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Title: The Rainbow Feather

Author: Fergus Hume

Release date: August 9, 2017 [eBook #55312]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
        Google Books (Harvard University)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAINBOW FEATHER ***




Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Harvard University)











Transcriber's Notes:
    1. Page scan source: Google Books
       https://books.google.com/books?id=77gXAAAAYAAJ
       (Harvard University)






THE
RAINBOW
FEATHER



BY
FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,"
"Claude Duval of Ninety-Five" etc_.



NEW YORK:
G. W. DILLINGHAM CO., PUBLISHERS.
LONDON: DIGBY, LONG & CO.






COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM CO.
[_All rights reserved_.]


_The Rainbow Feather_.






CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I.      A Terrible Prophecy
II.     Poverty Villa
III.    The Sermon
IV.     What Happened on Sunday Night
V.      Paul Mexton, Journalist
VI.     Eliza's Evidence
VII.    At the Vicarage
VIII.   In the Winding Lane
IX.     The Inquest at Herne Arms
X.      The Prophecy Again
XI.     Brent Speaks Out
XII.    A Startling Piece of Evidence
XIII.   The Defence of Miss Clyde
XIV.    Dust to Dust
XV.     Dr. Lester Tells a Story
XVI.    Catinka
XVII.   The Society of The Rainbow Feather
XVIII.  Iris Confesses
XIX.    Who Mr. Lovel was
XX.     Gran Jimboy
XXI.    The Return of Herne
XXII.   A Denial
XXIII.  Drek's Opinions
XXIV.   The Trial
XXV.    The Truth at Last
XXVI.   "All's Well that Ends Well."






THE RAINBOW FEATHER.




CHAPTER I.
A TERRIBLE PROPHECY.


"'The lef' han', dearie, an' gowld for th' charm. Aye! a bewtiful han'
for a bewtiful maid. I 'udn't rade false for--eh, dear life, what
is't? Th' lines goo criss an' crass. Duvel! I be mortal feared to tell
'ee. Take tha han'. Gran hes nought to spake for sich a mayden."

As she said the last word, a startled look came into the glazed eyes
of the old gipsy; and with a quick gesture she flung back the hand she
had been holding. The pretty, fair-haired girl who was having her
fortune told laughed nervously, and shot an anxious glance at the
young man who stood near her. He was tall and dark and masterful; also
he was in love with the girl, as could be seen from the tenderness in
his eyes and the smile on his lips. But as the sibyl spoke, as the
girl started, he changed the smile to a frown, and caught the woman
roughly by the arm. She was on the point of hobbling away; but, on
feeling the man's grip, she turned doggedly to face him. With her rags
and wrinkles, red cloak, and Oriental countenance, she looked like the
Witch of Endor--at bay.

"Not so fast, gran!" said the young man, severely. "Miss Lester has
given you a shilling, so you must earn it by telling her fortune--if
you can," he added, in a scoffing tone, which savoured of scepticism.

"Ef I can!" repeated gran, looking contemptuously from under bushy
gray eyebrows. "Eh, young gentl'man, that han' be asy raidin' tu I.
But fur all this," she waved her stick round the gorse-besprinkled
common upon which they were standing--"for all that"--she pointed
towards the blue arch of the July sky--"I w'uldn't freeze th' blood o'
this gude maid."

"How you do go on, Mother Jimboy!" giggled the girl, with an
affectation of carelessness. "I don't believe a bit in hand-reading;
I'm sure I don't, so there! I know my own fortune well. Don't I, Mr.
Lovel?" and again she shot a glance at the young man--this time a
coquettish one.

"Of course," he assented, with a smile; "and I know mine."

"An' I know both o' mum!" cried Mrs. Jimboy, striking her stick on the
ground. "Hee! hee! 'tis gran as cud fright the smile from they pretty
faces, I du say. Haw be young squire, Miss Milly?"

"Insolent!" muttered Lovel, wrathfully. "Hold your tongue, you old
hag, and tell Miss Lester's fortune at once!"

"I's feared for sure, dearies both; I's mortal feared."

"You silly old witch!" said Milly, with scornful bravery. "I'm not. I
shall know what is in my hand; though I shan't believe a single word
you say."

"Tis as ye plase, miss; belave or not, 'tis all one. But the skein
will run till 'tis clipped for all that!"

"What do you mean by this jargon?" cried Lovel, still furious at the
late illusion to the squire. "Speak plainly, or I'll hand you over to
the police as an impostor!"

The last word touched the old dame nearly, and she reared up her bent
frame to point a crooked finger at Lovel; but she spoke generally to
the one and the other.

"Imposter, am I? Hee! hee! An you don't belave, Miss Milly? Hee! hee!
I'll spare ye no more! Gimme th' han', dear soul alive, give th' han';
and if ye weep blood fur the tellings o' mum--well, I warned ye, I
warned ye!"

Milly stamped a dainty foot, and held out a dainty hand to be seized
by gran's brown claws.

"Do your worst!" said she petulantly. "I'm sure I shan't believe a
single nasty thing you tell me!"

"Aye! eh!" mumbled Mrs. Jimboy, tracing the pink palm lines with a
dirty forefinger; "but Fate, you zee, be stronger nor young things,
dearie; aw, yis, fur sure. Here mum be, ef ye mus' now"--man and girl
bent their comely heads, while gran continued--"you'm bound to one;
you'm loved by another; but none o' mum shall call ye wife."

"Why not?" demanded Lovel roughly, while Milly drew back her hand with
an ejaculation of alarm.

"Why?" cried the gipsy fiercely--"'cause the grave 'ull be her bridal
bed, for sure; an' worms 'ull feast on the beauty ye love. Death,
dearie; death an' murder, I du tell 'ee; an' murder, dear souls, an'
yis," she concluded, with a relish for her evil speaking.

Enraged by this speech, which made Milly cling to him in a tremor of
nervous excitement, Lovel raised his cane threateningly. With an
activity wonderful in one so old, gran shuffled nimbly back, spitting
and snarling like a cat. Her eyes fairly sparkled with fury.

"Duvel!" she flashed out, using the Romany oath with a shaking of her
stick; "the black curse on the pair o' ye! Death to her, an' sorrow to
ye. One shall be taken, the other left. Ho, ho! how will ye look then,
my delicate rye? you an' the squire, wi' death houlding your gude maid
in his maw. I overlook mum, I du; an' so ye've the worth of your gowld
from the impostor!"

After which fiery speech Mrs. Jimboy crawled away without as much as a
glance behind her. Soon she dwindled to a scarlet spot on the distant
greenness; and Milly, hitherto motionless, began to recover from her
fears. Some red-tiled houses were visible on the edge of the common;
through the golden glories of gorse blossom wound the high-road, broad
and dusty; and over all arched the cloudless azure of the sky. Save
the two young people, no human being was in sight; and they looked
silently at one another, weighing and considering the ominous words of
the gipsy--her early refusal to speak; her pointed use of the sinister
word "murder;" and her fierce casting of words and money. These were
the things which took the colour from the cheeks of the couple, and
made them eye each other with secret apprehensions.

"I'll go home now," said Milly abruptly, and she turned her face
towards the square tower of a distant church.

Lovel walked quickly after her and laid a detaining hand on her arm.
"Don't go yet," he entreated. "My dear Milly----"

"You have no right to call me so!" she interrupted sharply.

"Then give me the right."

"I can't; you know I can't. Why do you say such silly things?"

"Why?" burst out Lovel--"because I love you. Listen to me, Milly--now,
it is no use your frowning--I shall call you by that name: I love
you--I love you!"

"Oh!" said Miss Lester with great coolness, "then Miss Clyde----"

"I know what you are about to say," he said quickly--"that I love Miss
Clyde. But you are wrong. It is true that I admired her, but when you
came----" He flung out his hands and caught those of the girl's.
"Milly," said he earnestly, "you have brought me to your feet for a
jest; that jest must become--earnest. You must marry me."

"How you talk!" said Milly fretfully. "You know I can't marry you."

"Because of Mr. Herne--a man you don't care for?"

"Because of Mr. Herne--to whom I have been engaged for six months."

"But you don't care for him!" persisted Lovel.

"I care for him sufficiently to marry him," answered the girl
evasively.

"What is the use of trying to deceive me, Milly? You marry Herne for
his money and position."

"Well, and what if I do!" cried Miss Lester, flushing; "is it not my
duty to do the best I can for myself and my people? What is father?--a
poor country doctor with a miserable income. Our house should be
called Poverty Villa, it is so wretched; and Iris worries me morn,
noon, and night."

"But if your sister----"

"She is not my sister!" interrupted Milly wrathfully. "Iris Link is
the daughter of my father's second wife; she is no kin of mine, and
has no right to domineer over me like she does. I tell you I am
thoroughly miserable at home!" cried Miss Lester with a stamp of her
foot; "and I marry Darcy Herne to get away from Poverty Villa."

"Will you be any happier with Herne?"

"Why not? I shall have position and money and society."

"Pardon me," contradicted Lovel, "but you will have none of the three.
Herne is as mad as a March hare, with his aspirations for a higher
life, and his socialistic ideas that all are equal? Position! He gave
that up long ago. Money! Well, he has money, but it will be spent in
charity--not in pandering to your vanity. Society! Oh, yes! the
society of the halt, the lame, the blind, and the religious! That's
the set you'll move in. I tell you, Milly," cried Lovel vehemently,
"that Herne does not love you; he loves no one and nothing but his
mission, as he calls it. He marries you simply to experiment on
you--to lead you into the narrow path, no doubt."

"I know all you tell me," rejoined Milly, coolly, "but I'll alter
Darcy's conduct when I am Mrs. Herne!"

"I rather think he'll alter yours, my dear. Now, if you marry me----"

"Yes!" interrupted Milly, disdainfully; "if I marry you, what then?"

"You would be happy," finished Lovel, turning red.

Milly laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Really, Mr. Lovel, you have
a good opinion of yourself! I have known you eight months as a
painter, but beyond that I am ignorant. Who are you?"

"A painter--an artist, as you say," said the young man, sulkily.

"Are you rich?"

"No; I have two hundred a year."

"As if we could marry on that!" scoffed Milly. "Are your parents
alive?"

"No. I don't know anything about my parents. I have been an orphan
ever since I can remember."

"Oh! So you have no money, no position, and--so far as I can see--no
name; only your good looks, Mr. Lovel; and on these you wish to marry
me. No, thank you, Mr. Egotist," sneered Miss Lester, with a curtsey.
"I prefer to marry the squire of Barnstead."

Lovel was goaded into a retort. "You'll never marry him," he said,
sharply, "if Gran Jimboy is to be believed."

"How horrid of you to talk like that, just when I was trying to forget
what that old wretch said! Lucas"--she said the name with a glint of
terror in her blue eyes--"do you believe in palmistry?"

"No," he responded, indifferently--"no more than I believe in Fate."

"But Gran Jimboy said that I should be killed--murdered!"

Lovel looked at her, and laughed in an ugly manner. "As to that, my
dear girl," he said with a sneer, "I hope it may be true. I would
rather see you dead than the wife of Squire Herne!"

"You cruel wretch!" cried Milly, vehemently. "Why--why?"

"In the first place, because I love you; in the second, because Herne,
the Apostle of the Higher Culture, is an unprincipled blackguard!"

"Darcy! Mr. Herne!"

"Yes. Oh, I have heard tales about him in London!"

"What kind of tales?

"Tales of profligacy. He uses his name here to cloak his London
wickednesses."

"I don't believe it," cried Miss Lester after a pause. "He is too good
a man to be wicked. I don't love him, but I respect him. And if he is
as wicked as you say," added Milly, with an afterthought, "he wouldn't
be the friend of Mr. Chaskin."

"The Rev. Francis Chaskin," sneered Lovel, "who was an officer of the
army before he became a vicar in the Church. Oh, I know all about
him!"

"Is he bad also?"

"Herne and he are a pair of--mysteries."

"I think you are a third one," said Milly, in a puzzled tone.
"Explain!"

"No--not here; there is no time, and I have no proofs. Meet me
to-morrow night in the Winding Lane at half-past eight, and I'll give
you the prenuptial character of your future husband."

"To-morrow will be Sunday."

"What of that? You can meet me after evening service."

"Oh!" Milly looked terrified. "What would Darcy say if he knew that I
met you at so late an hour?"

"H'm! What would Darcy say if he knew that all his iniquities were
about to be laid bare? Come or not, as you like."

Miss Lester considered. "Darcy is in London, and won't be back for
four days," she said at length. "I'll come--if you promise to tell no
one."

"I promise. At half-past eight, in the Winding Lane."

"Yes; but I won't believe what you tell me."

"You said the same thing about Gran Jimboy's prophecy!" said Lovel,
drily; "but you believe it for all that."

"I don't--I don't! Do you?"

When Milly put this question, Lovel looked at her gravely.

"I'll answer that question to-morrow night," said he; and then they
parted.




CHAPTER II.
POVERTY VILLA.


Barnstead was a moderately large village, which had not increased in
population or size since the Middle Ages. In fact, it was less
important now than it had been in medieval times, for then several
battles, detrimental to a kingly dynasty, had been fought in its
vicinity. Now it was a quiet, somnolent spot, which had nothing to do
with the affairs of the nation; at all events, these were not
transacted within its neighbourhood. Ten miles distant, the roaring
manufacturing town of Marborough responded to the business spirit of
the century, and was connected by rail with the metropolis, but the
iron way came no further; and to reach Barnstead it was necessary to
drive or ride. For the convenience of chance visitors a coach ran
daily between the Herne Arms in Barnstead and the William Pitt Hotel
in Marborough. This was the sole link which connected the village with
the outside world.

The surrounding country was flat and alluvial and agricultural, with
prosperous farms set here and there in the extent of its plain. In the
centre of these rich cornlands, which formed the wealth of the region,
Barnstead was placed beside a sluggish little stream, too small to be
called a river. The quaint houses of the village clustered round a
beautiful minster of ornate architecture. This was St. Dunstan's
Church, and dated from Saxon times, although its design was Norman,
and the greater part of it had been built in the thirteenth century.
The Rev. Francis Chaskin, ex-cavalry officer, was its vicar, and the
living had been presented to him by Darcy Herne, squire and lord of
Barnstead Manor, and the firm friend of this soldier turned priest.

Herne Grange, the great house of the district, was situated a quarter
of a mile from Barnstead, and nestled amid the trees of its park, some
little way back from the high road leading to Marborough. Its present
owner, a man of thirty, was devoured by religious fanaticism, and was
subject to trances like those recorded of the Catholic saints. He
was tall, meagre, pale, and--so far as could be seen--quite detached
from worldly pleasures; so why such a saint should have engaged
himself to frivolous Millicent Lester was a problem which no one could
solve. Yet eight months before the beginning of this tale the ascetic
and the coquette--to describe them by their most pronounced
characteristics--became engaged, and the wedding was to take place
shortly.

Whatever Herne's reason might have been for the match, his bride-elect
made no secret that her consent was based on solely monetary grounds.
Her father was poor, her home--owing to the domineering of the
inconvenient Iris Link--was disagreeable; and to escape from these
ills she was content to become Mrs. Herne, of the Grange. Secretly she
would have preferred Lucas Lovel as a husband, as he was good-looking
and pleasant, but in the face of his avowed poverty she chose to marry
Darcy Herne. Nevertheless, she recompensed herself for this dutiful
compliance with necessity by flirting with Lovel whenever she could do
so without such behavior coming to the ears of her future husband.
With Darcy's strict views, he was quite capable of breaking off the
match did he learn of her conduct; and Milly was too anxious to
complete this rich marriage to run such a risk. So she coquetted
discreetly with Lovel, and assumed a demure demeanor when in the
saintly presence of Herne.

Who Lovel was no one knew. He had come from London with an
introduction to Herne some eight months previously; and since that
time he had remained in the village sketching and fishing, and amusing
himself at Barnstead tea-tables. After remaining a month at the Grange
he had taken rooms at the Herne Arms, and was quite accepted as a
friend and equal by the gentry in and about the village. He was dark,
and, as has before been stated, very handsome; also, he had apparently
travelled a good deal, and spoke several foreign languages excellently
well. His dress and manner were both irreproachable; and he was voted
quite an acquisition to Barnstead society. Nevertheless, he had his
detractors, and it was hinted by these that the man was an adventurer,
in search of a rich wife. But Lovel's friends always pointed out that
this could not be so, else he would have married Miss Clyde.

Selina Clyde was a masculine young woman who farmed her own lands and
looked after her own monetary affairs. She was tall, raw-boned, and
fair, with a contempt for feminine fripperies, which led her to dress
in a somewhat mannish way. Wet or dry, she was out riding or walking
over her lands, and knew all about draining, top-dressing, manuring,
and such like agricultural matters; also, she was a shrewd business
woman, and boasted with good reason that no one had ever got the
better of her in a bargain. In her farmhouse, a comfortable old
homestead some two miles on the other side of Barnstead, she dwelt
with Mrs. Drass, her former governess, who was said to be the greatest
gossip in the neighborhood. Until the appearance of handsome Lucas
Lovel, Miss Clyde had made up her mind to live and die a spinster;
but, with his advent, she had yielded to the influence and charm of
his manner to such a degree that without inquiring into his
antecedents she was quite prepared to marry him. Lovel saw this, and
in other circumstances might have seized the chance of a comfortable
future; but being in love with Milly, he wanted to make her Mrs.
Lovel, and endow her with his poverty. Miss Clyde saw this, felt
herself scorned for the frivolous beauty of the doctor's daughter, and
soon came to hate Milly with all her heart. And Miss Clyde, as
everyone knew, was an admirable hater.

For the last few days Herne had been in London on some business
connected with religious missions; and during his absence Milly had
contrived to meet Lovel once or twice in what was presumably a casual
manner. She was now coming home from the meeting at which Gran Jimboy
had prophesied misfortune; and was rather alarmed when she recalled
her promise to meet Lucas the next evening at half-past eight. She
felt that to keep such an appointment would be indiscreet.

"But I shan't go! I shan't go!" she kept saying to herself on the way
home to Poverty Villa. All the same, such was her curiosity to know if
there was any truth in Lovel's statements regarding the profligacy of
her future husband, she knew very well she would keep the appointment.
"I owe it to myself to learn the truth about Darcy before it is too
late," she said several times in order to quiet her conscience; and in
this frame of mind she arrived at the house of her father.

Poverty Villa, as Milly nicknamed the place, was a scrubby little
house with two acres of neglected ground, and was located in the
poorest part of the village. Dr. Lester should have had a flourishing
practice, but had not, for two causes; the first being that the other
medical man had been established for a longer time in Barnstead; the
second and more serious reason being that he was an habitual drunkard.
All day long he was sip, sip, sipping at brandy; and although never
aggressively intoxicated, his brain was always in a confused state,
which rendered people distrustful of his judgment in diagnosing cases
and prescribing drugs.

"It's a wonder he hasn't killed the few patients he has long ago,"
said Mrs. Drass, who made no secret of her dislike for the doctor;
"but some day he'll give someone the wrong medicine and poison him;
then he'll be hanged, and that will be a judgment on him for letting
his minx of a daughter flirt with young Lovel," the truth of which
speech being that Mrs. Drass, who was something of a toady, wanted
Milly to release Lovel from her fascinations, that he might marry
Selina Clyde.

But other people shared this opinion, and it was only of a few
patients that Dr. Lester could boast, these being mostly amongst the
poorer classes of agricultural labourers. Consequently the fees were
small, and but that Lester had a few hundreds of his own, it might
have gone hard with himself and his daughters. As it was the Lester
household was hard up for all but the barest necessities of life. Iris
Link, who managed the domestic affairs, did her best to make both ends
meet, and to present a fairly decent outside to the world; but all to
no purpose. The world of Barnstead knew the truth about Poverty Villa,
and openly pitied the trio who lived in it. But it was admitted on all
hands that Dr. Lester spent on drink what he should have devoted to
the nourishment and clothing of his daughters--or rather, his daughter
and stepdaughter.

Milly entered the house in the full expectation of having trouble with
Iris, and in this she was not disappointed. Iris met her as she closed
the door, and beckoned her into the shabby little drawing-room, where
for a moment or so the two girls eyed one another in silence. As Milly
had told Lovel, there was no kin between them, for Iris was the
daughter of the second Mrs. Lester by her first husband; and when
that lady had married the doctor she found him already provided
with a child by his first wife. Milly was twenty years of age, Iris
twenty-five; and while the first was a beautiful girl with many
admirers, the second was dark and quiet, with no grace of form or
face, and, as yet, had not gained one lover. Her small accomplishments
were quite extinguished by the brilliance and beauty of Milly. Yet
Iris possessed the better nature of the two, and would make a better
wife, in spite of her looks. The dispositions of the two girls were
antagonistic; and they disliked one another exceedingly. Only the
narrowness of their circumstances compelled them to live under the
same roof, else they would have parted long since. Luckily--as both
thought--the marriage of Milly would bring about the wished-for
separation; yet even in this there was an element of bitterness to
Iris. What that element was may be seen from the slightly acidulated
conversation which ensued.

"Really, Milly!" said Iris with a weary sigh. "I do think you might
stay at home and help me with the house. There is such a lot to do,
and Eliza"--the one servant of the Lesters--"is worse than useless."

"Then get another servant!" retorted Milly, throwing down her hat. "I
am not going to stay in on this fine day."

"What would Darcy say if he knew you were wandering about by
yourself?"

"Bother! Who cares what he says! Besides," added Milly, defiantly, "I
have not been by myself."

"Milly," cried Iris, with a dark shade on her face, "have you been
again with Mr. Lovel?"

"For the last hour, my dear."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Milly laughed, and examined herself critically in the mirror over the
fireplace. She was used to the scoldings of Iris, and cared very
little for them. So long as Darcy did not hear of her flirtations with
Lovel she had no fear, and treated the expostulations of Iris and the
doctor with cool disdain. She did not trouble herself to reply to the
last remark, but continued to admire her beauty with critical eyes,
while Iris continued:

"You know Mr. Lovel is almost engaged----"

"To Miss Clyde, I suppose you mean. Oh, dear! no, he isn't! He has
just told me that he cares nothing for her and a good deal for me."

"But you are engaged to Mr. Herne."

"I am, my dear; I am!" retorted Milly swinging round on the tips of
her toes. "Don't you wish you were?"

Iris flushed crimson, for Milly knew well enough that she more than
admired the squire. "If I were," she said, evading the question, "I
should act in a more honourable way towards him."

"Pooh! pooh! A few words with Mr. Lovel won't hurt him."

"A few words, as you call them, will hurt both men. You can't marry
Mr. Lovel."

"I don't want to; nor can you marry Darcy. Look here, my love,"
continued Milly coolly: "please don't lecture me any more. If you
think Darcy ought to know, tell him about Mr. Lovel, then he'll break
off the match with me, and perhaps you'll catch him."

"I would not think of doing such a thing!" cried Iris vehemently.

"Why not? I'd do it in your place. You are too good, my dear; too, too
good!"

"I'll speak to father," said Iris, who from habit called the doctor
so.

"What good will that do? In the first place, he'll probably not be
sober; and, in the second, he's too anxious for me to marry Darcy to
tell on me. Oh, dear! I wish you were to marry Darcy, Iris; he is just
the prig for you!"

Iris looked at the fire with a frown, and not caring to trust herself
to speech, ran out of the room and into the garden. There was
something so shameless about Milly's speeches and actions with regard
to Lovel that she was almost tempted to tell Herne and prevent the
match. But then she loved Herne, and her intervention would be put
down to jealousy.

"I can do nothing, nothing," she thought; "if Mr. Lovel----"

At this moment the man himself passed slowly down the road in close
conversation with Gran Jimboy. His face was quite pale, and he looked
as though he had received a shock--as indeed he had. Mrs. Jimboy had
revealed something connected with the meeting of the next night!




CHAPTER III.
THE SERMON.


By the time Lovel and his oddly-chosen companion had passed out of
sight, Iris regained her composure and returned to the house. She said
nothing to Milly, who was now playing waltzes on the jingling piano,
and did not even re-enter the drawing room. It was quite useless to
expostulate further with the spoilt beauty; so Iris went back to help
Eliza in the kitchen, and to see after the dinner. Nevertheless, she
thought a great deal about Milly's flirtation with Lovel; and, since
she could do nothing with the girl, wondered if it would be wise to
inform Dr. Lester of the situation.

It must be clearly understood that Iris did not wish Milly to marry
the Squire of Barnstead. She was in love with him herself, and would
have dearly liked to become his wife. The mysticism of the man
attracted her in no small degree, and she sympathised with his
aspirations and religious views. It was clear to the most unobservant
that Milly would not make him a good wife; and nothing would have
pleased Iris better than that something should occur to interrupt the
marriage. But she was resolved that the obstacle should not be placed
in the way by her, lest it should be said that she was scheming to
obtain Herne for herself. Rather than she should be accused of such
selfishness, Iris was determined to bring about the marriage by every
means in her power. The one danger likely to prevent the match was the
flirtation of Milly with Lovel; and Iris decided to tell Dr. Lester of
this danger, so that Milly should meet her lover no more. The father
alone could save his daughter from jeopardising her future.

Unfortunately, Dr. Lester returned from Marborough more or less
intoxicated, and after a pretence of eating retired to his bedroom to
sleep off his potations. It was quite useless to appeal to Philip
drunk, as Iris knew well; therefore she was obliged to wait till next
morning, when there might be some chance of getting Philip sober to
take a sensible view of the matter. Milly took no notice of her
father's condition, being well used to his debauches, but spent the
evening in trimming a hat which she designed to wear to church the
next day. Iris sat in the same room, employed with needlework; and
took the opportunity of informing Milly what she intended to do. There
was nothing secretive about Miss Link; she was an open enemy, and not
a snake in the grass; moreover, she hoped by warning Milly of her
decision to make her promise to renounce the Lovel flirtation.

"Milly," she said, as they worked rapidly, "have you thought of what I
said to you this afternoon?"

"About what?" asked the other carelessly.

"About Mr. Lovel. Will you promise to stop flirting with him?"

"No, I won't!" said Milly flatly; "he amuses me, and I intend to meet
him and talk to him as much as I like. If you choose you can tell
Darcy."

"You know I shan't do that," replied Iris quietly, "and that you are
safe in giving me the permission. But I'll tell your father."

"Pooh! What does that matter? He won't speak to Darcy: he's too
anxious for me to marry the man; I told you that this afternoon."

"He will be very angry," cried Iris in despair.

"Let him be angry!" returned the dutiful daughter; "he can't kill me!"

"O Milly! Milly! Why can't you behave in a more honourable manner? If
you love Mr. Lovel, break off the match with Mr. Herne."

"And let you have your chance!" sneered Milly, tossing her head. "No,
thank you, dear."

"Then stop flirting with Mr. Lovel and be true to your future
husband."

Milly laughed, shook her head, and busied herself with threading a
needle. "My future husband," said she slowly; "h'm! perhaps I won't
marry him after all."

"Then you intend to accept Mr. Lovel?"

"No, I intend to do nothing. But Gran Jimboy read my hand this
afternoon, and she prophesied that I should marry neither."

"What do you mean?" asked Iris sharply. "Have you a third admirer?"

"According to gran I have," said Milly with a shiver; "the third
admirer is Death, my dear. I am to be--murdered!"

Iris rose so quickly that her work rolled on to the floor. She looked
at Milly in a scared sort of way. "Are you out of your mind?" she said
nervously.

"No; I'm only telling you what Gran Jimboy read in my hand. But I
don't believe in palmistry; do you, Iris?"

"No, I don't," said Miss Link contemptuously. "You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, letting Gran Jimboy play on your fears. Did she say you
would die?"

"Yes; that I should be murdered. Ugh!" and Milly shivered again.

"You don't believe such rubbish?"

Miss Lester jumped up and threw the hat she had been trimming on the
sofa. "I don't know," she said, pacing to and fro. "Sometimes I do;
sometimes I don't. I wish you would not talk of death! I hate it!"
Then, after a pause, "I'm going to bed," said she.

Iris arrested her at the door. "Milly, do be sensible, and give up
these wild ideas."

"Mr. Lovel, I suppose?"

"Yes; don't flirt with him any more, and I'll not tell Dr. Lester."

"You can do as you please!" returned Milly loftily. "I'm doing no
harm, and I'll talk to Lucas as much as I please!"

"Lucas! You call him by his first name?"

"When I wish to be nice, I do," replied the girl provokingly; "and he
calls me by mine."

"Milly, you are ruining your life!" said Iris in despair.

"Ah, well; what of it? It's going to be a short one--according to
Gran Jimboy," and before her sister could make a further remark Milly
ran out of the room, with a nervous laugh. Iris resumed her seat, and
again devoted herself to work, but her thoughts were busy with the
ill-disciplined mind of her companion.

Whether it was Milly's attitude towards Herne, or her conduct with
Lovel, or her revelation of the gipsy's prophecy, Iris did not know;
but she felt a premonition of evil, and wondered what she could do to
prevent the occurrence of ill. There was no thought of self in the
desire, for she was genuinely sorry for the fool's paradise in which
Lovel was living. Doubtless he thought that Milly would break with
Herne to marry him; but Iris was assured that her sister was too fond
of money and luxury to do so. Milly had no idea of morality, or right
or wrong, and was quite content to flirt with one man and go to the
altar with the other, without caring for the consequences. Yet in the
complication she had made there lay the elements of tragedy; and Iris
wondered if the gipsy had been clever enough to guess this, and had
prophesied death and danger merely on the possibility of such result.
She was beginning to feel alarmed at the entanglement, and resolved to
put matters straight if she could. Failing the authority of Lester
over his reckless daughter, which was merely nominal, it yet remained
that an explanation and an appeal to Lovel might induce him to
withdraw from the fascinations of Milly, and leave the village. Then
the marriage with Herne might be pressed on, and under his good
influence and care Milly might be sheltered from the dangers of life
which were created by her love of admiration. This was the only course
to pursue, and Iris decided to take it.

"I'll see Mr. Lovel to-morrow," she said when retiring to bed, "and
appeal to his better nature to go away. Darcy is so much in love with
her that it would break his heart to lose her. Milly must marry him,
and do her best to make him happy. I can do nothing less to show
my love for him. Ah! he does not guess how I worship him! If he
did--alas! alas!" Here Iris broke off her meditations, and
extinguished the light. Then, in the silence and darkness, she wept
quietly over her unreturned love and aching heart. Truly, to a woman,
the burden of unrequited affection is heavy to bear.

Early on Sunday morning Milly received a letter from Darcy, stating
that he would return the next day, as he had concluded his business.
The information gave her no pleasure, as it meant that she would have
to submit to be bored in his company, and would not be able to see
Lucas as often as heretofore. Yet the receipt of the letter gave her
the assurance that she could safely keep her appointment with Lovel,
without being found out; and her hitherto wavering decision was fixed
from that moment. This intention was unknown to Iris else she might
have prevented the meeting.

Milly did not go to church in the morning, but Iris attended at St.
Dunstan's, less for the service than because she desired to see Lovel.
Dr. Lester had been as cross as a bear--the usual result of his weekly
visit to Marborough--and Iris had not dared to complain about Milly,
lest it should raise a domestic storm. The doctor kept to his own
room, Milly amused herself with a novel, and Iris went to church to
see Lovel. He was not present, however, and as she could not call on
him at the Herne Arms, she was obliged to return home disappointed;
and decided to delay her appeal till the next day. The delay was
fatal.

As usual, Milly idled through the long summer hours in a discontented
fashion, keeping out of her father's way as much as possible. She saw
from his conduct that Iris had not fulfilled her threat of informing
him of her vagaries, and said as much.

"No," replied Iris coldly; "I have not complained to your father, as
he has no authority over you. It would be useless."

"I'm glad you see that, dear," rejoined Milly cordially. "I suppose
you intend to speak to Darcy and get me a lecture?"

"I have told you twice that I do not intend to speak to Mr. Herne. No;
it is my intention to ask Mr. Lovel to leave the village."

"Pooh! He won't do that while I'm here.

"If he is an honorable man he will."

Milly shrugged her shoulders. "All I know is that he is a very nice
fellow," she said; "if you want honor and priggishness, go to Darcy."

Iris was too disgusted to reply to this remark, and went to her room
in silence to prepare for evening service. Fearing lest Lovel should
speak with Milly on the way to church, she insisted that the girl
should come with her. Assured that the appointment would be kept in
the Winding Lane, Milly agreed to this readily enough, as she did not
wish to rouse the suspicion of Iris, whom she regarded in the light of
a marplot. So, to church the sisters--as they may be called--went in
the most amiable fashion, and presented an affectionate exterior for
the benefit of the Barnstead gossips.

St. Dunstan's was quite full, for Mr. Chaskin was the preacher, and
his sermons were always worth hearing. He was a tall, well-built man,
with an earnest, clean-shaven face; and as he walked in at the tail of
the choir-boys a suspicion of his former military vocation could be
seen in the swing of his stride. With certain alterations consequent
on the Reformation, he had exchanged the sword for the cowl, like some
warrior of mediaeval times. He was as earnest a clergyman as he had
been a soldier; and had won golden opinions from one and all since his
arrival at Barnstead.

During the earlier part of the service Milly, according to custom,
looked round the church, and prayed with the lips rather than the
heart. In the almost conventual gloom--for the summer twilight
filtered but dimly through the stained-glass of the windows--she noted
her friends and acquaintances, and particularly her lover. He was
seated in a distant aisle near a pillar, but could see her plainly
enough, and several times during the service they exchanged glances.
Miss Clyde was there, in the company of Mrs. Drass, but being near the
front of the building, they could not see Lucas. Had they been placed
so as to observe him, Milly would have been more discreet in her
glances; but, feeling safe from observation, she indulged in as many
as she pleased. If Iris noted her looks, she made no sign; for she
looked at her prayer-book constantly.

Shortly Milly's glances alighted on a strange lady, who was staring at
her steadily. She was a brilliant-looking brunette, not very tall (as
Milly could see when she stood up), and dressed in the height of
fashion. Miss Lester wondered who she could be, and why she stared at
her so hard. After a time she returned the gaze, and the eyes of the
two met. At once the strange lady removed her eyes, and glanced at
Lucas; then looked back to Milly in the most meaning manner. Indignant
and bewildered by this pantomime, Milly grew crimson, and tried to
keep her attention on the music; but whenever she looked up the lady
was glancing in the same way from her to Lucas and back again. Lovel
himself did not see the stranger--at all events, Milly did not think
so; but Mrs. Drass had her eyes on the brunette, and was doubtless
alive with curiosity.

When Mr. Chaskin gave out the text, Milly forgot the strange lady; she
forgot Lucas, and Darcy, and everyone else. The only person she
remembered was Gran Jimboy, for the text was "One shall be taken, the
other left," which was the exact expression used by the gipsy at the
time of the hand-reading on the previous day. Milly face grew pallid
with nervous fear, her heart beat rapidly, and she felt that the
atmosphere was too close to breathe. There seemed to be something
ominous in the coincidence of the gipsy's speech and the text; and she
felt that something was wrong; also, the looks of the strange lady
embarrassed her. So, on the impulse of the moment, she rose from her
seat and left the church with all speed.




CHAPTER IV.
WHAT HAPPENED ON SUNDAY NIGHT.


At first Iris intended to follow Milly, thinking that she suffered
from some slight indisposition; but recollecting that up to the moment
of leaving the girl had seemed perfectly well, she concluded that it
was merely to escape the sermon Milly had left so hurriedly. For this
reason she kept her seat, until it struck her that the exit might be
designed in order to meet Lovel. However, a glance assured her that
the young man was still in his seat, and showed no intention of
following her sister. The strange lady remained, but of course Iris
had not observed her as Milly had done. Mrs. Drass, in a pew a little
way off, gave a sniff of significance, and glanced at Miss Clyde, but
that lady, seeing that Lucas was listening attentively to the sermon
(she had caught a glimpse of him, and had turned round to look), paid
no attention to the hint. All this passed unperceived by the rest of
the congregation.

Mr. Chaskin invariably limited his discourse to fifteen minutes; and
on this occasion he was even shorter and more pithy than usual. The
service was concluded by eight o'clock, and Lucas was one of the first
to leave the church. At once he was followed by the strange lady, whom
he had not observed, and when Iris emerged from the porch she found
that both had disappeared. Neither was Milly in sight, so, concluding
that she had gone home, Iris prepared to follow. Shortly, however, she
was accosted by Mrs. Drass, who had left Miss Clyde in order to
discover the reason of Milly's exit. To the suspicious mind of the
ex-governess, everything done by the doctor's daughter was a covert
act of insolence against her former pupil. To such an extent can
prejudice distort a naturally liberal nature.

"Good evening, Miss Link," said Mrs. Drass, puffing and blowing--for
she was very stout, and had made considerable haste to overtake Iris.
"I am so glad to see you. I want to walk home with you and see your
dear pa. He is in, I dare say?"

"He was when I left, Mrs. Drass," replied Iris, who quite understood
what the good lady was aiming at. "Do you not feel well?"

"Not very, my dear. The heart, you know, and shortness of breath. I
thought I would just see Dr. Lester before I drove home with Selina."

