CHAPTER IX.

WHY THEY WORE A DISGUISE

Unfortunately, before Arthur could confide to Paul any further particulars about the deadly vendetta which Duncan Kilroy’s brother had sworn against him, years ago, when both of them were in very much the same position in old Allen Palamountain’s business and both were rivals, running neck and neck to inherit the old man’s wealth, they were interrupted by the sound of a rattle of keys in the door of the cell. Another moment, and a burly police sergeant entered, and told Arthur that the time allowed by the authorities had come to an end, and that, not only must all conversation cease, but that Paul must leave the station at once, and Arthur must prepare himself for that long and tiresome journey to Scarborough.

As a consequence, the two comrades had barely time to exchange farewell greetings, but, as they were wishing each other good-bye, they did contrive to arrange that Paul would travel specially down to Scarborough, and again interview his friend if he should chance to be detained in the local police station, or would even travel to York Castle, if that should be selected as his friend’s place of confinement. Meanwhile, both recognised that they had one most urgent duty to perform at once--that was, to find out Winifred, and to learn from the girl herself the reason of her utterly inexplicable silence.

Strangely enough, as the minutes had slipped on, Paul Renishaw had grown to share Arthur’s fears that something must have gone very seriously wrong indeed to cause so long and so suggestive a break between them. Indeed, it was with a heart weighed down with forebodings, that he clasped the hand of his old companion for the last time, and, although he did his best to make Arthur think as lightly of the circumstance as possible, and to look forward to the time when he should be released with honour, and should be able to go and find Winifred for himself, he did not succeed in disguising from himself, that things looked exceedingly black for both of the two lovers.

Almost immediately afterwards, the heavy iron door of the cell closed with a clang behind him, and, passing quickly through the bare white-washed walls of the station for which he had now conceived the most violent dislike, Paul took his way in the direction of the Strand and soon scrambled on one of the red buses that run from Liverpool Street, through Piccadilly, and westwards. At the Circus he dismounted and stepped briskly towards St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage, where he discovered one of the maids hard at work, whitewashing the steps.

No doubt his old failure and his new fears for the actual safety of Winifred lent him quite a fresh reserve of caution. For, this time, he did not make the mistake of asking for Miss Pontifex at all, but simply sent in his card as the special commissioner for _The Moon_, who had called on Mr. Kilroy himself, “with reference to the malicious reports that had appeared in some of the papers about the scene in St. Sepulchre’s Church, in the hope that the clergyman would enable him to publish the exact facts of the affair, and so put both church and press right with the public.”

Now, clergymen of the stamp of the Reverend Duncan Kilroy--who depend so entirely on an utterly fictitious popularity to keep together their congregation, can’t, as Paul had foreseen, afford to flout any mighty engine of popular opinion, like _The Moon_ undoubtedly was.

Hence, almost before he had crossed the threshold, Paul had the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Kilroy would be very glad indeed to see him. Two or three minutes later, he was formally ushered into the library, where he found the Reverend Duncan apparently most busy in the preparation of his next discourse for the Sabbath. Once, however, he had got him neatly cornered like this, Paul did not hesitate.

“_The Moon_,” said he, with a fine intuition of what was passing in the minds of that enterprising journal’s conductors, “has sent me to get an utterly impartial account as to the scene that followed when that woman attacked you in the pulpit. Some mutual friends have told us that, close to the steps at the time the woman rushed forward, was your governess Miss Winifred Pontifex, who, it is understood, is a niece of that eminent barrister, Mr. Russell Langford. As a consequence, any statement of hers will be received with considerable respect, so before I put any question to you, you will greatly oblige me by sending for Miss Pontifex, so that I can get from her the main outlines of her story first.”

“I am exceedingly sorry to say,” retorted the Reverend Duncan who, sad to relate, was never at a loss for any excuse, “Miss Pontifex was so dreadfully upset by the woman’s violence, and so fearful lest she should do me some mischief, that she has been made quite ill by the incident, and has had to take to her bed.”

“Dear me,” retorted Paul sympathetically, although he guessed at once that the man was telling him a falsehood. “That is indeed unfortunate, perhaps, however, you would let me send up a little sealed note to Miss Pontifex, and she could write, herself, an account of what she witnessed.”

