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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1d1bfa --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52209 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52209) diff --git a/old/52209-8.txt b/old/52209-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index dac0060..0000000 --- a/old/52209-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7114 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Silent Shore, by John Bloundelle-Burton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Silent Shore - A Romance - -Author: John Bloundelle-Burton - -Release Date: June 1, 2016 [EBook #52209] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILENT SHORE *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the -Internet Archive (University of California Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - 1. Page scan source: Internet Archive - https://archive.org/details/silentshoreroman00blourich - (University of California Libraries) - - - - - - -THE SILENT SHORE - -A Romance - - - -BY -JNO. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON - - - -"To die is landing on a silent shore, -Where billows never beat, nor tempests roar." - - - -LONDON -JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL -MILTON HOUSE, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS -AND -SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C. -[_All rights reserved_] - - - - - - -THE SILENT SHORE - - - - -Prologue - -THE STORY OF THIRTY YEARS AGO - - -"And you are certain of the year he was married in?" - -"Perfectly--there is no possibility of my being mistaken. He was -married on New Year's Day, '58; I was born in May, '59." - -"It is strange, certainly. But there is one solution of it--is it not -possible that, even if this is he, the lady registered as his wife -might not have been so? In fact she could not have been, otherwise he -could never have married your mother." - -"I will not believe it! He was too cold and austere--too puritanical I -had almost said--to form any such connection." - -"Do you think, then, that he would commit bigamy?" - -"I don't know what to think!" the other answered gloomily. - -Two men, both about the same age, twenty-five, were seated in a -private room at an inn, known as the Hôtel Bellevue, at Le Vocq, a -dreary fishing town with a good though small harbour, a dozen miles -west of Havre. On a fine day the bay that runs in from Barfleur to -Fécamp is gay and bright, but it presented a melancholy appearance -on this occasion, as the two young men gazed out at it across the -rain-soaked plots of grass that formed the lawn of the "Bellevue." -Down below the cliff on which the inn stood, the port was visible, and -in the port was to be seen an English cutter, the _Electra_, in which -the friends had run for Le Vocq when the storm, that had now been -raging for twenty-four hours, broke upon them. They had left Cowes a -fortnight ago, and had been yachting pleasantly in the Channel since, -putting into Cherbourg on one occasion, into Ste. Mère Eglise on -another, and Havre on a third; and now, as ill-luck would have it, it -seemed as if they were doomed to be weather-bound in, of the many -dreary places on the coast, the dreariest of all, Le Vocq. - -The first night in the inn, to which they had come up after seeing the -yacht made snug and comfortable in the harbour below, and the sailors -left in charge of her also provided for, passed easily enough. There -was the hope of the storm abating--which was cheering--and they had -cards, and some Paris newspapers to read, and above all, they were -fatigued and could sleep well. But, on the next day, the storm had not -abated, and they were tired of cards, the old Paris papers had been -read and re-read, and later ones had not arrived, and they were -refreshed with their night's rest and wanted to be off. But there was -no getting off, and what was to be done? - -They had stood all the morning looking out of the window -disconsolately, had smoked pipes and cigarettes innumerable, and had -yawned a good deal, and sworn a little. - -"What the deuce are we to do to prevent ourselves from dying of -_ennui_, Philip?" the one asked the other. - -"Jerry," the other answered solemnly, "I know no more than you do. -There is nothing left to read, and soon--very soon, alas!--there will -be nothing left to smoke but the _caporal_ obtainable in the village. -That, however, might poison us and end our miseries." - -Then the one called Philip began looking about the salon that was at -their disposal, and whistling plaintively, and peering into the -cupboards, of which there were two: - -"Hullo!" he suddenly exclaimed, "here is another great mental treat -for us--a lot of old books; and precious big ones, too! I wonder what -they are?" - -"Pull them out and let us see. Probably only _Le Monde Illustré_, or -_Le Journal Amusant_, bound up for the landlord's winter nights' -delectation, after they have been thumbed by every sailor in the -village." - -"Oh, confound the books!" Philip exclaimed when he had looked into -them, "they are only the old registers, the _Livres des Étrangers_ of -bygone years." - -"Nevertheless, let us see them," the other answered; "at any rate we -shall learn what kind of company the house has kept." - -So, obeying his behest, Philip brought them out, and they sat down "to -begin at the beginning," as they said laughingly; and each took a -volume and commenced to peruse it. - -Every now and then they told one another of some name they had -come across, the owner of which was known to them by hearsay, -and they agreed that the "Hôtel Bellevue" had, in its day, had -some very good people for its guests. They had found several -titles--English--inscribed in the pages of the register, and also many -prominent names belonging to the same nationality. - -"Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at -some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to -heaven some of them were here now, and that----" - -He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing -fixedly at the page before him. - -"What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very -wonderful?" - -"It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how -could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his -finger to a line in the book. - -"By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "_Août_ 17, 1854, _L'Hon. -Gervase Occleve et sa femme_." Then he said, "Your father of course, -before he inherited his title?" - -"Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence, -except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?" - -"It means that your father knew this place many years ago, and came -here: that is all, I should say. It is a coincidence, but after all it -is no more strange that he should know Le Vocq, than that you should." - -"But you don't see the curious part of it, Philip! It is the words _et -sa femme_. My father had no wife in 1854! He never had a wife until he -married my mother, and then he was Lord Penlyn and no longer known as -Gervase Occleve." - -And then followed the conversation with which this story opens. - -"It _is_ a strange thing," Philip said, "but it must be a mistake." - -In his own heart, being somewhat of a worldling, he did not think it -was any mistake at all. He thought it highly probable that the late -Lord Penlyn had, when here, a lady travelling with him who was -registered as his wife, but who, in actual fact, was not his wife at -all. - -After a few moments spent in thought, Gervase turned to his friend and -said, "The landlord, the man who stared so hard at me yesterday when -we came in, was an elderly person. He may have had this hotel in '54, -might even remember this mysterious namesake of mine. I think I will -ask him to come up." - -"I shouldn't," Philip said. "He isn't at all likely to remember -anything about it." In his mind he thought it very probable that the -man might, even at that distance of time, remember something of -Gervase's father, especially if he had made a long stay at the house, -and would perhaps be able to give some reminiscences of his whilom -guest that might by no means make his son feel comfortable. - -But his remonstrance was unheeded, and the other rang the bell. It was -answered by a tidy waitress wearing the cap peculiar to the district, -to whom Gervase--who was an excellent linguist--said in very good -French: - -"If the landlord is in, will you be good enough to say that Lord -Penlyn would be glad to speak to him?" - -The girl withdrew, and in a few minutes the landlord tapped at the -door. When he had received an invitation to enter, he came into the -room and bowed respectfully, but, as he did so, Lord Penlyn again -noticed that his eyes were fixed upon him with a wondering stare; a -stare exactly the same as he had received on the previous day when -they entered the hotel. There was nothing rude nor offensive in the -look; it partook more of the nature of an incredulous gaze than -anything else. - -"Milor has expressed a wish to see me," he said as he entered. "He -has, I trust, found everything to his wish in my poor house!" - -"Perfectly," Gervase answered; "but I want to ask you a question. Will -you be seated?" And then when the landlord had taken a chair--still -looking intently at him--he went on: - -"We found these _Livres des Étrangers_ in your cupboard, and, for want -of anything else to read, we took them down and have been amusing -ourselves with them. I hope we did not take a liberty." - -"_Mais, Milor!_" the landlord said with a shrug of his shoulders and a -twitch of his eyebrows, that were meant to express his satisfaction at -his guests being able to find anything to distract them. - -"Thank you," Gervase said. "Well! in going through this book--the one -of 1854--I have come upon a name so familiar to me, the name of -Gervase Occleve, that----" - -But before he could finish his sentence the landlord had jumped up -from his chair, and was speaking rapidly while he gesticulated in a -thorough French fashion. - -"_C'est ça, mon Dieu, mais oui!_" he began. "Occleve--of course! That -is the face. Sir, Milor! I salute you! When you entered my house -yesterday, I said to myself, 'But where, mon Dieu, but where have I -seen him? Or is it but the spirit of some dead one looking at me out -of his eyes?' And now that you mention to me the name of Occleve, then -in a moment he comes back to me and I see him once again. _Ah! ma foi, -Milor!_ but when I regard you, then in verity he returns to me, and I -recall him as he used to sit in this very room--_parbleu!_ in that -very chair in which you now sit." - -The young men had both stared at him with some amazement as he spoke -hurriedly and excitedly, repeating himself in his earnestness, and now -as he ceased, Gervase said: - -"Do I understand you to say, then, that I bear such a likeness to this -man, whose name is inscribed here, as to recall him vividly to you?" -"_Mais, sans doute!_ you are his son! It must be so. There is only one -thing that I do not comprehend. You bear a different name." - -"He became Lord Penlyn later in life, and at his death that title came -to me." - -"_Bien compris!_ And so he is dead! He can scarcely have lived the -full space of man's years. And Madame your mother? She is well?" - -For a moment the young man hesitated. Then he said: "She is dead too." - -"_Pauvre dame_," the landlord said, and as he spoke it seemed as -though he was talking to himself. "She was bright and happy in those -days so far off, bright and happy once; and she, too, is gone. And I, -who was older than either of them, am left! But, Lord Penlyn," he -said, readdressing himself to his guest, "you look younger than your -years. It is thirty years since you used to run about those sands -outside and play; I have carried you to them often----" - -"You carried me to those sands thirty years ago! Why, I was not----" - -"Stop!" Philip Smerdon said to him in English, and speaking in a low -tone. "Do you not see it all? Say no more." - -"Yes," Gervase answered. "Yes, I see it all." - -Later on, when the landlord had left the room after insisting upon -shaking the hand of "the child he had known thirty years ago," Gervase -said: - -"So he who was so stern and self-contained, who seemed to be above the -ordinary weaknesses of other men, was, after all, worse than the -majority of them. I suppose he flung this poor woman off when he -married my mother, I suppose he left the boy, for whom this man takes -me--to starve or to become a thief preying on his fellow men. It is -not pleasant to think that I have an elder brother who may be an -outcast, perhaps a felon!" - -"I should not take quite such a pessimist view of things as that," -Philip said. "For aught you know, the lady he had with him here may -have died between 1854 and 1858, and, for the matter of that, so may -the boy; or he may have made a good allowance to both when he parted -with them. For anything you know to the contrary he might have seen -the boy frequently until his death, and have taken care to place him -comfortably in the world." - -"In such a case I must have known it. I must have met him somewhere." - -"Nothing more unlikely! The world is large enough--in spite of the -numerous jokes about its smallness--for two peculiarly situated -individuals not to meet. If I were you, Jerry, I should think no more -about the matter." - -"It is not a thing one can easily forget!" the other answered. - -The landlord had given them a description of what he remembered of the -Gervase Occleve whom he had known thirty years ago, but what he had -told them had not thrown much light upon the subject. He described how -Gervase Occleve had first come there in the summer of '54 accompanied -by his wife (he evidently had never doubted that they were married) -and by his son, "the Monsieur now before him," as he said innocently. -They had lived very quietly, occupying the very rooms in which they -were now sitting, he told the young men; roaming about the sands in -the day, or driving over to the adjacent towns and villages, or -sailing in a boat that Mr. Occleve hired by the month. They seemed -contented and happy enough, he said, and stayed on and on until the -autumn's damp and rain, peculiar to that part of the coast, drove them -away. It was strange, he thought, that Milor did not remember anything -about that period; but it was true, he was but a little child! - -Then, he continued, in the following summer they returned again, and -again spent some months there--and then, he never saw nor heard of -them more. But, so well did he remember Mr. Occleve's face, even after -all these years, that, ever since Lord Penlyn had been in the house, -he had been puzzling his brains to think where he had seen him before. -He certainly should not, he said, have remembered the child he had -played with so often, but that his likeness to his father was more -than striking. To Madame, his mother, he saw no resemblance at all. - -"But I did not tell him," he said to himself afterwards, as he sat in -his parlour below and sipped a little red wine meditatively, "I did -not tell him that on the second summer a gloom had fallen over them, -and that I often saw her in tears, and heard him speak harshly to her. -Why should I? _À quoi bon_ to disturb the poor young man's meditations -on his dead father and mother!" - -And the good landlord went out and served a chopine of _petit bleu_ to -one customer, and a _tasse_ of _absinthe gommée_ to another, and -entertained them with an account of how there was, upstairs, an -English Milor who had been there thirty years ago with his father; the -Milor who was the owner of the yacht now in port. - -On the next day the storm was over, there was almost a due south wind, -and the _Electra_ was skimming over the waves and leaving the dreary -French coast far behind it. - -"It hasn't been a pleasant visit," Lord Penlyn said to Philip, as they -leant over the bows smoking their pipes and watching Le Vocq fade -gradually into a speck. "I would give something never to have heard -that story!" - -"It is the story of thirty years ago," his friend answered. "And it is -not you who did the wrong. Why let it worry you?" - -"I cannot help it! And--I daresay you will think me a fool!--but I -cannot also help wondering on which of my father's children--upon that -other nameless and unknown one, or upon me--his sins will be visited!" - - - - -The Story - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Ida Raughton sat, on a bright June day of that year, in her pretty -boudoir looking out on the well-kept gardens of a West End square, and -thinking of an important event in her life that was now not very far -off--her marriage. Within the last month she had become engaged, not -without some earlier doubts on her part as to whether she was -altogether certain of her feelings--though, afterwards, she told -herself over and over again that the man to whom she was now promised -was the only one she could ever love: and the wedding-day was fixed -for the 1st of September. Her future husband was Gervase Occleve, -Viscount Penlyn. - -She was the only daughter of Sir Paul Raughton, a wealthy Surrey -baronet, and had been to him, since her mother's death, as the apple -of his eye--the only thing that to him seemed to make life worth -living. It was true that he had distractions that are not uncommon to -elderly gentlemen of means, and possessed of worldly tastes; perfectly -true that Paris and Nice, and Ascot and Newmarket, as well as his -clubs and his friends--not always male ones--had charms for him that -were still very seductive; but, after all, they were nothing in -comparison to his daughter's love and his love for her. Never during -his long widowerhood, a widowerhood dating from her infancy, had he -failed to make her life and happiness the central object of his -existence; never had he allowed his pleasures to stand in the way of -the study of her comfort. The best schools and masters when she was a -child, the best friends and chaperons for her when womanhood was -approaching, and when it had arrived, the greatest liberality as -regards cheques for dressmakers, milliners, upholsterers, horses, -etc., had been but a small part of his way of showing his devotion to -her. And she had returned his affection, had been to him a daughter -giving back love for love, and endeavouring in every way in her power -to make him an ample return for all the thought and care he had -showered on her. Of course he had foreseen that the inevitable day -must come when--love him however much she might--she would still be -willing to leave him, when she would be willing to resign being -mistress of her father's house to be mistress of her husband's. His -worldly knowledge, which was extensive enough for half-a-dozen -ordinary men, told him clearly enough that the parent nest very soon -palled on the bird that saw its way to building one for itself. Yet, -when the blow fell, as he had known it must fall, he did not find that -his philosophy enabled him to endure it very lightly. On the other -hand, there was his love for her, and that bade him let her go, since -it was for her happiness that she should do so. - -"I promised her mother when she lay dying," he said to himself, "that -my life should be devoted to her, and I have kept my vow to the best -of my power. I am not going to break it now. Besides, it is part of a -father's duty to see his daughter well married; and I suppose Penlyn -is a good match. At any rate, there are plenty of other fathers and -mothers who would like to have caught him for their girls." - -That she should have made a sensation during her first season was not -a thing to astonish Sir Paul, nor, indeed, any one else. Ida Raughton -was as thoroughly beautiful a girl, when first she made her appearance -in London society, as any who had ever taken their place in its ranks. -Tall and graceful, and possessed of an exquisitely shaped head, round -which her auburn hair curled in thick locks; with bright hazel eyes, -whose expression varied in accordance with their owner's thoughts and -feelings, sometimes sparkling with laughter and mirth, and sometimes -saddened with tears as she listened to any tale of sorrow; with a nose -the line of which was perfect, and a mouth, the smallness of which -disguised, though it could not hide, the even, white teeth within, no -one could look at Ida without acknowledging how lovely she was. Even -other and rival _débutantes_ granted her loveliness, and the woman who -can obtain such a concession as this from her sisters has fairly -established her right to homage. - -As she sat at her boudoir window on this June day, thinking of her now -definitely settled marriage, she was wondering if the life before her -would be as bright and happy as the one she was leaving behind for -ever. That--with the exception of the death of her mother, a sorrow -that time had mercifully tempered to her--had been without alloy. -Would the future be so? There was no reason to think otherwise, she -reflected, no reason to doubt it. Lord Penlyn was young, handsome, and -manly, the owner of an honoured name, and well endowed with the -world's goods. Yet that would not have weighed with her had she not -loved him. - -She had asked herself if she did love him several times before she -consented to give him the answer he desired, and then she acknowledged -that he alone had won her heart. She recalled other men's attentions -to her, their soft words, their desire to please; how they had haunted -her footsteps at balls and at the Opera, and how no other man's homage -had ever been so sweet to her as the homage of Gervase Occleve. At -first--wishing still to be sure of herself--she would not agree to be -his wife, telling him that she did not know her heart; but when he -asked her a second time, after she had had ample opportunity for -reflection, she told him he should have his wish. - -"And you do love me, Ida?" he asked rapturously, perhaps boyishly, as -they drove back from a large dinner-party to which they had gone at -Richmond. "You are sure you do?" - -"Yes," she said, "I am sure I do. I was not sure when first you asked -me, but I am now." - -"Then kiss me, darling, and tell me so. Otherwise I shall scarcely be -able to believe it;" and he bent over her and kissed her, and she -returned the kiss. - -"I love you, Gervase," she said, blushing as she did so. - -"You have made me supremely happy," he said to her after their lips -had met; "happy beyond all thought. And, dearest, you shall never have -cause to repent of it. I will be to you the best, the truest husband -woman ever had. There shall be no shadow ever come over your life that -I can keep away." - -For answer she put her hand in his, and so they drove along the lanes -that were getting thick with hawthorn and chestnut blossom, while -ahead of them sounded the merry voices of others of the party who were -on a four-in-hand. They had come down, a joyous company, from town in -the afternoon, had dined at the "Star and Garter," and were now on -their way home under the soft moonlight of an early summer evening. -Sir Paul had been with them in the landau on the journey out, but on -this return one he was seated on the top of the coach, talking to a -lady whom he addressed more than once as "his dear old friend," and -was smoking innumerable cigarettes. Probably he did not imagine for -one moment that Lord Penlyn was going to take this opportunity of -proposing to his daughter; but he had noticed that they seemed to -enjoy each other's society very much, especially when they could -enjoy it alone. And so, all things being suitable and harmonious, and -the baronet having a heart beneath his exceedingly well-fitting -waistcoat--and that a very big heart where Ida was concerned--had let -them have the gratification of the drive home together. - -"And you never loved any other man, Ida?" Gervase asked. "Forgive the -question, but every lover likes to know, or think, that no one has -ever been before him in the affection of the woman he loves." - -"No," she answered, "never. You are the first man I have ever loved." - -This had happened nearly a month ago, but as Ida sat in her boudoir -her thoughts returned to the drive on that May night. Yes, she -acknowledged, she loved him, and she loved him more and more every -time she saw him. But as she recalled this conversation she also -recalled the question he had asked her, the question as to whether she -had ever loved any other man; and she wondered what had made him ask -it. Could it be that it was supposed by some of their circle--though -erroneously supposed, she told herself--that another man loved her? -Perfectly erroneously, because that other man had never breathed one -word of love to her; and because, though he would sometimes be in her -society continually for perhaps a week, and then be absent for a -month, he never, during all the time they were thus constantly -meeting, paid her more marked attention than other men were in the -habit of doing. Yet, notwithstanding this, it had come to her -knowledge that it had been whispered about that Walter Cundall loved -her. - -This man, Walter Cundall, this reported admirer of hers, was well -known in society, was in a way famous, though his fame was in the -principal part due to the simplest purchaser of that commodity--to -wealth. He was known to be stupendously rich, to be able to spend any -large sum of money he chose in order to gratify his inclinations, to -be able to look upon thousands as ordinary men looked upon hundreds, -and upon hundreds as other men looked upon tens. This was the -principal part of his fame; but there was a lesser, though a better -part! It was true that he did spend hundreds and thousands, but, as a -rule, he spent them quite as much upon others as upon himself. His -fours-in-hand, his yachts and steam-yachts, his villa at Cookham, and -his house in Grosvenor Place, as well as his villa at Cannes--to which -a joyous party went every winter--were as much for his friends as for -him. He gave dinners that men and women delighted in getting -invitations to; but it was noticed that, though his _chéf_ was a -marvel, he rarely ate of anything but the soup and joint himself, and -that, while others were drinking the best wine that Burgundy, or Aÿ, -or Rheims could produce, he scarcely ever quenched his thirst with -anything but a tumbler of claret. But he would sit at the head of his -table with a smile of satisfaction upon his handsome face, contented -with the knowledge that his guests were happy and enjoying themselves. - -This man of whom Ida was now thinking and whose story may be told -here, had commenced life at Westminster School, to which he had been -put by his uncle, a rich owner of mines and woods in Honduras, from -which place he paid flying visits to England once a year, or once in -two years. The boy was an orphan, left by his mother to her brother's -care, and that brother had not failed in his trust. The lad went to -Westminster with the full understanding that Honduras must be his home -when school days were over; but he knew that it would be a home of -luxury and tropical splendour. There, after his school days, he passed -some years of his life, attending to the mines, seeing to the -consignments of shiploads of mahogany and cedar, going for days in the -hills with no companions but the Mestizos and the Indians, and helping -his uncle to garner up more and more wealth that was eventually -destined to be his. Once or twice in the space of ten years he came to -Europe, generally with the object of increasing their connection with -London or Continental cities, and of looking up and keeping touch with -his old schoolfellows and friends. - -And then, at last, two or three years before this story opens, and -when his uncle was dead, it came to be said about London that Walter -Cundall, the richest man from the Pacific to the Gulf of Honduras, had -taken a house in Grosvenor Place, and meant to make London more or -less permanently his residence. The other places that have -been mentioned were purchased one by one, and he used all his -possessions--sharing them with his friends--by turn; but London was, -as people said, his home. Occasionally he would go off to Honduras on -business, or would rush by the Orient express to St. Petersburg or -Vienna; but he loved England better than any other spot in the globe, -and never left it unless he was obliged to do so. - -This was the man whom gossip had said was the future husband of Ida -Raughton--this tall, dark, handsome man, who was, when in England, a -great deal by her side. But gossip had been rather staggered when it -heard that, during Mr. Cundall's last absence of six months in the -tropics, she had become the affianced wife of Lord Penlyn! It wondered -what he would say when he came back, as it heard he was about to do -very shortly, and it wondered why on earth she had taken Penlyn when -she might have had Cundall. It talked it over in the drawing-rooms and -the ball-rooms, at Epsom and on the lawn at Sandown, but it did not -seem to arrive at any conclusion satisfactory to itself. - -"I suppose the fact of it is that Cundall never asked her," one said -to another, "and she got tired of waiting." - -"I should have waited a bit longer on the off chance," the other said -"Cundall's a fifty times richer fellow than Penlyn, and there's no -comparison between the two. The one is a man of the world and a -splendid fellow, and the other is only a boy." - -"He isn't a bad sort of a boy though," said a third, "good-looking, -and all that. And," he continued sententiously, "he has the pull in -age. That's what tells! He is about twenty-five, and Cundall's well -over thirty, isn't he?" - -"Thirty is no such great age," said the first one, who, being over -forty himself, looked upon Cundall also as almost a boy, "and, for my -part, I think she has made a mistake!" - -And that was what the world said: "She had made a mistake!" Did she -think so herself, as she sat there that bright afternoon? No, that -could not be possible! Ida Raughton was a girl with too pure and -honourable a heart to take one man when she loved another. And we know -what the gossips did not know, that no word of love had ever passed -between her and Walter Cundall. The world was indulging in profitless -speculations when it debated in its mind why Ida had not taken as a -husband a man who had never spoken one word of love to her! - - - -CHAPTER II. - -A few days after Ida Raughton had been indulging in those summer -noontide meditations, Walter Cundall arrived at his house in Grosvenor -Place. Things were so well ordered in the establishment of which he -was master, that a telegram from Liverpool, despatched a few hours -earlier, had been sufficient to cause everything to be in readiness -for him; and his servants were so used to his coming and going that -his arrival created no unusual excitement. - -He walked into his handsome library followed by a staid, grave -man-servant, and, sitting down in one of his favourite chairs, said: - -"Well, West, what's the news in London?" - -"Not much, sir; at least nothing that would interest you. There are a -good many balls and parties going on, of course, sir; and next week's -Ascot, you know, sir." - -"Ascot, is it? Yes, to be sure! We might take a house there, West, and -have some friends. The four-in-hand could go over from Cookham----" - -"Beg pardon, sir, but I don't think you'll be able to entertain any of -your friends this year--not at Ascot, any how. Sir Paul Raughton's man -and me were a-talking together, sir, last night at our little place of -meeting, and he told me as how Sir Paul was going to have quite a -large party down at his place, you know, sir, to celebrate--to -celebrate--I mean for Ascot, sir." - -"Well?" - -"Well, of course, sir, you'll be wanted there too, sir. Indeed, Sir -Paul's man said as how his master had been making inquiries about the -time you was a-coming back, sir, and said he should like to have you -there. And of course they want to cele--I mean to keep it up, sir. -Now, I'll go and fetch you the letters that have come since I sent you -the last mail." - -While the servant was gone, Walter Cundall lay back in his chair and -meditated. He was a handsome man, with a dark, shapely head, and fine, -well-marked features. He was very brown and sunburnt, as it was -natural he should be; but, unlike many whose principal existence has -been passed in the Tropics, there was no sign of waste or languor -about him. His health during all the years he had spent under a -burning Caribbean sun had never suffered; fever and disease had passed -him by. Perhaps it was his abstemiousness that had enabled him to -escape the deadly effects of a climate that kills four at least out of -every ten men. As he sat in his chair he wondered why Providence had -been so unfailingly good to him through his life; why it had showered -upon him--while he was still young enough to enjoy it--the comforts -that other men spent their lives in toiling to obtain, and then often -failed at last to get. - -"And now," he said to himself, "let Fortune give me but one more gift, -and I am content. Let me have as partner of all I possess the fairest -woman in the world; let my sweet, gentle Ida tell me that she loves -me--as I know she does--and what more can I ask? Ah, Ida!" he went on, -apostrophising the woman he loved, "I wonder if you have guessed how, -night after night during these long six months, I have sat on my -verandah gazing up at the stars that look like moons there, wondering -if your dear eyes were looking at them in their feeble glory here? I -wonder if you have ever thought during my long absence that not an -hour went by, at night or day, when I was not thinking of you? Yes, -you must have done so; you must have done so! There was everything in -your look, in your voice to tell me that you loved me, that you were -only waiting for me to speak. And, now, I will speak. I will deprive -myself no longer of the love that will sweeten my life." - -The man servant came back with an enormous bundle of letters that made -Cundall laugh when he saw them. - -"Why, West!" he exclaimed, "you don't imagine that I am going to wade -through these now, do you?" - -"I think they're mostly invitations, sir," the servant answered, "from -people who did not know when you would be back." - -"Well, give them to me. I will open a few of those the handwriting of -which I recognise, and Mr. Stuart can go through the rest to-morrow." - -Mr. Stuart was one of Cundall's secretaries, who, when his employer -was in town, had sometimes to work night and day to keep pace with his -enormous correspondence, but who was now disporting himself at -Brighton. When Cundall was away it was understood that this gentleman -should attend four days a week, two at Grosvenor Place, and two at his -agent's in the City, but that on others he should be free. As, with -his usual generosity, Cundall gave him five hundred a year for doing -this, his post was a good one. - -The valet came down at this moment to take his master's orders, and to -say that his bath was ready. - -"I shall dine quietly at the club to-night," Mr. Cundall said, "and -then, to-morrow, I will make a few calls, and let my friends know I -have returned. Is there anything else, West?" - -"No, sir. Oh, I beg pardon, sir! I had almost forgot. Lady Chesterton -called the day before yesterday to ask when you would be back. When I -told her ladyship you were expected, she left a note for you. It's in -that bundle you have selected, I think, sir." - -Cundall looked through the letters until he found the one in question, -and, on opening it, discovered that it contained an invitation for a -ball on that evening. As Lady Chesterton was a hostess whom he liked -particularly, he made up his mind that he would look in, if only for -an hour. It was as good a way as any of letting people know that he -was back in town, and his appearance at her house and at the club -would be quite enough to do so. - -It was eight o'clock when he entered the latter institution, and his -arrival was hailed with a chorus of greeting. A man of colossal wealth -is, of course, always welcome amongst his intimates and acquaintances, -but, if he is of a reflecting nature, it may be that the idea -sometimes occurs to him that he is only appreciated for his -possessions, and that, behind his back, there is no such enthusiasm on -his behalf as is testified to his face. He does not know, perhaps, of -all the sneers and jeers that go on about Cr[oe]sus and Sir Gorgius -Midas, but it is to be supposed that he has a very good idea of the -manner in which his fellow men regard him. With Walter Cundall it was -not thus; men neither scoffed at his wealth nor at him, nor did it -ever occur to him to think that he was only liked because of that -wealth. There was a charm in his nature, a something in his pleasant -words and welcoming smile that would have made him, in any -circumstances, acceptable to those with whom he mixed, even though it -had not been in his power to confer the greatest benefits upon them. -There are many such men as he was, as well as many whom we detest for -their moneyed arrogance; men whose lawns and parks and horses and -yachts we may enjoy, but with whom, if they could not place them at -our disposal, we should still be very happy to take a country walk or -spend an hour in a humble parlour. - -He was surrounded at once by all kinds of acquaintances, asking -questions as to when he had arrived, how he had enjoyed the voyage, -what May had been like in the Tropics, what he was going to do in the -Ascot week, and a dozen others, some stupid and some intelligent. - -"I hardly know about Ascot," he said laughingly, after having answered -all the others. "When my old servant, West, reminded me that it was -next week, which I had entirely forgotten--by-the-bye, what won the -Derby?--I thought of taking a house and having a pleasant lot down, -but now I hear that I am wanted at Sir Paul Raughton's." - -"Of course you are!" one very young member said, "Rather! Why, you -know that----" - -"They are going to have a jolly party there," an elder one put in; "no -one knows how to manage that sort of thing better than Sir Paul." - -Then he turned to the younger man and said, as he drew him aside, "You -confounded young idiot! don't you know that he was sweet on Miss -Raughton himself, and won't like it when he hears she is engaged to -Lord Penlyn? What do you want to make him feel uncomfortable for? -He'll hear it quite soon enough." - -"I thought he knew it," the other one muttered. - -"I imagine not; and I fancy no one but you would want to be the first -to tell him." - -There was undoubtedly this feeling amongst the group, by whom Cundall -was surrounded. Not one of these men, except the boyish member, but -was aware that, before he went abroad six months ago, London society -was daily expecting to hear that he and the beautiful Ida Raughton -were engaged. Now they understood, with that accuracy of perception -which men of the world possess in an extraordinary degree, that her -recent engagement to Lord Penlyn was unknown to him, and they -unanimously determined--though without any agreement between -them--that they would not be the first to open his eyes. He was so -good a fellow that none of them wanted to cause him any pain; and that -the knowledge that Miss Raughton was now engaged would be painful to -him, they were convinced. - -Two or three of them made up a table and sat down to dinner, and -Cundall told them that he was going to Lady Chesterton's later on. But -neither here, nor over their coffee afterwards, did any of his friends -tell him that he would meet there the girl he was thought to admire, -attended in all probability by her future husband, Lord Penlyn. - -As, at eleven o'clock, he made his way up the staircase to greet his -hostess, he again met many people whom he knew, and, by the time he at -last reached Lady Chesterton, it was rapidly being told about the -ball-room that Walter Cundall was back in town again. - -"I declare you look better than ever," her ladyship said as she -welcomed him. "Your bronzed and sunburnt face makes all the other men -seem terribly pale and ghastly. How you must enjoy roaming about the -world as you do!" - -He answered her with a smile and a remark, that, after all, there was -no place like London and that he was getting very tired of rambling, -when he turned round and saw Ida Raughton coming towards him on the -arm of Lord Penlyn. - -"How do you do, Miss Raughton?" he said, taking her hand and giving -one swift look into her eyes. How beautiful she was, he thought; and -as he looked he wondered how he could ever have gone away and left her -without speaking of his love. Well, no matter, the parting was over -now! - -"How are you, Penlyn?" he said, shaking him cordially by the hand. - -"When did you return?" Ida asked. Until this moment she had no idea -that he was back in England. - -"I landed at Liverpool late last night," he answered, "and came up to -town to-day. Lady Chesterton, hearing of my probable arrival, was kind -enough to leave an invitation for me for to-night." - -Before any more could be said the band began to play, and Lord Penlyn -turned round to Cundall and said: - -"I am engaged for this dance, though it is only a square one. Will you -look after Miss Raughton until I return?" - -"With pleasure, or until some favoured partner comes to claim her. -But," turning to her, "I presume you are also engaged for this dance, -'though it is only a square one.'" - -"No," she said, "you know I never dance them." - -"Shall we go round the rooms, then?" he asked, offering her his arm. -"It is insufferably hot here!" - -Lady Chesterton had moved away to welcome some other guests, and so -they walked to another part of the room. As Ida looked up at him, she -thought how well and strong he seemed, and recalled the many dances -they had had together. And she wondered if he was glad to be back in -London again? - -"How cool and pleasant the conservatory looks!" he said, as they -passed the entrance to it. "Shall we go in and sit down until you are -claimed for the next dance?" - -She assented, and they went in and took possession of two chairs that -were standing beneath some great palms and cacti. - -"I should think that after the heat you have been accustomed to you -would feel nothing in England," she said. - -"In Honduras we are suitably clad," he answered, laughing, "and -evening dress suits are not in much request. But I am very glad to be -wearing one again, and once more talking to you." - -"Are you?" she said, raising her eyes and looking at him. She recalled -how often they had talked together, and how she had taken pleasure in -having him tell her of the different parts of the world he had seen; -parts that seemed so strange to her who had never been farther away -from home than the Tyrol or Rome. - -"Indeed I am! Do you think I should go to the Tropics for pleasure?" - -"I suppose you need not go unless you choose," she said; "surely you -can do as you please!" - -"I can do as I please now," he answered, "I could not hitherto. I will -tell you what I mean. Until a month ago the property I owned in -Honduras required my constant attention, and necessitated my visiting -the place once at least in every two years. But, of late, this has -become irksome to me--I will explain why in a moment--and my last -visit was made with a view to disposing of that property. This I have -made arrangements for doing, and I shall go no more to that part of -the world. Now," and his voice became very low, but clear, as he -spoke, "shall I tell you why I have broken for ever with Honduras?" - -"Yes," she said. "You have told me so often of your affairs that you -know I am always interested in them. Tell me." - -As she spoke, the band was playing the introduction to the last -popular waltz, and the few couples who were in the conservatory left -for it. A young man to whom Ida was engaged for this dance came in to -look for her, but, seeing that she was talking to Walter Cundall, -withdrew. It happened that he did not know she was betrothed to Lord -Penlyn, but was aware that, last season, every one thought she would -soon be engaged to the man she was now with. So he thought he would -not disturb them and went unselfishly away, being seen by neither. - -Then, as the strains of the waltz were heard from the ball-room, he -said: - -"It is because I want to settle down in England and make it my home. -Because I want a wife to make that home welcome to me, because I have -long loved one woman and have only waited until my return to tell her -so. Ida, you are that woman! I love you better than anything in this -world! Tell me that you will be my wife!" - -For answer she drew herself away from him, pale, and trembling -visibly, and trying to speak. But no word came from her lips. - -"Why do you not answer me, Ida?" he asked. "Have I spoken too soon? -But no! that is not possible--you must have seen how dearly I loved -you! how I always sought your presence--you must----" - -Then she made a motion to him with her fan, and found her voice. - -"You cannot have heard," she said, "no one can have told you that----" - -"That what! What is there to tell? For God's sake speak, Ida!" - -"That I am engaged." - -"Engaged!" he said, rising to his feet. "Engaged! while I have been -away. Oh! it cannot be, it is impossible! You must have seen, you must -have known of my love for you. It cannot be true!" - -"It is true, Mr. Cundall." - -"True!" Then he paused a moment and endeavoured to recover himself. -When he had done so he said very quietly, but in a deep, hoarse voice: -"I congratulate you, Miss Raughton. May I ask who is the fortunate -gentleman?" - -"I am engaged to Lord Penlyn." - -He took a step backward and ejaculated, "Lord Penlyn! Lord----" - -Then once more he recovered himself, and said: "Shall I take you back -to the ball-room? Doubtless he is looking for you now." - -"I am very sorry for your disappointment," she said, looking up at him -with a pale face; his emotion had startled her, "very sorry. I would -not wound you for the world. And there are so many other women who -will make you happy." - -"I wanted no other woman but you," he said. - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Lord Penlyn and his friend and companion, Philip Smerdon, had returned -from their yachting tour, which had embraced amongst other places Le -Vocq, about a fortnight before Walter Cundall arrived in London from -Honduras. The trip had only been meant to be a short one to try the -powers of his new purchase, the _Electra_, but it had been postponed -by the storm to some days over the time originally intended. Since he -had become engaged to Ida Raughton, he naturally hated to be away from -her, and, up till the night before he returned to England, had fretted -a great deal at his enforced absence from her. - -But the discovery he had made in the _Livre des Étrangers_ at Le Vocq, -had had such an effect upon his thoughts and mind that, when he -returned to England, he almost dreaded a meeting with her. He was an -honourable, straightforward man, and, with the exception of being -possessed of a somewhat violent and obstinate temper when thwarted in -anything he had set his heart upon, had no perceptible failings. Above -all he hated secrecy, or secrecy's next-door neighbour, untruth; and -it seemed to him that, if not Ida, at least Ida's father, should be -told about the discovery he had made. - -"With the result," said Philip Smerdon, who was possessed of a cynical -nature, "that Miss Raughton would be shocked at hearing of your -father's behaviour, and that Sir Paul would laugh at you." - -"I really don't see what there is to laugh at in my father being a -scoundrel, as he most undoubtedly was." - -"A scoundrel!" Philip echoed. - -"Was he not? We have what is almost undoubted proof that he was living -for two summers at that place with some lady who could not have been -his wife, and whom he must have cast off previous to marrying my -mother. And there was the child for whom the landlord took me! He must -have deserted that as well as the woman. And, if a man is not a -scoundrel who treats his offspring as he must have treated that boy, I -don't know the meaning of the word." - -"As I have said before, it is highly probable that both of them were -dead before he married your mother." - -"Nonsense! That is a very good way for a novelist to make a man get -rid of his encumbrances before settling down to comfortable matrimony, -but not very likely to happen in real life. I tell you I am convinced -that, somewhere or other, the child, if not the mother, is alive, and -it is horrible to me to think that, while I have inherited everything -that the Occleves possessed, this elder brother of mine may be earning -his living in some poor, if not disgraceful, manner." - -"The natural children of noblemen are almost invariably well provided -for," Smerdon said quietly; "why should you suppose that your father -behaved worse than most of his brethren?" - -"Because, if the estate had been charged with anything I should have -known it. But it was not--not for a farthing." - -"He might have handed over to this lady a large sum down for her and -for her son, when they parted." - -"Which is also impossible! He was only Gervase Occleve then, and had -nothing but a moderately comfortable allowance from his predecessor, -his uncle. He married my mother almost directly after he became Lord -Penlyn." - -This was but one of half-a-dozen conversations that the young men had -held together since their return from France, and Gervase had found -comfort in talking the affair over and over again with his friend. -Philip Smerdon stood in the position to him of old schoolfellow and -playmate, of a 'Varsity friend, and, later on, of companion and -secretary. Had they been brothers they could scarcely have been--would -probably not have been--as close friends as they were. - -When they were at Harrow, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, -they had been inseparable, and, in point of means, entirely on an -equality, Philip's father being a reported, and, apparently, -enormously wealthy contractor in the North. But one day, without the -least warning, without a word from his father or the slightest -stopping of his allowance, he learnt, by a telegram in a paper, that -his parent had failed for a stupendous sum, and was undoubtedly ruined -for ever. The news turned out to be true, and Philip knew that, -henceforth, he would have to earn his own living instead of having a -large income to spend. - -"Thank God!" he said, in those days, "that I am not quite a fool, and -have not altogether wasted my time. There must be plenty of ways in -which a Harrow and Oxford man can earn a living, and I mean to try. I -have got my degrees, and I suppose I could do something down at the -old shop (meaning the old University, and with no disrespect -intended), or get pupils, or drift into literature--though they say -that means starvation of the body and mortification of the spirit." - -"First of all," said Penlyn, who in that time was the counsellor, and -not, as he afterwards became, the counselled, "see a bit of the world, -and come along with me to the East. When you come back, you will be -still better fitted than you are now for doing something or other--and -you are young enough to spare a year." - -"Still, it seems like wasting time--and, what's worse!--it's sponging -on you." - -"Sponging! Rubbish! You don't think I am going alone, do you? And if -you don't come, somebody else will! And you know, old chap, I'd sooner -have you than any one else in the world." - -"All right, Jerry," his friend said, "I'll come and look after you." - -But when they found themselves in the East, it turned out that the -"looking after" had to be done by Penlyn, instead of by Philip. The -one was always well, the other always ill. From the time they got to -Cairo, it seemed as if every malady that can afflict a man in those -districts fell upon Smerdon. At Thebes he had a horrible low fever, -from which he temporarily recovered, but at Constantine he was again -so ill, that his friend thought he would never bring him away alive. -Nor, but for his own exertions, would he ever have done so, and the -mountain city would have been his grave. But Gervase watched by his -side day and night, was his nurse and doctor too (for the grave Arab -physician did nothing but prescribe cooling drinks for him and herbal -medicines), bathed him, fanned him, and at last brought him, though -weak as a child, back to life. - -"How am I ever to repay this?" the sick man said, as he sat up one -evening, gazing out on the Algerian mountains and watching the sun -sink behind them. "What can I ever do in acknowledgment of your having -saved my life?" - -"Get thoroughly well, and then we'll go home as fast as we can. And -don't talk bosh about repayment." - -"Bosh! Do you call it that? Well, I don't suppose I ever shall be able -to do anything in return, but I should like to have the chance. As a -rule, I don't talk bosh, I believe, though no one is a judge of -themselves. Do give me another drink of that lemon-water, Jerry, the -thirst is coming on again." - -"Which comes of talking nonsense, so shut up!" his friend answered, as -he handed him the drink. - -"It does seem hard, though, that instead of my being your companion as -I came out to be, you should have to always----" - -"Now look here, Phil, my friend," Gervase said, "if you _don't_ leave -off talking, I'll call the doctor." This threat was effectual, for the -native physician had such unpleasant personal peculiarities that -Philip nearly went mad whenever he entered the room. - -Four years have passed since that excursion to the East and the time -when Gervase Occleve is the affianced husband of Ida Raughton, but the -friendship of these two has only grown more firm. On their return to -England, Lord Penlyn offered his friend the post of his secretary -combined with steward, which at that moment was vacant by the death of -the previous holder. "But companion as well," he said laughingly, "I -am not going to have you buried alive at Occleve Chase when I want -your society in London, nor _vice versâ_, so you had better find a -subordinate." - -Smerdon took the post, and no one could say with any truth that his -friendship for Lord Penlyn stood in the way of his doing his duty to -him as his secretary. He made himself thoroughly master of everything -concerning his friend's property--of his tenants and his servants; he -knew to a head the cattle belonging to him, and what timber might be -marked annually, and regulated not only his country estate but also -his town house. And, that his friend should not lose the companionship -which he evidently prized so dearly, he thought nothing of travelling -half the night from Occleve Chase to London, and of appearing fresh -and bright at the breakfast table. For, so deeply had Penlyn's -goodness to him in all things sunk into his heart, that he never -thought he had done enough to show his gratitude. - -Of course in society it was known that, wherever Lord Penlyn went his -friend went also, and no doors were shut to the one that were open to -the other, or would have been shut had Philip chosen. But he cared -little for fashionable doings, and refused to accompany his friend to -many of the balls and dinners to which he went. - -"Leave me alone in peace to read and smoke," he would say, "and go out -and enjoy yourself. I shall be just as happy as you are." And when he -learned that Ida Raughton had consented to be Lord Penlyn's wife he -told him that he was sincerely glad to hear it. "A man in your -position wants a wife," he said, "and you have found a good one in -her, I am sure. You will be as happy as I could wish you, and that is -saying a good deal." - -They had been busy this morning--the morning after Lady Chesterton's -ball--in going over their accounts, and in making arrangements for -their visit, in the forthcoming Ascot week, to Sir Paul's villa, near -the Royal course. Then, while they had paused for a few moments to -indulge in a cigarette, the conversation had again turned upon that -discovery at Le Vocq. - -"I tell you what I do mean to do," Penlyn said, "I mean to go and see -Bell. Although he could have known nothing of what was going on thirty -years ago, he may have heard his father say something on the subject. -They have been our solicitors for years." - -"It is only letting another person into the story, as he probably -knows nothing about it," Philip said. "I wouldn't go, if I were you." - -"I will, though," Penlyn answered; and he did. - -Mr. Bell was a solicitor of the modern type that is so vastly -different from the old one. Thirty years ago, when our fathers went to -consult the family lawyer, they saw either an elderly gentleman with a -shaved upper lip and decorous mutton-chop whiskers, or a young man, -also with his lip shaved, and clad in a solemn suit of black. But all -that is passed, and Mr. Bell was an excellent specimen of the -solicitor of to-day. He wore a neatly waxed moustache, had a -magnificent gardenia in his well-cut morning coat, and received Lord -Penlyn in a handsomely furnished room that might almost have passed -for the library of a gentleman of taste. And, had his client been a -few years older, they would probably have known each other well at -Oxford, for Mr. Bell himself had been a John's man, and had been well -known at the debating rooms. - -He listened to his client's story, smiling faintly once or twice, at -what seemed to his worldly mind, too much remorse for his father's sin -on the part of Lord Penlyn, then he said: - -"I never even knew your father, but I should think the whole affair a -simple one, and an ordinary version of the old story." - -"What old story?" - -"The story of a person of position---- Forgive me, Lord Penlyn, we are -men of the world" (he said "we," though he considered his client as -the very reverse of "a man of the world"), "and can speak plainly; the -story of a person of position taking up with some woman who was his -inferior and flattered by his attentions, amusing himself with her -till he grew tired, and then--dropping her." - -"To starve with her--with his offspring!" - -"I should imagine not!" Mr. Bell said with an airy cynicism that made -him appear hateful to his young client. "No, I should imagine not! The -ladies who attach themselves to men of your father's position -generally know how to take very good care of themselves. You may -depend that this one was either provided for before she agreed to -throw in her lot with him, or afterwards." - -The lawyer's opinion was the same as Philip's, and they both seemed to -look upon the affair as a much less serious one than it appeared to -him! Were they right, and was he making too much out of this -peccadillo of his father's? - -"And you can tell me nothing further?" he asked the solicitor. - -"What can I tell you?" the lawyer said. "I never saw the late Lord -Penlyn, and scarcely ever heard my father mention him. If you like I -will have all the papers relative to him gone through; but it is -thirty years ago! If the lady is alive and had wanted anything, she -would surely have turned up by now. And I may say the same of the -son." - -"He may not even know the claim he has." - -"Claim! my lord, what claim? He has no claim on you." - -"Has he not? Has he not the claim of brotherhood, the claim that my -father deserted his mother? I tell you, Mr. Bell, that if I could find -that man I would make him the greatest restitution in my power." - -The lawyer looked upon Lord Penlyn, when he heard these words, as a -Quixotic young idiot, but of course he did not say so. It occurred to -him that, in all probability, his father had had more than one affair -of this kind, and he wondered grimly what his romantic young client -would say if he heard, by chance, of any more of them. But he did -promise to go through all the papers in his possession relating to the -late lord, and to see about this particular case. "Though I warn you," -he said, "that I am not likely to find anything that can throw any -light upon an affair of so long ago. And, as a lawyer, I must say that -it is not well that such a dead and gone business should ever be dug -up again." - -"I would dig it up," Lord Penlyn answered, "for the sake of justice." - -Then he went away, leaving the lawyer's mind wavering between contempt -and admiration for him. - -"He must be a good young fellow at heart, though," Mr. Bell said to -himself; "but the world will spoil him." - -Two nights afterwards Penlyn received a letter from him, saying that -there was not the slightest trace in any of the Occleve papers in his -possession of the persons about whom they had spoken. Moreover, Mr. -Bell said he had gone through a great many of the accounts of the late -Lord Penlyn, and of his uncle and predecessor, but in no case could he -find any evidence of the Hon. Gervase having ever exceeded his income, -or, when he succeeded to the property, of having drawn any large sum -of money for an unknown purpose. "And," he concluded, "I should advise -your lordship to banish the whole affair for ever from your mind. If -your father really had the intimacy imagined by you with that lady, -time has removed all signs of it; and, even though you might be -willing to do so, it would be impossible for you now to obtain any -information about it." - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Two people went away from Lady Chesterton's ball with anything but -happiness at their hearts--Ida Raughton and Walter Cundall. The -feelings with which the former had heard the latter's declaration of -love had been of a very mixed nature; pity and sympathy for him being -combined with an idea that she had not altogether been loyal to the -man to whom she was now pledged. She was able to tell herself, as she -sat in her dressing-room after her maid had left her, that she had, -after all, become engaged to the man whom she really loved; but she -had also to acknowledge that, for that other one, her compassion was -very great. She had never loved him, nor did she until this night -believe the rumours of society that reached her ears, to the effect -that he loved her; but she had liked him very much, and his society -had always been agreeable to her. His conversation, his stories of a -varied life in other lands, had had a charm for her that the -invertebrate gossip of an ordinary London salon could never possess; -but there her liking for him had stopped. And, for she was always -frank even to herself, she acknowledged that he was a man whom she -regarded with some kind of awe; a man whose knowledge of the world was -as much above hers as his wealth was above her father's wealth. She -remembered, that when any question had ever perplexed her, any -question of politics, science, or art, to which she could find no -answer, he would instantly solve the knotty subject for her, and throw -a light upon it that had never come to her mind. Yes, she reflected, -he was so much above her that she did not think, in any circumstances, -love could have come into her heart for him. - -But, if there was no love there was intense sympathy. She could not -forget, at least not so soon after the occurrence, his earnest appeal -to her to speak, his certainty that she knew of his love, and then the -deep misery apparent in his voice when he forced himself into -restraint, and could even go so far as to congratulate her. Her -knowledge of the world was small, but she thought that from his tone -this must have been almost the first, as she was sure it was the -greatest, disappointment he had ever had. "He wanted to have a wife to -make his home welcome to him," he had said, "and she was the woman -whom he wanted for that wife." Surely, she reflected, he was entitled -to her pity, though she could not give him her love. And then she -wondered what she ought to do with regard to telling her father and -her future husband. She did not quite know, but she thought she would -tell her father first, and then, if he considered it right that -Gervase should know, he should also be told. Perhaps he, too, would -feel inclined to pity Mr. Cundall. - -As for him, he hardly knew what to do on that night. He walked back to -his house in Grosvenor Place (he was too uneasy to sit in his -carriage), and, letting himself in went to his library, where he -passed some hours pacing up and down it. Once he muttered a quotation -from the Old Testament, and once he flung himself into a chair and -buried his head in his hands, and wept as strong men only weep in -their darkest hour. Afterwards, when he was calmer, he went to a large -_écritoire_, and, unlocking it, took out a bundle of papers and read -them. They were a collection of several old letters, a tress of hair -in an envelope, which he kissed softly, and two slips of paper which -he seemed to read particularly carefully. Then he put them away and -said to himself: "It must be done, there is no help for it. My -happiness is gone for ever, and, God knows, I would not wreck the -happiness of others! but, in this case, my sin would be beyond recall -if I hesitated." And, again, after a pause, he said to himself: "It -must be done." - -He rose in the morning at his usual time, though it was nearly six -before he flung himself wearily on his bed to snatch some troubled -rest, and when he went downstairs to his breakfast he found his -secretary, Mr. Stuart, waiting for him. The young fellow had been -telegraphed for on his employer's return, and had torn himself away -from the charms of Brighton to come back to his duties. After they had -exchanged greetings, the secretary said: - -"West told me that I should find you looking better than ever, Mr. -Cundall, but I cannot honestly say that I do. You look pale and worn." - -"I am perfectly well, nevertheless. But I went to a bail last night, -and, what with that and travelling all day, I am rather knocked up. -But it is nothing. Now, let us get to work on the correspondence, and -then we must go into the City." - -They began on the different piles of letters, Mr. Cundall throwing -over to Stuart all those the handwriting of which he did not -recognise, and opening those which he did know himself. - -Presently he came to one with a crest on the envelope that he was well -acquainted with--the Raughton crest, and he could scarcely resist a -start as he saw it. But he controlled himself and tore the letter -open. It was from Sir Paul, and simply contained an invitation from -him to Cundall to make one of his Ascot party at Belmont, the name of -his place near there. The writer said he had heard it rumoured about -that he was on his way home from Honduras, and hence the invitation, -as if he got back in time, he hoped he would come. This letter had -been written some day or two ago, and had been passed over by Cundall -on the previous one. Had he not so passed it over, he would have known -his fate before he went to Lady Chesterton's ball, for the Baronet -went on to say: "You may have learned from some of your numerous -correspondents that Ida and Lord Penlyn are engaged. The marriage is -fixed for the 1st September, and will, I hope and believe, be a -suitable one in every way. At least, I myself can see nothing to -prevent its being so; and I shall hope to receive your congratulations, -amongst others, when we meet." - -He read the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he said to -Stuart: - -"I have had a letter from Sir Paul Raughton, in which he tells me his -daughter is engaged to Lord Penlyn. You go out a good deal, when did -you first hear of it?" - -The secretary looked up, and seemed rather confused for the moment. -He, too, like every one else, even to West the butler, knew that it -was supposed that Cundall was in love with Ida, and had wondered what -he would say when he heard it. And now he was sitting opposite to him, -asking him in the most calm tone when he first knew of her engagement, -and the calmness staggered him. Had the world, after all, been -mistaken? - -"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Not so very long ago. About a month, I -should say." - -"About a month since it was announced?" - -"Yes, about that." - -"I wonder you did not think of telling me in your last letter, since -you knew how intimate I was with the Raughtons." - -"I forgot it. It--it slipped my memory. And there were so many -business matters to write about." - -"Well! it is of no importance." - -"Of no importance!" Stuart thought to himself. "Of no importance!" Then -they must all have been indeed mistaken! Why, it was only two or three -days before Mr. Cundall's return that he had, when up in town for the -day, consulted West, and told him that he had better not say anything -on that subject to his master, but let him find it out for himself. -And now he sat there calmly reading his letters, and saying that "it -was of no importance!" Well, he was glad to hear it! Cundall was a -good, upright man, and, when he heard of Ida Raughton's engagement, -his first thought had been that it would be a blow to his employer. He -was very glad that his fears were ungrounded. - -They went to the City together later on, and then they separated; but -before they did so, Cundall asked Stuart if he knew what club Lord -Penlyn belonged to. - -"'Black's,' I fancy, and the 'Voyagers,' but we can see in the -Directory." And he turned to the Court department of that useful work, -and found that he was right. - -In the evening of two days later Cundall called at "Black's," and -learned that Lord Penlyn was in that institution. - -"Will you tell him, if you please," he said, "that Mr. Cundall wishes -to see him?" - -All through those two days he had been nerving himself for the -interview that was now about to take place, and had at last strung -himself up for it. He had prayed that there might be no cruelty in -what he was about to do; but he was afraid! The lad--for he was little -better--whom he was now summoning, was about to be dealt a blow at his -hand that would prostrate him to the earth; he hoped that he would be -man enough to bear it well. - -"How are you, Cundall?" Lord Penlyn said, coming down the stairs -behind the porter, and greeting him with cordiality. "I have never had -the pleasure of seeing you here before." - -Then he looked at his visitor and saw that he was ghastly pale, and he -noticed that his hand was cold and damp. - -"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, "aren't you well? Come upstairs and have -something." - -"I am well, but I have something very serious to say to you, and----" - -"Ida is not ill?" the other asked apprehensively, his first thoughts -flying to the woman he loved. And the familiar name upon his lips -struck to the other's heart. - -"She is well, as far as I know. But it is of her that I have come to -speak. This club seems full of members, will you come for a stroll in -the Park? It is close at hand." - -"Yes, yes!" Penlyn said, calling to the porter for his hat and stick. -"But what can you have to say to me about her?" - -Then, as they went down St. James' Street and past Marlborough House -into the Park, there did come back suddenly to his memory some words -he had once overheard about Cundall being in love with the woman who -was now his affianced wife. Good God! he thought, suppose he had come -to tell him that he held a prior promise from her, that she belonged -to him! But no; that was absurd! He had seen her that very day, and, -though he remembered that she had been particularly quiet and -meditative, she had again acknowledged her love. There could be -nothing this man might have to say about her that should be -disagreeable for him to hear. Yet, still, the remembrance of that -whisper about his love for her disquieted him. - -"Now tell me, Mr. Cundall," he said, "what you have to say to me about -my future wife." - -They had passed through the railings into St. James' Park, and were in -one of the walks. The summer sun was setting, and the loiterers and -nursemaids were strolling about; but, nevertheless, in this walk it -was comparatively quiet. - -"I have come to tell you first," Cundall answered, "that, three nights -ago, I asked Ida Raughton to be my wife." - -"What!" the other exclaimed, "you asked my future----" - -"One moment," Cundall said quietly. "I did not know then that she was -your future wife. If you will remember, I had only returned to London -on that day." - -"And you did not know of our engagement?" - -"I knew nothing. Let me proceed. In proposing to her and in gaining -her love--for she told me that she had consented to be your wife--you -have deprived me of the only thing in this world I prize, the only -thing I wanted. I came back to England with one fixed idea, the idea -that she loved me, and that, when I asked her, she would accept me for -her husband." - -He paused a moment, and Lord Penlyn said: - -"While I cannot regret the cause of your disappointment, seeing what -happiness it brings to me, I am still very sorry to see you suffering -so." - -Cundall took no notice of this remark, though his soft, dark eyes were -fixed upon the younger man as he uttered it. Then he continued: - -"In ordinary cases when two men love the same woman--for I love her -still, Heaven help me and shall always love her; it is my love for her -that impels me to say what I am now about to--when two men love the -same woman, and one of them gets the acknowledgment of her love, the -other stands aside and silently submits to his fate." - -Lord Penlyn had been watching him fixedly as the words fell from his -lips, and had noticed the calmness, which seemed like the calmness of -despair, that accompanied those words. But there was not, however, the -calm that accompanies resignation in them, for they implied that, in -this case, he did not intend to follow the usual rule. - -"You are right in your idea, Mr. Cundall," he answered. "Surely it is -not your intention to struggle against what is always accepted as the -case?" - -"It is not, for since she loves you I must never look upon her face -again. But--there is something else?" He paused again for a moment and -drew a deep breath, and then he proceeded: - -"Are you a strong man?" he asked. "Do you think you can bear a sudden -shock?" - -"I do not know what you mean, nor what you are driving at!" Lord -Penlyn said, beginning to lose his temper at these strange hints and -questions. "I am sorry for your disappointment, in one way, but it is -not in your power, nor in that of any one else, to come between the -love Miss Raughton and I bear to each other." - -"Unfortunately it is in my power and I must do it--temporarily, at -least. At present, you cannot marry Miss Raughton." - -"_What!_ Why not, sir? For what reason, pray?" - -"Do not excite yourself! Because she and her father imagine that she -is engaged to Lord Penlyn, and----" - -"What the devil do you mean, sir?" the other interrupted furiously. - -"_And_," Cundall went on, without noticing the interruption, "_you are -not Lord Penlyn!_" - -"It is a lie!" the other said, springing at him in the dusk that had -now set in, "and I will kill you for it." But Cundall caught him in a -grasp of iron and pushed him back, as he said hoarsely: "It is the -truth, I swear it before Heaven! Your father had another wife who died -before he married your mother, and he left a son by her. That man is -Lord Penlyn." - -Gervase Occleve took a step back and reeled on to a seat in the walk. -In a moment there came back to his mind the inn at Le Vocq, the _Livre -des Étrangers_ there in which he had seen that strange entry, and the -landlord's tale. So that woman was his wife and that son a lawful one, -instead of the outcast and nameless creature he had pictured him in -his mind! But--was this story true? - -He rose again and stood before Cundall, and said: - -"I do not know how you, who seem to have lived in such out-of-the-way -parts of the world, are capable of substantiating this extraordinary -statement; but you will have to do so, and that before witnesses. You -have brought a charge of the gravest nature against the position I -hold. I suppose you are prepared to produce some proof of what you -say?" - -"I am fully prepared," Cundall said. - -"Then I would suggest, Mr. Cundall, that you should call at my house -to-morrow, and tell this remarkable tale in full. There will be at -least one witness, my friend, Mr. Smerdon. When we have heard what you -have to say, we shall know what credence to place in your story." - -"I will be there at midday, if you will receive me. And believe me, if -it had not been that I could not see Miss Raughton married illegally, -and assuming a title to which she had no right, I would have held my -peace." - -Lord Penlyn had turned away before the last words were spoken, but on -hearing them, he turned back again and said: - -"Is this secret in your hands only, then, and does it depend upon you -alone for the telling? Pray, may I ask who this mysterious Lord Penlyn -is whom you have so suddenly sprung upon me?" - -"_I am he!_" the other answered. - -"You!" with an incredulous stare. "You!" - -"Yes, I." - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -"I have heard it said that he is worth from two to three millions," -Philip Smerdon said to his friend the next morning, when Penlyn had, -for the sixth or seventh time, repeated the whole of the conversation -between him and Cundall. "A man of that wealth would scarcely try to -steal another man's title. Yet he must either be mistaken or mad." - -"He may be mistaken--I must hope he is--but he is certainly not mad. -His calmness last night was something extraordinary, and I am -convinced that, provided this story is true, he has told it against -his will." - -"You mean that he only told it to prevent Miss Raughton from being -illegally married, or rather, for the marriage would be perfectly -legal since no deception was meant, to prevent her from assuming a -title to which she had no claim?" - -"Yes." - -"You do not think that he hopes by divulging this secret--always -assuming it to be true--to cause your marriage to be broken off, so -that he might have a chance of obtaining Miss Raughton himself? If his -story is true, he can still make her Lady Penlyn." - -His friend hesitated. "I do not know," he said. "He bears the -character of being one of the most honourable men in London. Supposing -his story true, I imagine he was right to tell it." - -The young man expressed his opinion and spoke as he thought, but he -also spoke in a voice broken with sorrow. If what Cundall had told him -was the actual case, not only was he not Lord Penlyn, but he was a -beggar. And then Ida Raughton could never be his wife. Even though she -might be willing to take him, stripped as he would be of his title and -his possessions, it was certain that Sir Paul would not allow her to -do so. He began to feel a bitter hatred rising up in his heart against -this man, who had only let him enjoy his false position till he -happened to cross his path, and had then swooped down upon him, and, -in one moment, torn from him everything he possessed in the world. His -heart had been full of pity for that unknown and unnamed brother, whom -he had imagined to be in existence somewhere in the world; for this -man, who was now to come forward armed with all lawful rights to -deprive him of what he had so long been allowed blindly to enjoy, he -experienced nothing but the blackest hate. For he never doubted for -one moment but that the story was true! - -At twelve o'clock he and Smerdon were ready to receive the new -claimant to all he had imagined his, and at twelve o'clock he arrived. -He bowed to Smerdon and held out, with almost a beseeching glance, his -hand to Gervase Occleve, but the latter refused to take it. - -"Whether your story is true or not," he said, "I have nothing but -contempt to give you. If it is false, you are an impostor who shall -be punished, socially if not legally; if it is true, you are a -bad-hearted man to have left me so long in my ignorance." - -"I should have left you so for ever," Cundall answered in a voice that -sounded sadly broken, "had it not been for Miss Raughton's sake; I -could not see her deceived." - -"Had he not come between you and her," Philip. Smerdon asked, "but had -wished to marry some other lady, would your scruples still have been -the same?" - -"No! for she would not have been everything in the world to me, as -this one is. And I should never have undeceived him as to the position -he stood in. He might have had the title and what it brings with it, I -could have given Ida something as good." - -"Your ethics are extraordinary!" Philip said, with a sneer. - -"You, sir, at least, are not my judge." - -"Suppose, sir," Gervase Occleve said, "that you give us the full -particulars of your remarkable statement of last night." - -"It is hard to do so," Cundall answered. "But it must be done!" - -He was seated in a deep chair facing them, they being on a roomy -lounge, side by side, and, consequently able to fix their eyes fully -upon him. The task he had to go through might have unnerved any man, -but he had set himself to do it. - -"Before I make any statement," he said, "look at these," and he -produced two letters worn with time and with the ink faded. The other -took them, and noted that they were addressed to, 'My own dear wife,' -and signed, 'Your loving husband, Gervase Occleve.' And one of them -was headed 'Le Vocq, Auberge Belle-Vue.' - -"Are they in your father's handwriting?" he asked, and Gervase -answered "Yes." - -"It was in 1852," Cundall said, "that he met my mother. She was -staying in Paris with a distant relative of hers, and they were in the -habit of constantly meeting. I bear his memory in no respect--he was a -cold-hearted, selfish man--and I may say that, although he loved her, -he never originally intended to marry her. She told me this herself, -in a letter she left behind to be opened by me alone, when I came of -age. He won her love, and, as I say, he never intended to marry her. -Only, when at last he proposed to her that she should go away with him -and be his wife in everything but actual fact, she shrank from him -with such horror that he knew he had made a mistake. Then he assumed -another method, and told her that he would never have proposed such a -thing, but that his uncle, whose heir he was, wished him to make a -brilliant match. However, he said he was willing to forego this, and, -in the eyes of the world at least, to remain single. For her sake he -was willing to forego it, if she also was willing to make some -sacrifice. She asked what sacrifice he meant, and, he said the -sacrifice of a private marriage, of living entirely out of the world, -of never being presented to any of his friends. Poor creature! She -loved him well at that time--is it necessary for me to say what her -answer was?" - -He paused a moment, and he saw that the eyes of Gervase were fixed -upon him, but he saw no sympathy for his dead mother in them. Perhaps -he did not expect to see any! - -"How she explained matters to the relation she lived with, I do not -know," he went on; "but they were married in that year in London." - -"At what church?" Gervase asked. - -"At 'St. Jude's, Marylebone.' Here is the certificate." Gervase took -it, glanced at it, and returned it to him. - -"Go on," he said, and his voice too had changed. - -"They lived a wandering kind of life, but, in those days, a not -altogether unhappy one. But at last he wearied of it--wearied of -living in continental towns to which no one of their own country ever -came, or in gay ones where they passed under an assumed name, that -which had been her maiden name--Cundall. At my birth he became more -genial for a year or so, and then again he relapsed into his moody and -morose state--a state that had become almost natural to him. He began -to see that the secret could not be kept for ever, now that he had a -son; that some day, if I lived, I must become Lord Penlyn. And he did -not disguise his forebodings from her, nor attempt to throw off his -gloom. She bore with him patiently for a long while--bore his -repinings and taunts; but at last she told him that, after all, there -was no such great necessity for secrecy, that she was a lady by birth, -a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. Then--then he cursed her; and -on the next occasion of their dispute he told her that they had better -live apart. - -"She took him at his word, and when he woke the next morning she was -gone, taking me with her. He never saw her nor me again, and when he -heard that she was dead he believed that I was dead also." - -"Then he was the deceived and not the deceiver!" Gervase exclaimed. -"He thought that I was really his son and heir." - -"Yes, he thought so. My mother's only other relative in the world was -her brother, a merchant in Honduras, who was fast amassing a -stupendous fortune--the one I now possess. She wrote to him telling -him that she had married, that her husband had treated her badly, and -that she had left him and resumed her maiden name. _His_ name she -never would reveal. My uncle wrote to say that in such circumstances, -and being an unmarried man, he would adopt me as his own child, and -that I should eventually be his heir. Then he sent money over for my -schooling and bringing up." - -He paused again, and again he went on; and it seemed as if he was -mustering himself for a final effort. - -"When I was little over four years old she died. On her death-bed her -heart relented, and she thought that she would do for him what -appeared to be the greatest service in her power. She wrote to tell -him she was dying, and that he would, in a few days, receive -confirmation of her death from a sure hand. _And she told him that I -had died two months before_. Poor thing! she meant well, but she was a -simple, unworldly woman, and she had no idea of what she was doing. -Perhaps it never occurred to her that he would marry again; perhaps -she even thought that her leaving him would free him and his from all -obligations to me. At any rate, she died in ignorance of the harm she -had done, and I am glad she never realised her error." - -He paused; and Gervase said: - -"Is that all?" - -"With the exception of this. When I was twenty-one this letter of my -mother's, which no other eyes but mine have ever seen before, was put -into my hand. I was then in Honduras, and it had been left in my -uncle's care. At first the news staggered me, and I could not believe -it. I had always thought my uncle was on my father's side, and not on -my mother's, and I now questioned him on the subject. I found that he, -himself, was only partly in her secret, and that he knew nothing of my -father's real position. Then, as to the names of Occleve and Penlyn, I -was ignorant of them; although I had at that age seen something of -European society. I came to England shortly afterwards, and there was -in my mind some idea of putting in a claim to my birthright. But, on -my arrival, I found that another--you--had taken possession of it. You -were pointed out to me one night at a ball; and, as I saw you young -and happy, and heard you well-spoken of, I put away from me, for ever, -all thoughts of ever taking away from you what you--through no fault -of your own--had wrongfully become possessed of." - -"Yet now you will do so, because I have gained Ida's love." - -"No, no, no!" he answered. Then he said, with a sadness that should -have gone to their hearts: "I have been Esau to your Jacob all my -life. It is natural you should supplant me now in a woman's love." - -"What then do you mean to do, _Lord Penlyn?_" Gervase asked bitterly. -The other started, and said: - -"Never call me by that name again. I have given it to you." - -"Perhaps," Smerdon said, with a bitter sneer, "because you are not -quite sure yet of your own right to it. You would have to prove that -there was a male child of this marriage, and then that you were he. -That would not be so easy, I imagine." - -"There is nothing would be more easy. I have every proof of my birth -and my identity." - -"And you intend to use them to break off my marriage with Ida -Raughton," Gervase Occleve said. - -"For God's sake do not misunderstand me!" Cundall answered. "I simply -want you to tell her and her father all this, and be married as -Gervase Occleve. I cannot be her husband--I have told you I shall -never see her face again--all I wish is that she shall be under no -delusion. As for the title, that would have no charms for me, and you -cannot suppose that I, who have been given so much, should want to -take your property away from you." - -"You would have me live a beggar on your charity!