest, and spoke of the various authorities on the habits and life of the rare bird. Soon the marsh was crossed, and they approached Swinerigmire. The car halted at the front door of the farm and was met by Joe Litt, looking very worried and anxious. He drew Mr. Benson to one side immediately he alighted, and it was evident that something was wrong. The old lawyer seemed on the verge of having an apoplectic fit as he expressed his extreme disapproval of something to Joe Litt, who seemed exceedingly crestfallen. Mr. Tring and Lady Evenden remained standing beside the car.

When the lawyer rejoined them, he took Mr. Tring to one side and said:

“This is terrible. The little scoundrel has got away.”

Mr. Tring raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” repeated Mr. Benson, “he’s outwitted us. Listen to what Joe Litt says; he’ll tell you in his own words. Get her ladyship to go back into the car, and come here.”

Mr. Tring said something to Lady Evenden, whereupon she reseated herself in the car as the wondering psychologist accompanied Mr. Benson to where Joe Litt was standing.

“Tell this gentleman all there is to tell,” said the lawyer, and Joe Litt, after casting an appraising glance at Mr. Tring, said:

“Well, sir, last night I had two of my lads watching him, and they had a mug of beer each and some bread and cheese by way of supper, but both were fast asleep when I looked round before turning in—and the little man had gone! They had not drunk all their beer, so I thought maybe he had poisoned them. Later on they came to, but they both had very bad heads, and I kept the beer just as it was, in case they had been poisoned, because they are the last lads in the world to leave good beer.”

“Let me have a look at the beer,” said Mr. Tring, and Joe led the way into the farm kitchen. He took from the cupboard two half-full mugs of beer. Mr. Tring looked at one of them, smelt it, looked at Mr. Benson, and smiled.

“Give me an empty bottle, will you, please?” he asked Joe, and immediately the man left to get one. While he was away, Mr. Tring said to the lawyer:

“Doped, my dear chap! The little man is evidently a master hand at poisoning, in various degrees.” Mr. Benson looked extremely worried—too greatly worried, indeed, to be vexed—and after a pause said, quite mildly:

“Then I suppose, after all, I have failed.”

“I wouldn’t say that yet,” said Mr. Tring. “I wouldn’t say that yet. We might get some very valuable information from the lady, yet. All the same, I am extremely sorry that the little chap has eluded you.”

Joe Litt came back with an empty bottle, and Mr. Tring emptied the contents of one of the mugs into it.

“We will see what the analysis of this brings forth,” he said.

“Have you made any search for the little scoundrel?” asked Mr. Benson.

“Four of the men are out now, searching the marsh,” replied Joe Litt.

“You will let me know immediately if you hear anything,” the lawyer instructed him, and, having got Joe’s assurance, he and Mr. Tring rejoined Lady Evenden in the car. Mr. Benson during the ride home was unusually silent; for indeed, he was exceedingly disappointed, and looked it. Very greatly had he built upon the result of the visit of Mr. Rushton Tring, and now it seemed as if all was useless. The doctor had won.

On Mr. Tring’s features, however, disappointment was the last thing indicated. He chatted with Lady Evenden of all sorts of topics, and by the time they reached the Priory, she had got quite to like the strange man whom she could scarcely understand, and yet who seemed to have such a curious power over her.

When the car arrived at the Priory, Lady Evenden went straight to her room, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Rushton Tring to the library.

“I want to make one or two experiments,” announced the specialist. “Can you arrange for me to be undisturbed in a bath room for about two hours?”

Mr. Benson agreed, and immediately Mr. Tring adjourned to a large bath room on the first floor of the house. He took with him a hand-bag, and shut the door securely.

Long before the two hours had expired he presented himself to Mr. Benson in the library.

“It is as I thought,” he said. “Lady Evenden has been taking terrific quantities of heroin. Probably she has been gradually accustomed to the doses, which have steadily increased. The amount that she is capable of taking now, however, is dangerous in the extreme, and frightfully demoralizing. As far as the beer is concerned, the cunning little doctor must have managed to secrete a substantial dose of an opium product in his watchers’ drink, with the result that they would certainly go off for a couple of hours and awaken with bad heads. The doctor has gone—you can reconcile yourself to that, my friend. Now, the thing that remains is for us to see what we can do with our charming hostess, Lady Evenden.”

“The whole thing is terrible, terrible,” said Mr. Benson. “I can’t express how disappointed I am. I don’t know what to do.”

“You can’t help it,” said Mr. Tring philosophically. “You certainly were not in the least to blame. Indeed, I think you are much to be congratulated on the steps you have taken. You have shown wisdom and discretion in all your movements in this extraordinary business. I am not sure but that, so long as we take measures to see that the doctor does not reach Lady Evenden, we will get more out of her in his absence than we would have done in his presence.”

“When do you intend to see her?” asked the lawyer.

“In the next hour or so,” replied Mr. Tring.

The lawyer and the psychologist lunched together, and then, without advising her of their coming, they went to Lady Evenden’s apartments. She admitted them at once, and Mr. Tring lost no time in coming to the object of his visit.

“Lady Evenden,” he said, “in your own interest, and in the interest of your son, I have come down to straighten one or two matters out. Now, I am sorry for occasioning you the distress that reference to unpleasant subjects must cause you; but again I assure you that I am here, and asking these questions, in your own, and your son’s, interest. Now tell me, Lady Evenden, who killed your stepson?”

The effect of the question was pitiful to witness. Lady Evenden’s eyes dilated; she clutched the arms of her chair with her hands, and trembled as with an ague. Fully a minute passed before she replied:

“You—you—ask me—who killed Jack? How can I tell you? Not my son—not my son.”

“I know that,” said Mr. Tring. “Come now, Lady Evenden, I am a friend, and will remain a friend, but I must know. Tell me now, who killed your stepson?”

Lady Evenden looked as if she were about to faint.

“I don’t know,” she said, between great gasping breaths. “I cannot tell.”

“You were there.” The voice of Mr. Tring was definite—accusative even, Mr. Benson thought.

“Yes—I was there,” came the reply, slowly, deliberately.

“Dr. Laidlaw was there also.” Mr. Tring bent his head forward, and the old lawyer thought the amount of force he managed to concentrate into his gaze amounted to positive cruelty; nevertheless, he did not interfere.

There was a pause, then Lady Evenden replied: “Yes, Dr. Laidlaw was there, also.” Her eyes were fixed upon the eyes of her remorseless questioner. She seemed to have forgotten the very presence of Mr. Benson. Her eyes never left the psychologist’s face.

“What did you see?”

She blanched, then looked more earnestly than ever into Mr. Tring’s eyes. She seemed to make a gigantic effort to look away, but failed, and looked back again.

“I saw him—dead,” she replied in husky tones and seemed in imminent danger of fainting. Indeed, so distressed did she appear that Mr. Benson moved forward to assist, but Rushton Tring waved him impatiently back.

“Who did it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, wearily but apparently truthfully.

“Why did Dr. Laidlaw do it?” Tring asked the question with great precision, weighing carefully every word, and giving expression to every syllable.

“I don’t know,” she replied absently, dreamily.

“Did he do it?” The question was asked more sharply, but the reply came in the same dreamy accents:

“I don’t know.”

“You do know,” Tring looked coercive power incarnate as he pressed his head forward. Her eyes opened wider still; she gasped, as if for air. Mr. Benson held his breath. A full minute elapsed:

“No. I—no, I don’t know.” Then she fainted.

“My God! This is awful!” exclaimed Mr. Benson running forward. “Shall——”

“Be quiet, man.” Mr. Tring held up an authoritative hand, and his eyes glowed with determined purpose. “Leave this to me; she will be all right in a moment. Remember, we must get the truth—we are on the verge of getting it.”

In silence they sat and watched. Mr. Benson was on the point of interfering several times, but always he was waved back by the specialist. At last Lady Evenden opened her eyes.

“Now tell me,” said Mr. Tring. “Why do you say Laidlaw murdered him?” She looked dazed for several moments, then answered:

“He did not murder him.”

“You and he were there,” Mr. Tring declared.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why did you murder him?” The question was unexpected, and Mr. Benson nearly collapsed. But the effect upon Lady Evenden was not nearly so startling as the previous ones had been.

“I did not murder him,” she said.

“Tell me all you know! Tell me all you know! You must tell me all you know!” Strength, determination, and inexpressible power were charged in the words of Mr. Rushton Tring as he made his final command. She met his gaze, hesitated, then said slowly:

“He said I do not know, and I do not know. I do not want to know. I do not know.”

Again there was a complete silence for several minutes. Mr. Tring kept his eyes fixed upon Lady Evenden, while she looked vacantly and dreamily back at him.

“Well, now.” Mr. Tring completely changed his tone. He sounded quite cheerful—almost frivolous—as he arose. “My dear Lady Evenden, you really must take a little rest. You will go to bed now and sleep for three hours. For three hours.” As he repeated the words “three hours” he resumed his seriousness of voice and expression, but immediately lost it again as he went on. “Then you will wake up a new person—completely refreshed. I will see you later. In the meanwhile, good-day, Lady Evenden.” She bade him good-day, and, accompanied by Mr. Benson, who also paid his compliments to the lady, he left the room.

When they got into the corridor, Mr. Benson, unable to control his curiosity any longer, said:

“Well? What do you think. What, in heaven’s name, is the truth of this terrible business?”

“Well,” replied the specialist quietly, “the whole position remains in doubt and open to speculation. Only one or two things can be stated with assurance. One is that Dr. Laidlaw has an absolute control of her. She does not know who murdered her stepson for the simple reason that Laidlaw has superimposed his will upon hers, and has ordered her not to know. The truth is that probably she does know; but, we will have to keep her separated from Laidlaw for some considerable time to wear down the effect of his control.”

Mr. Tring coughed, then continued:

“Again, another thing that is clear is that she needs Laidlaw. He has supplied her with drugs that require increasing quantities to be of any use. She is beginning to feel the need of more already. If we manage to keep her separated from him for the next few days, we may be able to get from her all we need. I shall probably be able to take the place of Laidlaw in her scheme of things, in a day or so.”

They walked on to the library.

“The whole thing is very troublesome—very terrible,” said Mr. Benson. “I wonder whether——”

He was interrupted by the butler.

“Mr. Joe Litt to see you, sir, and another little man that he has got fastened to a piece of rope.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
JOE LITT’S ENTERPRISE

Mr. Benson glanced across at Mr. Rushton Tring and said at once:

“Bring him in.” A moment later the butler announced with comic disapproval:

“Mr. Joseph Litt—and a person,” and Joe Litt entered the room accompanied by a strange mud-covered figure. Mr. Benson had thought at once, when he heard of a person accompanying Joe, that it could be only one person—Laidlaw. It was not, however, but a stiffly-built man stouter than Laidlaw, but about Laidlaw’s height.

“Who have we got here, Joe?” asked the lawyer, the while he gazed at the stranger.

“Well, sir, after you went, I made a search of the marshes, because even in daylight it is easy for a stranger to come to grief or get himself tangled up in a maze if he doesn’t know the marsh, and I thought it was just possible that I might find the little man somewhere. I looked all round, and I sent the others in opposite directions, but I had no success. I finished my search at Eggleham, on this side of the marsh, and I went into the Four-in-Hand for a glass of beer. When I came out I walked down the village on my way home, when suddenly I saw a motor car stop at the post office and a man get out. As he got out, although I was on the opposite side of the road, I thought I saw the funny little man’s face leaning forward speaking to him. Then I was sure, because he yelled out to his friend, who was just entering the post office:

“ ‘Say about three hours—not longer.’

“I rushed across the road, but even as I rushed, the little fellow saw me.

“ ‘On!’ he shrieked. ‘Quick! Get on!’ And the man that was driving set off with a jerk and I was flung into the road, for I had one foot on the step. I just caught the back number of the car before it disappeared, and it was RU 5667. Then I turned to look for the man that had gone into the post-office. When he heard the car starting he rushed out again and began to run up the road after it. I chased him—and here he is.”

“Wonderful,” said Mr. Rushton Tring, his eyes on the little man.

“I think you deserve a medal for this, Joe,” said Mr. Benson; then he turned to the stranger.

“What’s your name, my man? Who are you?”

“What’s your authority for pinching me?” countered the stranger. “You can’t pinch people for nothing in England, you know. It’s a free country.”

His little piggy eyes flashed wickedly, and he made his point about the irregularity of his detention in an indignant manner, through which, nevertheless, could be traced a certain uneasiness. He wanted to know really why he was being detained—he hoped, or seemed to hope, that bluff might see him through as he drew himself up to his full height of five feet two inches. Then, he threw his shoulders back and stared with scowling mien at the lawyer. His right sleeve was pulled back as he tried to slacken the rope which Joe Litt had round it, revealing an elaborate tattoo design.