“Scarcely that,” replied the Reverend Duncan. “I don’t think I should like to disturb her. You see the doctor has only just left her, and without his sanction, I fear it would be inhuman of me to give her brain and nerves any fresh shock, such as the enquiry you suggest.”

It is wonderful how easy lies like these rise to the lips of unprincipled scoundrels such as the Vicar of St. Sepulchre’s! Happily, Paul was now on his guard, and determined to meet artifice by artifice, a course that has much to commend it when one is compelled to fight people like the Reverend Duncan, who are utterly destitute of honour or of truth. As a consequence, he did not reply for some seconds, but contented himself by looking very grave, and then, as though some sudden resolution had come to him, he pushed his hand into an inside pocket and produced therefrom the bulky letter-case which he always carried.

“It is exceedingly unpleasant for me to have to say, Mr. Kilroy,” he went on, letting a perplexed frown gather upon his forehead, “but _The Moon_ has another reason in requesting you to let me see Miss Pontifex. As it happens, they have received two or three very extraordinary letters, marked ‘private and confidential’ from servants in your own house, alleging that you had a most terrible quarrel with that young lady, and in collusion with Mr. Ventris Blake, you have actually made her a prisoner.”

Duncan Kilroy’s face went suddenly very white. “It--it is preposterous,” he spluttered, starting excitedly to his feet and advancing towards the door, “_The Moon_ has been tricked. Tell me the names of the servants, and I will bring them before you, and show you that the whole story is absurd.”

Here, unfortunately, Paul made his great mistake. Instead of telling the Reverend Duncan that the names of the servants had nothing whatever to do with the allegation, that the point was, was Winifred Pontifex a prisoner or not, he attempted to bluff the Reverend Duncan just one point further--and failed.

“_The Moon_,” he said grandiloquently, “is not accustomed to act on communications upon which it cannot place the utmost reliance. I therefore demand, sir, that you should produce Miss Pontifex to me, and that I should thus be given an opportunity of finding out for myself how this extraordinary report was set about.”

“And I absolutely decline,” snarled the Reverend Duncan, seizing the only genuine opportunity he had had of bringing the interview to an end. “Indeed I am astounded now at the patience with which I have listened to you. I consider your charges both malicious and impertinent--and I beg you to instantly leave my house.” And throwing open the library door he called one of the servants that happened to be passing, and directed the girl to show Mr. Renishaw off the premises.

Inwardly cursing his own stupidity, Paul left the Vicarage and paced moodily down Piccadilly, realising that on two occasions this unscrupulous parson had been too much for him. For a time too, he could not see how he could get level with his victorious adversary; but none the less, he felt more certain than ever that all was not well with Winifred, and it behoved him now, more than ever, to see her and to find out precisely what indignities had been put upon her.

Baffled and perplexed, he thought at one time of slipping down to Scotland Yard, and of seeing some of the heads of the departments there, whom he knew from old experience, were good and reliable friends. On second thoughts, however, he felt that it would be unwise to make any scandal just at present, and that difficult though it might prove, he must trust to his native wit to extricate him from this new reproach of his own blundering failure.

Suddenly, a brilliant idea occurred to him. All at once he recollected how he had managed to inspect the scene of a notorious murder, by pretending to be a workman employed to repair the line belonging to the National Telephone Company; and instantly he resolved to adopt the same expedient for gaining admission to any rooms he wished to enter in St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage.

Now, as everyone who is acquainted with the crooked life of London knows perfectly well, the men who are the best hands at fitting up a disguise are not, as is generally supposed, the men who make a business of supplying wigs and false noses and impossible-looking beards, and wildly extravagant fancy dresses to the public. As a rule, indeed, they are usually men who follow some other more peaceable, and, perhaps, more law-abiding occupation.

One of the best of these in the entire metropolis at the present moment, is a gentleman who answers to the name of “Larry Owen,” but who speaks with the strongest French accent, has an unmistakable French figure and countenance, and, when he is not pottering about Scotland Yard, disguising some of our best detectives, who is to be found in a dirty little shop off Seven Dials, where you can purchase anything from a white mouse, a lizard, a green parrot, up to the most repulsive-looking bull-dog. Long ago Paul had been able to do this man some slight service in _The Moon_, when a gang of Hooligans, who had got wind of his popularity with the police, turned up in force and put all his pets to death, and smashed every breakable thing in his shop; and so no sooner did he decide to disguise himself, than he decided to avail himself of the services of the redoubtable Larry Owen.