"Where is she?" asked Iris, glancing round at the dispersing
congregation.

"Speaking with Mr. Chaskin. She will call for me at your house in half
an hour, so I shall have time to see your pa. By the way, my dear,"
said Mrs. Drass, as they walked slowly onward side by side, "I hope
your sister is not ill?"

"She did not mention that she was ailing," replied Iris, dryly.

"Then why did she leave before the sermon?"

"I do not know, Mrs. Drass. No doubt we shall find her indoors, and
then you can ask her yourself."

"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Drass exclaimed in a shocked tone, as though
virtuously indignant at the idea of gossiping. "I would not think of
troubling about such a trifle. I simply thought your dear sister was
ill, seeing she left before Mr. Chaskin's sweet discourse; and I had
half a mind to follow with my smelling bottle."

"Very kind of you," said Iris, briefly; and then, as she disliked the
conversation, held her tongue. Mrs. Drass at once began on a fresh
topic.

"Did you see that stranger in church?" she asked--"a handsome young
lady, most beautifully dressed. I wonder who she can be?"

"I did not observe her particularly."

"She looked at Mr. Lovel a great deal," continued Mrs. Drass artfully,
"and at your sister. I was ill-placed for observation, but I turned
and saw their looks."

"I don't understand you," said Iris, on her guard at this coupling of
Milly's name with that of Lovel.

Mrs. Drass became tart at once. "Oh, my love, it is not very difficult
to understand," she said stiffly; "in my opinion, your sister
exchanged so many glances with Mr. Lovel that the strange lady
thought----"

"I don't want to know what she thought, Mrs. Drass. You forget that my
sister is engaged."

"I think it is Milly Lester who forgets that!" cried Mrs. Drass
venomously; "it is really disgraceful the way in which she flirts with
Mr. Lovel!"

"Mrs. Drass!"

"Now, don't be cross with me, my dear," wheezed the fat old lady, as
they stopped at the gate of Poverty Villa. "I only repeat what all the
village talks about. I don't know what Mr. Herne will say to your
sister's conduct! Such a good young man as he is!"

"Here is Dr. Lester," said Iris, cutting short these remarks; and
leaving Mrs. Drass in the company of her stepfather, she retired
hastily in search of Milly. To her surprise, the girl was not in the
house. Iris searched everywhere, and, alarmed by this unexpected
absence, went downstairs with the intention of leaving the house to
look for her. Passing by Dr. Lester's room, the door of which was
ajar, she heard the oily voice of Mrs. Drass accusing Milly of
flirting with Lovel. Although she hated eavesdropping, Iris listened
in the interests of her sister.

"Indeed, my dear doctor, I should advise you to interfere," Mrs. Drass
was saying; "you know how particular Mr. Herne is. If he learnt too
much about Milly----"

"He shall learn nothing," broke in Dr. Lester's harsh voice, "unless
you tell him."

"Excuse me, I never speak of my neighbours' business. This has nothing
to do with me."

"But it has a great deal to do with Miss Clyde."

"I don't understand----" began Mrs. Drass, when the doctor cut her
short with a short and rude laugh.

"Oh, you understand well enough!" he said, contemptuously. "I
hear gossip as well as you do. Miss Clyde wants to marry Lovel, and
cannot do so till Milly is out of the way. In the interest of your
friend, you wish Milly to marry Herne, and so will not tell him of
this--flirtation."

"There is some truth in that," admitted Mrs. Drass, "although you put
it rudely."

"I put it plainly, you mean," said Lester. "You can go away content,
madam, for I shall speak to Milly."

"Poor motherless girl! She needs talking to," sighed Mrs. Drass, and
prepared to take her leave, satisfied in every way with the success of
her mission.

Before searching for Milly, who was yet absent, Iris determined to
speak to her stepfather. The ice had been broken, and it was now
easier to induce him to interfere. When Mrs. Drass took her departure,
which she did almost immediately, Iris entered the doctor's consulting
room at once. Lester already had got out the brandy bottle and was
filling himself a glass. He looked red-eyed and wrathful, and turned
viciously on Iris before she had time to open her mouth.

"What is this I hear about Milly and Mr. Lovel?" he snarled. "Is her
name to be on the lips of every village gossip? Can't you look after
her?"

"No, I can't. She laughs at me."

"Where is she? I'll take care she doesn't laugh at me!" cried Lester.
"Send her in here at once."

"How can I? She is not yet in."

Lester looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes past eight o'clock!" he
growled; "and you let her gad about at this hour! No doubt she is with
Lovel now!"

"I should not be at all surprised," said Iris, coldly.

"Good Lord! how coolly you speak!" raged the doctor, setting down his
empty glass and filling it again. "Don't you know that if Herne hears
of these things he'll break off the marriage!"

"I shouldn't blame him if he did."

"Rubbish! I tell you, if Milly loses Herne, everything will smash up.
We can't hold out much longer. Herne has promised to pay all we owe
and to lend me money. It all depends on Milly; yet you let her flirt
with Lovel, and run the risk of ruining all. If Chaskin heard about
this Lovel affair, he would tell Herne, and then--curse it!"--the
doctor broke off hastily, and drank another glass of brandy--"I must
do something!"

"You won't do much if you go on taking that!" said Iris pointedly.

"What is that to you, miss? Mind your own business! I shall drink as
much as I please." He filled himself a third glass of brandy. "As for
Lovel, if I catch him I'll trash the life out of him! Spoiling Milly's
chance of a rich husband--I'll kill him before he does that. I shall
lock her up, and you also, you--you----"

Not waiting to hear what he called her, Iris withdrew, sick at heart.
She knew well enough that this was the commencement of a drinking
bout, which would last three or four days. Did Lester meet his
daughter in the company of Lovel while the drunken fit was on him, he
was quite capable of proceeding to personal violence. Iris left the
house hurriedly, with the intention of finding Milly, and bringing her
home lest ill should befall. At that moment, with her miserable home,
the burden of Milly's follies, and her own aching heart, the poor girl
felt thoroughly ill and wretched.

On leaving Poverty Villa, she turned her steps towards the main street
of the village, and wondered where she would find Milly. It was yet
light, a kind of luminous twilight, with a star-sprinkled heaven, and
a gentle breeze sighing amid the trees. Few people were about, as it
was now about nine o'clock, and the majority of Barnstead folk were
within doors, lingering over their suppers. Iris paced slowly along,
her head aching with nervous pain, and her heart full of anxiety. When
she arrived in the square where St. Dunstan's Church was situated she
paused in utter helplessness, for she knew not in which direction to
look for the truant; nor for very shame could she ask any of the
passers-by if they had seen the girl. For the moment she was
completely at a loss what to do.

Unexpectedly the chimes began to ring, and the clock of St. Dunstan's
struck nine with slow and ponderous strokes. As Iris counted them
idly, she fancied she heard the sharp sound of a distant shot, and,
for the moment wondered who could be shooting at that late hour. But
the deep tone of the church bell striking the hour confused her, and
hearing no more shots she thought that she must have been dreaming.
After a pause she pursued her way, and turned homeward.

It struck Iris that Milly might have met Lovel by appointment, in
which case the meeting, to elude observation, would undoubtedly take
place on the outskirts of the village. Iris therefore made a detour,
and walked homeward round by the common and through the sparse woods
which fringed the town. But all to no purpose; not a sign of Milly or
of anyone else could she see, and it was with a sigh that she
reentered Barnstead streets on her way to the villa. As she passed the
Herne Arms, she saw a carriage drive off, and as it whirled past her
on the road to Marborough, she noted that it was occupied by a lady.
However, as she did not recognize the face--which she saw indistinctly
in the twilight--she took no further note of the incident. In a few
moments she reached home, and was met at the door by Eliza in a great
state of alarm.

"Oh, miss, I am glad you've come," cried the servant. "Your pa's run
out like a raging bull, and I was feared lest he could 'urt you."

"I did not meet him," replied Iris, with a chill feeling in her heart.
"Is Milly inside?"

"No, mum; that's why I am feared. Your pa was screeching out something
about you and Miss Milly, an' I did believe as he was wanting to
murder you both."

"Nonsense!" cried Iris irritably, as she entered the dining-room. "Dr.
Lester is not well, and I daresay Miss Milly will be back soon.
She--she has gone to see some friends," finished Iris, thinking she
must make some excuse.

"Well, I 'ope she's safe, miss," said Eliza, ominously, "for if she
meets her pa he'll hurt 'er. Jus' like a mad lion he were, miss."

When the servant withdrew Iris sat down and tried to eat; but all in
vain. The excitement and trouble of the evening were too much for her,
and she could only swallow a glass of wine and water. Eliza was
informed that she might go to bed, and Iris sat up far into the night
waiting for the return of Milly. Ten, eleven and twelve o'clock
struck; still the girl did not appear, and Iris became terrified. Such
a thing had never happened before; and she felt sure that some
accident had occurred. Several times she went to the door, but saw no
one. At twelve she ventured as far as the gate, and then in the
darkness she heard the tramp of feet, and saw several men advancing,
bearing something between them. In front walked a man alone.

"Father!" cried Iris, throwing open the gate. "Milly!"

"Hush!" said the grave voice of Mr. Chaskin. "It is I, Miss Link.
There has been an--an accident. Your sister is--dead!"




CHAPTER V.
PAUL MEXTON, JOURNALIST.


Barnstead was provided with a new sensation, and that of the
most extreme kind. The beauty of the village--for so Milly was
accounted--had been murdered by some unknown person, and everyone was
excited by the tragedy. Far and wide the rumour spread, gaining
details more or less truthful as it slipped from tongue to tongue,
until by noon of the next day it reached Marborough. From the streets
it penetrated into the office of the "Tory Times," which, as its name
denotes, is an old and long-established newspaper of the south of
England; and so became known to Paul Mexton, who was the chief
reporter of the journal. The news appealed to him more than it did to
the majority of the public.

In the first place, it roused his journalistic instincts, as eminently
satisfactory "copy" for the columns of the paper; in the second, he
was personally acquainted with the Lester family, and particularly
with Iris. The late Mr. Link had been a solicitor in Marborough, and
in that town Iris had been born, and had lived for seventeen years,
when, her father dying, her mother had married Dr. Lester and had
removed to Barnstead. The second Mrs. Lester did not live long after
her foolish second marriage, and when she died Iris was left to look
after Milly and the miserable domestic affairs of Poverty Villa. But
all this has been set forth before, and the main point now is the
acquaintance of Mexton with Iris Link.

They had been boy and girl together, and Paul had been like a brother
to Iris for many years. Twice or thrice a month he was accustomed to
ride over to Barnstead, when permitted by his journalistic duties; and
at one time Iris thought that their youthful friendship might develop
into the warmer feeling of love. But, as has before been stated, she
lost her heart to Herne, and later on Paul confessed to her that he
was in love with a Polish lady who for some months previously had
given violin recitals in the Marborough Town Hall. Therefore, up to
the present Paul and Iris were simply good friends and nothing more.

Paul valued his friendship with Miss Link, as he was ambitious and she
sympathised with his aims and aspirations. He wished to make a name in
London as a novelist, to live in the metropolis, and to mix with the
literary society of the day. To Iris he told all his dreams and
schemes and successes and failures; and in her turn Iris consulted him
about her domestic worries, the eccentricities of Dr. Lester, and the
trials she experienced with Milly and her lovers. Paul, therefore, was
well acquainted with the events which had preceded the tragedy; and
now that the tragedy itself had taken place he was hardly surprised by
its occurrence.

"I knew Milly would get herself into trouble, poor girl!" he thought
on hearing the news; "but I hardly expected her follies would result
in her murder. I wonder who killed her, and what was the motive for
the crime? By Jove! I'll ride over and see Iris; she needs a friend
just now, and she can give me all details for the paper."

No sooner had Paul made up his mind to this course than he saw the
editor, and requested permission to go over to Barnstead. It was
accorded at once, and, knowing Mexton's ready pen, the editor
anticipated an unusually interesting account of the crime, to be in
the next day's issue of the "Tory Times." Prompt and rapid in his
actions as a war correspondent, Paul was on the road to Barnstead
within an hour of receiving the intelligence of the murder. But the
police, advised by telegram, were beforehand with him, and he found
the inspector--Drek was his name--investigating the matter when he
arrived at Poverty Villa.

Drek was in the untidy garden talking to a policeman when Paul rode
up, and he eyed the young man in anything but a pleasant manner when
he dismounted. The inspector was an alert but somewhat sour man, who
had no great love for press or pressman; and he distinctly resented
the prompt arrival of Mexton on the scene. With a frown he looked at
the keen and handsome face of the young man, and nodded curtly in
response to his greeting.

"Where the corpse is there gather the vultures," said Drek, who dealt
at times in proverbs.

"Are you talking of the police, Mr. Inspector?" asked Paul, smiling.

"No, sir; I talk of the Fourth Estate, of you confounded gabblers of
the press. It is my business to investigate crimes like these; but it
is not yours to spread any discoveries all over the country, and put
the criminal on his guard."

"Oh! then you have some inkling of who killed Miss Lester?"

"No, sir; up till now I have not gained the slightest clue."

"Then why do you say that the criminal is a man?" said Paul shrewdly.
"The assassin may be a woman, for all you know."

"Women don't fire pistols as a rule."

"The New Woman does," retorted Mexton. "So the poor girl was shot?"

"Right through the brain--must have been killed instantly."

"Where did the murder take place?"

"In the lower part of the Winding Lane."

"About what time?"

"I don't know yet. How should I know?" replied Drek with a vexed air.
"Now, look here, Mr. Mexton; I'm not going to answer any more
questions. You'll put all I say in your paper."

"I'll keep out anything you wish, Mr. Inspector," said Paul, who saw
the necessity of conciliating the man; "and, as a matter of fact, I am
here not so much to get copy as to see Miss Link."

"Why do you wish to see Miss Link?" asked the inspector suspiciously.

"For the very natural reason that she is in trouble, and that I am her
oldest friend. You don't object to my seeing her?"

"She'll object herself," replied Drek grimly. "At present she shut
herself up in her room and refuses to see anyone."

"What about Dr. Lester?"

"Oh!"--Drek shrugged his shoulders--"the doctor is in his
consulting-room--drinking!"

"What does he say about the murder?"

"Nothing. I can get no sense out of him; the man's brain is upset."

"I don't wonder at it," rejoined Paul drily; "the tragic death of his
daughter is quite enough to upset it. Is the--the--body in the house?"

"No; it has been taken to the Herne Arms for the inquest."

Mexton nodded, and brushed past the inspector on his way to the house.
"I'll try and see Miss Link." he said quickly. "Poor girl, she will
need some comfort. You have absolutely no clue?" he asked looking
back.

"Absolutely none," returned Drek disconsolately. "The girl was found
dead by Mr. Chaskin about midnight. I say, Mexton----"

"Well," said Paul impatiently, his hand on the doorknob.

"Tell me what Miss Link tells you."

"She may tell me nothing, Drek. However, I'll get all I can out of
her, and do my best to aid you to catch the murderer of poor Milly
Lester. And you?"

"I intend to question the servant," said Drek. "It seems she knows
something; at least, she hinted as much to Warner here," and he
indicated the policeman with a nod.

"H'm!" said Paul slowly. "So Eliza knows something. Drek, you tell me
all that you get out of the servant, and I'll reveal the result of my
examination of the mistress. Let us work together."

"I'm quite agreeable," said Drek, who knew the keen intelligence of
Mexton, "but you must not put too much in your paper."

"You shall see everything in proof," cried Paul, and with a nod he
vanished into the house.

There was nobody in the drawing-room or dining-room when Mexton
entered; therefore he looked into the doctor's consulting-room, where
he found the wretched Lester half-intoxicated, with the brandy bottle
before him. Indignant at the man's condition at such a time, Paul
walked over to the table, seized the bottle, and threw it out of the
window. In sheer amazement Lester stared blankly at him, holding a
glass of brandy in his shaking hand.

"What--what did you do that for?" he asked thickly.

"To prevent you making a beast of yourself," replied the young man
sharply. "Have you no sense of shame, man? Your daughter is lying
dead--murdered--and yet you sit drinking here as though nothing had
occurred. Shame, Dr. Lester! Shame!"

The drunkard listened vacantly to this speech, and mechanically raised
the glass he held to his lips. In a moment Paul had dashed it out of
his hand, and put himself on the defensive for the attack which he
expected the creature to make on him. In place of doing so, and
asserting some little manhood, the doctor bowed his shameful face on
his hands, and began to weep in a maudlin manner.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! that I should be treated like this in my own
house! Poor Milly dead, and I denied any comfort."

"You won't get much comfort out of the brandy bottle," said Paul
contemptuously. "Pull yourself together, Dr. Lester, and aid me."

"Aid you--in what?" asked Lester confusedly.

"In discovering who killed your daughter."

The doctor wrung his hands in a helpless sort of manner. "No chance of
that," said he; "no chance of that."

"Why? Do you think the murderer has got clean away?"

To the journalist's surprise, Lester put the same question to him as
he had put to Drek. "How do you know the criminal is a man?" asked the
doctor.

"I did not say so."

"You said murderer; if you had ascribed the crime to a woman you would
have used the more correct word, murderess."

"I think not, doctor; I am no purist. But what do you mean by such a
speech, sir? Do you know who killed your daughter?"

"No!" Lester looked confused. "Good Lord, Mexton! how should I know?"
he burst out. "If I did--if I did----"

"Well?" cried Mexton, impatiently, "if you did----?"

"I want some more brandy," said Lester, with a vacant look.

Paul was about to reply with some sharpness when he felt a light touch
on his arm. It was Iris who had attracted his attention; and she had
just entered quietly by the door. Her face was pallid as that of a
corpse, her eyes were red and swollen with weeping, and she looked not
at Mexton, but at the miserable creature who was her step-father. The
expression in her eyes was one of mingled terror and repugnance.

"Don't speak to him any more, Paul," she said, hurriedly; "he is not
in a condition to answer questions."

Mexton glanced at Lester, expecting him to make some defence; but the
man was rapidly lapsing into a comatose condition. Without another
word, he submitted to the pressure on his arm, and was drawn out of
the room by Iris. In the passage she stopped and withdrew her hand.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I came to see you, Iris; to assure you of my sympathy."

"Is that true?"--she looked searchingly at him--"or did you come to
learn all the particulars of our shame, to publish them to the world?"

"Whatever I publish will be in your favour," retorted Paul. "I am your
friend--not your enemy."

"My friend? God knows I need one! I suppose everyone in Marborough
knows that Milly is dead?"

"Yes; many people know."

"And that she was--murdered?"

"They know that also."

Iris looked at him strangely. "Who do they say killed her?" she
demanded.

"Nobody knows; nobody ventures an opinion."

"Has any name been mentioned?"

"No. I have come over here to offer my services----"

"To the police?" she burst out, clutching his arm.

"To you," replied Mexton. "Let me help you to find the criminal."

"He will never be found."

"It is a man, then?" said Mexton, for the third time.

"He will never be found," repeated Iris coldly--"never."

"But if I search I may----"

"Paul," she said in a low tone--"as you value my friendship, never
look for the assassin of Milly--never, never, never!"




CHAPTER VI.
ELIZA'S EVIDENCE.


Before Paul could express his surprise at the strange remark of Iris,
she left him, with a warning glance. Still, astonished both at her
speech and action, he was about to follow, when Inspector Drek made
his appearance. He beckoned to Mexton in a peremptory manner.

"I am about to examine the servant in the drawing-room," he said
hurriedly; "you can be present if you like."

"As you please," answered Mexton, with feigned indifference. "She may
throw some light on the subject."

"Has Miss Link done so?"

"No. I saw her for a few moments only; but she said nothing worth
talking about."

In making this statement Paul did violence to his own opinion; for, on
consideration of the last remark made by Iris, he was persuaded that
she knew more about the matter than she chose to tell. She did not
want him to search for the criminal, therefore it would appear that
she was aware of the identity of the guilty person, and did not want
him, or her--for it might be a woman--arrested. But why should she
thus side with the murderer of her sister? Paul could find no feasible
answer to this question.

Eliza made her appearance in the drawing-room in a state of
hardly-controlled excitement, and took her seat before Mr. Inspector
and Paul with the air of one who considers herself of the greatest
importance. She was a constant reader of novels, and now fancied that
she was the heroine of a story in real life. Short, red-faced and fat,
Eliza wore the honours thus thrust upon her with an air of dignity.
But these airs and graces were completely thrown away on Drek, who
spoke to her sharply, and gave no latitude in answering. There was no
romance about the inspector.

"Well, Eliza," said he, looking her up and down, "and what do you know
about this murder?"

"Sir," replied the servant, with dignity, "I don't know much, but I
guess a lot."

"That is not to the point. We want facts, not fancies. Do you know who
killed this poor girl?"

"I 'ave my suspicions, Mr. Policeman."

"To whom do your suspicions point?"

"To my master, sir--to Dr. Lester."

"Nonsense!" said Drek, while Paul started up with an exclamation of
surprise. "You do not dare to say that Dr. Lester killed his own
daughter--knowingly?"

"That's just where it is, Mr. Policeman. He killed her, I could swear;
but he didn't know what he was doin'."

"Perhaps you will explain?"

"Certainly, Mr. Policeman. Last night my master was drinking hard, and
had had words with Miss Iris on the subject of the late deceased. Miss
Iris went to look for the corpse before nine o'clock----"

"What do you mean by that expression?" interrupted Mexton. "Miss
Lester was not dead then; and if she was, Miss Link, ignorant of her
fate, could not have gone to look for a 'corpse!'"

"I don't quite mean that, sir," said Eliza, rather confused that her
attempt at eloquence had proved so misleading; "what I do mean is that
Miss Milly 'adn't come 'ome before nine, and Miss Iris went to look
for her."

"I understand. But what about Dr. Lester?"

"He stayed in, drinking brandy, and when he was quite mad he went out
with a pistol to look for his daughter."

"How do you know?" asked Drek, rather startled by this explicit
evidence.

"Because I was watchin' and listenin'," said Eliza with great candour.
"I thought, as he was drinking, he might smash the furniture,
according to custom; and Miss Iris, she asked me always to perteck the
furniture, if needs be. I watched the door of the consulting-room,
gentlemen, and I seed Dr. Lester come out with a weapon in 'is
'and----"

"A pistol?"

"Yes, Mr. Policeman, a double-barril revolver. He rushed out,
screeching that Miss Milly was a--well," said Eliza, checking herself,
"I can't say what he called her, but it was somethin' bad, you may be
sure. I waited in, with great 'orror, sir, and when Miss Iris came
back, I was glad to see she weren't a corpse. I thought as Dr. Lester
might have met 'er, and killed 'er right out."

Drek and the journalist glanced at one another, for this
candidly-delivered evidence certainly seemed to implicate Lester.
"What did Miss Link say when you told her that Dr. Lester had gone
out?" demanded Mexton hurriedly.

"She seemed 'orror-struck, like me, sir; and then I went to bed, and
she waited for the corpse. It arrived about midnight with Mr. Chaskin.
I was woke up by a wild screech, Mr. Policeman, and came down to find
the tragedy. For the rest of the night we all sat up till morning,
when the deceased was taken for the inquitch to the Herne Arms, where
she now is, an' may the Lord 'ave mercy on 'er soul," finished Eliza,
with clasped hands.

"What time did Dr. Lester return?"

"In the mornin' at seven o'clock. He 'ad been wanderin' about all
night, and tumbling into the mud. Miss Iris made him take off his
clothes, 'cause they were all over red clay, an' he's been sitting
drinkin' ever since."

"Red clay!" repeated Drek sharply. "And the corpse was found by Mr.
Chaskin in the Winding Lane."

"What of that?" asked Paul, curiously.

"Simply this: that red clay is found in the Winding Lane, and owing to
the late rain there is a good deal of mud about there. Dr. Lester must
have been in the Winding Lane last night."

"An' so was Miss Milly," cried Eliza; "they found 'er remains there."

There was silence for a few moments, and the three people looked at
one another. All the evidence seemed to prove the guilt of Dr. Lester.
He had gone out mad with drink and angry with the dead girl; he had
taken with him a pistol, and Milly had been murdered by such a weapon;
finally, his clothes were covered with red mud, which was most
plentiful in the neighbourhood where the corpse had been found. On
this circumstantial evidence it would seem that Dr. Lester had killed
his own daughter in a fit of drunken frenzy. This discovery added to
the horror of the crime.

"My girl," said the inspector after a pause, "have you spoken of this
to any one else?"

"No, sir; I swear as I 'asn't breathed a word."

"Then don't breathe a word till I tell you," said Drek shortly. "You
can go now--and hold your tongue. Wait!" he added, with an
afterthought, "where are the clothes Dr. Lester wore last night?"

"I can get them, sir; they are in 'is bedroom."

"Bring them at once to the consulting-room."

When Eliza departed on this errand, Paul looked at Drek in a
questioning manner. "Why do you wish the clothes brought to the
consulting-room?" he demanded.

"I want to demand an explanation of Dr. Lester."

"He is too drunk to understand you."

"No, he isn't. I saw him a few minutes ago, and he was coming round.
Besides, a knowledge of his position will sober him."

"Do you really believe he killed his own daughter?"

"It would seem so," said Drek in a perplexed tone; "but----"

"But what?"

"Well," explained the inspector sagely, "I have been mixed up in one
or two cases of this sort before, and I always mistrust evidence that
is too plain."

"You speak in riddles."

"H'm! Maybe; but I tell you I doubt this evidence. It is all dead
against Lester; still----"

Paul interrupted. "The best thing to do is to question Lester
himself," he said, "force him either into confession or into defence."

"It is the most straightforward way," assented Drek rising. "Let us go
into the consulting-room at once and look at the clothes."

"And look for the revolver," suggested Paul significantly.

The inspector nodded, and they sought the presence of Dr. Lester. The
wretched creature was recovering his senses, and as they entered he
was drinking long draughts from the water-bottle to clear his head. At
the sound of their footsteps he started nervously, and turned towards
them a white and haggard face. Paul wondered whether his looks and
manner were due to drink or to guilt; certainly to one, perhaps to
both.

"Do you want to see me, gentlemen?" said the doctor, rising, with
shaking limbs.

"Yes," said Drek, with a keen glance at the wreck before him. "I wish
to ask you a few questions."

"Relative to the murder of my poor girl?"

"Relative to the red mud on your clothes."

"Red mud!" stammered Lester, with what appeared to be genuine
amazement. "I have no red mud on my clothes!" and he looked down at
his apparel.

"I refer to the clothes you wore last night," said Drek shortly.

At this moment Eliza entered with a bundle, which she threw on the
floor; and to this Drek turned his attention. Coat, trousers, and
waist-coat were all of light-grey cloth, and on the arms of the coat
and the knees of the trousers were splashes of dried mud, red in hue.
The inspector glanced at them, then at the startled face of Lester,
and searched the pockets with a practised hand. He could not find a
single article in any one of them.

"Where is the pistol, Dr. Lester?" he asked, rising from his knees.

"Pistol! What pistol?" said Lester, with a nervous tremour.

"The revolver which you took out last night."

"How--how do you know I took a revolver out last night?" asked the
doctor, with a start.

"I saw you take it out, sir," broke in Eliza. "You took it out to kill
Miss Milly!"

Lester gave a cry of alarm, and fell back in his chair. "Are--are you
mad?" he said. "I--I--kill--kill my own daughter!"

"Well, you said you wanted to last night," persisted Eliza.

"No--no--no!" cried the doctor, covering his face. "It is impossible!"

"Improbable, but not impossible," corrected Drek. "Where is the
revolver?"

"I don't know; I--I lost it."

"Where?"

"I tell you I don't know; I can't remember," said the wretched man.

"Dr. Lester," said the inspector in a stern manner, "let me advise you
to be careful, sir, for you stand in a very dangerous position. There
is evidence against you that you killed your daughter."

"I tell you it's impossible!" shrieked Lester, the perspiration
beading on his forehead. "I kill Milly! I loved her! I would not kill
a fly! I--I--O God!--Mexton, you don't believe that I killed Milly?"

"I can't say," said Paul, sorry for the man, although he was doubtful
of his innocence. "The servant here says you were angry with Milly
last night, and went out with a revolver in search of her."

"No, no! I went in search of Lovel."

"Lovel?" cried Drek, astonished by the introduction of this new
name--"what had Mr. Lovel to do with it?"

"He was with my daughter last night; Iris said he was."

"At what time?"

"Between eight and nine o'clock. Milly was in love with him, and as
she was engaged to Herne, I was angry with Lovel. I went out to
threaten him, but not to kill him, or her--no, no!"

"Where did you go?" asked Paul quickly.

"I don't know, I can't remember. I left this house with a pistol, and
that is the last thing I can recall till I found myself at dawn in my
own garden."

"There is red mud on your clothes," said Drek, "so you must have been
in the Winding Lane, where the red mud is most plentiful."

"I might have been. What of that?"

"Simply this: the dead body of your daughter was found in the Winding
Lane. She was shot through the head, and you went out with a pistol."

"O God!" Lester clasped his hands together in an angonised way. "Do
you think I killed her?"

"I do," said Drek. "I firmly believe it--so much so that I intend to
arrest you on the evidence."

Dr. Lester shook all over, made an attempt to speak, and fell fainting
on the floor. In the minds of the three spectators there was no doubt
of his guilt. He had gone out to kill Lovel; and by mistake, or
mischance, he had killed his own daughter. The assassin of Milly
Lester was her own father.




CHAPTER VII.
AT THE VICARAGE.


From Poverty Villa, with its guilty occupant, Paul wandered through
the village, into the neighbourhood of The Herne Arms. A crowd of
people, more or less excited, filled the tap-room of the inn, and the
space before it. Many were drinking ale at the bar, others idled
outside in the street, and all were vigorously discussing the tragedy
and surmising as to who was the criminal. Some hinted at Lovel, a
known admirer of the dead girl; others boldly accused a nameless tramp
of the crime, and declared that robbery was the motive for its
committal; but no one had the courage or the fancy to hint at the
possible guilt of the drunken father. Such an idea, owing to the
relationship, was too monstrous to be entertained even by the most
imaginative.

Paul, with unusual caution--for ordinarily he was an impulsive
man--said nothing, but wandered from group to group, gathering
opinions but offering none in exchange. There was no need for him to
conjecture the name of the assassin. He knew that Dr. Lester had
committed the crime, and that before twelve hours elapsed he would be
arraigned on circumstantial evidence; perhaps, if his conscience
proved trustworthy, on his own confession. Great as had been the
horror inspired by the murder, the arrest of the wretched father of
the victim would enhance that horror four-fold. Mexton knew this, but
out of sheer humanity for the miserable criminal he held his peace.

The crowd babbled on, discussed the affair over their tankards, and
looked up with awe at the windows, the drawn curtains of which
notified that the dead body of Milly Lester was lying within.
Policemen guarded the door of the room and the approach to the stairs,
so that no one could enter. Paul Mexton had little desire to do so; he
did not wish to see the still white face, which he had last beheld
full of life and beauty and girlish vanity. Sick at heart, he turned
away from inn and crowd and all the chatter of the market-place, to
take his way to the Vicarage. On arriving there he inquired for Mr.
Chaskin.

So far as his journal was concerned, Paul had collected sufficient
"copy" for a long and interesting article; therefore it was with no
zeal for his profession that he sought the clergyman. But the theory
of the idlers before the inn, that a tramp might have killed Milly in
order to rob her, inspired him with a faint hope that Lester might be
innocent. All the evidence, that of Eliza, that of the mud-stained
clothes, that of the pistol, pointed to the guilt of the unhappy
father. Nevertheless, a man has been hanged before on circumstantial
evidence and afterwards has proved guiltless of the crime for which he
suffered; so it might be, thought Paul, that Dr. Lester was not guilty
of this monstrous act of criminality. If the body had been robbed of
jewellery and purse, these facts might hint at a vulgar murder by a
tramp. Chaskin had found the corpse of the girl; therefore Chaskin was
the necessary witness to prove the theory of a robbery. In the
character of Dr. Lester's friend and well-wisher, Paul presented
himself at the Vicarage to question Mr. Chaskin. Upon the result of
the interview hung the question of Lester's guilt or innocence. The
chances were greatly in favour of the former.

At first the servant who opened the door refused to admit Mexton. She
declared that Mr. Chaskin was within, but stated that he was
particularly engaged, and had given orders not to be disturbed. Paul
scribbled a line on his card to the effect that his business was
important with regard to the discovery of the assassin, and told the
girl to ask Mr. Chaskin to afford him an interview on these grounds.
After some hesitation the servant conveyed the message and shortly
afterwards showed Mexton into the presence of the clergyman.

Mr. Chaskin was in his study, a comfortable room, which had somewhat
of a sacerdotal atmosphere in its appointments and furnishing. There
were many books lining the walls in bare and unpretentious
bookshelves; a small altar in one corner with a bronze crucifix
thereon; and several pictures of Catholic saints here and there. On
the desk before the window another crucifix was standing amid a litter
of papers, and beside the desk itself a chair was placed, hinting to
the ready mind of Paul that Mr. Chaskin had been engaged with a
visitor when he accorded him the interview.

Evidently the visitor had vanished through a small door on the right,
wishing to escape unseen. Paul wondered who this unknown person might
be, and why he or she had departed with such unnecessary haste and
mystery. At the very door Paul felt that an uncomfortable and uneasy
atmosphere pervaded the apartment.

The Vicar rose to his feet with an agitated air as Paul entered, and
looked at the young man with the card in his hand. He seemed much
moved, for his lean, ascetic face was white and drawn, his breathing
quick and hurried. Not till the servant had closed the door did he
speak, and then he addressed his visitor with a tremour in his strong
voice.

"You come at an inconvenient time, Mr. Mexton," he said, hurriedly. "I
was engaged with a friend; but your writing here"--he touched the
card--"hinted at a matter of such importance that I decided to see
you."

"I am sorry to interrupt you," replied Paul, taking the chair near the
desk, "and you may be sure I should not have done so without a good
reason."

"I am sure of that," said Chaskin, still standing, "but I hope your
reason is not connected with your duties to your journal."

"No; it is connected with my friendship for the dead girl and for her
father."

"Dr. Lester. Ah, I am sorry for him, in spite of his vice of drinking.
The loss of his daughter will be a great blow to him. Where is he now,
Mr. Mexton?"

"In his own house," said Paul, slowly, "under arrest."

"Under arrest!" repeated the Vicar, staring at the young man. "For
what?"

"For the murder of his daughter."

"Mr. Mexton!" The clergyman fell back into his chair as though he had
been shot, and turned even paler. "Impossible!" he groaned;
"impossible!"

"Unfortunately, it is true," said Paul, sadly--"and on these grounds;"
whereupon he rapidly detailed the evidence upon which Drek intended to
obtain a warrant for arrest. Chaskin listened with clasped hands, the
beads of perspiration bedewing his high forehead, and did not make any
comment upon the intelligence until Paul had finished. Then he spoke
slowly and with an effort.

"It points to the guilt of the poor creature," said he, raising his
head; "but for all that I cannot believe that Dr. Lester committed a
crime so abhorrent to human nature."

"I don't think he did it knowingly, Mr. Chaskin," replied Paul; "he
declares that he remembers nothing of the events of the night. Might
he not have killed his daughter while under the influence of drink?
Not knowingly, as I say, but guided mechanically by his confused
intelligence?"

"No," cried Chaskin, with a negative gesture. "No--no. Impossible!"

"Quite impossible," said a calm voice behind them. Paul turned his
head to see who had interrupted their conversation, and at the side
door beheld Darcy Herne. Evidently he was the visitor with whom
Chaskin had been talking prior to the visit of the journalist.

"Quite impossible," reiterated Herne, advancing into the room. "I
agree with my friend, Mr. Mexton. Whosoever killed my poor Milly, it
was not her miserable father."

Paul said nothing for a moment, being taken up with an examination of
the intruder. The squire was a man of middle height, lean even to
emaciation; and, clothed in black as he was, from head to foot, he
looked of greater stature than he actually was. His face was
clean-shaven and handsome, though not strikingly so; but his eyes were
hard and glittering, and perpetually changing their expression. They
were the eyes of a leader of men, but of a fanatic; of a man rendered
pitiless by religious mania. There was no softness, no tenderness in
them; but they flashed like stars, brilliant as diamonds; the eyes of
a Loyola, of a Torquemada. Darcy Herne was a reformer, a fanatic; in
earlier times he would have been a prophet; but in whatever age he
lived he would always have preserved the characteristics of a nature
frozen and narrowed by a devouring devotion to religion. There was
nothing loveable about the man; and it was little to be wondered at
that the dead girl had feared him. The curious thing was that she
could have brought herself to accept the attentions of this religious
machine.

"I did not know you were here, Mr. Herne," said Paul, without replying
to the remark made by the squire.

"I came down to-day," replied Darcy, taking a chair. "It was not my
intention to return until this evening, but my friend Chaskin
telegraphed me about the death of Milly, so here I am."