“I’m not quite sure that it is a free country,” said the lawyer, with a little grimace. “Anyhow, since you want—and very reasonably want—some excuse for your detention, I will set your mind at rest. I am a lawyer, and I am also a Justice of the Peace for the county. I am prepared to sign a warrant for your detention now.”

“On what charge?” asked the man, the truculence leaving him.

“On the charge of conspiring with Dr. Laidlaw to murder the late Sir John Evenden,” said Mr. Benson. The man’s face blanched.

“Murder—conspiring to murder? S’help me, I don’t know anything about a murder, and I never heard of Sir John Evenden. I’ve done no murder, guv-nor, straight I ’aven’t.” The stranger’s agitation was very genuine, as also was his denial of association with the murder.

“Well,” said Benson, “if you are innocent of association with that murder, I can assure you that the man in whose company you were to-day is not. In this country there is such a thing as an offense called ‘wilfully seeking to defeat the ends of justice.’ In the case of a murder charge, that becomes very important—very serious. Now, if you wish to clear yourself, give us the doctor’s address.”

“Course I will,” said the man at once.

“What is it?” asked Mr. Benson.

“No. 246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man.

“What were you doing down here at all? How did you come to pick up Dr. Laidlaw to-day?” Mr. Benson asked, looking up from writing down the address.

“I was going along the road in a car, and I saw the doctor. I had expected to meet him yesterday, and I looked round and round the countryside for him, thinking that he might have meant another lane to meet in. When I got no message I just continued to look for him, in case he was taken ill on one of his walks. I saw him coming across a bog—and he shouted. I stopped the car and I took him in. Then he asked me to telephone for him at a post office, and I got out to do it. The next thing was—I heard the car set off, and ran out to see what had happened, and this great long fellow hit me and sent me into the mud.” He looked maliciously at Joe Litt, who grinned. “But I’ll have the law on him for it. Look here, you say you’re a J.P. I give this man in charge for assault.” He pointed dramatically to Joe, who grinned more broadly than ever.

Mr. Benson bowed gravely.

“We’ll consider that presently,” he said. “In the meantime, what is your business with Dr. Laidlaw?”

“Just what you’ve said—my business,” replied the man at once.

“You refuse to state that?” Mr. Benson’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes—I do. It’s my business.” Defiance was written in the set of the stubborn jaw and in the light gleaming through the shifty little eyes.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us where you live?” The suave voice of Mr. Rushton Tring spoke the words. The little man turned to him.

“No, why should I?” he replied.

“Oh, I think you should—I think you will. What is your address? What is your address?” Mr. Tring never raised his voice, but even to his hearers to whom the questions were not addressed it was apparent that there was more than a repeated question. There seemed to be an indefinable, compelling power in Mr. Tring’s tones—suave, quiet, even gentle, but there was danger in the suavity. Mr. Benson was reminded of the gentle, gliding movements of a panther through jungle undergrowth which preceded a deadly spring. Evidently the little man felt it. He moved a step, rallied all the resisting power he could into an attempt at defiance, and said:

“I am not going to tell you my address.” Even as he spoke Mr. Tring took a step forward.

“Oh, yes, you will,” he said. “Not now, but later you will; you will tell us later.”

“I will tell—no, I won’t. I won’t.” The man almost shouted the last “I won’t.” “I know what this is,” he cried. “This is a bit of third degree business. It isn’t legal here. I’ve had it all right in New York and ’Frisco; but you can’t do it here. You won’t mesmerize me, nor hypnotize me, nor nothin’ like that. It took ’em three days knocking me about and starving me before I fell under their ‘suggestion’ bloke. I’ll give you a run.”

Mr. Benson stared at him in blank surprise; he thought the little man had taken leave of his senses. Mr. Tring nodded gravely.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I should have judged that your resistance would be probably something like three days—even longer. But, my dear fellow, why should you fear to be subjected to any ‘third degree’ treatment here? What have you done to lead you to anticipate it?”

“Well, I’ve been pinched, anyhow,” the man said. “The manner of my pinchin’ is not regular, and the ways you perform may not be regular either. Anyway, I know you are a ‘suggestion’ bloke; you don’t need to tell me anything about it—I know.”

“Why won’t you tell us anything about yourself?” asked Mr. Tring.

“ ’Cos I say nothing until I’m charged with something, and then only in court. I know somethin’ about making statements, I do.” There was sullen defiance on the man’s face and a certain curious apprehension and distrust, almost amounting to fear, as he looked at Mr. Rushton Tring.

“I think we’d better have a talk,” said Mr. Tring to the lawyer, and, with a word to Joe Litt to keep an eye on the prisoner, Mr. Benson led the way to the morning room nearby.

“He’s a particularly tough chap this,” said Mr. Tring. “I should say he’s a sailor, and it would certainly be interesting to know what is his business with Laidlaw. But it is simply impossible to get much from him at present. I suggest that you release him and follow him. Can you get that done efficiently?”

“Dr. Barlow is here, and might do?” said the lawyer questioningly.

“Yes,” agreed Tring. “Get him—the very man. He’s intelligent, and the man has not seen him so far as we know.”

Wilfred was sent for and the situation explained to him. He was exceedingly disappointed at the disappearance of Laidlaw, and welcomed the opportunity of shadowing the stranger. Wilfred decided to go just as he was, without carrying a bag, and went into the drive to be ready to follow the stranger when he appeared from the house.

First of all he had a word with Jill, and told her that he was going to London on business connected with Mr. Benson, and promised to wire from there.

Tring and the lawyer went back to the library, and there they saw the little man glowering more evilly than ever at Joe Litt, while the latter held up a crumpled paper in his hand.

“He tried to burn this,” Joe announced, and immediately Mr. Benson went over, took the paper, and read it. There were only three lines of writing on a piece of thick note paper, written by an obviously uneducated person. Great sprawling characters formed the letters. Mr. Benson thought they were written by a woman.

“Dear Mr. Laidlaw,” read the note, “she is goin on terrible i ave given er another powder which is to much as she is stil unconshus she give me a dot with the poker yesterday.”

With upraised brows Mr. Benson handed the note to Tring, who read it, nodded, and said:

“Let us search him.”

“Turn out his pockets, Joe,” ordered Mr. Benson, and Joe commenced to search the pockets of the captive.

He had just begun to search a side jacket pocket, however, when the man hit out maliciously. Joe dodged, but the blow just grazed his face. Instantly Mr. Rushton Tring sprang forward with a bound, which again reminded Mr. Benson of a panther. He made a couple of quick, flashing movements, far too quick for Mr. Benson to follow. But there followed a shrill scream of anguish from the man.

“Very well, my friend,” said Mr. Tring. “I’ll loosen the grip a bit if it’s too tight for you—but be careful. I could break your arms like sticks if I wanted to.”

Joe Litt and the lawyer then saw that Tring had both the arms of the man behind his back, the elbows pointing downwards and the forearms bent right up behind the shoulder blades. Beads of perspiration stood on the captive’s brow, and he gasped with pain.

Joe completed the search. There were six pounds in money, three stamps, a metal watch, a return ticket from Norwich to Annan, a tin of tobacco, and a pipe—nothing that bore a name, and nothing to indicate where the man lived, or whence he came, except the ticket, which evidently had been purchased three days previously in the border town.

“Let us make sure there is nothing more,” said Tring, as, with a deft movement, he opened the man’s waistcoat. Joe Litt completed a very careful search, but nothing more was found.

“Well, my man, in view of the fact that you have given us the doctor’s address, we are going to release you upon your giving us your address,” said Mr. Benson. “You will have to appear to give evidence at a trial presently. What is your address?”

“Same as the doctor,” said the man, with surprised relief.

“What is it though?” pressed Mr. Benson.

“I told you—246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man, after a moment’s hesitation. Mr. Benson glanced at Mr. Tring significantly, and the other nodded.

“Very well—you may go,” said the lawyer, holding open the door, after ringing for the butler.

“See him out,” he said, and the man went with a quick step in the wake of Evans.

“False address, of course,” said Tring. “By Jove! I hope to goodness that Barlow manages to follow him.”

“It would appear that there is a reference in the note to a woman being drugged,” said Mr. Benson; “evidently a lunatic, or something of the sort. At least I read that from the account of her having given some one ‘a dot with the poker.’ ”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Tring smiled. “On the other hand, she may be some one that he is detaining. In any case, I should very much like to know where the letter came from and why it was necessary to send it, personally, by hand. There is something very suspicious about the whole thing, Mr. Benson. You note the caution of the illiterate writer of the note. She neither puts the address on the paper nor does she sign it. Furthermore, if you will look at it again, you will notice that this is a piece of very good paper, and that the heading has been torn off. The man gives a London address—obviously false; he can hardly remember the number he gave the first time when asked to repeat it in half an hour, and is in possession of a return ticket to Annan. Do you know Annan, at all?”

“No,” replied Mr. Benson. “Except that I think I have been through it, on my way to Glasgow. It is a border town.”

“Exactly,” said the psychologist. “I happen to know the country round there, rather well. I have shot over the moors there for some years. It is a town on the Solway—a pretty little town—but the surrounding country adjoining the Solway Firth is bleak and lonely. The Solway itself stretches at low tide over miles, and miles, of black mud; there are houses there as isolated as your curiously named old farm which we visited in the marshes this morning.”

“You think that’s where the little man will make for?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, I do,” replied the other, “but we’ll see what Barlow does.”

Meanwhile Wilfred saw his man leave the front door and walk down the drive towards him. He turned suspiciously, once or twice, then continued his way along the drive, to the lodge gates. Arrived there, he looked round again, hesitated, looked both ways along the road, then took the right and went along the main road, at a smart pace. Wilfred followed at a discreet distance. A cart was going slowly along the road, and Wilfred saw the man ask the driver a question.

Evidently he obtained the information he sought, for he nodded and kept straight on—evidently making for the station. Wilfred let the cart remain between him and the man, and followed just behind it for a mile. He saw the man gradually increasing the distance between them, so he decided to abandon the shelter of the cart, and he walked on in front of it, looking for suitable places in which to hide should the man turn round.

The hedgerow was high and thorny, but Wilfred kept close in, and presently, when the man turned quickly round, Wilfred threw himself backwards into the hedge and remained there for a second, in great discomfort. The man apparently was satisfied that he was not followed; for, he turned again and kept on in the direction of the station, which at last he reached.

A train was signaled, and a small crowd of people were gathered on the platform.

“Where is this train going?” asked Wilfred, and the clerk told him it was going to Dereham. Wilfred took a ticket and walked out upon the platform. The train arrived, and the man entered a third-class smoker. Wilfred got into the next compartment. At the first stop, Wilfred looked carefully out of the window, but the stranger did not alight. At every station subsequently, Wilfred looked out, but still the man remained. At last Dereham was reached, and the man got out, gave up his ticket, and left the station. Wilfred followed.

His man walked down the main street and approached a garage, where for some time he seemed to be arguing with the proprietor. At last an old touring car was brought out, and a young lad put an overcoat and cap over his brown overalls and took the driving seat. The man entered and sat beside him, and the car set off.

“Got another car—quick?” asked Wilfred, running up to the proprietor.

“No,” said the proprietor; “that’s the only one we have that you see just going there.”

“Have you a motor-bike? Quick, man. This is serious.” The man looked at him suspiciously.

“I always want a deposit——” he began.

“Look here, lend me a motor-bike at once—quick,” he said, “I must follow that car—this is a matter of justice. What deposit do you want?”

“Twenty pounds,” said the man. Wilfred produced it, and immediately the proprietor turned to a machine behind him.

“There you are,” he said. “My own. A Rudge five, and full of juice.” He stared wonderingly at Wilfred as he mounted the machine and tore off in pursuit of the car.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE EVE OF THE TRIAL

Wilfred took every ounce out of the motor-cycle. When he was once clear of the narrow streets of the town, he soon came to a division of roads. Without slackening speed, he decided to take the road to the right. It seemed a road more used; otherwise he had nothing whatever to guide him.

Two miles were quickly traversed, and then he thought he saw the grey car ahead. He tried to increase the speed of his motor-cycle, but it was doing its full capacity. And, in any case, he narrowly avoided collision with a farmer’s trap which turned unexpectedly out of a blind side-road. At last came a fairly steep gradient, and he now saw that he was definitely gaining on the grey car. He was not quite sure what to do. Should he follow at a distance and risk the car slipping away unexpectedly? Or, should he risk following closely, with the consequent risk of detection? He decided to follow at a distance.