Luckily too, when he reached the Dials, he found this master of disguises playing dominoes with an ugly little son in the back parlour of his shop. Luckily too, Larry was not the kind of man on whom it is necessary to waste many words of explanation, but with the pride of a genuine artist, he set to work, and turned Paul into as disreputable looking a telephone man as one could wish to meet west of the Tower Bridge.

A few minutes’ reflection while this work was in progress, showed Paul that he was perhaps risking too much in going to St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage alone. Hence, he decided to take Larry himself with him, as a brother workman, and this, it need hardly be said, was quietly arranged directly an extra sovereign had passed. Larry too, did not waste much time in making himself up, and punctually by five o’clock, the two confederates found themselves in Piccadilly, with all the paraphernalia of itinerant telephone men, knocking at the door of St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage.

This time, Larry undertook to act as spokesman, and so well did he play his part, that without a moment’s hesitation, the maid told them to go upstairs, and to get through their work as quickly as possible, as she was busy and hadn’t time to bother to show them the ins and outs of their own business.

Naturally, Paul and Larry did not require a second permission. Almost as soon indeed as the girl opened the door to them, they stalked up the stairs, and, with the skill of practised burglars, they tried door after door, as they mounted steadily upward.

Only one door defied their efforts, on the topmost floor, and behind that they caught the sound of two voices raised in excited argument. One was Winifred’s! The other the voice of the clergyman!

This time Paul did not waste any time on useless ceremony. Directly he found that the door was closed and locked, he pressed his shoulder against the woodwork, and with such good effect, that he himself went tumbling headlong into the room where the Reverend Duncan and Winifred were standing.

“Rescue me, rescue me,” she cried, in a voice charged with emotion, and then, worn out by the hours of torture and imprisonment she had been through, she sank into a chair near the fireplace, and began to sob hysterically.

The Reverend Duncan Kilroy turned and cast an angry glance in her direction. His first impulse, evidently, was to say something cutting and stern to her, but suddenly he became afraid of what might follow, and he swung round and faced the intruders.

“Go outside,” he said, raising his arm in the direction of the door, “you have no right, my men, in this room at all. If you want the telephone wires you should go up the ladder at the top of the staircase, and that will give you access to the roof. There is no passage through here. As for this poor girl, who has just been talking that rubbish to you, I am sorry to say she is not quite _compos mentis_. We must leave her alone, and then she will quickly recover.”

“Not a bit of it, guv’nor,” stolidly interjected Larry Owen, who, guessing at once that this was the girl Paul had risked so much to save, put down the coil of wire and brazier he was carrying, and placed his arms defiantly akimbo. “Just you understand this we ain’t the kind of men to swallow any fairy tale that may be told to us. We know enough of life to know that blood ain’t a nice thing to see on a young gal’s face, like this, and I ain’t agoin’ to leave the young lady, until I know what made you knock her about.”

And Paul whose first impulse had been to seize this greasy, overfed parson by the scruff of his neck, and throw him headlong down his own stairs, choked down his rising indignation, and struck in with a sentiment most suitable to his assumed station: “Them’s my opinions to a T.” And with a good deal of unnecessary noise, he flung his bag of tools upon the floor with a loud thud.

The worthy Duncan’s expression of disgust at this unexpected attack was really so patent, so complete, that it was almost ludicrous. For a moment he puffed out his cheeks like a grampus, and seemed to dance half way across the room in a series of bewildering little storms of rage.

“‘Knock her about,’ you vulgar fellow,” he spluttered clawing the air with his hands. “Did I hear you aright; did you say ‘knock her about’.”

“You heard what I said, guv’nor, right enough,” observed Larry, in a tone of the most irritating condescension. “So just chuck out your chest and explain.” And he folded his arms in the attitude of his favourite hero, Napoleon, as that Emperor appeared in a gaily coloured chromo-lithograph he treasured in a little room at the back of his shop.