He spoke with great deliberation and calmness; so much so that Paul
stared at him in surprise, and wondered how he could be so social in
the face of such a tragedy as the murder of his future wife. Paul had
known Herne for many years, having met him frequently at the Lesters,
and he had always had an unpleasant feeling towards him. Now that the
man proved himself to be so devoid of any tender feeling towards the
dead girl, Mexton felt that his latent distaste was developing into
positive dislike. Perhaps he showed his feelings too plainly, for
Chaskin bent forward and touched him on the knee.

"You must not think that my friend is heartless because he does not
exhibit much sorrow," said he; "he feels this terrible event deeply."

"I feel it more than you or Mexton can imagine," said Herne, with an
impressive look on his face. "I selected Millicent Lester to be
my wife in order to save her from the snares which her beauty and
vanity were laying for her. I designed that she should help me in my
life-work of succoring the poor and lowly and oppressed. With her
beauty and my wealth, I imagined in my vain pride that we would be
powerful instruments in the hand of an all-guiding Providence; but
alas! God has brought her down to the grave and myself He has left
without a helpmate."

During this speech Herne had risen to his feet, and he delivered it
with outstretched hand, in oratorical style. Paul was quite used to
the vagaries of the man, but he resented the cold way in which he
spoke of the poor girl as a lost instrument, and not as a human being,
a beautiful woman done to death in a violent fashion. Chaskin seemed
to resent it also, for he looked reprovingly at Herne--a look which
was entirely lost on the fanatic. Not only did he disregard the
warning, but he proceeded to talk of his private matters as though
they were of greater moment than the murder.

"Do you know what I have been doing in London, Mr. Mexton?" he said in
measured tones. "I have been seeing a young woman who has the cause of
the oppressed at heart, and will aid me to lighten their burden. It is
true that at present she is exercising the light and frivolous
profession of a musician; but I hope to ween her from these vanities.
A Polish girl must aid her downtrodden countrymen."

"A Polish girl!" cried Paul, with a start. "A musician--a violinist."

"Yes; Catinka. Do you know her?"

"A little. I saw her some months ago in Marborough, where she gave a
concert. I rather admired her," concluded Paul, blushing.

"She is beautiful," replied Herne quietly, "but I do not look to the
outward form, but into the mind. She is concerned to raise up her
fallen race and she desires me to aid her. I hope to do so. Who
knows?" cried Darcy, with a flash of his brilliant eyes, "she may be
designed by God to replace my lost Milly?"

"I rather think it is of Milly we should speak, Herne," said Chaskin,
reprovingly. "Leave off thinking of this Catinka, and let us see what
we can do to prove the innocence of Dr. Lester."

"I am at your service," said Herne, the fire dying out of his eyes. "I
am convinced that Dr. Lester did not kill the girl."

"Then who did?" demanded Paul, frankly.

Herne turned and looked at him steadily. "Lucas Lovel," said he, in
composed tones.

"Impossible!" said Chaskin and Mexton together.

"I don't think so," persisted Herne. "Lucas Lovel wanted to marry
Milly--to ween her from me; and frequently met her on the common and
in the Winding Lane. I was told about these meetings by a certain
person who shall be nameless; but I said nothing, trusting to Milly's
true heart. I believed that she was true to me; and that for such a
reason Lovel killed her."

"But Lovel was not with her on Sunday night."

"I believe he was," said Darcy, "although I have no means of proving
it. I intend to see Mr. Lovel and force him into confession; but
before doing so I wish to examine the spot where the murder took
place."

"For what reason?" asked Chaskin, hurriedly.

"To search for evidence. Let us go now, while the daylight lasts. Mr.
Mexton, you will come also?"

"Willingly," said Paul, rising. "I wish to see the spot, too; indeed,
I came here to ask Mr. Chaskin for all particulars regarding the
finding of the body."

"Why?" asked the clergyman, quickly.

"Because I wish to prove the innocence of Dr. Lester. Black as is the
evidence against him, I cannot think that he killed his own daughter.
The murder may have been committed by a tramp for robbery."

"No," said Herne, doggedly. "Lovel killed her."

"Mr. Chaskin," said Paul, taking no notice of his interruption, "were
the earrings and rings and bracelets of Milly on the body when you
found it?"

"Yes," replied Chaskin, promptly, "they were; and her purse was in her
pocket also. I thought the murder might be due to robbery, and I
examined the body carefully; but nothing had been touched. It was
lying with outspread hands face downwards. Apparently the poor girl
had been shot from behind and fell prone on her face stone dead."

"Nothing was touched," murmured Paul to himself. "Then that disposes
of my tramp theory. Whatever the motive of the crime, it was not
robbery."

"Of course not," said Darcy, quickly; "it was jealousy."

"Of the dead girl?"

"Of me--on the part of Lovel. I believe he killed her."

"He would not commit a crime for so slight a cause," protested
Chaskin.

"Why not? Lovel has gipsy blood in his veins; he told me so himself,
and his passions once roused he does not care what he says or does.
Face to face with him, I'll force him into a confession."

"Then you believe that Dr. Lester is innocent?"

"As innocent as I believe Lovel is guilty!" replied Herne, with
emphasis.

After this direct statement, Chaskin and Mexton felt there was no more
to be said.




CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE WINDING LANE.


Between the common and the village there extended a fairly broad belt
of trees which sprang from a deep-red soil, apparently volcanic in its
origin. Through this wood there ran a narrow road in many a curve,
purposely made tortuous so as to prolong the pleasure of walking under
the shade of leafy boughs in the hot days of summer. From its
formation this pathway--for it was little else--was called the Winding
Lane, and at either end there was a stile shutting it in, so that no
vehicles or horses could pass, but had to gain the common or village
by the broad high road which skirted the town. Along the lane seats
were placed for the convenience of passers-by, and in the long summer
twilights the youths and maidens of Barnstead were accustomed to rest
thereon and exchange love talk. Most of the marriages among the
peasantry rose from meetings and promises in the Winding Lane.

But as yet there had been no tragedy in this pleasant pathway, and it
was with feelings of consternation that the villagers heard of the
Lester murder. Henceforth tradition and imagination and winter tales
would invest the spot with ghostly interest. Already the lovers of the
village declared that nothing would induce them to seek the lane after
twilight, lest they should meet the spectre of the murdered girl. And
this when the tragedy had been enacted only a few hours! Think, then,
how such a statement would grow into an established belief when the
circumstances of the death became sanctified by time!

Chaskin led his two companions through the wood, until he paused close
beside the stile which barred the lane at that end from the common.
Several rustics were examining the spot with eager interest; but on
seeing squire and vicar they made speed to leave the lane before their
arrival, lest they should be reproved for morbid curiosity. One heavy
ploughman, however, was slow in going, and before he could hasten out
of earshot, Herne called on him to wait. This the yokel did
unwillingly enough, and looked rather afraid when the squire addressed
him directly.

"Brent," said Herne, while his companions waited in wonder to know why
he had stopped the man, "were you in the lane last night?"

"Ees, squire, I be," replied Brent, sheepishly.

"About what time?"

"Arter church, Squoire; between eight and nine."

"Were there many people in the lane?"

"Noa, Squoire; theer were a Methody meetin' at t'other end of
Barnstead, and arter pass'n preached they all goas theer t' 'ear the
caal for unconverted sinners."

"But you were in the lane?"

"Ees, Squoire; I wos wi' Jaane Bilway; but she made me taake her t'
th' Methody Chapel alsoa."

"About what time did you leave this place?"

"Jest before nine."

"Did you see Miss Lester here?"

"Noa, sir."

"Did you see Mr. Lovel?"

"Noa, sir."

"Well--did you see anyone?" asked Herne impatiently.

"Noa, Squoire; I see noabody."

"Did you hear the shot fired?"

"Ees, I did, Squoire. I was passin' t' church wi' Jaane Bilway when I
'eard it. ''Uilol' ses I. 'there's some poachin' goin' on'; and I
wanted to goa back and see; but Jaane she ses, 'Giles, you're a fule;
'tain't nothin',' soa I goes on wi' 'er to the Methody Chapel."

"About what time was the shot fired?" asked Paul, regardless of a
frown from the squire.

"Just about nine, sir. T'clock was striking when I 'eard the shot."

"And you saw no one when in the lane?" said Herne, giving Brent a
shilling.

"Noa, Squoire, not one soul, I sweer."

"Very good, Brent. You can go."

The man pulled a rough forelock and slouched off heavily. Herne looked
after him with a frown, and afterwards turned towards the clergyman
with a sharp look of interrogation. "Do you believe what that fellow
says, Chaskin?" he demanded.

"Yes; I see no reason why he should lie."

"H'm! the reason might be found in his pocket."

"What do you mean, Herne?" asked Paul, sharply.

"Simply that Brent has been bribed."

"By whom, man?"

"By Lovel. Don't contradict me," said Herne, in authoritative tones.
"I am certain of what I say. Milly came to this lane last night, else
she would not have been found dead by yonder stile. She must have come
to meet someone; and going on what has been told to me, the person she
came to meet could only have been Lovel. If they walked up the lane
together, they must have been seen by Brent and Jane Bilway. Lovel
would be unwilling that I should be told of these stolen meetings,
therefore he bribed the man to hold his tongue."

"Herne," burst out Chaskin, who had restrained himself with difficulty
during this speech, "do you know what you are saying? You are accusing
Brent of a felony--that is," corrected the vicar, "assuming that your
belief that Lovel killed the girl is true. If Brent saw Lovel here he
must believe the same thing, and he would not hold his tongue knowing
that murder had been done."

"That depends on the amount of the bribe," said Herne, grimly; "but
I'll find that out later. I am certain that Lovel was here and killed
Milly."

"Why not ask Lovel himself?" suggested Paul, looking up. "Here he
comes across the common."

"Wants to see the scene of his crime, no doubt!" said the squire,
fiercely.

"Herne, you are unjust!" protested Chaskin.

"Wait till I speak with Lovel, and then judge, my friend."

The Vicar silently agreed with this remark, and the three men watched
Lovel as he walked slowly towards the site. On catching sight of the
trio he hesitated, and half stopped; but almost immediately he resumed
his usual pace, and came towards them. Jumping over the stile, he made
as to pass them with a hurried nod; but the squire, with a grim smile,
placed himself in his path. So pointed was the movement that Lovel,
much against his will, had no alternative but to stop. He looked pale
and haggard, and was not dressed with usual care; otherwise he gave no
sign of inward perturbation, but was calm and collected when he faced
Herne.

"A word with you, Mr. Lovel," said Darcy, sharply.

"A dozen," replied Lovel, as sharply, "provided they are addressed to
me in the terms one gentleman usually employs to another."

"Oh, I shall be as polite as you please," sneered the squire, with an
ugly smile, "so long as you answer my questions."

"I shall answer your questions if I can, Mr. Herne."

"Very good, sir. Then tell me why you met Miss Lester in this lane, on
this spot, last night."

Lovel turned a shade paler, and moistened his dry lips; but he faced
his questioner unflinchingly and replied clearly, without hesitation,
"I did not meet Miss Lester last night," said he, deliberately.

"I have reason to believe the contrary," retorted Herne, at white
heat.

"Give me your reason, and I will disprove it," was the reply of Lovel.

"A certain person wrote to me that you intended to meet Miss Lester."

"What is the name of your informant?"

"I decline to give it, Mr. Lovel."

"In that case," said Lucas, moving on, "I must decline to answer
further questions."

"No!" cried Herne, laying a strong grasp on the arm of the young man,
"you don't escape me that way, you--you murderer!"

"Murderer!" repeated Lovel, shaking off the grip of the other. "What
do you mean?"

"Mean, sir?--that you shot Miss Lester; that you killed my promised
wife!"

"You are mad to make so monstrous an accusation!" said Lovel, sharply.
"I would not have hurt a hair of Miss Lester's head. I--I--I respected
her too much."

"You mean you loved her too much," scoffed Herne.

Lovel shrugged his shoulders, and turning his back on the squire
addressed himself to Chaskin and Mexton. "Gentlemen," he said, "Mr.
Herne is evidently upset by the death of Miss Lester, and not
responsible for his speech. I should advise you to take him home."

"But you can assure him that you did not meet Miss Lester last night?"
said Chaskin.

"What!" cried Lovel, ironically, "do you believe also that I did? I
beg your pardon; I see you are Herne's most intimate friend, and must
stand up for him."

"I can stand up for myself with the help of God," said Herne,
fiercely; "you need not lie to me, Lovel. I know you loved Millicent
Lester, and that you met her several times during my absence. You
wanted to marry her and draw her into worldly paths."

Lovel faced round with black wrath on his face, and burst out in a
fury, "I wanted to save her from you!" he cried, clenching his hands.
"I loved her with a love of which your cold, frigid nature is
incapable. Yes, I met her several times, and I urged her to break off
the marriage with a man who desired to use her in order to minister to
his vanity. You would have made a nun of the poor girl; you would have
tortured her heart with your infernal religious fanaticism; and from
that fate I wished to rescue her. Much as I deplore her death, I am
glad she died rather than marry you!"

"I believe that--you mocker and profligate! you----"

"Profligate!" repeated Lovel, in disdain. "And what are you--in
London? Here you are a saint, with your religion and aspirations; but
what are you when with Catinka?"

"Catinka," cried Mexton, astonished at Lovel's knowledge of the name.

"Yes; the Polish violinist, with her Anarchistic plots against the
Czar. The woman who uses her beauty to snare men into conspiracy and
devilment. I knew her before you did, Herne, and I know she wanted me
to become her slave and fellow-conspirator; but I escaped and came
down here out of her way. I heard how you met her, and I know how you
love her----"

"Liar! I do not love her!"

"You do--you do!" declared Lovel furiously; "you love her, and it was
at her house that you wasted your time in London when supposed to be
absent on religious missions. I intended to tell all your wickedness
to Miss Lester last night."

"Ah! you met her! I knew it!"

"I did not meet her," returned Lovel haughtily; "she left the church
in the middle of the service, and I did not see her again. This
morning I heard of her death; but I am as innocent of it as you are."

"I don't believe it!" said Herne in hard tones. "I believe you met
her, and because she would not leave me for you, you killed her."

"I deny that I did, Herne; but since you accuse me, it remains for you
to make good your accusation."

"I shall do so--and hang you for your crime!"

"Take care the halter does not go round your own neck."

"What! do you accuse me of the murder?"

"I accuse no one. I leave it to you, Mr. Herne, to make accusations
which you cannot prove. Good-day to you all. Herne, you know where I
live; any time you wish me to meet you I shall do so. But," added
Lucas scornfully, "till you have evidence, I should advise you to
restrain your tongue. I may not be so patient at our next meeting."

Lovel walked away with a proud and defiant air, but Herne made no
attempt to follow. He stood quite still, pale and motionless, with a
glassy look in his eyes, and his mouth slightly open. Paul turned from
watching the retreating figure of Lovel, to address him, and recoiled
from this frozen look with an exclamation of alarm.

"Chaskin! What is the matter with Herne?"

The clergyman turned round, and seeing the rigidity of his friend,
went forward and shook his arm. "It is one of his trances," he said
composedly, "and will pass in a few moments. The excitement of
speaking with Lovel has thrown him into it."

"Is he often like this?"

"No; only when his nervous system is wrought up by unusual excitement.
As a rule it is his religious emotions which throw him into these
states."

"Can he move?"

"Not unless he is guided; see!" Here Chaskin took Herne's arm, and led
him down the road. The squire moved stiffly, like an automaton, with
unseeing eyes staring straight before him. "Otherwise, Mr. Mexton,"
continued the Vicar, "he remains standing, or sitting, or lying, in
precisely the same attitude as when in his trance."

"Can't you wake him out of this cataleptic state?"

"There is no need to," rejoined Chaskin; "he will come out of it as
suddenly as he has fallen into it. The time varies, that is all; he
may remain thus for an hour, or recover himself in a few moments.
See--he is getting better now."

At that moment the eyelids of Herne quivered, a sigh issued from his
half-open mouth, and a sudden colour flushed his face. In another
minute he looked round and spoke quite naturally. "Where is Lovel?" he
demanded.

"Gone away," replied Chaskin, taking his friend's arm; "and I think we
had better go too."

"No," said Herne, who seemed quite unaware of his trance; "we
must search this spot." He looked round at the trees, and down
on the red soil. Suddenly he picked up a feather--that of a goose,
apparently--which was stained in attractive bands of red, yellow,
blue, and green.

"The Rainbow Feather!" he cried in a tone of terror; "and here--the
Rainbow Feather!"




CHAPTER IX.
THE INQUEST AT HERNE ARMS.


There were many people in Barnstead on the day when the inquest was
held on the body of Milly Lester. The youth and beauty of the poor
girl, the tragic circumstances of her death, and the knowledge, which
was now spread widely abroad, that Dr. Lester was the assassin, all
invested the affair with wondrous interest. From far and near people
poured into Barnstead to hear the evidence of the father's guilt even
at second hand; and crowds repaired to the Winding Lane in order to
examine the fatal spot. Never had such excitement been known in the
somnolent village.

The coroner and jury were assembled in the largest room of The Herne
Arms, and after surveying the body of the victim, they called all
necessary witnesses to testify to the manner of her death, and the
guilt of him who had brought it about. Drek had prepared his case
against Dr. Lester with great care, being now convinced by the
strongest of circumstantial evidence that he was the murderer. As yet
Lester had not been arrested, but Drek had kept him constantly under
his own eye, and had in his pocket a warrant for his arrest. This he
intended to execute as soon as the jury delivered their verdict. He
had no doubt as to what the verdict would be.

Darcy Herne was present at the inquest, and several times he asserted
his belief in the innocence of Dr. Lester. When Lester himself, pale
and haggard, arrived at the inn, under the escort of Drek, the squire
shook him by the hand in the warmest manner. Lester was much touched
by this proof of friendship from one who had never regarded him with
much approval.

"It is good of you to give me your hand, Herne," he said in a
faltering voice, "particularly as you know the cloud that lies over my
reputation."

"It is for that reason I do it, Lester. I believe you to be innocent."

"Ah," sighed Lester, passing his hand across his eyes, "I wish I could
believe that myself."

Herne was rather amazed by this strange speech, and replied rather
stiffly: "You must certainly know if you shot Milly or not?"

"That is just what I don't know," retorted Lester with a haggard look.
"I left home under the influence of drink and with a pistol in my
possession, angry with Milly for the way in which she was deceiving
you. I recollect nothing after that until I found myself at dawn in my
own garden; the events of the night have vanished from my mind; my
memory is a complete blank. Who knows but what I may not have shot my
poor Milly unknowingly?"

"H'm!" said Herne, thoughtfully; "in a condition like that you would
certainly act in accordance with the uppermost thought in your mind.
Was it to kill Milly?"

"God forbid! Even in my drunken frenzy I had no thought of harming my
own flesh and blood. I wanted to kill the man who was to meet
her--Lucas Lovel."

"How do you know that he was going to meet her on that night?" asked
Herne, eagerly.

"I did not know for certain," replied Lester, "but as Milly had not
come home, I thought she might be with Lovel. She met him before, you
know."

"Yes, I know," said Darcy, gloomily. "Well, if you went out to kill
Lovel, you would not shoot at your own daughter."

"She might have thrown herself in the way to protect Lovel."

"I doubt it. But only Lovel can prove that, and he denies that he met
her on that night."

"Do you believe him?"

"No!" said Herne savagely. "I received a note in London which advised
me that they were going to meet."

"Who wrote the note?"

"I can't tell you yet. The person who wrote it wishes to remain
unknown for the present. But I believe that Lovel met Milly and killed
her because she would not marry him. Mind you," continued Herne,
energetically, "I have no proof of this; but I mean to obtain proof in
order to hang Lovel and save you."

"I'm afraid I'm past saving," sighed Lester. "Even Drek believes me to
be guilty, and, as I cannot recall the events of the night, I dare not
swear that I am innocent. Oh, God! that I should be in such a
position! ignorant of my own acts; and all on account of that accursed
drink! I am rightly punished for my vice."

Herne said nothing, for the present was no time for reproaches, but,
taking Lester by the arm, he led him into the room where the jury were
seated. Already the proceedings had begun, and the witnesses summoned
by Inspector Drek were giving evidence. Mr. Chaskin was called first,
and deposed that after evening service on Sunday he had been summoned
to a house on the other side of the common to pray with a dying man.
He returned to Barnstead by the short way of the Winding Lane, and on
entering the wood he had stumbled over a body which was lying in the
roadway near the stile. Thinking that she had fainted--for by the
touch of the garments and the faint glimmer of the moonlight he
perceived that the deceased was a woman--he lighted a match to see who
she was, and what was the matter with her. Then he recognised the face
of Millicent Lester, and that she was dead. There was a wound in the
back of the head. The body was lying face downward, and he had to turn
it over in order to perceive the features. At once he went on to The
Herne Arms and roused up four or five men. These returned with him to
the stile and carried the body to the house of Dr. Lester, whence it
was removed subsequently to the inn for the inquest. Mr. Chaskin said
he heard no shot, and that he had seen no one about either on the
common or in the wood. It was about eleven, or a little after, when he
discovered the body. He had no idea as to who could have killed the
deceased.

The next witness was Dr. Rollin, the rival to Lester in Barnstead, and
the medical man who had examined the body. He deposed that he had made
the examination on Monday morning. The deceased had been shot from
behind, and the bullet had passed right through the brain. It had
entered a little above the nape of the neck, and had come out on one
side of the nose. Death must have been instantaneous. He examined the
body at nine o'clock on Monday morning; and from its condition he
could state that death must have taken place between eight and nine of
the previous night; twelve hours, more or less, elapsed, as he
believed, between the death and the examination.

Inspector Drek stated that he had been called to Barnstead from
Marborough by the information that Millicent Lester had been murdered.
He came at once to the house of the deceased. She had died from the
effects of a pistol shot, as Dr. Rollin had stated. He had examined
the spot where the body had been found, but could discover no evidence
there likely to lead to the identification of the criminal. The pistol
could not be found; and as the bullet had passed right through the
head of the deceased it could not be found either. The spot where the
body was discovered was of a deep-red clay, somewhat softened by
recent rain. There were many footmarks about, but these were probably
those of the bearers who had brought home the body.

Iris Link, on being sworn, declared that the deceased had said nothing
to her about going to the Winding Lane on that night. She (deceased)
had left St. Dunstan's Church during the service and had not been seen
alive since leaving. Witness did not know why deceased had left. She
knew that the dead girl was in the habit of meeting Mr. Lucas Lovel,
but did not know for certain if she had met him on that night. Still,
she suspected, as deceased had not come home that such a meeting might
have taken place. The body of deceased was brought home shortly after
midnight on Sunday night. She had no idea who had killed deceased, nor
had any knowledge of the motive for the crime.

Mr. Mexton watched the face and listened to the voice of Iris as she
made this last statement, for he recalled how she had asked him not to
seek for the assassin. For this reason he believed that she knew who
had killed Milly, and for some reason--of which he was naturally
ignorant--she desired to screen the guilty person. It struck him that
she might betray herself while under examination, but in this he was
wrong. Without a change of expression, in a firm voice she denied all
knowledge of the possible murderer. After this final assertion she
stepped down and gave place to Lucas Lovel.

This young man, who was pale but composed, stated that he had not met
Milly Lester on the fatal night. He had intended to do so, but meeting
with Gran Jimboy he had gone with her to her tent on the other side of
the common, and had not returned to The Herne Arms, where he resided,
till ten o'clock. He had walked over by the road, and had not taken
the short cut through the woods. He swore that he had not been in the
Winding Lane on Sunday night.

Gran Jimboy was summoned by Lovel to corroborate this evidence. The
old gipsy stated that she had met Lucas at eight o'clock, immediately
after service in St. Dunstan's Church, and had induced him to come to
her tent to hear some information which nearly concerned him. The
information was private, and had nothing to do with the murder. Lovel,
said the woman, had stayed with her till nearly ten o'clock, and then
had walked back to the village by the high road. She knew this, as she
had gone part of the way with him.

Thus, by the evidence of Gran Jimboy, an alibi in favour of Lovel was
clearly proved; and he was exonerated from any complicity in the
crime. Still, Herne did not believe the evidence, as Mexton could see
by the mocking smile on his lips. However, he made no attempt to
speak, and the proceedings continued.

Eliza, the servant of Dr. Lester, was the next witness, and she told
her story with shrill volubility. For the moment she was the most
important person in the room, as on her evidence was based the charge
which was known to be made against Dr. Lester. Eliza knew that her
master would be arrested on the statements she could make against him,
and relished the situation exceedingly. She had no idea of the cruelty
of her feelings towards the man whose bread she had eaten.

Eliza stated, with many airs and graces, that she was the domestic
servant of Dr. Lester, and had been in this situation for some years.
Her master was in the habit of getting drunk two or three times in the
week; when in this condition, he always went about with a loaded
revolver, so that the inmates of the house were in peril of their
lives. Dr. Lester had been delighted by the engagement of the deceased
to Mr. Herne; and he was angry at the meeting of Miss Lester with Mr.
Lovel. Eliza knew that they met, as it was common gossip. On the night
of the murder Miss Lester and Miss Link went to church, while the
doctor remained at home drinking.

Miss Milly did not return; but Miss Iris did, in the company of Mrs.
Drass. When Mrs. Drass departed, Eliza heard high words between the
doctor and Miss Link relative to the meetings of the deceased with Mr.
Lovel. Afterwards Miss Iris went out to seek Miss Milly, whom she
thought was with Mr. Lovel; but Eliza did not know if this were so.
Dr. Lester continued drinking, and, fearing lest he should cause
trouble, witness watched the door of the consulting-room. Shortly
after half-past eight Dr. Lester came out, holding a pistol in his
hand; he was mad with drink, and cried out about his daughter and
Lovel. Then he rushed out, and witness thought he intended murder. He
did not come home till seven in the morning, and then he had no
pistol, but his clothes were daubed with red mud, such as is found in
the Winding Lane. He began to drink again; but before doing so he
changed his clothes. Witness swore that he went out with the intention
of killing his daughter, but she did not think he did it deliberately,
as he was mad with drink.

Dr. Lester was then called to refute this evidence if he was able. He
stated that he had gone out as Eliza described, and with a pistol. He
wished to kill Lovel, but he did not know what he said. He did not
remember what he did or where he went after leaving the house; but he
had an indistinct recollection of meeting someone--man or woman he
could not say. His pistol was gone when he returned home at seven in
the morning, but he did not know where he lost it. Also his clothes
were covered with red mud, so it was possible he might have wandered
into the Winding Lane, and have fallen in the moist clay. But he
recollected nothing. He had no intention of harming his daughter, as
he loved her too much.

Iris Link, recalled, said that Dr. Lester was in the habit of carrying
about a loaded revolver when drunk. She did not know if he took it out
on the Sunday night, but it was not in its case the next day. She
stated also that she heard a shot fired at nine o'clock, when she was
standing in the shadow of St. Dunstan's Church. She had never heard
Dr. Lester threaten his daughter; but he was certainly very irate at
the behaviour of Mr. Lovel.

This was all the evidence which had been collected by Drek; and it
certainly was against Lester. His own testimony rather inculpated than
exonerated him; and from the faces of the jury Paul saw that they
inclined to believe Lester guilty. Mexton himself could not make up
his mind; appearances pointed to the perpetration of the crime by Dr.
Lester when in a state of intoxication; but it was possible that he
might be innocent after all. Still, how his innocence was to be proved
it was difficult to say.

"Herne might do it," thought Paul, as he took down the evidence, "for
he seems to believe Lovel guilty, although Gran Jimboy's statement
goes to clear him. Also Herne knows something in connection with that
feather which he picked up. I wonder what that odd-coloured feather
has to do with the matter, and whether it could prove the guilt of
some person of whom at present we know nothing?"

There was no answer to this question, and Herne made no sign of making
any statement about the feather in favour of Lester. He stood quite
still, and listened to the summing-up of the coroner--a summing-up
which was dead against Lester. The coroner declared that Lester must
have been in the Winding Lane on that night, else he could not have
got the red clay on his clothes. The question was whether he was there
after or before nine o'clock, the hour when, according to Miss Link's
evidence, the fatal shot was fired. The coroner was inclined to think
that Lester went straight from his own house to the Winding Lane,
knowing that was the spot in which his daughter usually met Lovel; and
there, finding his daughter waiting for Lovel--who was then in the
tent of Gran Jimboy--had fired and killed her. Perhaps he would have
killed Lovel had he been present, but in his absence he vented his
rage on the deceased. The crime, however, was committed while Lester
was drunk, and therefore he was not responsible for his actions.

The result of this speech was that the jury--already prejudiced--found
Lester guilty; and immediately the wretched father was arrested by
Inspector Drek.




CHAPTER X.
THE PROPHECY AGAIN.


When the inquest was over, and Dr. Lester had departed for Marborough
gaol under the escort of Inspector Drek, the young journalist remained
standing thoughtfully in the square before the inn. Nobody was
surprised at the verdict, and everyone--as Paul could hear asserted on
all sides--believed that Dr. Lester had murdered his own daughter
while in a state of frenzy induced by intoxication. But Mexton had his
doubts about the matter, principally on account of the words spoken by
Iris when she wished him to cease from searching for the assassin. He
wished to question her as to what she meant; and implore her, if she
knew the truth, to reveal it and save her unfortunate stepfather.
While he was considering the advisability of following Iris to Poverty
Villa, he felt a touch on his arm. It was Eliza, and her face was
grave.

"I want to speak t' you, sir, if y' don't mind," she said quietly,
with an entire absence of her former self-importance; "but not here; I
want t' speak you--alone."

"Why? Is anything wrong?"

"I think so, Mr. Mexton--and with Miss Iris."

"Miss Iris?" repeated Paul, glancing round. "Where is she?"

"She's gone home. You follow her, sir, and ask her a question."

"What kind of question?" demanded Paul, startled by this hint.

Eliza drew Mexton to one side, until they were both out of earshot of
the scattered groups, and bent forward to whisper in his ear, "Ask her
why she went out after they brought home the corpse of Miss Milly?"
she said; and before Paul could make any comment on this remark, she
laid her finger on her mouth, and walked away.

At first Paul intended to follow her, and demand an explanation; but
on consideration he deemed it best to take her advice, and ask the
question directly of Iris herself. More would be learnt by thus going
to the fountain-head. Eliza evidently suspected something; and, afraid
to question Iris directly, had hinted her suspicions to Paul that he
might do so. With his usual promptitude Mexton sent over his notes on
the trial by special messenger to the editor of the "Tory Times" at
Marborough; and set forth at a brisk walk to Poverty Villa. He
believed firmly at the moment that the saving of Dr. Lester from
suffering unjustly lay in the hands of his step-daughter.

As he passed along the street towards the desolate house in which
the poor girl was waiting, he was surprised to meet with Herne, and
still more surprised when Herne stopped to speak; for the man was not
over-friendly towards him.

"What do you think of the verdict?" asked the squire abruptly.

"It seems just enough, going by the evidence," replied Mexton
cautiously.

"No doubt. This is one of those cases in which circumstantial evidence
accumulates to hang an innocent man."

"You believe Dr. Lester to be innocent?"

"I do--as surely as I believe Lovel to be guilty."

"My dear sir!" protested the journalist. "Lovel proved his innocence
by an alibi."

"No doubt; on the evidence of that old witch Mother Jimboy. Bah! a
made-up plot!"

"I don't think so, Herne. Why should Mother Jimboy assist Lovel?"

"Why?" repeated the squire--"because blood is thicker than water; and,
I told you the other day, Lovel has got gipsy blood in his veins."

"Who told you so?"

"The lady at whose name you blushed when I mentioned it in the Winding
Lane."

"Catinka?" said Paul, blushing again.

"Yes; Catinka, the violinist. Lovel knows her, and told her that his
mother was Romany, perhaps the daughter of Gran Jimboy--who knows?
That is why the old woman lied."

"Because Lovel is her grandson?"

"No, no; I am not sure of that; but because Lovel is a half-gipsy. But
in spite of the alibi I believe he is guilty. I'll prove his guilt and
hang him!"

"Why do you hate him so, Herne?"

"Because he led that poor girl to her death. I wished to save the soul
of Milly; but it is lost, and Lovel is the cause. Besides, I believe
it is my duty to succor the afflicted, and of the afflicted Dr. Lester
is one. An innocent man shall not die on the scaffold if I can help
it. God forbid! I'll save Lester, and hang Lovel. The end of this
tragedy has not yet come, Mexton."

"But if you----"

Herne waved his hand and interrupted Mexton.

"I can't waste any more time discussing the matter," he said,
retreating. "I'll see you again when I have proofs to hang Lovel."
After which speech he walked rapidly away, without the courtesy of an
adieu.

"Mad!" said Paul to himself, and resumed his interrupted journey
towards Poverty Villa. In his own heart the young man believed that
Herne was insane; his fanaticism in religion was a proof of an
ill-balanced mind; and now this furious hatred of Lovel--just enough,
in the face of Lovel's attentions to Milly in wilful disregard of the
engagement with Herne--threatened to rob him of all his self-control.
Failing to fasten the crime on Lovel, and it seemed impossible to do
so, Herne was quite capable of shooting the man in a fit of rage.
Knowing that Chaskin had most influence over Darcy, the journalist
determined to put him on his guard relative to the squire's hatred of
Lovel. But this warning word need not be spoken immediately; and in
the meantime Paul was anxious to see Iris.

The door of Poverty Villa was wide open; and the untidy house in its
neglected garden looked more desolate than ever. Lester was on his way
to Marborough gaol; Milly was lying in her coffin at The Herne Arms;
and Eliza had not yet returned. Therefore Paul knew that Iris was
alone in the house with a heavy burden of grief to bear. Slipping
lightly into the passage, he glanced through the open door of the
dining-room, but she was not there. The drawing-room was also
empty; so as a last resource he softly opened the door of the
consulting-room, and beheld the poor girl seated at the desk with her
head bowed on her folded arms. Sobs were shaking her frame, and she
looked as though the sorrows of the past week were crushing her to the
earth.

"Iris," he said softly, "my poor girl."

With an exclamation she lifted her head, and on seeing Paul rose to
her feet hastily, brushing away the tears from her face. Then, with a
little gasp, she moved forward with outstretched hands, to greet the
only friend who remained to her in the desolation of her life.

"Paul," she said with relief, "oh, my dear, I am glad to see you!"

He led her to a seat, and, taking a chair beside her, pressed her hand
warmly. "My dear Iris," said he, "at such a time you need the services
of your best friend. Let me be that friend."

"Thank you, Paul," she said faintly. "Oh, this horrible tragedy! Shall
I ever get it out of my head?"

"Time will bring comfort, Iris. In the meantime, let me ask what you
intend to do now? You cannot remain here."

"No; you are right there. Milly is dead; her father is in gaol on the
charge of having killed her, and I am alone in the world."

"Have you any money?"

"Not one penny. The last money I got from my step-father went to pay
last week's bills."

"Then you cannot remain here, as I said before."

"Where am I to go?" asked Iris helplessly.

"To Marborough--to my mother. She told me to ask you."

"How good and kind of her, Paul! I should like--but, oh!" she burst
out, "how can I go to Marborough to be pointed out as the relative of
a murderer?"

"Wait one moment before you call Dr. Lester by that name, Iris. Are
you sure that he is the murderer of Milly?"

"I don't know. I can't say. The verdict at the inquest----"

"Never mind the verdict at the inquest," interposed Paul quickly. "I
want to know what you think."

"Why do you want to know what I think?"

"Because I believe you can save an innocent man from being hanged."

"I? No, no! I can do nothing!"

"Iris," said Mexton, taking her hand, "you asked me never to look for
the assassin of Milly. Did you do so to save Dr. Lester?"

"No. At that time I did not think that he would be accused."

"Then you suspect someone?"

"I--I have my suspicions," she said, in hesitating tones.

"What are they? To whom do they point?"

"I can't tell you. I am not certain. I may be deceived. Paul!" cried
Iris in desperation, "don't ask me. My answer may condemn an innocent
person!"

"Your silence acts in the same way, Iris. Dr. Lester is in danger of
death, and you know he is innocent."

"He is--he is! I don't believe that he killed Milly. But how should I
know the name of the real assassin?"

"Because you saw him on that night."

"I? I was not out on that night--at least, after the body was brought
home."

"Iris, why will you lie to me? Eliza saw you leave the house after
midnight."

"Eliza! Ah, that wretched girl has brought ruin on us all!"

"Not so--if I can save you. Tell me--did you go out?"

"Wait--wait! I'll answer in a moment. Give me time."

She rose to her feet, and, with clasped hands, walked twice or thrice
up and down the room. Evidently she was considering what to say, and
after some thought she faced round on Paul.

"I shall tell you," she said slowly, "but you will use the knowledge
to hunt down the assassin of Milly?"

"Assuredly! I wish to save Dr. Lester from suffering an unjust death."

"So do I, so do I! But, oh!"--she struck her hand together--"was ever
a woman placed in such a position? If I could only speak!"

"You must," said Paul determinedly, "or else have your step-father's
death at your door. Come, Iris, do you know the name of the assassin?"

"No, but I suspect----"

"Suspect whom?"

"Lucas Lovel."

Mexton rose from his seat in astonishment. "Do you believe him guilty,
as Herne does?"

"Does Mr. Herne believe in his guilt?" asked Iris quickly.

"So thoroughly that he intends to bring Lovel to the scaffold."

"He will never succeed in doing so," cried the girl involuntarily.

"Why not?"

"He will not be able to obtain any evidence."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mexton drily. "Herne is a fanatic; he
is clever; he is extremely pertinacious; and he hates Lovel like
poison."

"For all that, I do not believe he will be able to accumulate
sufficient evidence to get Mr. Lovel arrested. Besides, he has a
clever foe, who will defend Mr. Lovel."

"A foe?" said Paul, puzzled--"and the name of the foe?"

"Mother Jimboy."

"What! that old fool! How can she defend Lovel?"

"She did so to-day by that alibi. She will do so again, you may be
sure."

"What reason have you to believe that Mrs. Jimboy is implicated in the
case!"

Iris thought for a moment. "On the day before Milly was killed," she
said, slowly, "she and Mr. Lovel met with Gran Jimboy, who prophesied
by palmistry that Milly would die a violent death."

"You don't say so! Go on."

"Well, Milly did perish by violence the next night. I truly believe
that she met Lovel in the Winding Lane, and that he killed her."

"Why should he kill her? He loved her."

"He did--so much that he killed her rather than that Mr. Herne should
marry her. I tell you, Paul, that Mr. Lucas is a man of violent
passions, and I believe he was egged on by Mother Jimboy to the
murder."

"Why should Mother Jimboy desire Milly's death?"

"I don't know; no more than I can guess why she provided that lying
alibi. I am sure that Lovel shot Milly, and then went across the
common to Mother Jimboy's tent so as to appear innocent."

"But why do you believe all this?"

"Because of the prophecy which was fulfilled; because of the
unexplained association of Mother Jimboy and Lovel, and because I saw
Lovel when I went out after midnight."

"You saw Lovel?" said Paul, incredulously.

"Yes; I fancied that Dr. Lester might have killed Milly; and to save
him I went to look for him. I could not find him on the fatal spot,
but there was a man there who ran away when he heard my approach. I
saw his face in the moonlight. He was Mr. Lovel."




CHAPTER XI.
BRENT SPEAKS OUT.


"It was Mr. Lovel," repeated Iris; "and if he was not concerned in the
murder, what was he doing at midnight on the very spot where it
occurred?"

"He may have been there after twelve o'clock," said Paul; "but to
inculpate him you must prove that he met Milly between eight and
nine."

"I can't prove it; no one can prove it."

"I am not sure of that," replied Paul, with sudden recollection;
"there is a man called Brent who was in the Winding Lane on that
night, and about that time. I'll see him."

Iris shook her head. "If Brent had known anything he would have come
forward at the inquest."

"No doubt--if he had not been bribed."

"What makes you think that Brent has been bribed?" asked Iris, in
surprise.

"I do not think so; but Herne insists upon it."

"Mr. Herne!" said Iris, in a low voice, and with a flush--"he believes
Lovel guilty also?"

"Yes--and without your grounds for belief. Also, he declares that
Lovel bribed Brent to hold his tongue."

"Does Mr. Herne think that Brent saw the murder committed?"

"Oh, no! but he thinks that Brent saw Lovel with Milly."

"I am certain Milly, poor girl, was with Lovel on that night, and I
believe he killed her."

There was a few minutes' silence, and then Paul turned quickly towards
Iris. "I want to ask you a rather rude question," said he, awkwardly.

"What is it?"

"You won't be angry?"

"I am long past feeling anger after what I have gone through," said
Iris, sadly. "What is it you wish to know, friend?"

"You asked me not to search for the assassin of Milly; and now I find
that you believe the assassin to be Lovel. Are you in love with the
man, that you sought to screen him?"

"In love with Mr. Lovel!" cried Iris, indignantly. "Not I! I despise
him too much! A man who would act as he has done with Milly, knowing
that she was engaged to Herne, is not worthy of a woman's love! No; I
do not love, or even respect, Mr. Lovel."

"Then why do you seek to screen him?"

Iris rose to her feet with a cold look. "I cannot answer that question
now. I had my reasons for acting as I did."

"What do you mean?" asked Mexton, rising in his turn. "I don't
understand you."

"If I told you my reasons, you would understand still less," said Iris
bitterly. "I do not understand myself. But don't ask me any more
questions, Paul. I have told you all I know."

"All!" said Mexton, with emphasis, his eyes searching her face.

"All I can tell you now, at all events," she replied, obstinately.

After this last remark Mexton was satisfied that Iris, for reasons of
her own which he could not guess, had not confessed all she knew. Yet
as he was unaware of her motives for this reserve, he did not think it
wise to press his questions. Better, he thought, to accept her refusal
for the moment, and question her on some future occasion, when she
might be more inclined to take him into her confidence. Moreover, by
examining Brent, and forcing him into confession, he might get at her
knowledge without the necessity of procuring it through herself. The
matter thus settled in his own mind, Paul discarded the subject of the
murder, and addressed himself to the question of Miss Link's position.

"You will accept my mother's offer, I suppose?" said he, quietly. "At
all events you will stay with her until after the trial of your
stepfather?"

Iris winced. "I do not care about facing Marborough gossip," she said;
"but I think it best to stay with Mrs. Mexton, as I am afraid to
remain here alone. I shall go over to Marborough by the six o'clock
coach. Eliza can stay here in charge of the house."

"Very good, Iris. I shall meet you at six o'clock at The Herne Arms
and take you over."

"And in the meantime--?"

"I intend to find out Brent, and force him to confess the truth."

This arrangement having been come to, Paul left Poverty Villa, and
went off in the direction of the village. On his way towards the
market-place, where he expected to find Brent--for it was market-day
in Barnstead, and the town was full of farmers and labourers--Mexton
remembered that the ploughman had confessed to being with one Jane
Bilway in the Winding Lane. If this were so, the woman must have seen
as much as the man; and if she had not been bribed also, it was more
likely that he would be able to extract the truth from her. Mexton
knew most people, high and low, in Barnstead, amongst these Jane
Bilway, who was a servant at The Chequers, a little public-house on
the outskirts of the village. Thither he turned his steps to see what
he could learn from the woman.

Jane was a broad, squat wench with a healthy red face and dull eyes.
She had about as much intelligence as a cow, and was only useful in
doing rough work and common drudgery. She was, at the moment of Paul's
arrival, cleaning the front windows of The Chequers, and recognised
him with a friendly grin. At once Mexton began to ask her questions on
the subject which was uppermost in his mind.

"Jane," he said, quietly, "you are to marry Giles Brent, they say?"

"Yes, Mr. Mexton. We've bin keepin' company since Christmas."

"You see him occasionally?"

"Most ivery day. He comes here a lot; he's inside now, havin' a wet,"
said Jane, pointing to the window of the tap-room.

This was better news than Paul expected, for it gave him the chance
of an immediate conversation with Brent. But before entering the
public-house, he pursued his plan of gaining information from Jane.

"Were you walking with him on the night Miss Lester was killed?"

"I were," replied Miss Bilway, frankly. "We went to the Methody Chapel
together."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Just by the church, sir. We heard the shot fired when the bell was
ringing."

"But you were with him in the Winding Lane?"

Jane shook her head emphatically. "No, I wasn't, sir," she denied. "I
couldn't git away in time to go there. I wasn't in the lane on that
night."

"Oh!" Paul noted that Brent had been telling a lie. "You met Brent by
St. Dunstan's Church at nine o'clock, and went to the Methodist
Chapel?"

"Yes, I did. And I 'eard the shot fired, but I thought it was nothin',
though Giles he wanted to go back."

"You didn't see Miss Lester on that night?"

"No, sir; but I see Miss Iris, her sister, by the church at nine. She
must 'ave heard the shot, too."

"I daresay," replied Paul, with assumed carelessness. "Well, Jane,
here's a sovereign to buy yourself a wedding-present."

"Thank you, sir," said Jane, slipping the coin into her pocket. "I
wants all I can git, though to be sure Giles ain't badly off for
money."

"Oh, he has money, has he?" said Mexton, recollecting Herne's idea of
the bribery; "a few shillings, no doubt?"

"A good few shillings, sir! Five pounds of 'em! We're goin' to spend
'em on the weddin'. Giles saved up the money from his wages. He's a
good fellow, is Giles, sir."

"I'm sure he is; I hope he'll make you a good husband."

"I'll see to that!" replied Miss Bilway, grimly, and she went on
cleaning the windows.

Paul laughed as he entered the tap-room, and thought of the ingenious
Mr. Brent's device for accounting for his possession of the money. He
was well known to be a thriftless wastrel, who spent most of his
earnings in strong ale; and was as likely to save five pounds as he
was to do an honest day's work. No one but simple Jane Bilway, blinded
by love, would have believed so improbable a story. There was now no
doubt in Paul's mind that the theory of Herne was correct. Lovel and
Milly had met in the Winding Lane between eight and nine o'clock on
the night of the murder, and had been seen by Brent as he was on his
way to meet Jane near the church. Lest he should tell Herne of the
meeting Lovel had bribed him with the five pounds.

"Though it is a large sum for a man like Lovel to give," thought Paul;
"he is not well off, and would not part with so much money unless he
was forced to. I hope the five pounds was not given to conceal a worse
affair than a simple meeting. However, I'll play a game of bluff with
Brent, and wring the truth, whatever it may be, out of him."

Brent, who was a huge, bull-headed fellow with a sulky face, sat alone
in the tap-room with a mug of ale before him. He touched his hat to
Paul, whom he recognised, and looked puzzled for the moment at the
sight of a gentleman in a low-class public-house, which was usually
patronised by himself and those of his class.

"Well, Brent," said Paul, in a cheerful voice, "how are you? All
right--eh? I have just come to have a few moments of conversation with
you."

Brent took his pipe from his lips, and gave a sulky growl. "What
about, sir?"

"I'll tell you in good time," replied Paul, taking a chair, and
selecting a cigarette from his case. "In the meantime, I am thirsty,
and wish to drink. You'll have some ale with me?"

"I'd 'ave ale wi' anyone," said Brent, suspiciously; "but I don't
know, sir, what the likes o' you wants with the likes o' me."

"We'll come to that soon," said Mexton, and hammered on the table.
"Two tankards of bitter," he added to the slip-slop landlady, who
entered with a deferential smile.

The liquor was soon brought, and after a deep draught Paul lighted his
cigarette, and looked closely at the ploughman. Brent took a drink
also, and tried to appear at ease, although he was visibly disturbed
by the scrutiny of his visitor. Having reduced him to a doubtful frame
of mind, Mexton addressed himself to the matter in hand.

He knew the manner of the man he had to do with, and that it would not
be an easy matter to extract information from such a sulky brute.
Threats also would avail little, as Brent was one of these pig-headed
men, who begin by denying, and go on doing so in the face of the
clearest evidence with incredible obstinacy. The sole chance of
getting at the truth was to assume that Lovel had confessed the
bribery to him--that is, to Paul Mexton--and had sent him on an errand
connected therewith to Brent. This attitude necessitated the telling
of a few lies; but Mexton was quite prepared to tell them. He was
cool-headed and pertinacious, and not the man to stick at a trifle for
the gaining of his own ends.

"I have come to you from Mr. Lovel," said Paul, slowly.

Brent's jaw dropped. "What's the likes of him want with the likes of
me?" he said.

"A little decency, in the first place," replied Mexton. "You promised
to hold your tongue about the meeting of Mr. Lovel and Miss Lester on
the night of the murder."

"How d'ye know they met?" asked Brent, with dogged suspicion.

"Mr. Lovel told me. Do you think I would know if he had not?--or that
I would be aware that he paid you five pounds to hold your tongue?"

Brent, whose brain worked slowly, fell into the trap at once. Unless
Lovel had spoken, as Mexton declared, he did not think Paul could have
come by such exact information; the more particularly as the precise
amount of the bribe was mentioned. It never occurred to Brent at the
moment that Jane had innocently betrayed him.

"Well, I've earned the money all right, ain't I?" he growled.

"Indeed you have done no such thing!" replied Mexton. "You have been
talking about the meeting."

"I swear I ain't!" cried Brent, bringing down his huge fist on the
table. "I cud 'ave talked about it when they sat on the corpse; but I
didn't. I stayed here and shut up. I never told a single soul as I
seed Mr. Lovel and Miss Milly walking in the Winding Lane on that
night."

This was quite enough. Herne had been right and Lovel had met Milly by
appointment on the fatal night. Therefore the alibi proved by Mother
Jimboy was a deception to defeat the ends of justice; and Lovel was in
league with the gipsy. Paul began to believe that he might have killed
Milly after all; but he resolved to question Brent further before
coming to so important a conclusion.

"Well, I daresay Mr. Lovel was mistaken," said Paul, genially; "it
would be dangerous for him were it known that he met Miss Lester on
that night."

"I don't see it!" growled Brent.

"I do; and so does Mr. Lovel; that is why he asked me to see if you
had kept silence. If it was known that Mr. Lovel was in the Winding
Lane on that night, he might be accused of the murder."

"Let 'em accuse!" said Brent, grimly, "they can't prove he killed the
gal. And I knows he didn't, else I'd not held my tongue. If he was a
murderer, I'd get him hanged for all his five pounds!"

"Then you are certain Mr. Lovel is innocent?"

"Yes, I am."

"And you know who is guilty?"

"I ain't sure of that," replied Brent, after a pause; "but I saw her
creeping after Mr. Lovel and the gal, and when I heard the shot, I
ses: 'She's done it!'"

"She? Who?" asked Paul, much excited.

"Why, Miss Clyde, o' Clyde's Farm. Who else?" replied Brent, coolly.




CHAPTER XII.
A STARTLING PIECE OF EVIDENCE.


"Miss Clyde!" said Paul, staring at his informant; "but what was she
doing in the Winding Lane at so late an hour?"

"Watchin' Miss Lester, of course, sir!"

"Why? For what reason?"

Brent laughed in a coarse manner, and there was a leer on his face as
he replied to this question. "Don't y' know, sir, Miss Clyde's sweet
on Mr. Lovel, and she 'ated Miss Lester like pisin?"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure?" returned Brent, with contempt--"why, ain't I bin ploughman on
Clyde's Farm for years? an' ain't I 'eard arl the talk o' the maids?
'Tis well known theer as Miss Clyde 'ud give 'er ears to be Missus
Lovel!"

"And you think she killed Miss Lester out of jealousy?"

"I'm sure she did, sir. Wot wos she doin' in th' lane creepin' arter
them? Why wasn't she 'ome at the Farm? Oh, no, sir; she did it, for I
knows the kin' of temper she 'as! Mad bulls is nothin' to it!"

"Then Dr. Lester is innocent!" said Paul, half to himself.

"Niver thowt he were guilty," returned Brent, drily.

"Then why didn't you come forward at the inquest and confess all this,
so as to save an innocent man from arrest?"

Brent reared himself to a giant height, and he laid down his pipe on
the table. "Whoy didn't I," he thundered--'"cause I wished t' be
honourable for that there money! If I'd said I seed Miss Clyde, I'd
have had to say why she wos theer, wouldn't I? and cud I 'ave said she
were watchin' Mr. Lovel and the gal when the five pounds were given to
me to 'old my tongue? It was either tell arl or shut up," concluded
Brent, dropping back into his seat, "so I shut up."

Paul nodded. "It was the only thing you could do," he said, musingly;
"but I must see Miss Clyde and get the truth out of her."

"An' y' mus' see Mr. Lovel," said Brent, heavily. "I ain't goin' to
let the doctor be strung oop. Let Mr. Lovel git away t' Americy, an'
then I'll tell arl I've told you about Miss Clyde and Mr. Lovel, an'
th' perlice will let t' doctor out o' gaol."

"No doubt," said Mexton, rising. "And in the meantime, Brent, you had
better hold your tongue until I give you leave to speak."

"I shan't speak till Mr. Lovel ses 'es I can," said Brent, doggedly.

"I'll see Mr. Lovel about that, Brent. In the meantime, as I said
before, hold your tongue. If Inspector Drek knew what you have done
you would get into trouble."

"Shan't, sir, if y' don't tell him!"

"I don't intend to tell him," rejoined Paul, coldly. "I'll thrash out
this matter for myself. If Miss Clyde killed that poor girl, she must
suffer for her crime."

"I 'ope they'll string 'er oop!" said Brent, vindictively. "I 'ate
'er; she turned me off wi'oot a character."

Paul shrugged his shoulders at this last speech, which betrayed the
motive for Brent's accusation, and went away from the inn. It was now
growing late, and he had to return to his duties in Marborough. There
was no time to ride out two miles and see Miss Clyde; nor, if there
had been, would Paul have sought an interview so soon after the
conversation with Brent. He wished for a quiet time to consider all
that had been told to him; to marshal his facts and to draw deductions
therefrom. The truth is, Mexton was becoming bewildered by the sudden
shifting of the blame from one person to another. At first, on the
face of the circumstantial evidence supplied by Eliza, it seemed that
Dr. Lester was guilty; and even after the sifting of such evidence by
coroner and jury, it had been found strong enough to imprison him
pending a more extended trial. Then, by the belief of Herne regarding
the bribery--which was afterwards admitted by Brent--and by the
declaration of Iris, it appeared that Lovel had committed the crime.
Now came the ploughman, who positively asserted that Miss Clyde had
killed Milly. Which one of the three witnesses was to be believed?
which of the three accused was to be deemed guilty? Paul could not
say.

He quite admitted that Miss Clyde, in a moment of jealousy at seeing
Lovel with her rival, might have given way to the strong temper which
she was known to possess. But it was incredible that she had gone to
the Winding Lane with a pistol to designedly murder the girl. The
question was: Where had she obtained the weapon wherewith to commit
the crime? No doubt she had seen Lovel follow Milly into the lane, and
had come after him. That was clear enough; but it did not account for
Miss Clyde's possession of a pistol, without which she could not have
shot the girl. On the whole, Paul doubted the story of Brent, which
was doubtless dictated by a feeling of hatred against the woman who
had dismissed him from her employment. By the time he reached
Marborough, the journalist had come to the conclusion that Miss Clyde
would be able to refute the accusation; and he determined to give her
the chance of doing so next day at a personal interview. Paul believed
that she would prove her own innocence, and might also offer from her
own knowledge some solution of the mystery.

On arriving at his home Paul found that Iris had preceded him, and was
seated in the tiny drawing-room with Mrs. Mexton. The widow--for
Paul's father had long since departed this life--was a placid,
motherly-looking woman, whose mission in life seemed to be the task of
comforting the afflicted. In this mission she was now engaged with
Iris, and from the more composed looks of the girl it would seem that
she had succeeded.

"Well," said Iris, when he made his appearance, "did you find Brent?"

"Yes--and what is more, I made him speak out."

"Did he give you any useful information?"

"He did; so useful that I hope to prove the innocence of Dr. Lester,
and secure the arrest of the real murderer."

"Lucas Lovel?"

"No. According to Brent, that gentleman is innocent."

"I told you so, Iris," interjected Mrs. Mexton mildly. "I am sure Mr.
Lovel is too much a gentleman to commit so terrible a crime."

"I don't think good birth or good breeding have much to do with the
prevention of crime," replied Iris disdainfully; "there is criminality
amongst the upper classes, as in the lower, only they sin in a more
refined manner. But this is beside the question. What I wish to know
is: If Mr. Lovel is not guilty--which I beg leave to doubt--who is?"

"What would you say to Miss Clyde?"

"I should laugh."

"And I," said Mrs. Mexton energetically, "would be utterly disinclined
to believe that a Christian gentlewoman would fall to such a depth of
degradation."

"Christian gentlewomen, like all others of their sex, are amenable to
jealousy," declared Paul, grimly.

"Jealousy!" repeated Iris--"and Miss Clyde was jealous?"

"So Brent says. She loves Lucas Lovel and hated your sister."

"Does Brent say she committed the crime on that motive?"

"Yes; he saw her following the pair in the lane on that night."

"Then Lovel did meet Milly?"

"He did."

"And Mr. Lovel bribed him to hold his tongue?"

"Precisely," assented Paul--"and with a five-pound note."

"Then I tell you what," said Iris, coolly--"Mr. Lovel paid Brent also
to accuse Miss Clyde!"

"H'm! It's not improbable," said Mexton, pulling his moustache. "I am
more inclined to believe in the guilt of Lovel than in that of Miss
Clyde. But I'll see her to-morrow and ask her for an explanation."

"She won't give it."

"In that case I'll tell Drek, and he'll force her to speak."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Mexton. "It is truly terrible to
think of the way in which we have been brought into contact with
crime! And poor Dr. Lester in gaol!"

"He won't be in goal long," said Paul, with a satisfied nod.

"You are going to prove his innocence?" cried Iris, anxiously.

"I am; but I don't intend to leave him in prison until I do so.
To-morrow I'll get bail for him, and he will be a free man--at all
events till his trial."

"It is very good of you, Paul," said Iris, gratefully; and Mrs. Mexton
endorsed the statement with a nod of her head. She was a simple and
pious old woman, but not quite the company for two young and ardent
people. Her views on the matter of the murder were singularly crude;
and the point she dwelt on most was that Lester's loss and arrest were
a judgment on him for his long indulgence in the drinking vice. But,
knowing him as she had done, the most part of his life, she did not
believe he was guilty, and stated this opinion to Iris, who was much
comforted thereby.

"I do not love Dr. Lester," she confessed, "and I never approved of my
mother's second marriage. All the same, I should be terribly sorry to
see him hanged."

"Particularly for a crime of which he is guiltless," said Paul. "By
the way, Iris, you will have to return to Barnstead to-morrow for the
funeral."

"We are both going over," said Mrs. Mexton, patting the head of Iris.
"Poor Milly!"

And then they fell to talking about Milly and her many good qualities;
also about her beauty and charm. No mention was made of her faults,
seeing that she was dead, and that it is not well to speak evil of
those who have gone. Mrs. Mexton exalted Milly into a martyr, and Iris
endorsed the canonisation with tears. In the midst of this
glorification Paul slipped out and went to the office of the "Tory
Times" for a long night's work. He arrived back in the small hours of
the morning when Iris had retired; and left for Barnstead after eight
o'clock, before she was up. Therefore he did not see her again till
the afternoon, when he met her in Barnstead Cemetery at the funeral of
her unfortunate half-sister.

As usual, Paul rode over to Barnstead. Independent of his journalistic
earnings he had a small income, and it did not cost much to keep a
horse in the country. Riding was a great passion with the young man;
and he always declared that he thought better when in the saddle than
in the study. On this perfect summer morning, however, he was less
occupied with fiction than with real life. The murder case absorbed
his every thought, and he recognised that the mystery of Milly's case
could hardly have been surpassed in the detective novel of the day. He
was determined to discover who had killed the girl; and passed rapidly
through Barnstead towards Clyde's Farm in order to see the lady, and
ascertain what amount of truth there was in Brent's story.

The residence of Miss Clyde was a long, low house, with whitewashed
walls and a thatched roof, eminently picturesque, but not at all
practical. There was a homely flower-garden before it, filled with
marigolds, sweet-williams, southernwood and such-like Old English
flowers; these being the peculiar care of Mrs. Drass, who blended
gossip with horticulture. When Paul rode up to the gate, she was
pottering about with a trowel in her hand, and came to the gate to
meet him: but keen-eyed Paul Mexton noted that she did not seem
overpleased at his visit.

"This is a surprise, Mr. Mexton!" said she, as he alighted from his
horse, and tied the reins to the gatepost. "It is rarely that you
honour us with a visit--especially at so early an hour."

"I must apologise for the hour," said Paul, entering the house,
conducted by the ex-governess, "but I have to see Miss Clyde on
important business."

"About what?" asked Mrs. Drass sharply.

"Pardon me, dear madam," replied Paul, thwarting this curiosity with
great blandness, "but I shall explain that to Miss Clyde herself."

Mrs. Drass muttered something which Paul could not hear, and her
usually florid face was pale, as she preceded him into the
dining-room, where Miss Clyde sat at breakfast. That lady looked cold
and composed and masculine as usual; but she could not suppress a
start at the sight of Paul.

"So you want to see me on business, Mr. Mexton?" she said, when he had
explained himself. "Very good. Come into my study, and we will not be
disturbed."

"Can I come also, Selina?" said Mrs. Drass, who was extremely curious.

"Not just now," answered Miss Clyde; "later on I shall send for you."

So Mrs. Drass went back to her flowers with an unsatisfied curiosity,
while Paul and Miss Clyde repaired to the room, which the latter
dignified with the name of her study. In truth, it was more of a
bachelor's den than the apartment of a spinster lady; and its
furnishing was an excellent proof of the simplicity of its owner's
character. Miss Clyde sat down before the desk, which fronted the
window, and pointing out a seat to Paul, waited to hear what he had to
say. Knowing her direct and outspoken way of going about things, Paul
went directly to the point.

"I have come to see you about this murder, Miss Clyde," he said,
looking at her significantly.

"I expected as much," she replied quietly. "But what can I tell you
about it?"

"As much as you saw in the Winding Lane on that night," said Mexton
boldly.

"Who saw me in the lane?"

"Brent; he saw you following Milly and Mr. Lovel. Were you?"

"Yes; I followed them for a purpose."

"To kill Milly," said Paul, wondering at her coolness.

Miss Clyde shook her head, and opening a drawer, produced therefrom a
pistol. "I followed them to obtain that revolver," she said, and
handed the weapon to Paul.




CHAPTER XIII.
THE DEFENCE OF MISS CLYDE.


It was not to be denied that the conversation between Miss Clyde and
the journalist had opened in a highly dramatic fashion. Mexton,
prompted by the recollection of Brent's revelation and accusation--had
in sufficient plain language accused her of murdering Milly Lester. In
answer to this Miss Clyde had placed in his hands a revolver which she
admitted having obtained possession of on that fatal night. The
unfortunate girl had been shot; Paul asked himself if the crime had
been consummated by the weapon which Miss Clyde had produced, and
which, in a somewhat dazed fashion, he held in his hand.

"No," said his hostess, reading his thoughts in his face; "Milly was
not killed by a shot from that pistol. But she might have been."

"I don't understand what you mean," stammered Paul.

"It is not difficult to understand," rejoined Miss Clyde, shrugging
her fine shoulders. "I took that pistol from a would-be murderer."

"Mr. Lovel?"

An angry red flushed the hard face of the woman, and she made a
gesture of contempt for the lack of imagination Paul displayed. "Mr.
Lovel, indeed!" she said contemptuously. "He had as much to do with
the crime as I had! No; I took that pistol from Dr. Lester."

"Lester! Then he is innocent!"

"Entirely. He should not have been arrested."

"Then why did you not prevent his arrest by producing this revolver at
the inquest?"

"Oh, I had my reasons for that," said Miss Clyde, with an emphatic
nod; "these I will tell you later. In the meantime, Mr. Mexton, please
to assure yourself that the revolver you hold in your hand is actually
the property of Dr. Lester. Look at the silver plate on the butt."

Paul did so, and on the small silver oval found the name "R. Lester"
engraved in Gothic letters. Nodding in his turn, he replaced the
weapon on the desk; and as it was loaded, he deduced from such fact
another point in favour of Lester.

"I see there are cartridges in all six barrels!" she said quickly.

"Yes; Dr. Lester did not fire even one barrel; so you see he did not
kill his daughter."

"Then who did?"

"My dear Mr. Mexton, I know no more than you do!" said Miss Clyde
candidly. "I see that from the evidence of Brent--a rascal whom I
discharged from my employment--that you suspect me. Well," she laughed
in an ironical manner, "I can clear myself; not only can I do so, but
I can prove the innocence of Dr. Lester."

"Will you do so to me?" asked Paul eagerly.

Miss Clyde looked him coolly up and down. "Really, Mr. Mexton, I do
not see why I should," was her response; "you do not represent the
law."

"Not officially. But Inspector Drek has accepted my assistance."

"Has he? And why have you offered it?"

"Because I wish to save Dr. Lester from being judicially murdered."

"I think that lies in my province rather than in yours," said Miss
Clyde, smiling; "but I suppose the real reason that you are acting as
an amateur detective lies in the fact that you love Miss Link?"

Paul smiled also. "I can't say that I do," he replied; "we are more
like brother and sister than anything else. But I don't deny that I am
sorry for her on account of her loss."

"You need not be," retorted Miss Clyde with disdain; "there was no
love lost between Milly and Iris; in fact, they disliked one another."

"Oh, I should not say that," protested Paul, shocked by her want of
sentiment.

"Aye, but I shall say it! Milly was going to marry Mr. Herne, and Iris
was in love with him; quite enough motive there for two women to
fight."

"No doubt," rejoined Paul, with significance; "jealousy between women
has caused many a crime."

"Is that a hit at me?" asked Miss Clyde, good-humouredly: "because, if
it is, it falls short of the mark. You infer that I was jealous of
that poor dead girl because Lucas Lovel made love to her."

"Report says so."

"Report says many things that are untrue," retorted Miss Clyde
contemptuously; "but in this case the gossips were not altogether
wrong. I love Mr. Lovel, as you know very well; as all the countryside
knows. Why should I conceal my feelings? I have no one to think of but
myself, and I can look after myself very well, I assure you. Lucas--I
can call him so to you, Mr. Mexton, as this is a confidential
conversation--is a scamp, and a weak-minded fool; but I love him for
all that. Queer, isn't it?"

Paul looked at the masculine strength of the woman's face, into her
shrewd eyes, and at the firm set of her mouth. "It is queer," he
admitted; "you do not look the sort of a woman to be attracted by a
wastrel like Lovel."

"Nevertheless I am; by the law of contraries no doubt. Well, I admit
that I was jealous of his preference for Milly Lester. Her beauty and
fascinations of manner excited my envy; and as she had the whole
neighbourhood at her feet, I grudged that she should take my
ewe-lamb."

"The whole neighbourhood!" echoed Paul.

"Well, Mr. Herne, Mr. Lovel, and Mr. Chaskin. The pick of the
countryside."

"Nonsense! Mr. Chaskin did not love Milly!"

"There you are wrong," rejoined Miss Clyde drily. "He adored her, and
only crushed down his passion because of his friendship for Herne. Oh,
I know it for a fact. Mrs. Drass found it all out."

"She finds out everything!" said Paul tartly--"just like a social
detective."

"She does," assented Miss Clyde coolly; "but she is not omniscient,
else she would know who killed poor Milly. I find Mrs. Drass very
useful, I assure you, Mr. Mexton."

"I quite believe it. But to continue your confession."

"Oh, you need not dignify my story by so great a title! I am not in
the dock yet, Mr. Mexton! I assure you I shall prove my innocence to
you very plainly. Where was I?"

"You were informing me that Mr. Chaskin was in love with poor Milly."

"Ah! that is a side issue. Mr. Lovel was also in love with the
unfortunate girl, and I did not approve of his passion, as I wanted
him for myself."

"You were jealous?" said Mexton, more plainspoken than polite.

"I was," said Miss Clyde calmly; "the most unromantic of women have
their vein of sentiment--their passion. Lucas is my passion, and I
love him dearly. I was very jealous of his preference for Milly, and I
was angry with her for encouraging him. She was engaged to Mr. Herne,
and should have remained true to him. On the night of the murder I saw
Milly leave during the service; and Mr. Lovel followed the moment it
was concluded."

"To meet with Milly?" suggested Paul.

"Yes, I thought so; and I was determined to put a stop to such
meetings by giving Milly a good talking to, and threatening to tell
Mr. Herne. You need not look at me so severely, Mr. Mexton," continued
Miss Clyde, throwing back her head. "Milly was behaving badly towards
Herne, and even if I had not been in love with the man she was
flirting with. I think, as an older woman, and one who had known her
from childhood, I had the right to point out to her how wrongly she
was acting."

"No doubt, Miss Clyde; but you chose a bad time for such
interference."

"I deny that," said the lady tranquilly. "Milly always denied to me
that she met with Mr. Lovel; and he lied in the same way. My only
chance of reproving the pair properly was to catch them together.
Therefore I told John--my groom, you know--to drive on to the house of
Dr. Lester, whither Mrs. Drass had gone to consult him; and I went in
search of those two young fools."

"Did you find them?" asked Paul, rather foolishly it must be
confessed.

"What a question, after what Brent told you!" retorted Miss Clyde.
"Yes, I found them--but not at once. Lucas gave me the slip, and I
searched for him in the wrong direction--down by the river, where I
thought they might be wandering under the willows. They were not
there, however, though I wasted some time in looking for them. At
length it struck me that they might be in the Winding Lane; and when I
got there I saw them sure enough. But I must confess," said Miss Clyde
with much disgust, "that I wondered they should choose a place haunted
by all the rustic lovers of the neighbourhood."

"There were no rustic lovers on that night."

"No; I believe they had all gone to some revival meeting at the
Methodist Chapel. It was half-past eight when I got to the lane, and I
saw only Brent coming down towards the village."

"Yes; to meet Jane Bilway in St. Dunstan's Square, and take her to the
Methodist Chapel."

"Hm! and he met me apparently following Lucas and Milly," said Miss
Clyde; "wherewith he accuses me of the murder. I'll be even with him
for that--the brute! As a matter of fact, I did not see the two until
I passed Brent; then I espied them walking arm-in-arm towards the
stile which leads on to the common."

"Did you speak to them then?"

"No," confessed Miss Clyde frankly, "for to tell you the truth, I did
not like the part I was playing. It was too like that of a spy. I
stopped at the other end of the lane--near the town--and waited till
they should come back, when I intended to meet them as if by accident.
But I never saw them again that night. Poor Milly!" sighed Miss Clyde,
"I little thought I had looked on her pretty face for the last time."

"How was it you did not see them again?" asked Paul curiously.

"Because they did not return to where I was; stopped to talk at the
stile, no doubt. I waited for ten minutes, and then I heard a man
singing and shouting. He came from the town, and could not get over
the stile into the lane. I heard him saying something about killing
Lovel, and I noted that he held a pistol. At once I went up to him,
and found--as I expected from his condition--that it was Dr. Lester."

"Quite drunk?"

"Senselessly drunk, but able to stumble along. I thought that if he
met Lucas in the company of his daughter he might fire at him, so I
dismissed all idea of seeing the young people again and devoted myself
to getting rid of Dr. Lester. I took the pistol off him, and being
quite incapable of resistance, he gave it up readily enough. Then I
wheeled him round, and taking his arm, I led him home."

"What!" cried Paul, starting up, "did you take him back to his house?"

"I attempted to," said Miss Clyde; "but he turned restive, and wanted
to go back to the lane. I then coaxed him out into the country, on the
road to my own house. But I only got him a very little way when he
suddenly became too drunk to stand, so I dragged him into some bushes
beside the road, and as it was a fine night, I left him there to
recover his senses. I suppose he stayed there till dawn, and then made
his way home."

"What did you do?"

"I put the revolver into my pocket and walked home. The next morning I
heard of the murder, and of Dr. Lester's arrest."

"Did you hear the shot?"

"No; I suppose I was too far on my road homeward to hear it, or else I
was not paying attention. At all events, I heard nothing."

"Why did you not tell all this to Drek, and prevent the arrest of
Lester?"

"My friend," said Miss Clyde, gravely, "I was determined to give Dr.
Lester a lesson--such a lesson that in future he might restrain
himself from indulging in drink. I thought, when I heard that he was
arrested, that the thought that he had killed his own child might
induce him to take the pledge. If this lesson does not teach him
temperance, nothing will; for if I had not taken the pistol off him,
he might have killed, if not Milly, at least Lucas. I intended to go
to Drek to-morrow and tell him the truth, and get Lester bailed out of
gaol."

"Your lesson is rather a severe one," said Paul thoughtfully; "but
perhaps it is needed. If anything can make a sober man of Lester, his
imprisonment on such an awful charge will change him. I remember now
that he confessed at the inquest that he met someone, but was too
confused to say whether it was a man or a woman. It must have been
you."

"Yes, it was I, Mr. Mexton. While I was leading him away from the
Winding Lane I did not see a soul. As to the red mud on his clothes,
you remember I told you how he fell while trying to get over the
stile."

"I see you can clear Lester," said Paul with emphasis, "but what about
Lovel?"

"Well," said Miss Clyde interrogatively--"you don't suspect him of the
crime?"

"I don't know; you left him with Milly!"

"I daresay; at twenty-five minutes to nine; but he no doubt left her
before nine o'clock, when the murder was committed."

"He can't prove that."

"He hasn't had a chance of doing so," retorted Miss Clyde, visibly
disturbed.

"Pardon me; he had at the inquest, and he lied."

"Well, we won't discuss that," said Miss Clyde, rising. "I am sure Mr.
Lovel is innocent, and can prove his innocence if needful. I have told
you all I know, Mr. Mexton, and I'll tell Drek to-morrow. I suppose
I'll see you at the funeral this afternoon?"

"Yes," said Paul, gravely. "I shall be at the funeral," and then the
two parted.




CHAPTER XIV.
"DUST TO DUST."


When Paul returned to Barnstead he felt satisfied that he had done
wisely in seeking the confidence of Miss Clyde. Without doubt her
statement had simplified matters in connection with the crime,
although it had not altogether solved the mystery which shrouded the
death of Milly. Instead of suspecting three people, as he had done
prior to his visit, Paul now directed his energies to the discovery of
the guilt of one, and that one, as may be guessed, was Lucas Lovel.
Miss Clyde had exonerated herself; she had proved the innocence of
Lester; so the obtainable evidence now pointed to the guilt of Lovel.
Herne and Iris believed that he had committed the crime; Brent and
Miss Clyde insisted that he was innocent; and Gran Jimboy, for a
reason of her own, had provided a lying alibi to extricate the
suspected man from a dangerous position. Paul, reflecting on the
situation, did not know what view to take.

There was no doubt that Lovel recognised his danger, and had induced
the old gipsy to aid him in averting it by perjuring herself at the
inquest; also he had bribed the ploughman Brent into concealing his
presence in the Winding Lane on the fatal night, at the fatal hour.
But one thing was certain, that Lovel was the last person who had seen
the murdered girl alive. This was proved by the evidence of Brent and
Miss Clyde--both friendly witnesses to Lovel--both of whom stated
distinctly that he had been with Milly Lester within half an hour of
her death. It was therefore impossible, as Paul thought, that he
should not know something about the murder, if, indeed, he had not
committed it himself. Yet, if he were guilty, he would have sought
safety in flight; but as yet he still lingered at The Herne Arms.

"I'll see if he comes to the funeral," said Paul to himself as he sat
at luncheon; "that will go far, to my mind, to prove if he is innocent
or guilty. If Milly is really dead by his hand, I don't think he will
have the hardihood to see her body placed in a grave. If, on the other
hand, he did not kill her, he will come to her burial, and I can tell
from his demeanour what his thoughts are. Even the most reticent man
must reveal his feelings at such a moment; and if Lovel is guilty, he
will be wise enough to keep away."

Going by this theory, the suspected man was innocence itself, for when
Paul joined the throng of curious sightseers which was crowding into
the cemetery, one of the first persons he saw was Lucas Lovel. Nay,
more; the young man did not lurk in the background, but thrust himself
forward so as to compose one of the group which stood immediately
round the grave. He was dressed in black; pale, but composed, he
exhibited none of the agitation which a guilty man would have found it
difficult to conceal. Tested thus, and tested by his own free-will,
Lovel was innocent; and despite the evidence to the contrary, and the
openly stated beliefs of Iris and Herne, the journalist was inclined
to believe that Lovel had not killed the girl.

Naturally, under the circumstances, there was a great concourse of
people at the funeral of the dead girl. Iris and Mrs. Mexton were
there, Paul and Lovel, Miss Clyde and Mrs. Drass; also Herne, who had
been engaged to the deceased, and Francis Chaskin, who read the
service over that untimely grave. But these persons attended because
they were kinsfolk and friends of the person whom they were burying.
The majority of the crowd were attracted to the spot by morbid
curiosity. It had been rumoured that Dr. Lester, who was suspected of
the murder, would be allowed to attend the funeral of his unfortunate
child; and the crowd were determined to give him a warm reception for
his insolence in attending the successful outcome of his iniquity.
Fortunately, however, for the decency of the funeral, Lester remained
locked up in Marborough Gaol, and the multitude, or rather the mob, of
over-zealous persons, were disappointed. There was no one at whom to
gaze as a genuine criminal; no one to shoot, or to throw stones at;
and when the earth was heaped over the coffin of Milly Lester, the
throng melted away with the conviction that it had been swindled out
of a sensation. The burial had proved less interesting than they
expected.

Chaskin was overcome with emotion several times as he read the
service, and Paul wondered if what Miss Clyde had asserted was true,
and if the vicar had also been conquered by, the triumphant beauty of
Milly. It seemed likely, but Paul had heard no rumour in confirmation
of the report. From the face of Chaskin he looked to that of Herne,
and saw that the latter was scowling at Lovel, who, with his bent head
and dejected mien, stood on the other side of the grave. Lucas took no
notice of Herne's stern gaze, but stared with tearful eyes into the
hole, at the bottom of which lay the coffin of Milly Lester. So sad
did he look, so overcome with a sorrow far removed from remorse or
terror, that Mexton unhesitatingly acquitted him of complicity in the
crime. Whosoever had cut short the thread of that young existence, it
was not Lucas Lovel.

Later on Paul caught a glimpse of Gran Jimboy's red cloak flaming on
the outskirts of the crowd; and when the service was over he went to
look for her, in the hope of discovering why she lied at the inquest.
But either the old dame had guessed his intention, or did not want to
be spoken to by anyone; for before he could reach the spot where he
had seen her standing, she had vanished and he could not determine in
which direction she had gone. While he was wondering how he should
find her he was greeted by Darcy Herne, who looked haggard and worn in
his black clothes.

"Mr. Mexton," said he, leading Paul to one side for confidential
discourse, "I know from Iris that you are looking for the assassin of
Milly. Well, I wish you to do nothing further in the matter till I
return."

"Till you return!" repeated Paul, with a swift glance at the pallid
face of his companion. "Are you going away?"

"Yes; I am going to London."

"On one of your missions connected with religious work?"

"No; on a mission connected with the murder of my poor Milly."

"Really!" Paul looked sceptical. "I can't conceive how the commission
of a crime in Barnstead can take you to London. May I ask for your
reasons?"

"Not at present," replied Herne quietly; "later on I may explain
them."

"At least tell me why you wish me to do nothing in the matter until
your return?"

"No," said Darcy decisively; "the explanation has too much to do with
my reasons."

"But I have found out something which goes to prove that you are right
in suspecting Lovel."

"I do not suspect Lovel," was Herne's strange answer.

Paul was bewildered. "But you said----"

"I know what I said, Mexton; but I was wrong. I don't think Lovel
killed Milly."

"Then who did? Dr. Lester is innocent; I have discovered that much."

"I know he is innocent," rejoined the squire; "and so is Lovel. As to
the guilty person, my journey to London is concerned with that."

"You have a suspicion?"

"I have; but it may go for nothing."

"When did you find this clue you are following to London?"

"On the day you and I and Chaskin examined the spot where the murder
was committed."

"Oh!" Paul's thoughts flew back to Herne's trance, and subsequent
behaviour. "So you think that the rainbow feather is a clue?"

"What do you know about the rainbow feather?" questioned Herne
sharply.

"Nothing--save that you picked up a parti-coloured feather, and called
it by that name. Is it a clue?"

"I think so. I am not sure," replied Darcy, doubtfully. "I'll tell you
on my return."

"When do you return?"

"In three days. Have I your promise not to pursue the investigation
against Lovel till I come back?"

"Oh, yes!" said Paul, yielding readily enough, the more easily as at
the moment he did not know how to act in the matter. "I'll do nothing
till you come back and explain. But the rainbow feather----"

"Good-day, Mexton; I'm in a hurry," said Herne, cutting short the
speech; "in three days you will know as much as I do about that
feather."

He hurried away, and Paul stood looking after him, wondering how
the discovery of a dyed feather could affect the case. Had some
blood-thirsty person come down from London especially to murder
Milly, and had the rainbow feather been left as the sign manual of the
work, after the fashion of a secret society? Paul smiled at the
fantasy of the idea. Milly did not know anyone in London--or rather
had not known, since the poor girl must now be spoken of in the past
tense--and the fame of her beauty could not have spread beyond the
environs of Barnstead and Marborough. The tragedy of her death had
given her a fame much wider.

After some meditation Paul found himself unable to explain Herne's
conversation; and for the time being he put the matter of the squire's
departure to London out of his mind. His attention was further
distracted by the approach of Miss Clyde, her companion, and Iris.
This trio paused before him, and Iris began to talk.

"Paul," she said, lifting her veil, "Miss Clyde is exceedingly kind.
She intends to offer herself as bail for my step-father."

"With Mr. Mexton, of course!" said Miss Clyde in her hearty voice. "We
can go to Marborough tomorrow, and after the due formalities, have Dr.
Lester released. Then he can come back here."

"Alone?" said Mexton, thinking of Lester's weakness.

"Ah," cried Mrs. Drass, penetrating his thoughts, "that is just what I
say! If Dr. Lester comes back, he will take to the brandy-bottle
again."

"I don't think so," said Iris, shaking her head. "Miss Clyde's lesson
has been very severe."

"Oh! so you know that Dr. Lester is innocent, Iris?"

"Of course she does," interposed Miss Clyde cheerfully. "I told her
about it before the funeral."

"Well," said Mrs. Drass with a doubtful look, "I only hope that the
lesson will do the doctor good; but you mark my words, he'll drink
again when alone in his own house."

"He won't be alone," said Iris quietly. "I shall come back with him."

"And leave my mother, Iris?" said Paul.

"Yes. Mrs. Mexton thinks I should be with my stepfather; and I think
so also. He Has lost poor Milly, and I must do my best to comfort
him."

"I saw you talking to Mr. Herne," said Mrs. Drass to Paul. "What has
he to say to this death, Mr. Mexton?"

"He is very much concerned, Mrs. Drass, and wishes to hunt down the
assassin."

"Lucas Lov----" began Iris quickly, and then stopped, as she
recollected how Miss Clyde loved the suspected man.

"Oh! go on," said Miss Clyde, with all calmness. "I know Mr. Lovel is
innocent, so I don't mind how much you and Mr. Herne suspect him."

"I beg your pardon," said Paul, "but Mr. Herne does not suspect Lovel
now."

"Why not?" asked Iris, astonished.

Paul shook his head. "I can't tell you," he said, "but Mr. Herne asked
me to do nothing further in the matter touching Mr. Lovel."

"What have you done?"' asked Miss Clyde sharply.

"I have found out that he was with Milly twenty minutes before the
murder."

"He was not!" cried Mrs. Drass eagerly; "he was in Mother Jimboy's
tent. She swore that he was!"

"I know," replied Paul quietly; "and she swore a lie. Miss Clyde
knows."

"I know that Lucas went into the Winding Lane with Milly," said Miss
Clyde in rather a troubled voice; "but no doubt he left her at the
stile and went straight on to the gypsy tent."

"But he swore at the inquest that he was not in the lane on that
night!" said Iris.

"I know; I know, my dear," was Miss Clyde's reply. "But he did that to
save himself from being unjustly suspected. I don't believe he killed
Milly; and you hear what Mr. Mexton says: that Mr. Herne is of the
same opinion."

"His opinion has changed then!" remarked Iris, "and I should like to
ask him why."

"You can't at present, Iris. Mr. Herne has just gone to London."

"To London!" echoed Miss Clyde, in surprise. "What bad taste to go
away so soon after the funeral. Why has he gone?"

"I don't know, Miss Clyde."

"But I do," said Mrs. Drass, with a sniff; "he has gone to see that
minx!"

"What minx?" asked Paul, astonished.

"Catinka, the violinist," replied Mrs. Drass, coolly. "Oh, Mr. Lovel
told me all about that hussy! Mr. Herne did not love Milly; he loves
this Catinka, and she loves him. That was why Mr. Herne went up to
town so often; and why he has gone now."

"Impossible!" said Mexton, growing pale as he thought of his own
passion for the violinist.

"I tell you it is so!" rejoined Mrs. Drass, wrathfully. "If she
doesn't love him, why did she come down here?"

"To Marborough?"

"No, to Barnstead. She was in the church on the night Milly was
murdered."

"What!" cried Iris, sharply. "Was she the strange lady I saw leaving
the church?"

"She was!" said Mrs. Drass, triumphantly. "I saw her, too, and made it
my business to find out all about her. There was a Marborough friend
of mine in the church who saw Catinka when she gave her concert. She
tells me to-day--I have just parted from her--that the strange lady
who was in the church on that night was Catinka. Now what do you say,
Mr. Mexton?"

Paul had nothing to say. He did not even open his lips, but wondered
if Catinka had anything to do with the rainbow feather, the finding of
which had disturbed Herne so greatly.




CHAPTER XV.
DR. LESTER TELLS A STORY.


With the discovery that Catinka had visited Barnstead on the night of
the murder a new element entered into the case. Paul was satisfied
that both Dr. Lester and Miss Clyde were innocent of the crime; and
that Lovel, although appearances were against him, might possibly be
guiltless also. Failing these three individuals, there remained no one
who might have an interest in getting rid of the girl; but now that
Catinka's presence in Barnstead had been proved by the gossip of Mrs.
Drass and her friend from Marborough, it was not impossible that she
might have something to do with the matter. She might even have shot
Milly; for here the quality of jealousy might come into play. Herne,
as was stated by Lovel and Mrs. Drass, knew the violinist, and had
paid several visits to her in London. What, then, more likely than
that she was in love with him and he with her, and that the discovery
of his engagement and near marriage to Milly might have prompted
Catinka to remove a possible rival from her path? But this, as Paul
admitted to himself, was all theory; and the facts supporting it had
yet to be proved.

In the meantime, according to his promise to the absent Herne, the
journalist took no immediate steps towards prosecuting his inquiries
relative to proving the guilt of Lovel. He was determined to do
nothing further until the squire's return, and possible explanation;
and pending this result Paul betook himself to Marborough in the
company of Miss Clyde, for the purpose of releasing Dr. Lester from
gaol. The proceedings in furtherance of this object included an
interview with Drek.

They found the inspector at the police office in a very tranquil frame
of mind. He had quite overcome his early doubts about Eliza's
evidence, and was now quite convinced that Lester was guilty. Also he
congratulated himself on his own cleverness in capturing the criminal
so speedily; quite ignoring the fact that the discovery of the guilty
person--as he deemed Lester to be--had been thrust upon him. As to
Mexton's dealings with the case, Drek had not given them a thought;
and he was surprised when the journalist and Miss Clyde called to see
him.

"Well," said Drek, when the formalities of the reception were ended,
"and what do you wish to see me about, Mr. Mexton?"

"About the bail of Lester."

Drek shook his head. "I am afraid you will find that difficult," he
said, sapiently.

"Why? Miss Clyde and myself are willing to give a bond for Lester's
due appearance at his trial. You know we can pay; that we are good for
a thousand pounds. I don't suppose the magistrates will ask for a
larger amount?"

"I don't think they'll ask for any amount!" replied Drek, drily,
"because I do not think they will grant bail."

"What!" exclaimed Miss Clyde--"do you mean to say that they intend to
keep Lester in gaol until the trial?"

"Yes, Miss Clyde; that is exactly what I do mean. The evidence is so
clear against the prisoner that he will find it hard to escape the
gallows. If he is released, he would certainly make a bolt of it."

"I don't think so, Mr. Drek--for the simple reason that Dr. Lester is
innocent."

"Innocent!" repeated Drek, in surprise; "why the man doesn't even
attempt to defend himself!"

"I am aware of that," retorted Miss Clyde; "and why?--because Dr.
Lester does not recollect the events of that night. If he did he would
know that he did not shoot his daughter."

"Have you any reason for believing in his innocence?" asked Drek,
puzzled by her speech.

"The best of reasons, Mr. Inspector. I took this pistol from him
before the shot was fired at nine o'clock."

Drek started, and taking the weapon which Miss Clyde presented to him,
he examined it carefully. "Yes," he said, after a pause; "I see the
name Lester is engraved on this piece of silver, so I have no doubt it
is the pistol of Dr. Lester. May I ask how it came into your
possession?"

Miss Clyde replied to this question by telling in detail the story she
had related to Paul on a previous occasion. Drek listened without
interruption, his eyes fastened on her face, to judge by the
expression if she was telling the truth. Apparently he was satisfied,
for when the tale ended, he said, after a short meditation:

"I think you are right, Miss Clyde. Lester is innocent, and if you
tell this story to the magistrate you will have no difficulty in
having your bail accepted. But I must own that I am rather
disappointed. I made so certain that the man was guilty."

"Well, Mr. Drek, you see he is not."

"H'm! I wonder who did kill the girl?" said Drek, musingly.

"It is impossible to say at present," said Paul, on whom the gaze of
the inspector rested; "at present the whole matter is enveloped in
mystery."

It will be seen that Paul said nothing about his suspicions regarding
Lovel, or mentioned the fact of Catinka's visit to Barnstead. The fact
is, after the impetuous act of Drek in arresting Lester, the
journalist did not think it advisable to speak too plainly, lest the
inspector should put Lovel in gaol. It was best, thought Paul, to
first secure absolute proof against the man, before calling in the aid
of the law; and, knowing as much as he did, Mexton determined, when
Herne returned, to follow up the clues regarding Lovel himself. As to
Catinka, her connection with the matter was so vague at present, that
Paul said nothing about her, until--as in the case of Lovel--he had
proof of her guilt.

"Well," said Drek, seeing that he could obtain no aid from either Miss
Clyde or Mexton, "it seems that I have been too hasty, although
against Lester the evidence was clear enough. I must go with you to
get him released for the time being; and begin again in the attempt to
discover the mystery."

"It is my opinion that you will discover nothing," said Miss Clyde, as
they left the police office; "the mystery of Milly's death will remain
one."

There was no difficulty about the release of Lester. The inspector
took his visitors before the magistrate, and repeated--with
corrections from Miss Clyde--the tale about the pistol. Much impressed
by the story, the magistrate accepted bail for Lester at a thousand
pounds on the bonds of Miss Clyde and Mexton. At the same time he
reproved Miss Clyde for not having told her story at the inquest.

"Dr. Lester is innocent," he said, "and should not have been put in
gaol."

"Dr. Lester is a drunkard," retorted Miss Clyde, "and the fright of
being a prisoner on the charge of murder may reform him."

"I doubt it; I doubt it greatly."

That was all the magistrate said; but he granted the order of release,
and the three went off to the gaol, where they saw Lester, and
speedily brought him out of his cell. The man was haggard and worn
with anxiety and remorse--for he was not quite clear in his mind as to
his innocence--so Paul took him to his mother's house, and gave him a
meal. He even insisted that he should have a whisky-and-soda, though
Lester protested he did not want it.

"I shall never touch alcohol again," he said, piteously; "it made me
mad on that night. For all I know I may have killed Milly."

"That you did not," rejoined Miss Clyde; and told her story for the
third time. Lester listened in silence, and the tears rolled down his
cheeks when he heard how mercifully he had been preserved from
committing a terrible crime.

"I am thankful to God for having preserved me by your hand," he said,
when she finished; "and I am grateful to you for having given me a
lesson sadly needed."

"I hope the lesson is learnt," said Miss Clyde, drily.

"You may be sure it is," replied Dr. Lester, eagerly. "I shall never
touch strong drink again; I shall go back to Barnstead, and work hard
to redeem my character. Iris, will you come with me?"

"Of course, father!" said Iris, who was present; "we will return this
evening, and begin a new life."

"Poor Milly! poor child!" sighed Lester. "Could it be that Lovel
killed her?"

"No; he did not!" replied Miss Clyde, sharply. "Mr. Lovel is quite
innocent! If I have done you a service, Dr. Lester, don't repay me by
accusing the man I love of a crime."

"I shall say nothing--nothing," answered Lester, who was quite broken
down; and then Paul led him away into his own particular den for a
confidential talk. He wished to learn what he could about the
relations of Herne with Catinka, and thought that Lester might inform
him. It was the merest chance that anything might come of the
conversation, yet Paul determined to try. In his present perplexity he
was like a drowning man, and clutched at a straw.

"I wish to put a few questions to you, doctor," said he, when Lester
was comfortably established with a full pipe, "and you must answer
them honestly."

"I will do so, Paul; you may command me," replied the man,
submissively.

"Very good, doctor. You know that Milly was engaged to Darcy Herne?"

"Yes, I know that; everyone knew it."

"And that Lucas Lovel admired Milly so much that he wished to marry
her?"

"I know that also," said Lester, with a clouded face. "It was my poor
child's meetings with that man which indirectly brought about her
death."

"We will talk of that later," replied Paul; "but I want to know if
Lovel ever saw you with reference to his passion?"

"Yes, he did. About a week before Milly's death he came and told me
that he loved her."

"What did you do?"

"I told him that he was a scoundrel to speak so, seeing that my
daughter was engaged to Squire Herne. Then I showed him the door."

"Did he take the hint?"

"No. He said that he had come to inform me that Herne was not a fit
husband for Milly."

"Oh!" said Paul, recalling the accusations of Lovel, in the presence
of himself and Chaskin when on the spot where the murder had taken
place; "he said that Herne led a double life, didn't he?"

"Yes!" replied Lester in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I heard something of it before from Lovel himself. Tell me exactly
what was said."

Lester thought for a moment. "He said that Herne was in love with a
violinist called Catinka."

"I know Catinka," said Paul; "she is a Polish woman, and gave concerts
in this city. I saw her once or twice, but I did not have much
conversation with her."

"Is she beautiful?"

"She is very beautiful," replied Mexton, blushing; "I admired her very
much; indeed, I fancied at one time that I was in love with her. But I
see now that I was mistaken."

"How long is it since you saw her?"

"About a year. But tell me, doctor, what else did Lovel say?"

"Nothing much," replied Lester, with a shrug. "He declared that Herne
went to visit Catinka in Bloomsbury Square."

"Oh, is that the address?" said Paul, taking out his note-book.

"It is. Number one thousand, Bloomsbury Square," said Lester. "Why do
you make a note of it?"

"I'll tell you later on. What did you say to Lovel?"

"I told him that I would ask Herne as to the truth of these
accusations."

"Did you do so?"

"I did. The very next time that he called at the house I saw him
myself, and told him what Lovel said."

"Did he defend himself?"

"No." was Lester's unexpected reply. "He said that he knew Catinka
well, and that he often visited her in London; but that his friendship
with her was nothing to which Milly, or I, as Milly's father, could
object."

"How did he explain this friendship?"

"On the ground that Catinka was a fellow-worker with him to help the
afflicted. From what I can gather the lady seems to be a kind of
Socialist, who uses her profession to mask her real business, which is
intriguing against Russia. She wishes, so Herne said, to free her
country, and enlisted him in her society."

"Oh, she has a society, then?"

"Oh, yes; it is called, as Herne told me, 'The Society of the Rainbow
Feather.'"

"What!" cried Paul, jumping up. "The Rainbow Feather?"

"You are excited," said Lester.

"Excited!" echoed Paul, walking hurriedly to and fro--"I have every
reason to be so! Do you know that a rainbow feather was found by Herne
on the very spot where Milly lay dead?"

"What of that?" asked Lester, whose slow brain could not follow Paul's
idea.

"Can't you see--Catinka must have dropped that feather there!"

"But she is in London!"

"She was in Barnstead on the night of the murder," replied Paul,
sharply; "and by the evidence of that feather she must have been in
the Winding Lane on the night of the murder."

"I can't see her reason."

"I can. She heard that Herne was engaged to Milly and came down to see
her. She followed her to the Winding Lane, and, for all I know, shot
her."

"Why should she shoot Milly?" cried Lester, rising.

"I don't know; I can't say. I must find out. Lester, not a word of
this to anyone. You return to Barnstead with Iris, and I'll go up to
London to-morrow."

"To see Catinka?"

"Yes, and Herne. What; you don't know? Herne has gone up to London
also, about that feather. I am sure of it, though I have no proof.
I'll call at Bloomsbury Square, and find out the truth about him and
Catinka. Also, I'll know why she came to Barnstead, and what she was
doing in the Winding Lane."

"But how can you get her to speak?"

"How? By means of the Rainbow Feather, of course!"




CHAPTER XVI.
CATINKA.


Before Iris departed for Barnstead with her stepfather, she contrived
to have a short talk with Paul. The girl was touched by the kindly way
in which her old playfellow had behaved to Dr. Lester and herself in
their trouble; and she wished to thank him for his disinterested zeal.
Seizing the opportunity when her step-father was conversing with Miss
Clyde, she took Mexton by the hand.

"How can I ever thank you for all you have done?" she said.

Her face was flushed with a rosy hue, her eyes sparkled like stars;
and at the moment, stirred by generous emotion, Iris Link was a
beautiful woman. Paul had never noted the fact before--perhaps from
long familiarity with her face, and an unavoidable comparison of it
with the brilliant beauty of the dead Milly. The revelation of the
soul which rendered her beautiful came on him with unexpected force,
and he wondered how he could have been so blind as not to have admired
her before. In that moment love germinated with unexpected suddenness
in his soul; and he pressed the girl's hand warmly.

"Don't thank me at all, my dear," he said in a low voice. "I am only
too glad to help you and yours."

"Will you come to Barnstead this evening, Paul?"

"No, Iris. I have a great deal of work to get through before going to
London."

"You are going to London?"

"To-morrow morning. I fancy I have a clue to the identity of the
person who killed Milly."

"Does the clue guide you to London?"

"Yes. I have ascertained that a third person was in the Winding Lane
on that night when Milly and Lovel met."

"Who is the person?"

"Catinka, the Polish violinist," replied Paul; and forthwith he told
Iris all that he had learned regarding the rainbow feather from Dr.
Lester.

"It certainly looks as though she had been there," said Iris
thoughtfully; "but it is impossible that she could have killed my
sister."

"Why? From all accounts she is in love with Herne."

"I don't believe she is!" insisted Miss Link. "Mr. Herne's explanation
to my father is far more likely. I fancy her association with him is
founded on patriotic grounds. She knows that he is rich and
enthusiastic, and wishes to secure him as a member of her ridiculous
society. With his money she could do a great deal towards her object
of inciting a revolt against Russia."

"That is very probable. But on these grounds I do not see why she came
to Barnstead on the night of the murder."

"Nor I. You must ask her that yourself, Paul," added Iris suddenly.
"Is not this the lady you love?"

Paul blushed in his turn. "It is Catinka whom I admired," he replied
with an emphasis on the last word; "but I do not love her--at least,
not now. My fancy for her has passed away. My heart is free--far more
so than yours, Iris."

"What do you mean?" asked his companion, a trifle coldly.

"Why," said Paul in surprise--"surely you know! Do you not love Darcy
Herne?"

"No, Paul; my fancy for him has died away, like yours for Catinka."

"For what reason?"

"One which satisfies myself," said Iris resolutely, "but one I cannot
tell you."

Paul looked searchingly at her, but the cold look on her face baffled
his scrutiny. "I do not understand you," he said, turning away his
eyes.

"I don't understand myself," replied Iris bitterly, "but some day I
may do so. At present, my dear Paul, you may be sure that my heart is
as free as your own."

"Our hearts may not always remain in such a forlorn condition," said
Paul suggestively.

Iris looked at him suddenly, and saw something in the expression of
his face which made her blush. With the evasive instinct of a woman,
she turned hastily away.

"See--papa is going," she said hurriedly. "I must follow him.
Good-bye, Paul."

"Good-bye, Iris," was his reply; and when the two went away from the
house with Miss Clyde--who had to return to Barnstead also--Paul stood
looking after them with a smile on his lips.

"Strange if Iris should turn out to be my fate after all," he said to
himself; and then went off to the office of the "Tory Times." His
presence there was much needed, and he had to discard all speculation
about Iris and a possible wedding, in order to plunge into
journalistic work connected mostly with the dry subjects of politics.

The next morning, having finished his work, and obtained the necessary
leave from his editor, Paul went up to London by the express train. It
was noon when he arrived at Victoria, and he had luncheon in a Strand
restaurant before calling on Catinka. Here Fate served him well, for
she brought him into contact with a rising musician, who might be
supposed to know all that there was to be known about the Polish
violinist. Signor Baldini was a young man of Italian blood on the
maternal side, and he had taken the maiden name of his mother, as more
likely to look well on music paper. He had written one or two songs
which had been more or less successful, and now he contemplated
composing the music of a comic opera, which was--in his own
estimation--to place him on a level with Sir Arthur Sullivan. Paul was
hailed cheerily by this individual, and they were soon in confidential
discourse.

After a chat about the comic opera, and people to whom they were both
known, Paul ventured to ask his companion concerning Catinka. At this
question Signor Baldini shrugged his shoulders.

"I have not seen her lately," he said, candidly. "She does not play so
frequently as she once did. You see her name rarely on the St. James's
Hall programmes now."

"Have the public got tired of her, then?"

"Not that I know of. I rather fancy it is she who has grown tired of
the public. The fact is, Mexton, that charming young lady has a bee in
her bonnet."

"What sort of a bee?"

"A political bee, that is intended to sting the Autocrat of all the
Russias. Catinka is a Pole, you know, and of late she has been mixed
up in politics of the Socialistic sort. I never take up a paper
without expecting to see her name figuring as the heroine who has
thrown a bomb at the Czar."

"Is she known to be a Socialist?"

"Well, it isn't in the papers, you know; but it is pretty generally
talked about. Catinka has a kind of society, of which she is the
leader."

"The Rainbow Feather Society?"

"Yes. I see you have heard of it, even in your native wilds. Did you
ever hear so absurd a name, or imagined so ridiculous a symbol? A
feather plucked from a goose and dyed in bars of red, blue, yellow,
and green. Symbolical, no doubt, but no one outside the society knows
the meanings thereof."

"Who belongs to this association?"

"Long-haired Poles and Russian exiles, and all that sort," replied the
signor in a tone of disgust; "the most respectable member is a fellow
called Darcy Herne."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes. I met him once at a musical party given by the lady. At least,
it was called so," said Baldini, correcting himself; "but I daresay it
was a gathering of conspirators. This Herne was there, and seemed a
cracked kind of creature, full of whims. Believes in equality, and
looking after the oppressed, and all that sort of rubbish. Religious,
too, and has the Bible at his finger ends. Do you know him?" asked the
musician in his turn.

"I do. He is the Squire of Barnstead, near which village I live."

"Then why doesn't he look after his preserves instead of mixing
himself up in Catinka's mad schemes? She'll get him into trouble."

"I met her once," said Paul thoughtfully, "but I had not much
opportunity of reading her character. What kind of young woman is
she?"

"Oh, one of the Charlotte Corday sort!"

"She lives in Bloomsbury Square, I believe?"

"Yes--Number one thousand," said Baldini, rising. "If you intend to
call on her, I warn you, my friend, you won't be well received. She
cares for nothing but Anarchists."

"And Herne?"

"Oh, that's nonsense. She only cares for him because she wants his
money to work up a plot against the Czar."

"Then there is no love in the matter?"

"Love!" echoed the signor contemptuously. "If you knew Catinka well
you wouldn't ask so absurd a question. She's got no more heart than
one of those bombs her friends manufacture. Well, good-day, Mexton;
glad to see you. Sorry to go, but awfully busy," and Signor Baldini
rattled himself out of the door, as though his life depended on speedy
movement.

Left alone, Paul finished his luncheon thoughtfully. The explanation
given by Baldini seemed to put the guilt of Catinka out of the
question; at all events, it removed the sole motive she could have for
such a wicked act--that of jealousy. If she was not in love with
Herne, she could not be jealous at hearing--as she must have heard--of
his engagement to Milly; and if she was not jealous, she had no reason
to commit so preposterous a crime. Yet she had been in Barnstead
Church on the night of the crime--as was proved by the Marborough
friend of Mrs. Drass--and she had been on the fatal spot also, as was
confirmed by the evidence of the rainbow feather picked up by Herne.
What was the badge of a political society doing in the Winding Lane?
and why had Herne seemed so startled when he picked it up? It was
these questions which Paul wished to ask of Catinka; in the answering
of which he hoped to find a clue to the assassin. He was convinced
that the solution of the mystery was connected with the rainbow
feather.

Catinka, as he found, occupied the first floor of a gloomy old mansion
in Bloomsbury Square. When Paul ascended the wide staircase, which had
borne the tread of Georgian belles and beaux, he found himself before
a massive door, which bore a brass plate, upon which the name
"Catinka" was inscribed. No one knew what was the Polish girl's
surname, as she preferred to be known by that which she had made
famous in the world of music. Perhaps she intended to reveal who she
was when heading the intended revolt against Russia; but in all
artistic London she was known only by her first name; and then, as
everybody stated, "Catinka" by itself looked well on the bills.

A sallow maidservant with rather a foreign air opened the door, and
conveyed the card of Paul to her mistress. Speedily she returned, and
led him into a cosy sitting-room with two windows which looked out on
to the grimy trees in the centre of the square. It did not appear like
the den of a conspirator, for the paper was of a cheerful pattern, the
chairs and sofa were covered with rose-sprigged chintz, and on the
walls were portraits, signed by the leading musicians and singers of
the day. Judging from the number of these, Catinka was a favourite
with her fellow-artistes.

There was also a grand piano, covered with loose sheets of music, and
a violin lying carelessly on the top; but what attracted Paul most was
a fan of stained feathers, which was spread out in front of the mirror
over the mantelpiece. The four colours mentioned by Baldini stretched
in bars across the fan; and Paul became aware that he was looking at
the symbol of the Anarchist society of which he had lately heard so
much. Dyed feathers and an innocent-looking fan; yet the sign of the
hatred borne by a crushed country against its conqueror. Paul was
struck by the incongruity of the symbol and its meaning.

"Good-day to you, sir," said a voice behind him, with a slight foreign
accent. "You wish for to--ah!" broke off Catinka, as Paul turned--"it
is my nice critic of the English town! How do you do, Mr. Mexton?"

"You have not forgotten me," said Paul, in rather a faltering voice.

"Oh, my dear, no! I never forget those who speak well of me. Sit down,
you good young critic, and let us talk of what you wish."

The violinist was a pretty, sparkling brunette, of no great height,
with an olive-hued face, handsome and calm. She was dressed to
perfection in a tea-gown of amber-coloured silk, trimmed with black
lace; and her back hair was gathered into a kind of coronet, through
which was thrust a tortoise-shell silver-headed pin. She was all
vivacity and charm and sympathy; yet Baldini had assured him that she
had no heart and that she was a dangerous conspirator. Paul could
believe neither statement in the presence of this dainty little lady.

"And now, Mr. Mexton," cried Catinka, when they were seated, "why you
come for this visit--eh?"

"I want to ask you a question."

"Oh yes; assuredly. What you will, my dear sir?"

"It has to do with Barnstead," said Paul, in a hesitating manner.

Catinka's charming face hardened, and she shot a keen look at Paul.
"Ah!" said she, after a pause; "that is a place near to your city
where I was giving--a concert. Quite so. Oh, yes. And what you say
about Barnstead?"

"I want to know why you were in Barnstead Church three weeks ago?"

"Eh?" said Catinka, attempting no denial. "You see me there?"

"No, but I know that you were there--and also that you were in the
Winding Lane on the night a young lady was killed."

Catinka leaned her cheek on her hand and looked at him curiously. "You
are a police?" she asked.

"No, but I wish to know why you were there?"

"Oh, most certainly, my dear sir, you shall," said the violinist
calmly. "I was in your Barnstead to watch on Mr. Herne--Darcy
Herne--who was there on that night also."




CHAPTER XVII.
THE SOCIETY OF THE RAINBOW FEATHER.


The statement made by Catinka was so incredible and improbable that
Paul could only stare and repeat it. "You came to Barnstead to watch
Mr. Herne!" he said, slowly. "I do not quite understand. Mr. Herne was
in London on that night.

"Ah! pardon, but no," replied Catinka, vivaciously. "Mr. Herne--this
good man--he was at your Barnstead; but he does not require one to
speak of it. So he requests me."

"You have seen Herne?" cried Mexton, recalling the fact that the
Squire was in town at that moment.

"Eh--why not? I see him yesterday; I see him this morning; and he ask
me to say nothing of his veesit to Barnstead on that night. But I no
promise; I have good reason to no promise."

"What reason?" asked the journalist, bewildered by her manner.

Before replying, Catinka sprang lightly from her seat, and caught up
the fan of rainbow feathers from off the mantelpiece. "My reason, dear
Mr. Critic? Behold it!"

"Ah! then your reason has to do with your society?"

"Oh, yes; it has all to do with that," said Catinka, shutting the fan
composedly. "I will to you explain all, if you wish."

"Of course I wish, mademoiselle. I wish to find out who killed that
poor girl."

Catinka shook her head gravely, and resumed her seat. "That thing I
cannot say."

"But you were on the very spot where the murder took place."

"Yes," she admitted; "there I was. How you know?"

"By the rainbow feather you dropped."

"Pardon--it is wrong. I did not let fall the feather. I place him
there for my reason."

"Place him where?" asked Mexton, adopting her grammatical error in his
bewilderment.

"On the breast--oh, no--on the back of that dead lady."

"You saw the corpse?"

"Yes; I saw him."

"Then you know who killed the girl?"

"No; that I know not."

"Did Mr. Herne shoot Miss Lester?" asked Paul, determined to get a
direct answer.

"I cannot say truly. I did not see."

"Did you fire the shot yourself."

"I?" Catinka flashed a fiery glance at her questioner. "But what is
this you would say? I did nothing to that lady. I killed her not. No!
I swear it is so by all the saints!"

"But you know so much that----"

"What I know you will be told," interrupted Catinka, "that is, my good
sir, if you this moment will be silent and wait."

"I am quite at your disposal, mademoiselle," said Paul, and composed
himself to listen to what could not fail to be an interesting and
strange story.

"Good! that is so right," said Catinka, and resumed her seat. The
light of the sun poured in through the high window, and enveloped the
violinist in a haze of golden glory, so that she had to spread out the
particoloured fan in order to shade her eyes from the glare. But she
did not move out of that pool of heat and light, for it seemed to
please her greatly, and she basked in the ardent rays like a cat. Paul
never forgot that scene; the cheerful room, the bright sunshine, and
the pretty woman who glowed and sparkled with southern vivacity in the
radiance. She told a strange story, truly, and told it in the calmest
of voices, so that long before she finished Paul concluded that
Baldini was right when he declared Catinka had no heart. Here it will
be best to set forth the tale in other words than her own, since her
phraseology was foreign, and not always correct. The substance of what
she related was as follows:--

"For you to understand what I tell you," she began slowly, "you must
learn who I am and what are my aims. I have no reason to keep my
desire secret in this free England of yours; but in Poland, in
Russia--ah! there it would be a different matter. My name is Catinka
Poluski, and I was born at Warsaw some twenty-five years ago. I am of
a noble family, and my parents were much hated by the Russians for
their patriotic desire to see a free Poland. They conspired against
the tyrant Czar when I was but a child, and being discovered they were
arrested and sent to Siberia--sent there without a trial, to their
doom! Ah! God! why dost Thou permit such evils to befall noble
hearts."

"Are your parents still alive?" asked Paul when she ceased for a
moment, to conquer her emotion.

"Dead, Mr. Mexton," replied Catinka, in a low voice, "dead these many
years. I was left alone in the world, to the care of an old servant.
Our estates were confiscated by the tyrant, and there remained nothing
to me but poverty and shame, and a heritage of hatred against those
who sent the noble Poluski and his wife to their graves in cruel
Siberia, but that Luzk saved me."

"Luzk!" repeated Mexton, struck by the peculiar name, "and who was
Luzk?"

"The servant I spoke of," said Catinka, with emotion, "the faithful
man who looked after me when I was a helpless orphan. He came from the
town of Luzk, and took the name, for some reason connected with the
troubles of our unhappy land. It was Luzk who worked for me, who
clothed and fed me, and had me educated. By him I was taught the
violin, for which I had always a great love, and I soon was able to
play very well."

"You play like an angel!" said Paul, with enthusiasm.

"I did not know angels played on fiddles!" replied the girl, smiling.
"However, I thank you for the compliment. It is fortunate that I play
well, for when Luzk died, seven years ago, I had no one to look after
me. I thought I should starve, as my name was proscribed, and no one
dared to help the child of Poluski, the rebel. Then a French musician
heard me playing in the streets of Warsaw--yes, you may look, Mr.
Mexton, but I, Catinka Poluski, of the best blood in Poland, have
played in the streets. This man--his name was Dubourg--heard me, and
took me into his care. He was old, and a very fine player on the
violin. I received lessons from him for many months, and then we went
to Paris, where I appeared. I made a name, and so I was able to earn
an income. I stayed in Paris for a long time. Then good Papa Dubourg
died, and I no longer cared to remain. I came to London; I played; I
was liked; and now, as you know, I can earn as much money as I want by
my talent. It is not an ignoble profession," said Catinka, "and I do
not think the dead Poluski race need be ashamed of their descendant."

"I should think not, indeed, mademoiselle?" cried Paul. "You have
overcome your difficulties in a noble manner. But this," he added,
"does not touch on your society."

"I am coming to that," said Catinka, with a nod; "but, as I told you,
it was necessary for your understanding that I should begin from the
beginning. Well, Mr. Mexton, when I found myself at ease in London, I
determined to do what I could to aid my unhappy country to be free. As
a child of the Poluski I was bound to revenge my parents and free
Poland. Then in my brain there arose the idea of the Society of the
Rainbow Feather."

"Is the name symbolical?" asked Paul, glancing at the fan, which she
still held.

"Yes." Catinka spread out the fan before him. "This is made of
feathers--a sign that we shall rise, since birds that fly wear
plumage. The feathers are dyed red, blue, green and yellow, which are
symbolic colours. Red for the war we must wage to free our land; blue
is a sign of the peace which will follow the war; green, the colour of
hope which we need to inspire us; and yellow for the wealth we require
to further our plans."

"I see," said Paul, coolly; "yellow stands for Darcy Herne, whose
wealth you need."

"Precisely," replied Catinka calmly. "You are very clever, my dear Mr.
Mexton, to guess so well as that. Do you think I am in love with Mr.
Herne?--by no means, sir! It is his money-bags I want. I have but one
heart and that is for no man; the love which fills it is the love of
Poland--of my crushed and fallen country. The saints grant that it may
be my hand to raise it from the dust!"

"Not an easy task," said Mexton, with a discouraging glance.

"Great tasks are never easy," declared Catinka, with the fire of
heroism in her eyes; "but do you not think I had better go on with my
story?"

"I should be obliged, mademoiselle. Remember, we have not got yet to
the part which will interest me most."

"It is coming," said the violinist. "Well, Mr. Mexton, I formed my
society, as I say, with the Rainbow Feather as a symbol of its
meaning. My first recruits were exiled Poles and Russians, who had all
the will, but none of the power, to harm the tyrant."

"The Czar?"

"I call him the tyrant. But these recruits had no money, and without
money I could not hope to forward the cause. Then God, who is against
oppression, sent in my way Mr. Herne. I met him--well, never mind how;
but he became acquainted with me, and he came to the meetings of my
society, in this very room. I found out that he had all sympathy with
the oppressed, and so he was willing to aid me to lift the foreign
yoke from the necks of my countrymen. I looked on him as my own, as a
man vowed to my service, until I learnt from Mr. Lovel that he was
engaged to be married."

"Do you know Mr. Lovel?"

"Very well," replied Catinka quietly. "I have known him for two years,
and he feigned to be in love with me. But it was only a passing fancy,
and he left London, to fall in love with your Milly Lester. But Herne
was engaged to that lady, and out of jealousy Lovel told me of the
engagement. I was angry, for I thought that she would lead Mr. Herne
away from me, and that his money and his enthusiasm would be lost to
the cause. Later on Mr. Herne received letters from your Barnstead,
which assured him that Miss Lester was flirting and making play, as
you may say, with Mr. Lovel. He grew jealous, and the day before the
murder, when he received a letter stating that Miss Lester was to meet
Mr. Lovel, he determined to go down for himself and see if she was
faithless."

"Who wrote those letters?" asked Paul, eagerly.

"I cannot tell you that," replied the Pole, shaking her head. "They
were scribbled on very dirty paper, and in an illegible hand--at
least, almost illegible. I saw only two."

"Did Mr. Herne know who wrote them?"

"He told me he had no idea," said Catinka, cautiously; "but this I
know not. They were sent to his town address in Berkeley Square."

"Yes; I know he has a house there," said Paul, in thoughtful tones.
"How came you to see those letters, Catinka?"

"Mr. Herne showed the last two to me when I reproached him with
leaving London instead of attending to a meeting of our society. He
said that he must go down on that Sunday night and assure himself that
the reports were false."

"Did he believe them?"

"I think he did," said Catinka, promptly. "He said that Miss Lester
was young and thoughtless, and might be led astray by the evil mind of
Mr. Lovel. He wanted to save her from destruction, and talked in quite
a religious way about her."

"I know," said Paul, quietly. "Herne is a fanatic. So he went down on
that Sunday night?"

"By the train at four o'clock in the afternoon. I followed."

"Why did you follow?"

"Because I desired to see this girl," replied Catinka, coolly. "You
see, Mr. Mexton, I did not wish to lose Mr. Herne, because I wanted
his money for my society; so I thought I would see what this girl was
like--if she was as lovely as he declared her to be. And again, I
wished to see Mr. Lovel, and get him to marry the girl, so that I
could have this dear Herne to myself."

"But you were not in love with Herne!"

"No; but to secure him and his money to my cause, I would have married
him. I quite intended to do so, and went to Barnstead that I might
behold my rival; to see, you understand, if I had much to fear from
her."

"Did you go down by the same train?"

"Oh, yes; at four o'clock. I was in a third-class carriage, Mr. Herne
in a first. He did not see me. We got to Marborough a little after
five. Then I lost him; but as I knew he was going to Barnstead that
was no matter. I hired a carriage and drove over to Barnstead, where I
had dinner in that hotel called after Mr. Herne."

"The Herne Arms."

"Yes. They gave me a bad dinner," said Catinka, making a face. "After
that I went to church, where I thought I might see the girl. I did see
her."

"How did you know her?"

"She was pointed out to me when I asked a lady who sat near me. I saw
Mr. Lovel look at her also. She was beautiful, but foolish, I saw her
leave the church, but I waited till the end of the service, and then I
went out after Mr. Lovel, as I desired to speak with him."

"Did you?"

"No. I could not find him when I went out, and as I did not know your
village I was not aware where to go. I wandered about, and quite lost
myself for a long time. When I was on a wide plain I heard a shot, and
I ran forward into a wood to see what was the matter. It took me some
time to find the place where the shot had been fired; but when I did
find it, no living person was there."

"But a dead body was?"

"Yes," assented Catinka--"the body of Miss Lester, whom I had seen in
church. I was alarmed, and thought that I might get into trouble if I
were found with the dead body. I do not know your laws, so I ran away.
But before I went," said the Pole, with emphasis, "I placed on the
body--it was lying face downward--the symbol of my society, a rainbow
feather."




CHAPTER XVIII.
IRIS CONFESSES.


Paul received this confession in silence, then said: "May I ask why
you placed a rainbow feather on the body?"

"For reason particular, Mr. Critic," replied Catinka, calmly. "I
wished this good Herne to join my society, and give of his money. If
not joining freely, I willed that he should be forced to, for his
safety. See you, I gave him a rainbow feather, and such a one was
found by the dead. Then, you conceive, I could swear I never put it on
the body, and Mr. Herne alone could have done it, since no one but he
could have a feather like that in Barnstead. So you see"--Catinka
shrugged her shoulders--"he would be called the murderer if I spoke.
When he came to me I tell him all this, and vow to speak if he gives
me not the money."

"A kind of blackmailing," said Paul, wondering at the shameless way in
which she spoke. "And what did Mr. Herne say to this?"

"Oh, he will give me a reply when the trial of the caught man is
done."

"Dr. Lester?"

"Yes; the father of the dead lady."

"But you know Lester is innocent?"

"Eh! that may be so," replied Catinka, with another shrug; "but how is
it that I should know?"

"Because you must be aware who fired the shot."

"But no, Mr. Mexton; I tell you no! I hear the shot; I run forward; I
see no one; not Mr. Lovel, not the good Herne. No one person do I see.
I put the feather on the body, and run away, in case they say I kill
the lady. I get into my carriage at the inn, and go back to
Marborough; then to London in the railway."

"Did you see Mr. Herne at Barnstead at all?"

"No. I saw him at Marborough at the railway; then never again."

"Do you think he killed the girl?"

"I know not. He says not."

"He'd say anything to save his own neck," rejoined Paul, scornfully.
"Was he in disguise when he went to Barnstead?"

"Not that I know; but he had a long coat for the rain, and there was
no rain. Also a white scarf on his neck; not like the dress of a
gentleman."

"I see. A disguise. He did not want to be known in Barnstead."

Catinka made a gesture of indifference. "I know nothing of that," she
said. "I have told you all."

"You have," said Paul slowly, "and very fully. What is to prevent my
telling your pretty plot about the rainbow feather?"

"I care not. If this good Herne is free, he will give me the money,
since the lady is dead; if you speak, and he is killed by the
law--well, he makes a will, and I get his money. It is all so; if I
had been afraid, Mr. Mexton, I should have said not one word. But you
see it is all right. I will get money to help my country."

Paul rose and took up his hat and cane. He was so disgusted with the
way in which she spoke that he wished to leave her as speedily as
possible. "I bid you good-day, mademoiselle," he said, marching
towards the door. "And allow me to tell you that I consider you a
wicked woman."

"Ah," Catinka shrugged her shoulders--"now you know all, you call me
bad names. You are ungrateful--you. But what care I?--not that!" and
she snapped her fingers.

"You are shameless."

"Bah! bah! bah! Go away, you pig of an Englishman!" and Paul felt that
there was nothing for him but to accept this advice. Without further
words he walked out of the room, pursued by the scornful laughter of
Catinka. Whatever love he might have felt for her beauty was killed by
her confession and cruel mirth. When Mexton left Bloomsbury Square he
was quite cured of his passion.

On his way back to Marborough Paul had a carriage all to himself, and
he had both time and solitude to consider what use he should make of
Catinka's statement. It would seem from what she had told him that
Herne was implicated in the murder--perhaps had committed the deed
himself. Paul was well aware of Herne's temperament; it was that of a
fanatic who regarded bodies less than souls; who would slay the one to
save the other, He was of the same nature as Torquemada of Spain. If
Herne fancied that Milly was likely to go astray with the too
fascinating Lovel, the journalist was quite sure that he would have
had no hesitation in killing the girl and would glorify himself for
the deed. Catinka had said that the anonymous letters had made Herne
jealous; but with this view Paul did not agree. If Herne had shot
Milly Lester he had done the deed with the pitiless zeal of a fanatic.

"I only wonder that he did not proclaim his doings to all Barnstead,"
mused Paul. "If he fancied in his fanaticism that he was justified in
killing the girl he would certainly not hesitate to acknowledge his
guilt; he would not let an innocent man suffer for his crime--though,
to be sure, if he killed Milly, he did not regard the deed as a crime.
His silence is the sole argument in favour of his innocence."

And, indeed, if Herne were not guilty how could he explain his
stealthy visit to Barnstead, his going thither in disguise, and his
silence regarding his presence in the village on the night of the
murder? No doubt he had come by stealth, lest Milly, hearing that he
was back, should have refused to meet Lovel, and so have hidden her
flirtation from the eyes of her future husband. There was no doubt,
again, that Herne had been in the village on the night of the murder,
since after receipt of the anonymous letters, he would hardly have
remained ignorant at Marborough; but, on the other hand, there was no
proof that he had been in the Winding Lane. Brent had seen Miss Clyde,
but not Herne. Iris, on going to the spot after the crime, had beheld
Lovel, but not Herne; and in no way had the fact of Herne's presence
at Barnstead come out in the evidence collected by Drek. But for the
evidence of Catinka--which seemed genuine enough--it would be
impossible in any way to implicate Darcy Herne in the crime.

After considerable thought Paul determined to seek out and question
Lovel. That young man, on the evidence of Miss Clyde and Brent, had
been with Milly almost at the hour of the murder. This was the more
probable as, terrified lest he should be accused, Lovel had induced
Gran Jimboy to tell a lie on his behalf. Mexton considered himself
absolved from the promise he had made to Herne, since Catinka's
statement had implicated the squire in the crime. He therefore
arranged in his own mind to force a confession from Lovel, and
threaten him with arrest should he prove obdurate. Paul knew very well
that if he told all he knew to Drek there would not be much difficulty
in having Lovel arrested on suspicion. The very fact of the lying
alibi--which could be exposed by Brent and Miss Clyde--would be
sufficient to get him into trouble since, if he were innocent, there
would have been no need for him to resort to such extreme measures for
his safety.

On considering all that he had been told by various people, Paul
concluded that either Lovel or Herne was the guilty person, but which
one of the two had shot the hapless girl it was hard to say. Only the
discovery of new evidence could confirm the guilt of the one and the
innocence of the other. And it was with the discovery of such evidence
that Paul charged himself.

From thoughts of the crime Mexton drifted into considering his
disillusion with regard to the Polish violinist. At one time he had
loved her for her brilliant beauty, and had thought her kind-hearted
and sympathetic. But the conversation he had taken part in; the
shameless way in which she confessed to blackmailing Herne; and her
absolute disregard of all honour, and even common honesty, showed him
what sort of woman she was. If Herne were a religious fanatic, Catinka
was frenzied on the point of patriotism; and for her mission she was
willing to sacrifice all who stood in the way of its fulfilment. Paul
quite believed that she had not killed Milly; but, short of murder, he
fancied that she was capable of all other crimes in order to
accomplish her dreams of a free Poland.

"How could I have loved such a woman?" groaned Paul. "But then it was
an ideal I loved, not the kind of viperish clay Catinka has proved
herself to be. I dreamt of a goddess, and find a hard woman of the
world. Whatever love I may have felt for her has vanished; and I am
now much more attracted by the plain good sense and kindly heart of
Iris than by the beauty of that impossible Pole. And, after all,"
added Mexton, trying to comfort himself, "even if Catinka had proved
the reality of my dream, she would never have surrendered her great
schemes to marry me. But Iris!--ah, if I could only induce her to love
me, then, indeed, in a union with her might I hope for happiness?"

It was six o'clock when Mexton arrived at Marborough, and after dining
at home he returned to his work in the office. But all the time he was
compiling political articles, and chronicling the small beer of the
provincial town, his thoughts were with Iris Link; and with the
enthusiasm of youth he was rapidly raising an altar to his goddess.
Catinka had been his Rosalind, he told himself, but Iris was his
Juliet; and this modern Romeo was falling in love as quickly as his
prototype of Verona. He longed for the company of Iris as a thirsty
traveller for a cooling spring; and after a restless night, haunted by
dreams of Iris and memories of poor dead Milly, he rode the next
morning to Barnstead. Here he put up his horse at The Herne Arms, and
promised himself a long day with the new goddess of his affections.

On her side, Iris had been thinking a great deal about Paul. The
glance he had given her at parting had turned her thoughts in his
direction, and she began to look on him in a more amiable light than
she had hitherto done. Her love for Herne had completely died away
since the death of Milly, and she now began to compare Mexton to the
disadvantage of the squire. The conduct of the latter in regard to the
discovery of the assassin of Milly had not prepossessed her in his
favour; and she contrasted his lukewarm pursuit with the fiery zeal of
Paul. The friend of her youth seemed noble in comparison to Herne, and
Iris reproached herself for having overlooked for so long his many
good qualities. In fact, she thought of Paul as much as he dreamt of
her, and when she saw him at the front door of Poverty Villa she went
out to meet him with a becoming blush. Paul, on his part, blushed
also; and they met like lovers after a long separation. Thus out of
evil had come good; and a happy marriage between two young people
eminently suited to one another was likely to be the outcome of poor
Milly Lester's untimely decease. So strange and unexpected are the
decrees of Fate.

"I am glad to see you again, Iris," said Paul, taking her hand and
looking into her eyes. "How is your step-father?"

"Very well; he is cheerful and hopeful," replied Iris. "Miss Clyde has
told her story to everyone, and now all Barnstead knows that he is
innocent. There is quite a revulsion in his favour; and all yesterday
he was being congratulated. I should not be surprised if this false
accusation brought him more patients."

"Out of evil comes good," quoth Mexton, following her into the house.
"Where is Dr. Lester now?"

"He has gone out to see his patients.

"Sober, I hope?"

"Paul!" Iris turned round indignantly. "You may be sure he is sober!
He has not touched alcohol since he came back. Miss Clyde's lesson was
cruel, but efficacious; I don't think he will ever indulge in strong
drink again. But we can talk of his reform later," added Iris, as they
sat down in the drawing-room. "I am anxious to know how you got on
with Catinka."

"Well, I found out a great deal."

"You did?" said Iris; and then added, with a blush: "And did you find
her as charming as you expected?"

"Indeed I did not! I found that my idol had feet of clay, and she has
tumbled off her pedestal forever. A hard, cruel woman, Iris; not at
all the woman of my dreams."

"I am glad you found out your mistake before it was too late," said
Iris in a contented tone. "I am sure she would never have made you
happy."

"I am sure also," rejoined Mexton, laughing. "I must look for my
happiness nearer home." He said this with such a significant look that
the colour again flushed the face of Iris; but, not deeming the moment
a propitious one for love-making--since she was not yet sure of her
own heart--she hurriedly turned the conversation.

"What did Catinka tell you, Paul?"

"Many things," replied Mexton; then, after a pause, he added: "Iris, I
remember you asked me not to search for the assassin. Was that because
you wished to save your father?"

"No; that was not my reason," said Iris in a hesitating tone. "I told
you so before."

"Then you did not want Lovel to be arrested?"

"I did not care if he was arrested or not. I am not sure if he is
guilty, although I did see him in the Winding Lane when I went out
after poor Milly's body was brought home."

"Did you see anyone else near the spot?"

"No," said Iris frankly; "I did not. Why do you ask?"

"Because I am sure you suspect someone of having been there."

"I do; but--but I cannot tell you whom I suspect."

"You need not; I know. Catinka told me that Darcy Herne was in
Barnstead on the night of the murder."

"He was there, then?" cried Iris, rising with an expression of horror.

"Where?"

"In the Winding Lane."

"I don't know. Why do you say so?"

"Wait." Iris left the room, and while Paul was still wondering at her
emotion she returned with a handkerchief spotted with blood. This she
handed to Paul. "Mr. Herne's handkerchief," she said. "I found it on
the spot where Milly's body was discovered."




CHAPTER XIX.
WHO MR. LOVEL WAS.


"Then Herne must be guilty!" cried Paul, looking at the name on the
handkerchief.

"I am not sure," replied Iris. "If he were guilty, he would not accuse
Mr. Lovel."

"He was forced into that position," rejoined the journalist quickly.
"He accused Lovel until the discovery of the rainbow feather led him
to believe that Catinka had been on the spot, and might have seen him
commit the crime. Then he changed his tune, and asked me to seek no
further evidence against Lovel until he returned from seeing Catinka.
I know now that the violinist saw nothing, and, reassured on that
point, I am certain that Herne will return here tomorrow, and go on
accusing Lovel."

"But, Paul," urged Iris, "he might have seen Lovel kill Milly?"

"No; if he had done so, he would have had Lovel arrested. Iris, this
handkerchief shows that Herne was in the Winding Lane on the night and
at the time of the murder. He came to Barnstead in disguise; and, see,
this handkerchief is spotted with blood--with Milly's blood. I feel
sure that Herne is the guilty man."

Iris covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "Oh!" she moaned,
"I have tried to put this frightful suspicion out of my mind, because
I loved the man. I fancied that he might have killed Milly in a fit of
rage, and it was because I was sorry for him that I asked you not to
search for the assassin."

"You thought I should find Herne?"

"Yes; but I could not believe him guilty. When I heard of Mr. Lovel's
false alibi at the inquest I truly believed that he had killed Milly."

"But, Iris," expostulated Paul, "the handkerchief is spotted with
blood!"

"I know. Perhaps Mr. Herne let it fall when he found the body."

"If so, and he found the body, why did he not call in the police? Why
did he sneak away to London in disguise, and let Mr. Chaskin bring
home the corpse? No, Iris; I believe that Herne killed Milly. Only one
man can tell us the truth, and the truth he must tell to save his own
neck. I shall see Lovel."

"Do you think he will accuse Mr. Herne?" faltered Iris.

"My dear, I don't know," replied Paul, rising; "his own conduct is
quite as mysterious as that of Herne. All I do know is that both of
them were lurking about the spot at the time the shot was fired, and
that one of the two must have fired it. I suspect Herne, but I shall
do nothing against him at present."

"Don't say anything to Drek until you see Mr. Herne."

"No, I shall not," promised Paul; "but Herne does not return till
to-morrow, and in the meantime I shall interview Lovel. His evidence
may either clear or inculpate Herne."

"I can't believe Mr. Herne is guilty!" cried Iris in despair.

"Ah," said Paul, looking at her with a frown, "that is because you
love him."

"No, no! I did love him, but now I do not care for him save as a
friend; and for such friendship's sake I should be sorry to see him
convicted of a crime which he may not have committed."

"Well. I'll say nothing against him until I see Lovel. This very
moment I'll go to The Herne Arms and question him."

"Do, do; and come back to tell me if he can prove the innocence of Mr.
Herne."

"I suspect he'll have enough to do to prove his own," said Paul
grimly; and forthwith left the house on his errand. With him he
carried the incriminating handkerchief, which Iris had forgotten to
ask for back again.

On his way to the inn Paul wondered why he had not adopted before the
very obvious course of questioning Lovel. He should have gone to him
after Brent's confession of the false alibi and have forced the young
man to explain why he and the old gipsy had perjured themselves at the
inquest; but on further reflection Paul recollected that circumstances
had intervened which had made it impossible to seek the interview with
Lovell. But now all obstacles had been removed; he had accumulated
from Brent, Miss Clyde, Catinka and others a mass of circumstantial
evidence; and at the coming conversation he was fully prepared to
encounter any further deceptions which Lovel might employ to evade
discovery. Paul did not believe that Lovel was guilty, as even the
passion of jealousy would hardly have incited him to slay the girl who
loved and trusted him; but he was certain that Lovel knew the name of
the assassin; and he was equally certain that such name would be Darcy
Herne.

At the inn Mexton learnt that Lovel was in his sitting-room, and at
once he sent up his card with a request for an interview. He had a
fancy that Lovel, for obvious reasons, would refuse to see him; but,
rather to his surprise, he was requested to walk upstairs. When the
servant closed the door behind him Paul found himself in a comfortable
apartment, alone with the man who, as he believed, held in his hands
the sole clue to the mysterious death of Milly. Lucas looked worn and
ill; there were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared listless
and indifferent, as though his vitality was exhausted. Without
offering his hand to Mexton, he bowed and pushed forward a chair.

"Hast thou found me out, O my enemy?" he said softly.

Mexton stared, as well he might, for the Biblical quotation was a
strange one for Lovel to use. Paul thought it rather theatrical. "I am
not your enemy, Mr. Lovel," he said, taking his seat. "I think you
know that very well."

"How should I know, when Brent tells me that you go to him to worm out
my secrets?"

"As to that," replied Paul coldly, "I have a right to discover any
secrets which are likely to lead to the detection of Milly's
assassin."

"And you think I am the man?" questioned Lovel, looking fixedly at his
visitor.

"No; I do not think you killed the poor girl. I will give you the
credit that you loved her too well to take her young life. But I think
also," said Paul with energy, "that you know who fired the shot."

"No; I am as doubtful of that as you are."

"I decline to believe that. Herne killed the girl, and you know it."

"So far as I do know, Herne did not kill the girl," replied Lovel
emphatically.

"Then, if he is innocent, and you also, who is the murderer?"

"I don't know, I cannot say," said Lucas wearily. "I have asked myself
that question fifty times a day, but to it I can find no answer."

"The police might find an answer."

Lovel laughed. "The police might arrest me, and find their answer by
getting me hanged," he said coolly.

"Well, Drek may arrest you yet," said Paul, raising his eyebrows. "You
must be aware, Mr. Lovel, that your actions are very suspicious."

"Because I told a lie to screen myself from possible danger?"

"Yes; and because you induced Gran Jimboy to lie also. Though how you
induced her to perjure herself I can't guess."

"I'll explain if you like," said Lovel coldly. "I see that I must tell
the truth sooner or later, and I would rather make you my father
confessor than Drek. I run less risk of arrest, you see."

"I don't know, Lovel. If I think you guilty I shall certainly have you
arrested."

"My good, sir," cried Lovel with irony, "if I were guilty of murder I
should have left this neighbourhood long ago! My staying here proves
my innocence."

"I'll wait to hear your story before agreeing to that."

"Very good, Mexton. You shall hear my story, and in addition I will
tell you all that took place in the Winding Lane on the night poor,
dear Milly was killed. Then," added Lovel with emphasis, "you will be
as puzzled as I am."

"Puzzled by what?"

"By the mystery of the case. Who killed Milly I can't tell you; and if
I cannot no one else can."

"I don't understand--" began Paul, when Lovel cut him short.

"Do not let us waste any more time," he said impatiently. "Hear my
confession, as you may call it, and judge for yourself." He paused,
passed his hand across his forehead, and in a moment or so continued,
"My name is Lucas Lovel, as you know, and I came down here some eight
or ten months ago to sketch and paint. Who I am I knew no more than
yourself until three weeks ago."

"About the time of the murder?" interjected Mexton.

"Yes," assented Lovel, bending his head. "There was a mystery about my
birth. I did not know where I was born, or who were my father and
mother. I was brought up by an old maiden aunt in London, and she
resolutely refused to tell me about my parentage. I was educated at an
excellent school, and as I wished to be an artist I was sent to the
studio of a celebrated painter to study. Afterwards I went abroad, to
Paris and Rome, whence I was recalled two years ago by the death of my
guardian. By her will I inherited her house in Clapham, and some two
hundred pounds a year--enough to keep me from starving, but not enough
to give me the luxuries of life. About a year ago I became acquainted
with Catinka and her mad schemes for freeing Poland. At her house I
met Herne."

"You met Herne?" echoed Paul, much interested.

"I did; and I thought he was as mad in his own way as Catinka was in
hers. However, we became friends, and he asked me down to Barnstead.
As you are aware, I stayed with him for some time; but we quarrelled
because I admired Miss Lester too much, and I left his house to take
up my abode in these rooms, where I have been since. It was my love
for Milly which kept me here, in this dull neighbourhood."

"I know; but it would have been more honourable had you gone," said
Mexton, reprovingly.

"Why--because the girl I loved was engaged to a religious lunatic?"
cried Lovel, his pale face growing red with anger. "It was for that
very reason I stayed. I was determined that beautiful Milly should not
be sacrificed to that cold-blooded fanatic. Besides, she loved me, and
but for the attraction of Herne's money she would have become my wife.
I met her often, as you know; and some wretch sent tales of these
meetings to Herne."

"Do you know who wrote Herne those letters?" asked Paul eagerly.

"No; if I did, I'd kick the person who sent them," said Lovel
viciously. "I have no idea who was so cruel. Well, Mexton, while
paying court to Milly, and urging her to break off the engagement with
Herne, I met with old Mother Jimboy, the gipsy. She positively haunted
my steps, and never saw me without speaking to me. I found her a great
nuisance."

"Perhaps she wrote the anonymous letters," suggested Mexton, thinking
of the dirty paper and the illegible handwriting as described by
Catinka.

Lovel shook his head very decidedly. "No, my friend," he said,
gravely. "Mother Jimboy did not write those letters, for a reason
which you shall hear. She would do nothing to injure me; but, on the
contrary, she would protect me as the apple of her eye. For my sake
she told a lie at the inquest, so that I should not be suspected of a
crime which I did not commit."

"She must have strong reason for this guardianship," said Mexton,
surprised.

"A strong one," assented Lovel, nodding. "The reason of kinship, Mr.
Mexton." He paused to give effect to his words. "That old gipsy is my
grandmother."

"Your grandmother!" echoed Paul, curiously. "Are you, then, a gipsy?"

"On my father's side I am--half a Romany, half a Gorgio; but my looks
are of the gipsy race. Can you not see for yourself?" he said, turning
his face to the light.

It was as he stated, for on looking at him keenly Paul beheld
unmistakable traces of Romany blood--the oval face, swart and
Oriental, the thin nose, the full red lips, and above all the peaked
eyes, with the glazed look which reveals the true gipsy. Lovel looked
like an Arab astray in the West; and would have suited the rich robes
of the Oriental rather than the plain garb of an English gentleman.
Paul instinctively felt that the young man spoke the truth. He was no
Englishman; he was not even kin to the dark Spaniard or the swart
Italian; he was of the gentle Romany, undeniably a gipsy.

"When did you discover that you were of gipsy blood?" asked Paul.

"I have told you," said Lovel quietly. "About three weeks ago. On the
day before that fatal Sunday night I met Milly on the common, and she
promised to meet me in the Winding Lane the next night, after service.
Shortly before, Gran Jimboy had read Milly's hand, and prophesied that
she would come by a violent death. I was angry with the old woman, and
when Milly left me I went in search of Mother Jimboy to reprove her."

"How did she take your reproof?"

"By telling me that she was my grandmother. It appeared that her son,
my father, who was a pureblooded gipsy, had been a fine singer, and
left the Romany tents for the stage. He sang also at private houses in
London, and in one of them he met with my mother, who was an heiress
in a small way. She fell in love with the gipsy tenor, and ran off
with him. They were married, and when I was born my mother died, and
asked her husband to take me back to her sister; my father died also,
and it was by my aunt--the old maid I spoke of--that I was brought up.
Before I was six years of age my father was drowned while going to
America; and as he had squandered all the money his wife brought him,
I was left penniless. My aunt, who was angered by her sister's
marriage, decided to tell me nothing, but gave me my father's
name--Lovel is a gipsy name, you know--and left me her little money.
So you see, Mr. Mexton, I am a gipsy."

"I see," said Paul, rather bored. "But what has all this family
history to do with the murder?"




CHAPTER XX.
GRAN JIMBOY.


Lovel flushed angrily at the ironical tone in which his visitor made
his last remark, but kept his temper in a way wonderful for so
passionate a man, and replied with all calmness: "As I told you
before, Mr. Mexton, a few personal details about myself are necessary
to make you understand my position; otherwise you will never
comprehend how Mother Jimboy consented to perjure herself for my sake
at the inquest."

"I beg your pardon," said Paul, feeling ashamed of his rude speech; "I
should not have spoken as I did. Pray continue."

"When gran had related my family history," resumed Lovel, quietly,
"she told me that she had come to Barnstead specially to watch over
me. She knew that I was not rich, and having discovered--how, I know
not--that Miss Clyde was in love with me, she implored me to marry
that lady. I refused."

"Because of Milly?"

"Yes," assented Lovel, "because of Milly; and I told gran the cause of
my refusal in plain words. She was angry with what she termed my
folly, and said that if I met Milly again the consequences might be
fatal."

"Oh! she said that, did she?"

"Yes; but only to insist upon her foolish prophecy earlier in the day.
As I told you, she declared that Milly would meet with a violent
death, and she urged that such death might take place at our next
meeting, so as to induce me not to see the girl again. In a word,
Mexton, the artful old woman was trying to frighten me with false
fire; and I replied to her warning by telling her that I was to meet
Milly the next evening in the Winding Lane. Mother Jimboy warned me
once more that evil might come of it----"

"Might come, or would come?" questioned Paul.

"Might come," replied Lovel. "I don't think she anticipated any evil,
but simply tried to put me off the meeting with words of warning.
Well, Mexton, of course I did not believe in the nonsense she talked,
and laughed at her; whereat she left me in anger, and swore that I
should have reason to remember her prophecy. God knows I have now!"
added the young man, bitterly.

"H'm!" said Paul, thoughtfully. "Do you believe in palmistry, Lovel?"

"No," said the other, promptly; "in spite of my gipsy blood, I am no
believer in the influence of star, or cards, or lines on the palm.
Yet, in Milly's case, it is very strange that Gran Jimboy's
prognostication of evil should come to pass."

"Bah! In my opinion she contributed to the fulfillment of her own
prophecy."

"Mexton! surely you don't believe that a feeble old woman like gran
killed Milly?"

"No, I do not," replied Paul, decisively; "but I believe that she
brought about the death by her arts. Tell me when it was you saw her?"

"About three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Very good; then you told her of your intended meeting with Milly? No
one else knew of that."

"No," said Lovel, thoughtfully. "I told only Gran Jimboy; but Milly
might have informed her sister."

"That is improbable," said Paul, drily. "Milly knew well enough that
her sister Iris did not approve of her flirtation with you, and
assuredly would have stopped the meeting had she known of it. Or would
have formed an inconvenient third at such a meeting," concluded Paul.

"Well, well," cried Lovel, impatiently, "assuming that my grandmother
was the only person who knew that I was to meet Milly on that Sunday
night--what then?"

"Simply this: that I firmly believe Gran Jimboy wrote the letter which
brought Herne down to witness your meeting."

Lovel started from his seat in surprise. "How do you know Herne was
there? I did not tell you that."

"No; but I know. You are aware that he saw your meeting."

"Yes; I saw him."

"You--saw--him!" repeated Paul, slowly.

"You confuse me!" said Lovel, impatiently, striding up and down the
room. "I'll tell you how and where I saw Herne later. Just now inform
me why you think Gran Jimboy wrote those letters?"

"Because I learnt from Catinka----"

"You have seen Catinka?" interrupted Lovel, stopping.

"Yes, yes! Allow me to proceed. She told me that the letters were
written on dirty scraps of paper, by an uneducated person."

"But my grandmother would do nothing to harm me.

"My dear Lovel," said Paul, coolly, "no doubt by informing Herne of
your meetings she thought that she was acting in your interests.
Remember, she wanted you to marry Miss Clyde; well, if she could have
got Herne to stop your meetings with Milly, she no doubt fancied you
would cease loving the poor girl, and consent to make Miss Clyde your
wife."

"Admitting that, what about the prophecy?"

"Oh, knowing that Milly was deceiving Herne, the old gipsy fancied she
might take the law into her own hands, and kill her; hence the
prophecy about a violent death."

"My dear Mexton, all this is pure theory."

"True. I am waiting to hear you state the facts of the case."

"You shall," said Lovel, resuming his seat. "And, pray, attention,
please! You may be able to make more out of the matter than I. On that
night I met Milly in the Winding Lane about a quarter past eight. We
walked up to the stile at the end where the lane goes out into the
common. While walking I saw Brent, and bribed him to say nothing."

"You paid him well," interjected Paul--"five pounds."

"I did not pay him at all on that night," replied Lovel, gloomily,
"but next day, after the murder. I told him that I was innocent, but
in peril, and gave him five pounds, with the promise of more when he
wanted it."

"You bribed him lest he should inculpate you in the murder?"

"That's about it," confessed Lovel. "But if Brent hadn't thought me
innocent he would not have taken the money. I'll do him that justice."

"I think you do him too much justice," said Paul, coolly. "Brent is a
scamp, and would accept your money even though it were blood-stained.
Go on, please, Mr. Lovel."

"I was talking to Milly, standing by the stile," continued the young
man, "and there I was telling her about Herne's flirtation with
Catinka. Of course, I knew that there was no flirtation, but I wanted
to make Milly jealous, so that she should break off the match with
Herne and marry me. Well, while we were talking the clock in St.
Dunstan's Church began to strike nine, and Milly, saying she must go
home, stepped away a short distance. At that moment a shot was fired,
and with a cry the poor girl fell. If you only knew what I felt when I
saw her fall!" cried Lovel, clasping his hands. "I did not see from
what direction the shot came, but bent over Milly. She moved a little,
and then died."

"And you?" asked Mexton, who was following this narrative with intense
interest.

"I rose from my knees when she was dead and rushed into the bushes to
see who had killed her. I could see no one at first, but I heard the
sound as if some one was retreating. I followed quickly, and in the
shadow of the trees some distance away I saw--Darcy Herne!"

"He had killed her!" cried Paul, rising.

"No," denied Lovel, with vehemence; "he was in one of his trances. I
expect he had seen me kissing Milly when we parted, and that the sight
had excited his nervous system to such a degree that he went into the
cataleptic state. I touched him, I shook him, I spoke in his ear; but
all to no purpose; he was quite senseless, and blind to all external
things. Then I became aware of my own peril, and was afraid lest I
should be accused of killing Milly. I had met her; I was in love with
her; and I saw that on all sides I was in danger of being accused of
the crime. Mexton," cried Lovel, "I was not master of myself; I felt
like a madman, and rushed away. Where I went I don't know; but when I
grew calmer I found myself on the high road. Then I thought I would
protect myself by an alibi, and swear that I had not met Milly. I went
to Mother Jimboy's tent and told her all. She said she would help me,
and made me lie down. That is all I know of the crime, Mexton. I did
not kill the girl, I swear; and I swear also that Herne is innocent."

"Are you so sure of that?" said Paul doubtfully.

"Sure! Of course I am. The man was in a trance, and had no pistol in
his hand."

"It might have fallen," suggested Paul.

"No; I looked before I went."

"Why did you return after midnight?"

"Who told you that I returned?" asked Lovel, curiously.

"Iris Link. She thought that her step-father had committed the crime;
and, to save him, she went to the spot to look for the pistol she
fancied he might have dropped. But we know now that Miss Clyde took
away his pistol before the crime was committed."

"I heard that story," said Lovel, thoughtfully; "but, of course, I
never thought that Dr. Lester was guilty. Did Iris see me?"

"Yes; and you ran away?"

"I did," said Lovel, flushing. "I went to see if Herne was still
there; and hearing footsteps--those of Iris, no doubt--I went away
lest I should be implicated in the murder. What else could I do in
such a position? Well, Mexton, I have told you all I know. What do you
make of my story?"

Paul rose. "You come with me, Lovel, and see Mother Jimboy," said he,
putting on his hat, "and we'll see what she knows of the matter."

"She knows nothing; she was not out of her tent."

"I am not so certain of that," said Mexton, quickly. "If she wrote
those letters, as I suspect, I am certain she would go to see if Herne
was watching you."

"She did not say so to me," replied, Lovel, rising in his turn; "but
it may be as well to question her. I am as anxious to secure the
assassin as you are. Let us go. I only hope that gran is well enough
to speak."

"Is she ill?" asked Paul, as they left The Herne Arms.

"She had an accident yesterday--was run over by a baker's cart, and
has suffered some internal injury. Dr. Lester saw her this morning."

"I have not seen him, so that is the first I have heard about the
accident."

The two young men walked through the village, and turned off to the
high road. The shortest way to gran's tent was through the Winding
Lane and across the common; but for obvious reasons, connected with
the memory of the dead, they were unwilling to pass the fatal spot
where Milly had come by her timely end. They walked smartly along the
high road, and when well on their way Paul produced and showed to
Lucas the handkerchief of Herne found by Iris.

"It is spotted with blood, you see," he said earnestly; "that looks as
though Herne had something to do with the murder."

"I dare say when he came out of his trance he examined the body," said
Lucas, "and dropped the handkerchief in the blood--Milly's blood, poor
girl! Ugh!" and he shuddered.

"We'll see what Herne says about it," said Paul, taking back the
handkerchief. "I expect him back from London to-morrow."

"He believes me guilty, Mexton, and I quite see how. He saw me with
Milly, and then fell into his trance. When he came out of it he
discovered that I was gone and the girl dead. I don't wonder he
suspects me."

"But, if so, why did he not raise the alarm on the moment?"

"Afraid to inculpate himself, no doubt," replied Lucas. "But here we
are."

Mother Jimboy's tent stood on the verge of the common, all by itself.
She was with none of her kinsfolk, and camped alone in quite a hermit
fashion. Since her illness a long lean girl with sharp black eyes had
come forward in some mysterious fashion to take charge of her, and it
was this damsel who appeared round a corner of the tent when the young
men approached. Evidently the girl knew Lovel, for she nodded to him
in a familiar fashion and addressed him directly.

"Gran's better, rye," said she, "and wants to see you. I was just
going for you."

"I wonder what she wants to see me about," speculated Lovel, as the
girl lifted up the flap of the tent. "We'll soon learn. Come, Mexton!"
and they crept into the dwelling of the old gipsy.

Gran was lying on the ground amid a pile of dingy blankets, over which
was thrown a gaily striped quilt. Her face was leaner and more
wrinkled than ever, and her eyes were sunken. Still, they glittered
with intelligence, and she seemed to have all her faculties about her,
as she bent forward and clutched the hand of her grandson.

"Eh, dearie, I be main glad to see 'ee, for sure. An' t'other rye--who
be he?"

"I am Paul Mexton," said that gentleman, "and I have come with Mr.
Lovel to hear what you have to say about the murder."

Gran began a cackling laugh, and choked in the middle of it. "Oh, 'tis
gran as knows the pure truth o' that," she said, when her breath came
back. "I wanted to tell mun to you, dearie, so that you may be cliver
and save yourself."

"To me?" cried Lucas, bending forward. "Do you know who killed Milly?"

"Ees, for sure. I was at the stile when mun fired wi' pistol."

"Who fired the pistol?" asked Paul, much excited. "Herne?"

"No; nor Miss Clyde, nor Brent, nor my grandson here. Bend, dearie,
and I'll whisper who killed the good maid."

Both men bent forward and held their breath.

"It was t'passon," said Gran Jimboy. "Master Chaskin--'e killed t'
lass!"




CHAPTER XXI.
THE RETURN OF HERNE.


When Gran Jimboy revealed her secret, she finished with a croaking
laugh of triumph, and lay back breathless on her pillow. Her hearers
remained silent, in sheer astonishment at the astounding statement
which she had made, and which neither could believe. The old gipsy was
irritated by this unspoken scepticism, and reiterated her charge.

"I ses that t'passon killed that gude maid!" she declared; upon which
Paul found his tongue.

"It is impossible!" cried he indignantly. "How dare you bring a charge
like that against Mr. Chaskin! What motive had he for killing an
innocent girl?"

"Eh, dearie, he loved her. Iss, gran spakes trew."

"Chaskin loved Milly!" said Lovel, a colour rising in his swarthy
face. "What are you talking about, gran? If he had loved Milly, she
would have told me.

"The maid was no fule, dearie," replied Mother Jimboy with feeble
sarcasm; "she played wi' all hearts, and tould not one o' the other.
Did mun spake tu t' Squoire o' you, dearie? No. Nor did mun spake to
you o' t'passon. Oh, dearie me, but yon maid was cliver, for sure!"

'Gran spoke so positively that Lovel half-believed her, and stared
with angry eyes at her cunning old face. His companion did not say a
word, for it had just come into Paul's mind that Miss Clyde, learning
the fact from the gossip of Mrs. Drass, had brought the same charge
against Chaskin. Evidently it was true, and Milly had inveigled the
Vicar into loving her, in the intervals of her flirtation with Lovel
and her demure conversations with Herne. She was determined that all
should minister to her vanity and love of admiration; and had so
played off the three men, the one against the other, that not one of
the three knew that she was flirting with his rival. Yet, as Paul
considered, the Vicar must have occupied a different position, for he
was aware that Milly was engaged to Herne, and must have known, what
all the country gossips knew, that she was playing fast and loose with
Lovel when her future husband's back was turned. Truly the village
beauty had been a torch of destruction in her small way--a local
Helen--and undeniably a foolish, wicked, vain creature, with only her
beauty to recommend her. Cruel as the thought may seem, Mexton fancied
that it was just as well she was dead and done with. Had she lived she
would have contrived further mischief.

"Suppose we grant that Mr. Chaskin was in love with Miss Lester," said
he, after a pause, "why should he kill her?"

"For pure jealousy," replied gran. "Ye don't think I spake trew? See
ye here," and gran brought out a bundle from under the pillow. "I
picked this up on the place where that poor maid was took."

Lovel undid the bundle rapidly, and there lay before him a neat
silver-plated pistol, the weapon, as he knew without being told, with
which Milly had been killed. As in the case of the incriminatory
revolver of Dr. Lester, produced by Miss Clyde, there was a name on
the butt. "Francis Chaskin" was the name.

"So he killed her, after all!" cried Lovel, and handed the weapon to
Paul, with a fierce light in his eyes.

"Aye, aye; 'tis so," mumbled gran, wetting her dry lips. "I was at the
stile when mun fired the pistol."

"Did you see him fire it?" asked Paul. "Did you see him kill the
girl?"

"No," replied Mrs. Jimboy, "but I seed him on the common afore I came
to the stile. He walked to the lane, an' I hears the shot. When I got
to that stile, I see nothing but the dead maid. After I sees summat
bright on the ground twinkle-twinkle in the moonlight. 'Twas yon
pistol, dearie; an' I picked it up an' run back to my tent quick as my
old legs could carry me.

"Did you think Chaskin was the murderer at that time?"

"No, dearie; only when I saw the name o' mun on the pistol. I told
that gude maid that she would goo down to the grave."

"And you thought that Herne had killed her," said Paul, sternly. "Oh,
you need not look so astonished, Mrs. Jimboy. I know you wrote a
letter to Mr. Herne telling him that his promised wife was to meet
Lovel on Sunday night."

"Ees," said gran, in a hard voice; "I wrote; 'twas I as brought mun
down."

"You!" cried Lovel, aghast. "In heaven's name, why?"

"For your sweet sake, dearie," whimpered the old woman. "You be bone
o' my bone an' flesh o' my flesh; an' you hev nowt o' goold, poor
lamb! 'Tis my wish as you'd wed wi' Mistress Clyde, an' hev lands an'
money. But that dead maid was witchly, and was drawin' your heart into
the net o' mun. I thought as t'Squoire, seeing her wickedness, would
take her fro' you, for religion's sake, an' wed her, so it might be
she'd tempt ye no more; an' he could save the soul o' mun fro' the
burnin' pit."

"You are a wicked old woman," said Lovel, vehemently. "By bringing
Herne down you brought about the death of Milly."

"No, dearie, no. 'Twas passon killed her. T'Squoire did nowt, dear
heart. For your good I told mun o' his maid's bad doings."

"Gran," said Paul--for Lovel was too angered to speak--"you prophesied
a violent death to Miss Lester. Did you make that prophecy knowing
that she would be killed within twenty-four hours?"

"Eh, dearie, I know'd not when she would be killed. But fair maids wi'
fierce lovers had best be wary, an' I thought if t'Squoire knew o' her
wickedness, he might hev anger wi' her."

"In other words, you brought down Herne in the hope that he might
fulfil your prophecy, and kill Milly," cried Lovel. "You are a wicked
old Jezebel, and, blood or no blood, I shall have nothing to do with
you!"

The old woman began to whimper and expostulate with feeble energy; but
her grandson would listen to no excuses. With an angry look at her, he
crawled out of the tent, and walked hastily across the common, trying
to get rid of his wrath by violent exercise. It was easily seen, as he
considered, that gran, had hoped for the death of Milly at the hands
of Herne. That the squire had not killed her was due to the trance
into which he had fallen while witnessing her fickleness; a trance
which had rendered him incapable of inflicting punishment on the fair
woman who had deceived him. Without doubt--judging from the evidence
of the pistol--Chaskin had committed the crime; and finding Herne in
the trance, had probably taken his handkerchief and dipped it into the
blood, with the idea of saving himself and inculpating his friend.
Lovel could not conceive how Chaskin could have known of the meeting,
unless----

"Gran Jimboy again!" he cried, stopping short, as the idea struck him.
"She told Chaskin, she excited his jealousy, and guided him to the
spot. Failing Herne, she was determined that the parson should kill
Milly, and so fulfil her evil words, I see it all! We have been
puppets, and that infernal hag has pulled the strings to make us
dance."

While he was thus talking to himself, Paul came running up, and
expostulated with Lovel for having left the tent so hurriedly. "Gran
is a wicked old woman," said he--"I admit that; and she has acted ill;
but it is for your sake, Lovel, that she has done these things."

"I know it, I know it! She wishes to force me into marriage with Miss
Clyde. Marry that Amazon, with her mannish ways and rough tongue! I'd
rather die!--the more especially when I know that Milly was put out of
the way to bring about the match," he concluded, biting his fingers.

"My dear fellow, you forget. Herne, brought down by that letter, did
not kill Milly."

"No; but Chaskin did," replied Lucas wrathfully; "and I believe that
gran told him of the meeting, and induced him to come to the place.
However you put it, Mexton, that old wretch is responsible for the
tragedy."

"Well," said Paul, as they resumed their walk, "that point will bear
arguing. But now that we know the truth, what is to be done?"

"We must tell Drek, and have Chaskin arrested."

"Well, no; I don't think it is wise to do that. Let us call at the
Vicarage, and give the man an opportunity of defending himself."

"He can make no defence, seeing that we hold the pistol with his name
on it."

"My dear fellow," remonstrated Paul, "remember Herne's handkerchief.
But for your evidence that he was in a trance, I should have believed
him guilty."

"Chaskin does not fall into trances."

"I know that; but he may have some other defence. At all events, it is
only just to give him a chance before making the affair public."

"As you please," said Lovel suddenly. "Let us go to the Vicarage at
once. But Chaskin will only lie, and deny his guilt."

Chance had taken Lovel's steps across the common, for in his anger at
Gran Jimboy's revelations he had not perceived where he was going.
Paul had followed him, and while talking they had unconsciously drawn
near to the stile which divided the common from the Winding Lane. Only
when they halted at the stile itself did they realise where they were;
and in silence they looked at one another.

"Shall we return?" said Paul, in a low voice.

Lovel shook his head, with a frown on his face, and climbed over the
stile. Paul followed, and they walked on towards the scene of the
tragedy. On the very spot where Milly's dead body had lain a man was
standing with folded arms. He looked up as the young men drew near,
and they saw the face of Darcy Herne. It was sad and downcast, and he
appeared to have been meditating on the tragic death of his promised
wife.

"Herne!" cried Paul, halting in his amazement, "I thought you were in
London!"

"So I was," replied the squire carelessly, "but I came down to-day
instead of waiting till to-morrow. My business was finished, so there
was no need for me to idle in town. How are you, Lovel?" he added
abruptly, turning his eyes towards Lucas.

"I am as well as can be expected under the circumstances," replied
Lovel gloomily; "but why do you pay me the compliment of asking after
my health, Mr. Herne? Do you not regard me as the murderer of Miss
Lester?"

"No," replied Herne quietly. "I did so once, but I have changed my
mind."

"Since seeing Catinka?" questioned Paul, sharply.

"What do you know about Catinka?" asked Herne, just as sharply.

"I know all that she could tell me about the Rainbow Feather, and her
visit to Barnstead."

"She told you about the Rainbow Feather?" repeated Herne. "And how did
you trace her connection with the Rainbow Feather?"

"That is too long a story to tell," rejoined Mexton coolly; "but I got
the clue on the day you found the Rainbow Feather on this very spot.
Catinka placed it on the body."

"But Catinka did not commit the murder."

"I know that; nor did Lovel here."

"H'm!" said Herne, looking at the pair; "perhaps you suspect me of the
crime?"

"What makes you think that?" asked Lovel.

"Because, if Mexton saw Catinka, she no doubt told him of my visit
here on the night the murder was committed."

"Yes, she did tell me," admitted Paul.

"Then, as you know so much, I may as well tell you all," said Herne.
"I received a letter by the last post on Saturday night telling me
that Mr. Lovel was to meet Milly here on Sunday night. The letter was
not signed, but I know who wrote it."

"So do I, Herne," said Lovel. "Gran Jimboy, the gipsy, wrote it. She
learnt from me at three o'clock about the meeting, and wrote at once,
so as to catch the London post."

"Why did she trouble to betray you?"

"For reasons I'll explain hereafter," replied Lovel. "But what of your
secret visit? It was jealousy which made you come down, no doubt?"

"No," replied Herne, coldly, a light coming into his eyes; "it was a
desire to save Milly from the snare set by you."

"Thank you for your good opinion."

"Oh, you may sneer," said Herne, with energy; "but I know you are not
a child of God. I fought against you for the soul of Milly, as angels
fight against devils of the pit. I had rather she died than lived to
be your wife, and lose her soul in worldly pleasures."

"All this is beside the question," sneered Lovel. "I want to know
about your visit."

"I came down to Marborough in a kind of disguise," said Herne,
dropping his religious tone for that of a man of the world--"that is,
I muffled myself up so that my face could not be recognised. From a
stable on the outskirts of Marborough I hired a horse and rode over to
Barnstead. I left the horse at The Chequers, where I was not known,
and came to this lane, where I watched, hidden behind yonder tree. I
saw you, Lovel, come up with Milly; I saw you kiss; and such was my
rage that before I could advance I fell into one of those trances to
which I am subject. When I came to myself I was alone, and on the
ground was the dead body of Milly. It was then, Lovel, that I thought
you had killed the poor girl; but I could not prove your guilt because
of my trance. Again, as I had come by stealth to Barnstead, I was
afraid lest under the circumstances I should be accused of the crime.
Therefore I held my tongue about my presence here on that night."

"But you accused me!" said Lovel, bitterly.

"I do not accuse you now," replied Herne, coldly.

"And why?" retorted the young man. "Because you know that Chaskin is
the assassin."




CHAPTER XXII.
A DENIAL.


Squire Herne stared blankly at Lovel, and burst out laughing. "Frank
Chaskin!" said he; "my old friend, the murderer of my promised wife?
You are mad to say so!"

"I am not mad, as you know very well, Mr. Herne. I daresay you came
out of your trance on that night quickly enough to see Chaskin steal
away from the scene of his crime?"

"I swear by all that I hold most sacred that I saw nothing of my
friend on that night. I rode back to Marborough, and caught the night
express to London, without speaking to anyone with whom I was
acquainted. I have told you that I came hither in disguise; is it
likely, I ask you, Mr. Lovel, that I would nullify that disguise by
speaking to my dearest friend? Not only my second self, mark you,"
added Herne, haughtily, "but a priest of the English Church, to whom I
could not without shame reveal my secret visit. I acted for a good
object, no doubt, but the means I was forced to adopt were none the
less distasteful. I deny that in any way I know that Frank Chaskin is
guilty; and, what is more, gentlemen, I would be prepared to stake my
existence that he is innocent."

"I should like to agree with you, Mr. Herne," said Paul sadly, "but
unfortunately I have here a proof of his guilt."

"Proof! What proof?"

"This pistol," said Paul, producing the weapon and handing it to
Herne. "It was found by Mother Jimboy on this spot, on the night of
the murder, and shortly after the committal of the crime. You will see
that the Vicar's name is engraved on the butt."

Herne glanced carelessly at the pistol, and returned it to Mexton. "I
have no need to see," he said sternly. "I recognise the pistol well
enough. It is one of a pair which Chaskin had when he was in the army.
It was found on this spot, you say. What of that?"

"Simply this," broke in Lovel, "that Chaskin must have dropped it
after killing Milly."

"It does not argue that Chaskin was here at all," retorted Herne.
"This pistol was no doubt stolen from his study, where he kept it.
Mother Jimboy, you say--a gipsy, a thief. Why," he added, struck by a
sudden thought, "she was in Chaskin's study a week before the murder!
I remember quite well. No doubt she stole the pistol."

"And killed Milly, why don't you add?" sneered Lovel.

"Because I don't accuse her of so purposeless a crime. No doubt she
gave the pistol to the murderer."

"Admitting that she did," cried Paul, "whom do you suspect?"

"No one," replied Herne. "Though I might suspect Lovel."

"Oh," said Lucas, shrugging his shoulders, "are you going over the old
ground again?"

"No, I am not," replied Herne. "I say again that I do not suspect
you."

"And I ask again why have you changed your mind?" said Lovel. "I was
with Milly when you fell into your trance, and I was absent when you
came out of it. So far as you knew, no one else was in the lane, and
you awoke from your senseless state to see Milly's dead body. On these
grounds you can suspect me only."

"You state a very good case against yourself," sneered Herne.
"Evidently you wish to be hanged!"

"No, but I wish to hang the villain who killed Milly. I can defend
myself if needful. But can you defend Chaskin?"

"I would do so with my life! He is innocent."

"I'll have to hear that from his own lips," replied Lovel. "Myself and
Mexton are on our way to see him. Will you come also?"

"No; Chaskin can defend himself. I have just left him, and he said
nothing which leads me to doubt him."

"The pistol----"

"No doubt he can explain the pistol. But go and ask him. For myself, I
must bid you good-day. I have an engagement."

"One moment," cried Paul, catching him by the arm as he was moving
off, "do you intend to abandon the search for Miss Lester's assassin?"

"No," replied Herne coldly. "I will find the assassin without your
help."

"Because you know he is Chaskin!" cried Lovel scornfully.

"I do not know he is Chaskin!" retorted Herne disdainfully. "The
person whom I suspect--whom I know--killed Milly is one you would
never dream of accusing. Mine shall be the hand to bring this person
to justice. Till then"--he waved his hand--"I have nothing to say,"
and with these final words he moved away.

Paul stood looking after him with a look of doubt on his face. "Whom
do you think he suspects?" asked the journalist.

"I don't know."

"It can't be Dr. Lester, or Miss Clyde, for we have evidence that they
are innocent," said Paul, perplexed, "nor you, because he denies that
you are guilty; nor Chaskin, for the same reason; so----"

"I don't believe his denial of Chaskin's guilt," cried Lovel, with a
frown; "nothing will make me believe that he did not kill Milly.
Perhaps Herne suspects Catinka."

"Impossible! She cleared herself in my eyes."

"Well," said Lovel, dismissing the subject with a shrug, "let us see
how the Rev. Mr. Chaskin intends to clear himself. He will find it
hard to deny the evidence of that pistol."

Paul thought so also, but as his companion seemed indisposed for
further conversation he held his peace. The two young men walked
slowly through the Winding Lane, each intent on his own thoughts.
Mexton wondered on how many more people the blame of this tragic death
was likely to fall. Lester, Miss Clyde, Lovel, Catinka, and Herne all
had been suspected on sufficiently strong evidence; but on evidence
equally strong the innocence of one and all had been clearly proved.
Now the circumstantial evidence of the pistol was against Chaskin, and
it would appear that he had killed the girl; but for all that Paul was
not inclined to be certain of his guilt. Others had cleared themselves
by reasonable explanation; so why should not Chaskin do the same?
Mexton quite expected that the Vicar would be able to explain the loss
of his pistol, and account in some plausible way for his meeting on
the common with Mother Jimboy. And if he proved himself to be
guiltless, it would be quite impossible--so far as Paul saw--to
discover the assassin of Milly. Her fate would remain a tragic
mystery; and the person who had wrought such ill would live on in
defiance of the law. But though he--or she, for it might be a woman,
thought Paul--escape the law of man, there was yet the law of God to
be reckoned with. Come what might, the dastard who had fired the fatal
shot would not escape punishment in the next world.

On their way to the square of St. Dunstan, where the Vicarage was
situated, the young men met with Dr. Lester, who at once stopped to
give them some news.

"I have just heard from Drek that my trial takes place next week," he
said eagerly, "and I must surrender to my bail. I shall be glad to get
the thing over, as, notwithstanding my innocence, I feel uneasy until
I am pronounced guiltless."

"That need not trouble you," said Paul; "you assuredly will go free.
We know now who committed the murder."

"Who was it? Who is the assassin?"

"I'll tell you that later on. Is Drek here?"

"Yes, he is at The Herne Arms."

"Then tell him to meet Lovel and myself there in an hour. We have
something to tell him which is of the greatest importance."

"Is it the name of the assassin?"

"Yes," broke in Lovel fiercely, "it is the name of the assassin; and I
hope I'll see him in gaol to-night. Where are you going now, doctor?"
he asked abruptly.

"To see Mother Jimboy. She is ill, you know."

"Yes, I know," assented Lovel gloomily. "Will she die?"

"I hope not; but she is old, and should fever intervene, or
inflammation be set up, I am afraid she will die."

"It may be well if she does," muttered Lovel to himself. "Good-bye,
doctor. You shall know who killed Milly this very night."

When Lester took his departure, which he did very unwillingly, as he
was anxious to know the truth, Paul and his companion went to the
Vicarage, and without much difficulty were shown into the presence of
Chaskin. The Vicar happened to be at home at the moment, and saw them
with apparent willingness; but Lovel, with jealous eyes, perceived
that he changed colour when they entered. Also, his voice shook when
he asked them to be seated; and from these signs of emotion in the
absence of any apparent cause Paul augured ill. For an innocent man
Chaskin was strangely moved.

"We have come to see you on a very important matter, sir," said Paul.

"Yes," responded Chaskin, trying to preserve his calmness; "and about
what?"

"Let me answer that question," said Lovel, before Paul could speak.
"About the murder of Miss Lester."

"What about the murder, Mr. Lovel? Why do you come to me on such
errand?"

"Because I think you can best answer our questions."

Chaskin rose suddenly from his chair, and commanded his voice with a
powerful effort of will, but the perspiration beaded his brow as he
spoke.

"What am I to understand by this speech, Mr. Lovel?"

"That you are the assassin of Milly Lester!"

"I--I!" gasped the Vicar, sitting down again, less by will than
because he could no longer stand upright. "You dare to accuse me of
this terrible crime! Mr. Mexton, is your friend mad?"

"No, Mr. Chaskin," replied Paul in sad tones. "I believe the same as
he does."

"That I killed Miss Lester--I, who read the service over her coffin!"

"Yes," exclaimed both men together.

Chaskin passed his hand across his brow and groaned. "This is some
horrible dream," he said in an agitated voice, "You cannot be
serious!"

"But we are serious," said Mexton, agitated also. "I would willingly
believe you guiltless, sir, but what can I say--what can Lovel say--in
the face of such evidence as this?"

"My pistol!" Chaskin took the weapon from Paul's hand, and looked at
it in a startled way. "Yes, it is mine; my name is on it. Mr. Lovel!
Mr. Mexton! how did you come by it?"

"I received it from Gran Jimboy," said Paul.

"And Gran Jimboy picked it up on the very spot where Milly's body was
lying," added Lovel, "shortly after the shot was fired. How did it
come there?"

By this time Chaskin was the colour of paper; but there was a certain
dignity in his answer. "I cannot tell you, gentlemen," he replied. "I
did not lose it in the Winding Lane."

"But it is your pistol," said Lovel with a scowl.

"It is; but I--I lost it over a month ago!"

"I thought you would try and get out of it in that way," scoffed
Lucas. "A weak defence, truly!"

"I need make no defence," said Chaskin, haughtily. "I am innocent."

"Then how can you explain your presence on the common before nine
o'clock of that night?"

"How do you know I was on the common?"

"Mother Jimboy says she met you."

"True." Chaskin again passed his hand across his face. "I did meet
her. I was going to see a sick man on the other side of the common."

"Away from the village?"

"Yes. I went there and saw this man immediately after evening service.
It was on my return about midnight that I found the body of that poor
girl, and gave the alarm. But I stated all this at the inquest."

"I remember," said Paul, with a nod. "But Mrs. Jimboy declares that
before nine o'clock you were going towards the Winding Lane, and----"

"She is making a mistake," interrupted the Vicar hurriedly. "I was
going in the other direction."

"She denies that," said Lovel, sharply; "and it was shortly after she
saw you go into the woods about the Winding Lane that she heard the
shot."

"I did not fire it!" said Chaskin, emphatically; "and let me ask you,
Mr. Lovel, if you were with Miss Lester on that night, at that hour?"

"I was," admitted Lovel. "I don't mind saying so, as I can prove my
innocence."

"Then you must know who killed Miss Lester!"

"I do not. The shot was fired out of the darkness of the trees."

"Were you standing by the stile?"

"Yes; with Miss Lester."

"Then if I came towards that stile you must have seen me.

"I didn't see you, I admit," replied Lucas, somewhat disconcerted;
"but if you are not guilty, Mr. Chaskin, you know who is."

"I can say neither one thing nor the other," said the Vicar; "if you
think me guilty, you must do so."




CHAPTER XXIII.
DREK'S OPINIONS.


There was a silence after this declaration of Chaskin's, for neither
of the young men knew what reply to make. The Vicar did not affirm his
innocence, as he had done earlier in the interview; nor did he accuse
anyone else of committing the crime with which he was charged. He took
up a purely negative attitude, and by doing so threw on Paul and Lovel
the onus of proving their accusations. Nothing in the way of defence
could have been more unsatisfactory. On seeing their hesitation
Chaskin reiterated his speech.

"I do not repeat that I am innocent," he asserted. "If you think that
I killed that unhappy girl, you must continue to do so. But," added
the Vicar with irony, "I fail to see what motive you can ascribe to me
for such an act."

"The motive of jealousy," said Lovel sullenly; "you were in love with
Milly. Oh, you need not deny it, Mr. Chaskin; I know it for a fact."

"My friend," said Chaskin coldly, "I do not intend to deny it; but I
question your right to make such a statement. It is true that I loved
Miss Lester; but she never knew of my passion. She was the promised
wife of my friend, and as such I did not think myself justified in
revealing my feelings. You, Mr. Lovel, were less scrupulous."

"I admit it," replied Lovel, attempting a weak defence; "but I loved
her."

"All the village knew as much; but I do not call that love which
debases its object. If you had said nothing to Miss Lester, she might
have refused to meet you. And had she not met you," added Chaskin
emphatically, "this tragedy would not have taken place."

"As to that, you know best!" sneered the younger man.

"As you please, sir," rejoined the Vicar. "I refuse to defend myself
to you."

"Can you defend yourself at all?" questioned Mexton suddenly.

"I shall answer that question when I am asked it by the duly
constituted authorities."

"At least tell us how you lost that pistol."

The Vicar rose from his chair, and walking across to a side table,
lifted therefrom an oblong box of mahogany. This he opened and placed
before his visitors.

"This is a remnant of my soldiering days," he said. "Once it contained
two pistols; now, as you see, there is only one. The other, I admit
freely, is the weapon which you showed to me, Mr. Mexton."

"The weapon with which Milly was murdered," said Lovel viciously.

"No doubt; but, as I told you, I lost it some four weeks ago,"

"How did you lose it?" asked Paul; for it seemed to him that Chaskin
was evading the point.

"I cannot tell you," replied the Vicar; "the box stood always on that
table. I see many people in this room; any one of them might have
taken it."

"Mother Jimboy, for instance?"

"No; for the simple reason that Mother Jimboy never came to the
Vicarage."

"Herne says she did," cried Lovel; "and that you saw her in this room
before the murder."

Chaskin drew a long breath, and seemed to consider his reply: "Mr.
Herne is mistaken," he said at length; "the gipsy was never in this
room."

"Then somebody is telling a lie!" said Lovel, looking sharply at
Chaskin.

"No doubt," he answered coolly; "but I am not bound to find the liar
for you."

"Perhaps I know where he is to be found without your aid!"

The Vicar shut down the lid of the box with a snap, and once more rose
to his feet. "This conversation has lasted long enough," he said with
dignity, "and I have replied to your questions very patiently. I
refuse to answer any more."

"You say you are innocent?" asked Paul.

"I say nothing."

"You know who is guilty?" insisted Lovel.

"I know nothing."

This was all the answer they could obtain from Chaskin, so, seeing
that it was useless to prolong the interview with so obstinate a man,
Paul and his friend departed. Their visit had been productive of no
good, and--if Chaskin were guilty--they had only succeeding in putting
him on his guard. But was he guilty? The two young men took different
views of the question. Paul was inclined to side with the Vicar; while
Lovel was equally bent on insisting that the Vicar was the assassin.

"If he has not killed Milly, he would declare that he was innocent,"
said he.

"He did so, when we first spoke to him. That is a point in his
favour."

"I don't see it at all," said Lovel obstinately; "he did not know what
evidence we could bring against him. When he knew, he took refuge in
silence."

"Well," objected Paul, more just than his prejudiced companion, "if
you remember, he denied that Mother Jimboy had stolen the pistol. If
he were guilty, it is probable that he would seize on every chance to
exculpate himself and inculpate others. The suggestion made by Herne
would have been a good opportunity of shifting the blame from his own
shoulders on to those of the gipsy; but, as you heard for yourself,
Lovel, he declined to take advantage of the opening."

"Bah! that is his cunning. I daresay he has a defence all ready."

"If so, he did not entrust us with it," rejoined Mexton, a trifle
drily.

"No; he's not such a fool as to show his hand unless forced to do so.
Should Drek arrest him, he would have lies in plenty to prove his
innocence."

"I don't think there is sufficient evidence to arrest him."

"Drek may think otherwise," replied Lovel, looking at his watch. "Come
to The Herne Arms, Mexton, for I expect the inspector will be waiting
for us there. We will tell him of our interview with the Vicar, and
see what his opinion is about the matter; I should not be surprised if
Mr. Chaskin was in gaol by this evening."

"I should be very much surprised," said Paul emphatically. "As Lester
is already accused of the crime, and is to stand his trial next week,
Drek cannot arrest Chaskin as yet, however guilty he may think him.
You can't have two people legally accused of the same crime. One must
be proved innocent before the other can be imprisoned as suspected of
guilt."

"As to these points of law, I know nothing about them," replied Lovel
impatiently; "all I know is that to my mind Chaskin is the guilty
person. The evidence of Gran Jimboy and the production of that pistol
are sufficient to hang him. However, we shall see."

There was nothing more said at the moment, as the conversation
threatened to become disagreeable, and the two men walked to The Herne
Arms. Here they found Inspector Drek, who informed them that Lester
had delivered the message, but could not be present at the interview,
as he had been called out to see a patient some miles away, and did
not expect to be back before six o'clock. However, he was at their
disposal, and very anxious he was to know why they had sought the
interview.

"Come up to my room, and I'll tell you," said Lucas, and led the way
to his sanctum. Here he ordered cigars and whisky; and having made his
friends and himself comfortable, he related to Drek the story of his
connection with Mrs. Jimboy, and his knowledge of what had taken place
in the lane on that fatal night. All of which has been already set
forth.

"I think it wise that you should know all this, Mr. Drek," he said,
concluding, "as someone else may relate my history in a more or less
distorted fashion; and I am, as I can see plainly, in too dangerous a
position to trifle with the law. Now our friend Mexton here can tell
you of his visit to London, and our visits to Mrs. Jimboy and
Chaskin."

"Mr. Chaskin! the Vicar!" cried Drek, who in his interest had let his
cigar go out. "What has he to do with the matter."

"Let me explain," said Paul; and, in his turn, he told the inspector
of his interview with Catinka, his discovery of the pistol in the
gipsy tent, and finally the interview which, with Lovel, he had taken
part in at the Vicarage. Drek, being thus in possession of all the
evidence gathered by the pair, was in a position to deliver judgment.
This, however, he found it difficult to do, as he was not a
particularly clever man; and the multiplicity of facts with which he
had now to deal somewhat bewildered his brain. However, he saw what
was expected of him in his official capacity, and rising to the
occasion, he did his best to grapple with the situation.

"If you will permit me, gentlemen," said he, taking a drink of whisky
to freshen up his faculties, "I will recapitulate all that we have
discovered--severally discovered--since the crime was committed. Then
we can see against whom the evidence is strongest, and perhaps learn
thereby who killed the girl. But I confess," added Drek, with a
downcast air, "that I am not very sanguine."

"Why not?" exclaimed Lucas, hotly. "There is plenty of evidence."

"That is the whole point, sir, there is too much evidence."

"Against Chaskin, I mean."

"And against Herne, also," observed Paul. "If the pistol found by Gran
Jimboy incriminates Chaskin, no less does the blood-stained
handkerchief point to the guilt of Herne."

"But Herne can't be guilty," protested Lucas, angrily. "I tell you he
was in a trance when the shot was fired."

"After the shot was fired," corrected Mexton. "Remember, you did not
see him until the girl was dead."

"He couldn't have fired the shot and then have fallen into a trance."

"Why not? The very act might excite his nerves to such a degree as to
cause the trance. You know that these cataleptic states of Herne's are
caused by violent emotion."

"But if he had fired the shot I should have found the pistol in his
hand."

"He might have dropped it."

"No! I searched for it," said Lucas, obstinately, "and didn't find
it."

"In your agitation you might have overlooked it," replied Paul as
obstinately.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Drek, intervening in the matter; "this
discussion is unprofitable. You may both be right, and both wrong. But
we shall not arrive at any conclusion by such loose arguments. Let us
begin at the beginning and state all the cases."

"What cases?" asked Lovel, abruptly.

"The cases against all those connected with the matter," said Drek.
"Dr. Lester, Miss Clyde, this Polish violinist, yourself, Mr. Herne,
and finally, Mr. Chaskin. There is strong evidence against each."

"I daresay," retorted Lucas, tartly, ill pleased at his name being in
the list; "but such evidence has proved the most of us innocent. Dr.
Lester, for instance."

"Well, sir, Dr. Lester; look at the case against him. He is very poor;
he wished his daughter to marry Mr. Herne, and learnt that the
marriage--important to him as the means of securing a rich son-in-law
to pay his debts--is likely to be broken off by the young lady's
flirtation with you. The doctor becomes mad with drink, and taking a
pistol, starts out to kill you. He remains away all the night, and
cannot account for his actions. In the interval his daughter is
killed; so we may assume that, intending to shoot you, Mr. Lovel, he
shot her."

"Quite so," said Paul, drily; "but all that evidence is nullified by
Miss Clyde's statement."

"I know that," replied Drek, with coolness, "but failing Miss Clyde's
statement the evidence is strong against Dr. Lester. But he is
innocent, so he is out of the case. Now Miss Clyde: she is in love
with Mr. Lovel, and is jealous of Miss Lester. She takes a loaded
pistol off the doctor, and is lurking in the lane to see the meeting
of the man she loves with the woman she hates. Here, then, we may say
that out of jealousy, and to get rid of a rival, Miss Clyde killed the
girl."

"That evidence is rebutted by the fact that Miss Clyde could not have
arrived home in time if she had killed Milly. Her hour of arrival at
the farm can be proved by Mrs. Drass. Also, if Miss Clyde were guilty,
she would not have produced that pistol."

"Very good," assented Drek, still imperturbable; "then we will strike
out Miss Clyde also. Now, then, for Catinka. She wants Mr. Herne's
money, and thinks she will lose it if he marries Miss Lester. To
remove this obstacle, she comes down to Barnstead and kills the girl."

"Bosh!" said Lovel, rudely. "If she had killed Milly she would not
have left the clue of the rainbow feather, whereby she could be
traced. You can strike Catinka out of your list also, Mr. Inspector."

"Certainly," replied Drek, obligingly. "Catinka is innocent, although,
as you see, the evidence against her is very strong. Now we come to
you, Mr. Lovel."

"Oh," said that young man, ironically, "and how do you intend to prove
my guilt?"

"I am not presuming your guilt," said the inspector. "I merely intend
to state the evidence against you."

"I am all attention," said Lovel.

"Well, sir, to put it briefly, you love this girl; you are with her at
the hour of the murder; you set up a false alibi; you do everything to
bring suspicion of guilt on yourself."

"But I am innocent."

"We will presume so for the moment," replied the inspector, coolly;
"but you must know, Mr. Lovel, that beyond your bare word we have no
proof that; you did not kill the girl."

"Drek!" Lovel jumped to his feet with almost a shriek. "You don't say
that I killed Milly?"

"Going by the evidence----"

"Hang the evidence! Isn't it stronger against Herne and Chaskin? Did
you find my handkerchief, bloodstained? Did you discover a pistol with
my name on it?"

"No; but some lawyers might say that you stole the pistol out of
Chaskin's room to inculpate him in a projected crime; also, that you
took Herne's handkerchief out of his pocket when he was in a trance,
and dropped it into the blood to get evidence against him. Oh, I don't
say that you are guilty, Mr. Lovel, but you must admit that the
evidence is strong. You think that Mr. Chaskin killed the girl; Mexton
here inclines to think that Mr. Herne is guilty; but the evidence
against the two is no stronger than that against you. A lawyer could
build up a powerful----"

"Stop! stop!" cried Lovel, sitting down. "Stop! You will make me
believe that I killed the poor girl after all!"




CHAPTER XXIV.
THE TRIAL.


"You see," said Drek, complacently, "that it is quite easy to get up a
case against you, Mr. Lovel; yet I feel convinced from your late
actions that you are innocent. Therefore you will understand that I am
inclined to doubt even the strong evidence you have obtained against
Mr. Chaskin. He may be as guiltless as you are. The evidence against
Herne is as strong; yet you think his hands are clean of blood. Why,
then, should you suspect Chaskin so much?"

"He refused to explain the loss of the pistol."

"So far as that goes, he refused because he did not think either you
or Mexton had any right to examine him. But if a person like myself,
having authority----"

"Go and see him, Drek, and find out if he will confess to you!" said
Paul, eagerly.

"No; I shall take no steps in the matter until this trial of Dr.
Lester's is concluded."

"And in the meantime Chaskin will run away," said Lovel, bitterly.

"I don't think so," rejoined the inspector, nettled by the sneering
tone of the young man, which cast a reflection on his judgment. "The
conduct of Mr. Chaskin does not augur that he intends to fly; and if
he did, I would take means to prevent his flight."

"You will have him watched?"

"I will have both him and Herne watched."

"And what about Mother Jimboy, who is so important a witness in this
case?" said Paul, suddenly; "she is seriously ill, and being so old it
is not improbable that she may die at any moment."

"True," said Drek, thoughtfully. "You think of everything, Mexton.
I'll have her deposition taken as soon as I learn that she is in
danger. At the present moment Dr. Lester, who is in attendance on her,
assures me that the chances of recovery are in her favour. Oh, you may
trust me," concluded the inspector, rising, "I'll do my best to bring
the assassin of Miss Lester to justice."

"Chaskin!" cried Lucas, emphatically.

"Or yourself, or Herne," retorted Drek, putting on his hat. "Don't
forget my argument about the evidence, Mr. Lovel. Take my advice, and
keep quiet until Lester is discharged; then we shall see what is to be
done."

"Arrest me, I suppose!"

"Sir!" cried Drek, with indignation, "I am this much of an Arab, that
did I intend to be your enemy, and act so traitorous a part, I should
not have broken bread with you; in other words, I should have declined
your whisky-and-soda and the very excellent cigar which I have just
smoked."

"I beg your pardon, Drek; I take back my words. Good-day."

"Good-day, Mr. Lovel; good-day, Mr. Mexton. At present we know not
what is before us," and Inspector Drek left the room with an air of
great dignity. When the door was closed after him Lovel turned towards
his friend.

"What do you think of the position now?" he asked.

"I think that we had better wait and see the outcome of Lester's
trial."

"Bah! I know the outcome! He will be acquitted."

"Well," said Paul, who was tired of the discussion, "let us wait till
he is acquitted, and then renew our search for the assassin."

"I say Chaskin--he is the assassin!"

"And I say, Herne. Time and opportunity will be needed to prove which
of us is in the right," said Paul; after which the conversation
concluded, and each of the young men went his different way. With
their opinions so diametrically opposed to one another, they felt that
continued companionship might result in a quarrel; and at the present
stage of their acquaintance, and seeing that they were mutually
interested in bringing to justice the assassin of Milly Lester, they
were unwilling that a rupture should take place. Hence, they very
wisely parted.

During the following week there was great excitement in Marborough.
The Assizes were being held, and the Barnstead crime occupied the most
prominent place in the list of cases which had been set down for
trial. It was rumored that Lester was innocent, but at Marborough the
precise way in which his innocence was to be proved was not known. In
Barnstead itself, thanks to Miss Clyde and the indefatigable Mrs.
Drass, the inhabitants were better informed, and looked upon the
coming trial as a mere farce for the discharging of Dr. Lester. But
there was a new source of excitement in the village, as it was
reported that Mr. Inspector Drek had found the assassin, and would
have him condemned on the most irrefutable evidence. But the name of
the accused was not given, and many were the surmises as to who the
criminal might prove to be. Thanks to the discretion of Paul, Lovel,
and Drek, not a word was breathed hinting that Mr. Chaskin had
anything to do with the matter.

In the meantime the illness of Mother Jimboy took a bad turn, and it
was evident that her days were numbered. Drek visited her, and she
held to the story of Chaskin's guilt, but point blank refused to make
any sworn deposition to that effect. Her obstinacy on this point led
the inspector to believe that the old woman was lying, but for what
purpose he could not conceive. Drek did all he could to force her to
sign a confession, but in vain, and the day for Lester's trial arrived
without the accomplishment of this object. Nevertheless Paul Mexton
haunted the tent of the gipsy and loudly declared that he would not
leave until she was dead or had signed a confession. So obstinate was
he on this point that not even the trial could seduce him into
Marborough, and the "Tory Times" had to employ another reporter in his
place. For this kindness on the part of the editor, Mexton promised
that the confession of Mother Jimboy should be published in that
paper; when the country would be astonished. Paul did not know at the
time how truly he spoke.

On the second day of the Assizes the trial of Dr. Lester came on. The
court was crowded, and Iris, dressed in mourning, with a heavy veil
over her face, was present, under the charge of Mrs. Mexton. She would
rather have stayed away, but having been subpoenaed as a witness on
behalf of the Crown, she was obliged to attend. Miss Clyde was also
present, and with her Mrs. Drass. Indeed, the court was full,
principally of Barnstead folk, who thought that they had a right
to the best seats on account of the murder having taken place in
their village. Lovel came in shortly before the trial began, and
while standing in the crowd--for he did not wish to make himself
prominent--he felt a light touch on his arm, and was surprised on
turning to find himself face to face with the Polish violinist. She
looked paler than usual, and more than a trifle anxious; but Lovel was
quite unable to account for these signs of emotion.

"Catinka!" he said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I came down to see the trial," she replied. "I saw the body of the
poor girl, and I desire to behold the wicked murder man."

"You won't see him here, then. No one knows who killed Miss Lester."

"But this doctor----"

"Is innocent," interrupted Lovel. "The trial is a mere farce. When Dr.
Lester is discharged we must look for the real assassin. Can you help
us?"

"I, my dear?" Catinka shrugged her shoulders. "No; I told to that good
Mexton all that I know. Where is he?"

"At Barnstead--on business."

"And my good friend, Mr. Herne?"

"Yonder he is, standing beside that clergyman."

"The priest? And who is that priest?"

"Mr. Chaskin, the Vicar of Barnstead."

"He is a ver' handsome man," said Catinka, calmly. "Hush, Mistar
Lovel; we will listen to what they say. Lester is in his place, and
his lawyer talks."

"No, no; that is counsel for the Crown."

"Ah; but, my friend, it is no matter, no matter at all."

To this speech Lovel made no reply, as he was listening intently to
the opening speech of the counsel for the Crown. This barrister--an
eminent man in his profession--set forth all the circumstances of the
crime, detailing the supposed movements of the prisoner on the night
of the murder, and ended with an allusion to the witnesses he proposed
to call in order to prove his guilt. Then one by one those who had
appeared at the inquest, including Lovel and Iris, gave their
evidence, which, as may be guessed, incriminated Lester in a very
decided fashion. To the majority of the spectators, ignorant of what
had been discovered since the inquest, it seemed probable that Lester
was guilty, that he would be convicted, sentenced, and ultimately
hanged.

Thinking thus, those present in the court were astonished to see how
serene was the demeanour of the prisoner. Dr. Lester, dressed in
mourning for his child--a fact which the female portion of the
audience resented as hypocrisy--stood quite composed in the dock, and
paid the greatest attention to the accusations which were leveled
against him. Only once did he wince, and that was when allusion was
made to his drunken habits and frequent states of dangerous frenzy
induced by intoxication. Otherwise he was unmoved.

"You say this one not wicked!" whispered Catinka to Lovel, who had
returned to his seat after giving his evidence. "I think they all say
he kill that poor daughter."

"Wait till you hear both sides of the question," replied Lovel, in the
same low tones; "the doctor has yet to make his defence."

Counsel for the accused made a very short speech. He stated that the
prisoner had been drunk on the night and at the time of the murder;
that he had taken a loaded pistol, and had gone out in search of Mr.
Lovel at half-past eight o'clock. After leaving the house, he
recollected no more until he returned home at dawn; and the Crown
relied on this state of forgetfulness, caused by intoxication, to
prove the prisoner's guilt. Under the circumstances it indeed was hard
to tell if the prisoner had not shot the deceased in mistake for Mr.
Lovel; but fortunately, in the interests of justice, he, the counsel
for the accused, could produce, and intended to produce, a lady of
well-known veracity, who could prove that the man in the dock was
entirely innocent, and had not committed the crime alleged against
him. Counsel stated also that he had only one witness, a lady, and
that lady Miss Clyde, but that she would be able to refute all the
evidence brought against the prisoner by the prosecution. As the jury
now understood what he proposed to do, he, counsel for the defense,
would call Selina Clyde.

Miss Clyde at once stepped into the witness-box, and was duly sworn.
She gave in detail the evidence of her taking the pistol off Lester,
and related almost in the same words the story which she had told to
Mexton. Counsel for the Crown cross-examined her severely, but nothing
could shake her testimony; and when she left the witness-box the tide
had turned in favour of Lester, and all present believed him to be
guiltless. The summing up of the judge inclined towards this view; and
the jury, without leaving the box--so great was the impression
produced by Miss Clyde's evidence--pronounced the prisoner innocent. A
verdict of not guilty was given; the judge discharged the doctor, and
Lester stepped down from the box a free man, amid the applause of the
court.

"So he did not kill after all?" said Catinka, who looked rather
disappointed with the verdict.

"No," replied Lovel coldly. "You have heard the evidence; Lester is
innocent."

"And who is guilty?"

"I don't know."

Catinka laughed in a scoffing manner. "I thought you would have known
by this time," she observed with a shrug.

"Do you know?" demanded Lovel sharply.

"I do. I was told by the man himself."

"The man himself! Who is he?"

"Wait; you will hear in a few minutes."

"In this court?"

"Yes. See!" Catinka stretched out her arm. "Mr. Herne knows who killed
the poor lady; see, my dear, he rises to tell the name."

And indeed Herne, in spite of an attempt on the part of Chaskin to
prevent him, was on his feet, demanding permission to speak. Before
the judge could retire, before the lawyers could rise from the table,
before the jury could leave the box, or a single person the court,
Herne, without waiting for the permission he had asked for, was making
a speech. His face was flushed with excitement, his eyes flashed, and
he spoke rapidly, clearly, and to the point. His words solved the
problem of Milly's death, and they were few.

"My lord," he cried, "and you, gentlemen of the jury, you have
liberated one man as guiltless of the death of my promised wife; now I
require you to order the arrest of another man--of the man who came by
stealth and killed her, to save her soul from ill. You wish to know
who killed Millicent Lester. Here is the man!" Herne struck himself on
the breast. "I killed her! I saved her soul! I--I--I!"




CHAPTER XXV.
THE TRUTH AT LAST.


After this extraordinary outbreak of Herne's, in which he accused
himself of Milly's murder, Chaskin led him away, and the court was
adjourned till next day. The situation of a man accusing himself thus
was so utterly without precedent that the presiding judge did not know
how to act. Without sifting the matter and finding why Herne accused
himself so publicly, he did not want to take upon himself the
responsibility of ordering his arrest. Moreover, the judge, who knew
somewhat of Herne's eccentricities, was privately of the opinion that
the man was not quite right in his mind. The tragic death of his
future wife had evidently disturbed the balance of his brain, and had
led him in a frenzy of horror and self-humiliation to accuse himself
publicly of a crime he had not committed. On these grounds, reasonable
enough, Herne was permitted to go free, until the truth of his
extraordinary confession could be proved.

Nevertheless, the judge, while thus cautious and lenient, intimated
that it was his opinion that the police should personally see after
Herne. If he were guilty, he should be arrested forthwith, if insane,
he was not fit to be at large. Acting upon this advice, Inspector Drek
followed Herne and Chaskin to their hotel, and requested an interview.
In response to his inquiry the Vicar presented himself.

"You cannot see Mr. Herne at present," he said gravely; "he is much
excited; but I have persuaded him to lie down. Is it your intention to
arrest him, Mr. Drek?"

"If I see reason to adopt so extreme a course," replied Drek. "What is
your opinion of this confession, sir?"

"I don't believe one word of it."

"You think, then, that Mr. Herne is innocent?"

"Most decidedly," returned Chaskin. "He is as guiltless as I am."

"Is that a good example?" said Drek with some dryness. "You know that
Mrs. Jimboy accuses you as the author of the crime, on the evidence of
the pistol."

"I do not wonder at her belief," answered Chaskin quietly; "the pistol
is mine; it has my name on the butt, and it was found on the spot
where the poor girl's body was discovered by me. Men have been hanged
on less evidence, Mr. Drek."

"No doubt; but they have made some attempt to defend themselves,"
retorted the inspector. "You, sir, as I understand from Messrs. Lovel
and Mexton, decline to say if you are innocent or guilty."

"I did decline," was the Vicar's reply, "for the sake of my poor
friend; but----"

"Ah!" cried Drek, sharply, "then you were afraid lest he should be
arrested; you refused to speak, so as to screen him?"

"I did," said Chaskin simply. "You must remember, sir, that Mr. Herne
is my dearest friend, and I would do much to save him from the
consequences of his own folly."

"What folly? The public confession?"

"Yes--a public confession which is false?"

"If it is false, why should Mr. Herne make it? A man does not put his
neck in danger for nothing."

"Are you so sure of that, Mr. Drek? I have heard of many men giving
themselves up for crimes of which they were guiltless."

"Uneducated men."

"Yes, and men of education also. I tell you, Mr. Drek, that my friend
did not fire that shot."

"Then who did? Yourself?"

"No; I am innocent, as I can say now freely. I refused to speak
because I thought that my speaking might get Herne into trouble. Now
that he has made a public statement--not a confession, mind
you--accusing himself of a crime which he did not commit, I think it
my duty to tell you what I know. Sit down, please, Mr. Drek, and
listen to what I have to say."

Drek did so, in some perplexity, for he did not know what the Vicar
could tell him likely to nullify Herne's statement. Only a knowledge
of the name of the real assassin could prove Herne's innocence, and
the Vicar confessed that he was ignorant of such name. However, the
case had become so complicated that Drek was thankful for any story,
or confession, or statement, or declaration likely to throw light on
its darkness. Therefore he forebore to speak, and with his keen eyes
fixed upon Chaskin, he waited patiently to hear what the Vicar had to
say. At the present moment Drek's mind was in a state of confusion.

"When Messrs. Mexton and Lovel came to see me last week," explained
Chaskin, "I had just parted from my friend. He had lately returned
from London, where he had seen a lady called Catinka Poluski."

"I know," said Drek, with a nod; "the violinist. Mexton told me about
her."

"Well, it appears that she was in the lane on the night of the
murder."

"I know that also, Mr. Chaskin. She saw the corpse, and to inculpate
Mr. Herne, so as to get a hold on him for his money, she left a
rainbow feather on the spot. Herne knew by that of her presence, and
went up to see her. Well, sir, and what did she say?"

"She stated that she saw Herne watching Miss Lester and Lovel; also
that he fired a pistol and killed the girl; then he fled."

"Do you believe that, Mr. Chaskin?"

"No," replied the Vicar decidedly, "because when Herne saw the pair he
was thrown into such a state of emotion that he fell into a trance.
When he recovered the girl was dead, and the pistol was gone."

"Lovel told me about the trance," said Drek thoughtfully. "But about
this pistol. It is yours, I believe?"

"Yes. And on that assumption Mr. Lovel accused me of the crime. I said
nothing in order to screen my friend; but I can tell you now, Mr.
Drek. Herne took that pistol out of the case in my study three months
ago."

"For what reason?"

"Well, you know Herne is philanthropic, and has many acquaintances
amid humble people; also amid Socialistic societies. One of these
societies asked him for money, which he refused to give, as he did not
approve of the purposes for which the society had been founded. In a
rage--for the members had revealed their secrets to Herne--they
threatened to kill him. He told me of this, and laughed at their
threats; but I, knowing the class of reckless men he had to deal with,
advised him to go armed. I gave him that pistol myself."

"And he had it with him on the night of the murder?"

"Yes, Mr. Drek," added the Vicar after a pause. "I do not mind telling
you that the mind of my friend is not properly balanced. He had an
idea that Milly Lester was lost if she did not marry him; and hearing
of her entanglement with Lovel, he came down here with the firm
intention of killing them both. This he confessed to me; he wished to
save Miss Lester's soul at the expense of her body, and kill Lovel for
tempting her away from him. With the pistol he went to the Winding
Lane to kill the pair, and he would have done so but for his trance."

"H'm! you are rather a Devil's Advocate, Mr. Chaskin!" said Drek,
doubtfully; "your testimony, so far as I can see, is rather calculated
to harm your friend than to do him good."

"I must tell the truth at all costs," said Chaskin sadly; "my only
hope of saving my poor, foolish friend is to be honest and outspoken.
Catinka lies, because she wishes to terrorise Herne into giving her
money. But she does not know his nature. As soon as he heard from her
that he had fired the pistol, he resolved to denounce himself before
the court at the trial of Dr. Lester. Catinka came down to see if he
would carry out his intention, for I saw her in the court, standing by
Lucas Lovel. Well, he accused himself, as you know, but he is
guiltless, I am certain."

"But if he went there to kill the girl, and took the pistol to commit
the crime, he must have carried out his intention."

"No, he intended to do so, but God mercifully stayed his hand. He fell
into a trance, and when in such a condition he can do nothing. I
believe that the assassin saw him stiff and rigid in his trance, and
took the revolver out of his hand to kill the girl. The deed done, the
assassin fled, and Herne came out of his cataleptic state to find the
dead body of the girl. At first he thought Lovel had acted thus; but
when Catinka told him that she had seen him fire the pistol himself he
withdrew his accusation."

"H'm! it might be as you say, sir, but----"

"Chaskin! Frank! where are you?"

"There is Herne!" said the Vicar rising rapidly. "In his present state
of mind he must not see you. I'll keep him in the bedroom."

He walked rapidly towards the door of the inner room; but before he
could enter it was flung violently open, and Herne, in a terrible
state of excitement, threw himself into the arms of his friend.

"Frank! Frank!" he gasped, "I Have been dreaming; the devils came in
my dream to drag me down for the sin on my soul. I killed Milly, and
they want my soul!"

"My dear Darcy, you did not kill Milly," said Chaskin, soothing the
distraught man as he would a child. "You are innocent."

"No, no; I am guilty! guilty! There is blood on my hands! Yet I
killed her to save her soul. God knows I wanted to save her from sin.
I--I--ah! what!"--his gaze suddenly fell on Drek--"are you there,
bloodhound of the law? Do you come to take me to gaol? Do so, do so; I
fear no punishment of man, for God has laid the burden of Cain upon
me."

"I have not come to arrest you, Mr. Herne," said Drek, pitying the
nervous agitation of the man. "I believe you to be innocent."

"Then you believe wrongly," retorted Herne, recovering himself a
trifle. "I came down on that night from London in disguise to kill
Lovel and Milly--to punish the first and save the second. I took
Chaskin's pistol with me--he will tell you so--and I shot my poor
darling."

"You did nothing of the sort!" insisted Chaskin. "Before you could
raise the pistol you fell into one of your trances. God forgive you,
my poor friend, for on that night I know that murder was in your
heart. Still, in His mercy He took away your power of action, and you
did not commit the crime."

"Catinka says that I did."

"Blackmail!" said Drek contemptuously. "She thought you would be
frightened into parting with money to her society; but by a public
confession you have taken the game out of her hands. Don't you believe
that young woman, Mr. Herne; she's a liar."

"I can't believe it!" exclaimed the unhappy man, clasping his hands.
"When I fell into my trance, Milly was alive; when I came out of it
she was dead. Also, you found my handkerchief stained with blood; I
dropped that while bending over her. I was there on the spot----"

"And the pistol was gone!" said Chaskin--"don't forget that."

"So I say," cried Herne; "and I say also that I was in a trance. But
how do you know that I am not lying?"

"For the very good reason that Lovel saw you in the trance," said
Drek.

"Did he see me fire the shot?"

"No; he saw no one fire the shot, but he heard it. When the girl fell
dead he rushed round to see who was the assassin, but the dastard had
fled. Then, afraid lest he should be arrested for the murder, he went
away to Gran Jimboy's tent, and persuaded her to swear that he had
been there all the evening."

"Did he leave me still in the trance?"

"Yes; you were as still as stone. When did you wake up?"

Herne passed his hand over his forehead. "I don't know," he said in a
faltering voice. "When I came to myself I found Milly's dead body; and
then, recognising my own danger, I fled also, and got my horse. I rode
back to Marborough, and returned to London; but I swear that I did not
think I killed the girl, else I would have given myself up. I did not
know until Catinka told me of my sin."

"She told a lie, Mr. Herne," said Drek with a nod. "I told you her
reason before: blackmail."

The squire, still convinced of his guilt, was about to begin his
protestations anew, when the door opened and Paul Mexton, breathless
with haste, rushed in, waving a paper.

"Chaskin, Herne! I beg your pardon," he cried, "but I was told at the
police office that Drek was here, and I couldn't wait there to see
him. I had to come on at once."

"What is the matter?" asked the inspector, rising.

"Mother Jimboy is dead!"

"Dead!" echoed Chaskin, starting. "And her confession?"

"Here it is, written down by me, signed by her, and attested with due
legality by two witnesses of full age and intelligence."

"Does she say who killed Miss Lester?" asked Drek, with a glance at
Chaskin.

"Yes, the name of the guilty person is here. Who do you think killed
poor Milly?"

"I did--I did!" cried Herne, beating his breast.

"You!" cried Paul, astonished. "Nothing of the sort! The wretch who
killed Milly was none other than Mother Jimboy herself."




CHAPTER XXVI.
"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."


The three men were amazed at this statement, so different from what
they expected, and looked at Paul with incredulity. Herne was the
first to recover his presence of mind, and, carried away by his
feelings, fell on his knees with clasped hands in a frenzy of relief
and gratitude.

"O God!" he cried with a broken voice, "I thank Thee that Thou hast
removed this doubt from my mind, this sin from my soul. I am innocent
of this crime."

"I knew you were," said Chaskin, laying a kind hand on his friend's
shoulder. "Did I not tell you so? Rise, Darcy, and let us hear the
particulars. No doubt Mr. Mexton can tell us how the crime was
committed."

"Certainly," said Paul, who had thrown himself into a chair. "But I
have no breath left to tell you the details. They are all in the
confession which Drek holds in his hand."

"Read the confession, Mr. Drek," said the Vicar.

The inspector, who was rapidly glancing over the paper, nodded in an
absent manner, being taken up with what he was reading. His face
expressed amazement, and when he came to the end of the confession he
looked round at the assembled company with an uneasy smile. Evidently
he had fallen several degrees in his own estimation.

"She did it, sure enough;" he said, in a crestfallen manner; "but who
would have suspected that harmless old woman? I put the blame on to
everyone but her; and she must have chuckled at the mistakes I made.
Well, well; even detectives are mortal, and liable to err; it is only
in novels that they never go wrong. But then," added Drek, with
sarcasm, "the detective of a novel knows as much as the author who
writes about him."

"What was the motive for the crime?" asked Herne, abruptly; he was not
interested in the inspector's feelings.

"Love of her grandson."

"Her grandson!" echoed Chaskin. "I did not know she had one!"

"Yes; Lucas Lovel is her grandson."

"Ah!" said Herne, thoughtfully; "I am not surprised. Lovel told me
that he was half a gipsy; but I did not know he was so near of kin to
Mother Jimboy. Why did he not admit the relationship?"

"He did--to me," said Paul, "but he did not think it necessary to make
the announcement public. I don't blame him. Gran Jimboy was hardly a
relative to be proud of."

"I wonder if Lovel knew that his grandmother was guilty," said
Chaskin, doubtfully.

"No, sir; had he thought so he would not have accused you," cried
Drek, with energy. "Besides," he continued, tapping the paper, "in
this confession she declares that she told no one."

"Let me hear the details," said Herne; and this request being echoed
by Chaskin--for Paul, of course, was already acquainted with the
contents of the document--Drek read out the confession of Mrs. Jimboy.
The statement ran as follows:

"My name is Nance Jimboy, but I was born a Lovel. My son was a
musician, and, tired of gipsy life, he went among the Gentiles, with
whom he became famous. He married a Gorgio woman against my wish, and
cut himself off from the gentle Romany. His rani died in giving birth
to a son--Lucas Lovel--for his father took my maiden name when he
turned to the Gentiles. Then my son perished, and the boy was brought
up by a maiden aunt. I knew all about his life, and watched his
progress, as he was my only grandson. He became a painter, and
wandered abroad for many years. When he returned he came down to
Barnstead, and fell in love with the beautiful girl who was to marry
Squire Herne. I say she was beautiful, but she had a bad heart, and
would have ruined my grandson. For Squire Herne I cared nothing, but I
thought a great deal of Lucas: bone of my bone he is, and flesh of my
flesh. I heard of his return, of his living in Barnstead, and of his
love for that wicked witch. I came to watch over him; and at first I
tried to part him from Miss Lester by writing to Squire Herne of her
stolen meetings with my grandson. I thought that in his rage he might
kill her, and so she would be removed from the path of Lucas."

"The wicked woman!" cried Chaskin, aghast at this cool and cynical
statement.

"It is true, it is true!" groaned Herne, remorsefully. "I would have
killed her on that night, but that the Lord stayed my hand. That gipsy
knew me better than I did myself."

"Did you know that she wrote the letters?" asked Paul.

"I did; they were not signed, but for certain reasons, which I need
not explain, I fancied that Mrs. Jimboy was my correspondent. I taxed
her with the writing of them, and she admitted the fact. But I daresay
she tells all this in her confession."

"No," replied Paul, shaking his head. "However, she tells a good deal.
Go on, Drek."

"My object in getting rid of Miss Lester," said Drek, reading from the
document, "was to let Lucas make a good marriage. I knew that he was
loved by Miss Clyde, of Clyde's Farm, a rich lady who was devoted to
him. Lucas is not clever enough to make money for himself, and as he
had very little I wanted him to place himself beyond the reach of
poverty by wedding with Miss Clyde. I urged him to do so; but, not
knowing that I was his grandmother, he refused to speak with me on the
subject. He continued to meet Miss Lester, until, by pretending to
read her hand, I gave her a friendly warning of what she might expect
if she continued her evil ways with Lucas."

"That was the prophecy on the day before the murder," said Paul
grimly. "I knew all Mother Jimboy's palmistry was humbug."

"Miss Lester laughed at my warning; so when she left Lucas I saw him
again, and revealed our relationship; also I urged him for his own
sake to give up his foolish fancy for the doctor's daughter and marry
Miss Clyde. He was much astonished to learn that he was my grandson,
but refused to leave Miss Lester or to marry the other lady. Also, he
told me that he had fancied, from certain words let fall by his
aunt--a foolish woman--that he was partly a gipsy, and had said as
much to a lady called Catinka, who in her turn told Squire Herne.
Well, I could not induce Lucas to give over his folly, but when he
told me that he intended to meet Miss Lester in the Winding Lane on
the next night, I wrote to Squire Herne in London and warned him of
the meeting."

"How did she know your address, Herne?" asked Chaskin.

"I told it to her, so that she might advise me of Milly's behaviour
with Lovel."

"That was unworthy of you," said the Vicar coldly; "no English
gentleman should condescend to employ a spy."

"I know, I know!" cried Herne with an ashamed look; "but let it pass.
Go on, Drek."

The inspector continued to read: "The next evening, after eight
o'clock, I went to the Winding Lane to see what would occur. I did not
know if Squire Herne would come down in answer to my letter, but I
knew that if he did he would certainly kill the girl. I had heard his
determination to do so."

"I wished to save her soul," groaned the Squire; "now I see that I was
wrong."

"In the Winding Lane, close by the stile," read Drek rapidly, "I saw
Miss Lester and Lucas talking together. I was hidden in the bushes
near them. Shortly afterwards Squire Herne, wrapped in a heavy cloak,
stole through the wood. I saw him pause a short distance away from me.
I could have almost touched him. He had a pistol in his hand. I
thought he was going to shoot the girl, and I was glad----"

"Horrible! horrible!" cried Chaskin, with a pale face.

"I was glad because I wished her out of the way, so that Lucas could
marry Miss Clyde. But Squire Herne did not shoot, although, as I
thought, he had stood up to do so. I crept near him, and found that he
was in a trance, and quite incapable of motion. I suppose rage at the
sight of Lucas and Miss Lester threw him into the trance. The pistol
had fallen from his hand and lay on the grass. I seized it, for I was
angered to think that my plot to rid myself of the girl by the hand of
Squire Herne should fail. I waited for a moment, and then raised the
pistol and fired. Miss Lester fell with a cry, and I saw Lucas bending
over her. Then I put the pistol in my pocket, and crept away as
quickly as I could. When I got to the borders of the wood I ran across
the common and back to my tent. I thought that I was safe, as the
blame would be laid on Squire Herne. Also, that he might think himself
that he had killed the girl while in his trance."

"As I did," said Herne with a sigh.

"Shortly afterwards Lucas came to my tent, and I promised to save him
by swearing to a lie at the inquest. I did so; but I did not tell him
that I had killed the girl. Afterwards, when I heard that he was
likely to be accused, I told Mr. Mexton that the Vicar had killed Miss
Lester. When I saw Mr. Chaskin it was before the murder was committed,
and he was going away from the Winding Lane. I accused him only to
save Lucas, and because his name was on the pistol."

"I have had a fortunate escape," said Chaskin, thankfully. "What a
wicked old woman."

Drek finished the manuscript. "I would not have confessed the truth
now," were Mrs. Jimboy's final words, "but I am dying. It will do me
no good to hurt Mr. Chaskin, and I can save Lucas as well by
confessing myself the criminal. I killed Miss Lester, and everybody
else accused of the crime is innocent. I am dying, and I ask
everybody's pardon. I am a wicked woman, and I did a wicked deed, but
it was to benefit my grandson. Let Lucas marry Miss Clyde, so that I
shall not have sinned for nothing. I ask no more."

This document was signed in a shaky manner by the old gipsy, and was
witnessed by Paul Mexton and another man. It exonerated all persons
from the chance of being accused, and revealed plainly the name of the
assassin--Mother Jimboy--and the reason for the assassination--her
love for Lucas Lovel.

"Well," said Paul, when Drek had finished reading the confession, and
had put it in his pocket to carry it to the proper quarter, "the
mystery is solved at last; Milly's murderer is known, and has escaped
the reward of her evil deed."

"She has gone before the court of God," said Chaskin solemnly.

"May He have mercy on her sin," sighed Herne; after which there was
nothing more to be said, and the four men parted--the Squire and
Chaskin to Barnstead, and Paul, with Drek, to lay the confession of
Mother Jimboy, deceased, before the magistrates.


*     *     *     *     *     *


And here, with the discovery of Milly's assassin, the main interest of
the tale, such as it is, comes to an end. But those who have been
interested in this drama of a provincial town may desire to know how
the other characters fared when the culminating point of the tragedy
with which they were concerned was reached. The play is played out,
the actors leave the stage; and now remains the question: What became
of them?

Well, Paul Mexton ended in marrying Iris Link, and in becoming the
sub-editor of the "Tory Times." He still lives at Marborough, and has
not yet realised his desire to dwell in London; but that ambition may
be accomplished when he writes his great book. Iris, who is devoted to
her husband, and is happier than ever she was in her life, believes in
the book; also that Paul will become a celebrated author. At present,
however, Paul's ambition is bounded by the hope that he may become the
editor of his paper. And as these two are content and happy in their
own small way, we may leave them.

Miss Clyde, as may be guessed, married Lucas, for she pursued him with
such vigor that she absolutely forced him to become her husband. He is
happier than he deserves to be, for both Mrs. Lovel and Mrs. Drass
adore him, and he leads a fairly contented life; all the same, he
often grows tired of such sober bliss, and wishes to break away. As
yet he has not succeeded, as his wife keeps too close a watch on him.
Lucas has not escaped punishment for his follies, for his life of
tranquility bores him to distraction.

Dr. Lester never touched drink again--that is, strong drink--for the
lesson taught to him by Miss Clyde was severe, but efficacious. He is
getting together a good practice, and on the whole, is quite a
reformed character. Francis Chaskin is still the Vicar of Barnstead,
and is still adored by his parishioners--particularly the female
portion. So much for doctor and clergyman.

As to Herne, he laid flowers on Milly's grave for two months, then
ceased to visit the cemetery at all, and went up to London. There he
met again with Catinka, and, unmindful of her treachery, he suffered
himself to be beguiled. She now uses his money to further her plots
against the Czar and to free Poland. Chaskin cannot persuade Herne to
leave her; so, what with funds, and ambitions, and reckless members,
there may be trouble expected from the Society of the Rainbow Feather.



THE END.











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