Village after village was passed, and still the car in front maintained a general westerly direction. At last, outside a village public-house, it stopped, and its occupants went inside. The car remained on the broad approach. Wilfred waited at the entry to the village, half-hidden by an enormous tree whose trunk jutted out into the road. A quarter of an hour went by, and then the little man came out of the inn; and, taking a swift glance up and down the road, he entered the car and drove off. Wilfred was astounded. The hired chauffeur had been left behind in the inn. Was this accidental? Or, had the little man come to an arrangement with him? Wilfred felt that the answer probably would be that the chauffeur was deliberately left behind by the strange passenger.

Nevertheless, Wilfred did not stay there to investigate. Instead, he immediately set off after the car. The village was soon left behind, and the road broadened out. In front, in the distance, was the grey car. The light was just beginning to fail; visibility was restricted to a comparatively short distance; the horizon was merely a blur. Wilfred sincerely hoped that he would be able to keep in sight of the grey car without approaching closer, and especially without having to light up, thus betraying his presence. Mile after mile was covered, and still the grey car maintained its way. At last it took a turn and shot along a side road indicated by a dilapidated guide-post as leading to several remote hamlets. Wilfred followed. The surface was rough. But that, he decided, would make it worse going for the car, than for him. The road wound in curve after curve, between high hedges, until it entered a wood. Scared pheasants ran across the road before the unwonted sight and sound. The road took a sudden curve now; then another almost in the form of a swan’s neck. And there, round the second curve, blocking the way, was the grey car. Wilfred had no time to stop. He tried to pass it on the side, and just drew level when something happened—he felt a push, there was a rattling, grinding sound, a crash, then—nothing more.

When he woke up, he found himself half in, and half under, a quickset hedge. Near him on the road was the motor-cycle. He felt bruised and stiff, and there was a terrible pain in his head and left leg. He tried to move the left leg. It was very stiff. But, there were no bones broken. He felt his head, and found it covered with dry mud, and there were traces of blood, but he could not feel any open wound. Meanwhile, the darkness had completely fallen. With trembling hand, Wilfred struck a match and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past seven. That meant he must have lain there for over two hours. He looked for the motor-cycle, and found it lying near him, in the road. He tried to light the lamp, and at last succeeded; then he made a careful examination of the machine. The handle-bars were bent. But, he soon straightened them out again, set the machine up on its stand, and tried the engine, which, after a little while, began to run.

Wilfred felt shaken and almost light-headed, but he determined to mount the machine and get to where he could reach a telephone. He tried, and the machine began to run, but the bumping was terrible. He dismounted, and a glance at the back tire soon revealed the trouble. There was a long knife-gash in the tire and tube. The position now was hopeless so far as the cycle was concerned, and Wilfred looked around to see if there were any indications of houses. There was none. He was in the midst of a wood.

He left the motor-cycle where it was, at the roadside, and laboriously walked along the narrow road by the way he had come. Emerging from the wood, he saw across the fields the twinkling of a light, and he determined to reach it. He sought for a while for a side road leading to it; but, finding none, he entered a field by a gate and set off across it. He came at last to a lonely farmhouse, and made himself known to the surprised inhabitants. He said he had had an accident, and the hospitable people at once took him in and said they would send a lad with a cart to collect the motor-cycle.

Wilfred thanked them, and told them it would require at least two men to handle the cycle; so, it was decided that, when the cattle were bedded down for the night, another man would go, as well. Wilfred examined himself thoroughly, and was delighted to find that no serious cuts had resulted. He was scratched badly and suffered a little from shock; but, he was already recovering.

When the motor-cycle came, he was able to effect the repairs necessary, in the large back kitchen of the farm. He took the address of the farm, and he was surprised to find it thirty miles from Dereham. He decided to go back to the Priory, direct, by a road which he traced on the local map lent him by the farmer.

So, after making his farewells to his hospitable friends in need, Wilfred, set off. It was nearly ten o’clock when he returned to the Priory, and he found Mr. Benson and Mr. Rushton Tring foregathering in the library.

They listened to Wilfred’s story with sympathy and interest.

“That shows the little man has Laidlaw hidden somewhere, locally. Probably his headquarters are local,” said Mr. Benson.

“No,” said Mr. Tring. “It only shows that the little chap whom we had the pleasure of talking to in this room realized that he was being followed, and was ingenious enough to shake the shadower off. Mind you, it also shows that there is reason for great secrecy on the part of Dr. Laidlaw and his confederates. When a comparatively uneducated man like the little fellow with the tattooed arms will demonstrate such ingenuity as he has done to-day, you can be certain that there is something pretty big to hide.”

“What are we going to do now?” asked Mr. Benson. “You realize that the trial begins on Tuesday?”

“A great deal will depend upon the condition of our hostess,” replied Mr. Tring. “At present I cannot do much——”

“No, no.” The old lawyer shivered. “We don’t want the poor thing tortured any more.”

“It will not be a question of torture,” Mr. Tring returned quietly, “I very nearly—much more nearly than you think—obtained all we wanted; but, as I said at the time, it is the influence, the dominating influence, of Laidlaw that at present blocks the way. If we can make absolutely certain that she does not see Laidlaw before Tuesday, I think we can consider that we will win.”

“By Tuesday?” asked Mr. Benson. “Running it a bit close, you know.”

“We shall see,” replied the psychologist. “We shall see. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. I rise early, and like early hours.” He bade good-night to Mr. Benson and Wilfred; then he left the library. The lawyer continued to talk to Wilfred for over an hour; and then they, too, went to bed.

The night passed without interruption or disturbance. Joe Litt and a trusted mate, by Mr. Benson’s instructions, had sat up all night in the tiny vestry of the secret crypt, in case Laidlaw, after all, should return to see Lady Evenden. But, in the morning they had nothing to report, when Mr. Benson interviewed them after breakfast. They had left the hiding-place soon after daybreak, and the night had gone by, they said, without a single interruption of the silence of the secret place.

Mr. Tring spent the day in taking long walks in the surrounding country. Mr. Benson attended to his everlasting papers and his telephonic. And, in the afternoon, he drove over to Norwich, where he remained some time in his offices. He arranged to see Frank Gough the following day in his cell, and he reflected, as he drove home, that that would be his last visit to Frank, until the trial. Would it be necessary for him to visit Frank after the trial? If so, in what sort of cell? Mr. Benson, shuddering, wrapped his fur coat more tightly round him, while his face assumed a very determined, hard expression.

Wilfred spent a little time with Jill. They lunched together and talked over the coming trial. Wilfred explained to her that he had not gone to London, after all, but that he had had to take a ride into the country on a motor-cycle. The cuts on his face, he explained, were the result of a slight accident. Jill was not quite satisfied. She felt that he was hiding something from her. But, she refrained from pressing him for more details.

She told him that, several times during the night, Lady Evenden had got up to go to the window of her room and gaze across the park, as though looking for something; that she had continued staring for quite five minutes upon each occasion; but that evidently she had found nothing she had sought, for soon thereafter she had retired to bed again. Wilfred arranged with Jill that if Lady Evenden should repeat those watches on the following, or on any other, night, and if in consequence of what she might see in the park, she should leave her room, then Jill surely was to follow her. But, first of all in order to warn him of what was happening, she must go along to his room and tap on the door.

Wilfred determined to inform the lawyer of this matter. In his own mind he felt certain that Lady Evenden was awaiting a signal from Dr. Laidlaw.

The lawyer was most interested, even excited, and at once put himself in touch with Mr. Rushton Tring; and, the psychologist also held himself in readiness for a signal.

Again, however, the night passed without their being called on; though, in the morning, Jill said that Lady Evenden had again at the same times looked across the park.

The week-end dragged slowly by; to Mr. Benson the days were becoming intolerable. The ordeal of Tuesday, without more knowledge than he had at the moment, was almost unthinkable. On Monday he sought Lady Evenden, alone. He found her distressed and nervous, full of fears and forebodings of the coming trial of her son that was to open on the following day. But, though he begged pathetically for her to arm him at that late hour with all the information at her disposal, she steadfastly refused.

Mr. Tring kept very much alone. When the old lawyer suggested to him that he should interview Lady Evenden, and again try to obtain the secret from her, he refused gently.

“Wait,” he said. “We must wait. At present, regrettable as it is, we can do nothing. Her mental condition is such at the moment that her brain would actually break down before she could be forced to speak. Something may happen to-morrow to give us our opportunity.”

“What may happen to-morrow I fear to contemplate,” replied the old lawyer. “Never have I entered a case of greater and more terrible importance; and, never have I entered a case with such a dangerously incomplete defence.”

Later that day a telephone message announced the arrival of Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., at a Norwich hotel, and Mr. Benson invited him over to dinner. There the distinguished barrister met Wilfred, Mr. Rushton Tring; and, for three minutes, he was received by Lady Evenden, in her boudoir.

“You will obtain the lease of my unfortunate son?” the lady begged pathetically.

Sir Courtney gave her a few cheering words. Though he, himself, remained quite bright and optimistic about the prospects on the morrow, while in the presence of Lady Evenden, Wilfred noticed that a dark frown sat upon the great advocate’s brows all through the dinner.

Very little conversation took place during the meal; and, when it was over, Mr. Benson took Sir Courtney to the library, where for the first time they fully discussed the coming case.

Sir Courtney opened a bag and took from it all the papers relating to the case.

“You know, Mr. Benson,” he said, “there is one feature of this case that is puzzling, unique. That is that during the whole period of the police court proceedings, and since then, the defense has remained practically where it was when it started.

“I am not blaming you or anyone else for that. I know you have employed the best detectives, and yet we have no real alternative lines to suggest in reply to the prosecution challenge. We rely—and it seems to me we must rely entirely—on the poison business as being inconsistent with the footman’s story of a quarrel—a quarrel which the prosecution say ended in a murder. I must confess——”

“Just put those papers to one side and listen to me.” Mr. Benson had been carefully considering how far to take Sir Courtney into his confidence all the day; now, he made his decision.

When he interrupted the K.C. “The story I have to tell is rather long,” he said. “We had better have a drink.”

The K.C. wonderingly acquiesced, and Mr. Benson poured out whisky and soda.

“You say that we’ve been standing still,” he laughed grimly. “I tell you we’ve been moving so fast that I, for one, am quite giddy with movement. The trouble is that we’ve been moving under the ground—literally, as a matter of fact, and unfortunately our movements are not such as to be possibly interpreted into the sort of thing you require to-morrow. Now listen to me, and I’ll make that sparse hair of yours, stand on end.”

The great K.C. smiled a little at the old man’s quaintness of expression, but he knew that no offense was intended; and, indeed, he knew that as far as that was concerned Mr. Benson in Norfolk was a bigger figure than Sir Courtney Caldecott in the Law Courts. He sat and listened carefully to the old man’s tale. As the strange narrative proceeded, his cigar went out; but he never noticed it. His eyes opened wide with astonishment. Sometimes he looked at the old lawyer as if he feared the old man was talking from a disordered brain. But the light in Mr. Benson’s eyes—strong, compelling, and clear—and his lucidity of his manner, discounted that theory, at once.

When at last the whole story was told, the K.C. sat back in his chair and stared at Mr. Benson in silence. Mr. Benson stared back. The K.C. moved at last, looked at his cigar, and lit it.

Mr. Benson noticed that his hand trembled as he held the match.

“Well,” asked Sir Courtney Caldecott, “what are we going to do?”

CHAPTER XX.
GREAT ARGUMENT ABOUT IT

“Well, one thing is clear,” said Mr. Benson, “and that is—that it is simply impossible to table this in court.”

He spoke decisively, and the K.C., watching the determined face of the wonderful old man opposite him, there and then abandoned an idea to spring the whole story on a startled court. One of the characteristics of Sir Courtney Caldecott was a capacity to realize facts, accept them, and take them into consideration in his plans. He never relied on good fortune, to help him here, or luck, there. He made his own good fortune, he was in the habit of boasting; and luck he despised.

Now he saw that it would be impossible to use directly the amazing story which he had just heard; nevertheless, he determined to find out if it were the whole story.

“There is one important omission you have made in relating the most amazing story I have ever heard,” he said, “and that is the name of the actual murderer—or murderess.”

“I do not know,” said Mr. Benson. “All my information I have passed on to you, without reserving even a detail.”

“I suppose you have formed theories—you have your suspicions?” The K.C. looked into the eyes of the old lawyer. And, as he asked his question, he thought what a difficult subject Mr. Benson would be to cross-examine. But it did not appear that Mr. Benson was hiding anything.

He raised his eyebrows, knocked the ash off his cigar, and replied quite frankly.

“Certainly I have theories and suspicions strong enough to act upon if these were no ulterior considerations. I am quite convinced that the Dr. Laidlaw, I spoke of, is the murderer. All the evidence points to that.”