--and that a charity -which you may see fit to withdraw at any moment, as you have seen fit -to suddenly disclose yourself at the most important crisis of my -life." He spoke bitterly, almost brutally to the other, but he could -rouse him to no anger. The elder brother simply said: - -"God forgive you for your thoughts of me!" - -"And now," Gervase said, "perhaps you will tell me what you wish done. -I shall of course inform Sir Paul Raughton that, in my altered -circumstances, my marriage with his daughter must be abandoned." - -"No, no!" - -"Yes! I say. It will not take twenty-four hours to prove whether you -are right in your claim, for if I see the certificate of your birth it -will be enough----" - -"It is here," Cundall said, producing it. "You can keep it, or take a -copy of it." - -"Very well. That, and the marriage proved, I will formally resign -everything to you, even the hand of Miss Raughton. That is what you -mean to obtain by this declaration, in spite of your philanthropical -utterances." - -"It is false!" Cundall said, roused at last to defend himself, "and -you know it. She loves you. You do not imagine I should want to marry -her since I have learnt that." - -"I do imagine it, for had you been possessed of the sentiments you -express, you would have held your tongue. Had you kept silence, no -harm could have been done!" - -"The worst possible harm would have been done." - -"No one on earth but you knew this story until yesterday, and it was -in your power to have let it remain in oblivion. But, though you have -chosen to bring it forward, there is one consolation still left to me. -In spite of your stepping into my shoes, in spite of your wealth--got -Heaven knows how!--you will never have Ida Raughton's love. No trick -can ever deprive me of that, though she may never be my wife." - -"Your utterances of this morning at least prove you to be unworthy of -it," Cundall answered, stung at last to anger. "You have insulted me -grossly, not only in your sneers about my wealth and the manner it has -been obtained, but also by your behaviour. And I have lost all -compassion for you! I had intended to let you tell this story in your -own way to Sir Paul Raughton and his daughter, but I have now changed -my mind. When they return to town, after Ascot next week, I shall call -upon Sir Paul and tell him everything. Even though you, yourself, -shall have spoken first." - -"So be it! I want nothing from you, not even your compassion. To-night -I shall leave this house, so that I shall not even be indebted to you -for a roof." - -"I am sorry you have taken it in this light," Cundall said, again -calming himself as he went to the door. "I would have given you the -love of a brother had you willed it." - -"If you give me the feeling that I have for you, it is one of utter -hatred and contempt! Even though you be my brother, I will never -recognise you in this world, either by word or action, as anything but -my bitterest foe!" - -Cundall looked fixedly at him for one moment, then he opened the door -and went out. - -Philip Smerdon had watched his friend carefully through the interview, -and, although there was cause for his excitement, he was surprised at -the transformation that had taken place in him. He had always been -gentle and kind to every one with whom he was brought into contact; -now he seemed to have become a fury. Even the loss of name, and lands, -and love seemed hardly sufficient to have brought about this violence -of rage. - -"It would almost have been better to have remained on friendly terms -with him, I think," he said. "Perhaps he thought he was only doing his -duty in disclosing himself." - -"Perhaps so!" the other said. "But, as for being friendly with him, -damn him! I wish he were dead!" - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Sir Paul Raughton's Ascot party had been excellently arranged, every -guest being specially chosen with a view to making an harmonious -whole. Belmont was a charming villa, lying almost on the borders of -the two lovely counties of Berkshire and Surrey, and neither the -beauties of Nature nor Art were wanting. Surrounded by woods in which -other villas nestled, it was shut off from the world, whilst its own -spacious lawns and gardens enclosed it entirely from the notice of -passers-by. It was by no means used only during Ascot week, as both -Ida and her father were in the habit of frequently paying visits to it -in the spring, summer, and autumn; and only in the winter, when the -trees were bare, and the wind swept over the heath and downs, was it -deserted. - -On this Ascot week, or to be particular, this Monday of Ascot week, -when the guests were beginning to arrive for the campaign, it was as -bright and pretty a spot as any in England. The lawn was dotted with -two or three little umbrella tents, under which those arrivals, who -were not basking under the shadow of trees, were seated; some of them -talking of what they had done since last they met; some engaged in -speculating over the chances of the various horses entered for the -"Cup," the "Stakes," and the "Vase;" some engaged in idly sipping -their afternoon tea (or their afternoon sherry and bitters, as -the sex might be), and some engaged in the most luxurious of all -pursuits--doing nothing. Yet, although Sir Paul's selection of guests -had been admirable, disappointment had come to him and Ida, for two -who would have been the most welcome, Mr. Cundall and Lord Penlyn, had -written to say they could not come. The former's letter had been very -short, and the explanation given for his refusal was that he was again -preparing to leave England, perhaps for a very long period. And Lord -Penlyn's had been to the effect that some business affairs connected -with his property would prevent him from leaving town during the week. -Moreover, it was dated from a fashionable hotel in the West End, and -not from Occleve House. - -"What the deuce can the boy be doing?" the Baronet asked himself, as -he read the letter over once or twice before showing it to his -daughter. They were seated at breakfast when it came, and none of the -guests having arrived, they were entirely by themselves. "What the -deuce can he be doing?" he repeated. "Ascot week of most weeks in the -year, is the one in which a man likes to get out of town, yet instead -of coming here he goes and stews himself up in a beastly hotel! And -Cundall, too! Why can't the man stop at home like a Christian, instead -of going and grilling in the Tropics? He can't want to make any more -money, surely!" After which reflections he handed both the letters -over to Ida. When she read them she was sorely troubled, for she could -not help imagining that there was something more than strange in the -fact that the man who was engaged to her, and the man who had proposed -to her only a few nights ago, should both have abstained from coming -to spend the week with them. At first, she wondered if they could have -met and quarrelled--but then she reflected that that was not possible! -Surely Mr. Cundall would not have told Gervase that he had proposed to -her and been refused. Men, she thought, did not talk about their love -affairs to one another; certainly the rejected one would not confide -in the accepted. Still, she was very troubled! Troubled because the -man she loved, and whom she had not seen for three days--and it seemed -an eternity!--would not be there to pass that happy week with her; and -troubled also because the man whom she did not love, but whom she -liked and pitied so, was evidently sore at heart. "He was going away -again, perhaps for a very long period," he had said, yet, on the night -of Lady Chesterton's ball, he had told her that he would go no more -away. It must be, she knew, that her rejection of him was once more -driving him to be a wanderer on the earth, and, womanlike, she could -not but feel sorry for him. She knew as well as Rosalind that men, -though they died, did not die for love; but still they must suffer for -their unrequited love. That he would suffer, the look in his face and -the tone of his voice on that night showed very plainly; his letter to -her father and his forthcoming departure told her that the suffering -had begun. - -Fortunately for her the arrivals of the guests, and her duties as -hostess, prevented her from having much time for reflection. The -visitors had come to be amused, and she could not be _distraite_ or -forgetful of their comfort. The gentlemen might look after themselves -and amuse each other, as they could do very well with their sporting -newspapers and Ruff's Guides, their betting-books and their cigars; -but the ladies could not be neglected. So, all through that long -summer day, Ida, whose mind was filled with the picture of two men, -had to put her own thoughts out of sight, and devote herself to the -thoughts of others. She had to listen to the rhapsodies of a young -lady over her presentation at Court, to how our gracious Queen had -smiled kindly on her, and to how the world seemed full of happiness -and joy; she had to listen to the bemoanings of an elderly lady as to -the manner in which her servants behaved, and to sympathise with -another upon the way in which her son was ruining himself with -baccarat and racing. And she had to enter into full particulars as to -all things concerning her forthcoming marriage, to give exact accounts -of the way in which M. Delaruche was preparing her _trousseau_, and of -what alterations were to be made in Occleve House in London, and at -Occleve Chase in the country, for her reception; to hear the married -ladies congratulate her on the match she was making, and the younger -ones gush over the manly perfections of her future husband. But she -had also to tell them all that he would not be there this week, and to -listen to the chorus of astonishment that this statement produced.. - -"Not here, my dear Ida," the elderly lady, whose servants caused her -so much trouble, said. "Not here. Why, what a strange future husband! -To leave you alone for a whole week, and such a week, too, as the -Ascot one." And the elderly lady--whose husband at that moment was -offering to take four to one in hundreds from Sir Paul that Flip Flap -won his race--shook her head disapprovingly. - -"Nothing will induce my son to stay away from Ascot," the mother of -the gambling young man said to herself. "He will be here to-night, -though he is not engaged to Ida." And the poor lady sighed deeply. - -"I did so want to see him," the young lady who had just been -presented, remarked. "You know I have never met Lord Penlyn yet, and I -am dying to know him. They say he is _so_ good-looking." - -Ida answered them all as well as she could, but she found it hard to -do so. And before she had had more than time to make a few confused -remarks on his being obliged to stop away, on account of business -connected with his property, another unpleasantness occurred. - -"I have just heard very bad news, Miss Raughton," a tall gentleman -remarked, who had joined the group of ladies. "Sir Paul tells me that -Cundall isn't coming for the week. I'm particularly upset, for I -wanted him to give me some introductions in Vienna, to which I am just -off, you know." - -Again the chorus rose, and again poor Ida had to explain that Mr. -Cundall was preparing to go abroad once more for a long period. And, -as she made the explanation, she could not keep down a tell-tale -blush. Seated in that group was more than one who had once thought -that, if she loved any man, that man was Walter Cundall. - -"He doesn't care for horse-racing, I imagine," the ill-used mother -said. - -"No more should I," the tall gentleman remarked, "if I had his money. -What fun could a race be to him, when a turf gamble would be like a -drop in the ocean to a man of his tremendous means?" - -"And I have never seen _him_ either," the _débutante_ remarked, with a -look that was comically piteous. "Oh, dear! this is something -dreadful! Just think of both Lord Penlyn and Mr. Cundall being -absent." - -"Don't you think some of us others can supply their places?" the -gentleman asked. "We will try very hard, you know!" - -"Oh, yes! of course," she replied; "but then we know you, and we -don't--at least, I don't--know them. And then you care about racing, -and will be thinking of nothing but the horrid horses." - -"I will promise to think about nothing but you," he said, lowering his -voice, "if you will let me." - -At dinner, things were more comfortable for Ida. All the visitors knew -now that Penlyn and Cundall were certain absentees, and, having once -discussed this, they found plenty of other things to talk about. Sir -Paul had got all his guests well assorted, even to the melancholy -mother, who took comfort from the words of wisdom that dropped from -the mouth of the gentleman who wanted to back Flip Flap: "Let the boy -have his fling, madam, let him have his fling! There is nothing -sickens a man so much of gambling as an unlimited opportunity of -indulging in it. Give him this, and then, if he loses, pull him up -sharp on his allowance, and he'll be all right. When he finds he has -no more money to squander, he will either play so carefully that he -will begin to win, or he'll throw it up altogether. That is what they -generally do." It seemed, however, from his conversation, that he had -never done that himself. - -Miss Norris, the young lady in her first season, was gradually getting -over, or, indeed, had got over, her disappointment, and now seemed -very comfortable with Mr. Fulke, the tall gentleman. He was a man of -the world as well as of society, and knew everybody, and she began to -think that, after all, she could support the absence of Lord Penlyn -and Mr. Cundall. - -So the first night passed away very pleasantly, and Sir Paul -congratulated himself on the prospect of a pleasant week. Of course, -as was natural, a gentleman would occasionally interrupt a -conversation with his neighbour; a conversation on balls and dinners, -and the opera, and the last theatrical production; by leaning across -the table and saying to another gentleman, "I'll take you five to four -in tenners, or ponies, about that;" or, "you can have three hundred to -one hundred it doesn't win, if you like;" and, of course, also, there -would be the production of little silver-bound books afterwards, and -some hasty writing. But on the whole, though, the introduction of the -state of Lady Matilda's legs into the conversation, until it turned -out that she was a mare who was first favourite for the Cup, did -rather dismay some of the fairer portion of the guests, everything was -very nice and comfortable. - -It was a hot night, an overpoweringly hot night, and every one was -glad to escape from the dining-room on to the lawn, where the footmen -had brought out lamp-lit tables for the coffee. It seemed to the -guests that there must be a thunderstorm brewing; indeed, towards -London, where there were heavy banks of lurid clouds massed together, -flashes of lightning were occasionally seen, and the thunder heard -rolling. But the gentlemen even derived consolation from this, and -said that a good storm would make the course--which was as hard as a -brick floor--better going, and would lay the dust on the country -roads. - -At eleven o'clock the last guest, Mr. Montagu, the sportive son of the -sad lady, arrived, and, as he brought the latest racing information -from town, was eagerly welcomed. - -"Yes," he said, after he had kissed his mother and had told her she -needn't bother herself about him, he was all right enough. "Yes! the -favourites are steady. I dropped into the 'Victoria' before coming -over to Waterloo, and took a look at the betting. There you are! And -here's the 'Special.'" - -These were eagerly seized on and perused. Lady Matilda's legs, which -had been the cause of anxiety in the racing world for the past week, -seemed to be well enough to give her followers confidence; Mon Roi, -another great horse, was advancing in the betting; Flip Flap was all -right, and Sir Paul felt thankful he had not laid that bet of four -hundred to one hundred in the afternoon; and The Landlord was being -driven back. It took another hour for the gentlemen to get all their -opinions expressed, and then they went to their rooms, the ladies -having long since retired. - -"Don't oversleep yourselves, any of you!" Sir Paul Raughton called out -cheerily. "We ought to get the four-in-hands under weigh by half-past -eleven at latest. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the earliest of -you." - -Ida went to her room tired with the day's exertions; but her night's -rest was very broken. In the early part, the flashing of the lightning -and the roar of the thunder (the storm having now broken over the -neighbourhood) kept her awake, and when she slept she did so uneasily, -waking often. Once she started up and listened tremblingly, as though -hearing some unaccustomed sound, and even rose and opened her door, -and looked into the passage. "Of what was she afraid?" she asked -herself. The house was full of visitors; it was, of all times, the -least one likely for harm to come. Then she went back to bed and -eventually slept again, though only to dream. Her brain must have -retained what she had read in Walter Cundall's letter that morning, -for she dreamt that he was taking his farewell of her; only it seemed -that they were back again in the conservatory attached to Lady -Chesterton's ball-room. She was seated in the same place as she had -been when he told her of his love; she could hear the dreamy strains -of the very same waltz--nothing was changed, except that it seemed -darker, much darker; and she could do little more than recognise his -form and see his dark, sad eyes fixed on her. Then he bent over her -and kissed her gently on the forehead--more, as it seemed in her -dream, with a brother's than a lover's kiss--and said: "Farewell, for -ever! In this world we two shall never meet again." Then, as he turned -to go, she saw behind him another form with its face shrouded, but -with a figure that seemed wonderfully familiar to her, and, as he -faced it, it sprang upon him. And with a shriek she awoke--awoke to -see the bright sun shining in through her windows, to hear the birds -singing outside, and to notice that the hands of the clock pointed to -nearly eight. - -And her first action was to kneel by the side of her bed and to thank -God that it was only a dream. - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -There were no late risers at Belmont on that morning, for even the -elder ladies, who were not going to Ascot but meant to remain at home -and pass the day pleasantly in their own society, made it a point of -being early. The younger ones, with Miss Norris the very first down, -were a sight that was charming to the gentlemen, with their pretty new -gowns prepared especially for the occasion; but of them all, none -looked fairer than Ida. Her disturbed rest had made her, perhaps, a -little paler than usual, but had thus only added a more delicate tinge -to her loveliness. As she stood talking to young Montagu on the -verandah, this youth began to wish that he was Lord Penlyn, and to -think that there were other things in the world better than going -_Banco_ or backing winners--or losers! Indefatigable in everything -connected with sport, the young man, in company with two other -visitors, officers who had been in India and had become accustomed to -early rising, had already ridden over to Ascot to learn what was going -on there, and to see if any information could be picked up. - -"And now, Miss Raughton," he said, "to breakfast with what appetite we -can? And I can assure you that, if old Wolsey had only half as good a -one as mine is now, King Hal wouldn't have frightened him into saying, -'good-bye' to all the good things in life." - -Ida laughed at his nonsense, and then, every one being down, the first -important part of the day's proceedings began. - -The story of an Ascot party has been told so often and so well, that -no other pen is needed to describe it. There are few of us who, either -in long vanished or in very recent days, have not formed part in one -of these pleasant outings; who have not sat upon a coach, with some -young lady beside us, who seemed, at least for the time being, to be -the prettiest and nicest girl in the world; who have not eaten our -fill of lobster salad and pigeon pie, and drunk our fill of champagne -and claret cup! - -Sir Paul's party went through it all; the gentlemen (with Mr. Montagu -very busy at this) dashing across the course between each race, and -into the Grand Stand to "see about the odds." Flip Flap disgraced -himself terribly in the Gold Vase, and came in last of all, much to -Sir Paul's disgust, who regretted now that he had not laid his old -friend four to one in hundreds, but to the intense delight of young -Montagu, who had persuaded Fulke to take the same odds in tens from -him. - -"Hoorah!" he cried, as the beaten favourite came in with the crowd, -"now, if 'Tilda will only pull off the Stakes, I am bound to score -heavily to-day." - -And he dashed off across the course again, to see what the betting was -about the magnificent mare whose name he so familiarly shortened. - -Ida sat very peacefully on the coach listening to all the laughter and -conversation that was going on around her, but taking very little part -in it, except when directly spoken to. But in the intervals, when it -was not necessary for her to join in it, her mind reverted to things -and persons far away from the bright, sunny racecourse. In her heart, -she did feel hurt that, whatever important business transactions he -might have, her lover could not find time to run down for even one -day. It was evidently supposed by some one that he was with her, for -only that morning a letter had come to Belmont for him, a letter which -she had instantly reposted to the hotel he was staying at accompanied -by a loving one from herself which she had found time to write -hastily. It had seemed to her that she knew the handwriting, and she -supposed it must be from some common friend of theirs; but, whoever -the writer was, he evidently thought Gervase was with them. She -supposed he really was very much occupied, but still she wished he -would come for one day; and she made up her mind to write to him again -that night, and ask him to run down for the Cup. He could leave town -at midday and be back at seven; surely he could spare that much time -to her! Nor had she forgotten her dream, her horrid dream, and she -wondered over and over again why she should have had such a dreadful -one, and why last night? Perhaps it was the storm that had affected -her! - -Once more young Montagu's star was in the ascendant, for Lady Matilda -beat all her adversaries, and, to use a sporting phrase, "romped in" -for the Stakes. There was great rejoicing over this on the Belmont -coaches, of which there were two, one driven by Sir Paul and one by -Mr. Fulke; for most of them had backed her with the bookmakers, and -so, while they all won, there was no loser in the party. Miss Norris, -too, had won a dozen of gloves from Fulke, who took the field against -the horse he fancied to oblige the girl he admired, and Sir Paul had -promised Ida anything she liked to ask for if Lady Matilda only got -home first. - -Of course, after the last race, there was an adjournment of the whole -party to the lawn; who goes to Ascot without also going to sit for a -while in one of the prettiest scenes attached to a racecourse in -England? There, seated on comfortable chairs on that soft velvet lawn, -with the hot June sun sinking conveniently behind the Grand Stand, the -party remained peacefully and chatted until the horses should be put -to. - -It was at this time that, to the different groups scattered about, -there came a rumour that a horrible murder had been committed in -London last night, or early that morning. A few persons, who had come -down by the last special train, had heard something about it, but they -did not know anything of the details; and two or three copies of the -first editions of the evening papers had arrived, but they told very -little, except that undoubtedly a murder had taken place, and that the -victim was, to all appearances, a gentleman. Had it been a common -murder in the Seven Dials, or the East End, it would hardly have -aroused attention at aristocratic Ascot. - -Young Montagu first heard it from a bookmaker with whom he was having -a satisfactory settlement, but that worthy knew nothing except that -"some one said it was a swell, and that he had been stabbed to the -'eart in the Park." - -"Get a paper, Montagu," the baronet said, "and let us, see what it is. -Every one seems to be discussing it." - -"Easier said than done, Sir Paul!" the other answered. "But I'll try." - -He came back in a few moments, having succeeded in borrowing a second -edition from a friend, and he read out to them the particulars, which -were by no means full. It appeared that, after the storm in London was -over, which was about three o'clock in the morning, a policeman going -on his walk down the Mall of St. James' Park, had come across a -gentleman lying by the railings that divide that part of it from the -gardens, a gentleman whom he at first took to be overcome by drink. On -shaking him, however, he discovered him to be dead, and he then -thought that he must have been struck by lightning. A further glance -showed that this was not the case, as he perceived that the -dead man was stabbed in the region of the heart, that his watch -and chain had been wrenched away (there being a broken piece of the -chain left in the button-hole), and, if he had any, his papers and -pocket-book taken. His umbrella, which was without any name or -engraving, was by his side his linen, which was extremely fine, was -unmarked, and his clothes, although drenched with mud and rain, were -of the best possible quality. That, up to now, was all the information -the paper possessed. - -"How dreadful to think of a man being murdered in such a public place -as that!" Ida said. "Surely the murderer cannot long escape!" - -"I don't know about that," Mr. Fulke said. "The Mall at three o'clock -in the morning, especially on such a morning--what a storm it was!--is -not very much frequented. A man walking down it might easily be -attacked and robbed!" - -"It is a nice state of affairs, when a gentleman cannot walk about -London without being murdered," Sir Paul said. "But horrible things -seem to happen every day now." - -The public were leaving the lawn by this time, and one of the grooms -came over to say that the coaches were ready. There was no longer -anything to stay for, and so they all went back and took their places, -and started for Belmont. - -It was a glorious evening after a glorious day; and as they went -along, some laughing and talking, some flirting, and some discussing -the day's racing and speculating on that of the morrow, they had -forgotten all about the tragedy they had heard of half-an-hour -earlier. Not one of them supposed that the murdered man was likely to -be known to them, nor that that crime had broken up their Ascot week. -But when they had returned to Belmont, and gone to their rooms to -dress for dinner, they learnt that the dead man was known to most of -them. A telegram had come to Sir Paul from his butler in London, -saying: "The gentleman murdered in St. James' Park last night was Mr. -Cundall. He has been identified by his butler and servants." - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -About the same time that Sir Paul Raughton received the telegram from -London, and was taking counsel with one or two of his elder guests as -to whether he should at once tell Ida the dreadful news or leave it -till the morning, Lord Penlyn entered his hotel in town. A change had -come over the young man--a change of such a nature that any one, who -had seen him twenty-four hours before, would scarcely have believed -him to be the same person. His face, which usually bore a good colour, -was ghastly pale, his eyes had great hollows and deep rings round -them, and even his lips looked as if the blood had left them. He had -come from his club--where, since it had been discovered who the victim -of last night's tragedy was, nothing else but the murder had been -talked about, as was also the case in every club and public place in -London--and he now mounted the steps of the hotel with the manner of a -man who was either very weak or very weary. - -"Do you know where my servant is?" he asked of the hall porter, who -held the door open for him; and even this man noticed that his voice -sounded strange and broken, and that he looked ill. - -"He is at his tea, my lord; shall I send for him?" - -"No, but send him to me when he has finished. We shall return to my -house to-night." - -The porter bowed, and said, "I have sent a letter to your room, my -lord," and Penlyn went on. His apartment, consisting of a sitting-room -and bed-room, was on the ground floor of the hotel, and was usually -given to guests of distinction (who were likely, in the landlord's -opinion, to pay handsomely for the accommodation), as it saved them -the trouble of going up any stairs. The hotel was a private one; a -house that did not welcome persons of whom it knew nothing, but made -those whom it did know, entirely at their ease. It was very quiet, -shutting its doors at midnight unless any of its visitors were at a -ball or party, in which case, if some of those visitors were ladies, -the porter's deputy sat up for them; but, when they were gentlemen, -furnishing them with latch-keys. As sometimes there were not more than -three or four gentlemen in this extremely select hotel at one time, -this was an obviously better system than having a night-porter. - -Lord Penlyn took up the letter that was lying on his table, and -proceeded to open it, throwing himself at the same time wearily into -an arm-chair. He recognised Ida's handwriting, and as he did so he -wondered if, by any possibility, the letter could be about the subject -of which all London was talking to-day---the murder of Walter Cundall. -When he saw that there was another one inclosed in it, the handwriting -of which he did not know, his curiosity was so aroused (for he -wondered how a stranger to him should know, or suppose, that he was at -Belmont), that he opened this one first and read it. Read it carefully -from beginning to end, and then dropped it on the floor as he put his -hands up to his head, and wailed, "Murdered! Oh my God! Murdered! When -he had written this letter only an hour before." And then he wept long -and bitterly. - -The letter ran: - - -MY BROTHER, - -"Since I saw you last Saturday I have been thinking deeply upon what -passed between us, and I have come to the conclusion that, after all, -it will be best for nothing to be said to any one on the subject of -our father's first marriage; not even to Miss Raughton or her father. -By keeping back the fact that you have an elder brother, no harm is -done to any one. I shall never marry now, and consequently, you are -only taking possession of what will be yours, or your children's, -eventually. No one but you, your friend Mr. Smerdon, and I, know of -this secret; let no one ever know it. We love the same woman, and, -when she is your wife, I shall have the right to love her with a -brother's love. Let us unite together to make her life as perfectly -happy as possible. To do this we must not begin by undeceiving her as -to the position she is to hold. - -"I suggest this, nay, I command you to do this, because of my love for -her, a love which desires that her life may be without pain or sorrow. -I shall not witness her happiness with you, not yet at least, for I do -not think I could bear that; but, in some future years, it may be that -time will have so tempered my sorrow to me, that I shall be able to -see you all in all to each other, perhaps to even witness your -children playing at her knee, and to feel content. I pray God that it -may be so. - -"Remember, therefore, what I, by my right as your elder brother--which -I exert for the first and last time!--charge you to do. Retain your -position, still be to the world what you have been, and devote your -life to her. - -"I have one other word to say. The Occleve property is a comfortable, -though not a remarkably fine, one. You have heard of my means, and -they are scarcely exaggerated. If, at any time, there is any sum of -money you or she may want, come to me and you shall have it. - -"Let us forget the bitter words we each spoke in our interview. Our -lives are bound up in one cause, and that, and our relationship, -should prevent their ever being remembered. - -"Your brother, - -"WALTER." - - -When he was calmer, he picked the letter up again and read it through -once more, having carefully locked his door before he did so, for he -did not wish his valet to see his emotion. But the re-reading of it -brought him no peace, indeed seemed only to increase his anguish. When -the man-servant knocked at his door he bade him go away for a time, as -he was engaged and could not be disturbed; and then he passed an hour -pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself, starting at the -slightest sound, and nearly mad with his thoughts. These thoughts he -could not collect; he did not know what steps to take next. What was -he to tell Ida or Sir Paul--or was he to tell them anything? The dead -man, the murdered brother, had enjoined on him, in what he could not -have known was to be a dying request, that he was to keep the secret. -Why then should he say anything? There was no need to do so! He was -Lord Penlyn now, there was nothing to tell! No one but Philip, who was -trustworthy, knew that he had ever been anything else. No one would -ever know it. And he shuddered as he thought that, if the world did -ever know that Walter Cundall had been his brother, then the world -would believe him to be his murderer! No! it must never be known that -he and that other were of the same blood. - -He could not sit still, he must move about, he must leave the house! -He rang for his man and told him to pack up and pay the bill, and take -his things round to Occleve House, and that he should arrive there -late; and the man seemed surprised at his orders. - -"Will you not dress, my lord?" he asked. "You were to dine out -to-night." - -"To-night? Yes! true! I had forgotten it; but I shall not go. Mr. -Cundall who was killed last night was a friend of mine; I am going to -his club to hear if any more particulars have been made known." And -then he went out. - -The valet was a quiet, discreet man, but as he packed his master's -portmanteaus he reflected a good deal on the occurrences of the past -few days. First of all, he remembered the visit of Mr. Cundall on -Saturday to Occleve House, and that the footman had told him that he -had heard some excited conversation going on as he had passed the -room, though he had not been able to catch the words and he also -called to mind that, an hour afterwards, Lord Penlyn had told him to -take some things round to this hotel (which they were now leaving as -suddenly as they had come), and also that they would not pay their -visit to Sir Paul Raughton's for the Ascot week. Was there any -connecting link between Mr. Cundall's visit to his master, and his -master leaving the house and giving up Ascot? And was there any -connection between all this and the murder of Mr. Cundall, and the -visible agitation of Lord Penlyn? He could not believe it, but still -it did seem strange that this visit of Mr. Cundall's should have been -followed by such an alteration of his master's plans, and by his own -horrible death. - -"What time did my governor come in last night?" he said to the porter, -as he and that worthy stood in the hall waiting for a cab that had -been sent for. - -"I don't know," the porter answered. "There was only his lordship and -another gent staying in the house, except the Dean's family upstairs, -and some foreign swells, and none of them keep late hours, so we gave -him and the other gent a key and left a jet of gas burning in the -'all. But both on 'em must have come in precious late, for Jim, who -sleeps on the first floor, said he never heard either of them. I say, -this is a hawful thing about this Mr. Cundall." - -"It is so! Well, there's the cab. Jim, put the portmanteaus on the -top. Here you are, porter!" and he slipped the usual tip into the -porter's hand, and wishing him "good evening," went off. - -"Well," he said to himself as he drove to Occleve House, "I should -like to know what we went to that hotel for three days for! It wasn't -because of the Dean's daughters nor yet for the foreign ladies, -because he never spoke to any of them. Well, I'll buy a 'Special' and -read about the murder." - -Lord Penlyn walked on to Pall Mall, going very slowly and in an almost -dazed state, and surprised several whom he met by his behaviour to -them. Men whom he knew intimately he just nodded to instead of -stopping to speak with for a moment, and some he did not seem to see -at all. He was wondering what further particulars he would hear when -he got to Cundall's club, and also when Smerdon would be back. That -gentleman had started for Occleve Chase on Monday morning, but must by -now have received a telegram Penlyn had sent him, telling him to -return at once. In it he had cautiously, and without mentioning any -names, given him to understand that their visitor of last Saturday had -died suddenly, and he expected that he would return by the next train. - -He had started off for Cundall's club, thinking to find out what was -known, but, when he got there, he reflected that he could scarcely -walk into a club, of which he was not a member, simply to make -inquiries about even so important a subject as this. He could give no -grounds for his eagerness to learn anything fresh, could not even say -that he was particularly intimate with the dead man. Would it not look -strange for him to be forcing his way in and making inquiries? Yes! -and not only that, but it would draw attention on him, and it would be -better to gather particulars elsewhere. He would go to his own club -and find out what was known there. - -So, looking very wan and miserable, he walked on to "Black's," and -there he found the murder as much a subject of discussion as it was -everywhere else. All the evening papers were full of it; the men who -always profess to know something more than their fellows, whether it -be with regard to a dark horse for a race, an understanding with -Germany, or the full particulars of the next great divorce case--these -men had heard all sorts of curious stories--that Cundall had a wife -who had tracked him from the Tropics to slay him; that he had -committed suicide because he was ruined; that he had been murdered by -an outraged husband! There was nothing too far-fetched for these -gentlemen! - -Sifted down as the case was thoroughly by the papers, the facts that -had come out, since first his body was discovered, amounted to this: -He had been at his club late in the evening, and his brougham was -waiting outside for him when the storm began. Then he had sent word -down to his coachman to say that, as he had a letter to write, the -carriage had better go home and he would take a cab later on. Other -testimony, gathered by the papers, went on to show that he had sat on -at his club, reading a little, and then going to a writing-table where -he had sat some time; that when he had written his letter he went to a -large arm-chair and read it over more than once, and then put a stamp -on it, and, putting it in his pocket, still sat on and on, evidently -thinking deeply. Two or three members said they had spoken to him, and -one that he had told Cundall he did not seem very gay, but that he had -replied in his usual pleasant manner, that he was very well, but had a -good deal to occupy his mind. It was some time past two o'clock (the -club, having a large number of Members of Parliament on its roll, -was a late one) before the storm was over, and he rose to go. The -hall-porter was apparently the last person who spoke to him alive, -asking him if he should call a cab, but receiving for answer that, as -the air was now so cool and fresh, he would walk home through the -Park, it being so near to Grosvenor Place. The porter standing at the -door of the club, himself to inhale the air, saw Mr. Cundall drop a -letter in the pillar-box close by, and then go on. The only other -person he noticed about, at that time, was a man who looked like a -labourer, who was going the same way as Mr. Cundall. The sentries who -had been on duty at, and around, St. James's Palace were also -interrogated, and the one who had been outside Clarence House, stated -that he distinctly remembered a gentleman answering to Mr. Cundall's -description passing by him into the Park, at about a quarter to three. -It was still raining slightly, and he had his umbrella up. He, too, -saw the labourer, or mechanic, walking some fifteen yards behind him, -and supposed he was going to his early work. From the time Mr. Cundall -passed this man until the policeman found him dead, no one seemed to -have seen him. - -With the exception of the medical evidence, which stated that he had -been stabbed to, and through, the heart by one swift, powerful blow, -that must have caused instantaneous death, there was little more to be -told. Judging from the state of the ground, there had been no -struggle, a fact which would justify the idea that the murder had been -planned and premeditated. The workman might have easily planned it -himself in the time he followed him from outside his club to the time -they were in the Park together, but he would have had to be provided -with an extraordinarily long knife, such as workmen rarely carry. But, -even had he not been the murderer, he must have seen the murder -committed, since he was close at hand. It was, therefore, imperative -that this man should be found. But to find one man in a city with four -millions and a quarter of inhabitants was no easy task, especially -when there was nothing by which to trace him. The sentry by whom he -passed nearest thought he seemed to be a man of about five or six and -twenty, with a brown moustache. But how many thousands of men were -there in London to whom this description would apply! - -Lord Penlyn sat there reading the "Specials," listening to the -different opinions expressed, and particularly noting the revengeful -utterances of men who had known Cundall. Their grief was loud, and -strongly uttered, and it was evident that the regular police, or -detective, force might be, if necessary, augmented by amateurs who -would leave no stone unturned to try and get a clue to the murderer. -Amongst others, he noticed one young man who was particularly -grief-stricken, and who was constantly appealed to by those who -surrounded him; and, on asking a fellow-member who he was, he learnt -that he was a Mr. Stuart, the secretary of his dead brother. It -happened that he had been brought into the club by a man who had known -Cundall well. - -"To-morrow," Penlyn heard him say, and he started as he heard it, "I -am going to make a thorough investigation of all his papers. As far as -I or his City agents know, he hadn't a relation in the world; but -surely his correspondence must give us some idea of whom to -communicate with. And, until this morning, I should have said he had -not got an enemy in the world either." - -"You think, then, that this dastardly murder is the work of an enemy, -and not for mere robbery?" the gentleman asked who had brought him -into the club. - -"I am sure of it! As to the workman who is supposed to have done -it--well, if he did do it, he was only a workman in disguise. No! he -had some enemy, perhaps some one who owed him money, or whose path he -had been enabled by his wealth to cross, and that is the man who -killed him. And, by the grace of Heaven, I am going to find that man -out." - -Penlyn still sat there, and as he heard Stuart utter these words he -felt upon what a precipice he stood. Suppose that, in the papers which -were about to be ransacked, there should be any that proved that -Walter Cundall was his eldest brother, and that he, Penlyn, had only -learnt it two days before he was murdered. Would not everything point -to him as the Cain who had slain his brother, and was he not making -appearances worse against him by keeping silence? He must tell some -one, he could keep the horrible secret no longer. And he must have the -sympathy of some one dear to him; he would confide in Ida! Surely, she -would not believe him to be the murderer of his own brother! Yes, he -would go down to Belmont and tell her all. Better it should come from -him than that Stuart should discover it, and publish it to the world. - -"I hope you may find him out," several men said in answer to Stuart's -exclamation. "The brute deserves something worse than hanging. If -Cundall's murderer gets off, it is the wickedest thing that ever -happened." Then one said: "Is there any clue likely to be got at -through the wound?" - -"No," Stuart answered, "I think not. Though the surgeon who has -examined it says that it was made by no ordinary knife or dagger." - -"What does he think it was, then?" they asked. - -"He says the wound is more like those he has seen in the East. The -dagger, he thinks, must have been semicircular and of a kind the Arabs -often use, especially the Algerian Arabs." - -"I never knew that!" one said; "but then I have never been to Algiers. -Who has? Here, Penlyn, you were there once, weren't you?" - -"Yes," Penlyn said, and his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his -mouth as he uttered the words; "but I never saw or heard of a knife or -dagger of that description." - -Stuart looked at Lord Penlyn as he spoke, and noticed the faltering -way in which he did so. Then, in a moment, the thought flashed into -his mind that this was the man who had won the woman whom his generous -friend and patron had loved. Could he--but no, the idea was -ridiculous! He was the winner, Cundall the loser. Successful men had -no reason to kill their unsuccessful rivals! - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -After a wretched night spent in tossing about his bed, in dreaming of -the murdered man, and in lying awake wondering how he should break the -news to Ida, Lord Penlyn rose with the determination of going down to -Belmont. But when the valet brought him his bath he told him that Mr. -Smerdon had arrived from Occleve Chase at six o'clock, and would meet -him at breakfast. So, when he heard this, he dressed quickly and went -to his friend. - -"Good Heavens!" Philip said, when he saw him. "How ill you look! What -is the matter?" - -"Matter!" the other answered, "is there not matter enough to make me -look ill? I have told you that Cundall is dead, and you know how he -died." - -"Yes, I know. But surely you must be aware of what it has freed you -from." - -"It has freed me from nothing. Read this; would that not have freed me -equally as well?" and he handed him the letter that his brother had -written a few hours before his death. - -The other's face darkened as he read, and then he said: - -"He was a man of noble impulses, but they were only impulses! Would -you have ever felt sure while he lived that he might not alter his -mind again at any moment?" - -"Yes! He loved Ida, and I do not believe he was a man who would have -ever loved another woman. I should have been safe in his hands." - -Then they began to talk about the murder itself, and Smerdon asked who -was suspected, or if any one was? - -"No," Penlyn said, "no one is suspected--as yet. A labourer was seen -following him on that night, and suspicion naturally falls on him, -because, if he did not do it himself, he must have been close at hand, -and would have helped him or given an alarm. There is only one road -through the Park, which they must both have taken." - -"Is there any trace of this man?" - -"None whatever, up to last night. Meanwhile, his friend and secretary, -Mr. Stuart, says that he is confident that the murder was committed by -some one who had reason to wish him out of the way, and he is going -through his papers to-day to see if any of them can throw any light on -such an enemy." - -"He cannot, I suppose, find anything that can do you any harm?" - -"Supposing he finds those certificates he showed us?" - -"Supposing he does! You are Lord Penlyn now, at any rate. And it would -give you an opportunity of putting in a claim to his property. You are -his heir, if he has left no will." - -"His heir! To all his immense wealth?" - -"Certainly." - -"I shall never claim it, and I hope to God he has destroyed every -proof of our relationship." - -"Why?" - -"Why! Because will not the fact that I held a position which belonged -to him, and was the heir to all his money--of which I never thought -till this moment--give the world cause for suspecting----?" - -"What?" - -"That I am his murderer." - -"Nonsense! I suppose you could prove where you were at the time of his -death?" - -"No, I could not. I entered the hotel at two, but there was not a -creature in the house awake. I could hear the porter's snores on the -floor above, and there is not a living soul to prove whether I was in -at three or not." - -"Nor whether you were out! If they were all asleep, what evidence -could they give on either side?" - -"Even though there should be no evidence, how could I go through life -with the knowledge that every one regarded me as his unproved -murderer?" - -"You look at the matter too seriously. To begin with, after that -letter he wrote you, he would very likely destroy all proofs of his -identity----" - -"He had no chance. He was murdered, in all probability--indeed must -have been--a quarter of an hour after he posted it in Pall Mall." - -"He might have destroyed them before--when he made up his mind to -write the letter." - -"Certainly, he might have done so. But I am not going to depend upon -his having destroyed them. This secret must be told by me, and I am -going to Belmont to-day to tell it to Ida." - -"You must be mad, I think!" Smerdon said, speaking almost angrily to -him. "This secret, which only came to light a week ago, is now buried -for ever, and, since he is dead, can never be brought up again. For -what earthly reason should you tell Miss Raughton anything about it?" - -"Because she ought to know," the other answered weakly. "It is only -right that she should know." - -"That you were not Lord Penlyn when you became engaged to her, but -that you are now. And that Cundall being your brother, you must mourn -him as a brother, and consequently your marriage must be postponed for -at least a year. Is that what you mean?" - -Lord Penlyn started. This had never entered into his head, and was -certainly not what he would have meant or desired. Postponed for a -year! when he was dying to make her his wife, when the very thought -that his brother might step in and interrupt his marriage had been the -cause of his brutality of speech to him. It had not been the impending -loss of lands and position that had made him speak as he had done, he -had told himself many times of late; it had been the fear of losing -his beloved Ida. And, now that there was nothing to stand between -them, he was himself about to place an obstacle in the way, an -obstacle that should endure for at least a year. Smerdon was right, -his quick mind had grasped what he would never have thought of--quite -right! he would do well to say nothing about his relationship to the -dead man. It is remarkable how easily we agree with those who show us -the way to further our own ends! - -"I never thought of that," he said, "and I could not bear it. After -all," he went on weakly, "you are right! I do not see any necessity to -say anything about it, and he himself forbade me to do so." - -"There is only one thing, though," Smerdon said, "which is that, if -you do not proclaim yourself his brother, I cannot see how you are to -become possessed of his money." - -"Don't think about it--I will never become possessed of it. It may go -to any one but me, to some distant relative, if any can be found, or -to the Crown, or whatever it is that takes a man's money when he is -without kinsmen; but never to me. He was right when he said that I had -been Jacob to his Esau all my life, but I will take no more from him, -even though he is dead." - -"Quixotic and ridiculous ideas!" Smerdon said. "In fact you and he had -remarkably similar traits of character. Extremely quixotic, unless you -have some strong reason for not claiming his millions. For instance, -if _you had really murdered him_ I could understand such a -determination! But I suppose you did not do that!" - -Lord Penlyn looked up and saw his friend's eyes fixed on him, with -almost an air of mockery in them. Then he said: - -"I want you to understand one thing, Philip. There must be no banter -nor joking on this subject. Even though I must hold my peace for ever, -I still regard it as an awful calamity that has fallen upon me. If I -could do so, I would set every detective in London to work to try and -find the man who killed him; indeed, if it were not for Ida's sake, I -should proclaim myself his brother to-morrow." - -"But for Ida's sake you will not do so?" - -"For Ida's sake, and for the reason that I do not wish his money, I -shall not; and more especially for the reason that you have shown me -our marriage would be postponed if I did so. But never make such a -remark again to me. You know me well enough to know that I am not of -the stuff that murderers and fratricides are made of." - -"I beg your pardon," Philip said; "of course I did not speak in -earnest." - -"On this subject we will, if you please, speak in nothing else but -earnest. And, if you will help me with your advice, I shall be glad to -have it." - -"Let us go over the ground then," his friend said, "and consider -carefully what you have to do. In the first place you have to look at -the matter from two different points of view. One point is that you -lose all claim to his money--yes, yes, I know," as Lord Penlyn made a -gesture of contempt at the mention of the money--"all claim by keeping -your secret. It is better, however, that you should so keep it. But, -on the other hand, there is, of course, the chance--a remote one, a -thousand to one chance, but still a chance--that he may have left some -paper behind him which would prove your relationship to each other. In -that case you would, of course, have no alternative but to acknowledge -that you were brothers." - -"And what would the world think of me then?" - -"That you had simply done as he bade you, and kept the secret." - -"It would think that I murdered him. It would be natural that the -world should think so. He stood between me and everything, except -Ida's love, and people might imagine that he possessed that too. And -his murder, coming so soon after he disclosed himself to me, would -make appearances against me doubly black." - -"Who is to know when he disclosed himself to you? For aught the world -knows, you might have been aware of your relationship for years." - -"Then I was living a lie for years!" - -"Do not wind round the subject so! And remember that, in very fact, -you have done no harm. A week ago you did not know this secret." - -"Well," Penlyn said, springing up from his chair, "things must take -their course. If it comes out it must; if not, I shall never breathe a -word to any one. Fate has cursed me with this trouble, I must bear it -as best I can. The only thing I wish is that I had never gone to that -hotel. That would also tell against me if anything was known." - -"It was a pity, but it can't be helped. Now, go to Belmont, but be -careful to hold your tongue." - -Lord Penlyn did go to Belmont, having previously sent a telegram -saying he was coming, and he travelled down in one of the special -trains that was conveying a contingent of fashionable racing people to -the second day at Ascot. But their joyousness, and the interest that -they all took in the one absorbing subject, "What would win the Cup?" -only made him feel doubly miserable. Why, he pondered, should these -persons be so happy, when he was so wretched? And then, when they were -tired of discussing the racing, they turned to the other great subject -that was now agitating people's minds, the murder in St. James's Park. -He listened with interest to all they had to say on that matter, and -he found that, whatever the different opinions of the travellers in -the carriage might be as to who the murderer was, they were all agreed -as to the fact that it was no common murder committed for robbery, but -one done for some more powerful reason. - -"He stood in some one's light," one gentleman said, whom, from his -appearance, Lord Penlyn took to be a barrister, "and that person has -either removed him from this earth, or caused him to be removed. I -should not like to be his heir, for on that man suspicion will -undoubtedly fall, unless he can prove very clearly that he was miles -away from London on Monday night." - -Penlyn started as he heard these words. His heir! Then it would be on -him that suspicion would fall if it was ever known that he was the -heir; and, as he thought that, among his brother's papers, there might -be something to prove that he was in such a position, a cold sweat -broke out upon his forehead. How could he prove himself "miles away -from London" on that night? Even the sleepy porter could not say at -what time he returned to the hotel! Nothing, he reflected, could save -him, if there was any document among the papers (that Stuart was -probably ransacking by now) that would prove that he and Cundall were -brothers. - -He thought that, after all, it would be better he should tell Ida, and -he made up his mind by the time he had arrived at the nearest station -to Belmont, that he would do so. It would be far better that the -information, startling as it might be, should come from him than from -any other source. And while he was being driven swiftly over to Sir -Paul's villa, he again told himself that it would be the best thing to -do. Only, when he got to Belmont, he found his strength of mind begin -to waver. The news of Cundall's dreadful death had had the effect of -entirely breaking up the baronet's Ascot party. Every one there knew -on what friendly terms the dead man had been both with father and -daughter, and had been witness to the distress that both had felt at -hearing the fatal tidings--Ida, indeed, had retired to her room, which -she kept altogether; and consequently all the guests, with the -exception of Miss Norris, had taken their departure. That young lady, -whose heart was an extremely kind one, had announced that nothing -should induce her to leave her dear friend until she had entirely -recovered from the shock, and she had willingly abandoned the wearing -of her pretty new frocks and had donned those more suited to a house -of mourning; and she resigned herself to seeing no more racing, and to -the loss of Mr. Fulke's agreeable conversation, and had devoted -herself to administering to Ida. But, as Mr. Fulke and young Montagu -had betaken themselves to an hotel not far off and had promised that -they would look round before quitting the neighbourhood, she probably -derived some consolation from knowing that she would see the former -again. - -"This is a dreadful affair, Penlyn!" the baronet said, when he -received his future son-in-law in the pretty morning-room that Ida's -own taste had decorated. "The shock has been bad enough to me, who -looked upon Cundall as a dear friend, but it has perfectly crushed my -poor girl. You know how much she liked him." - -"Yes, I know," Penlyn answered, finding any reply difficult. - -"Has she told you anything of what passed between them recently?" Sir -Paul asked. - -"No," Penlyn said, "nothing." But the question told him that Ida had -informed her father of the dead man's proposal to her. - -"She will tell you, perhaps, when you see her. She intends coming down -to you shortly." Then changing the subject, Sir Paul said: "She tells -me you met the poor fellow at Lady Chesterton's ball. I suppose you -did not see him after that, until--before his death?" - -Lord Penlyn hesitated. He did not know what answer to give, for, -though he had no desire to tell an untruth, how could he tell his -questioner of the dreadful scenes that had occurred between them after -that meeting at the ball? - -Then he said, weakly: "Yes; I did see him again, at 'Black's.'" - -"At 'Black's!'" Sir Paul exclaimed. "I did not know he was a member." - -"Nor was he. Only, one night--Friday night--he was passing and I was -there, and he dropped in." - -"Oh!" Sir Paul said, "I thought you were the merest acquaintances." - -And then he went on to discuss the murder, and to ask if anything -further was known than what had appeared in the papers? And Penlyn -told him that he knew of nothing further. - -"I cannot understand the object of it," the baronet said. He had had -but little opportunity of talking over the miserable end that had -befallen his dead friend, and he was not averse now to discuss it with -one who had also known him. - -"I cannot understand," he went on, "how any creature, however -destitute or vile, would have murdered him for his watch and the money -he might chance to have about him. There must have been some powerful -motive for the crime--some hidden enemy in the background of whom no -one--perhaps, not even he himself--ever knew. I wonder who will -inherit his enormous wealth?" - -"Why?" Penlyn asked, and as he did so it seemed as though, once again, -his heart would stop beating. - -"Because I should think that that man would be in a difficult -position--unless he can prove his utter absence from London at the -time." - -To Penlyn it appeared that everything pointed in men's minds to the -same conclusion, that the heir of Walter Cundall was the guilty man. -Every one was of the same opinion, Sir Paul, and the man going to -Ascot who seemed like a lawyer; and, as he remembered, he had himself -said the same thing to Smerdon. "What would the world think of him," -he had asked, "if it should come to know that they were brothers, and -that, being brothers, he was the inheritor of that vast fortune?" Yes, -all thought alike, even to himself. - -As these reflections passed through his mind it occurred to him that, -after all, it would not be well for him to disclose to Ida the fact -that he and Cundall were brothers--would she not know then that he was -the heir, and might she not also then look upon him as the murderer? -If that idea should ever come to her mind, she was lost to him for -ever. No! Philip Smerdon was right; she must never learn of the fatal -relationship between them. - -"By-the-way," Sir Paul said, after a pause, "what on earth ever made -you go to that hotel in town? Occleve House is comfortable enough, -surely!" - -Again Penlyn had to hesitate before answering, and again he had to -equivocate. He had gone out of the house--that he thought was no -longer his--with rage in his heart against the man who had come -forward, as he supposed, to deprive him of everything he possessed; -and never meaning to return to it, but to openly give to those whom it -concerned his reasons for not doing so. But Cundall's murder had -opened the way for him to return; the letter written on the night of -his death had bidden Penlyn be everything he had hitherto been; and so -he had gone back, with as honest a desire in his heart to obey his -brother's behest as to reinstate himself. - -But those two or three days at the hotel had surprised everybody, even -to his valet and the house servants; and now Sir Paul was also asking -for an explanation. What a web of falsehood and deceit he was weaving -around him! - -"There were some slight repairs to be done," he said, "and some -alterations afterwards, so I had to go out." - -"Then I wonder you did not come down here. The business you had to do -might have been postponed." - -He could make no answer to this, and it came as a relief to him -when a servant announced that Miss Raughton would see him in the -drawing-room. Only, he reflected as he went to her, if she, too, -should question him as her father had done, he must go mad! - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -When he saw the girl he loved so much rise wan and pale from the couch -on which she had been seated waiting for his coming, his heart sank -within him. How she must have suffered! he thought. What an awful blow -Cundall's death must have been to her to make her look as she looked -now, as she rose and stood before him! - -"My darling Ida," he said, as he went towards her and took her in his -arms and kissed her, "how ill and sad you look!" - -She yielded to his embrace and returned his kiss, but it seemed to him -as if her lips were cold and lifeless. - -"Oh, Gervase!" she said, as she sank back to the couch wearily, "oh, -Gervase! you do not know the horror that is upon me. And it is a -double horror because at the time of his death, I knew of it." - -"What!" he said, springing to his feet from the chair he had taken -beside her. "What!" - -"I saw it all," she said, looking at him with large distended eyes, -eyes made doubly large by the hollows round them. "I saw it all, -only----" - -"Only what, Ida?" - -"Only it was in a dream! A dream that I had, almost at the very hour -he was treacherously stabbed to death." - -As she spoke she leant forward a little towards him, with her eyes -still distended; leant forward gazing into his face; and as she did so -he felt the blood curdling in his veins! - -"This," he said, trying to speak calmly, "is madness, a frenzy -begotten of your state of mind at hearing----" - -"It is no frenzy, no madness," she said, speaking in a strange, -monotonous tone, and still with the intent gaze in her hazel eyes. -"No, it is the fact. On that night--that night of death--he stood -before me once again and bade me farewell for ever in this world, and -then I saw--oh, my God!--his murderer spring upon him, and----" - -"And that murderer was?" her lover interrupted, quivering with -excitement. - -"Unhappily, I do not know--not yet, at least, but I shall do so some -day." She had risen now, and was standing before him pale and erect. -The long white peignoir that she wore clung to her delicate, supple -figure, making her look unusually tall; and she appeared to her lover -like some ancient classic figure vowing vengeance on the guilty. As -she stood thus, with a fixed look of certainty on her face, and -prophesied that some day she should know the man who had done this -deed, she might have been Cassandra come back to the world again. - -"His face was shrouded," she went on, "as all murderers shroud their -faces, I think; but his form I knew. I am thinking--I have thought and -thought for hours by day and night--where I have seen that form -before. And in some unexpected moment remembrance will come to me." - -"Even though it does, I am afraid the remembrance will hardly bring -the murderer to justice," Penlyn said. "A man can scarcely be -convicted of a reality by a dream." - -"No," she answered, "he cannot, I suppose. But it will tell me who -that man is, and then----and then----" - -"And then?" Penlyn interrupted. - -"And then, if I can compass it, his life shall be subjected to such -inspection, his every action of the past examined, every action of the -present watched, that at last he shall stand discovered before the -world!" She paused a moment, and again she looked fixedly at him, and -then she said: "You are my future husband; do you know what I require -of you before I become your wife?" - -"Love and fidelity, Ida, is it not? And have you not that?" - -"Yes," she answered, "but that fidelity must be tried by a strong -test. You must go hand in hand with me in my search for his murderer, -you must never falter in your determination to find him. Will you do -this out of your love for me?" - -"I will do it," Penlyn answered, "out of my love for you." - -She held out her hand--cold as marble--to him, and he took it and -kissed it. But as he did so, he muttered to himself: "If she could -only know; if she could only know." - -Again the impulse was on his lips to tell her of the strange -relationship there was between him and the dead man, and again he let -the impulse go. In the excitement of her mind would she not instantly -conclude that he was the slayer of his dead brother, of the man who -had suddenly come between him and everything he prized in the world? -And, to support him in his weakness, was there not the letter of that -dead brother enjoining secrecy? So he held his peace! - -"I will do it," he said, "out of my love for you; but, forgive me, are -you not taking an unusual interest in him, sad as his death was?" - -"No," she answered. "No. He loved me; I was the only woman in the -world he loved--he told me so on the first night he returned to -England. Only I had no love to give him in return; it was given to -you. But I liked and respected him, and, since he came to me in my -dream on that night of his death, it seems that on me should fall the -task of finding the man who killed him." - -"But what can you do, my poor Ida; you a delicately-nurtured girl, -unused to anything but comfort and ease? How can you find out the man -who killed him?" - -"Only in one way, through you and by your help. I look to you to leave -no stone unturned in your endeavours to find that man, to make -yourself acquainted with Mr. Cundall's past life, to find out who his -enemies, who his friends were; to discover some clue that shall point -at last to the murderer." - -"Yes," he said, in a dull, heavy voice. "Yes. That is what I must do." - -"And when," she asked, "when will you begin? For God's sake lose no -time; every hour that goes by may help that man to escape." - -"I will lose no time," he answered almost methodically, and speaking -in a dazed, uncertain way. Had it not been for her own excitement, she -must have noticed with what little enthusiasm he agreed to her behest. - -This behest had indeed staggered him! She had bidden him do the very -thing of all others that he would least wish done, bidden him throw a -light upon the past of the dead man, and find out all his enemies and -friends. She had told him to do this, while there, in his own heart, -was the knowledge of the long-kept secret that the dead man was his -brother--the secret that the dead man had enjoined on him never to -divulge. What was he to do? he asked himself. Which should he obey, -the orders of his murdered brother, or the orders of his future wife? -And Philip, too, had told him on no account to say anything of the -story that had lately been revealed. Then, suddenly, he again -determined that he would say nothing to her. It was a task beyond his -power to appear to endeavour to track the murderer, or to give any -orders on the subject; for since he must kelp the secret of their -brotherhood, what right had he to show any interest in the finding of -the murderer? Silence would, in every way, be best. - -He rose after these reflections and told her that he was going back to -London. And she also rose, and said: - -"Yes, yes; go back at once! Lose no time, not a moment. Remember, you -have promised. You will keep your promise, I know." - -He kissed her, and muttered something that she took for words of -assent, and prepared to leave her. - -"You will feel better soon, dearest, and happier, I hope. This shock -will pass away in time." - -"It will pass away," she answered, "when you bring me news that the -murderer is discovered, or that you have found out some clue to him. -It will begin to pass away when I hear that you have found out what -enemies he had." - -"It is not known that he ever had any enemies," Penlyn said, as he -stood holding her cold hand in his. "He was not a man to make enemies, -I should think." - -"He must have had some," she said, "or one at least--the one who slew -him." She paused, and gazed out of the open window by which they were -standing, gazed out for some moments; and he wondered what she was -thinking of now in connection with him. Then she turned to him again -and said: - -"Do you think you could find out if he had any relatives?" and he -could not repress a slight start as she asked him this, though she did -not perceive it. "I never heard him say that he had any, but he may -have had. I should like to know." - -"Why, Ida?" - -"Because--because--oh, I do not know!--my brain is in a whirl. -But--if--if you should find out that he had any relations, then I -should like to know." - -And again he asked: "Why, Ida?" - -"I would stand face to face with them, if they were men," she -answered, speaking in a low tone of voice that almost appalled him, -"and look carefully at them to see if they, or one of those relations, -bore any resemblance to the shrouded figure that sprang upon him in my -dream." - -"If there are any such they will, perhaps, be heard of," he said; but -as he spoke he prayed inwardly that she might never know of his -relationship to Cundall. If she ever learnt that, would she not look -to see if he bore any resemblance to that dark figure of her dream? He -was committed to silence--to silence not without shame, alas!--for -ever now, and he shuddered as he acknowledged this to himself. Once -more he bade her farewell, promising to come back soon, and then he -left her. - -"She looks dreadfully ill and overcome by this sad calamity," he said -to Sir Paul before he also parted with him. "I hope she will not let -it weigh too much upon her mind." - -"She cannot help it doing so, poor girl," the baronet said. "Of course -she told you that Cundall proposed to her on the night of his return, -not knowing that she had become engaged to you." - -"She told me that he loved her, and that she learnt of his love on -that night for the first time," Penlyn answered. - -"Yes, that was the case," Sir Paul said. "It was at Lady Chesterton's -ball that he proposed to her." - -They talked for some little time further on the desire she had -expressed to see the murderer brought to justice, and Penlyn said he -feared she was exciting herself too much over the idea. - -"Yes, I am afraid so," Sir Paul said; "yet, I suppose, the wish is -natural. She looks upon herself as, in some way, the person to whom -his death was first made known, and seems to think it is her duty to -try and aid in the discovery of the man who killed him. Of course, it -is impossible; and she can do nothing, though she has begged me to try -everything in my power to assist in finding his assassin. I would do -so willingly, for I admired Cundall's character very much; but there -is also nothing I could do that the police cannot do better." - -"Of course not, but still her wish is natural," Penlyn said, and then -he said "Good-bye" to Sir Paul also, and went back to London. - -As he sat in the train on the return journey, he wondered what fresh -trouble and sorrow there could possibly be in store for him over the -miserable events of the past week, and he also wondered if he ever -again would know peace upon this earth! It was impossible to help -looking back to a short month ago, to the time before that discovery -had been made at the inn at Le Vocq, and to remembering how happy he -had been then, how everything in this world had seemed to smile upon -him. He had been happy in his love for Ida, happy in the position he -held in the eyes of men, happy without any alloy to his happiness. And -then, from the moment when he had found that there was another son of -his father in the world, how all the brightness of his life had -changed! First had come the knowledge of that brother alive somewhere, -whom, thinking he was poor and outcast, he had pitied; then the -revelation that that brother, far from being the abject creature he -imagined, was in actual fact the rightful owner of the position he -usurped; and then the horror and the misery of the cruelly barbarous -death that brother had been put to, directly after revealing himself -in his true light. And, as horrible almost as all else were, the lies, -and the secrecy, and the duplicities with which he had environed -himself, in the hopes of shielding everything from the eyes of the -world. Lies, and secrecies, and duplicities practised by him, who had -once regarded truth and openness as the first attributes of a man! - -And there was one other thing that struck deeply to his heart; the -bitter wickedness of a man, with such nobility of nature as his -brother had shown, being cruelly stabbed to death. His life had been -one long abnegation of what should have been his, a resignation of the -honour of his birthright, so that he, who had taken his place, should -never be cast out of it; an abnegation that had been crowned by an -almost sublime act, the act of forcing himself to witness the -happiness of the one, who had taken so much from him, with the woman -he had long loved. For, that he had determined to resign all hopes of -her, there was, after the letter he had written, no doubt. And, as he -thought of all the unselfishness of that brother's nature, and of his -awful death, the tears flowed to his eyes, and, being alone, he buried -his head in his hands and wept as he had wept once before. "If I could -call him back again," he said to himself, "if I could once more see -him stand before me alive and well, I would cheerfully go out a beggar -into the world. But it cannot be, and I must bear the lot that has -fallen on me as best I can." - -He reached his house early in the evening, and the footman handed him -a letter that had been left by a messenger but a short time before. It -ran as follows. - - -"GROSVENOR PLACE, _June_ 12_th_, 188- - -"MY LORD, - -"In searching through the papers of my late employer, Mr. Walter -Cundall, I have come across a will made by him three years ago. By it, -the whole of his fortune and estates are left to you, your names and -title being carefully described. I have placed the will in the hands -of Mr. Fordyce, Mr. Cundall's solicitor, from whom you will doubtless -hear shortly. - -"Your obedient Servant, - - "A. STUART. - -"The Rt. Hon. Viscount Penlyn." - - -That was all; without one word of explanation or of surprise at the -manner in which Walter Cundall's vast wealth had been bequeathed. - -Lord Penlyn crushed the letter in his hand when he had read it, and, -as he threw himself into a chair, he moaned, "Everything must be -known, everything discovered; there is no help for it! What will Ida -think of me now? Why did I not tell her to-day? Why did I not tell -her?" - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -That night he did not go to bed at all, but paced his room or sat -buried in his deep chair, wondering what the morrow would bring forth -and how he should best meet the questions that would be put to him. -Smerdon was gone again to Occleve Chase, so he could take no counsel -from him; and, in a way, he was almost glad that he had gone, for he -did not know that he should be inclined now to follow any advice his -friend might give him. He thought he knew what that advice would -be--that he should pretend utter ignorance as to the reasons Cundall -might have had for making him the inheritor of all his vast wealth, -and on no account to acknowledge the brotherhood between them. But he -told himself that, even had Smerdon been there to give such advice, it -would not have been acceptable; that he would not have followed it. - -As hour after hour went by and the night became far advanced, the -young man made up his mind determinately that, henceforth, all -subterfuge and secrecy should be abandoned, that there should be no -more holding back of the truth, and that, when he was asked if he -could give any reason why he should have been made the heir to the -stupendous fortune of a man who was almost a stranger to him, he would -boldly announce that it had been so left to him because he and Cundall -were the sons of one father. - -"The world," he said sadly to himself, "may look upon me as the man -who killed him in the Park, and will look upon me as having for years -occupied a false position; but it must do so if it chooses. I cannot -go on living this life of deception any longer. No! Not even though -Ida herself should cast me off." But he thought that though he might -bear the world's condemnation, he did not know how he would sustain -the loss of her love. Still, the truth should be told even though he -should lose her by so telling it; even though the whole world should -point to him as a fratricide! - -He had wavered for many days now as to what course he should take, had -had impulses to speak out and acknowledge the secret of his and his -brother's life, had been swayed by Smerdon's arguments and by the -letter he had received at the hotel, but now there was to be no more -wavering; all was to be told. And, if there was any one who had the -right to ask why he had not spoken earlier, that very letter would be -sufficient justification of his silence. It was about midday that, as -he was seated in his study writing a long letter to Smerdon explaining -exactly what he had now taken the determination of doing, the footman -entered with two cards on which were the names of "Mr. Fordyce, Paper -Buildings," and "Mr. A. Stuart." - -"The gentlemen wish to know if your lordship can receive them?" the -man asked. - -"Yes," Penlyn answered, "I have been expecting a visit from them. Show -them in." - -They came in together, Mr. Fordyce introducing himself as the -solicitor of the late Mr. Cundall, and Mr. Stuart bowing gravely. Then -Lord Penlyn motioned to them both to be seated. - -"I received your letter last night," he said to the secretary, "and, -although I may tell you at once that there were, perhaps, reasons why -Mr. Cundall should have left me his property, I was still considerably -astonished at hearing he had done so." - -"Reasons, my lord!" Mr. Fordyce said, looking up from a bundle of -papers which he had taken from his pocket and was beginning to untie. -"Reasons! What reasons, may I ask?" - -The lawyer, who from his accent was evidently a Scotch-man, was an -elderly man, with a hard, unsympathetic face, and it became instantly -apparent to Penlyn that, with this man, there must not be the -slightest hesitation on his part in anything he said, nor must -anything but the plainest truth be spoken. Well! that was what he had -made up his mind should be done, and he was glad as he watched Mr. -Fordyce's face that he had so decided. - -"The reason," he answered, looking straight at both of them, "is that -he and I were brothers." - -"Brothers!" they both exclaimed together, while Stuart fixed his eyes -upon him with an incredulous look, though in it there was something -else besides incredulity, a look of suspicion and dislike. - -"This is a strange story, Lord Penlyn," the lawyer said after a -moment. - -"Yes," the other answered. "And you will perhaps think it still more -strange when I tell you that I myself did not know of it until a week -ago." - -"Not until a week ago!" Stuart said. "Then you could have learnt of -your relationship only two or three days before he was murdered?" - -"That is the case," Penlyn said. - -"I think, Lord Penlyn," Mr. Fordyce said, "that, as the late Mr. -Cundall's solicitor, and the person who will, by his will, have a -great deal to do with the administration of his fortune, you should -give me some particulars as to the relationship that you say he and -you stood in to one another." - -"If Lord Penlyn intends to do so, and wishes it, I will leave the -house," Stuart said, still speaking in a cold, unsympathetic voice. - -"By no means," Penlyn said. "It will be best that you both should hear -all that I know." - -Then he told them, very faithfully, everything that had passed between -him and Walter Cundall, from the night on which he had come to Black's -Club, and they had had their first interview in the Park, down to the -letter that had been written on the night of the murder. Nor did he -omit to tell them it was only a month previous to Cundall's disclosing -himself, that he and Philip Smerdon had made the strange discovery at -Le Vocq that his father, to all appearances, had had a previous wife, -and had, also, to all appearances, left an elder son behind him. Only, -he said, it had seemed a certainty to him and his friend that the lady -was not actually his wife, and that the child was not his lawful son. -If there was anything he did not think it necessary to tell them it -was the violence of his behaviour to Cundall at the interview they had -had in that very room, and the curse he had hurled after him when he -was gone, and the wish that "he was dead." That curse and that wish, -which had been fulfilled so terribly soon after their expression, had -weighed heavily on his heart ever since the night of the murder; he -could not repeat it now to these men. - -"It is the strangest story I ever heard," Mr. Fordyce said. "The very -strangest! And, as we have found no certificates of either his -mother's marriage or his own birth, we must conclude that he destroyed -them. But the letter that you have shown us, which he wrote to you, is -sufficient proof of your relationship. Though, of course, as he has -named you fully and perfectly in the will there would be no need of -any proof of your relationship." - -"The man," Stuart said quietly, "who murdered him, also stole his -watch and pocket-book, probably with the idea of making it look like a -common murder for robbery. The certificates were perhaps in that -pocket-book!" - -"Do you not think it _was_ a common murder for robbery?" Lord Penlyn -asked him. - -"No, I do not," Stuart answered, looking him straight in the face. -"There was a reason for it! - -"What reason?" - -"That, the murderer knows best." - -It was impossible for Penlyn to disguise from himself the fact that -this young man had formed the opinion in his mind that he was the -murderer. His manner, his utter tone of contempt when speaking to him, -were all enough to show in what light he stood in Stuart's eyes. - -"I understand you," he said quietly. - -Stuart took no notice of the remark, but he turned to Mr. Fordyce and -said: "Did it not seem strange to you that Lord Penlyn should have -been made the heir, when you drew the will?" - -"I did not draw it," Mr. Fordyce said, "or I should in all probability -have made some inquiries--though, as a matter of fact, it was no -business of mine to whom he left his money. As I see there is one -Spanish name as a witness, it was probably drawn by an English lawyer -in Honduras, and executed there." - -"Since it appears that I am his heir," Lord Penlyn said, "I should -wish to see the will. Have you it with you?" - -"Yes," Mr. Fordyce said, producing the will from his bundle of papers, -and handing it to him, "it is here." - -The young man took it from the lawyer, and spreading it out before -him, read it carefully. The perusal did not take long, for it was of -the shortest possible description, simply stating that the whole of -everything he possessed was given and bequeathed by him to "Gervase, -Courteney, St. John, Occleve, Viscount Penlyn, in the Peerage of Great -Britain, of Occleve House, London, and Occleve Chase, Westshire." With -the exception that the bequest was enveloped in the usual phraseology -of lawyers, it might have been drawn up by his brother's own hand, so -clear and simple was it. And it was perfectly regular, both in the -signature of the testator and the witnesses. - -The two men watched him as he bent over the will and read it, the -lawyer looking at him from under his thick, bushy eyebrows, and Mr. -Stuart with a fixed glance that he never took off his face; and as -they so watched him they noticed that his eyes were filled with tears -he could not repress. He passed his hand across them once to wipe the -tears away, but they came again; and, when he folded up the document -and gave it back to Mr. Fordyce, they were welling over from his -eyelids. - -"I saw him but once after I knew he was my brother," he said; "and I -had very little acquaintance with him before then; but now that I have -learnt how whole-souled and unselfish he was, and how he resigned -everything that was dear to him for my sake, I cannot but lament his -sad life and dreadful end. You must forgive my weakness." - -"It does you honour, my lord," the lawyer said, speaking in a softer -tone than he had yet used; "and he well deserved that you should mourn -him. He had a very noble