Mr. Kilroy was now spluttering like some swimmer, who had overtaxed his strength, and was trying vainly to reach the land. “Don’t you see I am a clergyman,” he cried, his voice growing hysterically feminine under the pressure of his continued astonishment, and sweeping his arms about like a windmill, he tried to call the imperturbable Larry’s attention to his collar and to the cut of his clothes.

“Indeed, I do,” Larry assured him. “And I don’t mind telling you, that is why I am so keen about it. After all, parsons ain’t no better than other people. Often indeed they are worse, so you needn’t work any of that game on my mate and myself. A gal’s a gal, bless her! and if she wants to walk out of this place, that there sweet young lady by the table can do it, and we’ll stand by, and if you interfere, Mr. Parson, we’ll just knock your bloomin’ head off.”

And again Paul felt nothing better to do than to act the part of the chorus, and to chime in with a very fervent “hear, hear!”

The Reverend Duncan did not, however, lack a certain amount of magnificent assurance, and he turned round and relied on this in speaking to Winifred.

“You hear what these rude fellows have said, Miss Pontifex. Please ask them to go away, so that I may tell you very fully the important news I have got for you, direct from Mr. Hudson.” And his cunning little eyes gleamed, as he uttered this last little invention. It was an artistic little touch of his own, and he did not see how it could fail to succeed.

Indeed, as poor Winifred rose unsteadily to her feet, she did indeed waver. True, she had suffered cruelly since this unscrupulous man had made her a prisoner--but woman-like, she feared the Unknown; and then, what would she not risk to receive a message from Arthur himself?

Paul saw what was passing through her mind, and, elbowing his way past the astonished clergyman, (with a good deal of unnecessary roughness, we regret to add, for he gave the gentleman quite unnecessarily a violent punch in the ribs, that sent him in turn spinning against the bookcase,) he made his way to Winifred’s side, and bent down and whispered quickly in her ear:--“Don’t take any notice of him, he is lying as usual. Don’t look surprised either, but I am Paul Renishaw, come in this disguise to rescue you,” and then pretending that Winifred had been talking to him, he again faced the Reverend Duncan.

“I have spoken to the young lady,” he said in rough workmanlike tones, “and she tells me she ain’t agoin’ to stay here, so if you don’t want my mate to go and fetch a policeman, you had better let her go quietly with us--”

“Or,” put in the repressible Larry, who was beginning to feel his conversational powers being silent were being wasted, “we’ll knock your ugly face in.” And indeed he looked, for a moment, so capable of doing this, that with a snarl, Mr. Kilroy turned and hurried precipitately down the staircase, with the avowed intention of consulting his wife. “As poor Miss Pontifex must really have gone quite mad.”

Winifred, however, was so overjoyed at the prospect of this speedy release, that she soon managed to staunch some blood that was flowing from her cheek, and to draw the wound together by the aid of some flesh-coloured sticking-plaster. Then she seized her hat and her cloak, and hastened down the staircase, Paul going in front, and Larry followed behind her, to see that she was not seized again and immured in any other room in the Vicarage.

Fortunately, Piccadilly was reached without any interruption, and seeing how upset Winifred was, Paul forebore to question her, but insisted on taking her to some tea rooms in Bond Street, realising that half an hour spent in quiet surroundings like those would do more for the poor distracted girl than even a brief visit to a doctor. As a consequence, he and Larry, heedless of what the fashionable people they met might chance to think, escorted her to this retreat, and then they chartered a cab and hastened back to the Dials, so that Paul could change his things and return and explain all that had happened to Winifred.

Punctually, at the time agreed, Paul returned to the tea-rooms in the ordinary garb of civilisation, and was delighted to find that Winifred had recovered most of the obvious effects of the shock she had experienced during her imprisonment, and was keen to hear how Arthur had fared since she last saw him in his office in Cheapside.

It was a long and melancholy story that Paul had now to relate to her, but he did it with such kind earnestness and consideration, that somehow the horror of it all seemed to vanish, and, in place of that, he made it appear that all the consequences, tragic though they might seem at first, were inevitable, and yet only led to the complete vindication of Arthur and his swift and complete triumph.

By this means, he got Winifred interested in the network of crime and intrigue into which he had fallen, from quite a new standpoint--interested, as all good women like to be interested, in the best way she could help the man that she loved--and so, almost before she herself realised what a wonderful change had come over her attitude, she found herself planning and contriving how best both she and Paul could work for Arthur’s speedy deliverance.

In this change of mind her experience with the woman who had made that terrible scene in St. Sepulchre’s Church proved a most wonderful aid. Paul at once pounced on this circumstance as one that might prove most momentous in its issues; and, almost as soon as he had got the whole facts before him, he insisted that they ought to set out to work at once to discover the identity of this creature, and see whether they could not persuade her to tell them all that she knew about Ventris Blake’s villainies.

Determining to lose no time, they made their way at once to the Belsize Theatre in St. Martin’s Lane, first to satisfy themselves whether the woman, who Winnie now remembered, produced a card bearing the name of Flora Kaufmann the actress, was, in reality, Flora Kaufmann, or was simply somebody authorised to act in her behalf.

On arrival at the stage door, however, they discovered that the actress had not put in an appearance at the theatre, and was not expected for another hour at least. A judicious bribe of half a crown luckily produced her private address in Hart Street, Bloomsbury; but on calling there, they found themselves again foiled. The landlady explained that a gentleman with a carriage and a pair of horses had called twenty minutes earlier for the other Miss Kaufmann, who alone resided there then--she believed it was Mr. Ventris Blake, the millionaire--and that he had taken this Miss Eleanor Kaufmann to see some curious works of his in Queen Victoria Street, at number three hundred and something, but she had forgotten the exact figures.

Thanking her for her information, Paul and Winifred re-entered the coupé they had chartered, and the driver was told to make his way too in the direction of Queen Victoria Street. Personally, Paul would have preferred to have let the chase stand over at this point until the morrow; but his promise to go to Scarborough that day to see Arthur and report about Winifred was sacred to him, and he insisted on them holding on their course. None the less, try as he would, he could not conceal his fears from Winifred.

“I tell you frankly, Miss Pontifex,” he said in that quick and decisive way of his, “I don’t like this sudden friendship between such deadly enemies as Ventris Blake and this strange woman, who has worked so hard to ruin him. When the lion and the lamb lie down together, as the Old Book promises us, I will believe that good can come from a sudden alliance like this, but not earlier. It seems to me that the millionaire has got wind somehow of the tremendous efforts that this woman has been making to unmask him, and that he has decided he must take some very strong and resolute measures to stop her tongue.”

The coupé drew up with a jerk outside No. 375. With a hurried glance, Paul inspected all the people passing up and down the pavement, and satisfying himself that the millionaire was not approaching, he stepped quickly out of the carriage and assisted Winifred to alight. Then, dismissing the driver, he hurriedly whispered to his companion the course of action he had resolved on, as they had driven down from the rooms in Hart Street where the strange woman lodged. Receiving her promise that she would bravely carry out his instructions, he turned and led the way into the building so swiftly and silently that, before anybody in the place was aware of their presence, they had reached and entered the caretaker’s rooms at the top, the door of which Arthur had, luckily, left unfastened on his previous visit.

Strangely enough, however, they heard no sound of voices raised in the apartment in which they expected to find Ventris Blake and the woman who had made that dramatic scene in St. Sepulchre’s Church. On the contrary, indeed, when they took their places at the holes which had been made in the walls the last time Paul acted as spy on the doings of the millionaire, they perceived that nobody was in the garret except Ventris Blake, who was seated in an arm-chair apparently plunged in the most profound melancholy.

For a moment they suffered themselves to become the prey of a sense of bitter disappointment; but as the seconds slipped on, and the man did not move at all from his position, and at times looked as though he were listening intently for some visitor who had not arrived, they decided that the strange woman had left him for some reason on the way down, but had promised to follow him to his room.

To Paul also, the period of waiting was relieved by his observations of the changes that had been made in the disposition of the different objects in the apartment. For instance, as his glance travelled round almost irresistibly to the mantlepiece he saw that some heavy curtains had been hung over the fireplace, and that no longer there glowered down from the wall that sombre looking Shield of Black, but that in its place had been hung two long crimson curtains. What had become of those Three terrible-looking Glass Eyes?

In vain he scanned every likely object in the room. He could not discover a sign of their presence--unless indeed, they had never been taken down at all, but had been simply masked by the heavy crimson curtains. A moment later, he saw that the old-fashioned gas-chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling had also been tampered with, and that the ordinary burners had been removed to allow a kind of arc-light to be fixed at the bottom of the pendant, flanked by a reflector that shone with a glint of polished steel.

Near the chair, too, on which Blake was seated stood a small gate-table, bearing a red mahogany box, attached to which were a number of wires that looked as though they communicated with some invisible electrical apparatus. Paul, indeed, was just wondering what the object of these lines were, when they caught the sound of a woman’s step on the stairs, and later the rustle of some silken skirts, and almost immediately afterwards, the strange woman they were seeking so eagerly entered the apartment. As she did so, she looked around the place with a certain obvious curiosity, as though it recalled some half forgotten memories. Then the millionaire rose and for a time her mind was absorbed by the conversation.

For once the iron audacity of the man seemed to have vanished, and his manner towards this strange creature was timid and differential. With an air as though he were apologising for the severity of the furniture, he drew a chair for her opposite the fire. Then he too seated himself in the chair he had previously occupied, and whether by accident or by design, he rested his arm upon the table, in a position that hid the small mahogany box completely from sight. There was a pause, and then unconsciously, he raised his voice a little louder, so that Paul and Winifred could hear quite plainly all that he said.

“How long, Eleanor, is this to go on?” he asked in a tone he meant to be light, but betrayed in every accent that he was consumed by anxiety and fear. “Haven’t you pursued me enough? Haven’t you become satiated with the revenge you have already had?”

The woman did not deign to answer his question, but put another to him: “Why haven’t you mended your ways, Ventris Blake?” she asked in a low, weary kind of way, as though the subject had haunted her so long that there only remained in her a sense of intolerable fatigue. “Perhaps, one might have forgiven you in those early days, when you were younger, and poor Helen had only just died--but you have never really altered, and so it has become a kind of religion with me now to track you down and to expose you.”

“But,” said the millionaire eagerly, “Flora has forgiven me; she thinks the best not the worst of me.”

“Flora,” repeated the woman bitterly, “what does Flora care about anything or anybody, so long as she makes a successful appearance on the stage, and turns the heads of weak fools like Russell Langford and that latest dupe of hers, Jules Prendergast, who I see has just managed to push her out of the star part she had at the Belsize Theatre? Of course, Flora won’t take any trouble for anybody except herself--but there! she never cared for poor Helen like I did! she never had a true sister’s feelings towards her; and when the poor child was on her deathbed, she never realised what a sacred legacy of hate Helen bequeathed to us when she called upon us to give you no peace, until we had avenged her murder.”

“Murder is an ugly word, Eleanor,” repeated the millionaire, with a shiver.

“A very ugly word,” agreed his companion, “but it’s a true word, and therefore I don’t think you ought to mind my use of it.”

“But won’t even money do anything to atone for the past?” pursued Blake softly. “I am not, as you know, particular to a few thousands, even tens of thousands; I just want to be left in peace.”

“No,” said the woman firmly, “the prospect of being rich doesn’t appeal to me. As a matter of fact, I shall never live to make any use either of my vengeance or of your wealth. It was only yesterday I went and saw Dr. Carpenter, the great heart-specialist in Harley Street, and then he told me quite frankly that the heart disease I am suffering from has made almost incredible progress, and that there is a positive certainty that directly I get any extraordinary fatigue, my heart may break down, and I shall go out like the flare of a candle.”

Was it fancy, or was it really a fact, that, as the woman revealed this dark fate by which she was haunted, Ventris Blake’s eyes flashed for a second, but only for a second, with the light of malignant triumph? When they came to compare notes afterwards, both of those two unseen watchers, Paul and Winifred, agreed that they did, and certainly from that moment, Ventris Blake dropped altogether his soft whining tones, and spoke out with a new air of power and earnestness.

“That being so,” he proceeded, “why do you interfere in my life, on behalf of a scoundrel like this Arthur Hudson?”

“For three reasons,” declared the woman coldly. “In the first place, he is not a scoundrel. In the second place, he was wonderfully good to me when I was taken ill outside his office in Cheapside, when to all appearances, I was a poor, weak, hungry-looking woman, without a friend in the world. He couldn’t have been earning much himself, but I remember he fetched and paid a doctor for me, and finally insisted on hiring a cab and driving me to my rooms. No! you needn’t look cynical like that,” she went on with a sudden burst of fierceness, “he didn’t flirt with me, he didn’t try to make love to me, he is not that sort of man. He was just that bright, strong, frank, helpful kind of boy, we women, who are so weary of the noxious attentions of all sorts and conditions of people, admire most. Perhaps,” she went on more softly, “it is the latent instinct of motherhood within us all. At all events, I felt my heart go out to him and, when I discovered that he was the object of yet another of your diabolical plots, I made it my business to speak out boldly for him, both at the church and in the Police Court.”

The millionaire shifted about uneasily, and finally looked down. “But,” he said with a nervous little cough, “you haven’t told me yet your third reason. Is this some other equally heroic and equally quixotic prompting of your feelings, or do we this time come a bit nearer a solid foundation of a hard business fact?”

“We come upon a question of absolute fact,” returned the woman, and now her face grew exceedingly stern. “That third reason you ask me about is probably the most convincing reason of all. It is this I am making this grim fight for poor Arthur Hudson, because I happen to know who it is that did that murder of the poor creature on the Filey road near Scarborough.”

“You know!” gasped the millionaire, suddenly sitting upright and grasping the table with both hands, to hide the trembling of his muscles.

“Yes, I know,” repeated the woman, “and at the right moment I shall speak.” And so, as though she were desirous to end the conversation, she rose and pretended to re-examine the different objects in the room.

Then, as the millionaire did not speak, she began to talk in a desultory kind of way, as though she would distract his attention. “Dear me,” said she, “now I come to look at it, this room has a strangely familiar appearance to me.

“Every object in it seems to remind me of something--some place--some incident that I have almost completely forgotten.” Then she looked as though a sudden light had broken upon her: “Surely,” she cried, “this cannot be the actual room where poor old Colonel Pontifex and that skulk Russell Langford----”

With a muffled oath, Ventris Blake sprang to his feet. “Enough of that,” he said roughly. “Let us stick to the matter we were discussing first. We can deal with this room and what it suggests afterwards. What I want you to tell me about is the murder of my poor Aimée.”

The woman’s eyes flashed. “Your poor Aimée,” she sneered. “You were not wont to talk of her like that, when she was alive, and I am sure that this is almost the first time you have so spoken of her since she had been dead. None the less, why try to come over me, with this cheap theatrical bluff? After all, I know who murdered Aimée Blake, it’s true--but so do you,” and she swept round with a quick movement and gazed fixedly at the millionaire, who could not stand her scrutiny, and with a fumbling kind of movement dropped again into the armchair.

“Can’t--can’t we come to terms?” he stammered, playing nervously with a little red box at his elbow, and taking care all the time to keep the wires connected with it closely concealed.

Again the woman seated herself and gazed fixedly into the fire.

“Can you bring the dead to life?” she replied, and there was no passion now in her voice, but her face wore a look of grim determination.

“I can atone,” he murmured.

“Repentance is not the quality that suits men of your stamp, Ventris Blake,” she answered with a slow shake of the head. “No! I have sworn my oath and I shall keep my word. So far as I am concerned, this conversation is now ended.”

“And so far as I am concerned,” he snarled suddenly, “the business of this meeting between us, after five years’ vendetta, has only just begun.” And sweeping round again, in the direction of the table, he threw open the lid of the box and pressed some knobs connected with the wires.

There was a rustle as the draperies over the fireplace slowly began to revolve, coiling themselves upward.

Again he pressed a button--and this time the light seemed to shift, the reflector fell, and some vivid rays depressed themselves on the huge Black Shield that had again become visible.

This time the woman shrieked and pressed her hands convulsively to the side of the chair, as though, by catching sight of The Three Glass Eyes, she had suddenly become paralysed.