“What about the strange woman that none of you seems to know anything about?” asked the K.C.

“That I can tell you no more about than I have,” replied the lawyer. “Indeed, if it had not been that our young friend, Dr. Wilfred Barlow, says he saw her, together with his fiancee, I should have doubted that part of Laidlaw’s confession.”

“Forgive me if I speak perfectly frankly, without consideration of anybody’s feelings.” The K.C. frowned, paused a second, then proceeded. “What hold do you think Laidlaw has over Lady Evenden?”

“Oh, I think it is simply what the psychologist, Mr. Rushton Tring, says—the effect of a strong mind over a weak one. I am inclined to think that Laidlaw’s story in relation to that is substantially true. I think he treated her after the death of her first husband; and, by his methods, and those of his Viennese colleague, undoubtedly effected a cure. That, I am given to understand, would cause her to respond to his suggestions—in short, her will would be enslaved by his. It is a curious theory, but I am instructed by Mr. Rushton Tring, a man whose probity I cannot doubt.”

Mr. Benson looked across at the K.C., who nodded agreement. Then he continued. “I am assured by Tring that, strange as it is, those facts are true. She requires, actually requires, in her present mental condition, the services of Laidlaw, until they can be gradually replaced by some other, and more creditable, master of his craft, or science, or whatever you like to call it.”

“If you say that Tring backs that theory, then I am inclined to agree, at any rate, to its possibility. But, look here, Mr. Benson, here is the crux.”

The K.C. leaned forward, and his face wrinkled into lines which strangely contorted it. “As I see it, my friend, this is the crux. Laidlaw has told his story. That is checked by the story my client had heard from his brother John, who in turn had heard it from his messmate. All this is true, and entitles Laidlaw to a certain amount of credence. But what shall we say of our unfortunate and bereaved client; I refer to Lady Evenden? Don’t you see she has absolutely refused to disclose a thing. Even the Loch Lomond story, she will not tell fully to you, and she absolutely refuses to say what happened that night. Laidlaw, give him his due, does make some sort of a statement. That about another man being there I frankly disbelieve off hand, for the simple reason that Laidlaw says he was knocked unconscious; and yet, the watchers downstairs in that crypt place did not so much as see him.”

“Do you infer that——”

“I infer nothing,” quickly interrupted Sir Courtney Caldecott. “Please, please, my dear Mr. Benson, do take this in an impersonal sense. I would be the last person to——”

“I do hate people interrupting me,” said Mr. Benson testily. “When you interrupted me, I was about to ask if you inferred that the possibility existed that Lady Evenden was the murderess? Do let me finish.” The K.C. had held up a deprecating hand, although he watched Mr. Benson with keen interest. “I personally have toyed with the idea as a possibility, but I am convinced the theory does not rest on any substantial fact. I know the trouble constituted by the obstinate silence of Dr. Barlow and his sweetheart, who certainly know something that would help us. I know the trouble occasioned by Lady Evenden’s own silence; but then, I account for that by her subjection to Laidlaw’s will. Obviously, he wants to make her believe all sorts of things with a view to blackmail. He may have made her believe that she killed her first husband.”

“I suppose you see the possibility of her having committed this crime under the influence and control of Laidlaw?” The K.C. spoke dispassionately, but his eyes were burning.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Benson. “I have even considered that, and there I am confronted by a complete absence of motive.”

“What about the will?” Sir Courtney Caldecott asked, lighting a fresh cigar.

“Oh, the will provides very satisfactorily for Lady Evenden,” replied the lawyer. “It is true that it was the intention of the late Sir Michael to make a more substantial provision for Frank, which was frustrated by his unexpectedly sudden death. But then, my dear chap, I had talked to John, and John was one of the most open-hearted and generous fellows in the world. There was no reason to doubt that he would have acted as his father would have expected him.”

“What about the remainder?” the K.C. inquired.

“Ah, that is rather involved,” said Mr. Benson. “We arranged some years ago that, in the event of the late Sir Michael out-living John—the war was on, you must remember—Lady Evenden and her heirs would succeed. Sir Michael had a great political pull, and letters patent were issued.”

“You see where this is leading us, don’t you?” asked Sir Courtney Caldecott. “According to this, if Sir Michael out-lived John, then Lady Evenden, and subsequently Frank, as the male heir, inherit. Very well, then, supposing Laidlaw had this control over Lady Evenden. Would there not be more funds for him if he got John out of the way? Had not John already manifested his detestation of the little doctor, and ordered him off the premises?”

“You are acting upon the assumption that Laidlaw knew all this?” the lawyer asked.

“Certainly,” replied Sir Courtney.

“I don’t think he could,” said Mr. Benson slowly. “I don’t believe that Lady Evenden herself knew exactly how she stood as far as money was concerned. I think she knew of the special remainder in her favor; but, she also thought that in any case she would be very well provided for, and that Frank would be, also. The temporary will, which unfortunately is the last will, and must be sent forward for probate, was only to meet the emergency of the baronet’s possible ruin, which seemed imminent some months ago. That all straightened itself out; and unfortunately the making of a new will was neglected.”

“Nevertheless,” argued the K.C., “she might have known, and in any case Laidlaw knew that John stood between him and control.”

“Two things remain still to be accounted for before, in my view, the theory that Lady Evenden murdered her stepson can be said to hold water,” said Mr. Benson decisively. “One is, supposing she had been acting under Laidlaw’s control, why should she not have murdered Frank, as well? He certainly would have been as great a thorn in the side of the doctor, as Jack.

“Then the other, and in my view the conclusive, argument is this: if Laidlaw wanted Jack out of the way, why the devil didn’t he murder him, himself? He was clever, he had a wonderful poison—I am proceeding on the theory now that he supplied that curious poison found in poor John’s brain. Why should he bother about having her do it for him? He could have done it quite simply; he had the run of the secret passages. There is always danger of a woman talking. And, no one would know better than Laidlaw that the control he exercised over Lady Evenden would relax with his absence, and might be substituted by some other, as, in fact, we are trying to do now, with Mr. Rushton Tring.”

“Sense,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott; “good, sound common sense, I quite agree, up to a point. But, my dear chap, logic does not necessarily govern the mind of a murderer. After all, murder is a terrible thing—even the most cold-blooded would hesitate to murder. It might be, it might possibly be, that he thought there would be difficulty in establishing the fact, in evidence, of his control over the unhappy woman, and that a buffer would stand between him and the consequences of his murder.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Benson. “Laidlaw is so diabolically cold-blooded that I predict that, if he is ever cremated, his coffin will come out of the furnace hanging with icicles. That man would stop at nothing, and as for intrusting his work, or his secrets, to a woman—pshaw! Dismiss it from your mind, my good chap!”

“I say,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott, “would it be possible for us to see the secret passages to-night?”

“Of course,” replied Mr. Benson. “I’ve still got Joe Litt and his friend sitting downstairs in the little crypt vestry, in case our friend turns up unexpectedly. Shall we go down now?”

The K.C. signified his consent, and the two men went to their rooms to get overcoats. Mr. Benson led his distinguished friend along the route which had lately become so familiar to him, along the front of the Priory, through the secret entry, and into the crypt. He was just lighting a candle when a stick struck the wall, close by his head.

“Hey, what the devil’s this?” shouted the indignant old man, while Sir Courtney Caldecott positively jumped in apprehension. The match revealed a determined-looking yokel about to wield the stick again, while behind him was Joe Litt, an old fowling-piece in his hand. Instantly, Joe apologized and began to upbraid his assistant, but the old lawyer would not have it. He chuckled at the incident, and blamed himself for not having a prearranged signal in case of his coming. The eminent K.C. examined the crypt, with interest. He was shown the ruined altar and the ancient candlesticks, the chest of vestments and several very wonderful old missals, all dating from pre-Reformation days.

Then, accompanied by Joe Litt, they went up the staircase into the Prior’s Room. Very carefully did Sir Courtney Caldecott examine every inch of that much-examined chamber, but nothing new was found. Joe Litt stood by the wardrobe which gave entry to the secret staircase to the crypt, while Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney talked, in the middle of the room. The curtains were closely drawn over the windows. No one from outside could possibly tell that the place was lit.

Sir Courtney and Mr. Benson concluded their inspection, and the lawyer, having put the light out, was following the K.C., who in turn was following closely in the wake of Joe Litt, when there was a sudden explosion. A shot was fired which, in the confined passage, sounded like the discharge of a cannon.

Sir Courtney was so shocked that his feet flew from under him, and he slipped down, on the narrow stairs, in a most undignified manner. As he slipped, he inadvertently kicked the feet of Joe Litt from under him so that that worthy came down also, and, with him, their only candle.

Mr. Benson rushed on, and fell over the two, in front. It was nearly a minute before they picked themselves up and proceeded, as quickly as they could, to the crypt, where a strange sight met their eyes. The secret door at the end, through which the lawyer and Sir Courtney had come earlier that evening, was wide open, and the night breeze was blowing in. A candle was guttering on the floor; and, beside it, at full length, lay the yokel, who had been left to guard the crypt.

Quickly, the three men went over and examined him. His forehead was bleeding, and the gun was lying beside him.

Joe Litt lighted the other candle, and Mr. Benson stooped over the stricken man, while Sir Courtney Caldecott knelt by his other side. It was apparent that the man was not suffering from a gunshot wound. His forehead had been bruised, and partly cut, by some jagged thing.

They gave him some water, and presently he opened his eyes.

“Shot ’im, I did,” he declared, and went off into unconsciousness again. Mr. Benson examined the gun. It was double-barrelled, and one barrel had been fired.

“Laidlaw’s been,” announced Mr. Benson, “and Bill Harris here has shot him. Stay where you are, Joe. Come on, Sir Courtney.”

Mr. Benson was off, like a schoolboy. He ran up the secret staircase and stood on the lawn looking about him when the K.C., panting heavily, joined him.

“Can’t see him anywhere, can you?” asked the old man, and the K.C. looked excitedly around. There was not a sound. Presently a form moved towards them, and both men looked towards it. The man continued to approach, while Mr. Benson fingered the gun which he still held. On closer approach, however, it proved to be the form of Wilfred Barlow, who had heard the shot and thought, at first, it was fired by a poacher. To him it sounded far away; but, he had decided to come out when he had found the library windows open.

In a few words, Mr. Benson made him conversant with the situation. They looked about, but there was no sign of Laidlaw; and, after a few minutes of fruitless searching, the three went downstairs and rejoined Joe Litt. Wilfred minutely examined the wounded man and bandaged his head carefully, with a linen handkerchief.

Soon he was able to tell them what had happened. It appeared that some time after Mr. Benson, accompanied by the K.C. and Joe Litt, had gone upstairs into the Prior’s Room, Bill Harris had heard a sound, as if some one were seeking entrance to the crypt, from the lawn. After his experience earlier in the evening, when he had nearly hit Mr. Benson, he determined to be more careful; so, before he moved, he waited until the intruder had come right to the door and had struck a light. It was then, gun in hand, that he had rushed across the crypt. By the light of the candle, which the intruder had placed upon the floor, Bill could see the features of Dr. Laidlaw, while he thought he glimpsed another figure behind him.

The doctor had beaten a hasty retreat; and, as he fled up the staircase, Bill pulled the trigger of his gun. He said he knew that he had hit him, because the doctor had given a yelp of pain. Then some one had hit Bill with something hard, and that was all he remembered.

Mr. Benson was forced to curse his own stupidity in leaving only one man downstairs, if even for merely a few minutes. However, nothing could be done now. Bill was made quite comfortable with cushions, since he refused to go to bed, and insisted on finishing his watch out, with Joe.

Wilfred accompanied Mr. Benson and the K.C. to the library, where they spent a further hour, talking over the weird happenings of the night.

“Bless my soul!” declared the old lawyer a little later, starting up, “do you fellows realize it’s one o’clock? We have a lot to do to-morrow.”

“It’s to-day, my dear chap, it’s to-day,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott gravely. “This is the opening day of the trial.”

CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRIAL

Tuesday morning dawned grey and cold for Frank Gough. Long before the light began to shine, through the uncurtained windows of the prison infirmary ward, he was awake. Often during the night had he seen the night warder, in charge, make his round of the half-dozen beds, to see that the patients were all right, stepping with silent steps, and looking, Frank thought, like a sinister figure from Dante’s inferno, ceaselessly watching that no victims escaped.

Frank, as is costumary in the case of men awaiting trial for murder, had been kept in the hospital, where he could be under constant observation, thus enabling the prison authorities to achieve the dual purpose of making certain that he did not attempt his life, and at the same time to enable the medical officer to give the court a perfect report of his state of mind.

At six-thirty, the day officer came on duty.