nature." - -"If you really feel his loss, if you feel it as much as I do, who owed -much to him," Stuart said, "you will join me in trying to track his -murderer. That will be the most sincere mourning you can give him;" -and he, too, spoke now in a less bitter tone. - -"I promised, yesterday, the woman whom we both loved that I would -leave no stone unturned to find that man; I need take no fresh vows -now. But what clue is there to show us who it was that killed him?" - -For a moment neither of the others answered. He had been dead now for -four days, the inquest had been held yesterday, and he was to be -buried on the following day; yet through all those proceedings this -man who was his kinsman, this man for whom he had exhibited the -tenderest love and unselfishness, had made no sign, had not even come -forward to see to the disposal of his remains. Stuart asked himself -what explanation could be given of this, and, finding no answer in his -own mind, he plainly asked Lord Penlyn if he himself could give any. - -"Yes," he answered; "yes, I can. He had charged me in that letter that -I should never make known what our positions were; charged me when he -could have had no idea of death overtaking him; and I thought that I -should best be consulting his wishes by keeping silence when he was -dead. And I tell you both frankly that, had it not been for this -will--the existence of which I never dreamed of--I never should have -spoken, never have proclaimed our relationship. For the sake of my -future wife, as well as to obey him, I should not have done so. He was -dead, and no good could have been done by speaking." - -"It will lead to your conduct being much misconstrued by the world," -Mr. Fordyce said. "It will not understand your silence." - -"Must everything be made public?" Penlyn asked. - -"More or less. One cannot suppress a will dealing with over two -millions worth of property. Even though you were willing to destroy it -and forfeit your inheritance, it could not be done. If Mr. Stuart and -I allowed such a thing as that, we should become criminals." - -"Well, so be it! the public must think what they like of me--at least -until the murderer is discovered." Then he asked again: "But what clue -is there to help us to find him?" - -"None that we know of, as yet," Stuart said. "The verdict at the -Coroner's Inquest yesterday was, 'Wilful murder against some person or -persons unknown,' and the police stated that, up to now, they could -not say that they suspected any one. There is absolutely no clue!" - -"I suppose," Mr. Fordyce said, with a speculative air, "those Spanish -letters will not furnish any, when translated.'" - -"What Spanish letters?" Penlyn asked. "If you have any, let me see -them, I am acquainted with the language." - -"Is _Corot_ a man's or a woman's name?" Mr. Fordyce asked, as he again -untied his bundle of papers. - -"Neither, that I know of," Penlyn answered. "It is more likely, I -should think, to be a pet, or nickname. Why do you ask?" - -"I found these three letters amongst others in his desk," Stuart said, -taking them from Mr. Fordyce and handing them to Lord Penlyn, "and I -should not have had my attention attracted to them more than to any -others out of the mass of foreign correspondence there was, had it not -been for the marginal notes in Mr. Cundall's handwriting. Do you see -them?" - -"Yes," he answered. "Yes. I see written on one, '_Sent C 500 dols_.,' -on another, '_Sent 2,000 Escudos_,' and on the third again, '_Sent C -500 dols_.'" - -"What do the letters say?" they both asked. - -"I will read them." - -He did so carefully, and then he turned round and said: - -"They are all from some man signing himself _Corot_, and dating from -Puerto Cortes, who seems to think he had, or, perhaps, really had, -since money was sent, some claim upon him. In the first one he says -none has been forthcoming for a long while, and that, though he does -not want for himself, some woman, whom he calls _Juanna_, is ill and -requires luxuries. He finishes his letter with, 'Yours ever devotedly.' -In the second he writes more strongly, says that _Juanna_ is dying, -and that, as she has committed no fault, he insists upon having money. -After this the largest sum was sent." - -"And the third?" they both asked. - -"The third is more important. It says _Juanna_ is dead, that he is -going to England on business, and that, as he has heard Cundall is -also about to set out for that country, he will see him there, -as he cannot cross Honduras to do so. And he finishes his letter -by saying: 'Do not, however, think that her death relieves you -from your liability to me. Justice, and the vile injuries done to us, -make it imperative on you to provide for me for ever out of your -evilly-acquired wealth. This justice I will have, and you know I am -one who will not hesitate to enforce my rights. Remember how I served -_José_, and beware.'" - -"This is a faithful translation?" Stuart asked. - -"Take it to an interpreter, as you doubt me?" Penlyn said. - -"I do not doubt you, Lord Penlyn," the other replied, "and I beg your -pardon for this and any other suspicions I may have shown. Will you -forgive me?" - -"Yes," Penlyn said, and he held out his hand to the other, and Stuart -took it. - -"If this man is in England," Mr. Fordyce said, "and we could only find -him out, and also discover what his movements have been, we should, -perhaps, be very near the murderer." - -"Every detective in London shall be set to work to-night, especially -those who understand foreigners and their habits, to find him if he is -here. And if he is, he will have to give a very full account of -himself before he finds himself free," Stuart said. - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The conversation between the three was, necessarily, of so lengthy a -nature, that Lord Penlyn desired them to partake of some luncheon, -which invitation they accepted. While it was proceeding, they -continued to discuss fully all the extraordinary circumstances of -which they had any knowledge in connection with the murder of Walter -Cundall, and also of the position in which Penlyn now found himself. - -"Of course, it is no use trying to disguise the fact, my lord," the -lawyer said, "that this strange will in your favour will be the -subject of much discussion. The only thing we have to do now is -to think how much need be made public. Your inheritance of his -money--even to a nobleman in your position--is a matter of importance, -and will cause a great deal of remark." - -"Of course, I understand that," Penlyn answered. "But you say we have -to think of 'how much' need be made public. What part of this unhappy -story is there that you imagine need not be known?" - -Mr. Fordyce thought a moment, with his bushy eyebrows deeply knitted, -then he said: - -"I do not see why any one need be told of the relationship existing -between you. It is no one's business after all; and it was evidently -his wish that, for your sake, it should never be known." - -"Naturally," Penlyn replied, "I do not want my affairs told to every -one, and made a subject of universal gossip; but then, what reason is -to be given for his having left me all his money?" - -"It might be hinted that you were connections, though distant ones," -Mr. Fordyce said. - -"Would it not appear strange that, in such circumstances, we knew so -little of one another?" - -"Yes," the lawyer said, "unless it were said that you were only -recently acquainted with the fact." - -"But the will is dated three years ago!" Stuart remarked. "Then I -scarcely know what to suggest," Mr. Fordyce said. - -They talked it over and over again, but they could arrive at no -determination; and at last it was resolved that the best thing would -be to let matters take their course. No announcement would be publicly -made, and though, of course, it would, eventually leak out that Lord -Penlyn was Walter Cundall's heir, the world would have to put its own -construction upon the fact. Or again, other men had before now made -eccentric wills, taking sudden fancies to people who were strangers to -them and leaving them all their money. It would be best that Walter -Cundall's will should also come to be regarded in that category. - -"After all," Stuart said, "you were acquaintances, and mixed in the -same circle. Even the fact that you both loved the same woman goes for -something, and that must be sufficient for those who take any interest -in the matter." - -He had come into the house with innumerable suspicions against Lord -Penlyn, suspicions aroused by his being the inheritor of Cundall's -property, and also by the fact that he and the dead man had both loved -the same woman, and with a strange feeling in his heart that, when he -stood before him, he would stand before a murderer. He had also -remembered that conversation in the club about the peculiarity of the -dagger, or knife, with which Cundall must have been slain, and his -recollection of the hesitating way in which Penlyn had answered, had -added to his suspicions. But, when he had seen the genuine tears of -sorrow that had been shed over the will, those suspicions vanished, -and he told himself that it was not in this man that the murderer -would be found. And, if this new-formed idea had required any -strengthening, it would have received it when those importunate and -threatening letters had been read from the unknown person signing -himself, _Corot_. There was the man, who, if in England, must be found -at all costs. But how to find him was the question. - -"There is one to whom I must, at least, disclose my relationship with -Walter," Penlyn said, and they both noticed that, for the first time, -he spoke of his brother by his Christian name. "I must tell Miss -Raughton the position we stood in to one another." - -Stuart, with feelings of a very different nature now in his heart from -those with which he had first regarded him, asked him if he thought it -was wise to do so? Would she not think that, standing in the position -of his affianced wife and having also been beloved by his brother, she -should have been the first to be told of the bond between them? - -"It may not be wise," Penlyn said sadly, and with a weary look upon -his face, "and it may be that she will think I have deceived her--as, -unhappily, I have done by my silence--but still I must tell her. With -her, at least, there must be nothing more suppressed." - -Then he told them of the strange dream that she had had (even -mentioning that she had said she could recognise the form, if not the -face, of the man who sprang upon him), and of the vow she had made him -take to endeavour to discover the murderer. - -"If dreams were of the slightest importance, which they are not," Mr. -Fordyce said, "this one would go to prove that _Corot_ is not the -murderer, since it is hardly likely that she has ever known him. -Still, it is a strange coincidence that she should have dreamt of his -death on the very night that it took place." - -"The idea of knowing the form, or figure, of the man is nothing," -Stuart said. "If there was any likelihood of there being anything in -that, it would also be the case that we should have to look upon Lady -Chesterton's conservatory as the spot where it happened, as it was -there she dreamt she saw him. But we know that he was killed in St. -James' Park." - -"If the detectives can only discover this man _Corot_," Penlyn said, -"we might find out what he was doing on that night." - -"If they cannot find him," Stuart said, "it shall not be for the want -of being paid to look for him." - -"I would give every farthing of the fortune my brother has left me to -discover him, or to find the real assassin!" Penlyn said. - -They discussed, after this, the way in which the information that had -come into their possession, from the three letters written in Spanish, -should be conveyed to the detectives, and Stuart arranged to take the -matter into his hands. - -"Leave it to me," he said, "I happen to know two or three of them; in -fact, I have already communicated with Dobson, who understands a great -deal about foreigners. He has done all the big extradition cases for a -long while, and knows the exact spots in which men of different -nationalities are to be found. If _Corot_ is in London, Dobson, or one -of his men, will be sure to discover him." - -"And you think I had better not appear in the matter at all?" Penlyn -asked, appealing to both of them. - -"Not at present, certainly," Mr. Fordyce said; "as Mr. Stuart is at -present acting in it, it had better be left to him. Mr. Cundall's -agents in the City have placed everything in his hands, and I suppose -you, as his heir, will have no objection to do so also." - -"I shall be extremely grateful to Mr. Stuart if he will hold the same -position towards me that he filled with my brother," Penlyn said; "and -if he wants any assistance, my friend and secretary, Mr. Smerdon, will -be happy to render it him." - -"I will do all I can," Stuart said quietly, "to assist you, both in -regard to his affairs and to finding the guilty man if possible." - -Then Lord Penlyn made a suggestion that his own lawyer, Mr. Bell, -should also be brought into communication with Mr. Fordyce and Stuart, -and the former said that he would call upon him the next day. - -"There will then be five of us interested in finding the assassin," -Penlyn said, "for I am quite sure that both Mr. Bell and Philip -Smerdon will go hand in hand with us in this search. Surely amongst -us, and with the aid of the detectives, who ought to work well for the -reward I will pay them, we shall succeed in tracking him." - -"I hope to God we shall!" Stuart said, and Penlyn solemnly exclaimed, -"Amen!" - -They were about to separate now, after an interview that had lasted -for some hours, when Penlyn said: - -"To-morrow is the day of his funeral. If it were possible--if you -think that I could do so, I should wish to be present at it." - -The others thought a moment, Stuart looking at Mr. Fordyce as though -waiting for him to answer this suggestion, but, instead of doing so, -he only said: "What do you think, Mr. Stuart?" - -Stuart still hesitated, and seemed to be pondering deeply, and then he -said: - -"I think, if it will not be too great a denial to you, if you will not -feel that you are failing in the last duty you can pay him, you should -remain away. You could only go as chief mourner if you go at all, and -that will render you too conspicuous, and would set every tongue in -London wagging. Can you resign yourself to staying away?" - -"I must resign myself, I suppose," the other answered. "Perhaps, too, -it is better I should do so; for, when I should see his coffin being -lowered into its grave, the memory of his nobility and unselfishness, -and his cruel end, would come back to me with such force that I fear I -should no longer be master of myself." - -So Lord Penlyn did not see the last of his brother's remains; and Mr. -Stuart, Mr. Fordyce, and two of his agents made up the list of his -mourners. But behind the carriage that conveyed them, came countless -other carriages belonging to men and women who had known and liked the -dead man, and in some cases their owners were in them; amongst others -Sir Paul Raughton being in his. The wreaths of flowers that were piled -above his coffin also came from scores of friends, and afforded great -interest to the enormous mob that followed the victim's funeral, and -made a decorous holiday of the occasion. It is not often that a -millionaire is stabbed to death in London by an unknown hand; and many -of those, who had read with intense excitement of the murder, -determined to see the last obsequies of the victim. Amongst those -wreaths were two formed of splendid white roses, one of which bore the -words worked into it, "We shall meet again" and the initial letter -"I," and another the words, "I remember" followed by the letter "G." - -And late that night, as the time was, fast approaching for the -cemetery to be closed, Lord Penlyn walked swiftly up the path leading -to the new-made grave, and, seeing that there was no one near, knelt -down and prayed silently by it. Then he whispered, "I will never rest -until you are avenged. If you can hear my vow in heaven, hear me now -swear this." And, taking a handful of the mould from the grave, he -wrapped it in his handkerchief, and passed out again into the world. - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -_The Hôtel et Café Restaurant de Lepanto_ is one of those many places -near, and in the neighbourhood of, Leicester Square, where foreigners -delight to sojourn when in London. Not first-class foreigners, -perhaps, or, at least, not foreigners of large means, but generally -such as come to London to transact business that occupies them for a -short time. As a rule, this establishment is patronised by Spanish -and Portuguese gentlemen of a commercial status, persons who, more -often than not, are connected with the wine trade of those countries; -and it is also frequented by singers and dancers and other _artistes_ -who may find themselves--by what they regard as a stroke of -fortune--fulfilling an engagement in our Metropolis. To them, the -Hôtel Lepanto is a congenial abode, a spot where they can eat of the -oily and garlic-flavoured dishes partaken of with so much relish when -at home in Madrid, Lisbon, Seville, or Granada, and here they can -converse in their own tongues with each other and with Diaz Zarates, -the Spanish landlord of the house, to whom half-a-dozen Southern -languages and many _patois_ are known. - -The hotel seems to exist entirely for the people of these countries, -since into it no Frenchman, nor Italian, nor German ever comes; they -have their own hostelries of an equally, to them, agreeable nature in -other streets in the neighbourhood. So these Southerners, with the -dark eyes, and coal-black hair, and brown skin, have the little -dining-room with the dirty fly-blown paper, and the almost as dirty -table-covers and curtains, all to themselves; and into it--or to the -passage with the three chairs and the marble-table where, as often as -not, the Señors and Señoras sit and smoke their cigarettes for hours -together, in preference to doing so in the dining-room--no one of -another nation intrudes. If, not having Spanish or Portuguese blood in -his veins, there ever is any one who does so intrude, it is generally -some Englishman of a rashly speculative nature, who wants to try a -Spanish dinner and see what it is like, and who, having done so, never -wants to try another. - -And sometimes, as has been the case of late, much to the disgust of -Diaz Zarates, an English detective has made his appearance, and, under -the guise of one of the above speculative individuals essaying an -Iberian meal, has endeavoured to worm secrets out of him about his -patrons and guests. To the disgust of Diaz Zarates of late, because he -knows perfectly well who Dobson is (although that astute individual is -not aware of the landlord's knowledge of his calling), and because, -honestly, he has never heard of any one bearing the name of _Corot_ in -his life. - -And it is of such a person with that name, that Dobson has been making -little inquiries whenever he has dropped in to try a Spanish luncheon -or a Spanish dinner. - -Seated, a few days after the murder of Walter Cundall, on one of the -three chairs in the passage, and meditatively smoking cigarettes out -of which, as is the case with Spanish-made ones, the tobacco would -frequently fall in a lighted mass on the marble table, was Señor -Miguel Guffanta, as he was inscribed in Diaz's books. Had the Señor -been as carefully washed as the upper classes of Spaniards usually -are, had his linen been as white and clean as the linen usually worn -by the upper classes of Spaniards, and, had he been freshly shaved, he -would, in all probability have presented the appearance of a fine, -handsome man. But he had come downstairs this morning to smoke his -cigarette, without troubling to make his toilette, putting on his -yesterday's shirt, and going through no ablutionary process at all, -and with a thick, heavy stubble of twenty-four hours' growth upon his -cheeks and chin. Still, with all this carelessness, Señor Miguel -Guffanta was a handsome man. He had a dark, Moorish-looking face, the -lines of which were very regular, he had large luminous eyes that, -when he chose, he could open to an enormous extent, and coal-black -hair that curled thickly over his head. His frame was a powerful one; -his height being considerable and his chest broad and deep, and his -long, sinewy, brown hands looked as though their grasp would be a -grasp of iron, if put to their utmost strength. In age he was about -thirty-eight or forty, but he looked younger, because no single gray -hair had appeared either in his luxurious locks or in his long, black -moustache. As he sat there, taking fresh cigarette-papers from his -pocket, and, when he had put some dry, dusty tobacco into them, -twisting both ends up, and smoking them while he gazed meditatively -either at the ceiling of the passage, or into the species of horse-box -that was designated as the "bureau," a stranger might have wondered -what brought the Señor there. Unkempt as he was this morning, there -was something about him, either in the easy grace of his figure, or in -the contemptuous, almost haughty, look in his face, that proclaimed -instantly that this was not a man accustomed to soliciting orders for -wine, or to appearing in Spanish ballets or choruses, or of, in any -way, ministering to other people's amusement. - -As he still sat there thinking and smoking, the landlord came down the -passage, and bowing and wishing him "Good morning" in Spanish, entered -his box, and proceeded to make some entries in his books. The Señor -nodded in return, and then made another cigarette and went on with his -meditations; but, when that one was smoked through, he rose and leaned -against the door-post of the bureau, and addressed Zarates. - -"And have any more guests arrived since last night," he asked, "and is -the hotel yet full?" - -"No more, Señor, no more as yet," the landlord answered him. "_Dios!_ -but there is little business doing now." - -"That is not well! And he who loves so much our Spanish luncheons and -dinners, our good friend Dobson (he pronounced the name, Dobesoon) -with the heavy, fat face and the big beard--what of him?" - -"He is a pig, a fool!" Diaz said, as he ran an unclean finger up a -column of accounts. "He believes me not when I tell him that of his -accursed _Corot_ I know nothing, and that I believe no such man is in -London." - -The Señor laughed gently to himself at this answer, and then he said: -"And he has not yet found him?" - -"_Dios!_ found him, no! Of that name I never heard before, no, never! -There is no such name!" - -"For what does he say he wishes to see this _Corot?_ Is it that he has -a legacy to give him, or has he committed a crime for which this fat -man, this heavy Alguazil, wants to arrest him?" - -"_Quien sabé!_ He says he has a little friendly question to ask him, -that is all. He says if he could see him for one moment, he would tell -him all he wants to know. And then he says he must find him. But I do -not think now he will ever find him." - -"Nor do I," the Señor said. Then he looked up at the clock, and, -seeing it was past twelve, went to his room, saying that it was time -he prepared himself for the day. - -But when he reached that apartment, which was a small room on the -second floor, that looked out on to the back windows of the street -that ran parallel with the one in which the Hôtel Lepanto was -situated, it did not seem as if those preparations stood in any great -need of hurry. The inevitable cigarette-papers were again produced and -the dusty tobacco, and the Señor, throwing himself into the arm-chair -that stood in the corner of the room, again gave himself up to -meditation. - -"_Corot_," he said to himself, "_Corot_. How is it that that man has -ever heard the name--what does he know about it, why should he want to -find him? I thought that, outside Los Torros and Puerto Cortes, that -name had never been heard. Walter knew it, and Juanna knew it, and I -knew it, but of others there was no one alive who knew it. Yet here, -is this big, stupid man, in this big, stupid city (where--_por Dios!_ -one may be stabbed to death and none find the slayer), with the name -upon his lips. How has he ever heard it, how has he ever known of it?" - -He could find no answer to these questions which he asked himself, and -gradually his thoughts went off into another train. - -"So, after all," he continued, "his name was not Cundall but Occleve, -and he it was who was this lord, this Penlyn, though that other bears -the name. And he, who inherited all that wealth from the old man, had -no right to it, no not so much right as Juanna--poor Juanna!--and I -had. And now he is gone, and it is with the living that I have to do. -Well, it shall be done, and by my father's blood the reckoning shall -be a heavy one if this lord does not clear himself!" - -He rose from his seat, and, going to a cupboard, took from it a suit -of clothes of good, dark material, and after brushing them carefully, -laid them out upon the bed. From a shelf in it he took out a very good -silk hat, which he also brushed, and a pair of nearly new gloves. Then -he rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it bring him -sufficient hot water for shaving and washing. - -As he went through his toilette, which he did very carefully, and -putting on now linen of dazzling whiteness, with which the most -scrupulous person could have found no fault, his thoughts still ran -upon the subject that had occupied his mind entirely for many days. - -"There is danger in it, of course," he muttered to himself; "but I am -used to danger; there was danger when Gonzalez provoked me, though it -was not as great as that I stand in now. These English are stupid, but -they are crafty also, and it may be that a trap will be set for me, -perhaps is set already. Well, I will escape from it as I have from -others. And, after all, I have one damning proof in my favour, one -card that, if I am forced to play, must save me! What I have to do, -shall be done to-day. I am resolved!" - -His toilette was finished now, he was clean-shaved and well dressed -from head to foot, and the Señor Miguel Guffanta stood in his room a -very different-looking man from the one who had sat, an hour ago, -smoking cigarettes in the hotel passage. Before he left it, he -unlocked a portmanteau, and took from it a pocket-book into which he -looked for a moment, and then he locked his door and descended the -stairs. - -"Going out for the day, Señor?" Diaz asked, as he peered out of his -box. - -"Yes. I am going to make a call on an English friend. _Adios_." - -"_Adios_, Señor." - -"It is as hot as Honduras," Señor Guffanta said to himself as he -crossed to the shady side of the street. "I must walk slowly to keep -myself cool." - -He did walk slowly, making his way through Leicester Square and down -Piccadilly, and, at nearly the bottom of the latter, turned off to the -right and passed through several streets. Then, when he had arrived at -a house which stood at a corner he stopped. He evidently had been here -before, for he had found his way without any difficulty through the -labyrinth of streets between this house and Leicester Square, and now -he paused for one moment previous to mounting the doorstep. But, -before he did so, he turned away and went a short distance down a -side-street. The big house outside which he was standing formed the -angle of two streets, and ran down the side one that the Señor had now -turned into. At the back of it was a garden, fairly filled with trees, -that ran some distance farther down this street, and into which an -open-worked iron gate led, a gate through which any passerby could -look. It was not a well-kept garden, and in it there was some -undergrowth; and it was at this undergrowth, on the farthest right -hand side, that Señor Guffanta peered for some few moments through the -iron gate. - -"It seems the same," he muttered to himself; "nothing appears -disturbed since I was last here." Then he returned to the front of the -house, and mounting the steps knocked at the hall door. - -The footman who opened it had no time to ask the tall, well-dressed -foreigner with the handsome face, who was standing before him, what he -required, before the Señor said, in good English: - -"Is Lord Penlyn within?" - -"Yes, sir," the man answered. "Do you wish to see him?" - -"Yes. Be good enough to take him my card, if you please," and he -produced one bearing the name of _Señor Miguel Guffanta_. "Give him -that," he said, "and say that I wish to see him." - -The footman motioned him to a seat, and had put the card upon a salver -to take to his master, when the Señor said "Stay, I will put a word -upon it," and, taking a pencil from his pocket, he wrote underneath -his name, "From Honduras." - -"He will see me, I think," he said, "when he sees that." - -The man bowed and went away, returning a few minutes afterwards to say -that Lord Penlyn would see him, and the Señor followed him into the -room in which so many other interviews had taken place. - -Lord Penlyn rose and bowed, and Señor Guffanta returned the bow -gravely, while he fixed his dark eyes intently on the other's face. - -"You state on your card, Señor Guffanta, that you are from Honduras. I -imagine, therefore, that you have come about a matter that at the -present moment is of the utmost importance to me?" Lord Penlyn said. - -"You refer to the late Mr. Cundall?" the Señor asked. "Yes, I do. Pray -be seated." - -"I knew him intimately," Señor Guffanta said. "It is about him and his -murder that I have come to talk." - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Between the time when Lord Penlyn, Mr. Fordyce, and Stuart had -consulted together as to the way in which some endeavours should be -made to discover the murderer of Walter Cundall, and when the Señor -Guffanta paid his visit to the former, a week had elapsed, a week in -which a good many things had taken place. - -The rewards offered both by the Government and by "the friends of the -late Mr. Cundall," had been announced, and the magnitude of them, -especially of the latter, had caused much excitement in the public -mind, and had tended to keep the general interest in the tragedy -alive. The Government reward of "five hundred pounds and a free pardon -to some person, or persons, not the actual murderers," had been -supplemented by another of one thousand pounds from the "friends and -executors;" and the walls of every police-station were placarded with -the notices. There was, moreover, attached to them a statement -describing, as nearly as was possible from the meagre details known, -the man who, in the garb of a labourer or mechanic, was last seen near -the victim; and for his identification a reward was also offered. - -But it was known in London, or, at least, very generally believed, -that out of these rewards nothing whatever in the way of information -had come; and, although the murder had not yet ceased to be a topic of -conversation in all classes of society, it was generally spoken of as -a case in which the murderer would never be brought to justice. -Whoever had committed the crime had now had more than a week with -which, either to escape from the neighbourhood or the country, or to -entirely conceal his identity. It was not likely now, people said, -that he would ever be found. And the world was also asking who were -the friends, and, presumably, the heirs of the dead man, who were -offering the large reward? To this question no one as yet had -discovered the answer; all that was known, or told, being that two -lawyers of standing, Mr. Bell, of Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Fordyce, of -Paper Buildings, were acting for these friends, and for Mr. Cundall's -City representatives. - -The detectives themselves, though they were careful not to say so, had -really very little hope that they would ever succeed in tracing the -assassin. Dobson (who, in spite of the stolidity of manner, and -heaviness of appearance that had excited the contempt both of Señor -Guffanta and of the landlord, Zarates, was not by any means lacking in -shrewdness) plainly told Stuart, in one of their many interviews, that -he did not think much would be done by finding the man called _Corot_, -even if he were successful in doing so, which he very much doubted. - -"You see, sir," he said, "it's this way. He evidently had some claim -or other upon Mr. Cundall, or else it isn't likely that every time he -wrote for money he would have got it, and that in good sums too. Then -we've only seen the notes made by Mr. Cundall on the letters, saying -that he sent this and that sum; but who's to know, when he sent them, -if he didn't also send some friendly letter or other, acknowledging -the justice of this man's demands? He evidently--I mean this -_Corot_--did have some claim upon him; and supposing that he was--if -we could find him--to prove that claim and show us the letters Mr. -Cundall wrote him in return, where should we be then? The very fact of -his being able to draw on him whenever he wanted money, would go a -long way towards showing that he wouldn't be very likely to kill him." - -"He threatens him in the last letter we have seen. Supposing that Mr. -Cundall stopped the supplies after that, would not that probably -excite his revengeful passions? These Spanish Americans do not stick -at taking life when they fancy themselves injured." - -"He evidently didn't stop them when he answered that letter, because -he sent five hundred dollars. And it was written so soon before they -both must have started--almost close together--from Honduras, that it -wouldn't be likely any fresh demands would have been made," Dobson -answered. - -"They might have met in London, and quarrelled," Stuart replied; "and -after the quarrel this _Corot_ might have tracked him till he found a -fitting opportunity, and then have killed him." - -"Yes, he might," Dobson said, meditatively. "Anything _might_ have -happened." - -"Only you don't think it likely?" the other asked. - -"Well, frankly, Mr. Stuart, I don't. He had always got money out of -him, and it wasn't likely the supplies would be stopped off -altogether, so that to kill him would be killing the goose with the -golden eggs." - -"Who on earth could have killed him, then? Who would have had any -reason to do so? You know everything connected with the case now, and -with Mr. Cundall's life and strange, unknown, real position--do you -suspect any one?" - -"No," the detective said after a pause; "I can't say I do. Of course, -at first, when I heard everything, the idea did strike me that Lord -Penlyn, as the most interested person, might have done it." - -"So it did me," Stuart said; "but after the interview Mr. Fordyce and -I had with him the idea left my mind." - -"Where does he say he was on the night of the murder--the night he was -staying at that hotel?" - -"He says he stayed at his club until twelve, and that then he walked -about the streets till nearly two, thinking over the story his brother -had told him, and then let himself into the hotel and went to bed." - -"It is strange that he should have been about on that night alone. If -he was going to be tried for the murder, it would tell badly against -him; that is, unless he could prove that he was in the hotel before -Mr. Cundall started to walk to Grosvenor Place from his club." - -"He couldn't prove it, because all the servants were asleep; but, -nevertheless, I am certain he did not do it." - -"I don't think he did," Dobson replied, "and, at the same time, I -can't believe _Corot_ did it. But I wish I could find him, all the -same." - -"Do you think there is still a chance of your doing so?" - -"There is always a chance," the other answered; "but I have exhausted -nearly everything. You see, I have so little to go on, and I am -obliged to say out openly, in every inquiry I make, that I am looking -for a certain man of the name of _Corot_. And they all give me the -same answer, that they never heard of such a name. Yet his name must -have been _Corot_." - -"I do not think so," Stuart said. "A Spaniard would sign an initial -before his name just the same as an Englishman would, and no -Englishman would sign himself simply 'Jones,' or 'Smith.'" - -"It can't be a Christian name," Dobson said, "or they would have been -sure to say so, and ask me 'What _Corot?_' or '_Corot_ who' is it that -you are looking for?" - -"Lord Penlyn thinks it is a nickname," Stuart remarked. - -"Then I shall certainly never find him. A man when he is travelling in -a strange country doesn't use his nickname, and, as far as I can -learn, there isn't any one here from the Republic of Honduras who ever -heard of him; and it isn't any good asking people from British -Honduras." - -"Well," Stuart said, "we must go on trying by every means, and in the -hopes that the amount of the rewards will lead to something. But there -seems little prospect of our ever finding the cowardly assassin who -slew him. Perhaps, after all, that labourer killed him for his watch -and chain, and any money he might have about him. Such things have -been done before." - -"I don't believe that," Dobson said. "There was a motive for his -murder. But, what was that motive?" - -Then they parted, Stuart to have an interview with Lord Penlyn, and -Dobson to again continue his investigations in similar resorts to the -Hôtel Lepanto. - -Meanwhile, Penlyn had nerved himself for another interview with Ida -Raughton, an interview in which he was to tell her everything, and he -went down to Belmont to do so. - -He found her alone in her pretty drawing-room, Sir Paul having gone to -Windsor on some business matter, and Miss Norris being out for a walk. -She was still looking very pale, and her lover noticed that a paper -was lying beside her in which was a column headed, "The murder of Mr. -Cundall." Had she been reading that, he wondered, at the very time -when he was on his way to tell her of the relationship that had -existed between him and that other man who had loved her so dearly? -When he had kissed her, wondering, as he did so, if it was the last -kiss she would ever let him press upon her lips after she knew of what -he had kept back from her at their last interview, she said to him: - -"And now tell me what you have done towards finding Mr. Cundall's -murderer? What steps have you taken, whom have you employed to search -for that man?" - -"It is thought," he answered, "that there is some man, now in England, -who may have done it. A man whose name is _Corot_, and who was -continually obtaining money from him." - -"How is this known?" - -"By some letters that have been found amongst Cundall's papers. -Letters asking for money, and, in one case, threatening him if some -was not sent at once; and with notes in his handwriting saying that -different sums had been sent when demanded." - -"_Corot_," she said, repeating the name to herself in a whisper, -"_Corot_." Then, after a pause, she said, "No! That man is not the -assassin." - -"Not the assassin, Ida!" Penlyn said. "Why do you think he is not?" - -"Because I have never known him, because the form of the man who slew -him in my dream was familiar to me, and this man's form cannot be so." - -"My darling," he said, "you place too much importance on this dream. -Remember what fantasies of the brain they are, and how few of them -have ever any bearing on the actual events of life." - -"This was no fantasy," she answered, "no fantasy. When the murderer is -discovered--if he ever is--it will be seen that I have known him. I am -as sure of it as that I am sitting here. But who was he? Who was he? I -have gone over and over again every man whom I have ever known, and -yet I cannot bring to my mind which of all those men it is that that -shrouded figure resembles." She paused again, and then she asked: "Has -it been discovered yet whether he had any relations?" - -"Yes, Ida," he said, rising from his seat and standing before her, -while he knew that the time had come now when everything must be told. -"Yes, he had one relation!" - -"Who was he?" she asked, springing to her feet, while a strange lustre -shone in her eyes. "Who was he? Tell me that." - -"Oh, Ida," he said, "there is so much to tell! Will you hear me -patiently while I tell you all?" - -"Tell me everything," she replied. "I will listen." - -Then he told her, standing there face to face with her. As he -proceeded with his story, he could give no guess as to what effect it -was having upon her, for she made no sign, but, from the seat into -which she had sunk, gazed fixedly into his face. Once she shuddered -slightly, and drew her dress nearer to her when he confessed that he -had refused to part from him in peace; and, when she had read the -letter that he had written on the night of his death, she wept -silently for a few moments. - -It had taken long in the telling, and the twilight of the summer night -had come before he finished and she had learnt everything. - -"That is what I came to tell you, Ida. Speak to me, and say that you -forgive me for having kept it from your knowledge when last we met!" - -"You said an hour ago," she replied, taking no heed of his prayer for -forgiveness, "that dreams were idle fantasies of the brain. What if -mine was such? What, if after all, I have seen the form of the man -who murdered him, have spoken to him and let him kiss me, and have not -recognised him?" - -"Ida!" he said, "do you say this to me, to the man to whom you have -plighted your love and faith? Do you mean that you suspect me of being -my brother's murderer?" - -"You did nothing," she answered, "to find out his murderer; you would -have done nothing had that Will not been discovered." - -"I obeyed his behest," he said, "and what I did was done also through -my love of you." - -Again she paused before she spoke, and then she said: - -"It is time that you should go now, it is time that there should be no -more love spoken of between us. But, if a time should ever come when -it will be fitting for me to hear you speak of love to me once -more----" - -"Yes?" - -"It will be when you can come to me and say that his murderer is -brought to justice." - -"And until that time shall come, you cast me off?" - -"If you take it in that light,--yes." - -"I have sworn," he said, and she could not but notice the deep -intensity of his voice, "upon his grave that my life shall be devoted -to avenging him, and no power on earth shall stop me if I can but see -my way to find the man who killed him. Even though I had still another -brother, whom I had loved all my life, and he had done this deed, I -would track him and bring him to punishment. I swear it before -God--swear that I would not spare him! And my earnest and heartfelt -prayer is that the day may arrive when, as you and I desire, I may be -able to come and tell you that he is brought to justice." - -"Ah! yes." - -"Only," he continued, still with a deep solemnity of voice that went -to her heart, "when I do so come I shall come to tell you that -alone--there will be with that news no pleadings of love upon my -tongue. You have doubted, but just now, whether you have not seen my -brother's murderer standing before you, whether the kiss of Cain has -not been upon your lips. You have reproached me for my silence, you -have cast me off, unless I can prove myself not an assassin. Well, so -be it! By the blessing of heaven, I will prove it--but for the love -which you have withdrawn from me I will ask no more. You say it is to -be mine again conditionally. I will not take it back, either with or -without conditions. It is restored to you; it would be best that -henceforth you should keep it." - -Then, with but the slightest inclination of his head, he left her, and -went out from the house. And Ida, after once endeavouring to make her -lips utter the name of Gervase, fell prostrate on the couch. - -"He will never come back to me," she wailed; "he will never come back. -I have thrown his love away for ever. God forgive and pity me." - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -"I knew him intimately," Señor Guffanta said, "it is about him and his -murder that I have come to talk." - -These were the words with which he had responded to Lord Penlyn's -reception of him; and, as he uttered them, a hope had sprung up into -the young man's breast that, in the handsome Spaniard who stood before -him, some one might have been found who, from his knowledge of his -brother, would be able to throw some light upon, or clue to, his -death. - -"I cannot tell you," he said, "how welcome this information is to me. -We have tried everything in our power to gather some knowledge that -might lead towards finding--first, some one who would be likely to -have a reason for his death; and, afterwards, the man who killed him. -If you knew him intimately, it may be that you can assist us." - -The Señor had taken the seat offered him by Penlyn, and from the time -that he had first sat down, until now, he had not removed his dark -piercing eyes from the other's face. But, as he continued to fix his -glance upon Penlyn, there had come into his own face a look of -surprise, a look that seemed to express a baffled feeling of -consternation. - -"_Caramba_," he said to himself while the other was speaking. -"_Caramba_, what mystery is there here? I have made a mistake. I have -erred in some way; how have I deceived myself? Yet I could have sworn -by the blood of San Pedro that I was sure." - -Then, when Lord Penlyn had ceased speaking, he said aloud: - -"You will pardon me--but I am labouring under no mistake? You are Lord -Penlyn?" - -The other looked at him for a moment, wondering what such a question -meant. Then he answered him: - -"There is no mistake. I am Lord Penlyn." - -The Spaniard passed his hand across his eyes as he heard this, but did -not speak; and Lord Penlyn said: - -"May I ask why you inquire?" - -"Because--because I had thought--because I wished to be sure of whom I -was speaking with." - -"You may rest assured. And now, sir, let me ask you what you know -about this unhappy Mr. Cundall and his life?" - -"I know much about him. To begin with, I know that he was your -brother--your elder brother--and that you have come to possess his -fortune." - -Lord Penlyn started and said: "You know that? May I ask how you know -it?" - -"It is not necessary for me to say. It is sufficient that I do know -it. But it is not of that that I have come to talk." - -"Of what have you come to talk then?" - -"Of his murderer." - -"Of his murderer!" the other repeated. "Oh! Señor Guffanta, is it -possible that you can have any clue, is it possible that you think you -will be able to find the man who killed him?" - -"_I am sure of it_." - -Lord Penlyn stared at him as he spoke, stared at him while in his mind -there was a feeling of astonishment, mixed with something like awe, of -his strange visitor. This dark, powerful-looking stranger, sat there -before him perfectly calm and unmoved, looking straight at him as he -spoke these words of import, "I am sure of it," and spoke them as -though he was speaking of some ordinary incident. And in his calmness -there was something that told the other that it was born of certainty. - -"If you can do that, Señor Guffanta," he said, "there is nothing that -you can ask from me, there is nothing that I can give that----" - -"There is nothing I want of you," the Spaniard said, interrupting him, -and making a disdainful motion with his long, brown hand. "I am not a -paid police spy." - -"I beg your pardon," the other answered. "I had no thought of offence. -Only, sir, it is the wish of my life, and of some others who knew and -loved him, to see him avenged. - -"And it is the wish of my life also. Will you hear a short story?" - -"I will hear anything you have to say." - -"Then listen. I was born in Honduras, the child of a Spanish lady and -of a friend of the old Englishman, Cundall, him from whom your -brother's wealth was derived. That friend was a scoundrel, a man who -tricked my mother into a marriage with him under a false name, who -never was her husband at all. When they had been married, as she -thought, for some few years, and when another child, my sister, had -been born, she found out the deception, and--she killed him." - -"Killed him!" Penlyn exclaimed. - -"Yes, dead! We Spaniards brook no dishonour, we never allow a wrong to -pass unavenged. She showed him the evidence of his falsehood in one -hand, and with the other she shot him dead upon his own verandah. She -was tried and instantly acquitted, and, in consideration of the wrong -she had suffered, a law was made constituting her legally his wife, -and making us children legitimate. But the disgrace was to her--a -high-minded, noble woman--too much; she fell ill and died. Then the -old man, Cundall, seeing that it was his friend's evil-doing that had -led to our being orphans, said that henceforth we should be his care. -So we grew up, and I had learnt to look upon myself and my sister as -his heirs, when one day there came another who, it was easy to see, -had supplanted us. It was the English lad, Walter Cundall." - -"I begin to see," Penlyn said. - -"At first," Señor Guffanta went on, "I hated him for spoiling our -chances, but at last I could hate him no longer. Gradually, his gentle -disposition, his way of interceding for me with his uncle, when I had -erred, above all his tenderness to my poor sister, who was sick and -deformed, won my love. Had he been my brother I could not have loved -him more. Then--then, as years went on, I committed a fault, and the -old man cast me off for ever. Another man tried to take from me the -woman I loved--she was a vile thing worth no man's love; but--no -matter how--I avenged myself. But from that day the old man turned -against me, and would neither see nor hear of me again. - -"A year or two passed and then I heard from Walter, for my sister and -I had left Los Torros (the town where we had all lived) and had gone -elsewhere, that the old man was dead. 'He has left everything to me,' -Walter wrote, 'and there is no mention of you nor Juanna, but be -assured neither of you shall ever want for anything.'" - -"Stop," Lord Penlyn said, "you need tell me no more. I know the -rest." - -"You know the rest?" Señor Guffanta said, looking fixedly at him, "You -know the rest?" - -"Yes. You are _Corot_." - -A bewildered look came over the Spaniard's face, and then, after a -second's pause, he said: - -"Yes. I am _Corot_. It was the name given me by the Mestizos amongst -whom I played as a boy, and it kept to me. It is you, then, Lord -Penlyn, who has set this Dobson to look for me?" - -"Yes; we found your letters to him, and from one of them we believed -you to be in England. We thought that--that----" - -"That I killed him?" - -"You threatened him in one of your letters. We were justified in -thinking so." - -"He, at least, did not think so. Read this." - -He took from his pocket a letter written by Walter Cundall during the -few days he had been back in England, and gave it to Penlyn. It ran: - - -"_June_, 188--. - -"MY DEAR COROT, - -"I am delighted to hear you are in England, and have got an -appointment as agent for Don Rodriguez in London. Perhaps, now, I -shall have some respite from those fearful threats which, at -intervals, from your boyhood, you have hurled at me, at Juanna, and -every one you really love. Come and see me when you can, only come as -late as possible as I am out much; and we will have a talk about the -old place and old times. - -"Ever yours, in haste, W. C. - -"P.S.--I wish poor Juanna could have lived to know of your good -fortune." - - -"Do you think I should murder that man, Lord Penlyn?" Señor Guffanta -asked quietly. "That man who, when he heard of my good fortune, could -think of how happy it would have made my beloved sister--she who is -now in her grave." - -"Whatever I may have thought must be ascribed to the intense desire I -and my friends have to find his murderer, and you must pardon the -suspicion that came to our minds in reading your letters. But, Señor -Guffanta, let us forget that and speak about finding him, since you -also are anxious to avenge Walter, and feel sure that you can do so." - -"I am perfectly sure. And before long I shall stand face to face with -him. Then his doom is certain!" - -Again Lord Penlyn noticed the self-constrained calm of the man, and -again he told himself that he spoke with such an air of certainty that -it was impossible to doubt him. For one moment the thought came to his -mind that this apparent calmness, this certainty of finding the -murderer, might be a rôle assumed by Guffanta to prevent suspicion -falling upon him. But on reflection that thought took flight. Had he -been the murderer he would never have revealed himself, would never -have allowed it to be known that he was _Corot_, the man against whom -circumstances had looked so black. And Cundall's letter was sufficient -to show that what the Señor had told him, about the friendship that -had existed between them, was true. - -"You must know more than any of us, Señor Guffanta, as no doubt you -do--to inspire you with such confidence of finding him. Had he any -enemy in Honduras, who may now be in England, and have done this -deed?" - -"To my knowledge, none. He was a man who made friends, not enemies." - -"How then, do you hope to find the man who killed him?" - -"I hope nothing, Lord Penlyn, for I am sure to find him. What will you -say when I tell you that I have seen his murderer's face?" - -"You have seen his face? You know it!" the other exclaimed, springing -to his feet. "Oh, let me at once send for the detectives and the -lawyers, so that you may describe him to them, and let them endeavour -to find him. But," he said suddenly, "where have you seen him?" - -There was an almost contemptuous smile upon the Señor Guffanta's face -as he said: - -"Send for no one--at least, not yet. If by the detectives you mean -Dobson, the heavy man, he will not assist me, and of the lawyers I -know nothing; and at present I will not tell you when and where I have -seen this man. But, sir--but, Lord Penlyn, I know one thing. When that -man and I once more stand face to face, Walter Cundall, who shielded -me from his uncle's wrath, who was as a brother to my beloved Juanna, -will be avenged." - -"What will you do?" Penlyn asked in an almost awestruck whisper. "You -will not take the law into your own hands and kill him?" - -"No; it maybe not! But with these hands alone," and he held them out -extended to Penlyn as he spoke, "I will drag him to a prison which he -shall only leave for a scaffold. Drag him there, I say, unless my -blood gets the better of my reason, and I throttle him like a dog by -the way." - -He, too, had risen in his excitement; and as he stood towering in his -height, which was great, above the other, and extended his long sinewy -hands in front of him, while his deep brown skin turned to an almost -darker hue, Penlyn felt that this man before him would be the avenger -of his brother's death. So terrible did he look, that the other -wondered how that murderer would feel when he should be in his grasp. - -He stepped forward to Guffanta and held out his hand to him. "Sir," he -said, "I thank God that you and I have met. But can we do nothing to -assist you in your search? May I not tell the detectives what you -know?" - -"You may tell them everything I have told you; it will not enable them -to be in my way. But what I have to do I must do by myself." He paused -a moment; then he said: "It may be that when you do tell them, they -will still think that I am the man----" - -"No, no!" - -"Yes, it may be so. Well, if they want to spy upon my actions, if they -want to know what I do and where I go, I am to be found at the Hôtel -Lepanto--that is when I am not here in this house, for I must ask -you--I have a reason--to let me come to you as I want." - -Penlyn bowed, and said some words to the effect that he should always -be free of the house, and the other continued: - -"My business here as agent for Don Rodriguez, a wealthy merchant of -Honduras, will not occupy me much at present, the rest of my time will -be devoted to the one purpose of finding that man." - -"I pray that you may be successful." - -"I shall be successful," the Spaniard answered quietly. "And now," he -said, "I will ask you to do one thing." - -"Ask me anything and I will do it." - -"You have a garden behind your house," Señor Guffanta said, "how is -admission obtained to it?" - -Lord Penlyn stared at him wonderingly, not knowing what this question -might mean, and then he said: - -"There is an entrance from the back of this house, and another from an -iron gate in the side street. But why do you ask? no one ever goes -into it. It is damp, and even the paths are partly overgrown with -weeds." - -"There are keys to those entrances?" - -"Yes." - -"And in your possession?" and, as he spoke, his dark eyes were fixed -very intently on the young man. - -"They are somewhere about the house, but they are never used." - -"I wish them found. Then, when they are found, I must ask you to give -me your word of honour that no living creature, not even you yourself, -will enter that garden without my knowing it. Will you do this?" - -"I will do it," Penlyn said. "But I wish you would tell me your -reason." - -"I will tell you nothing more at present. But remember that I have a -task to perform and that I shall do it." - -Then he left him, and walked away to the neighbourhood of Leicester -Square. - -"What I have seen to-day," he said to himself, "would have baffled -many a man. But you, Miguel, are different from other men. You are not -baffled, you are only still more determined to do what you have to do. -But who is he?--who is he? _Caramba!_ he is not Lord Penlyn!" - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -"The story about this Spaniard, Guffanta, is a strange one," Philip -Smerdon wrote from Occleve Chase to Lord Penlyn, who had informed him -of the visit he had received and the revelations made by the Señor, -"but I may as well tell you at once that I don't believe it, although -you say that the lawyers, as well as Stuart and Dobson, are inclined -to do so. My own opinion is that, though he may not have killed Mr. -Cundall, he is still telling you a lie--for some reason of his own, as -to the friendship that existed between them; and he probably thinks -that by pretending to be able to find the man, he will get some money -from you. With regard to his having been face to face with the -murderer, why, if so, does he not say on what occasion and when? To -know his face _as that of the murderer_, is to say, what in plainer -words would be, that he had either known he was about to commit -the act, or that he had witnessed it. It admits of no other -interpretation, and, consequently, what becomes of his avowed love for -Cundall, if he knew of the contemplated deed and did not prevent it, -or, having witnessed it, did not at once arrest or kill his aggressor? -You may depend upon it, my dear Gervase, that this man's talk is -nothing but empty braggadocio, with, as I said before, the probable -object of extracting money from you as he previously extracted it from -your brother. - -"As to the locking up of the garden and allowing no one to enter it, I -am inclined to think that it is simply done with the object of making -a pretence of mysteriously knowing something that no one else knows. -And it is almost silly, for your garden would scarcely happen to be -selected by the murderer as a place to visit, and what object could he -have in so visiting it? However, as it is a place never used, I should -gratify him in this case, only I would go a little farther than he -wishes, and never allow it to be opened--not even when he desires it." - -The letter went on to state that Smerdon was still very busy over the -summer accounts at Occleve Chase, and should remain there some time; -he might, however, he added, shortly run up to town for a night. - -A feeling of disappointment came over Penlyn as he read this letter -from his friend. During the two or three days that had elapsed between -writing to Smerdon and receiving his answer, he had been buoyed up -with the hope that in Guffanta the man had been discovered who would -be the means of bringing the assassin to justice, and this hope had -been shared by all the other men interested in the same cause. But he -had come, in the course of his long friendship with Philip Smerdon, to -place such utter reliance upon his judgment, and to accept so -thoroughly his ideas, that the very fact of his doubting the Señor's -statement, and looking upon it as a mere vulgar attempt to extort -money from him, almost led him also to doubt whether, after all, he -had not too readily believed the Spaniard. - -Yet, he reflected, his actions, as he stood before him foretelling the -certain doom of that assassin when once they should again be face to -face, and his calm certainty that such would undoubtedly happen, bore -upon them the impress of truth. And his story had earned the belief of -the others--that, surely, was in favour of it being true. Stuart had -seen him, had listened to what he had to say, and had formed the -opinion that he was neither lying nor acting. Dobson also, the man who -to the Señor's mind was ridiculous and incapable, had been told -everything, and he, too, had come to the conclusion that Guffanta's -story was an honest one, and that, of all other men, he who in some -mysterious manner, knew the murderer's face, would be the most likely -to eventually bring him to justice. Only, he thought that the Señor -should be made to divulge where and when he had so seen his face; that -would give him and his brethren a clue, he said, which might enable -them to assist him in tracking the man. And he was also very anxious -to know what the secret was that led to his desiring Lord Penlyn to -have the garden securely closed and locked. He could find in his own -mind no connecting link between the place of death in the Park and -Lord Penlyn's garden (although he remembered that, strangely enough, -his lordship was the dead man's brother), and he was desirous that the -Señor should confide in him. But the latter would tell him nothing -more than he had already made known, and Dobson, who had always in his -mind's eye the vision of the large rewards that would come to the man -who found the murderer, was forced to be content and to work, as he -termed it, "in the dark." - -"You must wait, my good Dobson, you must wait," the Spaniard said, -"until I tell you that I want your assistance, though I do not think -it probable that I shall ever want it. You could not find out that I -was _Corot_, you know, although I had many times the pleasure of -lunching at the next table to you; I do not think that you will be -able any the better to find the man I seek. But when I find him, -Dobson, I promise you that you shall have the pleasure of arresting -him, so that the reward shall come to you. That is, if I do not have -to arrest him suddenly upon the moment, myself, so as to prevent him -escaping." - -"And what are you doing now, _Signor?_" Dobson asked, giving him a -title more familiar to him in its pronunciation than the Spanish one, -"what are you doing to find him?" - -"I am practising a virtue, my friend, that I have practised much in my -life. I am waiting." - -"I don't see that waiting is much good, Signor. There is not much good -ever done by waiting." - -"The greatest good in the world, Dobson, the very greatest. And you do -not see now, Dobson, because you do not know what I know. So you, too, -must be virtuous, and wait." - -It was only with banter of a slightly concealed nature such as this -that Señor Guffanta would answer Dobson, but, light as his answers -were, he had still managed to impress the detective with the idea -that, sooner or later, he would achieve the task he had vowed to -perform. "But," as the man said to one of his brethren, "why don't he -get to work, why don't he do something? He won't find the man in that -Hôtel Lepanto where he sits smoking cigarettes half the day, nor yet -in Lord Penlyn's house where he goes every night." - -"Perhaps he thinks his lordship did it, after all," the other -answered, "and is watching _him_." - -"No," Dobson said, "he don't think that. But I can't make out who the -deuce he does suspect." - -It was true enough that Guffanta did pass a considerable time in the -Hôtel Lepanto, smoking cigarettes, and always thinking deeply, whether -seated in the corridor or in his own room upstairs. But, although he -had not allowed himself to say one word to any of the other men on the -subject, and still spoke with certainty of ere long finding the -murderer, he was forced to acknowledge that, for the time, he was -baffled. And then, as he did acknowledge this, he would rise from his -chair and stretch out his long arms, and laugh grimly to himself. "But -only for a time, Miguel," he would say, "only for a time. He will come -to you at last, he will come to you as the bird comes to the net. -Wait, wait, wait! You may meet him to-day, to-night! _Por Dios_, you -will surely trap him at last!" - -Meanwhile Lord Penlyn, when he was left alone, and when he could -distract his thoughts from the desire of his life, the finding of the -man who had slain Walter Cundall, was very unhappy. Those thoughts -would then turn to the girl he had loved deeply, to the girl whom he -had cast off because she had ventured to let the idea come into her -mind that it was he who might have done the deed. He had cast her off -in a moment when there had come into his heart a revulsion of feeling -towards her, a feeling of horror that she, of all others in the world, -could for one moment harbour such an idea against him. Yet, he -admitted to himself, there were grounds upon which even the most, -loving of women might be excused for having had such thoughts. He had -misled her at first, he had kept back the truth from her, he had given -her reasons for suspicion--even against him, her lover. And now they -were parted, he had renounced her, and yet he knew that he loved her -as fondly as ever; she was the one woman in the world to him. Would -they ever come together again? Was it possible, that if he, who had -told her that never more in this world would he speak to her of love, -should go back again and kneel at her feet and plead for pardon, it -would be granted to him? If he could think that; if he could think -that when once his brother was avenged he might so plead and be so -forgiven, then he could take courage and look forward hopefully to the -future. But at present they were strangers, they were as much parted -as though they had never met; and he was utterly unhappy. - -When Guffanta had declared himself; it had been in his mind to write -and tell her all that he had newly learnt; but he could not bring -himself to write an ordinary letter to her. It might be that, -notwithstanding the deep interest she took in his unhappy brother's -fate, she would refuse to open any letter in his handwriting, and -would regard it almost as an insult. Yet he wanted to let her know -what had now transpired, and he at last decided what to do. He asked -Stuart to direct an envelope for him to her, and he put a slip of -paper inside it, on which he wrote: - - -"_Corot_ has disclosed himself, and he, undoubtedly, is not the -murderer. He, however, has some strange knowledge of the actual man in -his possession which he will not reveal, but says that he is certain, -at last, to bring him to justice." - - -That was all, and he put no initials to it, but he thought that the -knowledge might be welcome to her. - -He had not expected any answer to this letter, or note, and from Ida -none came, but a day or two after he had sent it, he received a visit -from Sir Paul Raughton. The baronet had come up to town especially to -see him, and having learnt from the footman that Lord Penlyn was at -home, he bade the man show him to his master, and followed him at -once. As Penlyn rose to greet him, he noticed that Sir Paul's usually -good-humoured face bore a very serious expression, and he knew at once -that the interview they were about to have would be an important one. - -"I have come up to London expressly to see you, Lord Penlyn," Sir Paul -said, shaking hands with him coldly, "because I wish to have a -thorough explanation of the manner in which you see fit to conduct -yourself towards my daughter. No," he said, putting up his hand, as he -saw that Penlyn was about to interrupt him, "hear me for one moment. I -may as well tell you at once that Ida, that my daughter, has told me -everything that you have confided to her with regard to your -relationship to Mr. Cundall--which, I think, it was your duty also to -have told me--and she has also told me the particulars of your last -interview with her." - -"I parted with her in anger," the other answered, "because there -seemed to have come into her mind some idea that I--that I might have -slain my brother." - -"And for that, for a momentary suspicion on her part, a suspicion that -would scarcely have entered her head had her mind not been in the -state it is, you have seen fit to cast her off, and to cancel your -engagement!" - -"It was she, Sir Paul, who bade me speak no more of love to her," -Penlyn said, "she who told me that, until I had found the murderer of -my brother, I was to be no more to her." - -"And she did well to tell you so," Sir Paul said; "for to whom but to -you, his brother and his heir, should the task fall of avenging his -cruel murder?" - -"That, I told her, I had sworn to do, and yet she suspected me. And, -Sir Paul, God knows I did not mean the words of anger that I spoke; I -have bitterly repented of them ever since. If Ida will let me recall -them, if she will give me again her love--if you think there is any -hope of that--I will go back and sue to her for it on my knees." - -The baronet looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, and then he said. -"Do you know that she is very ill?" - -"Ill! Why have I not been told of it?" - -"Why should you have been told? It was your words to her, and her -excitement over your brother's murder, that has brought her illness -about." - -"Let me go and see her?" - -"You cannot see her. She is in bed and delirious from brain fever; and -on her lips there are but two names which she repeats incessantly, -your own and your brother's." - -The young man leant forward on the table and buried his head in his -hands, as he said: "Poor Ida! poor Ida! Why should this trouble also -come to you? And why need I have added to your unhappiness by my -cruelty?" Then he looked up and said to Sir Paul: "When will she be -well enough for me to go to her and plead for pardon? Will it be soon, -do you think?" - -"I do not know," the other answered sadly. "But if, when the delirium -has left her, I can tell her that you love her still and regret your -words, it may go far towards her recovery." - -"Tell her that," Penlyn said, "and that my love is as deep and true as -ever, and that, at the first moment she is in a fit condition to hear -it, I will, myself, come and tell her so with my own lips. And also -tell her that, never again, will I by word or deed cause her one -moment's pain." - -"I am glad to hear you speak like this," Sir Paul said, "glad to find -that I had not allowed my darling to give herself to a man who would -cast her off because she, for one moment, harboured an unworthy -suspicion of him." - -"This unhappy misunderstanding has been the one blot upon our love," -Penlyn said; "if I can help it, there shall never be another." - -As he spoke these words, Sir Paul put his hand kindly on his shoulder, -and Penlyn knew that, in him, he had one who would faithfully carry -his message of love to the woman who was the hope of his life. - -"And now," Sir Paul said, "I want you to give me full particulars of -everything that has occurred since that miserable night. I want to -know everything fully, and from your lips. What Ida has been able to -tell me has been sadly incoherent." - -Then, once more--as he had had now so often to go over the sad -history to others, with but little fresh information added to each -recital--Lord Penlyn told Sir Paul everything that he knew, and of the -strange manner in which the Señor Guffanta had come into the matter, -as well as his apparent certainty of eventually finding the murderer. - -"You do not think it is a bold ruse to throw off suspicion from -himself?" Sir Paul asked. "A daring man, such as he seems to be, might -adopt such a plan." - -"No," the other answered, "I do not. There is something about the man, -stranger as he is, that not only makes me feel certain that he is -perfectly truthful in what he says, and that he really does possess -some strange knowledge of the assassin that will enable him to find -that man at last, but also makes the others feel equally certain." - -"They all believe in him, you say?" Sir Paul asked thoughtfully. - -"All! That is, all but Philip Smerdon, who is the only one who has not -seen him. And I am sure that, if he too saw him and heard him, he -would believe." - -"Philip Smerdon is a thorough man of the world," Sir Paul said, "I -should be inclined to give weight to his judgment." - -"I am sure that he is wrong in this case, and that when he sees -Guffanta, he will acknowledge himself to be so. No one who has seen -him can doubt his earnestness." - -"What can be the mystery concerning your garden? A mystery that is a -double one, because it brings your house, of all houses in London, -into connection with the murder of the very man who, at the moment, -was the actual owner of it? That is inexplicable!" - -"It is," Penlyn said, "inexplicable to every one. But the Señor tells -us that when we know what he knows, and when he has brought the -murderer to bay, we shall see that it is no mystery at all." - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Although the Señor Guffanta had not, as yet, in answer to many -questions put to him, been able to say positively that he was on the -immediate track of the murderer of Walter Cundall, he still continued -to inspire confidence in those by whom he was surrounded; and it had -now come to be quite accepted amongst all whom he met at Occleve House -that, although he was working darkly and mysteriously, he was in some -way nearing the object he had in view. It may have been his intense -self-confidence, the outward appearance of which he never allowed to -fail, that impressed them thus, or the stern look with which he -accompanied any words he ever uttered in connection with the assassin; -or it may have been the manner he had of making inquiries of all -descriptions of every one who had known anything of the dead man, that -led them to believe in him; but that they did believe in him there was -no doubt. - -In the time he had at his disposal, after transacting any affairs he -might have to manage for the merchant who had appointed him his agent -in London, he was continually passing from one spot to another, -sometimes spending hours at Mr. Cundall's house in Grosvenor Place, -and sometimes a long period of time each day at Occleve House; but to -no one did he ever say one word indicative of either success or -failure. And, when he was alone in either of these places, his -proceedings were of a nature that, had they been witnessed by any one, -would have caused them to wonder what it was that he was seeking for. -He would study attentively every picture that was a portrait, whether -painting or engraving, and for photograph albums, of which there were -a number in both houses, he seemed to have an untiring curiosity. He -would look them over and over again, pausing occasionally a long time -over some man's face that struck him, and then would turn the leaf and -go on to another; and then, when he had, for the second or third time -exhausted one album, he would take up another, and again go through -that. - -To Dobson, who was by the outside world regarded as the man who had -the whole charge of the case, the Señor's actions, and his absolute -refusal to confide in him, were almost maddening. To any question that -he asked, he received nothing but the regular answer, "Patience, my -good Dobson, patience," and with that he was obliged to be content. -For himself, he had done nothing; he was no nearer having any idea now -as to who the murderer was than he had been the morning after the deed -had been committed, and as day after day went by, he began to doubt -whether Guffanta was any nearer finding the man who was wanted than he -was. - -"But if he doesn't do something pretty quick," he said to one of the -men who was supposed to be employed under him in investigating the -case, "I shall put a spoke in his wheel." - -"Why, what will you do, Mr. Dobson?" his underling asked. - -"I shall just go up to the Home Office, and when they ask me, as they -do regular, if I have got anything to report in connection with the -Cundall case, I shall tell them that the Señor professes to know a -good deal that he won't divulge, and ask them to have him up before -them, and make him tell what he do know." - -"And suppose he won't tell, Mr. Dobson? What then?" - -"Why, he'll be made to tell, that's all! It isn't right, and it isn't -fair that, if he knows anything and can't find the man himself, he -should be allowed to keep it a secret and prevent me from earning the -reward. I'll bet I'd soon find the man if I had his information--that -is, if he's really got any." - -"Don't it strike you, Mr. Dobson," the other asked, "that there is -some mystery in connection with Occleve House that he knows of? What -with his having the garden locked up, and his always being about -there!" - -"It did once, but I have thought it over, and I can't see how the -house can be connected with it. You see, on that night it so happened -there was no one in the house but the footmen and the women servants. -His lordship and the valet had gone off to stay at the hotel, and Mr. -Smerdon had gone down in the morning to the country seat, so what -could the murderer have had to do with that particular house? And it -ain't the house the Señor seems to think so much about--it's the -garden." - -"I can't make that garden business out at all," the other said; "what -on earth has the garden got to do with it?" - -"That's just what he won't say. But you mark my words, I ain't going -to stand it much longer, and he'll have to say. If he don't tell -pretty soon what he knows, I shall get the Home Office to make him." - -Meanwhile the Señor, who had bewildered Lord Penlyn and Mr. Stuart by -the connection which he seemed to feel certain existed between the -garden of Occleve House and the murder in the Park, excited their -curiosity still more when he suddenly announced one evening that he -was going down, with his lordship's permission, to pay a visit to -Occleve Chase. - -"Certainly," Penlyn replied, "you have my full permission; I shall be -glad if you will always avail yourself of anything that is mine. But, -Señor Guffanta, you connect my houses strangely with this search you -are making--first it was this one, and now it is Occleve Chase----; do -you not think you should confide a little more in me?" - -"I cannot confide in you yet, Lord Penlyn. And, frankly, I do not know -that I have much to confide. Nor am I connecting Occleve Chase with -the murder. But I have a wish to see that house. I am fond of old -houses, and it was Walter's property once though he never possessed -it. I might draw inspiration from a visit to it." - -For the first time since he had known the Señor, Lord Penlyn doubted -if he was speaking frankly to him. It was useless for Guffanta to -pretend that he was not now connecting Occleve Chase in his own mind -with the murder, as he had certainly connected the old disused garden -previously--but whom did he suspect? For one moment the idea flashed -through his mind that perhaps, after all, he still suspected him; but -another instant's thought served to banish that idea. Whatever this -dark, mysterious man might be working out in his own brain, at least -it could not be that. Had he not said that, by some strange chance, he -had once stood face to face with the assassin? Having done so, there -could be no thought in his mind that he, Penlyn, was that assassin. -But, if it was not him whom he suspected, who was it? - -"Well," he said, "you must take your own way, Señor Guffanta, and I -can only hope it may land you aright. Only, if you would confide more -in me, I should be glad." - -"I tell you that at present I cannot do so. Later on, perhaps, you -will understand my reason for silence. Meanwhile, be sure that before -long this man will be in my power." - -Then the Señor asked for some directions as to the manner of reaching -Occleve Chase, and Lord Penlyn told him the way to travel there. - -"And I will give you a letter to my friend, Philip Smerdon, who is -down there just now," he said, "and he will make your stay -comfortable. He, of course, has also a great interest in the affair we -all have so much at heart, and you will be able to talk it over with -him; though, I must tell you, that he has very little hopes of your -ultimate success." - -"Ah! he has no hopes. Well, we shall see! I myself have the greatest -of hopes. And this Mr. Smerdon, this friend of yours, I have never yet -seen him. I shall be glad to know him." - -So when the letter of introduction was written, the Señor departed, -and on the next day he started for Occleve Chase. - -He travelled down from London comfortably ensconced in a first-class -smoking compartment, from which he did not move until the train -deposited him at the nearest station to Occleve Chase. The few -fellow-passengers who got in and out on the way, looked curiously at -the dark, sunburnt man, who sat back in the corner, twisting up -strange-looking little cigarettes, and gazing up at the roof or at the -country they were passing through; but of none of them did the Señor -take any notice, beyond giving one swift glance at each as they -entered. It had become a habit of this man's life now to give such a -glance at every one with whom he came into contact. Perhaps he thought -that if he missed one face, he might miss that of the man for whom he -was seeking. - -At the station nearest to the "Chase" he alighted, and taking his -small bag in his hand, walked over to the public-house opposite, and -asked if a cab could be provided to take him the remainder of his -journey, which he knew to be about four miles. - -"I beg your pardon, sir," a neat-looking groom said, rising from a -table at which he had been sitting drinking some beer, and touching -his hat respectfully, "but might I ask if you're going over there on -any business?" - -"Who are you?" Señor Guffanta asked, looking at him. - -"Beg pardon, sir, but I'm one of Lord Penlyn's grooms, and I thought -if you were going over on any business you might like me to drive you -over. I have the dog-cart here." - -"I am a friend of Lord Penlyn's," the Señor answered, "and I am going -to stay at Occleve Chase for a day or so. I have brought a letter of -introduction to Mr. Smerdon." - -"That's a pity, sir," the man said, "because Mr. Smerdon has gone up -to London by the fast train. I have just driven him over from the -Chase." - -"He is gone to London?" the Señor said quietly. "And when will he be -back, do you think?" - -"He did not say, sir." - -"Very well. If you will drive me there now, I shall be obliged to -you." - -The groom put the horse to, and fetched the dog-cart round from the -stable, wondering as he did so who the quiet, dark gentleman was who -was going to stay all alone at the "Chase" for a day or so; and then -having put the Señor's bag in, he asked him to get up, and they -started for Occleve Chase. - -On the road Señor Guffanta made scarcely any remark, speaking only -once of the prettiness of the country they were passing through, and -once of the action of the horse, which seemed to excite his -admiration; and then he was silent till they reached the house, a fine -old Queen Anne mansion in excellent preservation. He introduced -himself to the housekeeper who came forward in the hall, and said: - -"I have a letter of introduction to Mr. Smerdon; I had hoped to find -him here. Perhaps it would be well if I gave it to you instead." - -"As you please, sir, but it is not necessary. Lord Penlyn's friends -often come here, when they are in this part of the country, to see the -house. It is considered worth going over. If you please, sir, I will -send a servant up with your bag." - -"I thank you," the Señor said, with his usual grave courtesy, "but I -shall not trouble you much. I dare say by to-morrow I shall have seen -all I want to." - -"As you please, sir." - -He followed the neat-looking housemaid to the room he was to occupy, -after having told the housekeeper that the simplest meal in the -evening would be sufficient for him, and then, when he had made some -slight toilette, he descended to the lower rooms of the house. The old -servant again came forward and volunteered her services to show him -the curiosities and antiquities of the place; but Señor Guffanta -politely told her that he would not trouble her. - -"I am fond of looking at pictures," he said, "I will inspect those if -you please. But I am acquainted with the styles of different masters, -so I do not require a guide. If you will tell me where the pictures -are in this house, I shall be obliged to you." - -"They are everywhere, sir," she answered. "In the picture-gallery, the -dining-room, hall, and library." - -"I will go through the library first, if you please. Which is that?" - -The servant led the way to a large, lofty room, with windows looking -out upon a well-kept lawn, and told him that this was the room. - -"These pictures will not take you long, sir," she said, "it's mostly -books that are here. And Mr. Smerdon generally spends most of his time -here at his accounts; sometimes he passes whole days at that desk." - -She seemed inclined to be garrulous, and Señor Guffanta, who wished to -be alone, took, at random, a book from one of the shelves, and -throwing himself into a chair, began to read it. Then, saying that she -would leave him--perhaps taking what he intended as a hint--she -withdrew. - -When he was left alone he took no notice of the pictures on the walls -(they were all paintings of long-past days), but, rising, went over to -the desk where she had said that Mr. Smerdon spent hours. There were a -few papers lying about on it which he turned over, and he pulled at -the drawers to see if they would open, but they were all locked fast. - -"This room is no good to me," he said to himself, "I must try others." - -Gradually, as the day wore on, the Señor went from apartment to -apartment in the house, inspecting each one carefully. In the -drawing-room he spent a great deal of time, for here he had found -what, both at Occleve House and at Mr. Cundall's house in Grosvenor -Place, had interested him more than anything else--some photograph -albums. These he turned over very carefully, as he had done with the -others in London, and then he closed them and went to another room. - -"Did he ever know," he muttered once, "that the day would come when I -should be looking eagerly for his portrait--did he know that, and did -some instinct prompt him never to have a record made of his craven -face? And yet, he shall not escape me! Yet, I will find him!" - -Later in the evening, when he had eaten sparingly of the dinner that -had been prepared for him, and had drunk still more sparingly of the -choice wine set before him, confining himself almost entirely to -water, he sent for the housekeeper and said: - -"I think I have seen everything of importance here in the way of art, -and Lord Penlyn is to be congratulated on his treasures. Some of the -pictures are very valuable." - -"They are thought to be so, sir," the woman answered. In her own mind, -and after a conversation with another of the head servants, she had -put Señor Guffanta down as some foreign picture-dealer, or -_connoisseur_, who had received permission from her master to inspect -the collection at the "Chase," and, consequently, she considered him -entitled to give an opinion, especially as that opinion was a -favourable one. "They are thought to be so, sir." - -"Yes; no doubt. But I have seen them all now, and I will leave -to-morrow." - -"Very well, sir." - -"So, if you please, I will have that young man to drive me to the -station. I will go by the train that he told me Mr. Smerdon travelled -by." - -That night, as Señor Guffanta paced up and down the avenue leading to -the house and smoked his cigarettes, or as he tossed upon his bed, he -confessed that he was no nearer to his task. - -"Everything fails me," he said; "and yet, a week ago, I would have -sworn by San Pedro that I should have caught him by now. There is only -one chance--one hope left. If that fails me too, then I must lose all -courage. Will it fail me?--will it fail?" - -"It is strange, too," he said once to himself in the night, when, -having been unable to sleep, he had risen and thrown his window open -and was gazing from it, "that I cannot meet this man Smerdon, this man -who believes that I shall fail--as, _por Dios!_ I almost now myself -believe! Strange, also, that he should have left on the very day I -came here. I should like to see him. It may be that I shall do so in -London to-morrow." - -He left Occleve Chase at the time fixed, and by his liberality to the -housekeeper and the other servants who had waited on him he entirely -dispelled from their minds the idea that he was a picture-dealer. - -"I suppose he is one of those foreign swells, after all," the footman -who had served him said to the housekeeper, as he pocketed the -_douceur_ the Señor had given him; "there is plenty of 'em in London -Society now." - -He reached the London terminus late in the afternoon, and bade the -cabman he hired drive him to the Hôtel Lepanto; but, before half the -journey to that house was accomplished, the driver found himself -suddenly called on by his fare to stop, and to turn round and follow -another cab going in the opposite direction. - -A hansom cab which had passed swiftly the one Señor Guffanta was in, a -cab in which was seated a young man with a brown moustache, and on the -roof of which was a portmanteau and a bundle of rugs. - -"Quick!" the Señor said, speaking for the first time almost incoherent -English; "follow that cab with the valise on the top. Quick, I say! I -will pay you anything!" - -"How can I be quick!" the man said with an oath, "when I can hardly -turn my cab round? Which is the one you mean?" - -"The one with the valise, I say, that passed just now. I will give you -everything I have in my pockets if you catch it." - -But it was no use. Before the cab could be turned and put in pursuit, -the other one had disappeared round a corner into a short street, from -which, ere Señor Guffanta's cab had reached it, it had again -disappeared. - -"Blood of my father!" the Señor said to himself in Spanish, "am I -never to seize him?" Then he once more altered his directions to the -cabman, and bade him drive to Occleve House. - -He walked into the room in which he heard that Lord Penlyn and Mr. -Stuart were seated, and the excitement visible upon his face told them -that something had happened. - -"I have seen him," he said, going through no formality of greeting; he -was far too disturbed for that. "I have seen him once again, and once -again I have lost him." - -"Where have you seen him?" Stuart asked. - -"Not at Occleve Chase, surely!" Penlyn exclaimed. - -"No--here, in London! Not half-an-hour ago, in a cab. And I have -missed him! He went too swiftly, and I lost sight of him." - -"What will you do?" they both exclaimed. - -"At present I do not know. I feel as though I shall go mad!" Then a -moment after he said: "Give me the keys of the garden; at once, give -them to me." - -Penlyn took them from a drawer and gave them to Señor Guffanta, and -he, bidding the others remain where they were, opened the door leading -into the garden from the back of the house, and went out into it. - -It was but a few minutes before he returned, but when he did so the -bronze had left his face and he was deathly pale. - -"Lord Penlyn," he said, biting his lips as he spoke, and clenching his -hands until the nails penetrated the palms, "to whom have you given -those keys during my absence?" - -"To no one," Penlyn answered. "I promised you I would not let any one -have them." - -"You have given them to no one?" Guffanta said, while his eyes shone -fiercely as he looked at the other. "To no one! To no one! Then will -you tell me how the murderer of Walter Cundall has been in that garden -within the last few hours?" - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -That night Guffanta stood in the library of what had once been Walter -Cundall's house in Grosvenor Place, in the room in which the murdered -man had spent hours of agony after he had learned that Ida Raughton's -love was given to another; and to Mr. Stuart he told all that he knew. -To Lord Penlyn's request, nay to his command, that he should tell him -all, he paid no attention; indeed, he vouchsafed no words to him -beyond those of suspicion and accusation. - -"I know so much," he said, speaking in the calm, cold voice which had -only once failed him--the time when he had discovered that the -assassin had in some way obtained entrance to the deserted garden -during his absence, "as to be able to say that you are not your -brother's murderer. But, unless there is something very strange that -as yet I do not know, that murderer is known to you, and you are -shielding him from me." - -"It is false!" Lord Penlyn said, advancing to him and standing boldly -and defiantly before him. "As God hears me, I swear that it is false. -And you _shall_ tell me what you know, you shall justify your vile -suspicions of me." - -"Yes," the Señor replied, "I shall justify them, but not _to_ you. -Meanwhile, have a care that I do not prove you to be an accomplice in -this murder. Have a care, I say!" - -"I defy you and your accusations. And the law shall make you speak out -plainly." - -"I am about to speak out plainly, this very night. But I am not going -to speak plainly to the man whose house affords a refuge to his -brother's murderer." - -Lord Penlyn sprang at him, as he heard these words fall from his lips, -as he had once sprung at his own brother in the Park when that brother -told him he was bearing a name not rightly his; and once more he felt -himself in a grasp of iron, and powerless. - -"Be careful!" Señor Guffanta said, as he hurled him back, "be careful, -or I shall do you an injury." - -Stuart had endeavoured to come between them, but before he could do so -the short struggle was over, and then the Spaniard turned to him and -said, "I must speak with you alone. Come with me," and, turning, left -the room. - -Before Stuart followed him he spoke to Penlyn, and said: "Do not take -this too seriously to heart. This man is evidently under some -delusion, if not as to the actual murderer, at least as to your -connection with the crime. Perhaps, when he has told me what he knows, -we shall find out where the error lies; and then he will ask your -pardon for his suspicions." - -"It is too awful!" Penlyn said, "too awful to be borne. And I can do -nothing. I wish I could have killed him as he stood there falsely -accusing me, but he is a giant in strength." - -"Let me go to him now," Stuart said; "and do not think of his words. -Remember, he, too, is excited at having seen the man again and missed -him. And if he does not absolutely bind me to silence I will tell you -all." Then he, also, went away. And that night, in Walter Cundall's -library, Señor Guffanta told his story. Told it calmly and -dispassionately, but with a fulness of detail that struck a chill to -Stuart's heart. - -"I had been but a few days in London," he said, "when I learnt by -Walter's own hand--in the letter you have seen--that he was also here, -and that I was to go and see him. I was eager to do so, and on the -very night he was murdered, on that fatal Monday night, I set out to -visit him. He had told me to come late, and knowing that he was a man -much in the world, and also that, from living in Honduras, where the -nights alone are cool, one rarely learns to go to bed early, I did go -late; so late that the clocks were striking midnight as I reached his -house. But, when I stood outside it, there was no light of any kind to -be seen, only a faint glimmer from a lamp in the hall. 'He has gone to -his bed,' I said to myself, 'and the house is closed for the night. -Well, it is indeed late, I will come again.' And so I turned away, -and, knowing that there was a road through your Park, though I had not -gone by it, I determined to return that way." - -"Through the Park--where he was murdered?" Stuart asked. - -"Yes, by that way. But before I reached the gates, and when I was -outside the Palace of your Queen, Buckingham Palace, the storm that -had been threatening broke over me. _Caramba!_ it was a storm to drown -a man, a storm such as we see sometimes in the tropics, but which I -had never thought to see here. It descended in vast sheets of water, -it was impossible to stir without being instantaneously drenched to -the skin, and so I sought shelter in a porch close at hand. There, -seeing no one pass me but some poor half-drowned creature who looked -as though the rain could make his misery no greater than it was, I -waited and waited--I had no protection, no umbrella--and heard the -quarters and half-hours, and the hours tolled by the clock. At last, -as it was striking two, the storm almost ceased, and, leaving my -shelter, I crossed the road and entered the Park." - -"Yes!" Stuart said in a whisper. - -"Yes, I entered the Park, and went on round the bend, and so, under -the dripping trees, through what I have since learnt, is called the -'Mall.'" - -"For God's sake, go on!" Stuart exclaimed. - -"I had passed some short distance on my road meeting no living -creature, when but a little distance ahead of me I saw two figures -struggling, the figures of two men. Then I saw one fall, and the -other--not seeing me, there were trees between us--passed swiftly by. -But I saw him and his face, the face of a young man dressed as a -peasant, or, as you say here, a workman; a young man with a brown -moustache." - -For a moment Señor Guffanta paused, and then he continued: - -"I ran to the fallen man, and--it was Walter--dead! Stabbed to the -heart! I called him by his name, I kissed him, and felt his breast; -but he was dead! And then, in a moment, it came to my mind that it was -not with him I had to do; it was with the murderer. I sprang to my -feet, I left him there--there, dead in the mud and the water with -which his blood now mingled--and, as quickly as I could go, I retraced -my steps after that murderer. And God is good! I had wasted but two or -three moments with my poor dead friend, and ere I again reached the -gates of the Park I saw before me the figure of the man who had passed -me under the trees. He was still walking swiftly, and once or twice he -looked round, as though fearing he was followed. But I, who have -tracked savage beasts to their lairs, and Indians to their haunts, -knew how to track him. Keeping well behind him and at a fair distance, -sometimes screening myself behind the pillar on a doorstep, and -sometimes crossing the road, sometimes even letting myself fall back -still farther, I followed him. At one time, when I first brought him -into my sight again, it had been in my thoughts to spring upon him, -and there at once to kill him or take him prisoner. And then I thought -it best not to do so. We had moved far from the scene; who was to -prove, how was I to prove that it was he who had done this deed, and -not I? And there was blood upon my clothes and hands--it was plainly -visible! I could see it myself! blood that had flown from Walter's -dead heart on to me as I took him in my arms upon the ground. No, I -said, I must follow him, I must know where he lives, then I will take -fresh counsel with myself as to what I shall do. So I went on, still -following him. And by this time the dawn was breaking! He went on and -on, walking, perhaps, for half-an-hour or so, though it seemed far -more to me; but at last he stopped, and I had now some difficulty in -preventing him from seeing me. He had stopped at a gate in a wall, and -with a key had quickly opened it." - -"The gate of the garden of Occleve House!" Stuart exclaimed, quivering -with excitement. - -"Yes," the Señor answered, "the gate of the garden of Occleve House." - -"My God!" the other said. - -"Yes, it was that gate. And now I had to be careful. I was determined -to see where he had gone to through that gate, what he was doing in -that garden; but how to do it? If I looked through the railings he -would see me, he would know he was discovered--he might even then be -able to escape me! If I had had my pistol with me, I would have stood -by the gate and looked at him through it, and then, if necessary, -would have shot him dead. But I had it not; I had thought of no need -for it when I left the hotel that night. I did not know what was -before me when I went out. But I knew I must do something at once, and -so, seeing that the street was empty and no creature stirring, I -advanced near to the gate, stretched myself flat upon the _pavé_, and -with my head upon the ground looked under the lowest part of the -railings and saw----" - -"What?" Stuart asked, interrupting him again in his excitement. - -"A changed man, one different from him I had followed. Still a young -man with a brown moustache, but a young man whose habit was that of a -gentleman. He was dressed now in a dark, well-made suit, and with his -hands he was rolling up the peasant dress I had seen him wear. Then he -stooped over what seemed to be a hole, or declivity, near the wall and -dropped the suit into it, and arranged the weeds and long grass above -it, and then slowly he went to the house, and, taking again a key from -his pocket, entered the door." - -"What man could thus have had the entrance to the back of the house?" -Stuart asked. "I am bewildered with horrible thoughts!" - -"I also was bewildered, but I am now no longer so. I knew the man's -face; now--to-day--I know for certain who he was. Within the last few -days it flashed upon me, yet I doubted; but my doubts are satisfied. I -only learned of his existence ten days ago, or I should have suspected -him before." - -"Who was it?" Stuart said. "Tell me at once." - -"Wait yet a moment, and listen to me. As I saw that man enter the -house, a house that I, a stranger, could see was the mansion of some -person of importance, it came to me, to my mind, that this was the -owner, the master of that house, who had killed my friend. His reason -for doing so I could not guess--it might have been for the love of a -woman, or for hate, or about money--but that it was so I was -confident. And I said to myself, 'So! you cannot escape me! I know -your house, to-morrow I shall know your name, and, if in two or three -days the police have not got you in their power--I will wait that -while, for it is better they should take you than I--then I will kill -you.' And I went away thinking thus; there was no need to watch more. -I held him, for he could not escape I thought, in my hand." - -"But it was not the owner of the house," Stuart said, "it was not Lord -Penlyn who killed him. He was away at an hotel at the time." - -"Yes, he was--though still it would be possible for him then to have -entered his own house--but his was not the face of the man I had seen. -I learnt that, to my amazement, when for the first time I stood before -him. But, listen again! In the morning, at a restaurant, I found in a -Directory, of which I had learnt the use, that that house was Occleve -House, and that Lord Penlyn was the owner of it. And then my surprise -was great, for only an hour or so before I had found that Occleve was -the right name of Walter Cundall." - -"You had learnt that?" - -"When I lifted Walter in my arms in the Park, I felt against his -breast a book half out of his pocket. The murderer had missed that! I -took that book, for even in my haste and grief, I thought that in it -might be something that would give me a clue. But what were really in -it of importance were a certificate of his mother's marriage, another -of his own birth, and a letter, years old, from her to him. They told -me all, and, moreover they proved to me, as I then thought, that his -murderer lived in the very house and bore the very name that by right -seemed to be his. - -"They were the certificates he showed to them on the morning he -disclosed himself," Stuart said, "and he had not removed them from his -pocket-book when he was killed!" - -"Yes! that he showed to _them_; you have said it! It was to _two_ of -them that he showed those papers. And one was the friend of the other, -he lived with and upon him, he dares not meet me face to face, he -evades me! he, he is the murderer. He, Philip Smerdon!" - -Stuart sprung to his feet. - -"Philip Smerdon!" he exclaimed. "No, no! it cannot be!" - -"It is, I say! It is he. Of all others, who but he could have done -this deed? Who but he who crept back to Occleve House having in his -pocket the keys whereby to enter it, who but he who shuns me because -it has been told him that I knew the assassin's face! And on the very -night that he is back in London, sleeping in that house, are not the -clothes that might have led to his identification removed?" - -Stuart paused a moment, deep in thought, and then he said: "It cannot -be! On the day before the murder, in the morning, he left London for -Occleve Chase. He must have been there when it was committed." - -"Bah!" Guffanta said, with a shrug of his shoulders, "he did not leave -London, he only made a pretence of doing so. All that day he, in his -disguise, must have been engaged in tracking my poor friend, and at -night he killed him." Then he paused a moment, and when he next spoke -he asked a question. - -"Where was he going when he left Occleve House this afternoon in the -cab, and with his luggage?" - -"He was going to join his father, he said," Stuart answered. "His -father is ill and has been ordered abroad for his health, and, having -recovered some money from his ruined business, he is going on the -Continent, and Smerdon is going with him." - -"And to what part of the Continent are they going?" - -"I do not know, though he said something about the French coast, and -afterwards, the Tyrol. Why do you ask? - -"Why do I ask? Why? Because I must go also! I have to stand face to -face with him, and be able to convince myself that either I have made -some strange mistake, or that I am right." - -"And--if you are right?" - -"Then I have to take him to the nearest prison, or, if he resists, to -kill him." - -"You will do that?" - -"I will do anything necessary to prevent him ever escaping me again." - -They talked on into the night, and Señor Guffanta extracted from the -other a promise that he would lend him any assistance in his power, -and that, above all, he would say nothing to Lord Penlyn that, by -being retold to Smerdon, should, if he were actually the murderer, -help him to still longer escape. - -"I promise you," Stuart said, "and the more willingly because I myself -would give him up to justice if I were sure he is the man. But that, -of course, I cannot be; it is you alone who can identify this cruel -murderer. But, in one thing I _am_ sure you are wrong." - -"In what thing?" - -"In thinking that Lord Penlyn is in the slightest way an accomplice, -or suspects Smerdon at all. If he did so suspect him, I believe that -he would himself cause him to be arrested, even though they are such -friends." - -"What motive would Smerdon have to kill Walter except to remove him -from the other's path? Do you think he would have done it without -consulting Lord Penlyn?" - -"I am certain that if he did do it, as you think----" - -"As I am as convinced as that we are sitting here!" - -"Well, then I am certain that Lord Penlyn knows nothing of it. He is -hasty and impetuous, but he is the soul of honour." - -"Perhaps," Guffanta said; "it may be so. But it is not with him that I -have to deal. It is with the man who struck the blow. And it is him I -go to seek." - -"How will you find him?" - -"Through you. You will find out for me where he is gone with his -father--if this is not a lie invented to aid his further escape--and -you will let me know everything. Is it not so?" - -"Yes," Stuart said; "I myself swore that I would find the murderer if -I could; but, as I cannot do that, I will endeavour to help you to do -so. How shall I communicate with you?" - -"Write, or come to the 'Hôtel Lepanto.' And when you once tell me -where that man is, there I shall soon be afterwards. Even though he -should go to the end of the world, I will follow him." - -Then Señor Guffanta went back to his hotel, and told Diaz Zarates that -he should soon be leaving his house. - -"I have to make a little tour upon the Continent, and I may go at any -moment." - -"On a tour of pleasure, Señor?" the landlord asked. - -"No! on a voyage of importance!" - -And three days afterwards he went. A letter had come to him from -Stuart saying: - -"_S_. has really gone with his father. He has left London for Paris on -the way to Switzerland. They are to pass the summer at some mountain -resort, but the place is not yet decided on. At first they will be at -Berne. If you meet, for God's sake be careful, and make no mistake." - -"Yes!" Señor Guffanta muttered to himself as he packed his -portmanteau, and prepared to catch the night mail to Paris. "Yes, I -will be careful, very careful! And I will make no mistake!" - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -The summer began to wane, and as August drew to a close the world of -London at large forgot the murder of Walter Cundall. - -It forgot it because it had so many other things to think about, -because it had its garden parties and fêtes, and Henley and Goodwood; -and because, after that, the exodus set in, and the Continent, -Scotland, and Cowes, as well as all the other seaside resorts, claimed -its attention. It is true one incident had come to light which had -given a fillip to the dying curiosity of the world and society, but -even that had scarcely tended to rouse fresh interest in the crime. -This incident was the discovery that Lord Penlyn was the heir to all -of the dead man's vast wealth. The news had come out gradually through -different channels, and it had set people talking; but even then--at -this advanced state of the London season--it had scarcely aroused more -than a passing flutter of excitement. And society explained even this -fact to its own satisfaction--perhaps because it had, by now, found so -many other things of more immediate, and of fresher, interest. Cundall -had been, it said, a man of superbly generous impulses, one who seemed -to delight in doing acts of munificence that other men would never -dream of; what more natural a thing for him to do than to leave his -great wealth to the very man who had won the woman he had sought for -his wife? Was it not at once a splendid piece of magnanimity, a -glorious example of how one might heap coals of fire on those who -thwarted us--was it not a truly noble way of retaliating upon the -woman he loved, but who had no love for him? She would, through his -bequest to her husband that was to be, become enormously rich, but she -could never enjoy the vastness of those riches without remembering -whence they came; every incident in her life would serve to remind her -of him. - -So, instead of seeing any cause for suspicion in the will of Walter -Cundall, the world only saw in it a magnificently generous action, a -splendidly noble retaliation. For it never took the trouble to learn -the date of the will, but supposed that it had been made on the day -after he had discovered that Ida Raughton had promised herself to -another. - -To those more directly interested in the murder and in the discovery -of the assassin, the passing summer seemed to bring but little promise -of success. Lord Penlyn knew that Señor Guffanta had left London, but -beyond that he did not know what had become of him, nor whether it was -the business of Don Rodriguez, or pleasure, or the search for the -murderer that had taken him away. Stuart, who still believed him -innocent of the slightest participation or knowledge of the crime, yet -did not feel inclined to give him the least information as to the -Señor's movements, fearing that, if Smerdon was the man--of which, as -yet, he by no means felt positive--he might learn that he was being -pursued; and so contented himself with saying as little as possible. -As to Dobson, he had now come to the conclusion that the "Signor," as -he always called him, was an arrant humbug, and really knew no more -about the murder than he did himself. And as the detective had already -received a handsome sum of money from Lord Penlyn for his services, -such as they were, and as he had at the present moment what he called -"one or two other good little jobs on," he gradually devoted himself -to these matters, and the murder of Mr. Cundall ceased to entirely -occupy his efforts. Though, as he was a man who did his duty to the -best of his ability, he still kept one of his subordinates looking -about and making inquiries in various places where he thought -information might be obtained. But the information, as he confessed, -was very long in coming. - -From Señor Guffanta Stuart had heard more than once during his -absence, which had now extended to three weeks, but the letters he -received contained nothing but accounts of his failure to come upon -the suspected man. In Paris, the Señor wrote, he had been absolutely -unable to find any person of the name of Smerdon, though he had tried -everything in his power to do so. He had pored daily over _Galignani_ -and other papers that contained the lists of strangers who arrived in -the French capital, he had personally inspected the visitors' books in -every hotel likely to be patronised by English people of good social -position; but all to no effect. Then, determined, if his man was -there, not to miss him, he had applied to the particular _bureau_ of -police at the Préfecture, where are kept, according to French law, the -lists furnished weekly by every hotel-keeper and lodging-house keeper -of their guests and tenants, both old and new; and these, being shown -him, he had carefully searched, and still he had failed. He was -induced to think, he wrote Stuart, that Smerdon, either alone or with -his family (if he really had them with him) must have changed his -route, or his destination, at the last moment. Or, perhaps they had -travelled by Brussels and the Rhine to Switzerland, or passed through -Paris from one station to the other without stopping, or they might -have gone by the way of Rheims and Delle from Calais to Basle. Could -Mr. Stuart, he asked, obtain any further information from Lord Penlyn -as to the whereabouts of the man whose face he wished to see, for if -he could not, he did not know where to look for him. - -In answer to this, Stuart wrote back that no letter had come from -Smerdon since the day he left Occleve House, the day on which the -Señor had seen the murderer in the cab, but that he had little doubt -that the former was now in Switzerland. "Why," he wrote, "since you -are determined to make yourself sure about Smerdon's identity with the -man you saw kill our friend, do you not go on into Switzerland? There -you could have but little difficulty in finding him, for printed lists -of the visitors to almost every resort, small or large, are published -daily or weekly. Any bookseller would procure you the _Fremdenblatts_ -and _Listes des Étrangers_, and if you could only find his name at one -spot, you would be sure to catch him up at last. When a traveller -leaves an hotel in Switzerland, the train, or boat, or diligence is a -sure indication of what district he is changing to, and any -intelligent porter or servant will in all probability be able to -remember any person you can describe fairly accurately." - -To this a letter came back from Guffanta, saying that he acknowledged -the reason of Mr. Stuart's remarks, and that he would waste no more -time in Paris but would at once set out for Switzerland. "Only," he -wrote, in his usual grave and studied style, "you must pardon me for -what I am now going to say, and for what I am going to ask. It is for -money. I have exhausted my store, which was not great when I arrived -in England, and which has only been increased by a small draft on Don -Rodriguez's London banker. I have enough to take me to Switzerland I -find, but not enough to carry me into the heart of the country. Will -you please send me some to the Poste Restante, at Basle? I will repay -it some day, and be sure that I shall eventually gain the object we -both desire in our hearts." - -For answer to this, Stuart put a fifty-pound note in a registered -letter, and forwarded it to the address Guffanta had given him. Then, -when it had been acknowledged by the latter, he heard no more from him -for some time. - -During this period Lord Penlyn had been absent from town. He had -received from Sir Paul Raughton, at the time when the Señor was about -to leave London, a letter telling him that Ida was much better, and -that he thought that Penlyn might see her if he went down to Belmont. -Sir Paul had faithfully delivered the message given him, and to Ida -this, he said, had been the best medicine. At first she would scarcely -believe it possible that her lover would ever again see her or speak -of love to her; but, when she learnt that not only was he anxious to -do this, but that it was he himself whom he considered in the wrong, -and that, instead of extending his pardon to her, he was anxious to -sue for hers, the colour came back to her cheek and the smile to her -eyes and lips. - -"Oh, papa!" she said, as she sat up one day in her boudoir and nestled -close to him, "oh, papa, how could I ever think so ill of him, of him -who is everything that is good and noble? How wicked I have been! How -wicked and unjust!" - -"Of course!" Sir Paul exclaimed, "that is just the kind of thing a -woman always does say. She quarrels with the man she loves, and then, -just because he wants to make up the quarrel as much as she does, she -thinks she has been in the wrong. And after all, mind you, Ida, -although I don't believe that Penlyn had any more to do with the -murder than I had----" - -"No, papa!" speaking firmly. - -"Still he does not come out of the affair with flying colours. He -never moved hand nor foot to find out who really had done it, and he -kept the secret of poor Cundall being his brother from me. He oughtn't -to have done that!" - -Sir Paul did feel himself aggrieved at this. He thought that, as Ida's -father, he should have been told everything bearing upon the -connection between the two men, and he considered that there had been -some intention to deceive him on the part of Penlyn. In his joy at the -prospect of his daughter's renewed happiness he was very willing to -forgive Penlyn, but still he could not help mentioning his errors, as -he considered them. - -"Remember the letter from his brother, papa! It contained his solemn -injunctions--rendered doubly solemn by the awful fate that overtook -him on the very night he wrote them! How could he confide the secret -to any one after that?" - -Her father made no answer to this question, not knowing what to say. -After all, he acknowledged that had he been made the custodian of such -a secret, had he had such solemn injunctions laid on him as Cundall -had laid on his brother, he would have tried to keep them equally -well. Honestly, he could not tell himself that Penlyn should have -broken the solemn command imposed upon him; the command issued by a -man who, as he gave it, was standing at the gate of the grave. - -So, when Penlyn paid his next visit to Belmont, there was a very -different meeting between him and its inmates from the meetings that -had gone before. Sir Paul took him by the hand, and told him that he -was sincerely happy in knowing that once more he and Ida were -thoroughly united, and then he went into her. Not a moment elapsed -before she was folded to his heart and he had kissed her again and -again, not a moment before she was beseeching him to forgive her for -the injurious thoughts and suspicions she had let come into her mind. - -"Hush, Ida hush, my darling!" he said, as he tried to soothe her; "it -is not you who should ask for forgiveness, but I. Not because I kept -my brother's secret from you, but because of the brutal way in which I -cast you off, simply for your doubting me for one moment. Oh, Ida, my -own, say that you forgive me." - -"I have nothing to forgive," she said; "the fault was mine. I should -never have doubted you." - -And so once more they were united, united never more to part. And -since everything was now known to Ida, her future husband was able to -talk freely to her, to tell her other things that had transpired of -late, and especially of, what seemed to him, the strange behaviour of -the Señor, and the accusation he had brought against him of shielding -the murderer in his house. - -"Oh, Gervase!" Ida exclaimed, "why is it that every one should be -so unjust to you? Was it not enough that I should have suspected -you--though only for a moment in my grief and delirium--without this -man doing so in another manner. It is monstrous, monstrous!" - -"Your suspicions," he answered, "were natural enough. You had had your -mind disturbed by that strange dream, and, when you heard of my -relationship to Cundall, it was natural that your thoughts should take -the turn they did. But I cannot understand Guffanta, nor what he -means." - -He had recognised many times during the estrangement between him and -Ida that her temporary suspicion of him was natural enough, and -that--being no heroine of romance, but only a straightforward English -girl, with a strange delusion as to having seen the assassin in her -dream--it was not strange she should have doubted him; but for -Guffanta's accusation he could find no reason. Over and over again he -had asked himself whom it could be that he suspected? and again and -again he had failed to find an answer. On that fatal night there had -been no one sleeping in Occleve House but the servants, no one who -could have gained admission to it; yet the Señor had charged him with -sheltering the man who had done the deed, both on that night and -afterwards. - -"Can he not be made to speak out openly?" Ida asked. "Can he not be -made to say who the person was whose face he saw? Why do you not force -him to do so?" - -"I have seen nothing of him since the night he accused me of -protecting the murderer, and he has left the hotel he was staying at." - -"Where is he gone?" Ida asked. - -"No one seems to know, though Stuart says he fancies he is still -looking for the murderer. I pray God he may find him." - -"And I too!" Ida said. - -After this meeting, Penlyn acceded to the request of Sir Paul and his -future wife that he should stay at Belmont for some time, and he took -up his abode there with them. His valet came down from town, bringing -with him all things necessary for a stay in the country, and then Ida -passed happier days in the society of her lover than she had ever yet -enjoyed. They spent their mornings together sitting under the firs -upon the lawn, they drove together--for she was still too weak to ride -in the afternoons; and in the evenings Sir Paul would join them. Their -marriage had been postponed for two months in consequence of Ida's ill -health, but they knew that by the end of October they would be happy, -and so they bore the delay without repining. One thing alone chastened -their happiness--the memory of the dead man, and the knowledge that -his murderer had not been brought to justice. - -"I swore upon his grave to avenge him," Penlyn said, "and I have done -nothing, can do nothing. If any one ever avenges him it will be Señor -Guffanta, and I sometimes doubt if he will be able to do so. It seems -a poor termination to the vows I took." - -"Perhaps it is but a natural one," Ida answered. "It is only in -romances, and in some few cases of real life, that a murder planned as -this one must have been is punished. Yet, so long as we live, we will -pray that some day his wicked assassin may be discovered." - -"Do you still think," Penlyn asked, "that the figure which you saw in -your dream was known to you in actual life? Do you think that if the -murderer is ever found you will remember that you have known him?" - -"It was a dream," she answered, "only a dream! Yet it made a strange -impression on me. You know that I also said that, if once I could -remember to what man in actual life that figure bore a resemblance, I -would have his every action of the past and present closely -scrutinised; yet I, too, can do nothing. Even though I could identify -some living person with that figure, what could I, a woman, do?" - -"Nothing, darling," her lover answered her, "we can neither of us do -anything. If Guffanta cannot find him, we must be content to leave his -punishment to heaven." - -So, gradually, they came to think that never in this world would -Walter Cundall's death be avenged, and gradually their thoughts turned -to other things, to the happy life that seemed before them, and to the -way in which that life should be spent. Under the fir trees they would -sit and plan how the vast fortune that the dead man had left should -best be laid out, how an almshouse bearing his name should be erected -at Occleve Chase, and how a large charity, also in his name, should be -endowed in London. And even then, they knew that but a drop of his -wealth would be spent; it would necessitate unceasing thought upon -their part to gradually get it all distributed in a manner that should -do good to others. - -"He was the essence of charity and generosity," Penlyn said, "it shall -be by a charitable and generous disposal of his wealth that we will -honour his memory." - -They were seated on their usual bench one evening, still making their -plans, when they saw one of Sir Paul's footmen coming towards them and -bringing the usual batch of papers and letters. It was the time at -which the post generally came in, and they had made a habit of having -their correspondence brought to them there, and of passing the -half-hour before dinner in reading their letters. The man handed -several to Lord Penlyn and one to Ida, and they began to peruse them. -Those to Penlyn were ordinary ones and did not take long in the -reading, and he was about to turn round and ask Ida if hers were of -any importance, when he was startled by a sound from her lips,--a -sound that was half a gasp and half a moan. As he looked at her, he -saw that she had sunk back against the wooden rail of the garden seat, -and that she was deathly pale. The letter she had received, and the -envelope bearing the green stamp of Switzerland, had fallen at her -feet. - -"Ida! my dearest! what is it?" he exclaimed, as he bent towards her -and placed his arm round her. "Ida! have you had bad news, have -you----?" - -"The dream," she moaned, "the dream! Oh, God!" - -"What dream?" he said, while a sweat of horror, of undefined, unknown -horror broke out upon his forehead. "What dream?" - -"The letter! Read the letter!" she answered, while in her eyes was a -look he had once seen before--the far-away look that had been there -when he first spoke to her of his brother's murder. - -He stooped and picked up the letter--picked it up and read it -hurriedly; and then he, too, let it fall again and leaned back against -the seat. - -"Philip Smerdon my brother's murderer!" he exclaimed. "Philip Smerdon, -my friend, an assassin! The self-accused, the self-avowed murderer of -Walter Cundall! Ida," he said, turning to her, "is _his_ the figure in -your dream?" - -"Yes," she wailed. "Yes! I recognise it now." - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -The Schwarzweiss Pass, leading from the south-east of Switzerland to -Italy, is one well known to mountaineers, because of the rapid manner -in which they can cross from one country to another, and also because -of the magnificent views that it presents to the traveller. Moreover, -it offers to them a choice either of making a passage over the -snow-clad mountains that rise above it, and across the great -Schwarzweiss glacier, or of keeping to the path that, while rising to -the height at some places of 10,000 feet, is, except at the summit, -perfectly passable in good weather. It is true that he who, even while -on the path, should turn giddy, or walk carelessly, would risk his -life, for though above him only are the vast white "horns" and "Piz," -below him there are still the ravines through which run the boiling -torrents known respectively as the "Schwarz" and the "Weiss" -rivers--rivers that carry with them huge boulder stones and pine-trees -wrenched from their roots; dry slopes that fall hundreds of feet down -into the valley below; and also the Klein (or little) Schwarzweiss -glacier, a name so given it, not because of its smallness--for it is -two miles long, and in one place, half-a-mile across--but to -distinguish it from the Gross-Schwarzweiss glacier that hangs above on -the other side of the pass. - -It is a lonely and grim road, a road in which no bird is heard or seen -from the time that the village of St. Christoph is left behind on the -Swiss side until the village of Santa Madre is reached on the Italian -side; a road that winds at first, and at last, through fir-woods and -pine-trees, but that in the middle is nothing but a path, cut in some -parts and blasted in others, along the granite sides of the rocks, and -hanging in many places above the valley far below. Patches of snow and -pieces of rock that have fallen from above, alone relieve the view on -the side of the path; on the opposite side of the ravine is nothing -but a huge wall of granite that holds no snow, so slippery is it; but -above which hangs, white and gray, like the face of a corpse, the -glacier from which the pass derives its name. - -A lonely and grim road even in the daytime, when a few rays of -sunshine manage to penetrate it at midday, when occasionally a party -of tourists may be met with, and when sometimes the voice of a -goatherd calling his flocks rises from the valley below; but lonelier -and more grim, and more black and impenetrable at night, and rarely or -ever then trod by human foot. For he who should attempt the passage of -the Schwarzweiss Pass at night, unless there were a brilliant moon to -light him through its most dangerous parts, would take his life in his -own hands. - -Yet, on an August night of the year in which this tale is told, and -when there was a moon that, being near its full, consequently rose -late and shone till nearly daylight, a man was making his way across -this pass to Italy. - -Midnight was close at hand as, with weary steps, he descended a -rough-hewn path in the rock--a path which, for safety, had a rude -handrail of iron attached to the side from which it was cut--and -reached a small plateau, the size, perhaps, of an ordinary room, and -from which again the path went on. From this plateau shelved down, for -a hundred feet or more, an almost perpendicular moraine, or glacier -bed, and at the foot of this lay the Klein-Schwarzweiss, with its -crevasses glistening in the moonlight; for the moon had topped even -the great mountains above by now, and lighted up the pass. It was -evidently considered a dangerous part of the route, since between the -edge of the plateau and the side of the moraine a wooden railing had -been erected, consisting of two short upright posts and a long cross -one. As the man reached this plateau, holding to the rail with one -hand, while with the other he used his alpenstock as a walking-stick, -he perceived a stone--it may have been placed there for the -purpose--large enough for a seat; and taking off his knapsack wearily, -he sat down upon it. - -"Time presses," he muttered to himself, "yet I must rest. Otherwise I -shall not be at Santa Madre by eight o'clock to-morrow. I can go no -farther without a rest." - -There is an indefinite feeling of awfulness in being alone at night -amongst the mountains, in knowing and feeling that for miles around -there is no other creature in these vast, cold solitudes but -ourselves: and this man had that feeling now. - -"How still--how awful this pass is!" he said to himself, "with no -sound but the creaking of that glacier below--with no human being here -but me. Yet, I should be glad I am alone." - -At this moment a few stones in the moraine slipped and fell into the -glacier, and the man started at the distinct sound they made in that -wilderness of silence. Then, as he sat there gazing up at the moon and -the snow above him, he continued his meditations. - -"It is best," he thought, "that the poor old mother did not know when -I said 'good-bye' to her this afternoon, and she bade me come back -soon, that I should never come back, that I had a farther destination -than Italy before me; best that my father did not know that we should -never meet again. Never! never! Ah, God! it is a long word." - -"Yet it must be done," he went on. "If I want to drag this miserable -life out, I must do it elsewhere than in England. That sleuth-hound -will surely find me there; it is possible that he will even track me -to the antipodes. Yet, if I were sure that he is lying about--having -seen my face before, I would go back and brave him. Where did he ever -see it?--where?--where? To my knowledge I have never seen him." - -He rose and walked to the railing above the moraine, and looked down -at the glacier, and listened to the cracking made by the seracs. "I -might make an end of it now," he thought. "If I threw myself down -there, it would be looked upon as an ordinary Alpine accident. But, -no! that is the coward's resource. I have blasted my life for ever by -one foul deed; let me endure it as a reparation for my crime. But what -is my future to be? Am I to live a miserable existence for years in -some distant country, frightened at every strange face, dreading to -read every newspaper that reaches me for fear that I shall see myself -denounced in it, and never knowing a moment's peace or tranquillity? -Ah, Gervase! I wonder what you would say if you knew that, for your -sake, I have sacrificed every hope of happiness in this world and all -my chances of salvation in the next." He went back to the big stone -after uttering these thoughts and sat down wearily upon it. "If I -could know that that Spaniard was baffled at last and had lost all -track of me, I could make my arrangements more calmly for leaving -Europe, might even look forward to returning to England some day, and -spending my life there while expiating my crime. But, while I know -nothing, I must go on and on till at last I reach some place where I -may feel safe." - -He looked at his watch as he spoke to himself, and saw that the night -was passing. "Another five minutes' rest," he said, "and I will start -again across the pass." - -As he sat there, taking those last five minutes of rest, it seemed to -him that there was some other slight sound breaking the stillness of -the night, something else besides the occasional cracking noise made -by the glacier below and the subdued roar of the torrents in the -valley. A light, regular sound, that nowhere else but in a solitude -like this would, perhaps, be heard, but that here was perfectly -distinct. It came nearer and nearer, and once, as it approached, some -small stones were dislodged and rattled down from above, and fell with -a plunge on to the glacier below: and then, as it came closer, he knew -that it was made by the footsteps of a man. And, looking up, he saw a -human figure descending the path to the plateau by which he had come, -and standing out clearly defined against the moonlight. - -"It is some guide going home," he said to himself, "or starting out -upon an early ascent. How firmly he descends the path." - -The man advanced, and he watched him curiously, noticing the easy way -in which he came down the rough-hewn steps, scarcely touching the -handrail or using the heavy-pointed stick he carried in place of the -usual alpenstock. And he noticed that, besides his knapsack, he -carried the heavy coil of rope that guides use in their ascents. - -At last the new comer reached the plateau, and, as he took the last -two or three steps that led on to it, he saw that there was another -man upon it, and stopped. Stopped to gaze for one moment at the -previous occupant, and then to advance towards him and to stand -towering above him as he sat upon the boulder-stone. - -"You are Philip Smerdon," he said in a voice that sounded deep and -hollow in the other's ear. - -Utterly astonished, and with another feeling that was not all -astonishment, Smerdon rose and stood before him and said: - -"I do not know of what importance my name can be to you." - -"Your name is of no importance, but you are of the greatest to me. -When I tell you _my_ name you will understand why. It is Miguel -Guffanta." - -"Guffanta!" Smerdon exclaimed, "Guffanta!" - -"Yes! the friend of Walter Cundall." - -"What do you want with me?" the other asked, but as he asked he knew -the answer that would come from the man before him. - -"But one thing now, though ten minutes ago I wanted more. I wanted to -see, then, if the man whom I sought for in London and at Occleve -Chase, whom I have followed from place to place till I have found him -here, was the same man I saw stab my friend to death in----" - -"You saw it?" - -"Yes, I saw it. And you are the man who did it!" - -"It is false!" - -"It is true! Do you dare to tell me I lie, you, a---- Bah! Why should -I cross words with a murderer--a thief!" - -"I am no thief!" Smerdon said, his anger rising at this opprobrious -term, even as he felt his guilt proclaimed. - -"You are! You stole his watch and money because you thought to make -his murder appear a common one. And so it was! You slew him because -you feared he would dispossess your master of what he unrighteously -held, because you thought that you would lose your place." - -"Again I say it is false! I had no thought of self! I killed him--yes, -I!--because I loved my friend, my master as you term him, because he -threatened to come between him and the woman he loved. Had I known of -Walter Cundall's noble nature, as I knew of it afterwards, no power on -earth could have induced me to do such a deed." - -"It is infamy for such as you to speak of his nobility--but enough! -Are you armed to-night, as you were on that night?" - -"I have no arms about me. Why do you ask?" - -"To tell you that no arms can avail you now. You must come with me." - -"To where?" - -"To the village prison at St. Christoph. There I will leave you until -you can be taken to England." - -For the first time since he had seen the avenger of Walter Cundall -standing before him, Smerdon smiled bitterly. - -"Señor Guffanta," he said, "you are very big and strong--it may well -be stronger than I am. But you overrate your strength strangely if you -think that any power you possess can make me go with you. I am a -murderer--God help and pardon me! It is probable I shall be a double -one before this night is over." - -"You threaten me--you! You defy me!" Guffanta exclaimed, while his -dark eyes gleamed ominously. - -"Yes, I defy you! If my sin is to be punished, it shall not be by you, -at least. Here, in this lonely place where for miles no other human -creature is near, I defy you to do your worst. We are man to man; do -you think I fear you?" - -In a moment Guffanta had sprung at him, had seized him by the throat, -and with the other arm had encircled his body. - -"So be it," he hissed in Smerdon's ear, "it suits me better than a -prolonged punishment of your crime would do." - -For a moment they struggled locked together, and in that moment -Smerdon knew that he was doomed; that he was about to expiate his -crime. The long, sinewy hand of the Spaniard that was round his throat -was choking him; his own blows fell upon the other's body harmlessly. -And he was being dragged towards the edge of the moraine, already his -back was against the wooden railing that alone stood between the -plateau and destruction. He could, even at this moment, hear it -creaking with his weight; it would break in another instant! - -"Will you yield, assassin, villain?" Guffanta muttered. - -"Never! Do your worst." - -He felt one hand tighten round his throat more strongly, he felt the -other arm of the Spaniard driving him back; in that moment of supreme -agony he heard the breaking of the railing and felt it give under him, -and then Guffanta's hands had loosed him, and, striking the moraine -with his head, he fell down and down till he lay a senseless mass upon -the white bosom of the glacier. - -And Guffanta standing above, with his head bared to the stars and to -the waning moon, exclaimed, as he lifted his hand to the heavens, -"Walter, you are avenged." - - -The day dawned upon the plateau; a few struggling rays of the sun -illuminated the great glacier above and turned its dead gray snow and -ice into a pure, warm white, while the mists rolled away from the high -mountains keeping watch above; and below on the smaller glacier, and -at the edge of a yawning crevasse, lay the body of Philip Smerdon. - -Two guides, proceeding over the pass to meet a party of mountain -climbers, reached the plateau at dawn, and sitting down upon the stone -to eat a piece of bread and take a draught of cold coffee, saw his -knapsack lying beside it. - -"What does it mean?" the one said to the other. - -"It means death," his companion replied, "the railing is broken! Some -one has fallen." - -Slowly and carefully, and each holding to one of the upright posts, -they peered over and down on to the glacier, and there they saw what -was lying below. A whispered word sufficed, a direction given by one -to the other, and these hardy mountaineers were descending the -moraine, digging their sticks deeply into the stones, and gradually -working their way skilfully to the glacier. - -"Is he dead, Carl?" the one asked of his friend, who stooped over the -prostrate form and felt his heart. - -"No; he lives. Mein Gott! how has he ever fallen here without instant -death? But he must die! See, his bones are all broken!" and as he -spoke he lifted Smerdon's arm and touched one of his legs. - -"What shall we do with him?" the other asked. - -"We must remove him. Even though he die on the way, it is better than -to leave him here. Let us take him to the house of Father Neümann. It -is but to the foot of the glacier." - -Very gently these men lifted him in their arms, though not so gently -but that they wrung a groan of agony from him as they did so, and bore -him down the glacier to where it entered the valley; and then, having -handed him to the priest, who lived in what was little better than a -hut, they left him. - -Late that afternoon the dying man opened his eyes, and looked round -the room in which he lay. At his bedside he saw a table with a Cross -laid upon it, and at the window of the room an aged priest sat reading -a Breviary. "Where am I?" he asked in English. - -The priest rose and came to the bed, and then spoke to him in German. -"My son," he said, "what want of yours can I supply?" - -"Tell me where I am," Smerdon answered in the same language, "and how -long I have to live." - -"You are in my house, the house of the _Curé_ of Sastratz. For the -span of your life none can answer but God. But, my son, I should do -ill if I did not tell you that your hours are numbered. The doctor -from St. Christoph has seen you." - -"Give me paper and ink----" - -"My son, you cannot write, and----" - -"I _will_ write," Smerdon said faintly, "even though I die in the -attempt." - -The _Curé_ felt his right arm, which was not broken like the other, -and then he brought him paper and ink, and holding the former up on -his Breviary before the dying man, he put the pen in his hand. And -slowly and painfully, and with eyes that occasionally closed, Smerdon -wrote: - - -"I am dying at the house of the _Curé_ of Sastratz, near the -Schwarzweiss Pass; from a fall. Tell Gervase that _I alone murdered -Walter Crandall_. If he will come to me and I am still alive, I will -tell him all. - -"PHILIP SMERDON." - - -Then he put the letter in an envelope and addressed it to Ida -Raughton. And ere he once more lapsed into unconsciousness, he asked -the priest to write another for him to his mother, and to address it -to an hotel at Zurich. - -"They will be sent at once?" he asked faintly. - -"Surely, my son." - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -It was late on the evening of the fifth day after the letter had been -sent to Ida Raughton, that a mule, bearing upon its back Lord Penlyn -and escorted by a guide, stopped at the house of the _Curé_ of -Sastratz; The young man had travelled from London as fast as the -expresses could carry him, and had come straight to the village lying -at the entrance of the Schwarzweiss Pass, to find that from there he -could only continue his journey on foot or by mule. He chose the -latter as the swiftest and easiest course--for he was very tired and -worn with travelling--and at last he arrived at his destination. - -When the first feeling of horror had been upon him on reading the -letter Smerdon had written, acknowledging that he was the murderer, he -had told Ida Raughton that he would not go to see him even on his -death-bed; that his revulsion of feeling would be such that he should -be only able to curse him for his crime. But she, with that gentleness -of heart that never failed her, pleaded so with him to have pity on -the man who, however deep his sin, had sinned alone for him, that she -induced him to go. - -"Remember," she said, "that even though he has done this awful deed, -he did it for your sake; it was not done to benefit himself. Bad and -wicked as it was, at least that can be pleaded for him." - -"Yes," her lover answered, "I see his reason now. He thought that -Walter had come between my happiness and me for ever, and in a moment -of pity for me he did the deed. How little he knew me, if he thought I -wished him dead!" - -But even as he spoke he remembered that he had once cursed his -brother, and had used the very words "I wish he were dead!" If it was -upon this hasty expression that Smerdon had acted, then he, too, was a -murderer. - -He left Belmont an hour after the letter had arrived, and so, -travelling as above described, stood outside Father Neümann's house on -the night of the fifth day. The priest answered the door himself, and -as he did so he put his finger upon his lip. "Are you the friend from -England that is expected?" he asked. - -"Yes," Penlyn said, speaking low in answer to the sign for silence. -"He still lives?" - -"He lives; but his hours draw to a close. Had you not come now you -would not have found him alive." - -"Let me see him at once." - -"Come. His mother is with him." - -He followed the _Curé_ into a room sparsely furnished, and of -unpolished pine-wood; a room on which there was no carpet and but -little furniture; and there he saw the dying form of Philip Smerdon. -Kneeling by the bedside, and praying while she sobbed bitterly, was a -lady whom Lord Penlyn knew to be Smerdon's mother. She rose at his -entrance, and brushed the tears from her eyes. - -"You have come in time to see him die," she said, while her frame was -convulsed with sobs. "He has been expecting you. He said he could not -pass away until he had seen you." - -Penlyn said some words of consolation to her, and then he asked: - -"Is he conscious?" - -The poor mother leant over the bed and spoke to him, and he opened his -eyes. - -"Your friend has come, Philip," she said. - -A light came into his eyes as he saw Penlyn standing before him, and -then in a hollow voice he asked her to leave them alone. - -"I have something to say to him," he said; "and the time is short." - -"Yes," he said when she was gone, and speaking faintly in answer to -Penlyn, who said he had come as quickly as possible; "yes, I know it. -I expected you. And now that you are here can you bring yourself to -say that you forgive me?" - -For one moment the other hesitated, then he said: "I forgive you. May -God do so likewise." - -"Ah! that is it--it is that that makes death terrible! But listen! I -must speak at once, I have but a short time more. This is my last -hour, I feel it, I know it." - -"Do not distress yourself with speaking. Do not think of it now." - -"Not think of it! When have I ever forgotten it! Come closer, listen. -I thought he had come between you and Miss Raughton for ever. I never -dreamed of the magnanimity he showed in that letter. Then I determined -to kill him--I thought I could do it without it being known. I did -not go to the 'Chase' on that morning, but, instead, tracked him from -one place to another, disguised in a suit of workman's clothes that I -had bought some time ago for a fancy dress ball. I thought he would -never leave his club that night; but at last he came out, and -then--then--God! I grow weaker!--I did it." - -Penlyn buried his head in his hands as he listened to this recital, -and once he made a sign as though begging Smerdon to stop, but he did -not heed him. - -"I had with me a dagger I bought at Tunis, a long, sharp knife of the -kind used by the Arabs, and I loosened it from its sheath as we -entered the Park, he walking a few steps ahead of me, and, evidently, -thinking deeply. Between the lamps I quickened my pace and passed him, -and then, turning round suddenly, I seized him by the coat and stabbed -him to the heart. It was but the work of a moment and he fell -instantly, exclaiming only as he did so, 'Murderer!' Then to give it -the appearance of a murder committed for theft, I stooped over him and -wrenched his watch away, and as I took it I saw that he was dead. The -watch is at Occleve Chase, in the lowest drawer of my writing-desk." - -"Tell me no more," Penlyn said, "tell me no more." - -"There is no more--only this, that I am glad to die. My life has been -a curse since that day, I am thankful it is at an end. Had Guffanta -not hurled me on to the glacier below, I think I must have taken it -with my own hands." - -"Guffanta!" Penlyn exclaimed, "is it he then who has done this?" - -"It is he! He followed me from England here--in some strange way he -was a witness to the murder--we met upon the pass and fought, he -taxing me with being a murderer and a thief, and--and--ah! this is the -end!" - -His eyes closed, and Penlyn saw that his last moment was at hand. He -called gently to Mrs. Smerdon, and she came in, and throwing herself -by the side of the bed, took his hand and kissed it as she wept. The -_Curé_ entered at the same time and bent over him, and taking the -Crucifix from his side, held it up before his eyes. Once they were -fixed upon Penlyn with an imploring glance, and once they rested on -his mother, and then they closed for ever. - -"He is dead!" the priest said, "let us pray for the repose of his -soul." - - -It was a few days afterwards that Ida Raughton, when walking up and -down the paths at Belmont, heard the sound of carriage-wheels in the -road outside, and knew that her lover was coming back to her. He -had written from Switzerland saying that Smerdon was dead, and -that he should wait to see him buried in the churchyard of St. -Christoph--where many other English lay who had perished in the -mountains--and he had that morning telegraphed from Paris to tell her -that he was coming by the mail, and should be with her in the evening. - -She walked swiftly to the house to meet him, but before she could -reach it, he had come through the French windows of the morning-room, -and advanced towards her. - -"You have heard that he is dead, Ida?" he said, when he had kissed -her, "it only remains for me to tell you that he died penitent and -regretting his crime. It had weighed heavily upon him, and he was glad -to go." - -"And you forgave him, Gervase?" she asked. - -"Yes. I forgave him. I could not but remember--as I saw him stretched -there crushed and dying--that, though he had robbed me of a brother -whom I must have come to love, he had sinned for me. Yes, if -forgiveness belonged to me, I forgave him." - -"Until we meet that brother in another world, Gervase, we have nothing -but his memory to cherish. We must never forget his noble character." - -"It shall be my constant thought," Penlyn answered, "to shape my life -to what he would have wished it to be. And, Ida, so long as I live, -his memory shall be second only in my heart to your own sweet self. -Come, darling, it is growing late let us go in." - - -THE END. - - - - -LONDON: J. AND R. MAXWELL, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, E.C. - - - - - - -New Cheap Uniform Edition of Novels -BY -"RITA" ------- -Price 2s., Picture Boards; 2s. 6d., Cloth Gilt; -3s. 6d., Half Morocco. (Postage 4d. each.) ------- -DAME DURDEN -MY LADY COQUETTE -VIVIENNE -LIKE DIAN'S KISS -COUNTESS DAPHNE -FRAGOLETTA -A SINLESS SECRET -FAUSTINE -AFTER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN -TWO BAD BLUE EYES --------- -LONDON: J. & R. MAXWELL, -MILTON HOUSE, 14 & 15, SHOE LANE, FLEET ST., -AND -35, ST. BRIDE ST., LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C. -_And at all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers, etc_. - - - - - - -New Cheap Uniform Edition -OF -E. S. DREWRY'S NOVELS. - -Price 2s., Picture Boards; 2s. 6d., Cloth Gilt; -3s. 6d., Half Morocco. (Postage 4d. each.) --------- -ONLY AN ACTRESS -ON DANGEROUS GROUND -BAPTISED WITH A CURSE -A DEATH-RING -VERE DELMAR -THE CLOUDS BETWEEN THEM -LOVE'S LABOUR GAINED --------- -LONDON: J. & R. MAXWELL, -MILTON HOUSE, 14 & 15, SHOE LANE, FLEET ST., -AND -35, ST. BRIDE ST., LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C. -_And at all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers, etc_. - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Silent Shore, by John Bloundelle-Burton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILENT SHORE *** - -***** This file should be named 52209-8.txt or 52209-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/2/0/52209/ - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the -Internet Archive (University of California Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Silent Shore - A Romance - -Author: John Bloundelle-Burton - -Release Date: June 1, 2016 [EBook #52209] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILENT SHORE *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the -Internet Archive (University of California Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<p class="hang1">Transcriber's Notes:<br> -1. Page scan source: Internet Archive<br> -https://archive.org/details/silentshoreroman00blourich<br> -(University of California Libraries)</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h3>THE SILENT SHORE</h3> -<br> -<h5>A Romance</h5> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h5>BY</h5> -<h4>JNO. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<p style="margin-left:20%; font-size:8pt">"To die is landing on a silent -shore,<br> -Where billows never beat, nor tempests roar."/</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>LONDON</h4> -<h3>JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL</h3> -<h5>MILTON HOUSE, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS<br> -AND<br> -SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.<br> -[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</h5> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h3>THE SILENT SHORE</h3> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>Prologue</h4> - -<h4>THE STORY OF THIRTY YEARS AGO</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">"And you are certain of the year he was married in?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perfectly--there is no possibility of my being mistaken. He was -married on New Year's Day, '58; I was born in May, '59."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is strange, certainly. But there is one solution of it--is it not -possible that, even if this is he, the lady registered as his wife -might not have been so? In fact she could not have been, otherwise he -could never have married your mother."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will not believe it! He was too cold and austere--too puritanical I -had almost said--to form any such connection."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you think, then, that he would commit bigamy?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't know what to think!" the other answered gloomily.</p> - -<p class="normal">Two men, both about the same age, twenty-five, were seated in a -private room at an inn, known as the Hôtel Bellevue, at Le Vocq, a -dreary fishing town with a good though small harbour, a dozen miles -west of Havre. On a fine day the bay that runs in from Barfleur to -Fécamp is gay and bright, but it presented a melancholy appearance -on this occasion, as the two young men gazed out at it across the -rain-soaked plots of grass that formed the lawn of the "Bellevue." -Down below the cliff on which the inn stood, the port was visible, and -in the port was to be seen an English cutter, the <i>Electra</i>, in which -the friends had run for Le Vocq when the storm, that had now been -raging for twenty-four hours, broke upon them. They had left Cowes a -fortnight ago, and had been yachting pleasantly in the Channel since, -putting into Cherbourg on one occasion, into Ste. Mère Eglise on -another, and Havre on a third; and now, as ill-luck would have it, it -seemed as if they were doomed to be weather-bound in, of the many -dreary places on the coast, the dreariest of all, Le Vocq.</p> - -<p class="normal">The first night in the inn, to which they had come up after seeing the -yacht made snug and comfortable in the harbour below, and the sailors -left in charge of her also provided for, passed easily enough. There -was the hope of the storm abating--which was cheering--and they had -cards, and some Paris newspapers to read, and above all, they were -fatigued and could sleep well. But, on the next day, the storm had not -abated, and they were tired of cards, the old Paris papers had been -read and re-read, and later ones had not arrived, and they were -refreshed with their night's rest and wanted to be off. But there was -no getting off, and what was to be done?</p> - -<p class="normal">They had stood all the morning looking out of the window -disconsolately, had smoked pipes and cigarettes innumerable, and had -yawned a good deal, and sworn a little.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What the deuce are we to do to prevent ourselves from dying of -<i>ennui</i>, Philip?" the one asked the other.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Jerry," the other answered solemnly, "I know no more than you do. -There is nothing left to read, and soon--very soon, alas!--there will -be nothing left to smoke but the <i>caporal</i> obtainable in the village. -That, however, might poison us and end our miseries."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then the one called Philip began looking about the salon that was at -their disposal, and whistling plaintively, and peering into the -cupboards, of which there were two:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Hullo!" he suddenly exclaimed, "here is another great mental treat -for us--a lot of old books; and precious big ones, too! I wonder what -they are?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Pull them out and let us see. Probably only <i>Le Monde Illustré</i>, or -<i>Le Journal Amusant</i>, bound up for the landlord's winter nights' -delectation, after they have been thumbed by every sailor in the -village."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, confound the books!" Philip exclaimed when he had looked into -them, "they are only the old registers, the <i>Livres des Étrangers</i> of -bygone years."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nevertheless, let us see them," the other answered; "at any rate we -shall learn what kind of company the house has kept."</p> - -<p class="normal">So, obeying his behest, Philip brought them out, and they sat down "to -begin at the beginning," as they said laughingly; and each took a -volume and commenced to peruse it.</p> - -<p class="normal">Every now and then they told one another of some name they had -come across, the owner of which was known to them by hearsay, -and they agreed that the "Hôtel Bellevue" had, in its day, had -some very good people for its guests. They had found several -titles--English--inscribed in the pages of the register, and also many -prominent names belonging to the same nationality.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at -some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to -heaven some of them were here now, and that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing -fixedly at the page before him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very -wonderful?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how -could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his -finger to a line in the book.</p> - -<p class="normal">"By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "<i>Août</i> 17, 1854, <i>L'Hon. -Gervase Occleve et sa femme</i>." Then he said, "Your father of course, -before he inherited his title?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence, -except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It means that your father knew this place many years ago, and came -here: that is all, I should say. It is a coincidence, but after all it -is no more strange that he should know Le Vocq, than that you should."</p> - -<p class="normal">"But you don't see the curious part of it, Philip! It is the words <i>et -sa femme</i>. My father had no wife in 1854! He never had a wife until he -married my mother, and then he was Lord Penlyn and no longer known as -Gervase Occleve."</p> - -<p class="normal">And then followed the conversation with which this story opens.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It <i>is</i> a strange thing," Philip said, "but it must be a mistake."</p> - -<p class="normal">In his own heart, being somewhat of a worldling, he did not think it -was any mistake at all. He thought it highly probable that the late -Lord Penlyn had, when here, a lady travelling with him who was -registered as his wife, but who, in actual fact, was not his wife at -all.</p> - -<p class="normal">After a few moments spent in thought, Gervase turned to his friend and -said, "The landlord, the man who stared so hard at me yesterday when -we came in, was an elderly person. He may have had this hotel in '54, -might even remember this mysterious namesake of mine. I think I will -ask him to come up."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shouldn't," Philip said. "He isn't at all likely to remember -anything about it." In his mind he thought it very probable that the -man might, even at that distance of time, remember something of -Gervase's father, especially if he had made a long stay at the house, -and would perhaps be able to give some reminiscences of his whilom -guest that might by no means make his son feel comfortable.</p> - -<p class="normal">But his remonstrance was unheeded, and the other rang the bell. It was -answered by a tidy waitress wearing the cap peculiar to the district, -to whom Gervase--who was an excellent linguist--said in very good -French:</p> - -<p class="normal">"If the landlord is in, will you be good enough to say that Lord -Penlyn would be glad to speak to him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The girl withdrew, and in a few minutes the landlord tapped at the -door. When he had received an invitation to enter, he came into the -room and bowed respectfully, but, as he did so, Lord Penlyn again -noticed that his eyes were fixed upon him with a wondering stare; a -stare exactly the same as he had received on the previous day when -they entered the hotel. There was nothing rude nor offensive in the -look; it partook more of the nature of an incredulous gaze than -anything else.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Milor has expressed a wish to see me," he said as he entered. "He -has, I trust, found everything to his wish in my poor house!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perfectly," Gervase answered; "but I want to ask you a question. Will -you be seated?" And then when the landlord had taken a chair--still -looking intently at him--he went on:</p> - -<p class="normal">"We found these <i>Livres des Étrangers</i> in your cupboard, and, for want -of anything else to read, we took them down and have been amusing -ourselves with them. I hope we did not take a liberty."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Mais, Milor!</i>" the landlord said with a shrug of his shoulders and a -twitch of his eyebrows, that were meant to express his satisfaction at -his guests being able to find anything to distract them.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Thank you," Gervase said. "Well! in going through this book--the one -of 1854--I have come upon a name so familiar to me, the name of -Gervase Occleve, that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">But before he could finish his sentence the landlord had jumped up -from his chair, and was speaking rapidly while he gesticulated in a -thorough French fashion.</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>C'est ça, mon Dieu, mais oui!</i>" he began. "Occleve--of course! That -is the face. Sir, Milor! I salute you! When you entered my house -yesterday, I said to myself, 'But where, mon Dieu, but where have I -seen him? Or is it but the spirit of some dead one looking at me out -of his eyes?' And now that you mention to me the name of Occleve, then -in a moment he comes back to me and I see him once again. <i>Ah! ma foi, -Milor!</i> but when I regard you, then in verity he returns to me, and I -recall him as he used to sit in this very room--<i>parbleu!</i> in that -very chair in which you now sit."</p> - -<p class="normal">The young men had both stared at him with some amazement as he spoke -hurriedly and excitedly, repeating himself in his earnestness, and now -as he ceased, Gervase said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do I understand you to say, then, that I bear such a likeness to this -man, whose name is inscribed here, as to recall him vividly to you?" -"<i>Mais, sans doute!</i> you are his son! It must be so. There is only one -thing that I do not comprehend. You bear a different name."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He became Lord Penlyn later in life, and at his death that title came -to me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Bien compris!</i> And so he is dead! He can scarcely have lived the -full space of man's years. And Madame your mother? She is well?"</p> - -<p class="normal">For a moment the young man hesitated. Then he said: "She is dead too."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Pauvre dame</i>," the landlord said, and as he spoke it seemed as -though he was talking to himself. "She was bright and happy in those -days so far off, bright and happy once; and she, too, is gone. And I, -who was older than either of them, am left! But, Lord Penlyn," he -said, readdressing himself to his guest, "you look younger than your -years. It is thirty years since you used to run about those sands -outside and play; I have carried you to them often----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You carried me to those sands thirty years ago! Why, I was not----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Stop!" Philip Smerdon said to him in English, and speaking in a low -tone. "Do you not see it all? Say no more."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Gervase answered. "Yes, I see it all."</p> - -<p class="normal">Later on, when the landlord had left the room after insisting upon -shaking the hand of "the child he had known thirty years ago," Gervase -said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"So he who was so stern and self-contained, who seemed to be above the -ordinary weaknesses of other men, was, after all, worse than the -majority of them. I suppose he flung this poor woman off when he -married my mother, I suppose he left the boy, for whom this man takes -me--to starve or to become a thief preying on his fellow men. It is -not pleasant to think that I have an elder brother who may be an -outcast, perhaps a felon!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I should not take quite such a pessimist view of things as that," -Philip said. "For aught you know, the lady he had with him here may -have died between 1854 and 1858, and, for the matter of that, so may -the boy; or he may have made a good allowance to both when he parted -with them. For anything you know to the contrary he might have seen -the boy frequently until his death, and have taken care to place him -comfortably in the world."</p> - -<p class="normal">"In such a case I must have known it. I must have met him somewhere."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nothing more unlikely! The world is large enough--in spite of the -numerous jokes about its smallness--for two peculiarly situated -individuals not to meet. If I were you, Jerry, I should think no more -about the matter."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is not a thing one can easily forget!" the other answered.</p> - -<p class="normal">The landlord had given them a description of what he remembered of the -Gervase Occleve whom he had known thirty years ago, but what he had -told them had not thrown much light upon the subject. He described how -Gervase Occleve had first come there in the summer of '54 accompanied -by his wife (he evidently had never doubted that they were married) -and by his son, "the Monsieur now before him," as he said innocently. -They had lived very quietly, occupying the very rooms in which they -were now sitting, he told the young men; roaming about the sands in -the day, or driving over to the adjacent towns and villages, or -sailing in a boat that Mr. Occleve hired by the month. They seemed -contented and happy enough, he said, and stayed on and on until the -autumn's damp and rain, peculiar to that part of the coast, drove them -away. It was strange, he thought, that Milor did not remember anything -about that period; but it was true, he was but a little child!</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, he continued, in the following summer they returned again, and -again spent some months there--and then, he never saw nor heard of -them more. But, so well did he remember Mr. Occleve's face, even after -all these years, that, ever since Lord Penlyn had been in the house, -he had been puzzling his brains to think where he had seen him before. -He certainly should not, he said, have remembered the child he had -played with so often, but that his likeness to his father was more -than striking. To Madame, his mother, he saw no resemblance at all.</p> - -<p class="normal">"But I did not tell him," he said to himself afterwards, as he sat in -his parlour below and sipped a little red wine meditatively, "I did -not tell him that on the second summer a gloom had fallen over them, -and that I often saw her in tears, and heard him speak harshly to her. -Why should I? <i>À quoi bon</i> to disturb the poor young man's meditations -on his dead father and mother!"</p> - -<p class="normal">And the good landlord went out and served a chopine of <i>petit bleu</i> to -one customer, and a <i>tasse</i> of <i>absinthe gommée</i> to another, and -entertained them with an account of how there was, upstairs, an -English Milor who had been there thirty years ago with his father; the -Milor who was the owner of the yacht now in port.</p> - -<p class="normal">On the next day the storm was over, there was almost a due south wind, -and the <i>Electra</i> was skimming over the waves and leaving the dreary -French coast far behind it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It hasn't been a pleasant visit," Lord Penlyn said to Philip, as they -leant over the bows smoking their pipes and watching Le Vocq fade -gradually into a speck. "I would give something never to have heard -that story!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is the story of thirty years ago," his friend answered. "And it is -not you who did the wrong. Why let it worry you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I cannot help it! And--I daresay you will think me a fool!--but I -cannot also help wondering on which of my father's children--upon that -other nameless and unknown one, or upon me--his sins will be visited!"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>The Story</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER I.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Ida Raughton sat, on a bright June day of that year, in her pretty -boudoir looking out on the well-kept gardens of a West End square, and -thinking of an important event in her life that was now not very far -off--her marriage. Within the last month she had become engaged, not -without some earlier doubts on her part as to whether she was -altogether certain of her feelings--though, afterwards, she told -herself over and over again that the man to whom she was now promised -was the only one she could ever love: and the wedding-day was fixed -for the 1st of September. Her future husband was Gervase Occleve, -Viscount Penlyn.</p> - -<p class="normal">She was the only daughter of Sir Paul Raughton, a wealthy Surrey -baronet, and had been to him, since her mother's death, as the apple -of his eye--the only thing that to him seemed to make life worth -living. It was true that he had distractions that are not uncommon to -elderly gentlemen of means, and possessed of worldly tastes; perfectly -true that Paris and Nice, and Ascot and Newmarket, as well as his -clubs and his friends--not always male ones--had charms for him that -were still very seductive; but, after all, they were nothing in -comparison to his daughter's love and his love for her. Never during -his long widowerhood, a widowerhood dating from her infancy, had he -failed to make her life and happiness the central object of his -existence; never had he allowed his pleasures to stand in the way of -the study of her comfort. The best schools and masters when she was a -child, the best friends and chaperons for her when womanhood was -approaching, and when it had arrived, the greatest liberality as -regards cheques for dressmakers, milliners, upholsterers, horses, -etc., had been but a small part of his way of showing his devotion to -her. And she had returned his affection, had been to him a daughter -giving back love for love, and endeavouring in every way in her power -to make him an ample return for all the thought and care he had -showered on her. Of course he had foreseen that the inevitable day -must come when--love him however much she might--she would still be -willing to leave him, when she would be willing to resign being -mistress of her father's house to be mistress of her husband's. His -worldly knowledge, which was extensive enough for half-a-dozen -ordinary men, told him clearly enough that the parent nest very soon -palled on the bird that saw its way to building one for itself. Yet, -when the blow fell, as he had known it must fall, he did not find that -his philosophy enabled him to endure it very lightly. On the other -hand, there was his love for her, and that bade him let her go, since -it was for her happiness that she should do so.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I promised her mother when she lay dying," he said to himself, "that -my life should be devoted to her, and I have kept my vow to the best -of my power. I am not going to break it now. Besides, it is part of a -father's duty to see his daughter well married; and I suppose Penlyn -is a good match. At any rate, there are plenty of other fathers and -mothers who would like to have caught him for their girls."</p> - -<p class="normal">That she should have made a sensation during her first season was not -a thing to astonish Sir Paul, nor, indeed, any one else. Ida Raughton -was as thoroughly beautiful a girl, when first she made her appearance -in London society, as any who had ever taken their place in its ranks. -Tall and graceful, and possessed of an exquisitely shaped head, round -which her auburn hair curled in thick locks; with bright hazel eyes, -whose expression varied in accordance with their owner's thoughts and -feelings, sometimes sparkling with laughter and mirth, and sometimes -saddened with tears as she listened to any tale of sorrow; with a nose -the line of which was perfect, and a mouth, the smallness of which -disguised, though it could not hide, the even, white teeth within, no -one could look at Ida without acknowledging how lovely she was. Even -other and rival <i>débutantes</i> granted her loveliness, and the woman who -can obtain such a concession as this from her sisters has fairly -established her right to homage.</p> - -<p class="normal">As she sat at her boudoir window on this June day, thinking of her now -definitely settled marriage, she was wondering if the life before her -would be as bright and happy as the one she was leaving behind for -ever. That--with the exception of the death of her mother, a sorrow -that time had mercifully tempered to her--had been without alloy. -Would the future be so? There was no reason to think otherwise, she -reflected, no reason to doubt it. Lord Penlyn was young, handsome, and -manly, the owner of an honoured name, and well endowed with the -world's goods. Yet that would not have weighed with her had she not -loved him.</p> - -<p class="normal">She had asked herself if she did love him several times before she -consented to give him the answer he desired, and then she acknowledged -that he alone had won her heart. She recalled other men's attentions -to her, their soft words, their desire to please; how they had haunted -her footsteps at balls and at the Opera, and how no other man's homage -had ever been so sweet to her as the homage of Gervase Occleve. At -first--wishing still to be sure of herself--she would not agree to be -his wife, telling him that she did not know her heart; but when he -asked her a second time, after she had had ample opportunity for -reflection, she told him he should have his wish.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you do love me, Ida?" he asked rapturously, perhaps boyishly, as -they drove back from a large dinner-party to which they had gone at -Richmond. "You are sure you do?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," she said, "I am sure I do. I was not sure when first you asked -me, but I am now."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then kiss me, darling, and tell me so. Otherwise I shall scarcely be -able to believe it;" and he bent over her and kissed her, and she -returned the kiss.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I love you, Gervase," she said, blushing as she did so.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have made me supremely happy," he said to her after their lips -had met; "happy beyond all thought. And, dearest, you shall never have -cause to repent of it. I will be to you the best, the truest husband -woman ever had. There shall be no shadow ever come over your life that -I can keep away."</p> - -<p class="normal">For answer she put her hand in his, and so they drove along the lanes -that were getting thick with hawthorn and chestnut blossom, while -ahead of them sounded the merry voices of others of the party who were -on a four-in-hand. They had come down, a joyous company, from town in -the afternoon, had dined at the "Star and Garter," and were now on -their way home under the soft moonlight of an early summer evening. -Sir Paul had been with them in the landau on the journey out, but on -this return one he was seated on the top of the coach, talking to a -lady whom he addressed more than once as "his dear old friend," and -was smoking innumerable cigarettes. Probably he did not imagine for -one moment that Lord Penlyn was going to take this opportunity of -proposing to his daughter; but he had noticed that they seemed to -enjoy each other's society very much, especially when they could -enjoy it alone. And so, all things being suitable and harmonious, and -the baronet having a heart beneath his exceedingly well-fitting -waistcoat--and that a very big heart where Ida was concerned--had let -them have the gratification of the drive home together.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you never loved any other man, Ida?" Gervase asked. "Forgive the -question, but every lover likes to know, or think, that no one has -ever been before him in the affection of the woman he loves."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," she answered, "never. You are the first man I have ever loved."</p> - -<p class="normal">This had happened nearly a month ago, but as Ida sat in her boudoir -her thoughts returned to the drive on that May night. Yes, she -acknowledged, she loved him, and she loved him more and more every -time she saw him. But as she recalled this conversation she also -recalled the question he had asked her, the question as to whether she -had ever loved any other man; and she wondered what had made him ask -it. Could it be that it was supposed by some of their circle--though -erroneously supposed, she told herself--that another man loved her? -Perfectly erroneously, because that other man had never breathed one -word of love to her; and because, though he would sometimes be in her -society continually for perhaps a week, and then be absent for a -month, he never, during all the time they were thus constantly -meeting, paid her more marked attention than other men were in the -habit of doing. Yet, notwithstanding this, it had come to her -knowledge that it had been whispered about that Walter Cundall loved -her.</p> - -<p class="normal">This man, Walter Cundall, this reported admirer of hers, was well -known in society, was in a way famous, though his fame was in the -principal part due to the simplest purchaser of that commodity--to -wealth. He was known to be stupendously rich, to be able to spend any -large sum of money he chose in order to gratify his inclinations, to -be able to look upon thousands as ordinary men looked upon hundreds, -and upon hundreds as other men looked upon tens. This was the -principal part of his fame; but there was a lesser, though a better -part! It was true that he did spend hundreds and thousands, but, as a -rule, he spent them quite as much upon others as upon himself. His -fours-in-hand, his yachts and steam-yachts, his villa at Cookham, and -his house in Grosvenor Place, as well as his villa at Cannes--to which -a joyous party went every winter--were as much for his friends as for -him. He gave dinners that men and women delighted in getting -invitations to; but it was noticed that, though his <i>chéf</i> was a -marvel, he rarely ate of anything but the soup and joint himself, and -that, while others were drinking the best wine that Burgundy, or Aÿ, -or Rheims could produce, he scarcely ever quenched his thirst with -anything but a tumbler of claret. But he would sit at the head of his -table with a smile of satisfaction upon his handsome face, contented -with the knowledge that his guests were happy and enjoying themselves.</p> - -<p class="normal">This man of whom Ida was now thinking and whose story may be told -here, had commenced life at Westminster School, to which he had been -put by his uncle, a rich owner of mines and woods in Honduras, from -which place he paid flying visits to England once a year, or once in -two years. The boy was an orphan, left by his mother to her brother's -care, and that brother had not failed in his trust. The lad went to -Westminster with the full understanding that Honduras must be his home -when school days were over; but he knew that it would be a home of -luxury and tropical splendour. There, after his school days, he passed -some years of his life, attending to the mines, seeing to the -consignments of shiploads of mahogany and cedar, going for days in the -hills with no companions but the Mestizos and the Indians, and helping -his uncle to garner up more and more wealth that was eventually -destined to be his. Once or twice in the space of ten years he came to -Europe, generally with the object of increasing their connection with -London or Continental cities, and of looking up and keeping touch with -his old schoolfellows and friends.</p> - -<p class="normal">And then, at last, two or three years before this story opens, and -when his uncle was dead, it came to be said about London that Walter -Cundall, the richest man from the Pacific to the Gulf of Honduras, had -taken a house in Grosvenor Place, and meant to make London more or -less permanently his residence. The other places that have -been mentioned were purchased one by one, and he used all his -possessions--sharing them with his friends--by turn; but London was, -as people said, his home. Occasionally he would go off to Honduras on -business, or would rush by the Orient express to St. Petersburg or -Vienna; but he loved England better than any other spot in the globe, -and never left it unless he was obliged to do so.</p> - -<p class="normal">This was the man whom gossip had said was the future husband of Ida -Raughton--this tall, dark, handsome man, who was, when in England, a -great deal by her side. But gossip had been rather staggered when it -heard that, during Mr. Cundall's last absence of six months in the -tropics, she had become the affianced wife of Lord Penlyn! It wondered -what he would say when he came back, as it heard he was about to do -very shortly, and it wondered why on earth she had taken Penlyn when -she might have had Cundall. It talked it over in the drawing-rooms and -the ball-rooms, at Epsom and on the lawn at Sandown, but it did not -seem to arrive at any conclusion satisfactory to itself.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I suppose the fact of it is that Cundall never asked her," one said -to another, "and she got tired of waiting."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I should have waited a bit longer on the off chance," the other said -"Cundall's a fifty times richer fellow than Penlyn, and there's no -comparison between the two. The one is a man of the world and a -splendid fellow, and the other is only a boy."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He isn't a bad sort of a boy though," said a third, "good-looking, -and all that. And," he continued sententiously, "he has the pull in -age. That's what tells! He is about twenty-five, and Cundall's well -over thirty, isn't he?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Thirty is no such great age," said the first one, who, being over -forty himself, looked upon Cundall also as almost a boy, "and, for my -part, I think she has made a mistake!"</p> - -<p class="normal">And that was what the world said: "She had made a mistake!" Did she -think so herself, as she sat there that bright afternoon? No, that -could not be possible! Ida Raughton was a girl with too pure and -honourable a heart to take one man when she loved another. And we know -what the gossips did not know, that no word of love had ever passed -between her and Walter Cundall. The world was indulging in profitless -speculations when it debated in its mind why Ida had not taken as a -husband a man who had never spoken one word of love to her!</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER II.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">A few days after Ida Raughton had been indulging in those summer -noontide meditations, Walter Cundall arrived at his house in Grosvenor -Place. Things were so well ordered in the establishment of which he -was master, that a telegram from Liverpool, despatched a few hours -earlier, had been sufficient to cause everything to be in readiness -for him; and his servants were so used to his coming and going that -his arrival created no unusual excitement.</p> - -<p class="normal">He walked into his handsome library followed by a staid, grave -man-servant, and, sitting down in one of his favourite chairs, said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, West, what's the news in London?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not much, sir; at least nothing that would interest you. There are a -good many balls and parties going on, of course, sir; and next week's -Ascot, you know, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ascot, is it? Yes, to be sure! We might take a house there, West, and -have some friends. The four-in-hand could go over from Cookham----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Beg pardon, sir, but I don't think you'll be able to entertain any of -your friends this year--not at Ascot, any how. Sir Paul Raughton's man -and me were a-talking together, sir, last night at our little place of -meeting, and he told me as how Sir Paul was going to have quite a -large party down at his place, you know, sir, to celebrate--to -celebrate--I mean for Ascot, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, of course, sir, you'll be wanted there too, sir. Indeed, Sir -Paul's man said as how his master had been making inquiries about the -time you was a-coming back, sir, and said he should like to have you -there. And of course they want to cele--I mean to keep it up, sir. -Now, I'll go and fetch you the letters that have come since I sent you -the last mail."</p> - -<p class="normal">While the servant was gone, Walter Cundall lay back in his chair and -meditated. He was a handsome man, with a dark, shapely head, and fine, -well-marked features. He was very brown and sunburnt, as it was -natural he should be; but, unlike many whose principal existence has -been passed in the Tropics, there was no sign of waste or languor -about him. His health during all the years he had spent under a -burning Caribbean sun had never suffered; fever and disease had passed -him by. Perhaps it was his abstemiousness that had enabled him to -escape the deadly effects of a climate that kills four at least out of -every ten men. As he sat in his chair he wondered why Providence had -been so unfailingly good to him through his life; why it had showered -upon him--while he was still young enough to enjoy it--the comforts -that other men spent their lives in toiling to obtain, and then often -failed at last to get.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And now," he said to himself, "let Fortune give me but one more gift, -and I am content. Let me have as partner of all I possess the fairest -woman in the world; let my sweet, gentle Ida tell me that she loves -me--as I know she does--and what more can I ask? Ah, Ida!" he went on, -apostrophising the woman he loved, "I wonder if you have guessed how, -night after night during these long six months, I have sat on my -verandah gazing up at the stars that look like moons there, wondering -if your dear eyes were looking at them in their feeble glory here? I -wonder if you have ever thought during my long absence that not an -hour went by, at night or day, when I was not thinking of you? Yes, -you must have done so; you must have done so! There was everything in -your look, in your voice to tell me that you loved me, that you were -only waiting for me to speak. And, now, I will speak. I will deprive -myself no longer of the love that will sweeten my life."</p> - -<p class="normal">The man servant came back with an enormous bundle of letters that made -Cundall laugh when he saw them.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why, West!" he exclaimed, "you don't imagine that I am going to wade -through these now, do you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I think they're mostly invitations, sir," the servant answered, "from -people who did not know when you would be back."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, give them to me. I will open a few of those the handwriting of -which I recognise, and Mr. Stuart can go through the rest to-morrow."</p> - -<p class="normal">Mr. Stuart was one of Cundall's secretaries, who, when his employer -was in town, had sometimes to work night and day to keep pace with his -enormous correspondence, but who was now disporting himself at -Brighton. When Cundall was away it was understood that this gentleman -should attend four days a week, two at Grosvenor Place, and two at his -agent's in the City, but that on others he should be free. As, with -his usual generosity, Cundall gave him five hundred a year for doing -this, his post was a good one.</p> - -<p class="normal">The valet came down at this moment to take his master's orders, and to -say that his bath was ready.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shall dine quietly at the club to-night," Mr. Cundall said, "and -then, to-morrow, I will make a few calls, and let my friends know I -have returned. Is there anything else, West?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, sir. Oh, I beg pardon, sir! I had almost forgot. Lady Chesterton -called the day before yesterday to ask when you would be back. When I -told her ladyship you were expected, she left a note for you. It's in -that bundle you have selected, I think, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">Cundall looked through the letters until he found the one in question, -and, on opening it, discovered that it contained an invitation for a -ball on that evening. As Lady Chesterton was a hostess whom he liked -particularly, he made up his mind that he would look in, if only for -an hour. It was as good a way as any of letting people know that he -was back in town, and his appearance at her house and at the club -would be quite enough to do so.</p> - -<p class="normal">It was eight o'clock when he entered the latter institution, and his -arrival was hailed with a chorus of greeting. A man of colossal wealth -is, of course, always welcome amongst his intimates and acquaintances, -but, if he is of a reflecting nature, it may be that the idea -sometimes occurs to him that he is only appreciated for his -possessions, and that, behind his back, there is no such enthusiasm on -his behalf as is testified to his face. He does not know, perhaps, of -all the sneers and jeers that go on about Cr[oe]sus and Sir Gorgius -Midas, but it is to be supposed that he has a very good idea of the -manner in which his fellow men regard him. With Walter Cundall it was -not thus; men neither scoffed at his wealth nor at him, nor did it -ever occur to him to think that he was only liked because of that -wealth. There was a charm in his nature, a something in his pleasant -words and welcoming smile that would have made him, in any -circumstances, acceptable to those with whom he mixed, even though it -had not been in his power to confer the greatest benefits upon them. -There are many such men as he was, as well as many whom we detest for -their moneyed arrogance; men whose lawns and parks and horses and -yachts we may enjoy, but with whom, if they could not place them at -our disposal, we should still be very happy to take a country walk or -spend an hour in a humble parlour.</p> - -<p class="normal">He was surrounded at once by all kinds of acquaintances, asking -questions as to when he had arrived, how he had enjoyed the voyage, -what May had been like in the Tropics, what he was going to do in the -Ascot week, and a dozen others, some stupid and some intelligent.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I hardly know about Ascot," he said laughingly, after having answered -all the others. "When my old servant, West, reminded me that it was -next week, which I had entirely forgotten--by-the-bye, what won the -Derby?--I thought of taking a house and having a pleasant lot down, -but now I hear that I am wanted at Sir Paul Raughton's."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course you are!" one very young member said, "Rather! Why, you -know that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"They are going to have a jolly party there," an elder one put in; "no -one knows how to manage that sort of thing better than Sir Paul."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he turned to the younger man and said, as he drew him aside, "You -confounded young idiot! don't you know that he was sweet on Miss -Raughton himself, and won't like it when he hears she is engaged to -Lord Penlyn? What do you want to make him feel uncomfortable for? -He'll hear it quite soon enough."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I thought he knew it," the other one muttered.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I imagine not; and I fancy no one but you would want to be the first -to tell him."</p> - -<p class="normal">There was undoubtedly this feeling amongst the group, by whom Cundall -was surrounded. Not one of these men, except the boyish member, but -was aware that, before he went abroad six months ago, London society -was daily expecting to hear that he and the beautiful Ida Raughton -were engaged. Now they understood, with that accuracy of perception -which men of the world possess in an extraordinary degree, that her -recent engagement to Lord Penlyn was unknown to him, and they -unanimously determined--though without any agreement between -them--that they would not be the first to open his eyes. He was so -good a fellow that none of them wanted to cause him any pain; and that -the knowledge that Miss Raughton was now engaged would be painful to -him, they were convinced.</p> - -<p class="normal">Two or three of them made up a table and sat down to dinner, and -Cundall told them that he was going to Lady Chesterton's later on. But -neither here, nor over their coffee afterwards, did any of his friends -tell him that he would meet there the girl he was thought to admire, -attended in all probability by her future husband, Lord Penlyn.</p> - -<p class="normal">As, at eleven o'clock, he made his way up the staircase to greet his -hostess, he again met many people whom he knew, and, by the time he at -last reached Lady Chesterton, it was rapidly being told about the -ball-room that Walter Cundall was back in town again.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I declare you look better than ever," her ladyship said as she -welcomed him. "Your bronzed and sunburnt face makes all the other men -seem terribly pale and ghastly. How you must enjoy roaming about the -world as you do!"</p> - -<p class="normal">He answered her with a smile and a remark, that, after all, there was -no place like London and that he was getting very tired of rambling, -when he turned round and saw Ida Raughton coming towards him on the -arm of Lord Penlyn.</p> - -<p class="normal">"How do you do, Miss Raughton?" he said, taking her hand and giving -one swift look into her eyes. How beautiful she was, he thought; and -as he looked he wondered how he could ever have gone away and left her -without speaking of his love. Well, no matter, the parting was over -now!</p> - -<p class="normal">"How are you, Penlyn?" he said, shaking him cordially by the hand.</p> - -<p class="normal">"When did you return?" Ida asked. Until this moment she had no idea -that he was back in England.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I landed at Liverpool late last night," he answered, "and came up to -town to-day. Lady Chesterton, hearing of my probable arrival, was kind -enough to leave an invitation for me for to-night."</p> - -<p class="normal">Before any more could be said the band began to play, and Lord Penlyn -turned round to Cundall and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am engaged for this dance, though it is only a square one. Will you -look after Miss Raughton until I return?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"With pleasure, or until some favoured partner comes to claim her. -But," turning to her, "I presume you are also engaged for this dance, -'though it is only a square one.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," she said, "you know I never dance them."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Shall we go round the rooms, then?" he asked, offering her his arm. -"It is insufferably hot here!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Lady Chesterton had moved away to welcome some other guests, and so -they walked to another part of the room. As Ida looked up at him, she -thought how well and strong he seemed, and recalled the many dances -they had had together. And she wondered if he was glad to be back in -London again?</p> - -<p class="normal">"How cool and pleasant the conservatory looks!" he said, as they -passed the entrance to it. "Shall we go in and sit down until you are -claimed for the next dance?"</p> - -<p class="normal">She assented, and they went in and took possession of two chairs that -were standing beneath some great palms and cacti.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I should think that after the heat you have been accustomed to you -would feel nothing in England," she said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"In Honduras we are suitably clad," he answered, laughing, "and -evening dress suits are not in much request. But I am very glad to be -wearing one again, and once more talking to you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Are you?" she said, raising her eyes and looking at him. She recalled -how often they had talked together, and how she had taken pleasure in -having him tell her of the different parts of the world he had seen; -parts that seemed so strange to her who had never been farther away -from home than the Tyrol or Rome.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Indeed I am! Do you think I should go to the Tropics for pleasure?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I suppose you need not go unless you choose," she said; "surely you -can do as you please!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I can do as I please now," he answered, "I could not hitherto. I will -tell you what I mean. Until a month ago the property I owned in -Honduras required my constant attention, and necessitated my visiting -the place once at least in every two years. But, of late, this has -become irksome to me--I will explain why in a moment--and my last -visit was made with a view to disposing of that property. This I have -made arrangements for doing, and I shall go no more to that part of -the world. Now," and his voice became very low, but clear, as he -spoke, "shall I tell you why I have broken for ever with Honduras?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," she said. "You have told me so often of your affairs that you -know I am always interested in them. Tell me."</p> - -<p class="normal">As she spoke, the band was playing the introduction to the last -popular waltz, and the few couples who were in the conservatory left -for it. A young man to whom Ida was engaged for this dance came in to -look for her, but, seeing that she was talking to Walter Cundall, -withdrew. It happened that he did not know she was betrothed to Lord -Penlyn, but was aware that, last season, every one thought she would -soon be engaged to the man she was now with. So he thought he would -not disturb them and went unselfishly away, being seen by neither.</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, as the strains of the waltz were heard from the ball-room, he -said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is because I want to settle down in England and make it my home. -Because I want a wife to make that home welcome to me, because I have -long loved one woman and have only waited until my return to tell her -so. Ida, you are that woman! I love you better than anything in this -world! Tell me that you will be my wife!"</p> - -<p class="normal">For answer she drew herself away from him, pale, and trembling -visibly, and trying to speak. But no word came from her lips.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why do you not answer me, Ida?" he asked. "Have I spoken too soon? -But no! that is not possible--you must have seen how dearly I loved -you! how I always sought your presence--you must----"</p> - -<p class="normal">Then she made a motion to him with her fan, and found her voice.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You cannot have heard," she said, "no one can have told you that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That what! What is there to tell? For God's sake speak, Ida!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That I am engaged."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Engaged!" he said, rising to his feet. "Engaged! while I have been -away. Oh! it cannot be, it is impossible! You must have seen, you must -have known of my love for you. It cannot be true!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is true, Mr. Cundall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"True!" Then he paused a moment and endeavoured to recover himself. -When he had done so he said very quietly, but in a deep, hoarse voice: -"I congratulate you, Miss Raughton. May I ask who is the fortunate -gentleman?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am engaged to Lord Penlyn."</p> - -<p class="normal">He took a step backward and ejaculated, "Lord Penlyn! Lord----"</p> - -<p class="normal">Then once more he recovered himself, and said: "Shall I take you back -to the ball-room? Doubtless he is looking for you now."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am very sorry for your disappointment," she said, looking up at him -with a pale face; his emotion had startled her, "very sorry. I would -not wound you for the world. And there are so many other women who -will make you happy."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I wanted no other woman but you," he said.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER III.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn and his friend and companion, Philip Smerdon, had returned -from their yachting tour, which had embraced amongst other places Le -Vocq, about a fortnight before Walter Cundall arrived in London from -Honduras. The trip had only been meant to be a short one to try the -powers of his new purchase, the <i>Electra</i>, but it had been postponed -by the storm to some days over the time originally intended. Since he -had become engaged to Ida Raughton, he naturally hated to be away from -her, and, up till the night before he returned to England, had fretted -a great deal at his enforced absence from her.</p> - -<p class="normal">But the discovery he had made in the <i>Livre des Étrangers</i> at Le Vocq, -had had such an effect upon his thoughts and mind that, when he -returned to England, he almost dreaded a meeting with her. He was an -honourable, straightforward man, and, with the exception of being -possessed of a somewhat violent and obstinate temper when thwarted in -anything he had set his heart upon, had no perceptible failings. Above -all he hated secrecy, or secrecy's next-door neighbour, untruth; and -it seemed to him that, if not Ida, at least Ida's father, should be -told about the discovery he had made.</p> - -<p class="normal">"With the result," said Philip Smerdon, who was possessed of a cynical -nature, "that Miss Raughton would be shocked at hearing of your -father's behaviour, and that Sir Paul would laugh at you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I really don't see what there is to laugh at in my father being a -scoundrel, as he most undoubtedly was."</p> - -<p class="normal">"A scoundrel!" Philip echoed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Was he not? We have what is almost undoubted proof that he was living -for two summers at that place with some lady who could not have been -his wife, and whom he must have cast off previous to marrying my -mother. And there was the child for whom the landlord took me! He must -have deserted that as well as the woman. And, if a man is not a -scoundrel who treats his offspring as he must have treated that boy, I -don't know the meaning of the word."</p> - -<p class="normal">"As I have said before, it is highly probable that both of them were -dead before he married your mother."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nonsense! That is a very good way for a novelist to make a man get -rid of his encumbrances before settling down to comfortable matrimony, -but not very likely to happen in real life. I tell you I am convinced -that, somewhere or other, the child, if not the mother, is alive, and -it is horrible to me to think that, while I have inherited everything -that the Occleves possessed, this elder brother of mine may be earning -his living in some poor, if not disgraceful, manner."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The natural children of noblemen are almost invariably well provided -for," Smerdon said quietly; "why should you suppose that your father -behaved worse than most of his brethren?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because, if the estate had been charged with anything I should have -known it. But it was not--not for a farthing."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He might have handed over to this lady a large sum down for her and -for her son, when they parted."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Which is also impossible! He was only Gervase Occleve then, and had -nothing but a moderately comfortable allowance from his predecessor, -his uncle. He married my mother almost directly after he became Lord -Penlyn."</p> - -<p class="normal">This was but one of half-a-dozen conversations that the young men had -held together since their return from France, and Gervase had found -comfort in talking the affair over and over again with his friend. -Philip Smerdon stood in the position to him of old schoolfellow and -playmate, of a 'Varsity friend, and, later on, of companion and -secretary. Had they been brothers they could scarcely have been--would -probably not have been--as close friends as they were.</p> - -<p class="normal">When they were at Harrow, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, -they had been inseparable, and, in point of means, entirely on an -equality, Philip's father being a reported, and, apparently, -enormously wealthy contractor in the North. But one day, without the -least warning, without a word from his father or the slightest -stopping of his allowance, he learnt, by a telegram in a paper, that -his parent had failed for a stupendous sum, and was undoubtedly ruined -for ever. The news turned out to be true, and Philip knew that, -henceforth, he would have to earn his own living instead of having a -large income to spend.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Thank God!" he said, in those days, "that I am not quite a fool, and -have not altogether wasted my time. There must be plenty of ways in -which a Harrow and Oxford man can earn a living, and I mean to try. I -have got my degrees, and I suppose I could do something down at the -old shop (meaning the old University, and with no disrespect -intended), or get pupils, or drift into literature--though they say -that means starvation of the body and mortification of the spirit."</p> - -<p class="normal">"First of all," said Penlyn, who in that time was the counsellor, and -not, as he afterwards became, the counselled, "see a bit of the world, -and come along with me to the East. When you come back, you will be -still better fitted than you are now for doing something or other--and -you are young enough to spare a year."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Still, it seems like wasting time--and, what's worse!--it's sponging -on you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Sponging! Rubbish! You don't think I am going alone, do you? And if -you don't come, somebody else will! And you know, old chap, I'd sooner -have you than any one else in the world."</p> - -<p class="normal">"All right, Jerry," his friend said, "I'll come and look after you."</p> - -<p class="normal">But when they found themselves in the East, it turned out that the -"looking after" had to be done by Penlyn, instead of by Philip. The -one was always well, the other always ill. From the time they got to -Cairo, it seemed as if every malady that can afflict a man in those -districts fell upon Smerdon. At Thebes he had a horrible low fever, -from which he temporarily recovered, but at Constantine he was again -so ill, that his friend thought he would never bring him away alive. -Nor, but for his own exertions, would he ever have done so, and the -mountain city would have been his grave. But Gervase watched by his -side day and night, was his nurse and doctor too (for the grave Arab -physician did nothing but prescribe cooling drinks for him and herbal -medicines), bathed him, fanned him, and at last brought him, though -weak as a child, back to life.</p> - -<p class="normal">"How am I ever to repay this?" the sick man said, as he sat up one -evening, gazing out on the Algerian mountains and watching the sun -sink behind them. "What can I ever do in acknowledgment of your having -saved my life?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Get thoroughly well, and then we'll go home as fast as we can. And -don't talk bosh about repayment."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Bosh! Do you call it that? Well, I don't suppose I ever shall be able -to do anything in return, but I should like to have the chance. As a -rule, I don't talk bosh, I believe, though no one is a judge of -themselves. Do give me another drink of that lemon-water, Jerry, the -thirst is coming on again."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Which comes of talking nonsense, so shut up!" his friend answered, as -he handed him the drink.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It does seem hard, though, that instead of my being your companion as -I came out to be, you should have to always----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Now look here, Phil, my friend," Gervase said, "if you <i>don't</i> leave -off talking, I'll call the doctor." This threat was effectual, for the -native physician had such unpleasant personal peculiarities that -Philip nearly went mad whenever he entered the room.</p> - -<p class="normal">Four years have passed since that excursion to the East and the time -when Gervase Occleve is the affianced husband of Ida Raughton, but the -friendship of these two has only grown more firm. On their return to -England, Lord Penlyn offered his friend the post of his secretary -combined with steward, which at that moment was vacant by the death of -the previous holder. "But companion as well," he said laughingly, "I -am not going to have you buried alive at Occleve Chase when I want -your society in London, nor <i>vice versâ</i>, so you had better find a -subordinate."</p> - -<p class="normal">Smerdon took the post, and no one could say with any truth that his -friendship for Lord Penlyn stood in the way of his doing his duty to -him as his secretary. He made himself thoroughly master of everything -concerning his friend's property--of his tenants and his servants; he -knew to a head the cattle belonging to him, and what timber might be -marked annually, and regulated not only his country estate but also -his town house. And, that his friend should not lose the companionship -which he evidently prized so dearly, he thought nothing of travelling -half the night from Occleve Chase to London, and of appearing fresh -and bright at the breakfast table. For, so deeply had Penlyn's -goodness to him in all things sunk into his heart, that he never -thought he had done enough to show his gratitude.</p> - -<p class="normal">Of course in society it was known that, wherever Lord Penlyn went his -friend went also, and no doors were shut to the one that were open to -the other, or would have been shut had Philip chosen. But he cared -little for fashionable doings, and refused to accompany his friend to -many of the balls and dinners to which he went.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Leave me alone in peace to read and smoke," he would say, "and go out -and enjoy yourself. I shall be just as happy as you are." And when he -learned that Ida Raughton had consented to be Lord Penlyn's wife he -told him that he was sincerely glad to hear it. "A man in your -position wants a wife," he said, "and you have found a good one in -her, I am sure. You will be as happy as I could wish you, and that is -saying a good deal."</p> - -<p class="normal">They had been busy this morning--the morning after Lady Chesterton's -ball--in going over their accounts, and in making arrangements for -their visit, in the forthcoming Ascot week, to Sir Paul's villa, near -the Royal course. Then, while they had paused for a few moments to -indulge in a cigarette, the conversation had again turned upon that -discovery at Le Vocq.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I tell you what I do mean to do," Penlyn said, "I mean to go and see -Bell. Although he could have known nothing of what was going on thirty -years ago, he may have heard his father say something on the subject. -They have been our solicitors for years."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is only letting another person into the story, as he probably -knows nothing about it," Philip said. "I wouldn't go, if I were you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will, though," Penlyn answered; and he did.</p> - -<p class="normal">Mr. Bell was a solicitor of the modern type that is so vastly -different from the old one. Thirty years ago, when our fathers went to -consult the family lawyer, they saw either an elderly gentleman with a -shaved upper lip and decorous mutton-chop whiskers, or a young man, -also with his lip shaved, and clad in a solemn suit of black. But all -that is passed, and Mr. Bell was an excellent specimen of the -solicitor of to-day. He wore a neatly waxed moustache, had a -magnificent gardenia in his well-cut morning coat, and received Lord -Penlyn in a handsomely furnished room that might almost have passed -for the library of a gentleman of taste. And, had his client been a -few years older, they would probably have known each other well at -Oxford, for Mr. Bell himself had been a John's man, and had been well -known at the debating rooms.</p> - -<p class="normal">He listened to his client's story, smiling faintly once or twice, at -what seemed to his worldly mind, too much remorse for his father's sin -on the part of Lord Penlyn, then he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I never even knew your father, but I should think the whole affair a -simple one, and an ordinary version of the old story."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What old story?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"The story of a person of position---- Forgive me, Lord Penlyn, we are -men of the world" (he said "we," though he considered his client as -the very reverse of "a man of the world"), "and can speak plainly; the -story of a person of position taking up with some woman who was his -inferior and flattered by his attentions, amusing himself with her -till he grew tired, and then--dropping her."</p> - -<p class="normal">"To starve with her--with his offspring!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I should imagine not!" Mr. Bell said with an airy cynicism that made -him appear hateful to his young client. "No, I should imagine not! The -ladies who attach themselves to men of your father's position -generally know how to take very good care of themselves. You may -depend that this one was either provided for before she agreed to -throw in her lot with him, or afterwards."</p> - -<p class="normal">The lawyer's opinion was the same as Philip's, and they both seemed to -look upon the affair as a much less serious one than it appeared to -him! Were they right, and was he making too much out of this -peccadillo of his father's?</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you can tell me nothing further?" he asked the solicitor.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What can I tell you?" the lawyer said. "I never saw the late Lord -Penlyn, and scarcely ever heard my father mention him. If you like I -will have all the papers relative to him gone through; but it is -thirty years ago! If the lady is alive and had wanted anything, she -would surely have turned up by now. And I may say the same of the -son."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He may not even know the claim he has."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Claim! my lord, what claim? He has no claim on you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Has he not? Has he not the claim of brotherhood, the claim that my -father deserted his mother? I tell you, Mr. Bell, that if I could find -that man I would make him the greatest restitution in my power."</p> - -<p class="normal">The lawyer looked upon Lord Penlyn, when he heard these words, as a -Quixotic young idiot, but of course he did not say so. It occurred to -him that, in all probability, his father had had more than one affair -of this kind, and he wondered grimly what his romantic young client -would say if he heard, by chance, of any more of them. But he did -promise to go through all the papers in his possession relating to the -late lord, and to see about this particular case. "Though I warn you," -he said, "that I am not likely to find anything that can throw any -light upon an affair of so long ago. And, as a lawyer, I must say that -it is not well that such a dead and gone business should ever be dug -up again."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I would dig it up," Lord Penlyn answered, "for the sake of justice."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he went away, leaving the lawyer's mind wavering between contempt -and admiration for him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He must be a good young fellow at heart, though," Mr. Bell said to -himself; "but the world will spoil him."</p> - -<p class="normal">Two nights afterwards Penlyn received a letter from him, saying that -there was not the slightest trace in any of the Occleve papers in his -possession of the persons about whom they had spoken. Moreover, Mr. -Bell said he had gone through a great many of the accounts of the late -Lord Penlyn, and of his uncle and predecessor, but in no case could he -find any evidence of the Hon. Gervase having ever exceeded his income, -or, when he succeeded to the property, of having drawn any large sum -of money for an unknown purpose. "And," he concluded, "I should advise -your lordship to banish the whole affair for ever from your mind. If -your father really had the intimacy imagined by you with that lady, -time has removed all signs of it; and, even though you might be -willing to do so, it would be impossible for you now to obtain any -information about it."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER IV.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Two people went away from Lady Chesterton's ball with anything but -happiness at their hearts--Ida Raughton and Walter Cundall. The -feelings with which the former had heard the latter's declaration of -love had been of a very mixed nature; pity and sympathy for him being -combined with an idea that she had not altogether been loyal to the -man to whom she was now pledged. She was able to tell herself, as she -sat in her dressing-room after her maid had left her, that she had, -after all, become engaged to the man whom she really loved; but she -had also to acknowledge that, for that other one, her compassion was -very great. She had never loved him, nor did she until this night -believe the rumours of society that reached her ears, to the effect -that he loved her; but she had liked him very much, and his society -had always been agreeable to her. His conversation, his stories of a -varied life in other lands, had had a charm for her that the -invertebrate gossip of an ordinary London salon could never possess; -but there her liking for him had stopped. And, for she was always -frank even to herself, she acknowledged that he was a man whom she -regarded with some kind of awe; a man whose knowledge of the world was -as much above hers as his wealth was above her father's wealth. She -remembered, that when any question had ever perplexed her, any -question of politics, science, or art, to which she could find no -answer, he would instantly solve the knotty subject for her, and throw -a light upon it that had never come to her mind. Yes, she reflected, -he was so much above her that she did not think, in any circumstances, -love could have come into her heart for him.</p> - -<p class="normal">But, if there was no love there was intense sympathy. She could not -forget, at least not so soon after the occurrence, his earnest appeal -to her to speak, his certainty that she knew of his love, and then the -deep misery apparent in his voice when he forced himself into -restraint, and could even go so far as to congratulate her. Her -knowledge of the world was small, but she thought that from his tone -this must have been almost the first, as she was sure it was the -greatest, disappointment he had ever had. "He wanted to have a wife to -make his home welcome to him," he had said, "and she was the woman -whom he wanted for that wife." Surely, she reflected, he was entitled -to her pity, though she could not give him her love. And then she -wondered what she ought to do with regard to telling her father and -her future husband. She did not quite know, but she thought she would -tell her father first, and then, if he considered it right that -Gervase should know, he should also be told. Perhaps he, too, would -feel inclined to pity Mr. Cundall.</p> - -<p class="normal">As for him, he hardly knew what to do on that night. He walked back to -his house in Grosvenor Place (he was too uneasy to sit in his -carriage), and, letting himself in went to his library, where he -passed some hours pacing up and down it. Once he muttered a quotation -from the Old Testament, and once he flung himself into a chair and -buried his head in his hands, and wept as strong men only weep in -their darkest hour. Afterwards, when he was calmer, he went to a large -<i>écritoire</i>, and, unlocking it, took out a bundle of papers and read -them. They were a collection of several old letters, a tress of hair -in an envelope, which he kissed softly, and two slips of paper which -he seemed to read particularly carefully. Then he put them away and -said to himself: "It must be done, there is no help for it. My -happiness is gone for ever, and, God knows, I would not wreck the -happiness of others! but, in this case, my sin would be beyond recall -if I hesitated." And, again, after a pause, he said to himself: "It -must be done."</p> - -<p class="normal">He rose in the morning at his usual time, though it was nearly six -before he flung himself wearily on his bed to snatch some troubled -rest, and when he went downstairs to his breakfast he found his -secretary, Mr. Stuart, waiting for him. The young fellow had been -telegraphed for on his employer's return, and had torn himself away -from the charms of Brighton to come back to his duties. After they had -exchanged greetings, the secretary said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"West told me that I should find you looking better than ever, Mr. -Cundall, but I cannot honestly say that I do. You look pale and worn."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am perfectly well, nevertheless. But I went to a bail last night, -and, what with that and travelling all day, I am rather knocked up. -But it is nothing. Now, let us get to work on the correspondence, and -then we must go into the City."</p> - -<p class="normal">They began on the different piles of letters, Mr. Cundall throwing -over to Stuart all those the handwriting of which he did not -recognise, and opening those which he did know himself.</p> - -<p class="normal">Presently he came to one with a crest on the envelope that he was well -acquainted with--the Raughton crest, and he could scarcely resist a -start as he saw it. But he controlled himself and tore the letter -open. It was from Sir Paul, and simply contained an invitation from -him to Cundall to make one of his Ascot party at Belmont, the name of -his place near there. The writer said he had heard it rumoured about -that he was on his way home from Honduras, and hence the invitation, -as if he got back in time, he hoped he would come. This letter had -been written some day or two ago, and had been passed over by Cundall -on the previous one. Had he not so passed it over, he would have known -his fate before he went to Lady Chesterton's ball, for the Baronet -went on to say: "You may have learned from some of your numerous -correspondents that Ida and Lord Penlyn are engaged. The marriage is -fixed for the 1st September, and will, I hope and believe, be a -suitable one in every way. At least, I myself can see nothing to -prevent its being so; and I shall hope to receive your congratulations, -amongst others, when we meet."</p> - -<p class="normal">He read the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he said to -Stuart:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have had a letter from Sir Paul Raughton, in which he tells me his -daughter is engaged to Lord Penlyn. You go out a good deal, when did -you first hear of it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The secretary looked up, and seemed rather confused for the moment. -He, too, like every one else, even to West the butler, knew that it -was supposed that Cundall was in love with Ida, and had wondered what -he would say when he heard it. And now he was sitting opposite to him, -asking him in the most calm tone when he first knew of her engagement, -and the calmness staggered him. Had the world, after all, been -mistaken?</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Not so very long ago. About a month, I -should say."</p> - -<p class="normal">"About a month since it was announced?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, about that."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I wonder you did not think of telling me in your last letter, since -you knew how intimate I was with the Raughtons."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I forgot it. It--it slipped my memory. And there were so many -business matters to write about."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well! it is of no importance."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of no importance!" Stuart thought to himself. "Of no importance!" Then -they must all have been indeed mistaken! Why, it was only two or three -days before Mr. Cundall's return that he had, when up in town for the -day, consulted West, and told him that he had better not say anything -on that subject to his master, but let him find it out for himself. -And now he sat there calmly reading his letters, and saying that "it -was of no importance!" Well, he was glad to hear it! Cundall was a -good, upright man, and, when he heard of Ida Raughton's engagement, -his first thought had been that it would be a blow to his employer. He -was very glad that his fears were ungrounded.</p> - -<p class="normal">They went to the City together later on, and then they separated; but -before they did so, Cundall asked Stuart if he knew what club Lord -Penlyn belonged to.</p> - -<p class="normal">"'Black's,' I fancy, and the 'Voyagers,' but we can see in the -Directory." And he turned to the Court department of that useful work, -and found that he was right.</p> - -<p class="normal">In the evening of two days later Cundall called at "Black's," and -learned that Lord Penlyn was in that institution.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Will you tell him, if you please," he said, "that Mr. Cundall wishes -to see him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">All through those two days he had been nerving himself for the -interview that was now about to take place, and had at last strung -himself up for it. He had prayed that there might be no cruelty in -what he was about to do; but he was afraid! The lad--for he was little -better--whom he was now summoning, was about to be dealt a blow at his -hand that would prostrate him to the earth; he hoped that he would be -man enough to bear it well.</p> - -<p class="normal">"How are you, Cundall?" Lord Penlyn said, coming down the stairs -behind the porter, and greeting him with cordiality. "I have never had -the pleasure of seeing you here before."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he looked at his visitor and saw that he was ghastly pale, and he -noticed that his hand was cold and damp.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, "aren't you well? Come upstairs and have -something."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am well, but I have something very serious to say to you, and----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ida is not ill?" the other asked apprehensively, his first thoughts -flying to the woman he loved. And the familiar name upon his lips -struck to the other's heart.</p> - -<p class="normal">"She is well, as far as I know. But it is of her that I have come to -speak. This club seems full of members, will you come for a stroll in -the Park? It is close at hand."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, yes!" Penlyn said, calling to the porter for his hat and stick. -"But what can you have to say to me about her?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, as they went down St. James' Street and past Marlborough House -into the Park, there did come back suddenly to his memory some words -he had once overheard about Cundall being in love with the woman who -was now his affianced wife. Good God! he thought, suppose he had come -to tell him that he held a prior promise from her, that she belonged -to him! But no; that was absurd! He had seen her that very day, and, -though he remembered that she had been particularly quiet and -meditative, she had again acknowledged her love. There could be -nothing this man might have to say about her that should be -disagreeable for him to hear. Yet, still, the remembrance of that -whisper about his love for her disquieted him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Now tell me, Mr. Cundall," he said, "what you have to say to me about -my future wife."</p> - -<p class="normal">They had passed through the railings into St. James' Park, and were in -one of the walks. The summer sun was setting, and the loiterers and -nursemaids were strolling about; but, nevertheless, in this walk it -was comparatively quiet.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have come to tell you first," Cundall answered, "that, three nights -ago, I asked Ida Raughton to be my wife."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What!" the other exclaimed, "you asked my future----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"One moment," Cundall said quietly. "I did not know then that she was -your future wife. If you will remember, I had only returned to London -on that day."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you did not know of our engagement?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I knew nothing. Let me proceed. In proposing to her and in gaining -her love--for she told me that she had consented to be your wife--you -have deprived me of the only thing in this world I prize, the only -thing I wanted. I came back to England with one fixed idea, the idea -that she loved me, and that, when I asked her, she would accept me for -her husband."</p> - -<p class="normal">He paused a moment, and Lord Penlyn said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"While I cannot regret the cause of your disappointment, seeing what -happiness it brings to me, I am still very sorry to see you suffering -so."</p> - -<p class="normal">Cundall took no notice of this remark, though his soft, dark eyes were -fixed upon the younger man as he uttered it. Then he continued:</p> - -<p class="normal">"In ordinary cases when two men love the same woman--for I love her -still, Heaven help me and shall always love her; it is my love for her -that impels me to say what I am now about to--when two men love the -same woman, and one of them gets the acknowledgment of her love, the -other stands aside and silently submits to his fate."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn had been watching him fixedly as the words fell from his -lips, and had noticed the calmness, which seemed like the calmness of -despair, that accompanied those words. But there was not, however, the -calm that accompanies resignation in them, for they implied that, in -this case, he did not intend to follow the usual rule.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You are right in your idea, Mr. Cundall," he answered. "Surely it is -not your intention to struggle against what is always accepted as the -case?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is not, for since she loves you I must never look upon her face -again. But--there is something else?" He paused again for a moment and -drew a deep breath, and then he proceeded:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Are you a strong man?" he asked. "Do you think you can bear a sudden -shock?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not know what you mean, nor what you are driving at!" Lord -Penlyn said, beginning to lose his temper at these strange hints and -questions. "I am sorry for your disappointment, in one way, but it is -not in your power, nor in that of any one else, to come between the -love Miss Raughton and I bear to each other."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Unfortunately it is in my power and I must do it--temporarily, at -least. At present, you cannot marry Miss Raughton."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>What!</i> Why not, sir? For what reason, pray?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do not excite yourself! Because she and her father imagine that she -is engaged to Lord Penlyn, and----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What the devil do you mean, sir?" the other interrupted furiously.</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>And</i>," Cundall went on, without noticing the interruption, "<i>you are -not Lord Penlyn!</i>"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is a lie!" the other said, springing at him in the dusk that had -now set in, "and I will kill you for it." But Cundall caught him in a -grasp of iron and pushed him back, as he said hoarsely: "It is the -truth, I swear it before Heaven! Your father had another wife who died -before he married your mother, and he left a son by her. That man is -Lord Penlyn."</p> - -<p class="normal">Gervase Occleve took a step back and reeled on to a seat in the walk. -In a moment there came back to his mind the inn at Le Vocq, the <i>Livre -des Étrangers</i> there in which he had seen that strange entry, and the -landlord's tale. So that woman was his wife and that son a lawful one, -instead of the outcast and nameless creature he had pictured him in -his mind! But--was this story true?</p> - -<p class="normal">He rose again and stood before Cundall, and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not know how you, who seem to have lived in such out-of-the-way -parts of the world, are capable of substantiating this extraordinary -statement; but you will have to do so, and that before witnesses. You -have brought a charge of the gravest nature against the position I -hold. I suppose you are prepared to produce some proof of what you -say?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am fully prepared," Cundall said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then I would suggest, Mr. Cundall, that you should call at my house -to-morrow, and tell this remarkable tale in full. There will be at -least one witness, my friend, Mr. Smerdon. When we have heard what you -have to say, we shall know what credence to place in your story."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will be there at midday, if you will receive me. And believe me, if -it had not been that I could not see Miss Raughton married illegally, -and assuming a title to which she had no right, I would have held my -peace."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn had turned away before the last words were spoken, but on -hearing them, he turned back again and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is this secret in your hands only, then, and does it depend upon you -alone for the telling? Pray, may I ask who this mysterious Lord Penlyn -is whom you have so suddenly sprung upon me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>I am he!</i>" the other answered.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You!" with an incredulous stare. "You!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER V.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">"I have heard it said that he is worth from two to three millions," -Philip Smerdon said to his friend the next morning, when Penlyn had, -for the sixth or seventh time, repeated the whole of the conversation -between him and Cundall. "A man of that wealth would scarcely try to -steal another man's title. Yet he must either be mistaken or mad."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He may be mistaken--I must hope he is--but he is certainly not mad. -His calmness last night was something extraordinary, and I am -convinced that, provided this story is true, he has told it against -his will."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You mean that he only told it to prevent Miss Raughton from being -illegally married, or rather, for the marriage would be perfectly -legal since no deception was meant, to prevent her from assuming a -title to which she had no claim?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You do not think that he hopes by divulging this secret--always -assuming it to be true--to cause your marriage to be broken off, so -that he might have a chance of obtaining Miss Raughton himself? If his -story is true, he can still make her Lady Penlyn."</p> - -<p class="normal">His friend hesitated. "I do not know," he said. "He bears the -character of being one of the most honourable men in London. Supposing -his story true, I imagine he was right to tell it."</p> - -<p class="normal">The young man expressed his opinion and spoke as he thought, but he -also spoke in a voice broken with sorrow. If what Cundall had told him -was the actual case, not only was he not Lord Penlyn, but he was a -beggar. And then Ida Raughton could never be his wife. Even though she -might be willing to take him, stripped as he would be of his title and -his possessions, it was certain that Sir Paul would not allow her to -do so. He began to feel a bitter hatred rising up in his heart against -this man, who had only let him enjoy his false position till he -happened to cross his path, and had then swooped down upon him, and, -in one moment, torn from him everything he possessed in the world. His -heart had been full of pity for that unknown and unnamed brother, whom -he had imagined to be in existence somewhere in the world; for this -man, who was now to come forward armed with all lawful rights to -deprive him of what he had so long been allowed blindly to enjoy, he -experienced nothing but the blackest hate. For he never doubted for -one moment but that the story was true!</p> - -<p class="normal">At twelve o'clock he and Smerdon were ready to receive the new -claimant to all he had imagined his, and at twelve o'clock he arrived. -He bowed to Smerdon and held out, with almost a beseeching glance, his -hand to Gervase Occleve, but the latter refused to take it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Whether your story is true or not," he said, "I have nothing but -contempt to give you. If it is false, you are an impostor who shall -be punished, socially if not legally; if it is true, you are a -bad-hearted man to have left me so long in my ignorance."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I should have left you so for ever," Cundall answered in a voice that -sounded sadly broken, "had it not been for Miss Raughton's sake; I -could not see her deceived."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Had he not come between you and her," Philip. Smerdon asked, "but had -wished to marry some other lady, would your scruples still have been -the same?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No! for she would not have been everything in the world to me, as -this one is. And I should never have undeceived him as to the position -he stood in. He might have had the title and what it brings with it, I -could have given Ida something as good."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Your ethics are extraordinary!" Philip said, with a sneer.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You, sir, at least, are not my judge."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Suppose, sir," Gervase Occleve said, "that you give us the full -particulars of your remarkable statement of last night."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is hard to do so," Cundall answered. "But it must be done!"</p> - -<p class="normal">He was seated in a deep chair facing them, they being on a roomy -lounge, side by side, and, consequently able to fix their eyes fully -upon him. The task he had to go through might have unnerved any man, -but he had set himself to do it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Before I make any statement," he said, "look at these," and he -produced two letters worn with time and with the ink faded. The other -took them, and noted that they were addressed to, 'My own dear wife,' -and signed, 'Your loving husband, Gervase Occleve.' And one of them -was headed 'Le Vocq, Auberge Belle-Vue.'</p> - -<p class="normal">"Are they in your father's handwriting?" he asked, and Gervase -answered "Yes."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It was in 1852," Cundall said, "that he met my mother. She was -staying in Paris with a distant relative of hers, and they were in the -habit of constantly meeting. I bear his memory in no respect--he was a -cold-hearted, selfish man--and I may say that, although he loved her, -he never originally intended to marry her. She told me this herself, -in a letter she left behind to be opened by me alone, when I came of -age. He won her love, and, as I say, he never intended to marry her. -Only, when at last he proposed to her that she should go away with him -and be his wife in everything but actual fact, she shrank from him -with such horror that he knew he had made a mistake. Then he assumed -another method, and told her that he would never have proposed such a -thing, but that his uncle, whose heir he was, wished him to make a -brilliant match. However, he said he was willing to forego this, and, -in the eyes of the world at least, to remain single. For her sake he -was willing to forego it, if she also was willing to make some -sacrifice. She asked what sacrifice he meant, and, he said the -sacrifice of a private marriage, of living entirely out of the world, -of never being presented to any of his friends. Poor creature! She -loved him well at that time--is it necessary for me to say what her -answer was?"</p> - -<p class="normal">He paused a moment, and he saw that the eyes of Gervase were fixed -upon him, but he saw no sympathy for his dead mother in them. Perhaps -he did not expect to see any!</p> - -<p class="normal">"How she explained matters to the relation she lived with, I do not -know," he went on; "but they were married in that year in London."</p> - -<p class="normal">"At what church?" Gervase asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"At 'St. Jude's, Marylebone.' Here is the certificate." Gervase took -it, glanced at it, and returned it to him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Go on," he said, and his voice too had changed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"They lived a wandering kind of life, but, in those days, a not -altogether unhappy one. But at last he wearied of it--wearied of -living in continental towns to which no one of their own country ever -came, or in gay ones where they passed under an assumed name, that -which had been her maiden name--Cundall. At my birth he became more -genial for a year or so, and then again he relapsed into his moody and -morose state--a state that had become almost natural to him. He began -to see that the secret could not be kept for ever, now that he had a -son; that some day, if I lived, I must become Lord Penlyn. And he did -not disguise his forebodings from her, nor attempt to throw off his -gloom. She bore with him patiently for a long while--bore his -repinings and taunts; but at last she told him that, after all, there -was no such great necessity for secrecy, that she was a lady by birth, -a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. Then--then he cursed her; and -on the next occasion of their dispute he told her that they had better -live apart.</p> - -<p class="normal">"She took him at his word, and when he woke the next morning she was -gone, taking me with her. He never saw her nor me again, and when he -heard that she was dead he believed that I was dead also."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then he was the deceived and not the deceiver!" Gervase exclaimed. -"He thought that I was really his son and heir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, he thought so. My mother's only other relative in the world was -her brother, a merchant in Honduras, who was fast amassing a -stupendous fortune--the one I now possess. She wrote to him telling -him that she had married, that her husband had treated her badly, and -that she had left him and resumed her maiden name. <i>His</i> name she -never would reveal. My uncle wrote to say that in such circumstances, -and being an unmarried man, he would adopt me as his own child, and -that I should eventually be his heir. Then he sent money over for my -schooling and bringing up."</p> - -<p class="normal">He paused again, and again he went on; and it seemed as if he was -mustering himself for a final effort.</p> - -<p class="normal">"When I was little over four years old she died. On her death-bed her -heart relented, and she thought that she would do for him what -appeared to be the greatest service in her power. She wrote to tell -him she was dying, and that he would, in a few days, receive -confirmation of her death from a sure hand. <i>And she told him that I -had died two months before</i>. Poor thing! she meant well, but she was a -simple, unworldly woman, and she had no idea of what she was doing. -Perhaps it never occurred to her that he would marry again; perhaps -she even thought that her leaving him would free him and his from all -obligations to me. At any rate, she died in ignorance of the harm she -had done, and I am glad she never realised her error."</p> - -<p class="normal">He paused; and Gervase said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is that all?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"With the exception of this. When I was twenty-one this letter of my -mother's, which no other eyes but mine have ever seen before, was put -into my hand. I was then in Honduras, and it had been left in my -uncle's care. At first the news staggered me, and I could not believe -it. I had always thought my uncle was on my father's side, and not on -my mother's, and I now questioned him on the subject. I found that he, -himself, was only partly in her secret, and that he knew nothing of my -father's real position. Then, as to the names of Occleve and Penlyn, I -was ignorant of them; although I had at that age seen something of -European society. I came to England shortly afterwards, and there was -in my mind some idea of putting in a claim to my birthright. But, on -my arrival, I found that another--you--had taken possession of it. You -were pointed out to me one night at a ball; and, as I saw you young -and happy, and heard you well-spoken of, I put away from me, for ever, -all thoughts of ever taking away from you what you--through no fault -of your own--had wrongfully become possessed of."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yet now you will do so, because I have gained Ida's love."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, no, no!" he answered. Then he said, with a sadness that should -have gone to their hearts: "I have been Esau to your Jacob all my -life. It is natural you should supplant me now in a woman's love."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What then do you mean to do, <i>Lord Penlyn?</i>" Gervase asked bitterly. -The other started, and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Never call me by that name again. I have given it to you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perhaps," Smerdon said, with a bitter sneer, "because you are not -quite sure yet of your own right to it. You would have to prove that -there was a male child of this marriage, and then that you were he. -That would not be so easy, I imagine."</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is nothing would be more easy. I have every proof of my birth -and my identity."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you intend to use them to break off my marriage with Ida -Raughton," Gervase Occleve said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"For God's sake do not misunderstand me!" Cundall answered. "I simply -want you to tell her and her father all this, and be married as -Gervase Occleve. I cannot be her husband--I have told you I shall -never see her face again--all I wish is that she shall be under no -delusion. As for the title, that would have no charms for me, and you -cannot suppose that I, who have been given so much, should want to -take your property away from you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You would have me live a beggar on your charity!--and that a charity -which you may see fit to withdraw at any moment, as you have seen fit -to suddenly disclose yourself at the most important crisis of my -life." He spoke bitterly, almost brutally to the other, but he could -rouse him to no anger. The elder brother simply said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"God forgive you for your thoughts of me!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"And now," Gervase said, "perhaps you will tell me what you wish done. -I shall of course inform Sir Paul Raughton that, in my altered -circumstances, my marriage with his daughter must be abandoned."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, no!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes! I say. It will not take twenty-four hours to prove whether you -are right in your claim, for if I see the certificate of your birth it -will be enough----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is here," Cundall said, producing it. "You can keep it, or take a -copy of it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Very well. That, and the marriage proved, I will formally resign -everything to you, even the hand of Miss Raughton. That is what you -mean to obtain by this declaration, in spite of your philanthropical -utterances."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is false!" Cundall said, roused at last to defend himself, "and -you know it. She loves you. You do not imagine I should want to marry -her since I have learnt that."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do imagine it, for had you been possessed of the sentiments you -express, you would have held your tongue. Had you kept silence, no -harm could have been done!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"The worst possible harm would have been done."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No one on earth but you knew this story until yesterday, and it was -in your power to have let it remain in oblivion. But, though you have -chosen to bring it forward, there is one consolation still left to me. -In spite of your stepping into my shoes, in spite of your wealth--got -Heaven knows how!--you will never have Ida Raughton's love. No trick -can ever deprive me of that, though she may never be my wife."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Your utterances of this morning at least prove you to be unworthy of -it," Cundall answered, stung at last to anger. "You have insulted me -grossly, not only in your sneers about my wealth and the manner it has -been obtained, but also by your behaviour. And I have lost all -compassion for you! I had intended to let you tell this story in your -own way to Sir Paul Raughton and his daughter, but I have now changed -my mind. When they return to town, after Ascot next week, I shall call -upon Sir Paul and tell him everything. Even though you, yourself, -shall have spoken first."</p> - -<p class="normal">"So be it! I want nothing from you, not even your compassion. To-night -I shall leave this house, so that I shall not even be indebted to you -for a roof."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am sorry you have taken it in this light," Cundall said, again -calming himself as he went to the door. "I would have given you the -love of a brother had you willed it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If you give me the feeling that I have for you, it is one of utter -hatred and contempt! Even though you be my brother, I will never -recognise you in this world, either by word or action, as anything but -my bitterest foe!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Cundall looked fixedly at him for one moment, then he opened the door -and went out.</p> - -<p class="normal">Philip Smerdon had watched his friend carefully through the interview, -and, although there was cause for his excitement, he was surprised at -the transformation that had taken place in him. He had always been -gentle and kind to every one with whom he was brought into contact; -now he seemed to have become a fury. Even the loss of name, and lands, -and love seemed hardly sufficient to have brought about this violence -of rage.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It would almost have been better to have remained on friendly terms -with him, I think," he said. "Perhaps he thought he was only doing his -duty in disclosing himself."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perhaps so!" the other said. "But, as for being friendly with him, -damn him! I wish he were dead!"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER VI.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Sir Paul Raughton's Ascot party had been excellently arranged, every -guest being specially chosen with a view to making an harmonious -whole. Belmont was a charming villa, lying almost on the borders of -the two lovely counties of Berkshire and Surrey, and neither the -beauties of Nature nor Art were wanting. Surrounded by woods in which -other villas nestled, it was shut off from the world, whilst its own -spacious lawns and gardens enclosed it entirely from the notice of -passers-by. It was by no means used only during Ascot week, as both -Ida and her father were in the habit of frequently paying visits to it -in the spring, summer, and autumn; and only in the winter, when the -trees were bare, and the wind swept over the heath and downs, was it -deserted.</p> - -<p class="normal">On this Ascot week, or to be particular, this Monday of Ascot week, -when the guests were beginning to arrive for the campaign, it was as -bright and pretty a spot as any in England. The lawn was dotted with -two or three little umbrella tents, under which those arrivals, who -were not basking under the shadow of trees, were seated; some of them -talking of what they had done since last they met; some engaged in -speculating over the chances of the various horses entered for the -"Cup," the "Stakes," and the "Vase;" some engaged in idly sipping -their afternoon tea (or their afternoon sherry and bitters, as -the sex might be), and some engaged in the most luxurious of all -pursuits--doing nothing. Yet, although Sir Paul's selection of guests -had been admirable, disappointment had come to him and Ida, for two -who would have been the most welcome, Mr. Cundall and Lord Penlyn, had -written to say they could not come. The former's letter had been very -short, and the explanation given for his refusal was that he was again -preparing to leave England, perhaps for a very long period. And Lord -Penlyn's had been to the effect that some business affairs connected -with his property would prevent him from leaving town during the week. -Moreover, it was dated from a fashionable hotel in the West End, and -not from Occleve House.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What the deuce can the boy be doing?" the Baronet asked himself, as -he read the letter over once or twice before showing it to his -daughter. They were seated at breakfast when it came, and none of the -guests having arrived, they were entirely by themselves. "What the -deuce can he be doing?" he repeated. "Ascot week of most weeks in the -year, is the one in which a man likes to get out of town, yet instead -of coming here he goes and stews himself up in a beastly hotel! And -Cundall, too! Why can't the man stop at home like a Christian, instead -of going and grilling in the Tropics? He can't want to make any more -money, surely!" After which reflections he handed both the letters -over to Ida. When she read them she was sorely troubled, for she could -not help imagining that there was something more than strange in the -fact that the man who was engaged to her, and the man who had proposed -to her only a few nights ago, should both have abstained from coming -to spend the week with them. At first, she wondered if they could have -met and quarrelled--but then she reflected that that was not possible! -Surely Mr. Cundall would not have told Gervase that he had proposed to -her and been refused. Men, she thought, did not talk about their love -affairs to one another; certainly the rejected one would not confide -in the accepted. Still, she was very troubled! Troubled because the -man she loved, and whom she had not seen for three days--and it seemed -an eternity!--would not be there to pass that happy week with her; and -troubled also because the man whom she did not love, but whom she -liked and pitied so, was evidently sore at heart. "He was going away -again, perhaps for a very long period," he had said, yet, on the night -of Lady Chesterton's ball, he had told her that he would go no more -away. It must be, she knew, that her rejection of him was once more -driving him to be a wanderer on the earth, and, womanlike, she could -not but feel sorry for him. She knew as well as Rosalind that men, -though they died, did not die for love; but still they must suffer for -their unrequited love. That he would suffer, the look in his face and -the tone of his voice on that night showed very plainly; his letter to -her father and his forthcoming departure told her that the suffering -had begun.</p> - -<p class="normal">Fortunately for her the arrivals of the guests, and her duties as -hostess, prevented her from having much time for reflection. The -visitors had come to be amused, and she could not be <i>distraite</i> or -forgetful of their comfort. The gentlemen might look after themselves -and amuse each other, as they could do very well with their sporting -newspapers and Ruff's Guides, their betting-books and their cigars; -but the ladies could not be neglected. So, all through that long -summer day, Ida, whose mind was filled with the picture of two men, -had to put her own thoughts out of sight, and devote herself to the -thoughts of others. She had to listen to the rhapsodies of a young -lady over her presentation at Court, to how our gracious Queen had -smiled kindly on her, and to how the world seemed full of happiness -and joy; she had to listen to the bemoanings of an elderly lady as to -the manner in which her servants behaved, and to sympathise with -another upon the way in which her son was ruining himself with -baccarat and racing. And she had to enter into full particulars as to -all things concerning her forthcoming marriage, to give exact accounts -of the way in which M. Delaruche was preparing her <i>trousseau</i>, and of -what alterations were to be made in Occleve House in London, and at -Occleve Chase in the country, for her reception; to hear the married -ladies congratulate her on the match she was making, and the younger -ones gush over the manly perfections of her future husband. But she -had also to tell them all that he would not be there this week, and to -listen to the chorus of astonishment that this statement produced..</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not here, my dear Ida," the elderly lady, whose servants caused her -so much trouble, said. "Not here. Why, what a strange future husband! -To leave you alone for a whole week, and such a week, too, as the -Ascot one." And the elderly lady--whose husband at that moment was -offering to take four to one in hundreds from Sir Paul that Flip Flap -won his race--shook her head disapprovingly.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nothing will induce my son to stay away from Ascot," the mother of -the gambling young man said to herself. "He will be here to-night, -though he is not engaged to Ida." And the poor lady sighed deeply.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I did so want to see him," the young lady who had just been -presented, remarked. "You know I have never met Lord Penlyn yet, and I -am dying to know him. They say he is <i>so</i> good-looking."</p> - -<p class="normal">Ida answered them all as well as she could, but she found it hard to -do so. And before she had had more than time to make a few confused -remarks on his being obliged to stop away, on account of business -connected with his property, another unpleasantness occurred.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have just heard very bad news, Miss Raughton," a tall gentleman -remarked, who had joined the group of ladies. "Sir Paul tells me that -Cundall isn't coming for the week. I'm particularly upset, for I -wanted him to give me some introductions in Vienna, to which I am just -off, you know."</p> - -<p class="normal">Again the chorus rose, and again poor Ida had to explain that Mr. -Cundall was preparing to go abroad once more for a long period. And, -as she made the explanation, she could not keep down a tell-tale -blush. Seated in that group was more than one who had once thought -that, if she loved any man, that man was Walter Cundall.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He doesn't care for horse-racing, I imagine," the ill-used mother -said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No more should I," the tall gentleman remarked, "if I had his money. -What fun could a race be to him, when a turf gamble would be like a -drop in the ocean to a man of his tremendous means?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"And I have never seen <i>him</i> either," the <i>débutante</i> remarked, with a -look that was comically piteous. "Oh, dear! this is something -dreadful! Just think of both Lord Penlyn and Mr. Cundall being -absent."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Don't you think some of us others can supply their places?" the -gentleman asked. "We will try very hard, you know!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, yes! of course," she replied; "but then we know you, and we -don't--at least, I don't--know them. And then you care about racing, -and will be thinking of nothing but the horrid horses."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will promise to think about nothing but you," he said, lowering his -voice, "if you will let me."</p> - -<p class="normal">At dinner, things were more comfortable for Ida. All the visitors knew -now that Penlyn and Cundall were certain absentees, and, having once -discussed this, they found plenty of other things to talk about. Sir -Paul had got all his guests well assorted, even to the melancholy -mother, who took comfort from the words of wisdom that dropped from -the mouth of the gentleman who wanted to back Flip Flap: "Let the boy -have his fling, madam, let him have his fling! There is nothing -sickens a man so much of gambling as an unlimited opportunity of -indulging in it. Give him this, and then, if he loses, pull him up -sharp on his allowance, and he'll be all right. When he finds he has -no more money to squander, he will either play so carefully that he -will begin to win, or he'll throw it up altogether. That is what they -generally do." It seemed, however, from his conversation, that he had -never done that himself.</p> - -<p class="normal">Miss Norris, the young lady in her first season, was gradually getting -over, or, indeed, had got over, her disappointment, and now seemed -very comfortable with Mr. Fulke, the tall gentleman. He was a man of -the world as well as of society, and knew everybody, and she began to -think that, after all, she could support the absence of Lord Penlyn -and Mr. Cundall.</p> - -<p class="normal">So the first night passed away very pleasantly, and Sir Paul -congratulated himself on the prospect of a pleasant week. Of course, -as was natural, a gentleman would occasionally interrupt a -conversation with his neighbour; a conversation on balls and dinners, -and the opera, and the last theatrical production; by leaning across -the table and saying to another gentleman, "I'll take you five to four -in tenners, or ponies, about that;" or, "you can have three hundred to -one hundred it doesn't win, if you like;" and, of course, also, there -would be the production of little silver-bound books afterwards, and -some hasty writing. But on the whole, though, the introduction of the -state of Lady Matilda's legs into the conversation, until it turned -out that she was a mare who was first favourite for the Cup, did -rather dismay some of the fairer portion of the guests, everything was -very nice and comfortable.</p> - -<p class="normal">It was a hot night, an overpoweringly hot night, and every one was -glad to escape from the dining-room on to the lawn, where the footmen -had brought out lamp-lit tables for the coffee. It seemed to the -guests that there must be a thunderstorm brewing; indeed, towards -London, where there were heavy banks of lurid clouds massed together, -flashes of lightning were occasionally seen, and the thunder heard -rolling. But the gentlemen even derived consolation from this, and -said that a good storm would make the course--which was as hard as a -brick floor--better going, and would lay the dust on the country -roads.</p> - -<p class="normal">At eleven o'clock the last guest, Mr. Montagu, the sportive son of the -sad lady, arrived, and, as he brought the latest racing information -from town, was eagerly welcomed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," he said, after he had kissed his mother and had told her she -needn't bother herself about him, he was all right enough. "Yes! the -favourites are steady. I dropped into the 'Victoria' before coming -over to Waterloo, and took a look at the betting. There you are! And -here's the 'Special.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">These were eagerly seized on and perused. Lady Matilda's legs, which -had been the cause of anxiety in the racing world for the past week, -seemed to be well enough to give her followers confidence; Mon Roi, -another great horse, was advancing in the betting; Flip Flap was all -right, and Sir Paul felt thankful he had not laid that bet of four -hundred to one hundred in the afternoon; and The Landlord was being -driven back. It took another hour for the gentlemen to get all their -opinions expressed, and then they went to their rooms, the ladies -having long since retired.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Don't oversleep yourselves, any of you!" Sir Paul Raughton called out -cheerily. "We ought to get the four-in-hands under weigh by half-past -eleven at latest. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the earliest of -you."</p> - -<p class="normal">Ida went to her room tired with the day's exertions; but her night's -rest was very broken. In the early part, the flashing of the lightning -and the roar of the thunder (the storm having now broken over the -neighbourhood) kept her awake, and when she slept she did so uneasily, -waking often. Once she started up and listened tremblingly, as though -hearing some unaccustomed sound, and even rose and opened her door, -and looked into the passage. "Of what was she afraid?" she asked -herself. The house was full of visitors; it was, of all times, the -least one likely for harm to come. Then she went back to bed and -eventually slept again, though only to dream. Her brain must have -retained what she had read in Walter Cundall's letter that morning, -for she dreamt that he was taking his farewell of her; only it seemed -that they were back again in the conservatory attached to Lady -Chesterton's ball-room. She was seated in the same place as she had -been when he told her of his love; she could hear the dreamy strains -of the very same waltz--nothing was changed, except that it seemed -darker, much darker; and she could do little more than recognise his -form and see his dark, sad eyes fixed on her. Then he bent over her -and kissed her gently on the forehead--more, as it seemed in her -dream, with a brother's than a lover's kiss--and said: "Farewell, for -ever! In this world we two shall never meet again." Then, as he turned -to go, she saw behind him another form with its face shrouded, but -with a figure that seemed wonderfully familiar to her, and, as he -faced it, it sprang upon him. And with a shriek she awoke--awoke to -see the bright sun shining in through her windows, to hear the birds -singing outside, and to notice that the hands of the clock pointed to -nearly eight.</p> - -<p class="normal">And her first action was to kneel by the side of her bed and to thank -God that it was only a dream.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER VII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">There were no late risers at Belmont on that morning, for even the -elder ladies, who were not going to Ascot but meant to remain at home -and pass the day pleasantly in their own society, made it a point of -being early. The younger ones, with Miss Norris the very first down, -were a sight that was charming to the gentlemen, with their pretty new -gowns prepared especially for the occasion; but of them all, none -looked fairer than Ida. Her disturbed rest had made her, perhaps, a -little paler than usual, but had thus only added a more delicate tinge -to her loveliness. As she stood talking to young Montagu on the -verandah, this youth began to wish that he was Lord Penlyn, and to -think that there were other things in the world better than going -<i>Banco</i> or backing winners--or losers! Indefatigable in everything -connected with sport, the young man, in company with two other -visitors, officers who had been in India and had become accustomed to -early rising, had already ridden over to Ascot to learn what was going -on there, and to see if any information could be picked up.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And now, Miss Raughton," he said, "to breakfast with what appetite we -can? And I can assure you that, if old Wolsey had only half as good a -one as mine is now, King Hal wouldn't have frightened him into saying, -'good-bye' to all the good things in life."</p> - -<p class="normal">Ida laughed at his nonsense, and then, every one being down, the first -important part of the day's proceedings began.</p> - -<p class="normal">The story of an Ascot party has been told so often and so well, that -no other pen is needed to describe it. There are few of us who, either -in long vanished or in very recent days, have not formed part in one -of these pleasant outings; who have not sat upon a coach, with some -young lady beside us, who seemed, at least for the time being, to be -the prettiest and nicest girl in the world; who have not eaten our -fill of lobster salad and pigeon pie, and drunk our fill of champagne -and claret cup!</p> - -<p class="normal">Sir Paul's party went through it all; the gentlemen (with Mr. Montagu -very busy at this) dashing across the course between each race, and -into the Grand Stand to "see about the odds." Flip Flap disgraced -himself terribly in the Gold Vase, and came in last of all, much to -Sir Paul's disgust, who regretted now that he had not laid his old -friend four to one in hundreds, but to the intense delight of young -Montagu, who had persuaded Fulke to take the same odds in tens from -him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Hoorah!" he cried, as the beaten favourite came in with the crowd, -"now, if 'Tilda will only pull off the Stakes, I am bound to score -heavily to-day."</p> - -<p class="normal">And he dashed off across the course again, to see what the betting was -about the magnificent mare whose name he so familiarly shortened.</p> - -<p class="normal">Ida sat very peacefully on the coach listening to all the laughter and -conversation that was going on around her, but taking very little part -in it, except when directly spoken to. But in the intervals, when it -was not necessary for her to join in it, her mind reverted to things -and persons far away from the bright, sunny racecourse. In her heart, -she did feel hurt that, whatever important business transactions he -might have, her lover could not find time to run down for even one -day. It was evidently supposed by some one that he was with her, for -only that morning a letter had come to Belmont for him, a letter which -she had instantly reposted to the hotel he was staying at accompanied -by a loving one from herself which she had found time to write -hastily. It had seemed to her that she knew the handwriting, and she -supposed it must be from some common friend of theirs; but, whoever -the writer was, he evidently thought Gervase was with them. She -supposed he really was very much occupied, but still she wished he -would come for one day; and she made up her mind to write to him again -that night, and ask him to run down for the Cup. He could leave town -at midday and be back at seven; surely he could spare that much time -to her! Nor had she forgotten her dream, her horrid dream, and she -wondered over and over again why she should have had such a dreadful -one, and why last night? Perhaps it was the storm that had affected -her!</p> - -<p class="normal">Once more young Montagu's star was in the ascendant, for Lady Matilda -beat all her adversaries, and, to use a sporting phrase, "romped in" -for the Stakes. There was great rejoicing over this on the Belmont -coaches, of which there were two, one driven by Sir Paul and one by -Mr. Fulke; for most of them had backed her with the bookmakers, and -so, while they all won, there was no loser in the party. Miss Norris, -too, had won a dozen of gloves from Fulke, who took the field against -the horse he fancied to oblige the girl he admired, and Sir Paul had -promised Ida anything she liked to ask for if Lady Matilda only got -home first.</p> - -<p class="normal">Of course, after the last race, there was an adjournment of the whole -party to the lawn; who goes to Ascot without also going to sit for a -while in one of the prettiest scenes attached to a racecourse in -England? There, seated on comfortable chairs on that soft velvet lawn, -with the hot June sun sinking conveniently behind the Grand Stand, the -party remained peacefully and chatted until the horses should be put -to.</p> - -<p class="normal">It was at this time that, to the different groups scattered about, -there came a rumour that a horrible murder had been committed in -London last night, or early that morning. A few persons, who had come -down by the last special train, had heard something about it, but they -did not know anything of the details; and two or three copies of the -first editions of the evening papers had arrived, but they told very -little, except that undoubtedly a murder had taken place, and that the -victim was, to all appearances, a gentleman. Had it been a common -murder in the Seven Dials, or the East End, it would hardly have -aroused attention at aristocratic Ascot.</p> - -<p class="normal">Young Montagu first heard it from a bookmaker with whom he was having -a satisfactory settlement, but that worthy knew nothing except that -"some one said it was a swell, and that he had been stabbed to the -'eart in the Park."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Get a paper, Montagu," the baronet said, "and let us, see what it is. -Every one seems to be discussing it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Easier said than done, Sir Paul!" the other answered. "But I'll try."</p> - -<p class="normal">He came back in a few moments, having succeeded in borrowing a second -edition from a friend, and he read out to them the particulars, which -were by no means full. It appeared that, after the storm in London was -over, which was about three o'clock in the morning, a policeman going -on his walk down the Mall of St. James' Park, had come across a -gentleman lying by the railings that divide that part of it from the -gardens, a gentleman whom he at first took to be overcome by drink. On -shaking him, however, he discovered him to be dead, and he then -thought that he must have been struck by lightning. A further glance -showed that this was not the case, as he perceived that the -dead man was stabbed in the region of the heart, that his watch -and chain had been wrenched away (there being a broken piece of the -chain left in the button-hole), and, if he had any, his papers and -pocket-book taken. His umbrella, which was without any name or -engraving, was by his side his linen, which was extremely fine, was -unmarked, and his clothes, although drenched with mud and rain, were -of the best possible quality. That, up to now, was all the information -the paper possessed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"How dreadful to think of a man being murdered in such a public place -as that!" Ida said. "Surely the murderer cannot long escape!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't know about that," Mr. Fulke said. "The Mall at three o'clock -in the morning, especially on such a morning--what a storm it was!--is -not very much frequented. A man walking down it might easily be -attacked and robbed!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is a nice state of affairs, when a gentleman cannot walk about -London without being murdered," Sir Paul said. "But horrible things -seem to happen every day now."</p> - -<p class="normal">The public were leaving the lawn by this time, and one of the grooms -came over to say that the coaches were ready. There was no longer -anything to stay for, and so they all went back and took their places, -and started for Belmont.</p> - -<p class="normal">It was a glorious evening after a glorious day; and as they went -along, some laughing and talking, some flirting, and some discussing -the day's racing and speculating on that of the morrow, they had -forgotten all about the tragedy they had heard of half-an-hour -earlier. Not one of them supposed that the murdered man was likely to -be known to them, nor that that crime had broken up their Ascot week. -But when they had returned to Belmont, and gone to their rooms to -dress for dinner, they learnt that the dead man was known to most of -them. A telegram had come to Sir Paul from his butler in London, -saying: "The gentleman murdered in St. James' Park last night was Mr. -Cundall. He has been identified by his butler and servants."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER VIII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">About the same time that Sir Paul Raughton received the telegram from -London, and was taking counsel with one or two of his elder guests as -to whether he should at once tell Ida the dreadful news or leave it -till the morning, Lord Penlyn entered his hotel in town. A change had -come over the young man--a change of such a nature that any one, who -had seen him twenty-four hours before, would scarcely have believed -him to be the same person. His face, which usually bore a good colour, -was ghastly pale, his eyes had great hollows and deep rings round -them, and even his lips looked as if the blood had left them. He had -come from his club--where, since it had been discovered who the victim -of last night's tragedy was, nothing else but the murder had been -talked about, as was also the case in every club and public place in -London--and he now mounted the steps of the hotel with the manner of a -man who was either very weak or very weary.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you know where my servant is?" he asked of the hall porter, who -held the door open for him; and even this man noticed that his voice -sounded strange and broken, and that he looked ill.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He is at his tea, my lord; shall I send for him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, but send him to me when he has finished. We shall return to my -house to-night."</p> - -<p class="normal">The porter bowed, and said, "I have sent a letter to your room, my -lord," and Penlyn went on. His apartment, consisting of a sitting-room -and bed-room, was on the ground floor of the hotel, and was usually -given to guests of distinction (who were likely, in the landlord's -opinion, to pay handsomely for the accommodation), as it saved them -the trouble of going up any stairs. The hotel was a private one; a -house that did not welcome persons of whom it knew nothing, but made -those whom it did know, entirely at their ease. It was very quiet, -shutting its doors at midnight unless any of its visitors were at a -ball or party, in which case, if some of those visitors were ladies, -the porter's deputy sat up for them; but, when they were gentlemen, -furnishing them with latch-keys. As sometimes there were not more than -three or four gentlemen in this extremely select hotel at one time, -this was an obviously better system than having a night-porter.</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn took up the letter that was lying on his table, and -proceeded to open it, throwing himself at the same time wearily into -an arm-chair. He recognised Ida's handwriting, and as he did so he -wondered if, by any possibility, the letter could be about the subject -of which all London was talking to-day---the murder of Walter Cundall. -When he saw that there was another one inclosed in it, the handwriting -of which he did not know, his curiosity was so aroused (for he -wondered how a stranger to him should know, or suppose, that he was at -Belmont), that he opened this one first and read it. Read it carefully -from beginning to end, and then dropped it on the floor as he put his -hands up to his head, and wailed, "Murdered! Oh my God! Murdered! When -he had written this letter only an hour before." And then he wept long -and bitterly.</p> - -<p class="normal">The letter ran:</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal"><span class="sc">My Brother</span>,</p> - -<p class="normal">"Since I saw you last Saturday I have been thinking deeply upon what -passed between us, and I have come to the conclusion that, after all, -it will be best for nothing to be said to any one on the subject of -our father's first marriage; not even to Miss Raughton or her father. -By keeping back the fact that you have an elder brother, no harm is -done to any one. I shall never marry now, and consequently, you are -only taking possession of what will be yours, or your children's, -eventually. No one but you, your friend Mr. Smerdon, and I, know of -this secret; let no one ever know it. We love the same woman, and, -when she is your wife, I shall have the right to love her with a -brother's love. Let us unite together to make her life as perfectly -happy as possible. To do this we must not begin by undeceiving her as -to the position she is to hold.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I suggest this, nay, I command you to do this, because of my love for -her, a love which desires that her life may be without pain or sorrow. -I shall not witness her happiness with you, not yet at least, for I do -not think I could bear that; but, in some future years, it may be that -time will have so tempered my sorrow to me, that I shall be able to -see you all in all to each other, perhaps to even witness your -children playing at her knee, and to feel content. I pray God that it -may be so.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Remember, therefore, what I, by my right as your elder brother--which -I exert for the first and last time!--charge you to do. Retain your -position, still be to the world what you have been, and devote your -life to her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have one other word to say. The Occleve property is a comfortable, -though not a remarkably fine, one. You have heard of my means, and -they are scarcely exaggerated. If, at any time, there is any sum of -money you or she may want, come to me and you shall have it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Let us forget the bitter words we each spoke in our interview. Our -lives are bound up in one cause, and that, and our relationship, -should prevent their ever being remembered.</p> - -<p style="text-indent:50%">"Your brother,</p> -<p style="text-indent:65%">"<span class="sc">Walter</span>."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">When he was calmer, he picked the letter up again and read it through -once more, having carefully locked his door before he did so, for he -did not wish his valet to see his emotion. But the re-reading of it -brought him no peace, indeed seemed only to increase his anguish. When -the man-servant knocked at his door he bade him go away for a time, as -he was engaged and could not be disturbed; and then he passed an hour -pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself, starting at the -slightest sound, and nearly mad with his thoughts. These thoughts he -could not collect; he did not know what steps to take next. What was -he to tell Ida or Sir Paul--or was he to tell them anything? The dead -man, the murdered brother, had enjoined on him, in what he could not -have known was to be a dying request, that he was to keep the secret. -Why then should he say anything? There was no need to do so! He was -Lord Penlyn now, there was nothing to tell! No one but Philip, who was -trustworthy, knew that he had ever been anything else. No one would -ever know it. And he shuddered as he thought that, if the world did -ever know that Walter Cundall had been his brother, then the world -would believe him to be his murderer! No! it must never be known that -he and that other were of the same blood.</p> - -<p class="normal">He could not sit still, he must move about, he must leave the house! -He rang for his man and told him to pack up and pay the bill, and take -his things round to Occleve House, and that he should arrive there -late; and the man seemed surprised at his orders.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Will you not dress, my lord?" he asked. "You were to dine out -to-night."</p> - -<p class="normal">"To-night? Yes! true! I had forgotten it; but I shall not go. Mr. -Cundall who was killed last night was a friend of mine; I am going to -his club to hear if any more particulars have been made known." And -then he went out.</p> - -<p class="normal">The valet was a quiet, discreet man, but as he packed his master's -portmanteaus he reflected a good deal on the occurrences of the past -few days. First of all, he remembered the visit of Mr. Cundall on -Saturday to Occleve House, and that the footman had told him that he -had heard some excited conversation going on as he had passed the -room, though he had not been able to catch the words and he also -called to mind that, an hour afterwards, Lord Penlyn had told him to -take some things round to this hotel (which they were now leaving as -suddenly as they had come), and also that they would not pay their -visit to Sir Paul Raughton's for the Ascot week. Was there any -connecting link between Mr. Cundall's visit to his master, and his -master leaving the house and giving up Ascot? And was there any -connection between all this and the murder of Mr. Cundall, and the -visible agitation of Lord Penlyn? He could not believe it, but still -it did seem strange that this visit of Mr. Cundall's should have been -followed by such an alteration of his master's plans, and by his own -horrible death.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What time did my governor come in last night?" he said to the porter, -as he and that worthy stood in the hall waiting for a cab that had -been sent for.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't know," the porter answered. "There was only his lordship and -another gent staying in the house, except the Dean's family upstairs, -and some foreign swells, and none of them keep late hours, so we gave -him and the other gent a key and left a jet of gas burning in the -'all. But both on 'em must have come in precious late, for Jim, who -sleeps on the first floor, said he never heard either of them. I say, -this is a hawful thing about this Mr. Cundall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is so! Well, there's the cab. Jim, put the portmanteaus on the -top. Here you are, porter!" and he slipped the usual tip into the -porter's hand, and wishing him "good evening," went off.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well," he said to himself as he drove to Occleve House, "I should -like to know what we went to that hotel for three days for! It wasn't -because of the Dean's daughters nor yet for the foreign ladies, -because he never spoke to any of them. Well, I'll buy a 'Special' and -read about the murder."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn walked on to Pall Mall, going very slowly and in an almost -dazed state, and surprised several whom he met by his behaviour to -them. Men whom he knew intimately he just nodded to instead of -stopping to speak with for a moment, and some he did not seem to see -at all. He was wondering what further particulars he would hear when -he got to Cundall's club, and also when Smerdon would be back. That -gentleman had started for Occleve Chase on Monday morning, but must by -now have received a telegram Penlyn had sent him, telling him to -return at once. In it he had cautiously, and without mentioning any -names, given him to understand that their visitor of last Saturday had -died suddenly, and he expected that he would return by the next train.</p> - -<p class="normal">He had started off for Cundall's club, thinking to find out what was -known, but, when he got there, he reflected that he could scarcely -walk into a club, of which he was not a member, simply to make -inquiries about even so important a subject as this. He could give no -grounds for his eagerness to learn anything fresh, could not even say -that he was particularly intimate with the dead man. Would it not look -strange for him to be forcing his way in and making inquiries? Yes! -and not only that, but it would draw attention on him, and it would be -better to gather particulars elsewhere. He would go to his own club -and find out what was known there.</p> - -<p class="normal">So, looking very wan and miserable, he walked on to "Black's," and -there he found the murder as much a subject of discussion as it was -everywhere else. All the evening papers were full of it; the men who -always profess to know something more than their fellows, whether it -be with regard to a dark horse for a race, an understanding with -Germany, or the full particulars of the next great divorce case--these -men had heard all sorts of curious stories--that Cundall had a wife -who had tracked him from the Tropics to slay him; that he had -committed suicide because he was ruined; that he had been murdered by -an outraged husband! There was nothing too far-fetched for these -gentlemen!</p> - -<p class="normal">Sifted down as the case was thoroughly by the papers, the facts that -had come out, since first his body was discovered, amounted to this: -He had been at his club late in the evening, and his brougham was -waiting outside for him when the storm began. Then he had sent word -down to his coachman to say that, as he had a letter to write, the -carriage had better go home and he would take a cab later on. Other -testimony, gathered by the papers, went on to show that he had sat on -at his club, reading a little, and then going to a writing-table where -he had sat some time; that when he had written his letter he went to a -large arm-chair and read it over more than once, and then put a stamp -on it, and, putting it in his pocket, still sat on and on, evidently -thinking deeply. Two or three members said they had spoken to him, and -one that he had told Cundall he did not seem very gay, but that he had -replied in his usual pleasant manner, that he was very well, but had a -good deal to occupy his mind. It was some time past two o'clock (the -club, having a large number of Members of Parliament on its roll, -was a late one) before the storm was over, and he rose to go. The -hall-porter was apparently the last person who spoke to him alive, -asking him if he should call a cab, but receiving for answer that, as -the air was now so cool and fresh, he would walk home through the -Park, it being so near to Grosvenor Place. The porter standing at the -door of the club, himself to inhale the air, saw Mr. Cundall drop a -letter in the pillar-box close by, and then go on. The only other -person he noticed about, at that time, was a man who looked like a -labourer, who was going the same way as Mr. Cundall. The sentries who -had been on duty at, and around, St. James's Palace were also -interrogated, and the one who had been outside Clarence House, stated -that he distinctly remembered a gentleman answering to Mr. Cundall's -description passing by him into the Park, at about a quarter to three. -It was still raining slightly, and he had his umbrella up. He, too, -saw the labourer, or mechanic, walking some fifteen yards behind him, -and supposed he was going to his early work. From the time Mr. Cundall -passed this man until the policeman found him dead, no one seemed to -have seen him.</p> - -<p class="normal">With the exception of the medical evidence, which stated that he had -been stabbed to, and through, the heart by one swift, powerful blow, -that must have caused instantaneous death, there was little more to be -told. Judging from the state of the ground, there had been no -struggle, a fact which would justify the idea that the murder had been -planned and premeditated. The workman might have easily planned it -himself in the time he followed him from outside his club to the time -they were in the Park together, but he would have had to be provided -with an extraordinarily long knife, such as workmen rarely carry. But, -even had he not been the murderer, he must have seen the murder -committed, since he was close at hand. It was, therefore, imperative -that this man should be found. But to find one man in a city with four -millions and a quarter of inhabitants was no easy task, especially -when there was nothing by which to trace him. The sentry by whom he -passed nearest thought he seemed to be a man of about five or six and -twenty, with a brown moustache. But how many thousands of men were -there in London to whom this description would apply!</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn sat there reading the "Specials," listening to the -different opinions expressed, and particularly noting the revengeful -utterances of men who had known Cundall. Their grief was loud, and -strongly uttered, and it was evident that the regular police, or -detective, force might be, if necessary, augmented by amateurs who -would leave no stone unturned to try and get a clue to the murderer. -Amongst others, he noticed one young man who was particularly -grief-stricken, and who was constantly appealed to by those who -surrounded him; and, on asking a fellow-member who he was, he learnt -that he was a Mr. Stuart, the secretary of his dead brother. It -happened that he had been brought into the club by a man who had known -Cundall well.</p> - -<p class="normal">"To-morrow," Penlyn heard him say, and he started as he heard it, "I -am going to make a thorough investigation of all his papers. As far as -I or his City agents know, he hadn't a relation in the world; but -surely his correspondence must give us some idea of whom to -communicate with. And, until this morning, I should have said he had -not got an enemy in the world either."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You think, then, that this dastardly murder is the work of an enemy, -and not for mere robbery?" the gentleman asked who had brought him -into the club.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am sure of it! As to the workman who is supposed to have done -it--well, if he did do it, he was only a workman in disguise. No! he -had some enemy, perhaps some one who owed him money, or whose path he -had been enabled by his wealth to cross, and that is the man who -killed him. And, by the grace of Heaven, I am going to find that man -out."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn still sat there, and as he heard Stuart utter these words he -felt upon what a precipice he stood. Suppose that, in the papers which -were about to be ransacked, there should be any that proved that -Walter Cundall was his eldest brother, and that he, Penlyn, had only -learnt it two days before he was murdered. Would not everything point -to him as the Cain who had slain his brother, and was he not making -appearances worse against him by keeping silence? He must tell some -one, he could keep the horrible secret no longer. And he must have the -sympathy of some one dear to him; he would confide in Ida! Surely, she -would not believe him to be the murderer of his own brother! Yes, he -would go down to Belmont and tell her all. Better it should come from -him than that Stuart should discover it, and publish it to the world.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I hope you may find him out," several men said in answer to Stuart's -exclamation. "The brute deserves something worse than hanging. If -Cundall's murderer gets off, it is the wickedest thing that ever -happened." Then one said: "Is there any clue likely to be got at -through the wound?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," Stuart answered, "I think not. Though the surgeon who has -examined it says that it was made by no ordinary knife or dagger."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What does he think it was, then?" they asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He says the wound is more like those he has seen in the East. The -dagger, he thinks, must have been semicircular and of a kind the Arabs -often use, especially the Algerian Arabs."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I never knew that!" one said; "but then I have never been to Algiers. -Who has? Here, Penlyn, you were there once, weren't you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Penlyn said, and his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his -mouth as he uttered the words; "but I never saw or heard of a knife or -dagger of that description."</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart looked at Lord Penlyn as he spoke, and noticed the faltering -way in which he did so. Then, in a moment, the thought flashed into -his mind that this was the man who had won the woman whom his generous -friend and patron had loved. Could he--but no, the idea was -ridiculous! He was the winner, Cundall the loser. Successful men had -no reason to kill their unsuccessful rivals!</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER IX.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">After a wretched night spent in tossing about his bed, in dreaming of -the murdered man, and in lying awake wondering how he should break the -news to Ida, Lord Penlyn rose with the determination of going down to -Belmont. But when the valet brought him his bath he told him that Mr. -Smerdon had arrived from Occleve Chase at six o'clock, and would meet -him at breakfast. So, when he heard this, he dressed quickly and went -to his friend.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Good Heavens!" Philip said, when he saw him. "How ill you look! What -is the matter?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Matter!" the other answered, "is there not matter enough to make me -look ill? I have told you that Cundall is dead, and you know how he -died."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I know. But surely you must be aware of what it has freed you -from."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It has freed me from nothing. Read this; would that not have freed me -equally as well?" and he handed him the letter that his brother had -written a few hours before his death.</p> - -<p class="normal">The other's face darkened as he read, and then he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"He was a man of noble impulses, but they were only impulses! Would -you have ever felt sure while he lived that he might not alter his -mind again at any moment?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes! He loved Ida, and I do not believe he was a man who would have -ever loved another woman. I should have been safe in his hands."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then they began to talk about the murder itself, and Smerdon asked who -was suspected, or if any one was?</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," Penlyn said, "no one is suspected--as yet. A labourer was seen -following him on that night, and suspicion naturally falls on him, -because, if he did not do it himself, he must have been close at hand, -and would have helped him or given an alarm. There is only one road -through the Park, which they must both have taken."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is there any trace of this man?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"None whatever, up to last night. Meanwhile, his friend and secretary, -Mr. Stuart, says that he is confident that the murder was committed by -some one who had reason to wish him out of the way, and he is going -through his papers to-day to see if any of them can throw any light on -such an enemy."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He cannot, I suppose, find anything that can do you any harm?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Supposing he finds those certificates he showed us?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Supposing he does! You are Lord Penlyn now, at any rate. And it would -give you an opportunity of putting in a claim to his property. You are -his heir, if he has left no will."</p> - -<p class="normal">"His heir! To all his immense wealth?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Certainly."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shall never claim it, and I hope to God he has destroyed every -proof of our relationship."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why! Because will not the fact that I held a position which belonged -to him, and was the heir to all his money--of which I never thought -till this moment--give the world cause for suspecting----?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That I am his murderer."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nonsense! I suppose you could prove where you were at the time of his -death?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, I could not. I entered the hotel at two, but there was not a -creature in the house awake. I could hear the porter's snores on the -floor above, and there is not a living soul to prove whether I was in -at three or not."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nor whether you were out! If they were all asleep, what evidence -could they give on either side?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Even though there should be no evidence, how could I go through life -with the knowledge that every one regarded me as his unproved -murderer?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You look at the matter too seriously. To begin with, after that -letter he wrote you, he would very likely destroy all proofs of his -identity----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He had no chance. He was murdered, in all probability--indeed must -have been--a quarter of an hour after he posted it in Pall Mall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He might have destroyed them before--when he made up his mind to -write the letter."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Certainly, he might have done so. But I am not going to depend upon -his having destroyed them. This secret must be told by me, and I am -going to Belmont to-day to tell it to Ida."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You must be mad, I think!" Smerdon said, speaking almost angrily to -him. "This secret, which only came to light a week ago, is now buried -for ever, and, since he is dead, can never be brought up again. For -what earthly reason should you tell Miss Raughton anything about it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because she ought to know," the other answered weakly. "It is only -right that she should know."</p> - -<p class="normal">"That you were not Lord Penlyn when you became engaged to her, but -that you are now. And that Cundall being your brother, you must mourn -him as a brother, and consequently your marriage must be postponed for -at least a year. Is that what you mean?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn started. This had never entered into his head, and was -certainly not what he would have meant or desired. Postponed for a -year! when he was dying to make her his wife, when the very thought -that his brother might step in and interrupt his marriage had been the -cause of his brutality of speech to him. It had not been the impending -loss of lands and position that had made him speak as he had done, he -had told himself many times of late; it had been the fear of losing -his beloved Ida. And, now that there was nothing to stand between -them, he was himself about to place an obstacle in the way, an -obstacle that should endure for at least a year. Smerdon was right, -his quick mind had grasped what he would never have thought of--quite -right! he would do well to say nothing about his relationship to the -dead man. It is remarkable how easily we agree with those who show us -the way to further our own ends!</p> - -<p class="normal">"I never thought of that," he said, "and I could not bear it. After -all," he went on weakly, "you are right! I do not see any necessity to -say anything about it, and he himself forbade me to do so."</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is only one thing, though," Smerdon said, "which is that, if -you do not proclaim yourself his brother, I cannot see how you are to -become possessed of his money."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Don't think about it--I will never become possessed of it. It may go -to any one but me, to some distant relative, if any can be found, or -to the Crown, or whatever it is that takes a man's money when he is -without kinsmen; but never to me. He was right when he said that I had -been Jacob to his Esau all my life, but I will take no more from him, -even though he is dead."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Quixotic and ridiculous ideas!" Smerdon said. "In fact you and he had -remarkably similar traits of character. Extremely quixotic, unless you -have some strong reason for not claiming his millions. For instance, -if <i>you had really murdered him</i> I could understand such a -determination! But I suppose you did not do that!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn looked up and saw his friend's eyes fixed on him, with -almost an air of mockery in them. Then he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I want you to understand one thing, Philip. There must be no banter -nor joking on this subject. Even though I must hold my peace for ever, -I still regard it as an awful calamity that has fallen upon me. If I -could do so, I would set every detective in London to work to try and -find the man who killed him; indeed, if it were not for Ida's sake, I -should proclaim myself his brother to-morrow."</p> - -<p class="normal">"But for Ida's sake you will not do so?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"For Ida's sake, and for the reason that I do not wish his money, I -shall not; and more especially for the reason that you have shown me -our marriage would be postponed if I did so. But never make such a -remark again to me. You know me well enough to know that I am not of -the stuff that murderers and fratricides are made of."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I beg your pardon," Philip said; "of course I did not speak in -earnest."</p> - -<p class="normal">"On this subject we will, if you please, speak in nothing else but -earnest. And, if you will help me with your advice, I shall be glad to -have it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Let us go over the ground then," his friend said, "and consider -carefully what you have to do. In the first place you have to look at -the matter from two different points of view. One point is that you -lose all claim to his money--yes, yes, I know," as Lord Penlyn made a -gesture of contempt at the mention of the money--"all claim by keeping -your secret. It is better, however, that you should so keep it. But, -on the other hand, there is, of course, the chance--a remote one, a -thousand to one chance, but still a chance--that he may have left some -paper behind him which would prove your relationship to each other. In -that case you would, of course, have no alternative but to acknowledge -that you were brothers."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And what would the world think of me then?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That you had simply done as he bade you, and kept the secret."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It would think that I murdered him. It would be natural that the -world should think so. He stood between me and everything, except -Ida's love, and people might imagine that he possessed that too. And -his murder, coming so soon after he disclosed himself to me, would -make appearances against me doubly black."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Who is to know when he disclosed himself to you? For aught the world -knows, you might have been aware of your relationship for years."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then I was living a lie for years!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do not wind round the subject so! And remember that, in very fact, -you have done no harm. A week ago you did not know this secret."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well," Penlyn said, springing up from his chair, "things must take -their course. If it comes out it must; if not, I shall never breathe a -word to any one. Fate has cursed me with this trouble, I must bear it -as best I can. The only thing I wish is that I had never gone to that -hotel. That would also tell against me if anything was known."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It was a pity, but it can't be helped. Now, go to Belmont, but be -careful to hold your tongue."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn did go to Belmont, having previously sent a telegram -saying he was coming, and he travelled down in one of the special -trains that was conveying a contingent of fashionable racing people to -the second day at Ascot. But their joyousness, and the interest that -they all took in the one absorbing subject, "What would win the Cup?" -only made him feel doubly miserable. Why, he pondered, should these -persons be so happy, when he was so wretched? And then, when they were -tired of discussing the racing, they turned to the other great subject -that was now agitating people's minds, the murder in St. James's Park. -He listened with interest to all they had to say on that matter, and -he found that, whatever the different opinions of the travellers in -the carriage might be as to who the murderer was, they were all agreed -as to the fact that it was no common murder committed for robbery, but -one done for some more powerful reason.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He stood in some one's light," one gentleman said, whom, from his -appearance, Lord Penlyn took to be a barrister, "and that person has -either removed him from this earth, or caused him to be removed. I -should not like to be his heir, for on that man suspicion will -undoubtedly fall, unless he can prove very clearly that he was miles -away from London on Monday night."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn started as he heard these words. His heir! Then it would be on -him that suspicion would fall if it was ever known that he was the -heir; and, as he thought that, among his brother's papers, there might -be something to prove that he was in such a position, a cold sweat -broke out upon his forehead. How could he prove himself "miles away -from London" on that night? Even the sleepy porter could not say at -what time he returned to the hotel! Nothing, he reflected, could save -him, if there was any document among the papers (that Stuart was -probably ransacking by now) that would prove that he and Cundall were -brothers.</p> - -<p class="normal">He thought that, after all, it would be better he should tell Ida, and -he made up his mind by the time he had arrived at the nearest station -to Belmont, that he would do so. It would be far better that the -information, startling as it might be, should come from him than from -any other source. And while he was being driven swiftly over to Sir -Paul's villa, he again told himself that it would be the best thing to -do. Only, when he got to Belmont, he found his strength of mind begin -to waver. The news of Cundall's dreadful death had had the effect of -entirely breaking up the baronet's Ascot party. Every one there knew -on what friendly terms the dead man had been both with father and -daughter, and had been witness to the distress that both had felt at -hearing the fatal tidings--Ida, indeed, had retired to her room, which -she kept altogether; and consequently all the guests, with the -exception of Miss Norris, had taken their departure. That young lady, -whose heart was an extremely kind one, had announced that nothing -should induce her to leave her dear friend until she had entirely -recovered from the shock, and she had willingly abandoned the wearing -of her pretty new frocks and had donned those more suited to a house -of mourning; and she resigned herself to seeing no more racing, and to -the loss of Mr. Fulke's agreeable conversation, and had devoted -herself to administering to Ida. But, as Mr. Fulke and young Montagu -had betaken themselves to an hotel not far off and had promised that -they would look round before quitting the neighbourhood, she probably -derived some consolation from knowing that she would see the former -again.</p> - -<p class="normal">"This is a dreadful affair, Penlyn!" the baronet said, when he -received his future son-in-law in the pretty morning-room that Ida's -own taste had decorated. "The shock has been bad enough to me, who -looked upon Cundall as a dear friend, but it has perfectly crushed my -poor girl. You know how much she liked him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I know," Penlyn answered, finding any reply difficult.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Has she told you anything of what passed between them recently?" Sir -Paul asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," Penlyn said, "nothing." But the question told him that Ida had -informed her father of the dead man's proposal to her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"She will tell you, perhaps, when you see her. She intends coming down -to you shortly." Then changing the subject, Sir Paul said: "She tells -me you met the poor fellow at Lady Chesterton's ball. I suppose you -did not see him after that, until--before his death?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn hesitated. He did not know what answer to give, for, -though he had no desire to tell an untruth, how could he tell his -questioner of the dreadful scenes that had occurred between them after -that meeting at the ball?</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he said, weakly: "Yes; I did see him again, at 'Black's.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"At 'Black's!'" Sir Paul exclaimed. "I did not know he was a member."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nor was he. Only, one night--Friday night--he was passing and I was -there, and he dropped in."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh!" Sir Paul said, "I thought you were the merest acquaintances."</p> - -<p class="normal">And then he went on to discuss the murder, and to ask if anything -further was known than what had appeared in the papers? And Penlyn -told him that he knew of nothing further.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I cannot understand the object of it," the baronet said. He had had -but little opportunity of talking over the miserable end that had -befallen his dead friend, and he was not averse now to discuss it with -one who had also known him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I cannot understand," he went on, "how any creature, however -destitute or vile, would have murdered him for his watch and the money -he might chance to have about him. There must have been some powerful -motive for the crime--some hidden enemy in the background of whom no -one--perhaps, not even he himself--ever knew. I wonder who will -inherit his enormous wealth?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why?" Penlyn asked, and as he did so it seemed as though, once again, -his heart would stop beating.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because I should think that that man would be in a difficult -position--unless he can prove his utter absence from London at the -time."</p> - -<p class="normal">To Penlyn it appeared that everything pointed in men's minds to the -same conclusion, that the heir of Walter Cundall was the guilty man. -Every one was of the same opinion, Sir Paul, and the man going to -Ascot who seemed like a lawyer; and, as he remembered, he had himself -said the same thing to Smerdon. "What would the world think of him," -he had asked, "if it should come to know that they were brothers, and -that, being brothers, he was the inheritor of that vast fortune?" Yes, -all thought alike, even to himself.</p> - -<p class="normal">As these reflections passed through his mind it occurred to him that, -after all, it would not be well for him to disclose to Ida the fact -that he and Cundall were brothers--would she not know then that he was -the heir, and might she not also then look upon him as the murderer? -If that idea should ever come to her mind, she was lost to him for -ever. No! Philip Smerdon was right; she must never learn of the fatal -relationship between them.</p> - -<p class="normal">"By-the-way," Sir Paul said, after a pause, "what on earth ever made -you go to that hotel in town? Occleve House is comfortable enough, -surely!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Again Penlyn had to hesitate before answering, and again he had to -equivocate. He had gone out of the house--that he thought was no -longer his--with rage in his heart against the man who had come -forward, as he supposed, to deprive him of everything he possessed; -and never meaning to return to it, but to openly give to those whom it -concerned his reasons for not doing so. But Cundall's murder had -opened the way for him to return; the letter written on the night of -his death had bidden Penlyn be everything he had hitherto been; and so -he had gone back, with as honest a desire in his heart to obey his -brother's behest as to reinstate himself.</p> - -<p class="normal">But those two or three days at the hotel had surprised everybody, even -to his valet and the house servants; and now Sir Paul was also asking -for an explanation. What a web of falsehood and deceit he was weaving -around him!</p> - -<p class="normal">"There were some slight repairs to be done," he said, "and some -alterations afterwards, so I had to go out."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then I wonder you did not come down here. The business you had to do -might have been postponed."</p> - -<p class="normal">He could make no answer to this, and it came as a relief to him -when a servant announced that Miss Raughton would see him in the -drawing-room. Only, he reflected as he went to her, if she, too, -should question him as her father had done, he must go mad!</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER X.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">When he saw the girl he loved so much rise wan and pale from the couch -on which she had been seated waiting for his coming, his heart sank -within him. How she must have suffered! he thought. What an awful blow -Cundall's death must have been to her to make her look as she looked -now, as she rose and stood before him!</p> - -<p class="normal">"My darling Ida," he said, as he went towards her and took her in his -arms and kissed her, "how ill and sad you look!"</p> - -<p class="normal">She yielded to his embrace and returned his kiss, but it seemed to him -as if her lips were cold and lifeless.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, Gervase!" she said, as she sank back to the couch wearily, "oh, -Gervase! you do not know the horror that is upon me. And it is a -double horror because at the time of his death, I knew of it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What!" he said, springing to his feet from the chair he had taken -beside her. "What!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I saw it all," she said, looking at him with large distended eyes, -eyes made doubly large by the hollows round them. "I saw it all, -only----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Only what, Ida?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Only it was in a dream! A dream that I had, almost at the very hour -he was treacherously stabbed to death."</p> - -<p class="normal">As she spoke she leant forward a little towards him, with her eyes -still distended; leant forward gazing into his face; and as she did so -he felt the blood curdling in his veins!</p> - -<p class="normal">"This," he said, trying to speak calmly, "is madness, a frenzy -begotten of your state of mind at hearing----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is no frenzy, no madness," she said, speaking in a strange, -monotonous tone, and still with the intent gaze in her hazel eyes. -"No, it is the fact. On that night--that night of death--he stood -before me once again and bade me farewell for ever in this world, and -then I saw--oh, my God!--his murderer spring upon him, and----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"And that murderer was?" her lover interrupted, quivering with -excitement.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Unhappily, I do not know--not yet, at least, but I shall do so some -day." She had risen now, and was standing before him pale and erect. -The long white peignoir that she wore clung to her delicate, supple -figure, making her look unusually tall; and she appeared to her lover -like some ancient classic figure vowing vengeance on the guilty. As -she stood thus, with a fixed look of certainty on her face, and -prophesied that some day she should know the man who had done this -deed, she might have been Cassandra come back to the world again.</p> - -<p class="normal">"His face was shrouded," she went on, "as all murderers shroud their -faces, I think; but his form I knew. I am thinking--I have thought and -thought for hours by day and night--where I have seen that form -before. And in some unexpected moment remembrance will come to me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Even though it does, I am afraid the remembrance will hardly bring -the murderer to justice," Penlyn said. "A man can scarcely be -convicted of a reality by a dream."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," she answered, "he cannot, I suppose. But it will tell me who -that man is, and then----and then----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"And then?" Penlyn interrupted.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And then, if I can compass it, his life shall be subjected to such -inspection, his every action of the past examined, every action of the -present watched, that at last he shall stand discovered before the -world!" She paused a moment, and again she looked fixedly at him, and -then she said: "You are my future husband; do you know what I require -of you before I become your wife?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Love and fidelity, Ida, is it not? And have you not that?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," she answered, "but that fidelity must be tried by a strong -test. You must go hand in hand with me in my search for his murderer, -you must never falter in your determination to find him. Will you do -this out of your love for me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will do it," Penlyn answered, "out of my love for you."</p> - -<p class="normal">She held out her hand--cold as marble--to him, and he took it and -kissed it. But as he did so, he muttered to himself: "If she could -only know; if she could only know."</p> - -<p class="normal">Again the impulse was on his lips to tell her of the strange -relationship there was between him and the dead man, and again he let -the impulse go. In the excitement of her mind would she not instantly -conclude that he was the slayer of his dead brother, of the man who -had suddenly come between him and everything he prized in the world? -And, to support him in his weakness, was there not the letter of that -dead brother enjoining secrecy? So he held his peace!</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will do it," he said, "out of my love for you; but, forgive me, are -you not taking an unusual interest in him, sad as his death was?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," she answered. "No. He loved me; I was the only woman in the -world he loved--he told me so on the first night he returned to -England. Only I had no love to give him in return; it was given to -you. But I liked and respected him, and, since he came to me in my -dream on that night of his death, it seems that on me should fall the -task of finding the man who killed him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"But what can you do, my poor Ida; you a delicately-nurtured girl, -unused to anything but comfort and ease? How can you find out the man -who killed him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Only in one way, through you and by your help. I look to you to leave -no stone unturned in your endeavours to find that man, to make -yourself acquainted with Mr. Cundall's past life, to find out who his -enemies, who his friends were; to discover some clue that shall point -at last to the murderer."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," he said, in a dull, heavy voice. "Yes. That is what I must do."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And when," she asked, "when will you begin? For God's sake lose no -time; every hour that goes by may help that man to escape."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will lose no time," he answered almost methodically, and speaking -in a dazed, uncertain way. Had it not been for her own excitement, she -must have noticed with what little enthusiasm he agreed to her behest.</p> - -<p class="normal">This behest had indeed staggered him! She had bidden him do the very -thing of all others that he would least wish done, bidden him throw a -light upon the past of the dead man, and find out all his enemies and -friends. She had told him to do this, while there, in his own heart, -was the knowledge of the long-kept secret that the dead man was his -brother--the secret that the dead man had enjoined on him never to -divulge. What was he to do? he asked himself. Which should he obey, -the orders of his murdered brother, or the orders of his future wife? -And Philip, too, had told him on no account to say anything of the -story that had lately been revealed. Then, suddenly, he again -determined that he would say nothing to her. It was a task beyond his -power to appear to endeavour to track the murderer, or to give any -orders on the subject; for since he must kelp the secret of their -brotherhood, what right had he to show any interest in the finding of -the murderer? Silence would, in every way, be best.</p> - -<p class="normal">He rose after these reflections and told her that he was going back to -London. And she also rose, and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, yes; go back at once! Lose no time, not a moment. Remember, you -have promised. You will keep your promise, I know."</p> - -<p class="normal">He kissed her, and muttered something that she took for words of -assent, and prepared to leave her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You will feel better soon, dearest, and happier, I hope. This shock -will pass away in time."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It will pass away," she answered, "when you bring me news that the -murderer is discovered, or that you have found out some clue to him. -It will begin to pass away when I hear that you have found out what -enemies he had."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is not known that he ever had any enemies," Penlyn said, as he -stood holding her cold hand in his. "He was not a man to make enemies, -I should think."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He must have had some," she said, "or one at least--the one who slew -him." She paused, and gazed out of the open window by which they were -standing, gazed out for some moments; and he wondered what she was -thinking of now in connection with him. Then she turned to him again -and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you think you could find out if he had any relatives?" and he -could not repress a slight start as she asked him this, though she did -not perceive it. "I never heard him say that he had any, but he may -have had. I should like to know."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why, Ida?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because--because--oh, I do not know!--my brain is in a whirl. -But--if--if you should find out that he had any relations, then I -should like to know."</p> - -<p class="normal">And again he asked: "Why, Ida?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I would stand face to face with them, if they were men," she -answered, speaking in a low tone of voice that almost appalled him, -"and look carefully at them to see if they, or one of those relations, -bore any resemblance to the shrouded figure that sprang upon him in my -dream."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If there are any such they will, perhaps, be heard of," he said; but -as he spoke he prayed inwardly that she might never know of his -relationship to Cundall. If she ever learnt that, would she not look -to see if he bore any resemblance to that dark figure of her dream? He -was committed to silence--to silence not without shame, alas!--for -ever now, and he shuddered as he acknowledged this to himself. Once -more he bade her farewell, promising to come back soon, and then he -left her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"She looks dreadfully ill and overcome by this sad calamity," he said -to Sir Paul before he also parted with him. "I hope she will not let -it weigh too much upon her mind."</p> - -<p class="normal">"She cannot help it doing so, poor girl," the baronet said. "Of course -she told you that Cundall proposed to her on the night of his return, -not knowing that she had become engaged to you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"She told me that he loved her, and that she learnt of his love on -that night for the first time," Penlyn answered.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, that was the case," Sir Paul said. "It was at Lady Chesterton's -ball that he proposed to her."</p> - -<p class="normal">They talked for some little time further on the desire she had -expressed to see the murderer brought to justice, and Penlyn said he -feared she was exciting herself too much over the idea.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I am afraid so," Sir Paul said; "yet, I suppose, the wish is -natural. She looks upon herself as, in some way, the person to whom -his death was first made known, and seems to think it is her duty to -try and aid in the discovery of the man who killed him. Of course, it -is impossible; and she can do nothing, though she has begged me to try -everything in my power to assist in finding his assassin. I would do -so willingly, for I admired Cundall's character very much; but there -is also nothing I could do that the police cannot do better."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course not, but still her wish is natural," Penlyn said, and then -he said "Good-bye" to Sir Paul also, and went back to London.</p> - -<p class="normal">As he sat in the train on the return journey, he wondered what fresh -trouble and sorrow there could possibly be in store for him over the -miserable events of the past week, and he also wondered if he ever -again would know peace upon this earth! It was impossible to help -looking back to a short month ago, to the time before that discovery -had been made at the inn at Le Vocq, and to remembering how happy he -had been then, how everything in this world had seemed to smile upon -him. He had been happy in his love for Ida, happy in the position he -held in the eyes of men, happy without any alloy to his happiness. And -then, from the moment when he had found that there was another son of -his father in the world, how all the brightness of his life had -changed! First had come the knowledge of that brother alive somewhere, -whom, thinking he was poor and outcast, he had pitied; then the -revelation that that brother, far from being the abject creature he -imagined, was in actual fact the rightful owner of the position he -usurped; and then the horror and the misery of the cruelly barbarous -death that brother had been put to, directly after revealing himself -in his true light. And, as horrible almost as all else were, the lies, -and the secrecy, and the duplicities with which he had environed -himself, in the hopes of shielding everything from the eyes of the -world. Lies, and secrecies, and duplicities practised by him, who had -once regarded truth and openness as the first attributes of a man!</p> - -<p class="normal">And there was one other thing that struck deeply to his heart; the -bitter wickedness of a man, with such nobility of nature as his -brother had shown, being cruelly stabbed to death. His life had been -one long abnegation of what should have been his, a resignation of the -honour of his birthright, so that he, who had taken his place, should -never be cast out of it; an abnegation that had been crowned by an -almost sublime act, the act of forcing himself to witness the -happiness of the one, who had taken so much from him, with the woman -he had long loved. For, that he had determined to resign all hopes of -her, there was, after the letter he had written, no doubt. And, as he -thought of all the unselfishness of that brother's nature, and of his -awful death, the tears flowed to his eyes, and, being alone, he buried -his head in his hands and wept as he had wept once before. "If I could -call him back again," he said to himself, "if I could once more see -him stand before me alive and well, I would cheerfully go out a beggar -into the world. But it cannot be, and I must bear the lot that has -fallen on me as best I can."</p> - -<p class="normal">He reached his house early in the evening, and the footman handed him -a letter that had been left by a messenger but a short time before. It -ran as follows.</p> -<br> -<br> -<p style="text-indent:45%">"<span class="sc">Grosvenor Place</span>, <i>June</i> 12<i>th</i>, 188-</p> - - -<p class="normal">"<span class="sc">My Lord</span>,</p> - -<p style="text-indent:5%">"In searching through the papers of my late employer, Mr. Walter -Cundall, I have come across a will made by him three years ago. By it, -the whole of his fortune and estates are left to you, your names and -title being carefully described. I have placed the will in the hands -of Mr. Fordyce, Mr. Cundall's solicitor, from whom you will doubtless -hear shortly.</p> - -<p style="text-indent:40%">"Your obedient Servant,</p> -<p style="text-indent:60%">"<span class="sc">A. Stuart</span>.</p> - -<p class="continue">"The Rt. Hon. Viscount Penlyn."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">That was all; without one word of explanation or of surprise at the -manner in which Walter Cundall's vast wealth had been bequeathed.</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn crushed the letter in his hand when he had read it, and, -as he threw himself into a chair, he moaned, "Everything must be -known, everything discovered; there is no help for it! What will Ida -think of me now? Why did I not tell her to-day? Why did I not tell -her?"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XI.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">That night he did not go to bed at all, but paced his room or sat -buried in his deep chair, wondering what the morrow would bring forth -and how he should best meet the questions that would be put to him. -Smerdon was gone again to Occleve Chase, so he could take no counsel -from him; and, in a way, he was almost glad that he had gone, for he -did not know that he should be inclined now to follow any advice his -friend might give him. He thought he knew what that advice would -be--that he should pretend utter ignorance as to the reasons Cundall -might have had for making him the inheritor of all his vast wealth, -and on no account to acknowledge the brotherhood between them. But he -told himself that, even had Smerdon been there to give such advice, it -would not have been acceptable; that he would not have followed it.</p> - -<p class="normal">As hour after hour went by and the night became far advanced, the -young man made up his mind determinately that, henceforth, all -subterfuge and secrecy should be abandoned, that there should be no -more holding back of the truth, and that, when he was asked if he -could give any reason why he should have been made the heir to the -stupendous fortune of a man who was almost a stranger to him, he would -boldly announce that it had been so left to him because he and Cundall -were the sons of one father.</p> - -<p class="normal">"The world," he said sadly to himself, "may look upon me as the man -who killed him in the Park, and will look upon me as having for years -occupied a false position; but it must do so if it chooses. I cannot -go on living this life of deception any longer. No! Not even though -Ida herself should cast me off." But he thought that though he might -bear the world's condemnation, he did not know how he would sustain -the loss of her love. Still, the truth should be told even though he -should lose her by so telling it; even though the whole world should -point to him as a fratricide!</p> - -<p class="normal">He had wavered for many days now as to what course he should take, had -had impulses to speak out and acknowledge the secret of his and his -brother's life, had been swayed by Smerdon's arguments and by the -letter he had received at the hotel, but now there was to be no more -wavering; all was to be told. And, if there was any one who had the -right to ask why he had not spoken earlier, that very letter would be -sufficient justification of his silence. It was about midday that, as -he was seated in his study writing a long letter to Smerdon explaining -exactly what he had now taken the determination of doing, the footman -entered with two cards on which were the names of "Mr. Fordyce, Paper -Buildings," and "Mr. A. Stuart."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The gentlemen wish to know if your lordship can receive them?" the -man asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Penlyn answered, "I have been expecting a visit from them. Show -them in."</p> - -<p class="normal">They came in together, Mr. Fordyce introducing himself as the -solicitor of the late Mr. Cundall, and Mr. Stuart bowing gravely. Then -Lord Penlyn motioned to them both to be seated.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I received your letter last night," he said to the secretary, "and, -although I may tell you at once that there were, perhaps, reasons why -Mr. Cundall should have left me his property, I was still considerably -astonished at hearing he had done so."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Reasons, my lord!" Mr. Fordyce said, looking up from a bundle of -papers which he had taken from his pocket and was beginning to untie. -"Reasons! What reasons, may I ask?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The lawyer, who from his accent was evidently a Scotch-man, was an -elderly man, with a hard, unsympathetic face, and it became instantly -apparent to Penlyn that, with this man, there must not be the -slightest hesitation on his part in anything he said, nor must -anything but the plainest truth be spoken. Well! that was what he had -made up his mind should be done, and he was glad as he watched Mr. -Fordyce's face that he had so decided.</p> - -<p class="normal">"The reason," he answered, looking straight at both of them, "is that -he and I were brothers."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Brothers!" they both exclaimed together, while Stuart fixed his eyes -upon him with an incredulous look, though in it there was something -else besides incredulity, a look of suspicion and dislike.</p> - -<p class="normal">"This is a strange story, Lord Penlyn," the lawyer said after a -moment.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," the other answered. "And you will perhaps think it still more -strange when I tell you that I myself did not know of it until a week -ago."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not until a week ago!" Stuart said. "Then you could have learnt of -your relationship only two or three days before he was murdered?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That is the case," Penlyn said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I think, Lord Penlyn," Mr. Fordyce said, "that, as the late Mr. -Cundall's solicitor, and the person who will, by his will, have a -great deal to do with the administration of his fortune, you should -give me some particulars as to the relationship that you say he and -you stood in to one another."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If Lord Penlyn intends to do so, and wishes it, I will leave the -house," Stuart said, still speaking in a cold, unsympathetic voice.</p> - -<p class="normal">"By no means," Penlyn said. "It will be best that you both should hear -all that I know."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he told them, very faithfully, everything that had passed between -him and Walter Cundall, from the night on which he had come to Black's -Club, and they had had their first interview in the Park, down to the -letter that had been written on the night of the murder. Nor did he -omit to tell them it was only a month previous to Cundall's disclosing -himself, that he and Philip Smerdon had made the strange discovery at -Le Vocq that his father, to all appearances, had had a previous wife, -and had, also, to all appearances, left an elder son behind him. Only, -he said, it had seemed a certainty to him and his friend that the lady -was not actually his wife, and that the child was not his lawful son. -If there was anything he did not think it necessary to tell them it -was the violence of his behaviour to Cundall at the interview they had -had in that very room, and the curse he had hurled after him when he -was gone, and the wish that "he was dead." That curse and that wish, -which had been fulfilled so terribly soon after their expression, had -weighed heavily on his heart ever since the night of the murder; he -could not repeat it now to these men.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is the strangest story I ever heard," Mr. Fordyce said. "The very -strangest! And, as we have found no certificates of either his -mother's marriage or his own birth, we must conclude that he destroyed -them. But the letter that you have shown us, which he wrote to you, is -sufficient proof of your relationship. Though, of course, as he has -named you fully and perfectly in the will there would be no need of -any proof of your relationship."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The man," Stuart said quietly, "who murdered him, also stole his -watch and pocket-book, probably with the idea of making it look like a -common murder for robbery. The certificates were perhaps in that -pocket-book!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you not think it <i>was</i> a common murder for robbery?" Lord Penlyn -asked him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, I do not," Stuart answered, looking him straight in the face. -"There was a reason for it!</p> - -<p class="normal">"What reason?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That, the murderer knows best."</p> - -<p class="normal">It was impossible for Penlyn to disguise from himself the fact that -this young man had formed the opinion in his mind that he was the -murderer. His manner, his utter tone of contempt when speaking to him, -were all enough to show in what light he stood in Stuart's eyes.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I understand you," he said quietly.</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart took no notice of the remark, but he turned to Mr. Fordyce and -said: "Did it not seem strange to you that Lord Penlyn should have -been made the heir, when you drew the will?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I did not draw it," Mr. Fordyce said, "or I should in all probability -have made some inquiries--though, as a matter of fact, it was no -business of mine to whom he left his money. As I see there is one -Spanish name as a witness, it was probably drawn by an English lawyer -in Honduras, and executed there."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Since it appears that I am his heir," Lord Penlyn said, "I should -wish to see the will. Have you it with you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Mr. Fordyce said, producing the will from his bundle of papers, -and handing it to him, "it is here."</p> - -<p class="normal">The young man took it from the lawyer, and spreading it out before -him, read it carefully. The perusal did not take long, for it was of -the shortest possible description, simply stating that the whole of -everything he possessed was given and bequeathed by him to "Gervase, -Courteney, St. John, Occleve, Viscount Penlyn, in the Peerage of Great -Britain, of Occleve House, London, and Occleve Chase, Westshire." With -the exception that the bequest was enveloped in the usual phraseology -of lawyers, it might have been drawn up by his brother's own hand, so -clear and simple was it. And it was perfectly regular, both in the -signature of the testator and the witnesses.</p> - -<p class="normal">The two men watched him as he bent over the will and read it, the -lawyer looking at him from under his thick, bushy eyebrows, and Mr. -Stuart with a fixed glance that he never took off his face; and as -they so watched him they noticed that his eyes were filled with tears -he could not repress. He passed his hand across them once to wipe the -tears away, but they came again; and, when he folded up the document -and gave it back to Mr. Fordyce, they were welling over from his -eyelids.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I saw him but once after I knew he was my brother," he said; "and I -had very little acquaintance with him before then; but now that I have -learnt how whole-souled and unselfish he was, and how he resigned -everything that was dear to him for my sake, I cannot but lament his -sad life and dreadful end. You must forgive my weakness."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It does you honour, my lord," the lawyer said, speaking in a softer -tone than he had yet used; "and he well deserved that you should mourn -him. He had a very noble nature."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If you really feel his loss, if you feel it as much as I do, who owed -much to him," Stuart said, "you will join me in trying to track his -murderer. That will be the most sincere mourning you can give him;" -and he, too, spoke now in a less bitter tone.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I promised, yesterday, the woman whom we both loved that I would -leave no stone unturned to find that man; I need take no fresh vows -now. But what clue is there to show us who it was that killed him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">For a moment neither of the others answered. He had been dead now for -four days, the inquest had been held yesterday, and he was to be -buried on the following day; yet through all those proceedings this -man who was his kinsman, this man for whom he had exhibited the -tenderest love and unselfishness, had made no sign, had not even come -forward to see to the disposal of his remains. Stuart asked himself -what explanation could be given of this, and, finding no answer in his -own mind, he plainly asked Lord Penlyn if he himself could give any.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," he answered; "yes, I can. He had charged me in that letter that -I should never make known what our positions were; charged me when he -could have had no idea of death overtaking him; and I thought that I -should best be consulting his wishes by keeping silence when he was -dead. And I tell you both frankly that, had it not been for this -will--the existence of which I never dreamed of--I never should have -spoken, never have proclaimed our relationship. For the sake of my -future wife, as well as to obey him, I should not have done so. He was -dead, and no good could have been done by speaking."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It will lead to your conduct being much misconstrued by the world," -Mr. Fordyce said. "It will not understand your silence."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Must everything be made public?" Penlyn asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"More or less. One cannot suppress a will dealing with over two -millions worth of property. Even though you were willing to destroy it -and forfeit your inheritance, it could not be done. If Mr. Stuart and -I allowed such a thing as that, we should become criminals."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, so be it! the public must think what they like of me--at least -until the murderer is discovered." Then he asked again: "But what clue -is there to help us to find him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"None that we know of, as yet," Stuart said. "The verdict at the -Coroner's Inquest yesterday was, 'Wilful murder against some person or -persons unknown,' and the police stated that, up to now, they could -not say that they suspected any one. There is absolutely no clue!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I suppose," Mr. Fordyce said, with a speculative air, "those Spanish -letters will not furnish any, when translated.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What Spanish letters?" Penlyn asked. "If you have any, let me see -them, I am acquainted with the language."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is <i>Corot</i> a man's or a woman's name?" Mr. Fordyce asked, as he again -untied his bundle of papers.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Neither, that I know of," Penlyn answered. "It is more likely, I -should think, to be a pet, or nickname. Why do you ask?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I found these three letters amongst others in his desk," Stuart said, -taking them from Mr. Fordyce and handing them to Lord Penlyn, "and I -should not have had my attention attracted to them more than to any -others out of the mass of foreign correspondence there was, had it not -been for the marginal notes in Mr. Cundall's handwriting. Do you see -them?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," he answered. "Yes. I see written on one, '<i>Sent C 500 dols</i>.,' -on another, '<i>Sent 2,000 Escudos</i>,' and on the third again, '<i>Sent C -500 dols</i>.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What do the letters say?" they both asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will read them."</p> - -<p class="normal">He did so carefully, and then he turned round and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"They are all from some man signing himself <i>Corot</i>, and dating from -Puerto Cortes, who seems to think he had, or, perhaps, really had, -since money was sent, some claim upon him. In the first one he says -none has been forthcoming for a long while, and that, though he does -not want for himself, some woman, whom he calls <i>Juanna</i>, is ill and -requires luxuries. He finishes his letter with, 'Yours ever devotedly.' -In the second he writes more strongly, says that <i>Juanna</i> is dying, -and that, as she has committed no fault, he insists upon having money. -After this the largest sum was sent."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And the third?" they both asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"The third is more important. It says <i>Juanna</i> is dead, that he is -going to England on business, and that, as he has heard Cundall is -also about to set out for that country, he will see him there, -as he cannot cross Honduras to do so. And he finishes his letter -by saying: 'Do not, however, think that her death relieves you -from your liability to me. Justice, and the vile injuries done to us, -make it imperative on you to provide for me for ever out of your -evilly-acquired wealth. This justice I will have, and you know I am -one who will not hesitate to enforce my rights. Remember how I served -<i>José</i>, and beware.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"This is a faithful translation?" Stuart asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Take it to an interpreter, as you doubt me?" Penlyn said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not doubt you, Lord Penlyn," the other replied, "and I beg your -pardon for this and any other suspicions I may have shown. Will you -forgive me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Penlyn said, and he held out his hand to the other, and Stuart -took it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"If this man is in England," Mr. Fordyce said, "and we could only find -him out, and also discover what his movements have been, we should, -perhaps, be very near the murderer."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Every detective in London shall be set to work to-night, especially -those who understand foreigners and their habits, to find him if he is -here. And if he is, he will have to give a very full account of -himself before he finds himself free," Stuart said.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">The conversation between the three was, necessarily, of so lengthy a -nature, that Lord Penlyn desired them to partake of some luncheon, -which invitation they accepted. While it was proceeding, they -continued to discuss fully all the extraordinary circumstances of -which they had any knowledge in connection with the murder of Walter -Cundall, and also of the position in which Penlyn now found himself.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course, it is no use trying to disguise the fact, my lord," the -lawyer said, "that this strange will in your favour will be the -subject of much discussion. The only thing we have to do now is -to think how much need be made public. Your inheritance of his -money--even to a nobleman in your position--is a matter of importance, -and will cause a great deal of remark."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course, I understand that," Penlyn answered. "But you say we have -to think of 'how much' need be made public. What part of this unhappy -story is there that you imagine need not be known?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Mr. Fordyce thought a moment, with his bushy eyebrows deeply knitted, -then he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not see why any one need be told of the relationship existing -between you. It is no one's business after all; and it was evidently -his wish that, for your sake, it should never be known."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Naturally," Penlyn replied, "I do not want my affairs told to every -one, and made a subject of universal gossip; but then, what reason is -to be given for his having left me all his money?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It might be hinted that you were connections, though distant ones," -Mr. Fordyce said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Would it not appear strange that, in such circumstances, we knew so -little of one another?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," the lawyer said, "unless it were said that you were only -recently acquainted with the fact."</p> - -<p class="normal">"But the will is dated three years ago!" Stuart remarked. "Then I -scarcely know what to suggest," Mr. Fordyce said.</p> - -<p class="normal">They talked it over and over again, but they could arrive at no -determination; and at last it was resolved that the best thing would -be to let matters take their course. No announcement would be publicly -made, and though, of course, it would, eventually leak out that Lord -Penlyn was Walter Cundall's heir, the world would have to put its own -construction upon the fact. Or again, other men had before now made -eccentric wills, taking sudden fancies to people who were strangers to -them and leaving them all their money. It would be best that Walter -Cundall's will should also come to be regarded in that category.</p> - -<p class="normal">"After all," Stuart said, "you were acquaintances, and mixed in the -same circle. Even the fact that you both loved the same woman goes for -something, and that must be sufficient for those who take any interest -in the matter."</p> - -<p class="normal">He had come into the house with innumerable suspicions against Lord -Penlyn, suspicions aroused by his being the inheritor of Cundall's -property, and also by the fact that he and the dead man had both loved -the same woman, and with a strange feeling in his heart that, when he -stood before him, he would stand before a murderer. He had also -remembered that conversation in the club about the peculiarity of the -dagger, or knife, with which Cundall must have been slain, and his -recollection of the hesitating way in which Penlyn had answered, had -added to his suspicions. But, when he had seen the genuine tears of -sorrow that had been shed over the will, those suspicions vanished, -and he told himself that it was not in this man that the murderer -would be found. And, if this new-formed idea had required any -strengthening, it would have received it when those importunate and -threatening letters had been read from the unknown person signing -himself, <i>Corot</i>. There was the man, who, if in England, must be found -at all costs. But how to find him was the question.</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is one to whom I must, at least, disclose my relationship with -Walter," Penlyn said, and they both noticed that, for the first time, -he spoke of his brother by his Christian name. "I must tell Miss -Raughton the position we stood in to one another."</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart, with feelings of a very different nature now in his heart from -those with which he had first regarded him, asked him if he thought it -was wise to do so? Would she not think that, standing in the position -of his affianced wife and having also been beloved by his brother, she -should have been the first to be told of the bond between them?</p> - -<p class="normal">"It may not be wise," Penlyn said sadly, and with a weary look upon -his face, "and it may be that she will think I have deceived her--as, -unhappily, I have done by my silence--but still I must tell her. With -her, at least, there must be nothing more suppressed."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he told them of the strange dream that she had had (even -mentioning that she had said she could recognise the form, if not the -face, of the man who sprang upon him), and of the vow she had made him -take to endeavour to discover the murderer.</p> - -<p class="normal">"If dreams were of the slightest importance, which they are not," Mr. -Fordyce said, "this one would go to prove that <i>Corot</i> is not the -murderer, since it is hardly likely that she has ever known him. -Still, it is a strange coincidence that she should have dreamt of his -death on the very night that it took place."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The idea of knowing the form, or figure, of the man is nothing," -Stuart said. "If there was any likelihood of there being anything in -that, it would also be the case that we should have to look upon Lady -Chesterton's conservatory as the spot where it happened, as it was -there she dreamt she saw him. But we know that he was killed in St. -James' Park."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If the detectives can only discover this man <i>Corot</i>," Penlyn said, -"we might find out what he was doing on that night."</p> - -<p class="normal">"If they cannot find him," Stuart said, "it shall not be for the want -of being paid to look for him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I would give every farthing of the fortune my brother has left me to -discover him, or to find the real assassin!" Penlyn said.</p> - -<p class="normal">They discussed, after this, the way in which the information that had -come into their possession, from the three letters written in Spanish, -should be conveyed to the detectives, and Stuart arranged to take the -matter into his hands.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Leave it to me," he said, "I happen to know two or three of them; in -fact, I have already communicated with Dobson, who understands a great -deal about foreigners. He has done all the big extradition cases for a -long while, and knows the exact spots in which men of different -nationalities are to be found. If <i>Corot</i> is in London, Dobson, or one -of his men, will be sure to discover him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you think I had better not appear in the matter at all?" Penlyn -asked, appealing to both of them.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not at present, certainly," Mr. Fordyce said; "as Mr. Stuart is at -present acting in it, it had better be left to him. Mr. Cundall's -agents in the City have placed everything in his hands, and I suppose -you, as his heir, will have no objection to do so also."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shall be extremely grateful to Mr. Stuart if he will hold the same -position towards me that he filled with my brother," Penlyn said; "and -if he wants any assistance, my friend and secretary, Mr. Smerdon, will -be happy to render it him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will do all I can," Stuart said quietly, "to assist you, both in -regard to his affairs and to finding the guilty man if possible."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then Lord Penlyn made a suggestion that his own lawyer, Mr. Bell, -should also be brought into communication with Mr. Fordyce and Stuart, -and the former said that he would call upon him the next day.</p> - -<p class="normal">"There will then be five of us interested in finding the assassin," -Penlyn said, "for I am quite sure that both Mr. Bell and Philip -Smerdon will go hand in hand with us in this search. Surely amongst -us, and with the aid of the detectives, who ought to work well for the -reward I will pay them, we shall succeed in tracking him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I hope to God we shall!" Stuart said, and Penlyn solemnly exclaimed, -"Amen!"</p> - -<p class="normal">They were about to separate now, after an interview that had lasted -for some hours, when Penlyn said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"To-morrow is the day of his funeral. If it were possible--if you -think that I could do so, I should wish to be present at it."</p> - -<p class="normal">The others thought a moment, Stuart looking at Mr. Fordyce as though -waiting for him to answer this suggestion, but, instead of doing so, -he only said: "What do you think, Mr. Stuart?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart still hesitated, and seemed to be pondering deeply, and then he -said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I think, if it will not be too great a denial to you, if you will not -feel that you are failing in the last duty you can pay him, you should -remain away. You could only go as chief mourner if you go at all, and -that will render you too conspicuous, and would set every tongue in -London wagging. Can you resign yourself to staying away?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I must resign myself, I suppose," the other answered. "Perhaps, too, -it is better I should do so; for, when I should see his coffin being -lowered into its grave, the memory of his nobility and unselfishness, -and his cruel end, would come back to me with such force that I fear I -should no longer be master of myself."</p> - -<p class="normal">So Lord Penlyn did not see the last of his brother's remains; and Mr. -Stuart, Mr. Fordyce, and two of his agents made up the list of his -mourners. But behind the carriage that conveyed them, came countless -other carriages belonging to men and women who had known and liked the -dead man, and in some cases their owners were in them; amongst others -Sir Paul Raughton being in his. The wreaths of flowers that were piled -above his coffin also came from scores of friends, and afforded great -interest to the enormous mob that followed the victim's funeral, and -made a decorous holiday of the occasion. It is not often that a -millionaire is stabbed to death in London by an unknown hand; and many -of those, who had read with intense excitement of the murder, -determined to see the last obsequies of the victim. Amongst those -wreaths were two formed of splendid white roses, one of which bore the -words worked into it, "We shall meet again" and the initial letter -"I," and another the words, "I remember" followed by the letter "G."</p> - -<p class="normal">And late that night, as the time was, fast approaching for the -cemetery to be closed, Lord Penlyn walked swiftly up the path leading -to the new-made grave, and, seeing that there was no one near, knelt -down and prayed silently by it. Then he whispered, "I will never rest -until you are avenged. If you can hear my vow in heaven, hear me now -swear this." And, taking a handful of the mould from the grave, he -wrapped it in his handkerchief, and passed out again into the world.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XIII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal"><i>The Hôtel et Café Restaurant de Lepanto</i> is one of those many places -near, and in the neighbourhood of, Leicester Square, where foreigners -delight to sojourn when in London. Not first-class foreigners, -perhaps, or, at least, not foreigners of large means, but generally -such as come to London to transact business that occupies them for a -short time. As a rule, this establishment is patronised by Spanish -and Portuguese gentlemen of a commercial status, persons who, more -often than not, are connected with the wine trade of those countries; -and it is also frequented by singers and dancers and other <i>artistes</i> -who may find themselves--by what they regard as a stroke of -fortune--fulfilling an engagement in our Metropolis. To them, the -Hôtel Lepanto is a congenial abode, a spot where they can eat of the -oily and garlic-flavoured dishes partaken of with so much relish when -at home in Madrid, Lisbon, Seville, or Granada, and here they can -converse in their own tongues with each other and with Diaz Zarates, -the Spanish landlord of the house, to whom half-a-dozen Southern -languages and many <i>patois</i> are known.</p> - -<p class="normal">The hotel seems to exist entirely for the people of these countries, -since into it no Frenchman, nor Italian, nor German ever comes; they -have their own hostelries of an equally, to them, agreeable nature in -other streets in the neighbourhood. So these Southerners, with the -dark eyes, and coal-black hair, and brown skin, have the little -dining-room with the dirty fly-blown paper, and the almost as dirty -table-covers and curtains, all to themselves; and into it--or to the -passage with the three chairs and the marble-table where, as often as -not, the Señors and Señoras sit and smoke their cigarettes for hours -together, in preference to doing so in the dining-room--no one of -another nation intrudes. If, not having Spanish or Portuguese blood in -his veins, there ever is any one who does so intrude, it is generally -some Englishman of a rashly speculative nature, who wants to try a -Spanish dinner and see what it is like, and who, having done so, never -wants to try another.</p> - -<p class="normal">And sometimes, as has been the case of late, much to the disgust of -Diaz Zarates, an English detective has made his appearance, and, under -the guise of one of the above speculative individuals essaying an -Iberian meal, has endeavoured to worm secrets out of him about his -patrons and guests. To the disgust of Diaz Zarates of late, because he -knows perfectly well who Dobson is (although that astute individual is -not aware of the landlord's knowledge of his calling), and because, -honestly, he has never heard of any one bearing the name of <i>Corot</i> in -his life.</p> - -<p class="normal">And it is of such a person with that name, that Dobson has been making -little inquiries whenever he has dropped in to try a Spanish luncheon -or a Spanish dinner.</p> - -<p class="normal">Seated, a few days after the murder of Walter Cundall, on one of the -three chairs in the passage, and meditatively smoking cigarettes out -of which, as is the case with Spanish-made ones, the tobacco would -frequently fall in a lighted mass on the marble table, was Señor -Miguel Guffanta, as he was inscribed in Diaz's books. Had the Señor -been as carefully washed as the upper classes of Spaniards usually -are, had his linen been as white and clean as the linen usually worn -by the upper classes of Spaniards, and, had he been freshly shaved, he -would, in all probability have presented the appearance of a fine, -handsome man. But he had come downstairs this morning to smoke his -cigarette, without troubling to make his toilette, putting on his -yesterday's shirt, and going through no ablutionary process at all, -and with a thick, heavy stubble of twenty-four hours' growth upon his -cheeks and chin. Still, with all this carelessness, Señor Miguel -Guffanta was a handsome man. He had a dark, Moorish-looking face, the -lines of which were very regular, he had large luminous eyes that, -when he chose, he could open to an enormous extent, and coal-black -hair that curled thickly over his head. His frame was a powerful one; -his height being considerable and his chest broad and deep, and his -long, sinewy, brown hands looked as though their grasp would be a -grasp of iron, if put to their utmost strength. In age he was about -thirty-eight or forty, but he looked younger, because no single gray -hair had appeared either in his luxurious locks or in his long, black -moustache. As he sat there, taking fresh cigarette-papers from his -pocket, and, when he had put some dry, dusty tobacco into them, -twisting both ends up, and smoking them while he gazed meditatively -either at the ceiling of the passage, or into the species of horse-box -that was designated as the "bureau," a stranger might have wondered -what brought the Señor there. Unkempt as he was this morning, there -was something about him, either in the easy grace of his figure, or in -the contemptuous, almost haughty, look in his face, that proclaimed -instantly that this was not a man accustomed to soliciting orders for -wine, or to appearing in Spanish ballets or choruses, or of, in any -way, ministering to other people's amusement.</p> - -<p class="normal">As he still sat there thinking and smoking, the landlord came down the -passage, and bowing and wishing him "Good morning" in Spanish, entered -his box, and proceeded to make some entries in his books. The Señor -nodded in return, and then made another cigarette and went on with his -meditations; but, when that one was smoked through, he rose and leaned -against the door-post of the bureau, and addressed Zarates.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And have any more guests arrived since last night," he asked, "and is -the hotel yet full?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No more, Señor, no more as yet," the landlord answered him. "<i>Dios!</i> -but there is little business doing now."</p> - -<p class="normal">"That is not well! And he who loves so much our Spanish luncheons and -dinners, our good friend Dobson (he pronounced the name, Dobesoon) -with the heavy, fat face and the big beard--what of him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He is a pig, a fool!" Diaz said, as he ran an unclean finger up a -column of accounts. "He believes me not when I tell him that of his -accursed <i>Corot</i> I know nothing, and that I believe no such man is in -London."</p> - -<p class="normal">The Señor laughed gently to himself at this answer, and then he said: -"And he has not yet found him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Dios!</i> found him, no! Of that name I never heard before, no, never! -There is no such name!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"For what does he say he wishes to see this <i>Corot?</i> Is it that he has -a legacy to give him, or has he committed a crime for which this fat -man, this heavy Alguazil, wants to arrest him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Quien sabé!</i> He says he has a little friendly question to ask him, -that is all. He says if he could see him for one moment, he would tell -him all he wants to know. And then he says he must find him. But I do -not think now he will ever find him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nor do I," the Señor said. Then he looked up at the clock, and, -seeing it was past twelve, went to his room, saying that it was time -he prepared himself for the day.</p> - -<p class="normal">But when he reached that apartment, which was a small room on the -second floor, that looked out on to the back windows of the street -that ran parallel with the one in which the Hôtel Lepanto was -situated, it did not seem as if those preparations stood in any great -need of hurry. The inevitable cigarette-papers were again produced and -the dusty tobacco, and the Señor, throwing himself into the arm-chair -that stood in the corner of the room, again gave himself up to -meditation.</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Corot</i>," he said to himself, "<i>Corot</i>. How is it that that man has -ever heard the name--what does he know about it, why should he want to -find him? I thought that, outside Los Torros and Puerto Cortes, that -name had never been heard. Walter knew it, and Juanna knew it, and I -knew it, but of others there was no one alive who knew it. Yet here, -is this big, stupid man, in this big, stupid city (where--<i>por Dios!</i> -one may be stabbed to death and none find the slayer), with the name -upon his lips. How has he ever heard it, how has he ever known of it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">He could find no answer to these questions which he asked himself, and -gradually his thoughts went off into another train.</p> - -<p class="normal">"So, after all," he continued, "his name was not Cundall but Occleve, -and he it was who was this lord, this Penlyn, though that other bears -the name. And he, who inherited all that wealth from the old man, had -no right to it, no not so much right as Juanna--poor Juanna!--and I -had. And now he is gone, and it is with the living that I have to do. -Well, it shall be done, and by my father's blood the reckoning shall -be a heavy one if this lord does not clear himself!"</p> - -<p class="normal">He rose from his seat, and, going to a cupboard, took from it a suit -of clothes of good, dark material, and after brushing them carefully, -laid them out upon the bed. From a shelf in it he took out a very good -silk hat, which he also brushed, and a pair of nearly new gloves. Then -he rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it bring him -sufficient hot water for shaving and washing.</p> - -<p class="normal">As he went through his toilette, which he did very carefully, and -putting on now linen of dazzling whiteness, with which the most -scrupulous person could have found no fault, his thoughts still ran -upon the subject that had occupied his mind entirely for many days.</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is danger in it, of course," he muttered to himself; "but I am -used to danger; there was danger when Gonzalez provoked me, though it -was not as great as that I stand in now. These English are stupid, but -they are crafty also, and it may be that a trap will be set for me, -perhaps is set already. Well, I will escape from it as I have from -others. And, after all, I have one damning proof in my favour, one -card that, if I am forced to play, must save me! What I have to do, -shall be done to-day. I am resolved!"</p> - -<p class="normal">His toilette was finished now, he was clean-shaved and well dressed -from head to foot, and the Señor Miguel Guffanta stood in his room a -very different-looking man from the one who had sat, an hour ago, -smoking cigarettes in the hotel passage. Before he left it, he -unlocked a portmanteau, and took from it a pocket-book into which he -looked for a moment, and then he locked his door and descended the -stairs.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Going out for the day, Señor?" Diaz asked, as he peered out of his -box.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes. I am going to make a call on an English friend. <i>Adios</i>."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Adios</i>, Señor."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is as hot as Honduras," Señor Guffanta said to himself as he -crossed to the shady side of the street. "I must walk slowly to keep -myself cool."</p> - -<p class="normal">He did walk slowly, making his way through Leicester Square and down -Piccadilly, and, at nearly the bottom of the latter, turned off to the -right and passed through several streets. Then, when he had arrived at -a house which stood at a corner he stopped. He evidently had been here -before, for he had found his way without any difficulty through the -labyrinth of streets between this house and Leicester Square, and now -he paused for one moment previous to mounting the doorstep. But, -before he did so, he turned away and went a short distance down a -side-street. The big house outside which he was standing formed the -angle of two streets, and ran down the side one that the Señor had now -turned into. At the back of it was a garden, fairly filled with trees, -that ran some distance farther down this street, and into which an -open-worked iron gate led, a gate through which any passerby could -look. It was not a well-kept garden, and in it there was some -undergrowth; and it was at this undergrowth, on the farthest right -hand side, that Señor Guffanta peered for some few moments through the -iron gate.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It seems the same," he muttered to himself; "nothing appears -disturbed since I was last here." Then he returned to the front of the -house, and mounting the steps knocked at the hall door.</p> - -<p class="normal">The footman who opened it had no time to ask the tall, well-dressed -foreigner with the handsome face, who was standing before him, what he -required, before the Señor said, in good English:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is Lord Penlyn within?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, sir," the man answered. "Do you wish to see him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes. Be good enough to take him my card, if you please," and he -produced one bearing the name of <i>Señor Miguel Guffanta</i>. "Give him -that," he said, "and say that I wish to see him."</p> - -<p class="normal">The footman motioned him to a seat, and had put the card upon a salver -to take to his master, when the Señor said "Stay, I will put a word -upon it," and, taking a pencil from his pocket, he wrote underneath -his name, "From Honduras."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He will see me, I think," he said, "when he sees that."</p> - -<p class="normal">The man bowed and went away, returning a few minutes afterwards to say -that Lord Penlyn would see him, and the Señor followed him into the -room in which so many other interviews had taken place.</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn rose and bowed, and Señor Guffanta returned the bow -gravely, while he fixed his dark eyes intently on the other's face.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You state on your card, Señor Guffanta, that you are from Honduras. I -imagine, therefore, that you have come about a matter that at the -present moment is of the utmost importance to me?" Lord Penlyn said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You refer to the late Mr. Cundall?" the Señor asked. "Yes, I do. Pray -be seated."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I knew him intimately," Señor Guffanta said. "It is about him and his -murder that I have come to talk."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XIV.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Between the time when Lord Penlyn, Mr. Fordyce, and Stuart had -consulted together as to the way in which some endeavours should be -made to discover the murderer of Walter Cundall, and when the Señor -Guffanta paid his visit to the former, a week had elapsed, a week in -which a good many things had taken place.</p> - -<p class="normal">The rewards offered both by the Government and by "the friends of the -late Mr. Cundall," had been announced, and the magnitude of them, -especially of the latter, had caused much excitement in the public -mind, and had tended to keep the general interest in the tragedy -alive. The Government reward of "five hundred pounds and a free pardon -to some person, or persons, not the actual murderers," had been -supplemented by another of one thousand pounds from the "friends and -executors;" and the walls of every police-station were placarded with -the notices. There was, moreover, attached to them a statement -describing, as nearly as was possible from the meagre details known, -the man who, in the garb of a labourer or mechanic, was last seen near -the victim; and for his identification a reward was also offered.</p> - -<p class="normal">But it was known in London, or, at least, very generally believed, -that out of these rewards nothing whatever in the way of information -had come; and, although the murder had not yet ceased to be a topic of -conversation in all classes of society, it was generally spoken of as -a case in which the murderer would never be brought to justice. -Whoever had committed the crime had now had more than a week with -which, either to escape from the neighbourhood or the country, or to -entirely conceal his identity. It was not likely now, people said, -that he would ever be found. And the world was also asking who were -the friends, and, presumably, the heirs of the dead man, who were -offering the large reward? To this question no one as yet had -discovered the answer; all that was known, or told, being that two -lawyers of standing, Mr. Bell, of Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Fordyce, of -Paper Buildings, were acting for these friends, and for Mr. Cundall's -City representatives.</p> - -<p class="normal">The detectives themselves, though they were careful not to say so, had -really very little hope that they would ever succeed in tracing the -assassin. Dobson (who, in spite of the stolidity of manner, and -heaviness of appearance that had excited the contempt both of Señor -Guffanta and of the landlord, Zarates, was not by any means lacking in -shrewdness) plainly told Stuart, in one of their many interviews, that -he did not think much would be done by finding the man called <i>Corot</i>, -even if he were successful in doing so, which he very much doubted.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You see, sir," he said, "it's this way. He evidently had some claim -or other upon Mr. Cundall, or else it isn't likely that every time he -wrote for money he would have got it, and that in good sums too. Then -we've only seen the notes made by Mr. Cundall on the letters, saying -that he sent this and that sum; but who's to know, when he sent them, -if he didn't also send some friendly letter or other, acknowledging -the justice of this man's demands? He evidently--I mean this -<i>Corot</i>--did have some claim upon him; and supposing that he was--if -we could find him--to prove that claim and show us the letters Mr. -Cundall wrote him in return, where should we be then? The very fact of -his being able to draw on him whenever he wanted money, would go a -long way towards showing that he wouldn't be very likely to kill him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He threatens him in the last letter we have seen. Supposing that Mr. -Cundall stopped the supplies after that, would not that probably -excite his revengeful passions? These Spanish Americans do not stick -at taking life when they fancy themselves injured."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He evidently didn't stop them when he answered that letter, because -he sent five hundred dollars. And it was written so soon before they -both must have started--almost close together--from Honduras, that it -wouldn't be likely any fresh demands would have been made," Dobson -answered.</p> - -<p class="normal">"They might have met in London, and quarrelled," Stuart replied; "and -after the quarrel this <i>Corot</i> might have tracked him till he found a -fitting opportunity, and then have killed him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, he might," Dobson said, meditatively. "Anything <i>might</i> have -happened."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Only you don't think it likely?" the other asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, frankly, Mr. Stuart, I don't. He had always got money out of -him, and it wasn't likely the supplies would be stopped off -altogether, so that to kill him would be killing the goose with the -golden eggs."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Who on earth could have killed him, then? Who would have had any -reason to do so? You know everything connected with the case now, and -with Mr. Cundall's life and strange, unknown, real position--do you -suspect any one?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," the detective said after a pause; "I can't say I do. Of course, -at first, when I heard everything, the idea did strike me that Lord -Penlyn, as the most interested person, might have done it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"So it did me," Stuart said; "but after the interview Mr. Fordyce and -I had with him the idea left my mind."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Where does he say he was on the night of the murder--the night he was -staying at that hotel?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He says he stayed at his club until twelve, and that then he walked -about the streets till nearly two, thinking over the story his brother -had told him, and then let himself into the hotel and went to bed."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is strange that he should have been about on that night alone. If -he was going to be tried for the murder, it would tell badly against -him; that is, unless he could prove that he was in the hotel before -Mr. Cundall started to walk to Grosvenor Place from his club."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He couldn't prove it, because all the servants were asleep; but, -nevertheless, I am certain he did not do it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't think he did," Dobson replied, "and, at the same time, I -can't believe <i>Corot</i> did it. But I wish I could find him, all the -same."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you think there is still a chance of your doing so?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is always a chance," the other answered; "but I have exhausted -nearly everything. You see, I have so little to go on, and I am -obliged to say out openly, in every inquiry I make, that I am looking -for a certain man of the name of <i>Corot</i>. And they all give me the -same answer, that they never heard of such a name. Yet his name must -have been <i>Corot</i>."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not think so," Stuart said. "A Spaniard would sign an initial -before his name just the same as an Englishman would, and no -Englishman would sign himself simply 'Jones,' or 'Smith.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It can't be a Christian name," Dobson said, "or they would have been -sure to say so, and ask me 'What <i>Corot?</i>' or '<i>Corot</i> who' is it that -you are looking for?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Lord Penlyn thinks it is a nickname," Stuart remarked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then I shall certainly never find him. A man when he is travelling in -a strange country doesn't use his nickname, and, as far as I can -learn, there isn't any one here from the Republic of Honduras who ever -heard of him; and it isn't any good asking people from British -Honduras."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well," Stuart said, "we must go on trying by every means, and in the -hopes that the amount of the rewards will lead to something. But there -seems little prospect of our ever finding the cowardly assassin who -slew him. Perhaps, after all, that labourer killed him for his watch -and chain, and any money he might have about him. Such things have -been done before."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't believe that," Dobson said. "There was a motive for his -murder. But, what was that motive?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Then they parted, Stuart to have an interview with Lord Penlyn, and -Dobson to again continue his investigations in similar resorts to the -Hôtel Lepanto.</p> - -<p class="normal">Meanwhile, Penlyn had nerved himself for another interview with Ida -Raughton, an interview in which he was to tell her everything, and he -went down to Belmont to do so.</p> - -<p class="normal">He found her alone in her pretty drawing-room, Sir Paul having gone to -Windsor on some business matter, and Miss Norris being out for a walk. -She was still looking very pale, and her lover noticed that a paper -was lying beside her in which was a column headed, "The murder of Mr. -Cundall." Had she been reading that, he wondered, at the very time -when he was on his way to tell her of the relationship that had -existed between him and that other man who had loved her so dearly? -When he had kissed her, wondering, as he did so, if it was the last -kiss she would ever let him press upon her lips after she knew of what -he had kept back from her at their last interview, she said to him:</p> - -<p class="normal">"And now tell me what you have done towards finding Mr. Cundall's -murderer? What steps have you taken, whom have you employed to search -for that man?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is thought," he answered, "that there is some man, now in England, -who may have done it. A man whose name is <i>Corot</i>, and who was -continually obtaining money from him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"How is this known?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"By some letters that have been found amongst Cundall's papers. -Letters asking for money, and, in one case, threatening him if some -was not sent at once; and with notes in his handwriting saying that -different sums had been sent when demanded."</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Corot</i>," she said, repeating the name to herself in a whisper, -"<i>Corot</i>." Then, after a pause, she said, "No! That man is not the -assassin."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not the assassin, Ida!" Penlyn said. "Why do you think he is not?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because I have never known him, because the form of the man who slew -him in my dream was familiar to me, and this man's form cannot be so."</p> - -<p class="normal">"My darling," he said, "you place too much importance on this dream. -Remember what fantasies of the brain they are, and how few of them -have ever any bearing on the actual events of life."</p> - -<p class="normal">"This was no fantasy," she answered, "no fantasy. When the murderer is -discovered--if he ever is--it will be seen that I have known him. I am -as sure of it as that I am sitting here. But who was he? Who was he? I -have gone over and over again every man whom I have ever known, and -yet I cannot bring to my mind which of all those men it is that that -shrouded figure resembles." She paused again, and then she asked: "Has -it been discovered yet whether he had any relations?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, Ida," he said, rising from his seat and standing before her, -while he knew that the time had come now when everything must be told. -"Yes, he had one relation!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Who was he?" she asked, springing to her feet, while a strange lustre -shone in her eyes. "Who was he? Tell me that."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, Ida," he said, "there is so much to tell! Will you hear me -patiently while I tell you all?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Tell me everything," she replied. "I will listen."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he told her, standing there face to face with her. As he -proceeded with his story, he could give no guess as to what effect it -was having upon her, for she made no sign, but, from the seat into -which she had sunk, gazed fixedly into his face. Once she shuddered -slightly, and drew her dress nearer to her when he confessed that he -had refused to part from him in peace; and, when she had read the -letter that he had written on the night of his death, she wept -silently for a few moments.</p> - -<p class="normal">It had taken long in the telling, and the twilight of the summer night -had come before he finished and she had learnt everything.</p> - -<p class="normal">"That is what I came to tell you, Ida. Speak to me, and say that you -forgive me for having kept it from your knowledge when last we met!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You said an hour ago," she replied, taking no heed of his prayer for -forgiveness, "that dreams were idle fantasies of the brain. What if -mine was such? What, if after all, I have seen the form of the man -who murdered him, have spoken to him and let him kiss me, and have not -recognised him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ida!" he said, "do you say this to me, to the man to whom you have -plighted your love and faith? Do you mean that you suspect me of being -my brother's murderer?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You did nothing," she answered, "to find out his murderer; you would -have done nothing had that Will not been discovered."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I obeyed his behest," he said, "and what I did was done also through -my love of you."</p> - -<p class="normal">Again she paused before she spoke, and then she said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is time that you should go now, it is time that there should be no -more love spoken of between us. But, if a time should ever come when -it will be fitting for me to hear you speak of love to me once -more----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It will be when you can come to me and say that his murderer is -brought to justice."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And until that time shall come, you cast me off?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"If you take it in that light,--yes."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have sworn," he said, and she could not but notice the deep -intensity of his voice, "upon his grave that my life shall be devoted -to avenging him, and no power on earth shall stop me if I can but see -my way to find the man who killed him. Even though I had still another -brother, whom I had loved all my life, and he had done this deed, I -would track him and bring him to punishment. I swear it before -God--swear that I would not spare him! And my earnest and heartfelt -prayer is that the day may arrive when, as you and I desire, I may be -able to come and tell you that he is brought to justice."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ah! yes."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Only," he continued, still with a deep solemnity of voice that went -to her heart, "when I do so come I shall come to tell you that -alone--there will be with that news no pleadings of love upon my -tongue. You have doubted, but just now, whether you have not seen my -brother's murderer standing before you, whether the kiss of Cain has -not been upon your lips. You have reproached me for my silence, you -have cast me off, unless I can prove myself not an assassin. Well, so -be it! By the blessing of heaven, I will prove it--but for the love -which you have withdrawn from me I will ask no more. You say it is to -be mine again conditionally. I will not take it back, either with or -without conditions. It is restored to you; it would be best that -henceforth you should keep it."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, with but the slightest inclination of his head, he left her, and -went out from the house. And Ida, after once endeavouring to make her -lips utter the name of Gervase, fell prostrate on the couch.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He will never come back to me," she wailed; "he will never come back. -I have thrown his love away for ever. God forgive and pity me."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XV.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">"I knew him intimately," Señor Guffanta said, "it is about him and his -murder that I have come to talk."</p> - -<p class="normal">These were the words with which he had responded to Lord Penlyn's -reception of him; and, as he uttered them, a hope had sprung up into -the young man's breast that, in the handsome Spaniard who stood before -him, some one might have been found who, from his knowledge of his -brother, would be able to throw some light upon, or clue to, his -death.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I cannot tell you," he said, "how welcome this information is to me. -We have tried everything in our power to gather some knowledge that -might lead towards finding--first, some one who would be likely to -have a reason for his death; and, afterwards, the man who killed him. -If you knew him intimately, it may be that you can assist us."</p> - -<p class="normal">The Señor had taken the seat offered him by Penlyn, and from the time -that he had first sat down, until now, he had not removed his dark -piercing eyes from the other's face. But, as he continued to fix his -glance upon Penlyn, there had come into his own face a look of -surprise, a look that seemed to express a baffled feeling of -consternation.</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>Caramba</i>," he said to himself while the other was speaking. -"<i>Caramba</i>, what mystery is there here? I have made a mistake. I have -erred in some way; how have I deceived myself? Yet I could have sworn -by the blood of San Pedro that I was sure."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, when Lord Penlyn had ceased speaking, he said aloud:</p> - -<p class="normal">"You will pardon me--but I am labouring under no mistake? You are Lord -Penlyn?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The other looked at him for a moment, wondering what such a question -meant. Then he answered him:</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is no mistake. I am Lord Penlyn."</p> - -<p class="normal">The Spaniard passed his hand across his eyes as he heard this, but did -not speak; and Lord Penlyn said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"May I ask why you inquire?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Because--because I had thought--because I wished to be sure of whom I -was speaking with."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You may rest assured. And now, sir, let me ask you what you know -about this unhappy Mr. Cundall and his life?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I know much about him. To begin with, I know that he was your -brother--your elder brother--and that you have come to possess his -fortune."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn started and said: "You know that? May I ask how you know -it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is not necessary for me to say. It is sufficient that I do know -it. But it is not of that that I have come to talk."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of what have you come to talk then?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of his murderer."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of his murderer!" the other repeated. "Oh! Señor Guffanta, is it -possible that you can have any clue, is it possible that you think you -will be able to find the man who killed him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>I am sure of it</i>."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn stared at him as he spoke, stared at him while in his mind -there was a feeling of astonishment, mixed with something like awe, of -his strange visitor. This dark, powerful-looking stranger, sat there -before him perfectly calm and unmoved, looking straight at him as he -spoke these words of import, "I am sure of it," and spoke them as -though he was speaking of some ordinary incident. And in his calmness -there was something that told the other that it was born of certainty.</p> - -<p class="normal">"If you can do that, Señor Guffanta," he said, "there is nothing that -you can ask from me, there is nothing that I can give that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is nothing I want of you," the Spaniard said, interrupting him, -and making a disdainful motion with his long, brown hand. "I am not a -paid police spy."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I beg your pardon," the other answered. "I had no thought of offence. -Only, sir, it is the wish of my life, and of some others who knew and -loved him, to see him avenged.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And it is the wish of my life also. Will you hear a short story?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will hear anything you have to say."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then listen. I was born in Honduras, the child of a Spanish lady and -of a friend of the old Englishman, Cundall, him from whom your -brother's wealth was derived. That friend was a scoundrel, a man who -tricked my mother into a marriage with him under a false name, who -never was her husband at all. When they had been married, as she -thought, for some few years, and when another child, my sister, had -been born, she found out the deception, and--she killed him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Killed him!" Penlyn exclaimed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, dead! We Spaniards brook no dishonour, we never allow a wrong to -pass unavenged. She showed him the evidence of his falsehood in one -hand, and with the other she shot him dead upon his own verandah. She -was tried and instantly acquitted, and, in consideration of the wrong -she had suffered, a law was made constituting her legally his wife, -and making us children legitimate. But the disgrace was to her--a -high-minded, noble woman--too much; she fell ill and died. Then the -old man, Cundall, seeing that it was his friend's evil-doing that had -led to our being orphans, said that henceforth we should be his care. -So we grew up, and I had learnt to look upon myself and my sister as -his heirs, when one day there came another who, it was easy to see, -had supplanted us. It was the English lad, Walter Cundall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I begin to see," Penlyn said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"At first," Señor Guffanta went on, "I hated him for spoiling our -chances, but at last I could hate him no longer. Gradually, his gentle -disposition, his way of interceding for me with his uncle, when I had -erred, above all his tenderness to my poor sister, who was sick and -deformed, won my love. Had he been my brother I could not have loved -him more. Then--then, as years went on, I committed a fault, and the -old man cast me off for ever. Another man tried to take from me the -woman I loved--she was a vile thing worth no man's love; but--no -matter how--I avenged myself. But from that day the old man turned -against me, and would neither see nor hear of me again.</p> - -<p class="normal">"A year or two passed and then I heard from Walter, for my sister and -I had left Los Torros (the town where we had all lived) and had gone -elsewhere, that the old man was dead. 'He has left everything to me,' -Walter wrote, 'and there is no mention of you nor Juanna, but be -assured neither of you shall ever want for anything.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Stop," Lord Penlyn said, "you need tell me no more. I know the -rest."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You know the rest?" Señor Guffanta said, looking fixedly at him, "You -know the rest?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes. You are <i>Corot</i>."</p> - -<p class="normal">A bewildered look came over the Spaniard's face, and then, after a -second's pause, he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes. I am <i>Corot</i>. It was the name given me by the Mestizos amongst -whom I played as a boy, and it kept to me. It is you, then, Lord -Penlyn, who has set this Dobson to look for me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes; we found your letters to him, and from one of them we believed -you to be in England. We thought that--that----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That I killed him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You threatened him in one of your letters. We were justified in -thinking so."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He, at least, did not think so. Read this."</p> - -<p class="normal">He took from his pocket a letter written by Walter Cundall during the -few days he had been back in England, and gave it to Penlyn. It ran:</p> -<br> -<br> -<p style="text-indent:60%">"<i>June</i>, 188--.</p> - - -<p class="normal">"<span class="sc">My Dear Corot</span>,</p> - -<p style="text-indent:5%">"I am delighted to hear you are in England, and have got an -appointment as agent for Don Rodriguez in London. Perhaps, now, I -shall have some respite from those fearful threats which, at -intervals, from your boyhood, you have hurled at me, at Juanna, and -every one you really love. Come and see me when you can, only come as -late as possible as I am out much; and we will have a talk about the -old place and old times.</p> - -<p style="text-indent:50%">"Ever yours, in haste, W. C.</p> - -<p class="normal">"P.S.--I wish poor Juanna could have lived to know of your good -fortune."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">"Do you think I should murder that man, Lord Penlyn?" Señor Guffanta -asked quietly. "That man who, when he heard of my good fortune, could -think of how happy it would have made my beloved sister--she who is -now in her grave."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Whatever I may have thought must be ascribed to the intense desire I -and my friends have to find his murderer, and you must pardon the -suspicion that came to our minds in reading your letters. But, Señor -Guffanta, let us forget that and speak about finding him, since you -also are anxious to avenge Walter, and feel sure that you can do so."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am perfectly sure. And before long I shall stand face to face with -him. Then his doom is certain!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Again Lord Penlyn noticed the self-constrained calm of the man, and -again he told himself that he spoke with such an air of certainty that -it was impossible to doubt him. For one moment the thought came to his -mind that this apparent calmness, this certainty of finding the -murderer, might be a rôle assumed by Guffanta to prevent suspicion -falling upon him. But on reflection that thought took flight. Had he -been the murderer he would never have revealed himself, would never -have allowed it to be known that he was <i>Corot</i>, the man against whom -circumstances had looked so black. And Cundall's letter was sufficient -to show that what the Señor had told him, about the friendship that -had existed between them, was true.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You must know more than any of us, Señor Guffanta, as no doubt you -do--to inspire you with such confidence of finding him. Had he any -enemy in Honduras, who may now be in England, and have done this -deed?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"To my knowledge, none. He was a man who made friends, not enemies."</p> - -<p class="normal">"How then, do you hope to find the man who killed him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I hope nothing, Lord Penlyn, for I am sure to find him. What will you -say when I tell you that I have seen his murderer's face?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have seen his face? You know it!" the other exclaimed, springing -to his feet. "Oh, let me at once send for the detectives and the -lawyers, so that you may describe him to them, and let them endeavour -to find him. But," he said suddenly, "where have you seen him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">There was an almost contemptuous smile upon the Señor Guffanta's face -as he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Send for no one--at least, not yet. If by the detectives you mean -Dobson, the heavy man, he will not assist me, and of the lawyers I -know nothing; and at present I will not tell you when and where I have -seen this man. But, sir--but, Lord Penlyn, I know one thing. When that -man and I once more stand face to face, Walter Cundall, who shielded -me from his uncle's wrath, who was as a brother to my beloved Juanna, -will be avenged."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What will you do?" Penlyn asked in an almost awestruck whisper. "You -will not take the law into your own hands and kill him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No; it maybe not! But with these hands alone," and he held them out -extended to Penlyn as he spoke, "I will drag him to a prison which he -shall only leave for a scaffold. Drag him there, I say, unless my -blood gets the better of my reason, and I throttle him like a dog by -the way."</p> - -<p class="normal">He, too, had risen in his excitement; and as he stood towering in his -height, which was great, above the other, and extended his long sinewy -hands in front of him, while his deep brown skin turned to an almost -darker hue, Penlyn felt that this man before him would be the avenger -of his brother's death. So terrible did he look, that the other -wondered how that murderer would feel when he should be in his grasp.</p> - -<p class="normal">He stepped forward to Guffanta and held out his hand to him. "Sir," he -said, "I thank God that you and I have met. But can we do nothing to -assist you in your search? May I not tell the detectives what you -know?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You may tell them everything I have told you; it will not enable them -to be in my way. But what I have to do I must do by myself." He paused -a moment; then he said: "It may be that when you do tell them, they -will still think that I am the man----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, no!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, it may be so. Well, if they want to spy upon my actions, if they -want to know what I do and where I go, I am to be found at the Hôtel -Lepanto--that is when I am not here in this house, for I must ask -you--I have a reason--to let me come to you as I want."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn bowed, and said some words to the effect that he should always -be free of the house, and the other continued:</p> - -<p class="normal">"My business here as agent for Don Rodriguez, a wealthy merchant of -Honduras, will not occupy me much at present, the rest of my time will -be devoted to the one purpose of finding that man."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I pray that you may be successful."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shall be successful," the Spaniard answered quietly. "And now," he -said, "I will ask you to do one thing."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ask me anything and I will do it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have a garden behind your house," Señor Guffanta said, "how is -admission obtained to it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn stared at him wonderingly, not knowing what this question -might mean, and then he said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is an entrance from the back of this house, and another from an -iron gate in the side street. But why do you ask? no one ever goes -into it. It is damp, and even the paths are partly overgrown with -weeds."</p> - -<p class="normal">"There are keys to those entrances?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And in your possession?" and, as he spoke, his dark eyes were fixed -very intently on the young man.</p> - -<p class="normal">"They are somewhere about the house, but they are never used."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I wish them found. Then, when they are found, I must ask you to give -me your word of honour that no living creature, not even you yourself, -will enter that garden without my knowing it. Will you do this?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will do it," Penlyn said. "But I wish you would tell me your -reason."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will tell you nothing more at present. But remember that I have a -task to perform and that I shall do it."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then he left him, and walked away to the neighbourhood of Leicester -Square.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What I have seen to-day," he said to himself, "would have baffled -many a man. But you, Miguel, are different from other men. You are not -baffled, you are only still more determined to do what you have to do. -But who is he?--who is he? <i>Caramba!</i> he is not Lord Penlyn!"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XVI.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">"The story about this Spaniard, Guffanta, is a strange one," Philip -Smerdon wrote from Occleve Chase to Lord Penlyn, who had informed him -of the visit he had received and the revelations made by the Señor, -"but I may as well tell you at once that I don't believe it, although -you say that the lawyers, as well as Stuart and Dobson, are inclined -to do so. My own opinion is that, though he may not have killed Mr. -Cundall, he is still telling you a lie--for some reason of his own, as -to the friendship that existed between them; and he probably thinks -that by pretending to be able to find the man, he will get some money -from you. With regard to his having been face to face with the -murderer, why, if so, does he not say on what occasion and when? To -know his face <i>as that of the murderer</i>, is to say, what in plainer -words would be, that he had either known he was about to commit -the act, or that he had witnessed it. It admits of no other -interpretation, and, consequently, what becomes of his avowed love for -Cundall, if he knew of the contemplated deed and did not prevent it, -or, having witnessed it, did not at once arrest or kill his aggressor? -You may depend upon it, my dear Gervase, that this man's talk is -nothing but empty braggadocio, with, as I said before, the probable -object of extracting money from you as he previously extracted it from -your brother.</p> - -<p class="normal">"As to the locking up of the garden and allowing no one to enter it, I -am inclined to think that it is simply done with the object of making -a pretence of mysteriously knowing something that no one else knows. -And it is almost silly, for your garden would scarcely happen to be -selected by the murderer as a place to visit, and what object could he -have in so visiting it? However, as it is a place never used, I should -gratify him in this case, only I would go a little farther than he -wishes, and never allow it to be opened--not even when he desires it."</p> - -<p class="normal">The letter went on to state that Smerdon was still very busy over the -summer accounts at Occleve Chase, and should remain there some time; -he might, however, he added, shortly run up to town for a night.</p> - -<p class="normal">A feeling of disappointment came over Penlyn as he read this letter -from his friend. During the two or three days that had elapsed between -writing to Smerdon and receiving his answer, he had been buoyed up -with the hope that in Guffanta the man had been discovered who would -be the means of bringing the assassin to justice, and this hope had -been shared by all the other men interested in the same cause. But he -had come, in the course of his long friendship with Philip Smerdon, to -place such utter reliance upon his judgment, and to accept so -thoroughly his ideas, that the very fact of his doubting the Señor's -statement, and looking upon it as a mere vulgar attempt to extort -money from him, almost led him also to doubt whether, after all, he -had not too readily believed the Spaniard.</p> - -<p class="normal">Yet, he reflected, his actions, as he stood before him foretelling the -certain doom of that assassin when once they should again be face to -face, and his calm certainty that such would undoubtedly happen, bore -upon them the impress of truth. And his story had earned the belief of -the others--that, surely, was in favour of it being true. Stuart had -seen him, had listened to what he had to say, and had formed the -opinion that he was neither lying nor acting. Dobson also, the man who -to the Señor's mind was ridiculous and incapable, had been told -everything, and he, too, had come to the conclusion that Guffanta's -story was an honest one, and that, of all other men, he who in some -mysterious manner, knew the murderer's face, would be the most likely -to eventually bring him to justice. Only, he thought that the Señor -should be made to divulge where and when he had so seen his face; that -would give him and his brethren a clue, he said, which might enable -them to assist him in tracking the man. And he was also very anxious -to know what the secret was that led to his desiring Lord Penlyn to -have the garden securely closed and locked. He could find in his own -mind no connecting link between the place of death in the Park and -Lord Penlyn's garden (although he remembered that, strangely enough, -his lordship was the dead man's brother), and he was desirous that the -Señor should confide in him. But the latter would tell him nothing -more than he had already made known, and Dobson, who had always in his -mind's eye the vision of the large rewards that would come to the man -who found the murderer, was forced to be content and to work, as he -termed it, "in the dark."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You must wait, my good Dobson, you must wait," the Spaniard said, -"until I tell you that I want your assistance, though I do not think -it probable that I shall ever want it. You could not find out that I -was <i>Corot</i>, you know, although I had many times the pleasure of -lunching at the next table to you; I do not think that you will be -able any the better to find the man I seek. But when I find him, -Dobson, I promise you that you shall have the pleasure of arresting -him, so that the reward shall come to you. That is, if I do not have -to arrest him suddenly upon the moment, myself, so as to prevent him -escaping."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And what are you doing now, <i>Signor?</i>" Dobson asked, giving him a -title more familiar to him in its pronunciation than the Spanish one, -"what are you doing to find him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am practising a virtue, my friend, that I have practised much in my -life. I am waiting."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I don't see that waiting is much good, Signor. There is not much good -ever done by waiting."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The greatest good in the world, Dobson, the very greatest. And you do -not see now, Dobson, because you do not know what I know. So you, too, -must be virtuous, and wait."</p> - -<p class="normal">It was only with banter of a slightly concealed nature such as this -that Señor Guffanta would answer Dobson, but, light as his answers -were, he had still managed to impress the detective with the idea -that, sooner or later, he would achieve the task he had vowed to -perform. "But," as the man said to one of his brethren, "why don't he -get to work, why don't he do something? He won't find the man in that -Hôtel Lepanto where he sits smoking cigarettes half the day, nor yet -in Lord Penlyn's house where he goes every night."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perhaps he thinks his lordship did it, after all," the other -answered, "and is watching <i>him</i>."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," Dobson said, "he don't think that. But I can't make out who the -deuce he does suspect."</p> - -<p class="normal">It was true enough that Guffanta did pass a considerable time in the -Hôtel Lepanto, smoking cigarettes, and always thinking deeply, whether -seated in the corridor or in his own room upstairs. But, although he -had not allowed himself to say one word to any of the other men on the -subject, and still spoke with certainty of ere long finding the -murderer, he was forced to acknowledge that, for the time, he was -baffled. And then, as he did acknowledge this, he would rise from his -chair and stretch out his long arms, and laugh grimly to himself. "But -only for a time, Miguel," he would say, "only for a time. He will come -to you at last, he will come to you as the bird comes to the net. -Wait, wait, wait! You may meet him to-day, to-night! <i>Por Dios</i>, you -will surely trap him at last!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Meanwhile Lord Penlyn, when he was left alone, and when he could -distract his thoughts from the desire of his life, the finding of the -man who had slain Walter Cundall, was very unhappy. Those thoughts -would then turn to the girl he had loved deeply, to the girl whom he -had cast off because she had ventured to let the idea come into her -mind that it was he who might have done the deed. He had cast her off -in a moment when there had come into his heart a revulsion of feeling -towards her, a feeling of horror that she, of all others in the world, -could for one moment harbour such an idea against him. Yet, he -admitted to himself, there were grounds upon which even the most, -loving of women might be excused for having had such thoughts. He had -misled her at first, he had kept back the truth from her, he had given -her reasons for suspicion--even against him, her lover. And now they -were parted, he had renounced her, and yet he knew that he loved her -as fondly as ever; she was the one woman in the world to him. Would -they ever come together again? Was it possible, that if he, who had -told her that never more in this world would he speak to her of love, -should go back again and kneel at her feet and plead for pardon, it -would be granted to him? If he could think that; if he could think -that when once his brother was avenged he might so plead and be so -forgiven, then he could take courage and look forward hopefully to the -future. But at present they were strangers, they were as much parted -as though they had never met; and he was utterly unhappy.</p> - -<p class="normal">When Guffanta had declared himself; it had been in his mind to write -and tell her all that he had newly learnt; but he could not bring -himself to write an ordinary letter to her. It might be that, -notwithstanding the deep interest she took in his unhappy brother's -fate, she would refuse to open any letter in his handwriting, and -would regard it almost as an insult. Yet he wanted to let her know -what had now transpired, and he at last decided what to do. He asked -Stuart to direct an envelope for him to her, and he put a slip of -paper inside it, on which he wrote:</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">"<i>Corot</i> has disclosed himself, and he, undoubtedly, is not the -murderer. He, however, has some strange knowledge of the actual man in -his possession which he will not reveal, but says that he is certain, -at last, to bring him to justice."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">That was all, and he put no initials to it, but he thought that the -knowledge might be welcome to her.</p> - -<p class="normal">He had not expected any answer to this letter, or note, and from Ida -none came, but a day or two after he had sent it, he received a visit -from Sir Paul Raughton. The baronet had come up to town especially to -see him, and having learnt from the footman that Lord Penlyn was at -home, he bade the man show him to his master, and followed him at -once. As Penlyn rose to greet him, he noticed that Sir Paul's usually -good-humoured face bore a very serious expression, and he knew at once -that the interview they were about to have would be an important one.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have come up to London expressly to see you, Lord Penlyn," Sir Paul -said, shaking hands with him coldly, "because I wish to have a -thorough explanation of the manner in which you see fit to conduct -yourself towards my daughter. No," he said, putting up his hand, as he -saw that Penlyn was about to interrupt him, "hear me for one moment. I -may as well tell you at once that Ida, that my daughter, has told me -everything that you have confided to her with regard to your -relationship to Mr. Cundall--which, I think, it was your duty also to -have told me--and she has also told me the particulars of your last -interview with her."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I parted with her in anger," the other answered, "because there -seemed to have come into her mind some idea that I--that I might have -slain my brother."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And for that, for a momentary suspicion on her part, a suspicion that -would scarcely have entered her head had her mind not been in the -state it is, you have seen fit to cast her off, and to cancel your -engagement!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It was she, Sir Paul, who bade me speak no more of love to her," -Penlyn said, "she who told me that, until I had found the murderer of -my brother, I was to be no more to her."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And she did well to tell you so," Sir Paul said; "for to whom but to -you, his brother and his heir, should the task fall of avenging his -cruel murder?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That, I told her, I had sworn to do, and yet she suspected me. And, -Sir Paul, God knows I did not mean the words of anger that I spoke; I -have bitterly repented of them ever since. If Ida will let me recall -them, if she will give me again her love--if you think there is any -hope of that--I will go back and sue to her for it on my knees."</p> - -<p class="normal">The baronet looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, and then he said. -"Do you know that she is very ill?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ill! Why have I not been told of it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why should you have been told? It was your words to her, and her -excitement over your brother's murder, that has brought her illness -about."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Let me go and see her?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You cannot see her. She is in bed and delirious from brain fever; and -on her lips there are but two names which she repeats incessantly, -your own and your brother's."</p> - -<p class="normal">The young man leant forward on the table and buried his head in his -hands, as he said: "Poor Ida! poor Ida! Why should this trouble also -come to you? And why need I have added to your unhappiness by my -cruelty?" Then he looked up and said to Sir Paul: "When will she be -well enough for me to go to her and plead for pardon? Will it be soon, -do you think?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not know," the other answered sadly. "But if, when the delirium -has left her, I can tell her that you love her still and regret your -words, it may go far towards her recovery."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Tell her that," Penlyn said, "and that my love is as deep and true as -ever, and that, at the first moment she is in a fit condition to hear -it, I will, myself, come and tell her so with my own lips. And also -tell her that, never again, will I by word or deed cause her one -moment's pain."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am glad to hear you speak like this," Sir Paul said, "glad to find -that I had not allowed my darling to give herself to a man who would -cast her off because she, for one moment, harboured an unworthy -suspicion of him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"This unhappy misunderstanding has been the one blot upon our love," -Penlyn said; "if I can help it, there shall never be another."</p> - -<p class="normal">As he spoke these words, Sir Paul put his hand kindly on his shoulder, -and Penlyn knew that, in him, he had one who would faithfully carry -his message of love to the woman who was the hope of his life.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And now," Sir Paul said, "I want you to give me full particulars of -everything that has occurred since that miserable night. I want to -know everything fully, and from your lips. What Ida has been able to -tell me has been sadly incoherent."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then, once more--as he had had now so often to go over the sad -history to others, with but little fresh information added to each -recital--Lord Penlyn told Sir Paul everything that he knew, and of the -strange manner in which the Señor Guffanta had come into the matter, -as well as his apparent certainty of eventually finding the murderer.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You do not think it is a bold ruse to throw off suspicion from -himself?" Sir Paul asked. "A daring man, such as he seems to be, might -adopt such a plan."</p> - -<p class="normal">"No," the other answered, "I do not. There is something about the man, -stranger as he is, that not only makes me feel certain that he is -perfectly truthful in what he says, and that he really does possess -some strange knowledge of the assassin that will enable him to find -that man at last, but also makes the others feel equally certain."</p> - -<p class="normal">"They all believe in him, you say?" Sir Paul asked thoughtfully.</p> - -<p class="normal">"All! That is, all but Philip Smerdon, who is the only one who has not -seen him. And I am sure that, if he too saw him and heard him, he -would believe."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Philip Smerdon is a thorough man of the world," Sir Paul said, "I -should be inclined to give weight to his judgment."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am sure that he is wrong in this case, and that when he sees -Guffanta, he will acknowledge himself to be so. No one who has seen -him can doubt his earnestness."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What can be the mystery concerning your garden? A mystery that is a -double one, because it brings your house, of all houses in London, -into connection with the murder of the very man who, at the moment, -was the actual owner of it? That is inexplicable!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is," Penlyn said, "inexplicable to every one. But the Señor tells -us that when we know what he knows, and when he has brought the -murderer to bay, we shall see that it is no mystery at all."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XVII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">Although the Señor Guffanta had not, as yet, in answer to many -questions put to him, been able to say positively that he was on the -immediate track of the murderer of Walter Cundall, he still continued -to inspire confidence in those by whom he was surrounded; and it had -now come to be quite accepted amongst all whom he met at Occleve House -that, although he was working darkly and mysteriously, he was in some -way nearing the object he had in view. It may have been his intense -self-confidence, the outward appearance of which he never allowed to -fail, that impressed them thus, or the stern look with which he -accompanied any words he ever uttered in connection with the assassin; -or it may have been the manner he had of making inquiries of all -descriptions of every one who had known anything of the dead man, that -led them to believe in him; but that they did believe in him there was -no doubt.</p> - -<p class="normal">In the time he had at his disposal, after transacting any affairs he -might have to manage for the merchant who had appointed him his agent -in London, he was continually passing from one spot to another, -sometimes spending hours at Mr. Cundall's house in Grosvenor Place, -and sometimes a long period of time each day at Occleve House; but to -no one did he ever say one word indicative of either success or -failure. And, when he was alone in either of these places, his -proceedings were of a nature that, had they been witnessed by any one, -would have caused them to wonder what it was that he was seeking for. -He would study attentively every picture that was a portrait, whether -painting or engraving, and for photograph albums, of which there were -a number in both houses, he seemed to have an untiring curiosity. He -would look them over and over again, pausing occasionally a long time -over some man's face that struck him, and then would turn the leaf and -go on to another; and then, when he had, for the second or third time -exhausted one album, he would take up another, and again go through -that.</p> - -<p class="normal">To Dobson, who was by the outside world regarded as the man who had -the whole charge of the case, the Señor's actions, and his absolute -refusal to confide in him, were almost maddening. To any question that -he asked, he received nothing but the regular answer, "Patience, my -good Dobson, patience," and with that he was obliged to be content. -For himself, he had done nothing; he was no nearer having any idea now -as to who the murderer was than he had been the morning after the deed -had been committed, and as day after day went by, he began to doubt -whether Guffanta was any nearer finding the man who was wanted than he -was.</p> - -<p class="normal">"But if he doesn't do something pretty quick," he said to one of the -men who was supposed to be employed under him in investigating the -case, "I shall put a spoke in his wheel."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why, what will you do, Mr. Dobson?" his underling asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I shall just go up to the Home Office, and when they ask me, as they -do regular, if I have got anything to report in connection with the -Cundall case, I shall tell them that the Señor professes to know a -good deal that he won't divulge, and ask them to have him up before -them, and make him tell what he do know."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And suppose he won't tell, Mr. Dobson? What then?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why, he'll be made to tell, that's all! It isn't right, and it isn't -fair that, if he knows anything and can't find the man himself, he -should be allowed to keep it a secret and prevent me from earning the -reward. I'll bet I'd soon find the man if I had his information--that -is, if he's really got any."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Don't it strike you, Mr. Dobson," the other asked, "that there is -some mystery in connection with Occleve House that he knows of? What -with his having the garden locked up, and his always being about -there!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It did once, but I have thought it over, and I can't see how the -house can be connected with it. You see, on that night it so happened -there was no one in the house but the footmen and the women servants. -His lordship and the valet had gone off to stay at the hotel, and Mr. -Smerdon had gone down in the morning to the country seat, so what -could the murderer have had to do with that particular house? And it -ain't the house the Señor seems to think so much about--it's the -garden."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I can't make that garden business out at all," the other said; "what -on earth has the garden got to do with it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"That's just what he won't say. But you mark my words, I ain't going -to stand it much longer, and he'll have to say. If he don't tell -pretty soon what he knows, I shall get the Home Office to make him."</p> - -<p class="normal">Meanwhile the Señor, who had bewildered Lord Penlyn and Mr. Stuart by -the connection which he seemed to feel certain existed between the -garden of Occleve House and the murder in the Park, excited their -curiosity still more when he suddenly announced one evening that he -was going down, with his lordship's permission, to pay a visit to -Occleve Chase.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Certainly," Penlyn replied, "you have my full permission; I shall be -glad if you will always avail yourself of anything that is mine. But, -Señor Guffanta, you connect my houses strangely with this search you -are making--first it was this one, and now it is Occleve Chase----; do -you not think you should confide a little more in me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I cannot confide in you yet, Lord Penlyn. And, frankly, I do not know -that I have much to confide. Nor am I connecting Occleve Chase with -the murder. But I have a wish to see that house. I am fond of old -houses, and it was Walter's property once though he never possessed -it. I might draw inspiration from a visit to it."</p> - -<p class="normal">For the first time since he had known the Señor, Lord Penlyn doubted -if he was speaking frankly to him. It was useless for Guffanta to -pretend that he was not now connecting Occleve Chase in his own mind -with the murder, as he had certainly connected the old disused garden -previously--but whom did he suspect? For one moment the idea flashed -through his mind that perhaps, after all, he still suspected him; but -another instant's thought served to banish that idea. Whatever this -dark, mysterious man might be working out in his own brain, at least -it could not be that. Had he not said that, by some strange chance, he -had once stood face to face with the assassin? Having done so, there -could be no thought in his mind that he, Penlyn, was that assassin. -But, if it was not him whom he suspected, who was it?</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well," he said, "you must take your own way, Señor Guffanta, and I -can only hope it may land you aright. Only, if you would confide more -in me, I should be glad."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I tell you that at present I cannot do so. Later on, perhaps, you -will understand my reason for silence. Meanwhile, be sure that before -long this man will be in my power."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then the Señor asked for some directions as to the manner of reaching -Occleve Chase, and Lord Penlyn told him the way to travel there.</p> - -<p class="normal">"And I will give you a letter to my friend, Philip Smerdon, who is -down there just now," he said, "and he will make your stay -comfortable. He, of course, has also a great interest in the affair we -all have so much at heart, and you will be able to talk it over with -him; though, I must tell you, that he has very little hopes of your -ultimate success."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ah! he has no hopes. Well, we shall see! I myself have the greatest -of hopes. And this Mr. Smerdon, this friend of yours, I have never yet -seen him. I shall be glad to know him."</p> - -<p class="normal">So when the letter of introduction was written, the Señor departed, -and on the next day he started for Occleve Chase.</p> - -<p class="normal">He travelled down from London comfortably ensconced in a first-class -smoking compartment, from which he did not move until the train -deposited him at the nearest station to Occleve Chase. The few -fellow-passengers who got in and out on the way, looked curiously at -the dark, sunburnt man, who sat back in the corner, twisting up -strange-looking little cigarettes, and gazing up at the roof or at the -country they were passing through; but of none of them did the Señor -take any notice, beyond giving one swift glance at each as they -entered. It had become a habit of this man's life now to give such a -glance at every one with whom he came into contact. Perhaps he thought -that if he missed one face, he might miss that of the man for whom he -was seeking.</p> - -<p class="normal">At the station nearest to the "Chase" he alighted, and taking his -small bag in his hand, walked over to the public-house opposite, and -asked if a cab could be provided to take him the remainder of his -journey, which he knew to be about four miles.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I beg your pardon, sir," a neat-looking groom said, rising from a -table at which he had been sitting drinking some beer, and touching -his hat respectfully, "but might I ask if you're going over there on -any business?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Who are you?" Señor Guffanta asked, looking at him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Beg pardon, sir, but I'm one of Lord Penlyn's grooms, and I thought -if you were going over on any business you might like me to drive you -over. I have the dog-cart here."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am a friend of Lord Penlyn's," the Señor answered, "and I am going -to stay at Occleve Chase for a day or so. I have brought a letter of -introduction to Mr. Smerdon."</p> - -<p class="normal">"That's a pity, sir," the man said, "because Mr. Smerdon has gone up -to London by the fast train. I have just driven him over from the -Chase."</p> - -<p class="normal">"He is gone to London?" the Señor said quietly. "And when will he be -back, do you think?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He did not say, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Very well. If you will drive me there now, I shall be obliged to -you."</p> - -<p class="normal">The groom put the horse to, and fetched the dog-cart round from the -stable, wondering as he did so who the quiet, dark gentleman was who -was going to stay all alone at the "Chase" for a day or so; and then -having put the Señor's bag in, he asked him to get up, and they -started for Occleve Chase.</p> - -<p class="normal">On the road Señor Guffanta made scarcely any remark, speaking only -once of the prettiness of the country they were passing through, and -once of the action of the horse, which seemed to excite his -admiration; and then he was silent till they reached the house, a fine -old Queen Anne mansion in excellent preservation. He introduced -himself to the housekeeper who came forward in the hall, and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have a letter of introduction to Mr. Smerdon; I had hoped to find -him here. Perhaps it would be well if I gave it to you instead."</p> - -<p class="normal">"As you please, sir, but it is not necessary. Lord Penlyn's friends -often come here, when they are in this part of the country, to see the -house. It is considered worth going over. If you please, sir, I will -send a servant up with your bag."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I thank you," the Señor said, with his usual grave courtesy, "but I -shall not trouble you much. I dare say by to-morrow I shall have seen -all I want to."</p> - -<p class="normal">"As you please, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">He followed the neat-looking housemaid to the room he was to occupy, -after having told the housekeeper that the simplest meal in the -evening would be sufficient for him, and then, when he had made some -slight toilette, he descended to the lower rooms of the house. The old -servant again came forward and volunteered her services to show him -the curiosities and antiquities of the place; but Señor Guffanta -politely told her that he would not trouble her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am fond of looking at pictures," he said, "I will inspect those if -you please. But I am acquainted with the styles of different masters, -so I do not require a guide. If you will tell me where the pictures -are in this house, I shall be obliged to you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"They are everywhere, sir," she answered. "In the picture-gallery, the -dining-room, hall, and library."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will go through the library first, if you please. Which is that?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The servant led the way to a large, lofty room, with windows looking -out upon a well-kept lawn, and told him that this was the room.</p> - -<p class="normal">"These pictures will not take you long, sir," she said, "it's mostly -books that are here. And Mr. Smerdon generally spends most of his time -here at his accounts; sometimes he passes whole days at that desk."</p> - -<p class="normal">She seemed inclined to be garrulous, and Señor Guffanta, who wished to -be alone, took, at random, a book from one of the shelves, and -throwing himself into a chair, began to read it. Then, saying that she -would leave him--perhaps taking what he intended as a hint--she -withdrew.</p> - -<p class="normal">When he was left alone he took no notice of the pictures on the walls -(they were all paintings of long-past days), but, rising, went over to -the desk where she had said that Mr. Smerdon spent hours. There were a -few papers lying about on it which he turned over, and he pulled at -the drawers to see if they would open, but they were all locked fast.</p> - -<p class="normal">"This room is no good to me," he said to himself, "I must try others."</p> - -<p class="normal">Gradually, as the day wore on, the Señor went from apartment to -apartment in the house, inspecting each one carefully. In the -drawing-room he spent a great deal of time, for here he had found -what, both at Occleve House and at Mr. Cundall's house in Grosvenor -Place, had interested him more than anything else--some photograph -albums. These he turned over very carefully, as he had done with the -others in London, and then he closed them and went to another room.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Did he ever know," he muttered once, "that the day would come when I -should be looking eagerly for his portrait--did he know that, and did -some instinct prompt him never to have a record made of his craven -face? And yet, he shall not escape me! Yet, I will find him!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Later in the evening, when he had eaten sparingly of the dinner that -had been prepared for him, and had drunk still more sparingly of the -choice wine set before him, confining himself almost entirely to -water, he sent for the housekeeper and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I think I have seen everything of importance here in the way of art, -and Lord Penlyn is to be congratulated on his treasures. Some of the -pictures are very valuable."</p> - -<p class="normal">"They are thought to be so, sir," the woman answered. In her own mind, -and after a conversation with another of the head servants, she had -put Señor Guffanta down as some foreign picture-dealer, or -<i>connoisseur</i>, who had received permission from her master to inspect -the collection at the "Chase," and, consequently, she considered him -entitled to give an opinion, especially as that opinion was a -favourable one. "They are thought to be so, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes; no doubt. But I have seen them all now, and I will leave -to-morrow."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Very well, sir."</p> - -<p class="normal">"So, if you please, I will have that young man to drive me to the -station. I will go by the train that he told me Mr. Smerdon travelled -by."</p> - -<p class="normal">That night, as Señor Guffanta paced up and down the avenue leading to -the house and smoked his cigarettes, or as he tossed upon his bed, he -confessed that he was no nearer to his task.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Everything fails me," he said; "and yet, a week ago, I would have -sworn by San Pedro that I should have caught him by now. There is only -one chance--one hope left. If that fails me too, then I must lose all -courage. Will it fail me?--will it fail?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is strange, too," he said once to himself in the night, when, -having been unable to sleep, he had risen and thrown his window open -and was gazing from it, "that I cannot meet this man Smerdon, this man -who believes that I shall fail--as, <i>por Dios!</i> I almost now myself -believe! Strange, also, that he should have left on the very day I -came here. I should like to see him. It may be that I shall do so in -London to-morrow."</p> - -<p class="normal">He left Occleve Chase at the time fixed, and by his liberality to the -housekeeper and the other servants who had waited on him he entirely -dispelled from their minds the idea that he was a picture-dealer.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I suppose he is one of those foreign swells, after all," the footman -who had served him said to the housekeeper, as he pocketed the -<i>douceur</i> the Señor had given him; "there is plenty of 'em in London -Society now."</p> - -<p class="normal">He reached the London terminus late in the afternoon, and bade the -cabman he hired drive him to the Hôtel Lepanto; but, before half the -journey to that house was accomplished, the driver found himself -suddenly called on by his fare to stop, and to turn round and follow -another cab going in the opposite direction.</p> - -<p class="normal">A hansom cab which had passed swiftly the one Señor Guffanta was in, a -cab in which was seated a young man with a brown moustache, and on the -roof of which was a portmanteau and a bundle of rugs.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Quick!" the Señor said, speaking for the first time almost incoherent -English; "follow that cab with the valise on the top. Quick, I say! I -will pay you anything!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"How can I be quick!" the man said with an oath, "when I can hardly -turn my cab round? Which is the one you mean?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"The one with the valise, I say, that passed just now. I will give you -everything I have in my pockets if you catch it."</p> - -<p class="normal">But it was no use. Before the cab could be turned and put in pursuit, -the other one had disappeared round a corner into a short street, from -which, ere Señor Guffanta's cab had reached it, it had again -disappeared.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Blood of my father!" the Señor said to himself in Spanish, "am I -never to seize him?" Then he once more altered his directions to the -cabman, and bade him drive to Occleve House.</p> - -<p class="normal">He walked into the room in which he heard that Lord Penlyn and Mr. -Stuart were seated, and the excitement visible upon his face told them -that something had happened.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have seen him," he said, going through no formality of greeting; he -was far too disturbed for that. "I have seen him once again, and once -again I have lost him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Where have you seen him?" Stuart asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not at Occleve Chase, surely!" Penlyn exclaimed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No--here, in London! Not half-an-hour ago, in a cab. And I have -missed him! He went too swiftly, and I lost sight of him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What will you do?" they both exclaimed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"At present I do not know. I feel as though I shall go mad!" Then a -moment after he said: "Give me the keys of the garden; at once, give -them to me."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn took them from a drawer and gave them to Señor Guffanta, and -he, bidding the others remain where they were, opened the door leading -into the garden from the back of the house, and went out into it.</p> - -<p class="normal">It was but a few minutes before he returned, but when he did so the -bronze had left his face and he was deathly pale.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Lord Penlyn," he said, biting his lips as he spoke, and clenching his -hands until the nails penetrated the palms, "to whom have you given -those keys during my absence?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"To no one," Penlyn answered. "I promised you I would not let any one -have them."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have given them to no one?" Guffanta said, while his eyes shone -fiercely as he looked at the other. "To no one! To no one! Then will -you tell me how the murderer of Walter Cundall has been in that garden -within the last few hours?"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XVIII.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">That night Guffanta stood in the library of what had once been Walter -Cundall's house in Grosvenor Place, in the room in which the murdered -man had spent hours of agony after he had learned that Ida Raughton's -love was given to another; and to Mr. Stuart he told all that he knew. -To Lord Penlyn's request, nay to his command, that he should tell him -all, he paid no attention; indeed, he vouchsafed no words to him -beyond those of suspicion and accusation.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I know so much," he said, speaking in the calm, cold voice which had -only once failed him--the time when he had discovered that the -assassin had in some way obtained entrance to the deserted garden -during his absence, "as to be able to say that you are not your -brother's murderer. But, unless there is something very strange that -as yet I do not know, that murderer is known to you, and you are -shielding him from me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is false!" Lord Penlyn said, advancing to him and standing boldly -and defiantly before him. "As God hears me, I swear that it is false. -And you <i>shall</i> tell me what you know, you shall justify your vile -suspicions of me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," the Señor replied, "I shall justify them, but not <i>to</i> you. -Meanwhile, have a care that I do not prove you to be an accomplice in -this murder. Have a care, I say!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I defy you and your accusations. And the law shall make you speak out -plainly."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am about to speak out plainly, this very night. But I am not going -to speak plainly to the man whose house affords a refuge to his -brother's murderer."</p> - -<p class="normal">Lord Penlyn sprang at him, as he heard these words fall from his lips, -as he had once sprung at his own brother in the Park when that brother -told him he was bearing a name not rightly his; and once more he felt -himself in a grasp of iron, and powerless.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Be careful!" Señor Guffanta said, as he hurled him back, "be careful, -or I shall do you an injury."</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart had endeavoured to come between them, but before he could do so -the short struggle was over, and then the Spaniard turned to him and -said, "I must speak with you alone. Come with me," and, turning, left -the room.</p> - -<p class="normal">Before Stuart followed him he spoke to Penlyn, and said: "Do not take -this too seriously to heart. This man is evidently under some -delusion, if not as to the actual murderer, at least as to your -connection with the crime. Perhaps, when he has told me what he knows, -we shall find out where the error lies; and then he will ask your -pardon for his suspicions."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is too awful!" Penlyn said, "too awful to be borne. And I can do -nothing. I wish I could have killed him as he stood there falsely -accusing me, but he is a giant in strength."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Let me go to him now," Stuart said; "and do not think of his words. -Remember, he, too, is excited at having seen the man again and missed -him. And if he does not absolutely bind me to silence I will tell you -all." Then he, also, went away. And that night, in Walter Cundall's -library, Señor Guffanta told his story. Told it calmly and -dispassionately, but with a fulness of detail that struck a chill to -Stuart's heart.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I had been but a few days in London," he said, "when I learnt by -Walter's own hand--in the letter you have seen--that he was also here, -and that I was to go and see him. I was eager to do so, and on the -very night he was murdered, on that fatal Monday night, I set out to -visit him. He had told me to come late, and knowing that he was a man -much in the world, and also that, from living in Honduras, where the -nights alone are cool, one rarely learns to go to bed early, I did go -late; so late that the clocks were striking midnight as I reached his -house. But, when I stood outside it, there was no light of any kind to -be seen, only a faint glimmer from a lamp in the hall. 'He has gone to -his bed,' I said to myself, 'and the house is closed for the night. -Well, it is indeed late, I will come again.' And so I turned away, -and, knowing that there was a road through your Park, though I had not -gone by it, I determined to return that way."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Through the Park--where he was murdered?" Stuart asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, by that way. But before I reached the gates, and when I was -outside the Palace of your Queen, Buckingham Palace, the storm that -had been threatening broke over me. <i>Caramba!</i> it was a storm to drown -a man, a storm such as we see sometimes in the tropics, but which I -had never thought to see here. It descended in vast sheets of water, -it was impossible to stir without being instantaneously drenched to -the skin, and so I sought shelter in a porch close at hand. There, -seeing no one pass me but some poor half-drowned creature who looked -as though the rain could make his misery no greater than it was, I -waited and waited--I had no protection, no umbrella--and heard the -quarters and half-hours, and the hours tolled by the clock. At last, -as it was striking two, the storm almost ceased, and, leaving my -shelter, I crossed the road and entered the Park."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes!" Stuart said in a whisper.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I entered the Park, and went on round the bend, and so, under -the dripping trees, through what I have since learnt, is called the -'Mall.'"</p> - -<p class="normal">"For God's sake, go on!" Stuart exclaimed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I had passed some short distance on my road meeting no living -creature, when but a little distance ahead of me I saw two figures -struggling, the figures of two men. Then I saw one fall, and the -other--not seeing me, there were trees between us--passed swiftly by. -But I saw him and his face, the face of a young man dressed as a -peasant, or, as you say here, a workman; a young man with a brown -moustache."</p> - -<p class="normal">For a moment Señor Guffanta paused, and then he continued:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I ran to the fallen man, and--it was Walter--dead! Stabbed to the -heart! I called him by his name, I kissed him, and felt his breast; -but he was dead! And then, in a moment, it came to my mind that it was -not with him I had to do; it was with the murderer. I sprang to my -feet, I left him there--there, dead in the mud and the water with -which his blood now mingled--and, as quickly as I could go, I retraced -my steps after that murderer. And God is good! I had wasted but two or -three moments with my poor dead friend, and ere I again reached the -gates of the Park I saw before me the figure of the man who had passed -me under the trees. He was still walking swiftly, and once or twice he -looked round, as though fearing he was followed. But I, who have -tracked savage beasts to their lairs, and Indians to their haunts, -knew how to track him. Keeping well behind him and at a fair distance, -sometimes screening myself behind the pillar on a doorstep, and -sometimes crossing the road, sometimes even letting myself fall back -still farther, I followed him. At one time, when I first brought him -into my sight again, it had been in my thoughts to spring upon him, -and there at once to kill him or take him prisoner. And then I thought -it best not to do so. We had moved far from the scene; who was to -prove, how was I to prove that it was he who had done this deed, and -not I? And there was blood upon my clothes and hands--it was plainly -visible! I could see it myself! blood that had flown from Walter's -dead heart on to me as I took him in my arms upon the ground. No, I -said, I must follow him, I must know where he lives, then I will take -fresh counsel with myself as to what I shall do. So I went on, still -following him. And by this time the dawn was breaking! He went on and -on, walking, perhaps, for half-an-hour or so, though it seemed far -more to me; but at last he stopped, and I had now some difficulty in -preventing him from seeing me. He had stopped at a gate in a wall, and -with a key had quickly opened it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"The gate of the garden of Occleve House!" Stuart exclaimed, quivering -with excitement.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," the Señor answered, "the gate of the garden of Occleve House."</p> - -<p class="normal">"My God!" the other said.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, it was that gate. And now I had to be careful. I was determined -to see where he had gone to through that gate, what he was doing in -that garden; but how to do it? If I looked through the railings he -would see me, he would know he was discovered--he might even then be -able to escape me! If I had had my pistol with me, I would have stood -by the gate and looked at him through it, and then, if necessary, -would have shot him dead. But I had it not; I had thought of no need -for it when I left the hotel that night. I did not know what was -before me when I went out. But I knew I must do something at once, and -so, seeing that the street was empty and no creature stirring, I -advanced near to the gate, stretched myself flat upon the <i>pavé</i>, and -with my head upon the ground looked under the lowest part of the -railings and saw----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What?" Stuart asked, interrupting him again in his excitement.</p> - -<p class="normal">"A changed man, one different from him I had followed. Still a young -man with a brown moustache, but a young man whose habit was that of a -gentleman. He was dressed now in a dark, well-made suit, and with his -hands he was rolling up the peasant dress I had seen him wear. Then he -stooped over what seemed to be a hole, or declivity, near the wall and -dropped the suit into it, and arranged the weeds and long grass above -it, and then slowly he went to the house, and, taking again a key from -his pocket, entered the door."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What man could thus have had the entrance to the back of the house?" -Stuart asked. "I am bewildered with horrible thoughts!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I also was bewildered, but I am now no longer so. I knew the man's -face; now--to-day--I know for certain who he was. Within the last few -days it flashed upon me, yet I doubted; but my doubts are satisfied. I -only learned of his existence ten days ago, or I should have suspected -him before."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Who was it?" Stuart said. "Tell me at once."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Wait yet a moment, and listen to me. As I saw that man enter the -house, a house that I, a stranger, could see was the mansion of some -person of importance, it came to me, to my mind, that this was the -owner, the master of that house, who had killed my friend. His reason -for doing so I could not guess--it might have been for the love of a -woman, or for hate, or about money--but that it was so I was -confident. And I said to myself, 'So! you cannot escape me! I know -your house, to-morrow I shall know your name, and, if in two or three -days the police have not got you in their power--I will wait that -while, for it is better they should take you than I--then I will kill -you.' And I went away thinking thus; there was no need to watch more. -I held him, for he could not escape I thought, in my hand."</p> - -<p class="normal">"But it was not the owner of the house," Stuart said, "it was not Lord -Penlyn who killed him. He was away at an hotel at the time."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, he was--though still it would be possible for him then to have -entered his own house--but his was not the face of the man I had seen. -I learnt that, to my amazement, when for the first time I stood before -him. But, listen again! In the morning, at a restaurant, I found in a -Directory, of which I had learnt the use, that that house was Occleve -House, and that Lord Penlyn was the owner of it. And then my surprise -was great, for only an hour or so before I had found that Occleve was -the right name of Walter Cundall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You had learnt that?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"When I lifted Walter in my arms in the Park, I felt against his -breast a book half out of his pocket. The murderer had missed that! I -took that book, for even in my haste and grief, I thought that in it -might be something that would give me a clue. But what were really in -it of importance were a certificate of his mother's marriage, another -of his own birth, and a letter, years old, from her to him. They told -me all, and, moreover they proved to me, as I then thought, that his -murderer lived in the very house and bore the very name that by right -seemed to be his.</p> - -<p class="normal">"They were the certificates he showed to them on the morning he -disclosed himself," Stuart said, "and he had not removed them from his -pocket-book when he was killed!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes! that he showed to <i>them</i>; you have said it! It was to <i>two</i> of -them that he showed those papers. And one was the friend of the other, -he lived with and upon him, he dares not meet me face to face, he -evades me! he, he is the murderer. He, Philip Smerdon!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart sprung to his feet.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Philip Smerdon!" he exclaimed. "No, no! it cannot be!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is, I say! It is he. Of all others, who but he could have done -this deed? Who but he who crept back to Occleve House having in his -pocket the keys whereby to enter it, who but he who shuns me because -it has been told him that I knew the assassin's face! And on the very -night that he is back in London, sleeping in that house, are not the -clothes that might have led to his identification removed?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Stuart paused a moment, deep in thought, and then he said: "It cannot -be! On the day before the murder, in the morning, he left London for -Occleve Chase. He must have been there when it was committed."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Bah!" Guffanta said, with a shrug of his shoulders, "he did not leave -London, he only made a pretence of doing so. All that day he, in his -disguise, must have been engaged in tracking my poor friend, and at -night he killed him." Then he paused a moment, and when he next spoke -he asked a question.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Where was he going when he left Occleve House this afternoon in the -cab, and with his luggage?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He was going to join his father, he said," Stuart answered. "His -father is ill and has been ordered abroad for his health, and, having -recovered some money from his ruined business, he is going on the -Continent, and Smerdon is going with him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And to what part of the Continent are they going?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not know, though he said something about the French coast, and -afterwards, the Tyrol. Why do you ask?</p> - -<p class="normal">"Why do I ask? Why? Because I must go also! I have to stand face to -face with him, and be able to convince myself that either I have made -some strange mistake, or that I am right."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And--if you are right?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Then I have to take him to the nearest prison, or, if he resists, to -kill him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You will do that?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I will do anything necessary to prevent him ever escaping me again."</p> - -<p class="normal">They talked on into the night, and Señor Guffanta extracted from the -other a promise that he would lend him any assistance in his power, -and that, above all, he would say nothing to Lord Penlyn that, by -being retold to Smerdon, should, if he were actually the murderer, -help him to still longer escape.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I promise you," Stuart said, "and the more willingly because I myself -would give him up to justice if I were sure he is the man. But that, -of course, I cannot be; it is you alone who can identify this cruel -murderer. But, in one thing I <i>am</i> sure you are wrong."</p> - -<p class="normal">"In what thing?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"In thinking that Lord Penlyn is in the slightest way an accomplice, -or suspects Smerdon at all. If he did so suspect him, I believe that -he would himself cause him to be arrested, even though they are such -friends."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What motive would Smerdon have to kill Walter except to remove him -from the other's path? Do you think he would have done it without -consulting Lord Penlyn?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am certain that if he did do it, as you think----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"As I am as convinced as that we are sitting here!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Well, then I am certain that Lord Penlyn knows nothing of it. He is -hasty and impetuous, but he is the soul of honour."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perhaps," Guffanta said; "it may be so. But it is not with him that I -have to deal. It is with the man who struck the blow. And it is him I -go to seek."</p> - -<p class="normal">"How will you find him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Through you. You will find out for me where he is gone with his -father--if this is not a lie invented to aid his further escape--and -you will let me know everything. Is it not so?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Stuart said; "I myself swore that I would find the murderer if -I could; but, as I cannot do that, I will endeavour to help you to do -so. How shall I communicate with you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Write, or come to the 'Hôtel Lepanto.' And when you once tell me -where that man is, there I shall soon be afterwards. Even though he -should go to the end of the world, I will follow him."</p> - -<p class="normal">Then Señor Guffanta went back to his hotel, and told Diaz Zarates that -he should soon be leaving his house.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have to make a little tour upon the Continent, and I may go at any -moment."</p> - -<p class="normal">"On a tour of pleasure, Señor?" the landlord asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No! on a voyage of importance!"</p> - -<p class="normal">And three days afterwards he went. A letter had come to him from -Stuart saying:</p> - -<p class="normal">"<i>S</i>. has really gone with his father. He has left London for Paris on -the way to Switzerland. They are to pass the summer at some mountain -resort, but the place is not yet decided on. At first they will be at -Berne. If you meet, for God's sake be careful, and make no mistake."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes!" Señor Guffanta muttered to himself as he packed his -portmanteau, and prepared to catch the night mail to Paris. "Yes, I -will be careful, very careful! And I will make no mistake!"</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XIX.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">The summer began to wane, and as August drew to a close the world of -London at large forgot the murder of Walter Cundall.</p> - -<p class="normal">It forgot it because it had so many other things to think about, -because it had its garden parties and fêtes, and Henley and Goodwood; -and because, after that, the exodus set in, and the Continent, -Scotland, and Cowes, as well as all the other seaside resorts, claimed -its attention. It is true one incident had come to light which had -given a fillip to the dying curiosity of the world and society, but -even that had scarcely tended to rouse fresh interest in the crime. -This incident was the discovery that Lord Penlyn was the heir to all -of the dead man's vast wealth. The news had come out gradually through -different channels, and it had set people talking; but even then--at -this advanced state of the London season--it had scarcely aroused more -than a passing flutter of excitement. And society explained even this -fact to its own satisfaction--perhaps because it had, by now, found so -many other things of more immediate, and of fresher, interest. Cundall -had been, it said, a man of superbly generous impulses, one who seemed -to delight in doing acts of munificence that other men would never -dream of; what more natural a thing for him to do than to leave his -great wealth to the very man who had won the woman he had sought for -his wife? Was it not at once a splendid piece of magnanimity, a -glorious example of how one might heap coals of fire on those who -thwarted us--was it not a truly noble way of retaliating upon the -woman he loved, but who had no love for him? She would, through his -bequest to her husband that was to be, become enormously rich, but she -could never enjoy the vastness of those riches without remembering -whence they came; every incident in her life would serve to remind her -of him.</p> - -<p class="normal">So, instead of seeing any cause for suspicion in the will of Walter -Cundall, the world only saw in it a magnificently generous action, a -splendidly noble retaliation. For it never took the trouble to learn -the date of the will, but supposed that it had been made on the day -after he had discovered that Ida Raughton had promised herself to -another.</p> - -<p class="normal">To those more directly interested in the murder and in the discovery -of the assassin, the passing summer seemed to bring but little promise -of success. Lord Penlyn knew that Señor Guffanta had left London, but -beyond that he did not know what had become of him, nor whether it was -the business of Don Rodriguez, or pleasure, or the search for the -murderer that had taken him away. Stuart, who still believed him -innocent of the slightest participation or knowledge of the crime, yet -did not feel inclined to give him the least information as to the -Señor's movements, fearing that, if Smerdon was the man--of which, as -yet, he by no means felt positive--he might learn that he was being -pursued; and so contented himself with saying as little as possible. -As to Dobson, he had now come to the conclusion that the "Signor," as -he always called him, was an arrant humbug, and really knew no more -about the murder than he did himself. And as the detective had already -received a handsome sum of money from Lord Penlyn for his services, -such as they were, and as he had at the present moment what he called -"one or two other good little jobs on," he gradually devoted himself -to these matters, and the murder of Mr. Cundall ceased to entirely -occupy his efforts. Though, as he was a man who did his duty to the -best of his ability, he still kept one of his subordinates looking -about and making inquiries in various places where he thought -information might be obtained. But the information, as he confessed, -was very long in coming.</p> - -<p class="normal">From Señor Guffanta Stuart had heard more than once during his -absence, which had now extended to three weeks, but the letters he -received contained nothing but accounts of his failure to come upon -the suspected man. In Paris, the Señor wrote, he had been absolutely -unable to find any person of the name of Smerdon, though he had tried -everything in his power to do so. He had pored daily over <i>Galignani</i> -and other papers that contained the lists of strangers who arrived in -the French capital, he had personally inspected the visitors' books in -every hotel likely to be patronised by English people of good social -position; but all to no effect. Then, determined, if his man was -there, not to miss him, he had applied to the particular <i>bureau</i> of -police at the Préfecture, where are kept, according to French law, the -lists furnished weekly by every hotel-keeper and lodging-house keeper -of their guests and tenants, both old and new; and these, being shown -him, he had carefully searched, and still he had failed. He was -induced to think, he wrote Stuart, that Smerdon, either alone or with -his family (if he really had them with him) must have changed his -route, or his destination, at the last moment. Or, perhaps they had -travelled by Brussels and the Rhine to Switzerland, or passed through -Paris from one station to the other without stopping, or they might -have gone by the way of Rheims and Delle from Calais to Basle. Could -Mr. Stuart, he asked, obtain any further information from Lord Penlyn -as to the whereabouts of the man whose face he wished to see, for if -he could not, he did not know where to look for him.</p> - -<p class="normal">In answer to this, Stuart wrote back that no letter had come from -Smerdon since the day he left Occleve House, the day on which the -Señor had seen the murderer in the cab, but that he had little doubt -that the former was now in Switzerland. "Why," he wrote, "since you -are determined to make yourself sure about Smerdon's identity with the -man you saw kill our friend, do you not go on into Switzerland? There -you could have but little difficulty in finding him, for printed lists -of the visitors to almost every resort, small or large, are published -daily or weekly. Any bookseller would procure you the <i>Fremdenblatts</i> -and <i>Listes des Étrangers</i>, and if you could only find his name at one -spot, you would be sure to catch him up at last. When a traveller -leaves an hotel in Switzerland, the train, or boat, or diligence is a -sure indication of what district he is changing to, and any -intelligent porter or servant will in all probability be able to -remember any person you can describe fairly accurately."</p> - -<p class="normal">To this a letter came back from Guffanta, saying that he acknowledged -the reason of Mr. Stuart's remarks, and that he would waste no more -time in Paris but would at once set out for Switzerland. "Only," he -wrote, in his usual grave and studied style, "you must pardon me for -what I am now going to say, and for what I am going to ask. It is for -money. I have exhausted my store, which was not great when I arrived -in England, and which has only been increased by a small draft on Don -Rodriguez's London banker. I have enough to take me to Switzerland I -find, but not enough to carry me into the heart of the country. Will -you please send me some to the Poste Restante, at Basle? I will repay -it some day, and be sure that I shall eventually gain the object we -both desire in our hearts."</p> - -<p class="normal">For answer to this, Stuart put a fifty-pound note in a registered -letter, and forwarded it to the address Guffanta had given him. Then, -when it had been acknowledged by the latter, he heard no more from him -for some time.</p> - -<p class="normal">During this period Lord Penlyn had been absent from town. He had -received from Sir Paul Raughton, at the time when the Señor was about -to leave London, a letter telling him that Ida was much better, and -that he thought that Penlyn might see her if he went down to Belmont. -Sir Paul had faithfully delivered the message given him, and to Ida -this, he said, had been the best medicine. At first she would scarcely -believe it possible that her lover would ever again see her or speak -of love to her; but, when she learnt that not only was he anxious to -do this, but that it was he himself whom he considered in the wrong, -and that, instead of extending his pardon to her, he was anxious to -sue for hers, the colour came back to her cheek and the smile to her -eyes and lips.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, papa!" she said, as she sat up one day in her boudoir and nestled -close to him, "oh, papa, how could I ever think so ill of him, of him -who is everything that is good and noble? How wicked I have been! How -wicked and unjust!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Of course!" Sir Paul exclaimed, "that is just the kind of thing a -woman always does say. She quarrels with the man she loves, and then, -just because he wants to make up the quarrel as much as she does, she -thinks she has been in the wrong. And after all, mind you, Ida, -although I don't believe that Penlyn had any more to do with the -murder than I had----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"No, papa!" speaking firmly.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Still he does not come out of the affair with flying colours. He -never moved hand nor foot to find out who really had done it, and he -kept the secret of poor Cundall being his brother from me. He oughtn't -to have done that!"</p> - -<p class="normal">Sir Paul did feel himself aggrieved at this. He thought that, as Ida's -father, he should have been told everything bearing upon the -connection between the two men, and he considered that there had been -some intention to deceive him on the part of Penlyn. In his joy at the -prospect of his daughter's renewed happiness he was very willing to -forgive Penlyn, but still he could not help mentioning his errors, as -he considered them.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Remember the letter from his brother, papa! It contained his solemn -injunctions--rendered doubly solemn by the awful fate that overtook -him on the very night he wrote them! How could he confide the secret -to any one after that?"</p> - -<p class="normal">Her father made no answer to this question, not knowing what to say. -After all, he acknowledged that had he been made the custodian of such -a secret, had he had such solemn injunctions laid on him as Cundall -had laid on his brother, he would have tried to keep them equally -well. Honestly, he could not tell himself that Penlyn should have -broken the solemn command imposed upon him; the command issued by a -man who, as he gave it, was standing at the gate of the grave.</p> - -<p class="normal">So, when Penlyn paid his next visit to Belmont, there was a very -different meeting between him and its inmates from the meetings that -had gone before. Sir Paul took him by the hand, and told him that he -was sincerely happy in knowing that once more he and Ida were -thoroughly united, and then he went into her. Not a moment elapsed -before she was folded to his heart and he had kissed her again and -again, not a moment before she was beseeching him to forgive her for -the injurious thoughts and suspicions she had let come into her mind.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Hush, Ida hush, my darling!" he said, as he tried to soothe her; "it -is not you who should ask for forgiveness, but I. Not because I kept -my brother's secret from you, but because of the brutal way in which I -cast you off, simply for your doubting me for one moment. Oh, Ida, my -own, say that you forgive me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have nothing to forgive," she said; "the fault was mine. I should -never have doubted you."</p> - -<p class="normal">And so once more they were united, united never more to part. And -since everything was now known to Ida, her future husband was able to -talk freely to her, to tell her other things that had transpired of -late, and especially of, what seemed to him, the strange behaviour of -the Señor, and the accusation he had brought against him of shielding -the murderer in his house.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Oh, Gervase!" Ida exclaimed, "why is it that every one should be -so unjust to you? Was it not enough that I should have suspected -you--though only for a moment in my grief and delirium--without this -man doing so in another manner. It is monstrous, monstrous!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Your suspicions," he answered, "were natural enough. You had had your -mind disturbed by that strange dream, and, when you heard of my -relationship to Cundall, it was natural that your thoughts should take -the turn they did. But I cannot understand Guffanta, nor what he -means."</p> - -<p class="normal">He had recognised many times during the estrangement between him and -Ida that her temporary suspicion of him was natural enough, and -that--being no heroine of romance, but only a straightforward English -girl, with a strange delusion as to having seen the assassin in her -dream--it was not strange she should have doubted him; but for -Guffanta's accusation he could find no reason. Over and over again he -had asked himself whom it could be that he suspected? and again and -again he had failed to find an answer. On that fatal night there had -been no one sleeping in Occleve House but the servants, no one who -could have gained admission to it; yet the Señor had charged him with -sheltering the man who had done the deed, both on that night and -afterwards.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Can he not be made to speak out openly?" Ida asked. "Can he not be -made to say who the person was whose face he saw? Why do you not force -him to do so?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have seen nothing of him since the night he accused me of -protecting the murderer, and he has left the hotel he was staying at."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Where is he gone?" Ida asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No one seems to know, though Stuart says he fancies he is still -looking for the murderer. I pray God he may find him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And I too!" Ida said.</p> - -<p class="normal">After this meeting, Penlyn acceded to the request of Sir Paul and his -future wife that he should stay at Belmont for some time, and he took -up his abode there with them. His valet came down from town, bringing -with him all things necessary for a stay in the country, and then Ida -passed happier days in the society of her lover than she had ever yet -enjoyed. They spent their mornings together sitting under the firs -upon the lawn, they drove together--for she was still too weak to ride -in the afternoons; and in the evenings Sir Paul would join them. Their -marriage had been postponed for two months in consequence of Ida's ill -health, but they knew that by the end of October they would be happy, -and so they bore the delay without repining. One thing alone chastened -their happiness--the memory of the dead man, and the knowledge that -his murderer had not been brought to justice.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I swore upon his grave to avenge him," Penlyn said, "and I have done -nothing, can do nothing. If any one ever avenges him it will be Señor -Guffanta, and I sometimes doubt if he will be able to do so. It seems -a poor termination to the vows I took."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Perhaps it is but a natural one," Ida answered. "It is only in -romances, and in some few cases of real life, that a murder planned as -this one must have been is punished. Yet, so long as we live, we will -pray that some day his wicked assassin may be discovered."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do you still think," Penlyn asked, "that the figure which you saw in -your dream was known to you in actual life? Do you think that if the -murderer is ever found you will remember that you have known him?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It was a dream," she answered, "only a dream! Yet it made a strange -impression on me. You know that I also said that, if once I could -remember to what man in actual life that figure bore a resemblance, I -would have his every action of the past and present closely -scrutinised; yet I, too, can do nothing. Even though I could identify -some living person with that figure, what could I, a woman, do?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Nothing, darling," her lover answered her, "we can neither of us do -anything. If Guffanta cannot find him, we must be content to leave his -punishment to heaven."</p> - -<p class="normal">So, gradually, they came to think that never in this world would -Walter Cundall's death be avenged, and gradually their thoughts turned -to other things, to the happy life that seemed before them, and to the -way in which that life should be spent. Under the fir trees they would -sit and plan how the vast fortune that the dead man had left should -best be laid out, how an almshouse bearing his name should be erected -at Occleve Chase, and how a large charity, also in his name, should be -endowed in London. And even then, they knew that but a drop of his -wealth would be spent; it would necessitate unceasing thought upon -their part to gradually get it all distributed in a manner that should -do good to others.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He was the essence of charity and generosity," Penlyn said, "it shall -be by a charitable and generous disposal of his wealth that we will -honour his memory."</p> - -<p class="normal">They were seated on their usual bench one evening, still making their -plans, when they saw one of Sir Paul's footmen coming towards them and -bringing the usual batch of papers and letters. It was the time at -which the post generally came in, and they had made a habit of having -their correspondence brought to them there, and of passing the -half-hour before dinner in reading their letters. The man handed -several to Lord Penlyn and one to Ida, and they began to peruse them. -Those to Penlyn were ordinary ones and did not take long in the -reading, and he was about to turn round and ask Ida if hers were of -any importance, when he was startled by a sound from her lips,--a -sound that was half a gasp and half a moan. As he looked at her, he -saw that she had sunk back against the wooden rail of the garden seat, -and that she was deathly pale. The letter she had received, and the -envelope bearing the green stamp of Switzerland, had fallen at her -feet.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ida! my dearest! what is it?" he exclaimed, as he bent towards her -and placed his arm round her. "Ida! have you had bad news, have -you----?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"The dream," she moaned, "the dream! Oh, God!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"What dream?" he said, while a sweat of horror, of undefined, unknown -horror broke out upon his forehead. "What dream?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"The letter! Read the letter!" she answered, while in her eyes was a -look he had once seen before--the far-away look that had been there -when he first spoke to her of his brother's murder.</p> - -<p class="normal">He stooped and picked up the letter--picked it up and read it -hurriedly; and then he, too, let it fall again and leaned back against -the seat.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Philip Smerdon my brother's murderer!" he exclaimed. "Philip Smerdon, -my friend, an assassin! The self-accused, the self-avowed murderer of -Walter Cundall! Ida," he said, turning to her, "is <i>his</i> the figure in -your dream?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," she wailed. "Yes! I recognise it now."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XX.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">The Schwarzweiss Pass, leading from the south-east of Switzerland to -Italy, is one well known to mountaineers, because of the rapid manner -in which they can cross from one country to another, and also because -of the magnificent views that it presents to the traveller. Moreover, -it offers to them a choice either of making a passage over the -snow-clad mountains that rise above it, and across the great -Schwarzweiss glacier, or of keeping to the path that, while rising to -the height at some places of 10,000 feet, is, except at the summit, -perfectly passable in good weather. It is true that he who, even while -on the path, should turn giddy, or walk carelessly, would risk his -life, for though above him only are the vast white "horns" and "Piz," -below him there are still the ravines through which run the boiling -torrents known respectively as the "Schwarz" and the "Weiss" -rivers--rivers that carry with them huge boulder stones and pine-trees -wrenched from their roots; dry slopes that fall hundreds of feet down -into the valley below; and also the Klein (or little) Schwarzweiss -glacier, a name so given it, not because of its smallness--for it is -two miles long, and in one place, half-a-mile across--but to -distinguish it from the Gross-Schwarzweiss glacier that hangs above on -the other side of the pass.</p> - -<p class="normal">It is a lonely and grim road, a road in which no bird is heard or seen -from the time that the village of St. Christoph is left behind on the -Swiss side until the village of Santa Madre is reached on the Italian -side; a road that winds at first, and at last, through fir-woods and -pine-trees, but that in the middle is nothing but a path, cut in some -parts and blasted in others, along the granite sides of the rocks, and -hanging in many places above the valley far below. Patches of snow and -pieces of rock that have fallen from above, alone relieve the view on -the side of the path; on the opposite side of the ravine is nothing -but a huge wall of granite that holds no snow, so slippery is it; but -above which hangs, white and gray, like the face of a corpse, the -glacier from which the pass derives its name.</p> - -<p class="normal">A lonely and grim road even in the daytime, when a few rays of -sunshine manage to penetrate it at midday, when occasionally a party -of tourists may be met with, and when sometimes the voice of a -goatherd calling his flocks rises from the valley below; but lonelier -and more grim, and more black and impenetrable at night, and rarely or -ever then trod by human foot. For he who should attempt the passage of -the Schwarzweiss Pass at night, unless there were a brilliant moon to -light him through its most dangerous parts, would take his life in his -own hands.</p> - -<p class="normal">Yet, on an August night of the year in which this tale is told, and -when there was a moon that, being near its full, consequently rose -late and shone till nearly daylight, a man was making his way across -this pass to Italy.</p> - -<p class="normal">Midnight was close at hand as, with weary steps, he descended a -rough-hewn path in the rock--a path which, for safety, had a rude -handrail of iron attached to the side from which it was cut--and -reached a small plateau, the size, perhaps, of an ordinary room, and -from which again the path went on. From this plateau shelved down, for -a hundred feet or more, an almost perpendicular moraine, or glacier -bed, and at the foot of this lay the Klein-Schwarzweiss, with its -crevasses glistening in the moonlight; for the moon had topped even -the great mountains above by now, and lighted up the pass. It was -evidently considered a dangerous part of the route, since between the -edge of the plateau and the side of the moraine a wooden railing had -been erected, consisting of two short upright posts and a long cross -one. As the man reached this plateau, holding to the rail with one -hand, while with the other he used his alpenstock as a walking-stick, -he perceived a stone--it may have been placed there for the -purpose--large enough for a seat; and taking off his knapsack wearily, -he sat down upon it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Time presses," he muttered to himself, "yet I must rest. Otherwise I -shall not be at Santa Madre by eight o'clock to-morrow. I can go no -farther without a rest."</p> - -<p class="normal">There is an indefinite feeling of awfulness in being alone at night -amongst the mountains, in knowing and feeling that for miles around -there is no other creature in these vast, cold solitudes but -ourselves: and this man had that feeling now.</p> - -<p class="normal">"How still--how awful this pass is!" he said to himself, "with no -sound but the creaking of that glacier below--with no human being here -but me. Yet, I should be glad I am alone."</p> - -<p class="normal">At this moment a few stones in the moraine slipped and fell into the -glacier, and the man started at the distinct sound they made in that -wilderness of silence. Then, as he sat there gazing up at the moon and -the snow above him, he continued his meditations.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is best," he thought, "that the poor old mother did not know when -I said 'good-bye' to her this afternoon, and she bade me come back -soon, that I should never come back, that I had a farther destination -than Italy before me; best that my father did not know that we should -never meet again. Never! never! Ah, God! it is a long word."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yet it must be done," he went on. "If I want to drag this miserable -life out, I must do it elsewhere than in England. That sleuth-hound -will surely find me there; it is possible that he will even track me -to the antipodes. Yet, if I were sure that he is lying about--having -seen my face before, I would go back and brave him. Where did he ever -see it?--where?--where? To my knowledge I have never seen him."</p> - -<p class="normal">He rose and walked to the railing above the moraine, and looked down -at the glacier, and listened to the cracking made by the seracs. "I -might make an end of it now," he thought. "If I threw myself down -there, it would be looked upon as an ordinary Alpine accident. But, -no! that is the coward's resource. I have blasted my life for ever by -one foul deed; let me endure it as a reparation for my crime. But what -is my future to be? Am I to live a miserable existence for years in -some distant country, frightened at every strange face, dreading to -read every newspaper that reaches me for fear that I shall see myself -denounced in it, and never knowing a moment's peace or tranquillity? -Ah, Gervase! I wonder what you would say if you knew that, for your -sake, I have sacrificed every hope of happiness in this world and all -my chances of salvation in the next." He went back to the big stone -after uttering these thoughts and sat down wearily upon it. "If I -could know that that Spaniard was baffled at last and had lost all -track of me, I could make my arrangements more calmly for leaving -Europe, might even look forward to returning to England some day, and -spending my life there while expiating my crime. But, while I know -nothing, I must go on and on till at last I reach some place where I -may feel safe."</p> - -<p class="normal">He looked at his watch as he spoke to himself, and saw that the night -was passing. "Another five minutes' rest," he said, "and I will start -again across the pass."</p> - -<p class="normal">As he sat there, taking those last five minutes of rest, it seemed to -him that there was some other slight sound breaking the stillness of -the night, something else besides the occasional cracking noise made -by the glacier below and the subdued roar of the torrents in the -valley. A light, regular sound, that nowhere else but in a solitude -like this would, perhaps, be heard, but that here was perfectly -distinct. It came nearer and nearer, and once, as it approached, some -small stones were dislodged and rattled down from above, and fell with -a plunge on to the glacier below: and then, as it came closer, he knew -that it was made by the footsteps of a man. And, looking up, he saw a -human figure descending the path to the plateau by which he had come, -and standing out clearly defined against the moonlight.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is some guide going home," he said to himself, "or starting out -upon an early ascent. How firmly he descends the path."</p> - -<p class="normal">The man advanced, and he watched him curiously, noticing the easy way -in which he came down the rough-hewn steps, scarcely touching the -handrail or using the heavy-pointed stick he carried in place of the -usual alpenstock. And he noticed that, besides his knapsack, he -carried the heavy coil of rope that guides use in their ascents.</p> - -<p class="normal">At last the new comer reached the plateau, and, as he took the last -two or three steps that led on to it, he saw that there was another -man upon it, and stopped. Stopped to gaze for one moment at the -previous occupant, and then to advance towards him and to stand -towering above him as he sat upon the boulder-stone.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You are Philip Smerdon," he said in a voice that sounded deep and -hollow in the other's ear.</p> - -<p class="normal">Utterly astonished, and with another feeling that was not all -astonishment, Smerdon rose and stood before him and said:</p> - -<p class="normal">"I do not know of what importance my name can be to you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Your name is of no importance, but you are of the greatest to me. -When I tell you <i>my</i> name you will understand why. It is Miguel -Guffanta."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Guffanta!" Smerdon exclaimed, "Guffanta!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes! the friend of Walter Cundall."</p> - -<p class="normal">"What do you want with me?" the other asked, but as he asked he knew -the answer that would come from the man before him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"But one thing now, though ten minutes ago I wanted more. I wanted to -see, then, if the man whom I sought for in London and at Occleve -Chase, whom I have followed from place to place till I have found him -here, was the same man I saw stab my friend to death in----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"You saw it?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I saw it. And you are the man who did it!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is false!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is true! Do you dare to tell me I lie, you, a---- Bah! Why should -I cross words with a murderer--a thief!"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I am no thief!" Smerdon said, his anger rising at this opprobrious -term, even as he felt his guilt proclaimed.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You are! You stole his watch and money because you thought to make -his murder appear a common one. And so it was! You slew him because -you feared he would dispossess your master of what he unrighteously -held, because you thought that you would lose your place."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Again I say it is false! I had no thought of self! I killed him--yes, -I!--because I loved my friend, my master as you term him, because he -threatened to come between him and the woman he loved. Had I known of -Walter Cundall's noble nature, as I knew of it afterwards, no power on -earth could have induced me to do such a deed."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is infamy for such as you to speak of his nobility--but enough! -Are you armed to-night, as you were on that night?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have no arms about me. Why do you ask?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"To tell you that no arms can avail you now. You must come with me."</p> - -<p class="normal">"To where?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"To the village prison at St. Christoph. There I will leave you until -you can be taken to England."</p> - -<p class="normal">For the first time since he had seen the avenger of Walter Cundall -standing before him, Smerdon smiled bitterly.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Señor Guffanta," he said, "you are very big and strong--it may well -be stronger than I am. But you overrate your strength strangely if you -think that any power you possess can make me go with you. I am a -murderer--God help and pardon me! It is probable I shall be a double -one before this night is over."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You threaten me--you! You defy me!" Guffanta exclaimed, while his -dark eyes gleamed ominously.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes, I defy you! If my sin is to be punished, it shall not be by you, -at least. Here, in this lonely place where for miles no other human -creature is near, I defy you to do your worst. We are man to man; do -you think I fear you?"</p> - -<p class="normal">In a moment Guffanta had sprung at him, had seized him by the throat, -and with the other arm had encircled his body.</p> - -<p class="normal">"So be it," he hissed in Smerdon's ear, "it suits me better than a -prolonged punishment of your crime would do."</p> - -<p class="normal">For a moment they struggled locked together, and in that moment -Smerdon knew that he was doomed; that he was about to expiate his -crime. The long, sinewy hand of the Spaniard that was round his throat -was choking him; his own blows fell upon the other's body harmlessly. -And he was being dragged towards the edge of the moraine, already his -back was against the wooden railing that alone stood between the -plateau and destruction. He could, even at this moment, hear it -creaking with his weight; it would break in another instant!</p> - -<p class="normal">"Will you yield, assassin, villain?" Guffanta muttered.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Never! Do your worst."</p> - -<p class="normal">He felt one hand tighten round his throat more strongly, he felt the -other arm of the Spaniard driving him back; in that moment of supreme -agony he heard the breaking of the railing and felt it give under him, -and then Guffanta's hands had loosed him, and, striking the moraine -with his head, he fell down and down till he lay a senseless mass upon -the white bosom of the glacier.</p> - -<p class="normal">And Guffanta standing above, with his head bared to the stars and to -the waning moon, exclaimed, as he lifted his hand to the heavens, -"Walter, you are avenged."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">The day dawned upon the plateau; a few struggling rays of the sun -illuminated the great glacier above and turned its dead gray snow and -ice into a pure, warm white, while the mists rolled away from the high -mountains keeping watch above; and below on the smaller glacier, and -at the edge of a yawning crevasse, lay the body of Philip Smerdon.</p> - -<p class="normal">Two guides, proceeding over the pass to meet a party of mountain -climbers, reached the plateau at dawn, and sitting down upon the stone -to eat a piece of bread and take a draught of cold coffee, saw his -knapsack lying beside it.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What does it mean?" the one said to the other.</p> - -<p class="normal">"It means death," his companion replied, "the railing is broken! Some -one has fallen."</p> - -<p class="normal">Slowly and carefully, and each holding to one of the upright posts, -they peered over and down on to the glacier, and there they saw what -was lying below. A whispered word sufficed, a direction given by one -to the other, and these hardy mountaineers were descending the -moraine, digging their sticks deeply into the stones, and gradually -working their way skilfully to the glacier.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is he dead, Carl?" the one asked of his friend, who stooped over the -prostrate form and felt his heart.</p> - -<p class="normal">"No; he lives. Mein Gott! how has he ever fallen here without instant -death? But he must die! See, his bones are all broken!" and as he -spoke he lifted Smerdon's arm and touched one of his legs.</p> - -<p class="normal">"What shall we do with him?" the other asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"We must remove him. Even though he die on the way, it is better than -to leave him here. Let us take him to the house of Father Neümann. It -is but to the foot of the glacier."</p> - -<p class="normal">Very gently these men lifted him in their arms, though not so gently -but that they wrung a groan of agony from him as they did so, and bore -him down the glacier to where it entered the valley; and then, having -handed him to the priest, who lived in what was little better than a -hut, they left him.</p> - -<p class="normal">Late that afternoon the dying man opened his eyes, and looked round -the room in which he lay. At his bedside he saw a table with a Cross -laid upon it, and at the window of the room an aged priest sat reading -a Breviary. "Where am I?" he asked in English.</p> - -<p class="normal">The priest rose and came to the bed, and then spoke to him in German. -"My son," he said, "what want of yours can I supply?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"Tell me where I am," Smerdon answered in the same language, "and how -long I have to live."</p> - -<p class="normal">"You are in my house, the house of the <i>Curé</i> of Sastratz. For the -span of your life none can answer but God. But, my son, I should do -ill if I did not tell you that your hours are numbered. The doctor -from St. Christoph has seen you."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Give me paper and ink----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"My son, you cannot write, and----"</p> - -<p class="normal">"I <i>will</i> write," Smerdon said faintly, "even though I die in the -attempt."</p> - -<p class="normal">The <i>Curé</i> felt his right arm, which was not broken like the other, -and then he brought him paper and ink, and holding the former up on -his Breviary before the dying man, he put the pen in his hand. And -slowly and painfully, and with eyes that occasionally closed, Smerdon -wrote:</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">"I am dying at the house of the <i>Curé</i> of Sastratz, near the -Schwarzweiss Pass; from a fall. Tell Gervase that <i>I alone murdered -Walter Crandall</i>. If he will come to me and I am still alive, I will -tell him all.</p> -<p style="text-indent:50%">"<span class="sc">Philip Smerdon</span>."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">Then he put the letter in an envelope and addressed it to Ida -Raughton. And ere he once more lapsed into unconsciousness, he asked -the priest to write another for him to his mother, and to address it -to an hotel at Zurich.</p> - -<p class="normal">"They will be sent at once?" he asked faintly.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Surely, my son."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>CHAPTER XXI.</h4> -<br> - -<p class="normal">It was late on the evening of the fifth day after the letter had been -sent to Ida Raughton, that a mule, bearing upon its back Lord Penlyn -and escorted by a guide, stopped at the house of the <i>Curé</i> of -Sastratz; The young man had travelled from London as fast as the -expresses could carry him, and had come straight to the village lying -at the entrance of the Schwarzweiss Pass, to find that from there he -could only continue his journey on foot or by mule. He chose the -latter as the swiftest and easiest course--for he was very tired and -worn with travelling--and at last he arrived at his destination.</p> - -<p class="normal">When the first feeling of horror had been upon him on reading the -letter Smerdon had written, acknowledging that he was the murderer, he -had told Ida Raughton that he would not go to see him even on his -death-bed; that his revulsion of feeling would be such that he should -be only able to curse him for his crime. But she, with that gentleness -of heart that never failed her, pleaded so with him to have pity on -the man who, however deep his sin, had sinned alone for him, that she -induced him to go.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Remember," she said, "that even though he has done this awful deed, -he did it for your sake; it was not done to benefit himself. Bad and -wicked as it was, at least that can be pleaded for him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," her lover answered, "I see his reason now. He thought that -Walter had come between my happiness and me for ever, and in a moment -of pity for me he did the deed. How little he knew me, if he thought I -wished him dead!"</p> - -<p class="normal">But even as he spoke he remembered that he had once cursed his -brother, and had used the very words "I wish he were dead!" If it was -upon this hasty expression that Smerdon had acted, then he, too, was a -murderer.</p> - -<p class="normal">He left Belmont an hour after the letter had arrived, and so, -travelling as above described, stood outside Father Neümann's house on -the night of the fifth day. The priest answered the door himself, and -as he did so he put his finger upon his lip. "Are you the friend from -England that is expected?" he asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," Penlyn said, speaking low in answer to the sign for silence. -"He still lives?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"He lives; but his hours draw to a close. Had you not come now you -would not have found him alive."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Let me see him at once."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Come. His mother is with him."</p> - -<p class="normal">He followed the <i>Curé</i> into a room sparsely furnished, and of -unpolished pine-wood; a room on which there was no carpet and but -little furniture; and there he saw the dying form of Philip Smerdon. -Kneeling by the bedside, and praying while she sobbed bitterly, was a -lady whom Lord Penlyn knew to be Smerdon's mother. She rose at his -entrance, and brushed the tears from her eyes.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have come in time to see him die," she said, while her frame was -convulsed with sobs. "He has been expecting you. He said he could not -pass away until he had seen you."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn said some words of consolation to her, and then he asked:</p> - -<p class="normal">"Is he conscious?"</p> - -<p class="normal">The poor mother leant over the bed and spoke to him, and he opened his -eyes.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Your friend has come, Philip," she said.</p> - -<p class="normal">A light came into his eyes as he saw Penlyn standing before him, and -then in a hollow voice he asked her to leave them alone.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I have something to say to him," he said; "and the time is short."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes," he said when she was gone, and speaking faintly in answer to -Penlyn, who said he had come as quickly as possible; "yes, I know it. -I expected you. And now that you are here can you bring yourself to -say that you forgive me?"</p> - -<p class="normal">For one moment the other hesitated, then he said: "I forgive you. May -God do so likewise."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Ah! that is it--it is that that makes death terrible! But listen! I -must speak at once, I have but a short time more. This is my last -hour, I feel it, I know it."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Do not distress yourself with speaking. Do not think of it now."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Not think of it! When have I ever forgotten it! Come closer, listen. -I thought he had come between you and Miss Raughton for ever. I never -dreamed of the magnanimity he showed in that letter. Then I determined -to kill him--I thought I could do it without it being known. I did -not go to the 'Chase' on that morning, but, instead, tracked him from -one place to another, disguised in a suit of workman's clothes that I -had bought some time ago for a fancy dress ball. I thought he would -never leave his club that night; but at last he came out, and -then--then--God! I grow weaker!--I did it."</p> - -<p class="normal">Penlyn buried his head in his hands as he listened to this recital, -and once he made a sign as though begging Smerdon to stop, but he did -not heed him.</p> - -<p class="normal">"I had with me a dagger I bought at Tunis, a long, sharp knife of the -kind used by the Arabs, and I loosened it from its sheath as we -entered the Park, he walking a few steps ahead of me, and, evidently, -thinking deeply. Between the lamps I quickened my pace and passed him, -and then, turning round suddenly, I seized him by the coat and stabbed -him to the heart. It was but the work of a moment and he fell -instantly, exclaiming only as he did so, 'Murderer!' Then to give it -the appearance of a murder committed for theft, I stooped over him and -wrenched his watch away, and as I took it I saw that he was dead. The -watch is at Occleve Chase, in the lowest drawer of my writing-desk."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Tell me no more," Penlyn said, "tell me no more."</p> - -<p class="normal">"There is no more--only this, that I am glad to die. My life has been -a curse since that day, I am thankful it is at an end. Had Guffanta -not hurled me on to the glacier below, I think I must have taken it -with my own hands."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Guffanta!" Penlyn exclaimed, "is it he then who has done this?"</p> - -<p class="normal">"It is he! He followed me from England here--in some strange way he -was a witness to the murder--we met upon the pass and fought, he -taxing me with being a murderer and a thief, and--and--ah! this is the -end!"</p> - -<p class="normal">His eyes closed, and Penlyn saw that his last moment was at hand. He -called gently to Mrs. Smerdon, and she came in, and throwing herself -by the side of the bed, took his hand and kissed it as she wept. The -<i>Curé</i> entered at the same time and bent over him, and taking the -Crucifix from his side, held it up before his eyes. Once they were -fixed upon Penlyn with an imploring glance, and once they rested on -his mother, and then they closed for ever.</p> - -<p class="normal">"He is dead!" the priest said, "let us pray for the repose of his -soul."</p> -<br> -<br> -<p class="normal">It was a few days afterwards that Ida Raughton, when walking up and -down the paths at Belmont, heard the sound of carriage-wheels in the -road outside, and knew that her lover was coming back to her. He -had written from Switzerland saying that Smerdon was dead, and -that he should wait to see him buried in the churchyard of St. -Christoph--where many other English lay who had perished in the -mountains--and he had that morning telegraphed from Paris to tell her -that he was coming by the mail, and should be with her in the evening.</p> - -<p class="normal">She walked swiftly to the house to meet him, but before she could -reach it, he had come through the French windows of the morning-room, -and advanced towards her.</p> - -<p class="normal">"You have heard that he is dead, Ida?" he said, when he had kissed -her, "it only remains for me to tell you that he died penitent and -regretting his crime. It had weighed heavily upon him, and he was glad -to go."</p> - -<p class="normal">"And you forgave him, Gervase?" she asked.</p> - -<p class="normal">"Yes. I forgave him. I could not but remember--as I saw him stretched -there crushed and dying--that, though he had robbed me of a brother -whom I must have come to love, he had sinned for me. Yes, if -forgiveness belonged to me, I forgave him."</p> - -<p class="normal">"Until we meet that brother in another world, Gervase, we have nothing -but his memory to cherish. We must never forget his noble character."</p> - -<p class="normal">"It shall be my constant thought," Penlyn answered, "to shape my life -to what he would have wished it to be. And, Ida, so long as I live, -his memory shall be second only in my heart to your own sweet self. -Come, darling, it is growing late let us go in."</p> -<br> -<br> -<h4>THE END.</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h5>LONDON: J. AND R. MAXWELL, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, E.C.</h5> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<p class="center"><img src="images/rita.png" alt="Books by Rita"></p> -<br> -<p class="center"><img src="images/drewry.png" alt="Books by Drewrey"></p> - -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Silent Shore, by John Bloundelle-Burton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILENT SHORE *** - -***** This file should be named 52209-h.htm or 52209-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/2/0/52209/ - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the -Internet Archive (University of California Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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