CHAPTER VI

Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters

The Sergeant felt hope surging in his breast. Up to this moment his investigations had yielded little, but this sudden discovery, he felt, had at last set him moving. This “M. L.,” whoever it might be, had undoubtedly an important bearing on the case. Twice this morning previously these initials had confronted him. He subjected the handkerchief to a most careful scrutiny. It was a lace square of about six inches and exhaled a dainty fragrance that in other circumstances even the Sergeant might have found distinctly alluring. For he was something of a Romantic! And in consequence had an inclination towards a leniency to what he himself always described as “the fair sex.” He heard Stewart’s voice outside and hastily pocketed the delicate trifle that the curtains had concealed. When Stewart entered he found the Sergeant engaged in a careful examination of the bookcase.

“I have arranged that you see Miss Lennox in the music-room. Will that suit you, Sergeant?”

Clegg thanked him, but stayed where he was. “That will do very nicely, Mr. Stewart,” he replied. “But would you mind telling the constable on duty at the front entrance to report to me for just a moment—or sending somebody with a message to that effect? Thank you.”

“I want you for a little while, Potter,” he said to the man when he came in. “You’re to keep at this door here and to see that nobody enters! You understand—_nobody_! If you have any trouble over it—send for me. I shall only be the other side of the hall.”

P. C. Potter saluted smartly. “Right—Sergeant. Is the body in here?”

“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question, for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question.

“This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.”

Marjorie Lennox rose quietly from the low chair upon which she had been seated.

“I am ready to tell the Sergeant anything.”

And at that moment the truth came home to Sergeant Clegg—unerringly—that unless he “watched his step” very carefully he would be as wax in the hands of the highly-capable Miss Lennox. He found himself fervently wishing that he belonged to the ranks of the “strong, silent men”—certainly not to the Romantics. For Marjorie Lennox had a delicate beauty and a dainty charm that were instantly arresting. She was “petite,” it is true, but she had that semi-disdainful, semi-challenging roguishness that many men find so hard to resist. It was easy to find fault with her features, for her nose was appreciably “retroussé”—but this very tip-tiltedness only served, if anything, to enhance her attractiveness. She had glorious blue eyes—twin pools of pure cornflower, and a complexion that made one immediately think of roses and cream. Added to this she possessed a demure gracefulness that almost perfected her, giving her a Dresden china sort of setting—from the depths of which she was destined to play havoc with the hearts of men. And of course she fulfilled that destiny to the limit of her dainty power! Sergeant Clegg threw an inexorable rein over his romanticism and did his duty. A little throat clearing once again prefaced his first remark.

“Thank you, Miss——” he hesitated momentarily.

“Lennox,” she broke in quickly. “Marjorie Lennox. I am—or rather, I was—Mr. Stewart’s ward.” She sank back in her chair again.

“Yes, miss. I understand that much. How long have you lived with Mr. Stewart?”

“Ever since I was a little girl of three. My father was a very old friend of Uncle Laurence’s—I always called Mr. Stewart ‘uncle’”—she explained with engaging candor—“and when my father died I came to Uncle Laurence to live. My mother died when I was born,” she added simply.

“Was your father in good circumstances when he died—can you remember?”

Marjorie Lennox flushed. “I believe not. Certainly his circumstances were quite different from those of Uncle Laurence. What has that to do——?”

Clegg wagged his head half apologetically. “I see! I see! Now, coming to the events of last night—I’ve no wish to distress you, Miss Lennox, but there’s just this. You dined, I believe, with Mr. Stewart, Colonel Leach-Fletcher and Mr. Morgan. Is that so?” He ticked the three names off on his fingers.

“Yes. There were just the four of us. Charles did not return for dinner.”

“And after dinner?”

Marjorie flashed him a searching—penetrating glance. “Do you mean what did I do after dinner or——”

“If you please, miss.” The Sergeant became acutely aware of his constitutional chivalry, but sternly suppressed it.

“I came in here. It is my usual practice after dinner. Uncle Laurence used to like me to play to him—he was passionately fond of music. But last night he went into the library.”

“Did you stay in here for the rest of the evening?”

“Yes—no—no, I’m wrong! It was about nine o’clock when I left here.”

She amended her statement with the utmost composure and Clegg couldn’t be sure if she had made a genuine mistake or was desirous of concealing something. But he remembered Llewellyn’s story and the two didn’t tally! Llewellyn had made no mention of Miss Lennox having left the music-room at nine o’clock! He had stated that he spent the _remainder_ of the evening with her. Now—according to Marjorie Lennox—he had been alone for an hour. That is to say there was at least one hour of his time for which he had not accounted. Now Clegg was slow-moving and inspiration visited him but seldom, but he took _care_, and he quickly came to the conclusion that hereabouts in his inquiry extreme care would be necessary if he were to achieve any success. He decided to hasten slowly.

“Where did you go then, Miss Lennox?” he followed up.

“To my room. My uncle was still engaged with Colonel Leach-Fletcher in the library, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.”

“Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?”

“No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would go to bed early.”

“You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?”

“Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve.

“When did you last go in there?”

“To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you ask?”

She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it. His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at least.

“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.”

“No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection.

“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology.

But it didn’t deceive Miss Lennox. Just as Clegg had realized her insincerity, so she in her turn knew that this rather lame explanation of his question to her had not been the truth. She immediately put herself on the defensive. Inclined as she had been in the first place to under-rate this policeman, she effected a mental readjustment.

She awaited his next question—outwardly unchanged, but inwardly more vigilant. When it came it surprised her.

“Did you hear anything unusual in the night, Miss Lennox?” Somewhat relieved, she breathed more freely, but her defensive tension remained unrelaxed.

“Nothing! I slept like a top.” The blue eyes regarded him ingenuously.

“Thank you. One last question, Miss Lennox. You have lived a long time with Mr. Laurence Stewart, almost as long I suppose as Mr. Charles Stewart here—and ladies, if you’ll excuse me saying such a thing, are very often more in a man’s confidence than gentlemen! For instance, you were as a daughter to the poor gentleman”—he broke off suddenly—and Marjorie Lennox began to sob quietly—her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. There was genuine sorrow here—Sergeant Clegg had sufficient sense to recognize it when it came his way—and it was reflected in young Stewart as well. His white face grew whiter—the ordeal of this dreadful day was oppressing him more and more—and Marjorie’s convulsive sobbing tore his heart-strings. He knew he must have help. He would get it as soon as he could. This was too much. Sergeant Clegg felt his courage sink into his boots. This sobbing was more than a Romantic could stand—the more so because he himself had provoked it. He must do something to stop it. He placed his hand on her shoulder—an act that he was always to remember.

“Come, come. What I mean is this. If Mr. Stewart regarded you in the light of a daughter—did he ever _confide_ in you? Any secret? Any trouble? Had he any enemies that might have wanted to do him harm?”

She looked up. “He had no secrets at all. He wasn’t the kind. But since you’ve asked me—I’ll tell you—something.”

She sprang to her feet. Her eyes shone like stars and her hands were clenched together. Her whole manner altered.

“There _is_ a man who wanted to do him harm. A man none of you would ever suspect. He’s in the house now—why should I shield him?”

Charles Stewart threw out his hand and attempted to restrain her. But she flung the proffered hand away imperiously, while Stewart looked at her reproachfully.

“Sergeant Clegg asked me,” she asserted vehemently. “Sergeant Clegg shall know. The man is Morgan Llewellyn!!!”

Clegg received the announcement stolidly—he was progressing! Charles Stewart gave a gasp of astonishment and turned to her with an air of remonstrance.

“You’re mad, Marjorie! You’ve no right to bring an accusation of that kind. Why should Llewellyn have harmed my father?”

Clegg waited eagerly for the answer. He even got his note-book ready.

Marjorie Lennox faced her so-called cousin defiantly—her blue eyes challenging his grey ones. For a moment there was a silent battle for the mastery. Then before either of the men could stop her, she swept majestically from the room!