“Come on, the hospital wallahs!” he admonished them. “Show a leg, and let me take down what you want for breakfast.”

The rest of the prisoners laughed, except Frank. The officer was of the old brigade of prison officers and a good sort. His humor was crude and sometimes cruel; but, no sting was intended.

Having made his round, and got his men up, he came to Frank’s bed.

“Well, ole man,” he asked, “ ’Ow d’ye feel?”

“All right, thanks,” replied Frank with a slight smile.

“Don’t you worry?” said the warder. “You’ve got every chance of a walkover; I’ve got a bet of two bob that you’ll beat the hangman to a frazzle.”

The reference to the executioner made Frank wince. But, as he looked at the honest face of the old warder before him, he had to smile.

Breakfast was served. Frank drank a cup of tea and ate a small piece of bread. But, though he was offered bacon, he could not touch it. He bathed before he dressed, for there was a fairly well-appointed bathroom opening off the ward; and, though the majority of the patients fought shy of it, they had to endure its ritual, once a week.

Frank was given clean towels and allowed to have a bath every morning; he appreciated that kindness on the part of his warder.

At eight o’clock, he was taken along the corridor to the main reception hall of the prison; and there, standing in a row, were a dozen curiously-mixed types ready to proceed to Norwich, to take their trial at the assizes. Frank was known to them all, and as he joined the group they stared open-eyed at the star prisoner—the man “for the rope,” as one of them put it. While they stood there, the Governor of the prison approached, asked each man his name, his offense, and checked it by the record. Then each man was given his money, his property, and all with which he came into the prison.

Next came the doctor, a stethoscope hanging about his neck.

“Open your shirts!” shouted a warder, and all the party opened their shirt fronts.

Frank began to undo his tie.

“Not you!” said the medical officer, who had already examined Frank in the hospital.

For a second the doctor listened to each man’s heart; then, with a curt nod, he walked off. The men were fit for trial. Two warders approached now, with a handful of what looked like heavy steel bangles, hinged in the center. These were fitted on the wrists of the prisoners, and a chain was run through a loop in each bracelet, the end being locked with a key by the principal warder.

Frank was not attached to this train, but was now moved off to the gate of the prison. There a prison van and a motor car were waiting for the journey to the railway station. Frank was placed in the car, two warders with him, while another sat in the front, by the driver.

He was to travel by road at his own expense. The “body ticket” was handed to the keeper of the doors, and the journey to the assizes was begun.

A warder opposite him took out a flask and a cigarette case. “Have a pull at that—it’ll keep the cold out,” he said, handing the flask to Frank, who gratefully accepted the hospitality.

Meanwhile, in the old cathedral town, excitement was running high, and, long before the doors of the Assize court opened, a queue was formed for admittance. By the time the court opened there was barely standing-room.

Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., accompanied by a small army of juniors and clerks, occupied the defending counsel’s seats, while for the Crown, Mr. Assidell, K.C., and Mr. Graff Edwards, with their instructing solicitors, took their seats, opposite.

At half-past ten a fanfare of trumpets announced the approach of the judges, in state. Outside the court could be heard the hoofs of horses as the four horses in the state-coach dexterously were wheeled round, to bring the doors of the carriage opposite the judge’s entrance.

The crowd in the court rose respectfully, and stood silent, as the judges, accompanied by the high sheriff and other county dignitaries, entered. The senior judge, Mr. Justice Titterton, made a curt bow and sat down. By his side was Mr. Justice Hemingway. The commission was duly read and the grand jury charged; then Mr. Justice Hemingway left to take actions in the Civil Court, while Mr. Justice Titterton remained to preside over the Crown Court.

For an hour, Mr. Benson was in suspense as to whether or not the grand jury would find a true bill in Frank’s case, although Mr. Justice Titterton’s direction had seemed to him to incline in the direction of affirming the necessity for a trial. The grand jury presented the court with a true bill, and the clerk of arraigns swore a jury.

Mr. Justice Titterton watched the young man whose entry into the dock had caused such a sensation in court. His whimsical, humorous eyes blinked at him, behind his spectacles, as Frank pleaded “not guilty” in response to the charge.

Mr. Benson had met the judge on many occasions, and liked him. Indeed, in the confused state of the defense, it was the one thing that he had to congratulate himself on, that Mr. Justice Titterton would hear the action. The judge was not only scrupulously fair; but, he was, also, an exceptionally human type of man.

Mr. Benson carefully scanned the jury. He knew three of its members, the remainder were strangers to him. But his survey was interrupted. Mr. Assidell was on his feet.

The learned K.C. for the prosecution sketched the facts of the murder so far as they were known. He made great play with the fact, as testified by the footman, Thomason, of the quarrel between the stepbrothers, and the fact that Frank’s story of a reconciliation was unbacked by anyone.

The poison that was found in the dead man’s brain, he suggested, well might have been put there by the murderer, in an endeavor to drag a red herring across the trail. But, in any case, he maintained, the prosecution were not called on to say who put the poison there. They were called on to say who caused the death of the late Sir John Evenden.

Doctors would be called who would state that the blow itself was sufficient to cause death. He asked the jury to believe that a quarrel ensued between the two brothers—a very serious quarrel—a quarrel, he would show them, of vital interest to one of them—the man now standing in the dock.

This quarrel was not a fantastic story of the prosecution’s imagination, but emanated from the prisoner at the bar, himself.

The great man spoke eloquently for an hour; then, he sat down and called his witnesses.

The first man to be called was the valet, Roberto, and he repeated his evidence of finding the body of Sir John dead on the floor of the Prior’s Room. He was carefully examined by Mr. Assidell as to the position in which the body was lying. He agreed that it looked as though some one had knocked down the baronet, who had rolled over on the floor.

Sir Courtney Caldecott cross-examined. He checked every statement; then he asked unexpectedly:

“Are you the only valet in the Priory?”

The man replied affirmatively.

“Then why didn’t you go to valet Mr. Frank Gough?”

“I did,” replied Roberto, “I offered my services night and morning.”

“Why didn’t you valet him on the night before you found the dead body of Sir John Evenden?”

“I did, sir,” replied the valet.

“What time?”

“I just forget, sir. I think it was before dinner.” Roberto put his hand to his head, in his effort to remember.

“Come on, man,” said Sir Courtney. “Get your wits working. You only had two men to valet, and it would be the last occasion on which you valeted Mr. Frank; for, he was arrested the next day. Come along, now.”

“Oh, I remember,” said the valet. “I went to his room, but he was engaged. I was just going to open the door, but there were people talking. I heard Mr. Jack’s voice and I heard Mr. Frank’s. Then, when I went the next time, he had gone to bed. I looked in the room, but he was asleep.”

The whole court listened quite apathetically to this statement, but the actors in the drama were tense with excitement. Mr. Justice Titterton gave a quick look of surprise at the valet, took a pencil, and made a note in his book. He pursed his lips as he looked at Sir Courtney and Mr. Assidell. The latter also stared at the valet, and immediately made a note.

“Bravo!” said Mr. Benson in what was supposed to be a whisper to the silk-gowned leader in front of him. Sir Courtney grinned very faintly as he whispered “Sh-sh” under his breath.

“What were they talking about, Roberto?” asked Sir Courtney in honeyed tones.

“I don’t know,” replied the valet. “I never listen to conversations.”

“Quite right,” said the K.C. “You never listen to conversations. It was a conversation, then? An ordinary one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A friendly conversation?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir. I heard them wishing each other a health—giving a toast, sir.”

“Now then,” said Sir Courtney. “I only want you to tell us one thing more, Roberto. What time was this?”

“I can’t remember, sir. It would be pretty late—perhaps ten o’clock. I know it was very late when I went the second time, but, as I said, Mr. Frank was in bed, sir,” said the valet.

“I want you to fix the time a bit better than that,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott. “Now, try to test your memory, Roberto. Think, now. It couldn’t have been early, you say. It couldn’t, for instance, have been before ten——”

“My lord, this is perfectly intolerable,” said Mr. Assidell, K.C. “My learned friend is asking leading question after leading question. I simply must protest.”

“But surely not necessarily so vehemently, Mr. Assidell,” said the judge with his blandest smile. “Sir Courtney has not put leading question after leading question. He has put one, his last one. He put it in such a sly way, if I may use the term, that it had slipped out before I saw it coming. He repeated with perfect truth what the valet had said—that it was not early. His words were—I’ve got them down here—‘It would be pretty late—perhaps ten o’clock,’ and Sir Courtney——”

“I most humbly beg your lordship’s pardon,” said Sir Courtney. “I thought the valet had said, ‘It would be pretty late—after ten o’clock.’ Otherwise I should not have dreamt of putting my question in the form I did.”

“All right,” said the judge with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll accept that. I only hope this ear trouble is not likely to lead you into any more similar errors.”

“I’ll put my question in another form,” said Sir Courtney. “Now, Roberto. You have said that you think it was about ten o’clock. You mean that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roberto.

“Now be very, very careful about this. Might it have been later?” Sir Courtney’s face all wrinkled up again in his characteristic manner. The valet thought for a moment, then replied:

“I think it was about then, sir. I cannot remember the exact time.”

“Was it before ten?”

“I don’t know, sir. I think it was about ten, sir,” said the valet, now thoroughly distressed. Sir Courtney determined to get this point before he sat down.

“Is there nothing that will remind you. What time did you usually go to valet Mr. Frank at night? Not early, surely?”

“No, sir. It was because I did not see him downstairs in the library that I thought he had gone to bed, and then I went to the room where I heard him talking to Mr. Jack.”

“Then it would be at a reasonable time for going to bed?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roberto.

“Very well—late, about ten o’clock. That’s the nearest you can get, eh?” asked Sir Courtney in conclusion.

“Yes, sir,” said the valet, and Sir Courtney sat down.

Instantly the Crown leader was on his feet.

“How is it,” he asked, “that we have never heard of this visit of yours to Mr. Frank’s room until this morning?”

“Because I was never asked,” said Roberto, wonderingly.

“You were examined at the police court, and you were asked to say all you knew to the police. Why did you not tell them that?” Mr. Assidell bullied in his most terrifying manner. Roberto trembled, and his hand shook as he held the side of the witness-box.

“I never was asked,” he repeated. “I never knew it had anything to do with the murder.”

“You deliberately suppressed this evidence until now, and then you suddenly give the court a most valuable piece of information at the last minute. Are you sure that you are telling the truth?”

Roberto looked on the point of collapse.

“I am very sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know it had anything to do with the case. They only asked me about finding the body, and if he was well the last time I saw him, and I told them the truth.”

“When did you tell the police you last saw Sir John. I mean, when they asked you when you had seen him last—what did you reply?”

“I forget, sir, but I told the truth,” said Roberto. “I think I said that I had seen him the previous evening.”

“Had you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time?”

“About dinner time, sir.”

“Now you say that you heard him later than that?”

Roberto could merely repeat the statement he had made. He said he had not attached importance to his visit to Frank’s room, and all the storming and bullying of Mr. Assidell could not shake him. In the end Mr. Justice Titterton put an end to his sufferings.

“You have no right to impute dishonesty of motive to this man, Mr. Assidell,” he said coldly. “He performed a routine duty to which he attached no importance. That may be stupidity on his part; it may be stupidity on the part of the police in not extracting the information. It may be stupidity on the part of the defense for not getting it before—if they did not get it before” (this with a sly look in the direction of Sir Courtney and Mr. Benson). “But at present, at any rate, it is not necessarily dishonesty on the part of the valet.”

Turning to the valet, his lordship said:

“You may step down.”

“Call Thomason, the footman!” said Mr. Assidell.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE VERDICT

The loutish footman, Thomason, then entered the witness box. Led by Mr. Assidell, K.C., he repeated his evidence of the quarrel he had heard between the two stepbrothers. At first he was very nervous about mentioning this matter again, for he had suffered much from the butler and the other servants because of his first statements to the police about the quarrel—the statements upon which Frank Gough had been arrested.

The most important part of his evidence, according to Mr. Assidell, as manifested in his questioning, was the time of the quarrel. Here Thomason was shaken. Whereas, before, he had said the time was nine o’clock or thereabouts, now he said it might have been ten o’clock, or even later. On the other hand, it might have been before nine. The Crown prosecutor, satisfied, apparently, to have shaken the witness’s testimony on the question of time, sat down, and Sir Courtney rose.

By dint of skilful questioning he succeeded in establishing the fact that the butler would certainly know the limit of the time possible for Thomason to have heard the quarrel, because part of the plate which he had brought back from the small pantry adjoining the Prior’s Room had to be wrapped in green baize and handed over to the butler to lock away.

Thomason departed, and was succeeded by other servants, and then the doctors gave their evidence. The great Government analyst, Sir Werner Scatterhyde, testified to examining the organs of the dead baronet, and referred to the poison he had found in the brain. He admitted that the blow which the dead man had received was sufficient to cause death, but he confessed that, for his part, he was inclined to the belief that death was caused by the poison.

“Would it have been possible for the poison to have been injected after death?” asked Mr. Assidell, and the specialist replied, after momentary hesitation, that it might, but such a thing in his view was improbable. Sir Courtney Caldecott made a note of the momentary hesitation.

“In conclusion,” said Mr. Assidell, “you fully agree that the injuries to the head were in themselves sufficient to have caused death?”

“Well, yes,” replied the specialist. “They are really more likely to have induced violent concussion, with perhaps ultimate death, but they might have caused death.”

“Sir Werner Scatterhyde,” began Sir Courtney, “Let me ask you this. When the deadly poison, of whose fell properties you have so interestingly told us, was introduced into the brain, how long would life be possible after that?”

“Twenty seconds,” said the specialist.

“Quite so—twenty seconds,” repeated Sir Courtney with a glance at the jury. “Now tell us, Sir Werner—we have heard a lot about the injection of this poison being performed after death—would it have been long after death?”

“No, certainly not,” replied the analyst. “No later than at the very moment of death. It had received certain circulation which would cease after death.”

“Then it must have been before death?” asked Sir Courtney.

“Well, it would have been possible at the very moment of death. I mean that, if the person who struck the blow immediately injected the poison, that would account for the exact position.”

“What about the blow taking place after death?” Sir Courtney asked.

“Well, yes,” said the specialist. “That is certainly possible. But, again by the look of the head at the time, I judged that the blow was simultaneous with death.”

“Then you think the two processes were simultaneous? That very little time, if any, separated the blow from the injection of the poison?” asked the K.C., and the specialist replied that that was so.

Other doctors were examined, and all testified to the adequacy of the blow to cause death. Then the defense opened with a brilliant speech by Sir Courtney Caldecott. He pointed out the extreme weakness of the prosecution’s case, and outlined his answer—if the jury thought it necessary for him to answer. There was a stir in the jury box, which the judge quickly saw and quelled before any member of the jury could express an opinion.

“I certainly think there is a case to answer, Sir Courtney,” he said. Sir Courtney gracefully accepted the ruling, and immediately called:

“Mr. Frank Gough.”

Frank was led by warders round to the witness box. Wilfred Barlow, sitting in the well of the court, felt a great pity for Frank as he saw him stand there to face his ordeal. He remembered his hatred of Frank because of the persecution of Jill. But, he felt now that he wished he had not thought quite so hardly of him.

With perfect simplicity Frank told his story of the quarrel and the reconciliation. He was definite, very sure of the order in which the two things took place. They could not have been reversed, he said, because from the very moment he entered his brother’s room there was an awkwardness of manner about Jack, who was suffering under the painful exposure of Lady Evenden’s past, coupled with the visit that day of Laidlaw, who had been admitted to his mother.

There was nothing pleasant about the first interview. There was nothing unpleasant about the second. In the second, the clouds of mistrust and irritation had all been blown away, leaving a clear sky. Jack had come to make friends, and he had welcomed his stepbrother. The reconciliation was very real and complete.

Under cross-examination, Frank unconsciously created a great impression, when Mr. Assidell was pressing him as to enmity between the brothers, by replying with simple dignity and in convincing sincerity.

“But I loved my brother,” he said, and even the judge gave one of his almost imperceptible nods. Frank bore his cross-examination well. He only showed a little impatience when he was pressed into the whole story of his mother’s ordeal at the death of her first husband.

Sir Courtney Caldecott was afraid Frank was going to do irretrievable harm by losing his temper, and he decided to intervene.

“I must protest, respectfully, my lord, against this subject being discussed. It is absolutely irrelevant.”

“I am not quite sure,” replied Mr. Justice Titterton. “If it is said that this story was the cause of a quarrel which led to Sir John’s death, then it becomes very germane and relevant, and I shall certainly rule it so.”

“But, with great respect, it is not so,” replied Sir Courtney. “There was an interview of a most cordial nature afterwards——”

“Yes, quite so,” replied the judge. “But, it remains for you to prove that. The prosecution say that a certain story was told which caused a quarrel which, in turn, caused a man’s death. They must prove that. But, they are entitled to demonstrate the potency of the story which caused the quarrel.”

Sir Courtney subsided. He knew perfectly well that his objection was hopeless, and had merely intervened to give Frank a breathing space. Mr. Assidell, K.C., pegged away at the story of the tragedy at Loch Lomond, and Frank gave the answers as well as he could. He had been too young at the time even to remember his father. His mother had not told him anything about it. Dr. Laidlaw he did not know from Adam, and John and he had agreed jointly to go to their mother on the day following their interview and assure her of their joint moral support, in every way.

This also created a good impression.

“Are you going to call Lady Evenden?” asked the judge.

“Well, if your lordship thought it necessary,” began Sir Courtney, “we would consult her physicians. She is most anxious to give evidence.”

He whispered a word to Mr. Benson. “With your lordship’s permission I will call Dr. Barlow,” he said. Wilfred started in surprise. Was Mr. Benson up to some unexpected trick to force his hand?

When he entered the box, however, and was sworn, Sir Courtney examined him as to the state of Lady Evenden’s health. He looked at Mr. Benson, who was gazing at him with eyes full of meaning, and suddenly he grasped the situation and played up to what was expected.

“Lady Evenden is suffering from extreme nervous prostration,” he declared, “and is in my opinion quite unfit to appear in this court.”

“Have you had a second opinion on that?” asked Sir Courtney.

“Yes,” replied Wilfred. “Mr. Rushton Tring, the mental specialist of Harley Street, is at present in residence at the Priory, and absolutely forbids her ladyship to undergo any strain.”

The judge bowed his acknowledgements, and Sir Courtney went on.

“I wish to interpose this at this stage,” he said. “My learned friend has thought fit to expatiate upon the tragic circumstances in which Lady Evenden lost her first husband. I objected to that matter at the time, but your lordship saw fit to overrule me. I consider that I am entitled in the interest of a bereaved lady whose fair name has been wantonly attacked by my learned friend——” Mr. Assidell, purple of face, was on his feet in a second, complaining volubly against this perverted interpretation on the part of his colleague. Sir Courtney insisted upon continuing, but the judge held up his hand.

“I gathered you thought you were entitled to something, Sir Courtney?” he asked mildly, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“With your lordship’s gracious permission,” said Sir Courtney, “I consider I am entitled to place on record the fact that the death of the first husband of Lady Evenden was duly inquired into at the time by a Scottish Court of Inquiry, the competent court. Medical men also gave evidence. Lady Evenden was exonerated from the slightest suspicion of any culpability, whatever. The unfortunate man died whilst a raving lunatic. It was impossible for his wife to remain in the same room with him. In these remote country districts scandal soon spreads, and frequently arises out of nothing. In this case I presume it was because Lady Evenden, very properly loathing the associations of the place, never went back.”

“I was going to take it upon myself, Sir Courtney, to say pretty much what you have said. I quite endorse your words,” said the judge.

“May I say that I also am profoundly conscious of the truth of what my learned friend says,” said Mr. Assidell, K.C. “Never for a moment did I desire to attack the character or reputation of Lady Evenden—merely to establish, in the course of my duty, the cause of the quarrel.”

The storm over, the trial proceeded. Counsel made their speeches and the day ended with all finished, except the judge’s summing up. That night Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney were in hopeful vein. Lady Evenden was greatly excited. She seemed several times to be on the verge of saying something of importance, when she met Mr. Tring and Mr. Benson in the hall, after the trial. Finally she said that, whatever happened, they must call her on the telephone, if at the last moment there was danger of Frank suffering. In that event she would come to the court.

Mr. Benson sincerely hoped the necessity would not arise.

The next day the court was crowded, and its approaches were blocked thicker than ever. The judge began his summing up at once. He had three notebooks full of notes, and he ran through them with wonderful lucidity and system.

The prosecution, he said, had established their theory of a quarrel—established it on the evidence of Thomason, the footman, and the prisoner himself. The defense had established, on the evidence of the valet, that the prisoner was telling the truth when he spoke of a second interview. Undoubtedly there were two interviews. Which was first? The butler’s evidence was important in the degree that it proved that Frank Gough left the dining room to go to the Prior’s Room. That would point to the interview in the Prior’s Room being first. Also the butler said he locked away the silver which was collected from the Prior’s Room by Thomason between half-past nine and ten.

Again, in the earlier part of the brothers’ conversation, there was nothing to drink toasts about and to cause laughter. The valet had heard them pledge each other in a drink. Men rarely do that except on a special occasion—men living together, he meant. That occasion might well be the making up, between two brothers who, on all testimony, had loved each other, of a very serious quarrel, which reflected nothing but honor on both of them. He submitted that there were grave doubts as to whether the quarrel was remotely connected with the death of the late baronet at all. The poison theory remained a complete mystery. He finally told them that where doubt lay, that doubt belonged to the prisoner, and he was certain that in this case they would find certain doubts.

The jury retired, and Mr. Benson gathered up his papers preparatory to telephoning to Lady Evenden. Sir Courtney was rising to go with him. They had chatted where they were for three minutes, when suddenly there was a slight stirring, and the jury were back. The judge was hastily called, and he came in straightening his stole as he walked.

Frank Gough stepped into the dock. The jury did not need to declare their verdict—it was written on their faces.

Nevertheless, when the foreman declared, “Not guilty,” there were resounding cheers in the court.

“It is not necessary, Frank Gough,” said Mr. Justice Titterton, “for me to tell you that you leave this court with your good name unsullied. You are discharged, but in your discharge I want most whole-heartedly to associate myself with the jury’s verdict. I regret extremely that it has been your misfortune to suffer, in the interests of justice, what you must have undergone in the last few weeks.”

The ovation which Frank received outside was overpowering. It was arranged that Sir Courtney Caldecott should accompany Mr. Benson and him back to the Priory. But more than an hour had to elapse before they could steer clear of Norwich.

The meeting between Frank and his mother was pathetic. She wept on his shoulder, and was so overcome that she had to retire at once to her room.

Dinner was served in state in the large dining room. At the table were Sir Courtney Caldecott, Mr. Tring, Mr. Benson, and Frank, who did the honors. After the meal, they went to the library, where the whole case was put before Frank, who listened in bewilderment. When he heard of Wilfred, he said:

“Where is he now?” Mr. Benson replied that he had not seen him since the court rose.

“I should like to see him,” said Frank. “Is Jill still here? I mean Miss Kilby?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Benson, “but first things first, my boy. What are we going to do?”

It was finally decided that the specialist should remain in the house, and do what he could with Lady Evenden to break completely the ascendancy of Dr. Laidlaw. Frank was most emphatic about the necessity for that.

The inquiry into the mystery of John’s death should go forward, and, for the next few days, that Mr. Benson should continue to live at the Priory.

Very late they went to bed, Frank seeming a little dazed by luxury and comfort after the nerve-racking experience in the prison infirmary.

The next morning he rose early, crossed the lawn, and went through the shrubbery for a walk. Returning by the paddock, he saw a figure that quickened his heartbeat. It was Jill, looking sweetly pretty in a tweed coat and skirt. She was bareheaded, and the morning sun caused a bewitching sheen to appear upon her hair.

Frank made for her immediately.

“Jill,” he called. She turned and saw him. The color rose to her cheeks. Instantly she remembered the experiences of old, the persistent pursuit of her, the unscrupulous way in which he had tried to compromise her. And, then suddenly, there flashed upon her the vision of this young, vitally live, fine specimen of manhood, with all his keen desires and great capacity for enjoyment, shut up behind prison bars under the very shadow of the scaffold. The vision stirred what was maternal in her. She felt a desire to protect him. With the color still in her cheeks, but with the look of anger in her eyes changed now to dangerous pity and sympathy, she put out her hand.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said softly.

Frank, where Jill was concerned, was like the Bourbons; he refused to learn anything and he forgot nothing—nor did he want to. He only cared that he loved this girl and wanted her. He took the outstretched hand and, with a quick movement, drew her towards him, putting the other arm around her shoulders and imprinting kiss after kiss upon her violently unwilling lips.

“Don’t, don’t,” she called. “Oh, don’t! I never thought—— Oh, please don’t!” What would have happened it would be difficult to say if there had not been an interruption.

“I wish you two would get into the woods to do your love-making. This sort of performance in the open may be up to date, but to me it is positively revolting.” They both jumped back to see Mr. Benson standing there. Jill glanced at him, and then at Frank; then she fled towards the house, her cheeks flaming with color, a flying incarnation of indignation and outrage. Frank looked crestfallen as Mr. Benson put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come with me, young fellow,” he said. “I’m going to talk to you very seriously.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
A SURPRISE FOR ALL

“Now, my boy,” said Mr. Benson, “this has got to stop. I don’t want you to jump up in the air about it.” Frank had flushed angrily. “There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught, but it is perfectly apparent to me that this is not your particular fish. You have quite enough to do without acting the young squire with reluctant and, indeed, resentful women. Come along, I want to talk to you of matters much more important.”

Without giving the somewhat sullen Frank an opportunity of discussing Jill further, the solicitor took him to the library, where, for over an hour, he discussed affairs of the estate with him.

Whether because of the lawyer’s warning or not, it certainly was true that for several days Frank rarely saw Jill at all. He was kept busy going through matters that required his attention with Mr. Benson; then, three days afterwards, Lady Evenden sprang a surprise on them.

She expressed her desire to get away from the Priory at once, and asked how soon the packing could be done, so that they could move to the Villa des Muguets, Cannes. The Cannes villa was a beautiful little Riviera estate purchased only two years before Sir Michael died.

Mr. Rushton Tring and Mr. Benson both thought it would be an excellent change for Lady Evenden and strongly advised it. The result was that affairs were left in the hands of Mr. Benson, while Frank, Lady Evenden, and Jill, accompanied by a maid, and Roberto, the valet, left for the south of France.

Lady Evenden seemed to take on a new lease of life when she got to the Riviera. For a few days she was comparatively quiet, and remained about the grounds of the villa. And the deep gloom which had been characteristic of her since the death of her husband seemed to be lifting. After the first week she brightened up considerably and went daily for long drives with Jill. Later on, she began to do a little modest entertaining, inviting such visitors to Cannes as were friends of some long standing.

The society of the rich widow of a baronet, who carried her title and estates in her own right, was very assiduously sought by all types of the floating Riviera population, from the poor all-year residents, who tried to keep up in the south a better appearance on depleted funds than they could in England, to the inevitable Riviera adventurers and adventuresses.

Frank’s position during this time was a very curious one. To do him justice he seriously had intended to fight his way forward in the legal profession; but, his recent ordeal at Norwich had given his desires in that direction a temporary setback. He developed a rather morbid disposition. He told himself that there was only one thing in life worth having, and that was Jill Kilby—whom he could not attain.

He had given the old lawyer some sort of promise to leave her alone; and, partly for that reason, and probably because he saw in the caution of her manner in his presence what the result of further advances would be, he let her alone.

To do Frank justice he was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a young rake. The large sums of money which now came his way did not by any means send him to the devil. He went sometimes to the casino and gambled a little. Sometimes he won and sometimes he lost. But it was a mere bagatelle either way, compared with the resources he had—and he never contracted the gambling fever. One day, from a distance, Jill, who was sitting with his mother in the casino, saw a pretty woman of perhaps thirty, and looking more like twenty, make great efforts to engage Frank in conversation. Frank presently saw the woman, looked at her a second, then, slightly raising his hat, he was about to pass on, when she ran up to him and touched him on the arm, laughing into his face as she asked him something.

Frank appeared to hesitate; then, with a slight and rather bored smile, he accompanied her to a waiting car.

“Whatever else he does, he doesn’t exactly ‘chase’ girls,” thought Jill to herself; and, although she rather feared Frank, and certainly had no regard for him herself, she felt that she would like to have boxed the pretty intruder’s ears.

That afternoon Jill was sent into the town to do some errands for Lady Evenden, and when she returned she heard voices in the drawing-room. She was about to enter when Lady Evenden, with rather flushed cheeks, came to the door and said:

“Thank you so much, Jill, I’m engaged just now. Run off and amuse yourself. I’ll see you at dinner.” She closed the door, but not before Jill saw the little figure of Dr. Laidlaw!

That night Jill wrote fully to Wilfred and told him all that had happened that day. And Wilfred in turn saw Mr. Benson. The two, by this time, were firm friends. The old lawyer had been more than true to his half-promise, and had got Wilfred a partnership, with an old friend, in Norwich.

While Mr. Benson was disagreeably surprised to learn of Laidlaw’s new appearance on the scene, he felt he could do nothing. He wrote to Mr. Tring, and advised Wilfred to get Jill to observe every movement and report it.

The weeks lengthened into months, and still the widow remained at Cannes. But, as the weeks went by, the parties at the villa began to differ in quality and quantity. Frank took little or no interest in them. He was amply supplied with funds by his mother, and he never invited people, nor did he indulge in society. He fished and he played golf, and he seemed to enjoy that better than the gay round of the casino life.

However, when his mother particularly desired his appearance, he always came to her dinners and receptions. On one such evening the principal guest was Prince Louis de Zanbetti—an Italian, reputed to be very wealthy—and his beautiful fair-haired princess, Elsa. There were others there, also. But Frank did not like the look of some of them.

There was an American, for instance, called Hortal. There were two Englishmen named Majoribanks and Everfield respectively, and they prefixed their names with Major and Colonel. Not that he cared twopence, but, merely to confirm his suspicions, Frank asked them an apparently innocent question or two about their regiments and Army careers, then, when dinner was over, before he joined them in the smoking room of the villa, he looked them up in the Army List. There were no such entries.

That night a very high game of cards was played, and the prince won over a thousand pounds from Frank. Very rarely did Frank gamble. The game certainly had no fascination for him. But, on this particular occasion, the stakes were so subtly raised, the chances so carefully arranged, as he thought afterwards, that he fell a victim. The next day he paid, determined never to be caught like that again.

Frank brooded a little over his loss, and went to Lady Evenden to inquire where she had met her friends. She said they were friends of a very old friend of hers.

“Who?” Frank persisted.

“Oh, a very old friend,” she replied evasively and with some apparent discomfort. Frank pressed, but could not get any further. Ultimately Lady Evenden became irritable. Neither took any notice of Jill when she entered the room. Jill at first thought she would retire as Frank and his mother were having rather high words; then she decided she would stay in case her mistress required her.

“Well, look here,” said Frank. “I don’t know who the old friend of yours is, but let me tell you that your old friend’s friends are card-sharpers and adventurers! Yes, they are”—as Lady Evenden raised horrified eyebrows in protest. “I lost over a thousand pounds last night, and I tell you frankly I don’t want to see them here again.”

“Do I ever keep you short of money?” she asked. “Surely, Frank, you don’t need to accuse everyone because you have had a little bad luck,” she smiled. “I’ll make you out another check, poor dear, but you really must be more guarded in your remarks about our friends. So unkind, too. My dear, I would make you, as conceited as a peacock if I told you what the beautiful little princess said about you.” Lady Evenden smiled archly.

“Look here, mother,” said Frank, “I don’t know who the devil is responsible for introducing that lot, but they’re not coming here again, that’s all. I don’t want to pain you unduly, but let me tell you this. Neither the Majoribanks man nor the evergreen Everfield, or whatever he calls himself, appear in the Army List at all, while the record—I have taken the trouble to get it—of our prince is bluer than the Mediterranean. He has been shot out of three clubs and shot into two prisons. As for the ‘beautiful little princess,’ perhaps it will surprise you to know that she told me last night that she was my affinity, that she was badly treated by the prince, that it would be nice for us to elope, and finally borrowed a hundred to settle a ‘dress-maker’s bill.’ ”

Lady Evenden listened in horror.

“You cannot mean it!” she said. “Doctor—I mean—— Oh, Frank, leave me please! I am very sorry. I will write you a check.”

“My dear mother, I don’t want, or need, your check,” said Frank. “But I do wish you would give me your confidence. Yet—understand this—if you bring any similar gang round here again, I leave.”

He walked out of the room, and Jill admired him for the first time in her life. That evening Lady Evenden retired early, and Jill did a thing she would never have believed herself capable of doing. She went to his smoking room and deliberately sought Frank. He was sitting staring moodily into the fire, smoking a cigar. He looked up in genuine surprise at Jill’s entry.

“Hello, Jill,” he said. “Wonders will never cease!” He smiled whimsically. She flushed slightly, and immediately began her story. In consequence of what she had heard in the drawing-room, she said she felt sure that Dr. Laidlaw was responsible for the introduction of undesirables to Lady Evenden. Frank listened to her carefully, and, when she had finished, he said, after a moment’s thought:

“Yes, that’s what it is. They were sent here to catch me. The little doctor knows perfectly well he has no chance to get anything out of me directly, and so he has set the indirect trap. I wonder what the hold is which he has got upon my mother.”

They discussed the affair at length, for over an hour, and they agreed to work together. Frank told Jill he would write all the facts to Mr. Benson, and take his advice; then Jill rose to go. Frank accompanied her to the door. As she passed him, he put a hand on her shoulder and was within an ace of putting the other one round her waist.

“Now, stop that,” said Jill sharply, and in some confusion Frank mumbled an apology.

“It’s no good, you know,” said Jill sensibly. “We’re neither of us children, and we might as well talk sensibly. You’re getting heaps better, but I do wish you would try to cut out this love-making business.”

“I shall never cut it out where you are concerned, Jill,” Frank said gravely. “I promise I won’t be a nuisance to you. Really, I mean that, but I do love you, Jill, and I can’t help telling you so.”

“I am very sorry if you really do,” said Jill, “but I can’t quite believe it is as bad as you think. Anyway, I don’t love you, and I certainly love somebody else. Listen”—she laughed a little wickedly. “What about the little girl with whom I saw you drive off from the casino?”

He stood there, trying to remember. When he recalled the incident she had gone.

The long Riviera summer waned into autumn, and another winter approached, and still Lady Evenden remained at Cannes. The anniversary of Sir Michael’s death and the tragedy of John came round, and were marked by a special memorial service in the little English chapel on the hill.

November came, and, though the days were sunny in the middle of the day, the deadly mistral blew down at sunset, taking its usual toll of the invalid population.

Then one day a telegram came. Lady Evenden examined it carefully, read it over and over again, stared at it with unseeing eyes, then fainted. Jill went over to her assistance at once. When she had attended to Lady Evenden, she crumpled up the telegram, and, as soon as opportunity afforded read it:

“The doctor died last night and the woman got away.”

Those were the words which had had such a terrible effect upon Lady Evenden. Jill showed Frank the telegram at once, and he asked his mother what it meant. She said it referred to the death of her friend and advisor, Dr. Laidlaw. She could not understand the reference to the woman, and she declined to discuss the subject further.

A week later a slim lady, young and beautifully dressed in black, called at the villa. She asked to see Lady Evenden. But, as she was resting, the butler suggested that she should see Mr. Frank, and she was shown into the drawing-room where Jill was.

Frank came a moment afterwards.

“Saints and sinners!” he declared. “You here? What are you doing here?”

“I have called to see Lady Evenden,” the girl replied.

“Well, tell me how you are, Brenda?” Frank said, then, turning to Jill, he went on, “This is Miss Brenda Trenchard, Miss Kilby, your predecessor in office.”

“Frank is not quite right in my introduction, Miss Kilby. I am Lady Evenden, and Sir John Evenden is in the car outside with his nurse.” The girl smiled a little sadly. There was nothing triumphant in her astounding declaration—rather a wistfulness, and Jill saw at once that she had suffered.

The effect of her words, however, was tremendous. Jill could not speak for a moment, and Frank also lost his tongue.

“What the devil are you talking about, Brenda?” he asked at last in hoarse tones.

“There is no need to be rude,” the girl said, frowning. “I have suffered rather a lot lately. May I please see—er—Lady Evenden?”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Frank. “But you completely take my breath away. Rouse mother, Jill.”

When Jill had left the room, he asked:

“Do you mean to say that you actually married Jack after all?” She nodded.

“Tell me all about it,” begged Frank. “When did you marry him, Brenda? What’s this about a baby? Where have you been all the time, Brenda? Tell me everything.” Then, with the apparent inconsequence which was a very definite charm in Frank’s character, he said with almost schoolboy eagerness: “Let me see your baby, Brenda, before mother comes down.”

Brenda Trenchard smiled and seemed about to lead the way, when Lady Evenden appeared, accompanied by Jill.

“Brenda, what is this mischievous and absurd story about your having married Jack?” Lady Evenden asked with flashing eyes. Brenda was taken aback; then her face hardened.

“I came here to try to save you a lot of terrible trouble, Lady Evenden,” she said. “But since you adopt this——”

“You came here to make a lot of trouble, you wicked girl,” interrupted Lady Evenden.

“Stop a minute, for heaven’s sake,” said Frank. “I think you must be off your head, mother. Brenda says she is married, or, rather, was married to John. She will have proof of that, and it is positively disgraceful to treat her like this. I won’t tolerate it.”

“She was never married to John,” said Lady Evenden.

“Do you dare stand there and say that?” asked Brenda. “You who saw me standing by the side of my dead husband?”

“Like any common paramour, like——” began Lady Evenden.

“Stop this instant, mother,” thundered Frank. “Where in the name of heaven do you get your evil tongue? How dare you? Tell me at once, tell me, what is this about Brenda standing by the side of—of Jack? What is it?”

“I shall not stay here,” declared Brenda. “I will go to London and take the necessary steps.” She turned, and Frank followed her.

“Please allow me to do something, Brenda,” he begged, but she waved him impatiently to one side.

“Not any of you—not one,” she said bitterly as she entered her car and drove off, after slamming the door. Frank, bitterly aggrieved, re-entered the villa.

“What does this mean?” he asked his mother. But she had gone into hysterics, and had to be put to bed. The next day she would reveal nothing. She seemed absolutely apathetic about the whole affair, but Frank determined to take immediate measures. He sent a long cable to Mr. Benson, and ordered Jill to get the packing done at once. Lady Evenden made no demur, but fell in with all the arrangements. Two days later they were back at the Priory. Mr. Benson came across at once, and held a long discussion with Frank.

The next day letters of claim were received by Mr. Benson, in his capacity of solicitor to the estate, on behalf of Sir John Evenden, a minor, suing through his mother, Lady Evenden, née Trenchard.

Mr. Benson traveled with Frank to London and sought an interview with Brenda. They interviewed her with her solicitors, saw the certificate of marriage, and the testamentary evidence of where she and Jack had lived together for several days before his murder.

Mr. Benson examined the evidence very carefully, and, more carefully still, examined Brenda. Then, to the astonishment of the London lawyers, the old man gave his instant decision.

“Upon the assumption that this evidence is true, I shall not fight.”

“Then I take it you will prepare a statement of affairs?” asked the solicitor acting for Brenda.

“Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Benson, standing upright. No one ever knew what the next words cost him, but he uttered them with a sphinx-like expression. “And then I shall hand over the estate of Evenden Priory to the London firm of Nettlefall & Diamond—isn’t it?”

There was a hard smile on the old man’s face, and, as Frank helped him on with his fur coat and handed him his old-fashioned silk hat, he felt the old man’s arm tremble.

“What does this mean exactly?” asked Brenda. “It doesn’t mean that you will refuse to act for me, does it?”

“My dear lady, you have your own people here, and at their instructions on your behalf I shall certainly have to surrender the estate to their charge.”

“Oh, but I don’t want that,” said Brenda. “I have known you for so long, and I know what Sir Michael thought of you, and what Jack did. I couldn’t bear to think of your handing the estate to strangers.”

“This is all very irregular, you know,” said Mr. Diamond, looking very irritated.

“Of course it is, of course it is,” said Mr. Benson with a chuckle, as he left Brenda looking pathetically after him. Yet, before he left her, the cunning old man had slipped his hotel room number—a tiny disk—into her hand with a significant pressure.

She understood what he meant, and later that evening telephoned Mr. Benson and arranged to come round and see him. She came. And Frank, Mr. Benson, and she remained closeted in a private room for two hours while she told her story. It was an amazing one, and several times Mr. Benson gasped in horror. She told of her accidental meeting with Jack after a lapse of years, of their marriage in secret, of a three days’ honeymoon at her flat, and of his journey down to Evenden Priory to break the news to his parents. Then she spoke of the tragic wire telling her of Sir Michael’s death, and her telegram to Jack to say that she was coming down by a late train. She came, very late—it was after midnight, and Jack met her at the station. She carried only a handbag; and when they got to the Priory it was in darkness, so Jack took her straight to his room, intending to announce her arrival and position the next day.

Jack and she had retired to bed. She had been very tired, was just dozing when she heard a heavy fall. Startled, she had looked up, and saw that Jack had left her side and was lying groaning on the ground. Horrified, she had jumped out of bed and rushed to his aid. He had struck the side of a great brass-bound chest as he fell, and this had injured terribly one side of his head, for, even as she raised his head he had died. Overcome with horror, she rose to call assistance, when suddenly, as if from nowhere, Lady Evenden had appeared, and with her a man she knew later to be Dr. Laidlaw.

Lady Evenden had asked her the reason of her presence, and had not expressed surprise to see Jack lying on the floor. Laidlaw had taken Lady Evenden to one side; and, while the distraught bride sought to do something for her dead groom, Lady Evenden and Laidlaw had made a decision.

Laidlaw came over to her and bade her dress at once. He hinted at a frightful disgrace—that Jack was only in a coma, and that he would put matters right. Half-distraught, she obeyed his order to leave. Outside, in the drive, a car was waiting. She stepped into it, and then she remembered no more than that a soft cloth was put over her face.

When she woke up she was in a large raftered bedroom with a woman in attendance on her. She tried to find out where she was, but never could. Weeks went by, then months, and she was kept a prisoner. Sometimes Laidlaw would come to see her, and sometimes another man—a short man—would be with him. She went sometimes to walk along a lonely moor from which she could see distant patches of the sea, but whenever a stranger appeared in sight, she was taken back.

Locked in her room at night, and with windows shuttered and locked, she had no opportunity to escape. Sometimes she became hysterical, and then the woman would inject something into her arm, which sent her into a trance-like condition from which she would emerge in terrible depression. When she had discovered that she was to become a mother, she sought to live for the sake of the child; and, ultimately, when it was born, a strange woman came to attend her with Dr. Laidlaw. The woman was never allowed alone with her.

Then Laidlaw had come home very ill, and later had died. In the confusion Brenda had made her escape, had gone to a farm on the moor—she had found it was on the Solway Moss, miles away from anywhere—and had made her way to friends in London with her three-months’-old baby.

Frank and Mr. Benson were astounded at the story, which rang true in every detail. And, immediately after Brenda had gone to her rooms, promising to communicate the next day, the lawyer and Frank sought Mr. Rushton Tring, who agreed to accompany them to the Priory.

On their arrival, they found Wilfred and Jill in the hall awaiting them. They said that Lady Evenden had been in a most hysterical condition all the preceding night, but that she was sleeping now.

Mr. Tring decided to postpone his interview until the next day, saying that the sleep would do his patient good. Late that night, Wilfred heard a tapping on his door—the pre-arranged signal from Jill that Lady Evenden was waking. He called Mr. Benson and Mr. Tring; then Mr. Benson called Frank. Silently the party made its way in the wake of Jill, who led them to the Prior’s Room.

As if dazed and acting under some control from outside her own consciousness, Lady Evenden took a pillow from the great bed. The little group standing at the half-open door watched. She took a small pair of scissors and cut the end of the pillow. Presently she drew out a tiny cylindrical object.

“Put that down—at once.” The command came from Mr. Rushton Tring, who sprang forward. But he was too late—with a startled scream Lady Evenden pressed the cylinder to her brow just as the specialist seized her hand. In another second she had collapsed groaning upon the floor. Mr. Benson and Wilfred ran forward, while Frank cried out in his horror.

“You needn’t bother, Dr. Barlow,” said the specialist, “she is quite dead.”

It was indeed so. Lady Evenden’s troubles were over. The servants were not awakened, and silently the party carried the body of the dead lady back to her room; they then foregathered in the library.

“The secret is out now,” declared Mr. Tring. “I have inquired very carefully, since Sir John’s murder, into the properties of this drug. It is little known—a muscarin alkaloid, deadly in the extreme. It is only necessary for the tiniest portion to penetrate the brain, and this cylinder is fitted with a hypodermic needle of curious design and uncommon strength.” He held up the cylinder. “Now, she had obtained from Laidlaw this poison—why, we shall never know. The most probable solution is that, at the time of her husband’s death, she had a brain storm which swept over her. She was terribly unbalanced, you know, never normal, and she was left with the obsession that Laidlaw could not move, or, perhaps for reasons best known to himself, did not try to move. Also that Sir John had told his father a story about the death of her first husband—a story which had given him so great a shock that he had died.

“Her object was revenge. Probably Laidlaw’s object was to get Sir John out of the way so as to enrich Lady Evenden and ultimately himself.”

They decided that no scandal would be necessary; so, the next morning Lady Evenden was found dead in her sleep. And, when the startling news of the little heir was announced, the county was given to understand that Lady Evenden had been abroad in enfeebled health, since the tragedy of the previous year.

Jill, who shortly afterwards married Wilfred, became an inseparable companion of Brenda’s; and Frank, who was provided with a substantial settlement, set off on a world tour.

Mr. Benson remained the “Dictator” of Evenden Priory, as indeed he was of two counties.

A year went by, and the tragic events of the years before were rapidly fading under the mellowing influence of time, and Frank returned. He stayed for a few days at a house party at the Priory. Brenda thought he looked stronger and finer after his tour, and took a great interest in his stories of adventure in foreign lands.

When he went away, and she shook hands with him through the carriage window, Jill, who stood beside her, thought there was a curiously soft light in Brenda’s eyes as she said:

“Au revoir, Frank—don’t be away so long this time.”

“If you’ve got any sense you won’t, my boy,” put in old Mr. Benson, still as young, and still as old, as ever.

Frank had only time to say:

“I’ll see you soon, Brenda.” And then the train moved off.

“Well, I’ve seen queerer things than that happen,” muttered Mr. Benson as he strolled down the platform with Lady Evenden on his right arm, and the wife of his friend, Dr. Barlow, on his left.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Archaic (resistence, throughly) and inconsistent (e.g. handbag/hand bag/hand-bag, prearranged/pre-arranged, etc.) spellings have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

[Chapter I]

Change “How did Sir Michael Everden repair the family fortunes?” to Evenden.

“threatening thunder-clouds obscuring the sun for a few mintues” to minutes.

[Chapter II]

“for many vaulable early histories and theological works” to valuable.

[Chapter V]

(“I don’t know who that man is, but he’s nasty little fellow,”) add a after he’s.

[Chapter VI]

“All this was carefeully taken down by the police inspector” to carefully.

[Chapter VIII]

“Wilfred was inchned to resent the reference to Jill” to inclined.

[Chapter IX]

“coming to him as it did from outside the famly, was a shock to him” to family.

[Chapter X]

“But Br. Benson soon put an end to his expostulations” to Mr.

“Why can’t you do as as you’re told? What have you to say?” delete one as.

“came here tonight with the express purpose and full intention” to to-night.

[Chapter XI]

“your little friend, the companion—hence your knowlege” to knowledge.

[Chapter XII]

“Well, if the pore old gentleman breaks his skull open” to poor.

[Chapter XIII]

“followed by a shufflng of feet, then the rasping sound” to shuffling.

[Chapter XIV]

(“Cursing and theratening and all sorts of things.”) to threatening.

[Chapter XV]

(“Well, what have to say?” Mr. Benson seated himself) add you after have.

(“Do you want me tell you all that?”) add to after me.

[Chapter XVI]

“which he handed to the great pychologist” to psychologist.

[Chapter XVII]

“I have come down to staighten one or two matters out” to straighten.

“Only two or two things can be stated with assurance” to one.

[Chapter XX]

“he determined to find out it if were the whole story” to if it.

(“Laidlaw’s been,” anounced Mr. Benson, “and Bill Harris) to announced.

[Chapter XXII]

“Lady Evenden was exonerated from the slightest suspision” to suspicion.

[End of text]

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Table of Contents

- THE STING
- [COPYRIGHT]
- CONTENTS

- THE STING

- CHAPTER I. ON THE RACK
- CHAPTER II. A GRIM STORY
- CHAPTER III. AN ENCOUNTER BY NIGHT
- CHAPTER IV. THE HAND OF DEATH
- CHAPTER V. DR. LAIDLAW TAKES A HAND
- CHAPTER VI. ARRESTED!
- CHAPTER VII. THE HIDDEN DOOR
- CHAPTER VIII. COMEDY BY NIGHT
- CHAPTER IX. THE APPROACHING HOUR
- CHAPTER X. A MIDNIGHT SCUFFLE
- CHAPTER XI. SEALED LIPS
- CHAPTER XII. MR. BENSON FORMS A PLAN
- CHAPTER XIII. TRAPPED
- CHAPTER XIV. A DOCTOR IN DURANCE
- CHAPTER XV. THE DOCTOR’S STORY
- CHAPTER XVI. HELP FROM WITHOUT
- CHAPTER XVII. MR. TRING TRIES IT ON
- CHAPTER XVIII. JOE LITT’S ENTERPRISE
- CHAPTER XIX. THE EVE OF THE TRIAL
- CHAPTER XX. GREAT ARGUMENT ABOUT IT
- CHAPTER XXI. THE TRIAL
- CHAPTER XXII. THE VERDICT
- CHAPTER XXIII. A SURPRISE FOR ALL

- TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE