It may be imagined with what amazement and growing horror Juliet listened to this avowal. That Julia, the girl with whom she had associated on terms of easy familiarity which had been near to becoming something like intimacy in the close contact and companionship of a country-house life, that this girl, an honoured guest in Lord Ashiel's house, should have gained her footing there for her own treacherous ends, or at the bidding of a band of political assassins! Juliet could scarcely believe her ears as she heard the calm, indifferent tone in which Julia spoke of the drawbacks to "getting rid" of Lord Ashiel, and of the contemplated "accident" which was to have befallen him. She would have fled from where she stood, if mingled fear and curiosity to hear more had not rooted her to the spot. Her alarm was tempered by the presence of Mark. If this girl should discover her hiding there and show signs of the violence that might be expected from such a character, Mark would be there to protect her. She could trust him to know how to deal with the Russian, whose true nature must now be apparent to him.

But Mark, to her astonishment, had not drawn away from Julia with the repugnance and disgust that were to be expected. Instead, he was looking at her, strangely, indeed, but almost eagerly.

"It was you, then, who moved the body! To think that I never guessed!" he murmured, half to himself. "If I had known, I might have spared myself the trouble to—" Then more loudly he reproached his companion.

"And you have never said a word to me! Oh, Julia, you didn't trust me." He shook his head at her mournfully.

"Trust you!" she retorted. "Did you trust me? But I would have trusted you," she added, gazing fondly into his eyes, "if I had dared risk the punishment that will surely be meted out to me if it is known I have done so. You don't know how rigid the rules of our society are. But you haven't told me yet if you have the list."

"Not I," he said. "I never heard of its existence. I suppose that anonymous letter that came addressed to Uncle Douglas after his death had something to do with that."

"Did a letter come from Paris? They sent them to him from time to time. It prevented his suspecting me. But you will give me the list if you find it, won't you? It means everything to me."

"Of course I will," he promised. "It is no earthly good to me, so far as I know. But you, when you were looking for it, did you, among all the papers you examined, ever come across such a thing as a will?"

"No, never," she replied. "Mrs. Clutsam told me it could not be found. You may be sure, if I had discovered one which did not leave you everything, I should have destroyed it."

"Dear little Julia!" Mark drew her to him and kissed her. "How sweet you are. There is no one like you!"

"Really? Do you really love me, Mark?"

"Darling, of course I do."

"Will you always? Are you quite, quite sure that I am the one girl in all the world for you, as you are the one man for me?"

"Darling, you are the only one in the world I have ever so much as looked at."

"Would you never, never forget me, or marry anyone else, no matter what happened?"

"Never," he assured her, "never."

She sighed contentedly.

"What should I do if you forgot me, Mark? I should die. But," she added in a different tone, "I think I should kill you first!"

Mark laughed a little uneasily.

"Hush, hush," he said, "you mustn't talk so much about killing. A minute ago you were talking of killing my poor old uncle. If I took you seriously what should I think? It is lucky I love you as I do, otherwise doesn't it occur to you that it might get you into trouble to talk in this wild way?"

"You can take me as seriously as you like," she answered gravely. "I am serious enough, God knows. But I shouldn't talk about it, even to you, if I didn't know it was safe. You see, I know you are like me."

"Like you? I'm dashed if I am! How do you mean? I am like you?"

She looked at him squarely, and nodded.

"Yes," she said, "you are like me. You would not hesitate to kill if you thought it necessary. You think just the same as me on that subject. Only you have gone farther than I have—yet."

"Julia," he cried, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that I know all about you, Mark," she replied gravely. "I know what you think you have kept secret from me. I know it was you who killed your uncle."

With a muffled cry Mark shook himself free, and sprang away from her.

"What are you saying?" he whispered hoarsely. "You are mad, girl! But I won't have such lies uttered, I won't have it, I tell you."

With terrified amazement Juliet saw his face change, become ugly, distorted. But Julia showed no sign of alarm.

"Why get so excited?" she asked calmly. "What does it matter? Do you imagine I would betray you? I, who would sell my soul for you! I know you did it. It is no use keeping up this pretence of innocence to me, who had more right to kill him than you. Why shouldn't you kill who you wish? But don't say you didn't do it. It is foolish. I saw you."

"It is a lie. You can't have seen me," Mark declared again, but with less assurance. "You were in the drawing-room all the time. Lady Ruth and Maisie Tarver both said so. The drawing-room doesn't even look out on the garden. There is no room that does, except the library, and you weren't there then, anyhow."

"I didn't see you fire the shot," said Julia, "but I saw you afterwards when you went to put back your rifle in the gun-room. I told you that after the first search in the grounds was over, and everyone had gone up to bed, I slipped out of the house by the door near the gunroom, and came round to the library to see if Lord Ashiel had carried the list on him. When I came back, I let myself in quietly by the door which I had left unbolted, and had just got half-way up the back stairs when I heard footsteps in the passage below, and crouched down behind the banisters. I saw you come along the passage, carrying an electric lantern in one hand and your rifle in the other. I saw you look round anxiously before opening the gun-room door and going in. When you had vanished, I hurried on up to my room, for it was not the time or place to tell you what I had seen, but I left a crack of my door open, and after rather a long while saw you pass along the passage to your own room; this time without your gun. I knew, of course, that you had been cleaning it and putting it away."

She spoke with the indifference with which one may refer to a regrettable but incontrovertible fact, and Mark seemed to feel it useless to deny what she said.

"You had no right to spy on me," he exclaimed angrily when she had done.

"Oh, Mark," she cried, dismayed, "I wasn't spying. It was the merest accident. And I think it's horrid of you to mind my knowing. Why didn't you tell me all about it before. I might have helped you, I'm sure."

But he would have none of her endearments, and threw off the hand she laid upon his arm with a rough gesture.

"Mark, oh, Mark," she wailed, "don't be angry with me! You know I can't bear it. I can bear anything but that. Don't, don't be angry with me."

She had but one thought; it was for him, and he who ran might read it shining in the depths of her great eyes. After a few minutes of sulking, Mark relented.

"No one could be angry with you for long, Julia," he declared.

Instantly she was once more all smiles.

"Don't ever be angry with me again," she urged, her hands in his. "And now that you have forgiven me, tell me all about it. What made you do such a dreadful thing, Mark? You must have had some good reason, I know. I never would doubt that."

"There's nothing much to tell," he said unwillingly. "I had a good reason, yes. I must have money. It is for your sake, darling, that I must get it. I can't marry you without it. I hadn't meant to kill him, if I could get it without. He was ill, and had left his fortune to me. I thought I should get it in time, by letting Nature take her course. It was that or ruin, and I really had to do it for your sake, darling. I didn't want to hurt the old boy. Why should I? It's not a pleasant thing to have to do. But I had no choice—there was no other way of getting enough money, and I simply had to get it. It was his life or mine. You don't understand. I can't explain. It just had to be done, and there's an end of it. Everything was going wrong. That girl, that Byrne girl, I imagined he was going to marry her. You know we all did. That would have spoilt everything. At first I thought she could be got out of the way, but she seemed to bear a charmed life."

"What?" cried Julia, "did you try to kill her too?"

"Why, if anyone had to be got rid of," he admitted defiantly, "it seemed better to go for a stranger, like her, than for my own uncle. Come, you must see that, surely! She was nothing to me, and, anyhow, my hand was forced. It's very hard that I should have been put in such a position. I'm the last person to do harm to a fly, but one must think of oneself."

Since it was no use denying the murder, he seemed to find some sort of satisfaction in telling Julia of his other crimes. And yet, though he tried hard to speak with an affectation of indifference, it was plain that he kept a watchful eye upon his listener, and was ready to fasten resentfully upon the first sign of horror, or even disapproval. For all his efforts, the tone of his disclosures was at once swaggering and suspicious; but he need have had no anxiety as to the spirit in which they would be received. It was clear that Julia brought to his judgment no remembrance of ordinary human standards of conduct. To her he was above such criticisms, as the Immortals might be supposed to be above the rules that applied to dwellers upon earth. What he did was right in her eyes, because he did it, and she admired his brutality, as she adored the rest of him, whole-heartedly, without reservation.

"I had a shot at her," he went on, "one day on the moor when she was with David; but I missed her. It was a rotten shot. I can't think how I came to do it. Then when she fell into the river—I saw her standing by it as I came home from stalking.... I had walked on ahead, and where the path runs along above the waterfall pool I happened to go to the edge and look over. There she was on a stone right at the edge, by the deepest part. It looked as if she'd been put there on purpose, and I should have been a fool to miss such a chance. It's no good going against fate. As a matter of fact I thought I'd got her sitting this time. I caught up the nearest piece of rock and dropped it down on her. That was a good shot, though I say it, but it hit her on the shoulder instead of the head as luck would have it, which was bad luck for me. However, in she went, and I thought all was well and lost no time in getting away from the place. If it hadn't been for that meddling fool Andy!... Well, then, at dinner, Uncle Douglas came out with the news that she was his daughter, not his intended, and everything looked worse than ever. Afterwards when she went to talk to him in the library, and passed through the billiard-room where I was knocking the balls about and feeling pretty savage, I can tell you, I happened, by a fluke, to ask her if she knew where David was. She said he'd gone into the garden.

"Then I saw my chance, and it seemed too good to miss. Why should I let my inheritance be stolen from me? I ran off to the gun-room for a gun. I meant to take David's rifle, but I found he hadn't cleaned it, so I left it alone and took mine, as the thing was really too important to risk using a strange gun unless it was absolutely necessary, and his is a little shorter in the stock than I like. I nipped back and let myself out of the passage door into the enclosed garden. It was a black night, though I knew my way blindfolded about there. But the curtains of the library were drawn, and I couldn't see between them without stepping on the flower bed. I knew too much to leave my footmarks all over them, but I had to get on to the bed to have a chance of getting a shot. So I got the long plank the gardeners use to avoid stepping on the flower beds when they're bedding out, from the tool-house behind the holly hedge where I knew it was kept, and put it down near the hedge. It is held up clear of the ground by two cross pieces of wood, one at each end, you know, so there would be no marks left to identify me by.

"When I walked to the end of the plank, I could see straight into the middle of the room; but they must have been sitting near the fire, for no one was in sight. I could see the writing bureau and the chair in front of it, and dimly in the back of the room I could make out the face of the clock, but that was all.

"Well, I stood there for what seemed a long while. You've no idea how cramping it is to stand on a narrow plank with no room to take a step forward or back, for long at a time. And I don't mind telling you I got a bit jumpy, waiting there. If anyone chanced to come along, what could I say by way of explanation? I couldn't think of anything the least likely to wash. And somehow, in the dark, one begins to imagine things. I saw David coming at me across the lawn every other minute. And it seemed so hideously likely that he should come. I knew he was somewhere out in the grounds. By Jove, if he had, he'd have got the bullet instead of Uncle Douglas! But he didn't come. Those beastly shadows and shapes and whisperings and rustlings that seemed to be all round me, hiding in the night, turned out to be nothing after all. But when I didn't fancy him at my elbow, I imagined he was in the gunroom, wondering where the dickens my rifle had got to.

"Oh, I had a happy half-hour among the roses, I tell you! A rifle is a heavy thing too. I leant it up against a rose-bush and tried to sit down on the plank, but it wouldn't do, and I saw I must bear it standing, or Uncle Douglas might cross in front of the slit between the curtains without my having time to get a shot. You must remember I'd been on the hill all day, so that I was very stiff to begin with. It got so bad that I began to think it was hardly worth the candle at last—and it's a wonder I didn't miss him clean—when, just as I was on the point of giving the whole thing up and going in again, he came suddenly into my field of vision, and actually sat down at the table.

"I took a careful aim and fired. I saw him fall forward, and then I jumped off the plank and hurled it back under the hedge before I ran for the house. I had left the door ajar, and I just stayed to close it, and then darted into the empty billiard-room and thrust my rifle under a sofa. It was a quick bit of work. I had counted on Juliet Byrne waiting a moment or two to see if she could do anything to help him before she roused the house, or it roused itself, and she was rather longer than I expected. I don't mind owning I got into a panic when minutes passed and no one appeared, and I began to think I must have missed the old boy altogether. I was within an ace of going to make certain, when the door opened and in she came. Oh well, you know all the rest. That silly old ass, David, was still mooning about in the garden, thinking of her, I suppose, which was very lucky for me."

Julia had listened with absorbed interest.

"I think it is wonderful," she said, "that you should have gone through all that for my sake. I shall always try to deserve it, my dear. Was it all, all for me, that you did it, truly?"

"Yes," Mark assured her, gruffly monosyllabic.

"But how was it," she asked caressingly, "that Sir David's footprints were found all over the rose-bed. What was he doing there?"

"That was an afterthought," Mark admitted. "It was a tophole idea. After every one had gone upstairs, I crept down and got my Mannlicher from where I had hidden it, and took it to the gun-room, where I cleaned it and put it in its usual place. It was lucky for me that David had left his weapon dirty. It was jolly unlike him to do it. I was thinking what a good thing it was, and how well things looked like turning out—for I thought I could manage the girl if she was able to prove that she really was a McConachan—and it struck me I ought to be able to contrive that the business should look a bit blacker against poor old David. Every one knew he'd had a row with Uncle Douglas about his beastly dog, and if I could only manufacture a little more evidence against him I knew I should be pretty safe, one way and another. I was going back to the garden to put by the gardener's plank, when I thought of using his boots. It didn't take long to find them among all the boots used that day by the household, which were ranged in a row in the place where they clean them in the back premises. His bootmakers' name was in them. I took them, and when I got to the garden door I put them on, and went out and trampled about among the roses till I was pretty sure that even the blindest country bobby couldn't fail to notice the tracks I'd left, though of course I couldn't see them myself in the dark. Then I got the plank out of the hedge and put it away where I'd found it. After that, I took the boots back, and went to bed; and very glad I was to get there. Now you've heard the whole story."

"How clever you are," murmured the girl. "There's no one like you," she said, "no one." Mark smiled rather fatuously. He evidently shared her opinion that his brains were something slightly out of the way. "And everything happened just as you'd planned," she went on admiringly. "They suspected Sir David from the first. I should have, myself, if I hadn't known it was you who had done it."

"Yes," said Mark, "they suspected him, the silly idiots! They might have known he hasn't the initiative to do a thing like that. And the girl can't prove her relationship to Uncle Douglas, just as I expected. I thought there might be some difficulty about that. But I wish I could find the will he made in her favour. I should feel safer then, for she told me he said he'd worded it so that she should get the money whether she was proved his daughter or not. And who knows what other mad clauses he may have put in it. Lately, for some reason I could never make out, I felt sure he had changed towards me. He let fall a hint one day that his legacies to me were conditional on my good behaviour. I don't feel easy about it at all. Some one must have been telling him things—poisoning his mind. But I've hunted high and low, and found nothing. I'm sick of looking over musty old bills."

"Oh, we shall find it between us now," said Julia hopefully. "I wish I had some idea where the list I want is, though," she added.

"There's that detective, too," pursued Mark. "That fellow Gimblet. I'm rather fed up with him. Not that he seems any use at his work, though he's supposed to be rather first-class at it, I believe."

"Gimblet! Is that who it is? Mrs. Clutsam told me a London detective was here, but I didn't know who it was. I have met him before, and found him very easy to manage. I don't think you need be afraid of anything he may do."

"I shall be glad when he's off the place, anyhow," said Mark.

"I shall be glad when the whole business is over and forgotten," Julia rejoined. "I wish we could be married at once, Mark darling. But why can't it be given out that we are engaged. I don't understand why we should keep it a secret now. I can't stand seeing so little of you as I have these last few days."

"Be patient, darling, wait just a little longer. There are reasons, as I have told you. I must get my financial affairs straight, for one thing, before I allow you to tie yourself to me. Suppose I turn out to be a beggar? I couldn't let you marry me then, you know."

"Mark!" Julia's voice was full of reproach. "You know perfectly well how little I care about your money. I would be only too glad to marry you if you hadn't a penny. But perhaps you mean that if you were poor you wouldn't want to burden yourself with a wife?"

"You know how I adore you, Julia. How can you suggest such a thing? I couldn't even dream of a life without you. You show how little you know me. But, believe me, it is wisest to wait a short time longer before we are publicly engaged. You must take my word for it, and not made me unhappy by imagining such cruel things. Come, let us look for this list of yours. What were you doing—searching among the books?"

"Yes," said she, rising, as he went towards a bookshelf, and following him. "I thought it might be hidden between the leaves of one of these old volumes. One reads of such things."

"I wonder," he said absently. "The will, too, may be here. Is there a Bible anywhere? I believe that's a favourite place of concealment. Then, when the heir is virtuous and reads his Bible, he gets the legacy, you know; while, if he isn't, he doesn't. A sort of poetic justice is meted out. If I find it in that way I shall take it as a sign that I am really the virtuous one and that Heaven absolves me from all blame."

He spoke mockingly, but Julia answered very seriously:

"Of course you ought to have it; and if I don't blame you, why should anyone else?"

"Well," he said after a pause, "at all events I mean to get it, whether or no, if I have to pull down every stone of the place. That reminds me," he added, "where is the secret entrance you use? Through this old clock? Who would have thought it?"

In a moment Juliet realized that she was going to be caught. She had been so absorbed in listening to the dreadful revelations that had been made during the last half-hour that not till now had she considered how dangerous was her position.

As he spoke, Mark threw open the door of the clock case. Too late, she turned to fly; he caught her by the arm and, with a stifled oath, dragged her into the room.

"How long have you been there?" he cried, and fell to swearing horribly; while Julia stood by, not speaking, but looking at Juliet with an expression which frightened her more than all his violence.



CHAPTER XX

It did not occur to Juliet to deny that she had overheard their talk. She had been found in the act of spying on them, and it was inconceivable that they should believe she had not done so. Besides, she was raging at the thought of what she had heard, and her anger gave her a courage she might otherwise have found it hard to maintain.

"I have been there all the time," she declared stoutly. "I heard all you said, you wicked, wicked man. A murderer! Oh, how horrible it all is!"

Julia laid a hand on Mark's arm.

"She will tell what she knows," she said, trembling.

"She shall not," Mark stammered furiously. He seemed to be half suffocating with rage. "She shall not go unless she swears to say nothing. Swear it, I say!"

He seized Juliet by the shoulder and shook her violently to emphasize his words.

"I won't swear anything of the kind," she retorted, trying to break from his grasp. "Do you suppose you can kill me, too, without being found out? There is a detective here now, and Sir David Southern is not at hand to lay the blame on. You coward! How dare you touch me!"

The truth of her words seemed to strike home to Mark, for he left go of her suddenly, and stood, biting his nails and scowling, the picture of irresolution and malignance.

Juliet lost no time in following up any advantage she might have gained.

"I can't help knowing that you care for him," she said, addressing herself to Julia, "though I wouldn't have listened to that part if I could have helped it. But how can you? How can you? I can't understand how you can feel as you do about killing people, but at least if you did such a thing you would imagine it was for the good of your country, while this man thinks of nothing but his own selfish ends. Money, that is all he wants! How can you condone such a crime as his? To kill Lord Ashiel, that good, kind man who had treated him like a son all his life, who did everything for him. And just for the sake of money! It's not even as if he wanted it really. He's not starving. He had everything, in reason, that he wanted. If he needed more, urgently, I believe he had only to tell his uncle, and it would have been given to him. Oh, it is beyond all words! He must be a fiend."

Indignation choked her. She spoke in bursts of trembling anger, her words sounding tamely in her own ears. All she could say seemed commonplace and inadequate beside the knowledge that this man was her father's murderer.

Even Julia, indifferent to every aspect of the case that did not touch upon her relations with her lover, was shaken by the scornful disgust with which the broken sentences were poured forth; and, if her infatuation for Mark was too complete to allow her to consider any action of his unjustifiable, still she realized, perhaps for the first time, the feelings with which other people would view the thing that he had done.

"You don't understand him," she faltered. "He didn't want money for himself alone. It was for me he did it. He was too proud to ask me to marry a poor man. You could never understand his love for me. How can I blame him? How many men would run such risks for the girl they loved? I am proud, yes proud, to be loved like that!"

"You believe his lies," Juliet cried contemptuously. "You believe he loves you so much? Why it is not two days since he came to me and asked me to marry him."

"What!" Julia spoke in a panting whisper. Her face had suddenly lost every particle of colour. "Say it's not true," she begged, turning miserably to the man.

He made an effort to deny the charge.

"Of course. Not a word of truth in it. Damned nonsense," he blustered.

But his eyes fell before Juliet's scornful gaze, and Julia was not deceived.

"It can't be true, oh, it can't," she moaned. "No man could be so vile."

"No other man could," Juliet amended. In spite of herself she was sorry for the girl, whose stricken face showed plainly the anguish she was undergoing. "Forget him, Julia; he is not worthy to tie your shoe-lace. He came to me after they had taken David away, and asked me first if I would take his inheritance even though I couldn't prove my birth, which he must have known perfectly that I should never dream of doing, and then proposed I should marry him, saying that he was very fond of me, and that in that way justice would be done as regards Lord Ashiel's money, however things turned out for me. I thought it honourable and generous at the time, and so did Lady Ruth when I told her—oh yes, she knows about it and can tell you it is true—but now I see that all he wanted was to be on the safe side, and, if I had accepted him and had turned out to have no claim upon his uncle's fortune, he would have broken the engagement on some easy pretext. Can you deny it?" she demanded of Mark.

But he could not face her, though he made an effort again to brazen it out.

Every word she had spoken seemed to strike Julia like a blow. She shrank quivering away, and threw herself down on to a chair, her face hidden in her hands. Juliet went to her and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Don't think of him any more," she said. "Presently you will hate yourself for having cared for a murderer. Just now, I know, your love for him makes you gloss over his crimes, but when you are yourself you will see how odious they are. Poor Julia, I hate to hurt you so, but it is better, isn't it, that you should know? You will forget this madness. He is not worth your wasting another thought on. Think how shamefully he has deceived you. Think of all his lying words, of how he told you he had never looked at another woman."

Julia raised her head and showed a face, white as chalk, in which the great brown eyes seemed to burn like fires of hatred.

"Yes," she said in a hard, even voice. "I am thinking of it. I shall not forget him. No. Instead, I shall think of him day and night, be sure of that. I shall laugh as I think of him; laugh at the thought of him in his place in the dock, or in his prison cell. I shall laugh when I give my evidence against him, and most of all I shall laugh on the day when he is hanged. If his grave is to be found, I shall dance upon it. Oh, it will be a merry day for me, that day when the cord is tightened round his false neck!"

She went near to Mark, and hissed the last words into his face, leaning forward, with one hand on her own throat. But he seemed to shrink less before her vindictive passion than he had under the colder scorn of Juliet's denunciations.

"Come, Juliet," said Julia, calming herself a little, although hate was still blazing in her eyes, "let us leave this place. We must send for the police."

"Julia," said Mark, stepping forward, and speaking with some of his former assurance, "you condemn me unheard. Why should you believe this girl before me? It is not like you, Julia. It is not like the girl I love. For I do love you, darling, in spite of what you may think; and, till a few moments ago, I thought you loved me too. But I see now what your love is. One whiff of suspicion, one word of accusation, and without proof or evidence you condemn me, and your so-called affection disappears. Julia, I think you have broken my heart."

Juliet gave vent to a derisive sound which can only be called a snort; but it was plain that his words, and more especially the manner of sad yet tender reproach in which they were uttered, were not without their effect on the other girl. Her eyes wavered uneasily; she twisted and tore at her handkerchief.

"I have heard what you have to say," she murmured. "I saw that you could not deny what Juliet told me."

"I did deny it. But what is the use of talking to you when you are in such a state? You are determined beforehand to disbelieve me. And I have no wish to justify myself to Miss Byrne, though I am willing to swallow my pride and do so to you."

"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "justify yourself if you can. No one shall say I would not listen. God knows I shall be glad enough if you can clear yourself."

"To begin with," said Mark, "I admit that, superficially, there is truth in what you have heard. But only superficially, for the person I deceived was not yourself but this young lady. I certainly, as she suggests, never had the slightest intention of marrying her. For one thing I was absolutely certain she would refuse me, but it seemed a good precautionary move to make what might appear a generous proposal, and at the same time get a sort of mandate from the possible heiress herself to stick to my uncle's fortune. You may be sure I should never have given it up, in any case, but it is as well to keep up appearances. The business was only a move in the game I am playing, and no more affects the sincerity of my love for you than any of the social equivocations we all find necessary from time to time. I love you, Julia, and you alone. How can you doubt it? I love you so much that I am willing to overlook your want of confidence in me, and to forgive the cruel things you said just now. Darling, how can I tell you, before a third person, what I feel for you? You are everything to me; and, if you no longer love me, I don't care what happens. Give me up to the police if you like. The gallows is as good a place as another, without your love."

Long before he had finished, all traces of resentment had vanished. When he ceased speaking, she gave in completely, and threw herself upon his breast, sobbing passionately, and begging his forgiveness for having doubted him for an instant, while he soothed and comforted her in a low tone. Juliet did not know what to do or which way to look. The two stood between her and the door, and she felt an absurd awkwardness about trying to pass them. Was it likely she would be allowed to go out free to denounce them? She was afraid of trying.

At last Julia was calm again, and there came a silence, during which the pair glanced at Juliet and then at each other.

"What's to be done?" Julia asked at length, and then suddenly, without waiting for an answer, "I have an idea, Mark, that will save you. If her mouth can be stopped for a time, will you be able to get clear away?"

"I shall have to try, I suppose," he replied, with a trace of his former sulkiness. "To think that everything should miscarry because of a slip of a girl!"

"You had better go to Glasgow and get on board some ship there which will take you to a place of safety. I shall have to stay behind till the matter of the list is settled one way or the other. But then, when I have reported to my superiors, I can join you, and we can begin life together in some far-off country. I shall be as happy in one place as in another with you, Mark; are you sure you will be, too, with only me?"

Mark hastened to reassure her on that point, but his tone as he said it did not carry conviction to Juliet. Julia, however, seemed satisfied.

"Miss Byrne can choose," she continued. "Either she swears not to say a word till we are both safe away, or else we can shut her in the dungeon of the castle. I know where it is, in the wall of this tower. She will never be found there, and I can take her food from time to time till I am ready to join you. Isn't that a good plan?"

Mark considered.

"I don't think we will give her the option of swearing not to tell," he said presently.

"As if I would ever promise such a thing!" Juliet interrupted, indignant.

"But," he went on, ignoring this outburst, "otherwise I think your idea is good. Where is this dungeon? We may be disturbed at any minute, and enough time has been wasted already."

"I will go first and show the way," said Julia. "I have an electric torch," and she stepped into the clock and lowered herself through the trap-door.

Mark motioned to Juliet to follow.

"Ladies first," he said with a sneer.

Juliet turned and made a dash for the door.

"I won't go! I won't! I won't!" she cried desperately, though in her heart she knew she could not resist if he chose to use force. Perhaps if she screamed, some one would hear. Oh, where was Gimblet? Why did he leave her to the mercy of these people? "Help! Help!" She lifted up her voice and shrieked as loud as she could.

With a vicious scowl Mark sprang upon her, and clapped a hand over her mouth. Then, as she still continued to produce muffled sounds of distress, he stuffed his handkerchief in between her teeth and, lifting her bodily in his arms, thrust her before him into the clock, and pushed her roughly down the hidden stair. Half-way down she lost her footing, and fell to the bottom, where Julia was standing with her little lamp in her hand.

Mark was following close behind, and between them they picked her up and hurried her, limping and bruised, along the narrow passage. She was allowed to take the handkerchief out of her mouth, for no cry could penetrate the immense thickness of these blocks of stone. At the point where there was a break to right and left in the walls of the passage, Julia came to a standstill.

"Here it is," she said, turning her light on to the opening in the wall on the left-hand side. "The door is gone, so you will have to fetch something to block it up with."

It seemed to be a small, cell-like chamber, built into the side of the tower. It may have contained a dozen cubic yards of space, and had neither door nor window.

"There are some slabs of stone at the end of the passage," said Julia. "They are heavy, but you are strong, you will be able to bring them. We must leave a little space at the top of the door to admit some air, and for me to pass food through to our prisoner." She laughed with a feverish merriment. "It will be like feeding the animals at the Zoo," she said.

Mark signified his approval by a nod.

"And is this the way?" he asked, turning round and starting off in the opposite direction.

"No, no!" Julie cried, laying a detaining hand upon his arm. "I don't know what there is down there. I think it is a well. See, you are on the very edge."

She cast the light on to a round dark opening in the ground some six feet in front of and below them. From where they stood the floor began to slant suddenly and steeply downward, so that if Mark had taken another step, it looked as if nothing could have prevented his sliding down into the gaping circle of blackness at the bottom.

Julia shuddered violently.

"Oh," she cried, "if you had gone over! Come away, do come away!"

"It's a funny sort of well," he said, "Looks to me like something else. Did you ever hear of oubliettes, Julia?"

Juliet, as she heard him, grew white with terror.

"Julia, Julia," she cried, "you won't let him throw me down there?"

"No, no," said Julia. "He would not. There is no reason.... Mark," she urged, "come away from here."

But he only laughed shortly.

"Don't be so hysterical," he said, and continued to bend his gaze upon the hole at the bottom of the slope. It seemed to have a sort of fascination for him. Finally he picked a piece of loose mortar from the wall and threw it down into the gap. A second later there was a dull sound which might have been a splash. "Perhaps it is a well after all. Did you think it sounded as if it had fallen into water?"

"Yes," said Julia, "I am sure it did. Do come away. I hate being here."

And indeed she was shivering from head to foot, and not Juliet herself seemed more anxious to leave the place.

"Just one more shot," said Mark. "Here, Julia, stoop down, and roll that bit of stone slowly down the slope, while I hold on to our prisoner. We shall hear better that way. Give me your lamp."

Anxious to satisfy him, Julia picked up the fragment he had knocked from the rough wall, and stooping down stretched out her hand to set the stone in motion. But, as she did so, Mark loosened his grip on Juliet, and bending quickly behind this poor girl who loved him seized her by the shoulders and threw her forward on to her face. The steep pitch of the floor finished what the impetus given by his onslaught had begun. Julia shot head first down the slope, and disappeared into the black chasm of the well.

One long agonized scream came up to them out of the darkness, and rolled its echoes through the lonely passages.

Then the distant sound of a splash; and silence.

Back against the wall, Juliet cowered, her whole body shaken by great sobs. She was petrified with terror of this fiendish man, but her fears for herself gave way before the horror of what she had seen.

"Oh, what have you done, what have you done?" she wept.

Mark tried to summon up a jeering smile. The lantern threw no light upon his white and twitching face.

"You don't suppose I meant to let her go free, after the taste she gave me of her temper?" he asked, in a voice he could not keep from shaking a little. "Do you suppose I like having to do these things? You women have never the slightest sense of common justice. The whole thing is perfectly beastly to me. But how could I live with a girl who would be ready to threaten me with the gallows every time she got out of bed wrong foot first? It's not fair to blame me for other people's faults."

He spoke querulously, with the air of a much-injured man. Though Juliet was beyond any coherent reply, he seemed afraid of meeting her eyes, and looked resolutely away from her, his glance shifting and wavering from the walls to the floor, from the floor to the stones of the low roof; up, down, and sideways, but never resting on her. At last, as if drawn there irresistibly and against his will, they fell once more on the dark circle of the mouth of the pit, and he started back, shuddering violently.

"As if I hadn't enough to bear without being saddled with hideous memories for the rest of my life!" he cried with bitter irritability. "If you had an ounce of common fairness in your composition you would admit I could do no less. Why, any day she might have got jealous, or something, and flown into a passion again, and denounced me to the police. Besides, I have no wish to be obliged to fly the country. Why should I? She was the only person who knew the truth; except you. That is why you must follow her."

"No, no!" cried Juliet despairingly, but without avail, for her feeble strength could offer him no effective opposition, and he thrust her easily on to the slope. She felt instinctively that at that angle the merest push would make her lose her balance, and sank quickly to her knees, catching him round the ankle with one hand, and clinging desperately.

He swore furiously, and bent down to unclasp her fingers from his leg. Then he flung her hand away from him; and cut off from all assistance she began instantly to slide backwards, slowly but irresistibly.



CHAPTER XXI

Juliet dug her nails into the cracks of the stone floor with all the energy of despair, but in a moment her feet were over the edge of the pit and she was falling. Her fingers gripped the edge with a fierce tenacity, and for some minutes she hung there, minutes that seemed longer than all the rest of her life put together.

And so she hung, her knees drawn up in a frantic effort to pull herself out of the depths, till her muscles refused any longer to contract, and she felt herself gradually straightening out and growing, it seemed, heavier and heavier, till she knew that in one more second her fingers would slip from their hold, and all would be over.

But as she dropped into a straight position, and wearily abandoned her efforts to raise herself, one of her feet suddenly touched some firm substance beneath it. Something narrow it was, for the other foot as yet still hung in space, but some blessed solid thing on which it was possible to stand. As, with a feeling of thankfulness and relief such as she had never before experienced, she allowed her weight to rest on it and found that it did not give, she felt a sharp blow on the knuckles of her left hand, which made her withdraw it quickly and lean against the wall to steady herself. Mark was throwing stones at her fingers to make her leave go sooner. Another missed her narrowly, and shot over her head.

She drew down her right hand, and still leaning against the wall felt about with her other foot for a support.

She soon found it, a little farther back it seemed than the first foothold; but more experimental investigation showed that it was really part of the same object. There appeared, indeed, to be several of them about, all near to the wall, so that it was plain that poor Julia, as she shot over the brink, had fallen outside, and beyond them. What the bars were that she seemed to be standing on, Juliet could not at first imagine, and it was not till Mark, growing tired of waiting for a splash that never came, reached the conclusion that his ears had deceived him, and took himself and Julia's lantern off to other spheres of usefulness, that she perceived that a faint light penetrated into the upper part of the pit. When her eyes had become accustomed to it, she was able to make out that she was perched upon a portion of the roots of a tree, which had grown in through holes in the wall.

Three great roots there were, curling into and across the shaft of the pit and disappearing down into the darkness below, where Juliet did not dare to look.

She managed, with great caution, to stoop down and catch hold of the highest of the roots, and so to settle herself in a fairly comfortable position, sitting on the middle root of the three, with her feet on the lowest, and her back against the top one.

"They might have been made on purpose," she told herself, her naturally high spirits and brave young optimism coming nobly to her rescue again.

And she set herself to try and enlarge one of the holes in the wall; but she could not make much perceptible difference there. What it had taken centuries, and the growth of a great tree to effect, could not be much improved on in an hour by one young girl, however strong the necessity that urged her.

By the time she had exhausted her efforts and must needs lean back and rest awhile, the biggest hole was just wide enough to put her hand through, and she saw no prospect of enlarging it further.

Through it she could see a corner of the loch and the grey foot of Ben Ghusy, but that was all. It showed, however, on which side of the tower she was, and she remembered the great beech that clung to the precipice below the place where the foundations of the castle sprang from the rock. At least she had always imagined it was below the foundations, but now she knew better.

She thrust her hand out and waved it, but did not dare leave it there. The terror Mark had instilled in her was too recent and too real If she put out her hand, he would see it, and perhaps shoot it off; or at least know that he had failed to kill her as yet. Better he should think her dead, like poor Julia. But was Julia really dead?

She leant over and called down into the darkness:

"Julia! Julia!"

But no answer came, although she waited, holding her breath, and called again and again.

Then she had fallen into the water? She must be drowned even if the fall did not kill her. Poor, misguided Julia. Better dead, after all, thought Juliet, with eyes full of tears, than alive, and at the mercy of that terrible man. What disillusionments must have come to her sooner or later; final disillusionings that could not be explained away. How horrible to find that the man you loved was like that. Nothing else in the world could be so appalling. Yes, Julia was better dead. As Juliet thought of the dreadful manner in which death had come to the unfortunate girl, she forgot her faults, forgot her strange views upon the justifiability of taking human life, forgot even that she had approved of Lord Ashiel's assassination and contemplated bringing about his death herself, and remembered only the frightful nature of her punishment.

And while she sat there, clinging precariously to the twisted roots of the beech tree, Juliet's tears streamed down into the watery grave.

Hours passed, and darkness fell upon the world without. In the patch of loch that was visible to her, she could see a star mirrored; it cheered her somehow. What there was comforting about it she could not have said, but in some way it seemed to be an emblem of her hopes. She wedged herself tightly between the roots, laid her head down upon the uppermost of them, and, such is the adaptability of youth and health, slept on her dangerous perch like a bird upon a bough.

With the day she awoke, stiff and hungry. How long would it be before she was found? She felt braver under this new stimulus of hunger and more ready to risk detection by Mark. After all, he could hardly get at her here, and someone else might see her if she signalled. She took off her shoes and stockings and pushed them through the hole in the wall, then her handkerchief, and finally the white blouse she wore was taken off and thrust out between the stones. She kept her hold upon one of the sleeves, and wedged it down between the wall and the beech root, so that the blouse might hang out on the face of the rock like a flag and catch the attention of some passer-by. From time to time, too, she squeezed her hand through the gap and fluttered her fingers backward and forward. She knew that the path by the burn ran below, and it was used constantly by the ghillies and by the household. Only of course so early in the morning there was not likely to be anyone about. And she remembered with a sinking heart that people seldom look up as they walk.

Yet in the course of the day some one would surely see it. She sternly refused to allow herself to expect an immediate rescue. She would not, she told herself, begin to get really anxious about it till evening. It would be long to wait, of course. She looked at the little watch which Sir Arthur had given her on her last birthday. It was six o'clock. She must be patient.

But in spite of all her forced cheerfulness the time passed terribly slowly. She found an old letter in her pocket, and a pencil, with which she scrawled painstaking directions for her rescue. She would push it through the hole, she thought, if she heard any sound of voices above the clamour of the burn. After that there remained nothing more to do, and the hours seemed to creep along more and more slowly, till each second seemed like a minute and each minute an hour. She tried to divert herself by repeating poetry, and doing imaginary sums; and it was about eleven o'clock, when she was in the middle of the dates of the Kings of England, that she heard Gimblet's voice hailing her in a shout from below.

It was not till after her rescue, not till after she was given safely over to the affectionate ministrations of Lady Ruth, that Juliet gave way under the strain to which she had been subjected, and broke down altogether.

Up till that moment, the urgency of her own danger had prevented her from feeling as acutely as she would have in other circumstances the terrible fate of the Russian girl; but, as soon as she herself was safe, the full horror of it settled upon her mind till thought became an agony. She was shaken by alternate fits of shuddering and weeping, until Lady Ruth, who had a scathing contempt for doctors, was on the point of sending for one.

The arrival of Sir Arthur, an hour or so after her release, did much to calm her. He had started post haste from Belgium as soon as he heard of the tragedy, which was not till three days after it had occurred, and had spent the long journey in incessant self-reproach that he had ever allowed Juliet to go alone among these murderous strangers. The sight of his familiar face was full of comfort to the distracted girl; and the knowledge that Mark was arrested and powerless to harm her, with the gladsome news that David was free again, combined to soothe her nerves and restore her self-control.

The fear of one cousin began to give place insensibly to the dread lest the other should find her red-eyed and woe-begone; and soon the importance of looking her best when David should return occupied her mind almost to the exclusion of the terrors she had experienced. Thus does the emotion of love monopolize the attention of those it possesses, so that individuals may fall thick around him and the surface of the earth be convulsed with the strife of nations, and still your lover will walk almost unconscious among such catastrophes, except in so much as they affect himself or the object of his affections.

But not yet was Juliet to see David. His mother's health had broken down under the distress and worry of the accusation brought against him, and it was to her side that he hurried as soon as he was released from prison.

While Lady Ruth carried Juliet off at once to the cottage, there to be comforted, fed, made much of and put to bed, Gimblet and the men who had assisted him in the work of rescue stayed behind in the walls of the tower, to rig up, with ropes and buckets, an apparatus by which to descend to that lowest depth of the oubliette where poor Julia's body must be lying.

They had little hope of finding her alive; nor did they do so. She was floating, face downwards, in the water at the bottom of the pit.

In a grim, wrathful silence the men raised the poor lifeless body, and with some difficulty brought it back to the light of day. When the gruesome business was done, Gimblet returned to the cottage, tired out with his night's work; for, like all the men on the place, he had been scouring the moors since the previous evening, when Mark's derisive words had first sent them, hot foot, to assure themselves of Juliet's whereabouts. As he reached the cottage, the daily post bag was being handed in, and among his letters was one from the colonel of Mark's regiment:

"MY DEAR SIR," it ran, "I have sent you a wire in answer to your letter received to-day, since in view of what you say I see that it is necessary to disclose what I hoped, for the sake of the regiment, to continue to keep secret. But if, as you tell me, the innocence and even the life of Sir David Southern is involved, and you have such good reason to consider McConachan the man guilty of his uncle's death, it becomes my duty to put aside my private feelings and to confess to you that I am unable to look upon Mark McConachan as entirely above suspicion. When he was a subaltern in the regiment I have the honour to command, he was a source of grave worry and trouble to me.

"From the day he joined I had misgivings, and, though his good looks, lively spirits, and recklessness with money made him popular with others of his age, I soon discovered that his moral sense was practically nonexistent, and considered him a very undesirable addition to our ranks. Still, I hoped he might improve, and for a year or two nothing occurred to force me to take serious notice of his behaviour. Unknown to me, however, he took to gambling very heavily, and must have lost a great deal more than he could afford, for he appears to have got deep in the clutches of moneylenders long before I heard anything about it. So desperate did his financial affairs become, that shortly before he left the regiment he was actually driven to forging the name of a brother officer, a rich young man, with whom he was on very friendly terms. The large amount for which the cheque was drawn drew the attention of the bankers to it, and in spite of the extreme skill with which, I am told, the signature had been counterfeited, the forgery was detected, and the matter was brought before me.

"The victim of the fraud was as anxious as myself to avoid a public scandal, and it was arranged that nothing should be done for a year, to give time to McConachan to refund the money; if, however, he failed to do so within that time, there would be nothing for it but to make the matter public. These terms were agreed on and McConachan was told to send in his papers at once.

"The year allowed is now drawing to a close, and the money has not been forthcoming, so that there is no doubt that Mark McConachan's need of obtaining a large amount is extremely pressing. My knowledge of his character obliges me to add that I consider him one of the few men I ever knew whom I could imagine going to almost any length to provide himself with what he so urgently requires.

"Please consider this letter confidential unless you obtain actual proof of his guilt.—I am, sir, yours faithfully,

"T. G. URSFORD,

"Colonel commanding 31st Lancers."

Gimblet put the letter away with the other items of evidence of Mark's guilt: the telegram from the analyst in Edinburgh, the measurements of the footprints on the rose-bed, and of those other marks near the hedge by which he had at first been mystified. It was another thread in the thin cord that, like the silken line Ariadne gave to Theseus, had led him to come successfully out of the bewildering labyrinth into which the investigation of the crime had beguiled him.



CHAPTER XXII

It was after dinner that night, as he sat in the little drawing-room of the cottage with Lady Ruth and Sir Arthur, that his hostess asked him to explain to them how he had contrived to detect the way in which the murder had been committed.

"You promised to tell me all about it," Lady Ruth reminded him, "if I would keep silent about your finding the papers in the statue."

"Tell us the whole thing from the beginning," Sir Arthur urged him.

"I will willingly tell you anything that may interest you," Gimblet consented readily. "Every one enjoys talking about their work to sympathetic listeners such as yourselves. It is a bad thing to start on a case with a preconceived idea, and I can't deny that when I first came here I was very near having an idee fixe as to the origin of the crime. I tried to deceive myself into thinking that I kept an open mind on the subject; but I don't think I ever really doubted for a minute that the Nihilist society to which Lord Ashiel had formerly belonged was responsible for the murder. Even after my conversation with the new peer, which showed me that things looked blacker against Sir David Southern than I had expected, I was far from convinced that he was guilty, though I was obliged to admit that there was some ground for the conclusion come to by the police.

"But what was the evidence against him? Sir David was known to have quarrelled with his uncle; he had even been heard to say he had a good mind to shoot him. But that was more than twenty-four hours previous to the crime, and the words were uttered in a moment of anger, when he probably said the first thing that came into his head. Was he likely to have hugged his rage in silence for the hours that followed, and then to have walked out into the garden and shot his uncle in cold blood and without further warning? It did not appear to me probable, but then I did not know the young man.

"He was not to be found when the deed was discovered, and a hunt instituted for the murderer. Well, he had an answer to that which fitted in with my own theory. He said he saw some one hanging about the grounds, and went to look for him. But it was said that the night was so dark as to make it improbable that anyone should have been seen, even if there had been anyone to see. That cut both ways, to my mind. For it would account for the intruder making his escape undiscovered.

"Then there was the matter of the rifle, which he had told Miss Byrne he had cleaned that evening, in which case it had certainly been fired since then. He owned that he had locked it up and that the key never left his possession afterwards, but now denied that he had told the young lady that he had cleaned it. I asked young Lord Ashiel if he could put any possible interpretation on these facts except the one accepted by the police, and he replied that he could not. That, for the first time, made me wonder if he were really anxious to believe his cousin innocent. For I could put quite different interpretations on them myself.

"In the first place, though it was possible that Sir David lied in making his second statement to the effect that he had not said he had cleaned his rifle, it was equally possible that the first statement that he had cleaned it was not strictly accurate. For some reason, which he did not care to divulge, he might have told Miss Byrne he had been cleaning his gun when he had been really doing something entirely different. But had he told her he had cleaned it? His words, as repeated by her to me, were, 'I went in there to clean my rifle,' but not, 'I have been cleaning my rifle,' which would be another thing altogether, he probably had not yet begun cleaning it when he heard Miss Byrne coming and went out to speak to her; it is possible some feeling akin to shyness might make him reluctant to confess this afterwards in public. Indeed I now feel quite sure that this is the explanation of the matter. Later on, when I questioned her again, she did not appear certain which of the two forms of words he had used; but there was, at all events, a considerable doubt. There were other possibilities also. Some one might possess a duplicate key to the gun-cabinet. It seemed to me impossible that none of these considerations should have occurred to young Ashiel, if he were really reluctant to believe in Sir David's guilt. But at the same time I remembered the almost incredible lack of reasoning powers shown by most members of the public where a deed of violence has been committed, and knowing that there is nothing so improbable that it will not find a host of ready believers, I did not attach much importance to the circumstance until later.

"Still on the whole, after talking to young Lord Ashiel, I felt more disposed to believe that there might be some truth in the accusation that had been made than I had previously thought likely. But on that point I reserved my opinion till I should have had an opportunity of examining the scene of the tragedy for myself. So I prevailed upon the new owner of the castle to leave me alone—which he was the more ready to do since he had urgent need to be first in examining some papers of his uncle's which were in another room—and proceeded to make a cast round the garden from which the shot had been fired, in the hope of lighting upon some trifle which had escaped the notice of Macross.

"It was when I came upon the footprints in the rose-bed which had done so much to prove the guilt of Sir David Southern in the eyes of his accusers, that I began to be certain of his innocence; and a very little examination convinced me absolutely that whoever had shot Lord Ashiel it was not his youngest nephew. For the tracks on the flower-bed left no room for doubt.

"It is true they corresponded exactly with the shooting-boots Sir David had been wearing on the day the crime was committed. I had provided myself with a pair that I was assured was exactly like those particular boots which fitted the tracks and which the police had taken away with them, and I found that there was indeed no difference, except for the matter of an extra nail or two on the soles. There was no doubt that Sir David's boots had made those impressions, but to my mind there was equally no doubt that Sir David had not been in them when they made them. For the track which was so plainly distinguishable on the soft mould of the flower-bed had certain peculiarities which I could hardly overlook.

"There was first a row of footmarks leading from the lawn to the middle of the bed; then more marks as if the wearer of the boots had moved from one position to another hard by; and finally, a track leading back again to the mossy lawn at the side. Now all this was well enough till it came to the last row of footsteps, those which led off the bed, and which had presumably been taken after the fatal shot was fired. But was it conceivable that a man who had that moment committed a cold-blooded murder should leave the scene of his crime with the same slow, deliberate footsteps with which he had approached it? Surely not.

"And yet this is what the wearer of the boots had done. The imprints, as they advanced towards the lawn, were deep and well defined from toe to heel. Not only that, but they were, if anything, closer together than those which preceded them. Now a man, running, leaves a deeper impression of his toe than he does of his heel, and his steps are much farther apart in proportion to his increase in speed. I, myself, ran from the middle of the bed, to the lawn, alongside of the footmarks of the soi-disant murderer, and though I am a short man, while Sir David's legs are reported long, I left only two footprints to his five. To me it was as certain as if I had seen it happen that the wearer of the boots trampled his way off the rose-bed as slowly as he had trampled on. Those footprints had been made by some one who was determined they should be seen, not by some one whose only thought was to get away from the place; not, in short, by a man who had that moment fired a murderous shot through the darkness. The tracks had undoubtedly been made as a blind and with the intention of diverting suspicion to the wrong man probably after the deed itself was done.

"I was satisfied, then, that the shot had not been fired from this particular part of the rose-bed, and I proceeded to search for other footprints farther down the bed. I did not feel much hope of being successful, since, if our man had had the forethought to leave so many traces of some one else's presence, it was unlikely he would have neglected to ensure that his own should be absent. And as I expected, I found none.

"But at the end of the garden, where it is bounded by the holly hedge, I came across something which puzzled me. There were two narrow depressions on the flower-bed, about an inch wide by less than a foot long. They were parallel to each other, and at right angles to the hedge, and separated by a distance of six or seven feet. Near one, which was almost in the middle of the bed, was another mark which I could not understand. It was only a few inches long and, in shape, a narrow oval. I could not at first imagine what any of them represented, and it was only quite suddenly, as I was giving it up and going away, that the truth flashed across my mind. I had been looking regretfully at the track I myself had left by the side of the hedge on my way to and from the middle of the bed.

"'What I want,' I said to myself, 'is one of those planks raised off the ground by two little supports, one at each end, that gardeners use to avoid stepping on the beds when they are going through the process of bedding out,' And even as I said it, I realized that the same idea had occurred to some one else, and that the marks I had been examining might have been made by just such a contrivance as the one I was thinking of. A short search showed me the plank itself, kept in a tool-house conveniently near the spot, and, with a rake taken from the same place, I seized the opportunity of raking out my own footmarks from the rose-bed.

"And now who could this be who had so carefully manufactured a false scent, and so cleverly avoided being himself suspected? My previous theory, that some envoy of the Nihilists had been lurking in the neighbourhood, seemed not to meet the new conditions. For how could a mere stranger have gained possession of the misleading boots, or how returned them to their proper place? And how, for that matter, could a stranger have obtained the use of Sir David's rifle, if his rifle had indeed been used?

"That brought me to consider again whether after all there was any proof that his rifle had been used by anyone. Supposing, as I saw no reason to doubt, he spoke the truth when he said that Miss Byrne had misunderstood him and that he had not cleaned the weapon since coming in from stalking, was I driven back on the theory that some one possessed a duplicate key to the case where the guns were kept? Not in the least. The shot might have been fired from a rifle that had never, at any time, been within the walls of the castle. Certainly, the bullet fitted Sir David's Mannlicher rifle, but that, as young Lord Ashiel said himself, was equally true of his own rifle, or probably of a dozen others in the neighbouring forests, since a sporting Mannlicher is a weapon in common use in the Highlands.

"The shot, then, might well have been fired by my hypothetical Russian as far as the rifle was concerned; but he would have found it difficult to borrow Sir David's boots, and it seemed unlikely that any stranger would not only have dared to do so, but afterwards have had the audacity to return them. No, on the whole the footmarks seemed to clear the character of the Russian nation from any reasonable suspicion of being directly concerned in the crime.

"And yet, in spite of reason, I could not help feeling that the Society of the Friends of Man must be at the bottom of the whole thing in some way I had not yet fathomed. I made every inquiry as to whether any foreigner had visited the castle or been seen in the neighbourhood, but the only strangers among the visitors had been Miss Julia Romaninov and Miss Juliet Byrne's French maid, both of whose alibis appeared so far unimpeachable. I had it on Lady Ruth's authority that Miss Romaninov had been in the drawing-room with the other ladies at the time of the murder, and all the servants were at supper in the servants' hall. Otherwise I should have been inclined to look on Julia Romaninov with a suspicious eye, as being the only Russian I knew to be on the spot. The last word the dying man had been able to pronounce, too, was, according to Miss Byrne, 'steps' which might very well have been intended for steppes, and have some connection with the enemies he dreaded.

"With these considerations running in my mind, I made my way to the gun-room, not indeed with much expectation of its having anything to tell me, but as part of the day's work of inspection, which must not be shirked. I took down young Ashiel's rifle to examine. He had told me it was of the same description as his cousin's, and I was not very familiar with the make. It was owing to my wish to see for myself with what kind of weapon the deed had been done that a very important clue fell into my hands.

"As I put the rifle down on the bare deal table which forms the principal piece of furniture in the gun-room, I saw a grain of something dark, which looked like earth, fall off the butt end on to the boards beneath. I picked up the rifle, and looked closely at the butt; it was criss-crossed with small cuts, as they sometimes are, with the idea of preventing them from slipping, and in the cuts some dust, or earth, seemed, as I expected, to be adhering. I knocked the rifle upon the table, and a little shower fell from it. Except for the first grain, it might have been nothing but the ordinary dust of disuse, but I could not help thinking it was of a darker hue than the accumulations of years generally take upon themselves, and, further, I knew that the rifle had lately been used for stalking. It was, moreover, specklessly clean in every other part. I felt certain it had been leant upon the ground at no distant date; and I remembered the mark I had not been able to account for at the foot of the rose-bush, near the place where the plank had been used and, as I was persuaded, the cowardly shot actually fired. If a gun had been leant up against the large standard rose that grew there, it would have left just such a mark upon the soft ground.

"All this, of course, was a mere surmise, and rather wild at that, but the deer forests of Scotland are not muddy, whatever else they may be, and I felt an unreasoning conviction that the rifle had not accumulated dust while engaged upon its legitimate business on the mountain tops. The peaty moorland soil on which the castle stood would hardly be the best thing in the world for rose-trees, I imagined, and it seemed not too much to hope that some other kind of earth might be artificially mingled with it. I carefully collected the dust in a pill-box, and promised myself to lose no time in obtaining the opinion of an expert analyst, as to whether or no some trace of patent fertilizer, or other chemical, could not be traced in it.

"It was now for the first time that suspicion of young Lord Ashiel began to oust my theory of the Nihilist society's responsibility for the murder. He had, as I remembered, struck me as taking his cousin's guilt for granted with somewhat unnecessary alacrity. His rifle, I already believed, perhaps in my turn with needless alacrity, had fired the fatal bullet, and it seemed perfectly possible that it was his finger that pressed upon the trigger. He was, I knew, in the billiard-room, and alone, both before and after the murder was committed. It would have been quite easy for him to fetch his rifle, place the gardener's plank in position, fire his shot and return to the house, provided Miss Byrne did not rush immediately from the room. He knew her to be a brave girl and not likely to fly without making some attempt at offering assistance. But, if she had rushed from the spot and met the murderer outside the library door, it would be simple enough to convey the impression that he had heard the shot, and that he was either dashing to their help, or making for the garden in the attempt to catch the villain red handed. The rifle was the only thing likely to provoke an awkward question, but he could have dropped it in the dark and returned for it afterwards without much fear of detection. As it happened, he thought it safer to risk carrying it indoors, and hid it under the billiard-room sofa till he had a chance to clean it and take it to the gun-room, as we now know.

"You can imagine the scene: Lord Ashiel falling forward upon the writing-table under the light of the lamp; the scoundrel leaping from his post upon the plank, but not so quickly that he did not see the girl throw herself on her knees at the side of the fallen man. I can fancy the frenzied haste with which McConachan thrust the plank into the hedge and ran like a deer towards the door, which he had no doubt left open. I imagine him, then, tiptoeing to the door of the library and bending to listen, every nerve astretch. What he heard, no doubt reassured him; it may have been the voice of the girl calling upon her father, or it may have been the thud of her body falling upon the floor when she fainted. Perhaps, even, he may have stayed outside long enough to see her sink to the ground. Then he would steal back, shut the door as gently as he had opened it, and not breathe again till he found himself in the empty billiard-room, his tell-tale rifle still in his hand. No doubt he wished he had left it in the hedge at that moment, for he must have opened the billiard-room door with most lively apprehensions. Supposing the shot had been heard, and the household was rushing to the scene of the disaster? Supposing he opened the door to find the room full of people demanding an explanation of himself and his weapon? What explanation had he ready, I wonder? It must have taken all his nerve to turn the handle of the door....

"But no one can deny the man his full share of courage and decision.

"I felt more and more sure that in some such manner the crime had been gone about; and yet there were many complications, and more than once it seemed as if my convictions had been too hastily formed. Later that same afternoon I found, upon the sand of a little bay below the castle, marks that told me as plainly as they told one of the keepers who joined me there that a strange man had landed from a boat on the night of the murder, and even, if our calculations were right, not far off the very hour in which the deed was done. From the tracks left by his boots, which were large and without nails and extraordinarily pointed for those of a man, I felt sure that here one had landed who was no native of these parts, and the theory of the unknown Russian seemed to take on new life and vigour. The tracks, as we now know, were no doubt those of the member of the Society of the Friends of Man who was living at Crianan, and who hoped to have word with Julia Romaninov. It was no doubt he whom Sir David saw lurking in the grounds, and it is natural to suppose that when he perceived himself to be observed he retreated to his boat and made off, abandoning his proposed meeting for that night.

"I was to be further bewildered before my first day of investigation came to an end. Young Lord Ashiel had spent the day in searching for the will; and, if my inward certainty that he himself would prove to be the guilty man should turn out to be right, I could very well understand that he was anxious to find it. For, from what his uncle had said to Miss Byrne, it seemed possible that he had so worded his last will and testament, that whoever succeeded to the great fortune he had to bequeath, it might not be Mark McConachan. But the will was not to be found, and there was no doubt to whose interest it was that it should never be found; so that I felt pretty sure that, if the successor to the title were once able to lay his hands on it, no one else would ever do so. However, he hadn't found it yet, or the search would not be continued with such unmistakable ardour.

"Now I had a fancy myself to have a look for the will. I took the last words of the dead man to be an effort to indicate how I was to do so, and I had no idea of prosecuting my search under the eye of his nephew. Young Ashiel was to dine at the cottage here, with Lady Ruth; so I excused myself under pretence of a headache from appearing at dinner, and hurried back to the castle as soon as I could do so unobserved. I got in by a window which I had purposely left open, and made my way to the library. The words that Lord Ashiel, as he lay dying, had managed to stammer out to his daughter, were only five. 'Gimblet—the clock—eleven—steps.' I had decided to take the clock in the library as the starting-point of investigation. He might, of course, have referred to any other clock, but only one could be dealt with at a time, and a beginning must be made somewhere. Moreover, I had noticed a curious feature about that particular timepiece. It was clamped to the wall, which struck me as very suggestive; and I thought it quite likely I should be able to discover some kind of secret drawer concealed within, or behind, the tall black lacquered case, where the will and other papers of which Lord Ashiel had told me might be hidden. But in spite of my best efforts I came across nothing of the kind.

"I then examined the floor of the room at spots on its surface which were at a distance of about eleven steps from the clock, in the hope of finding some opening between the oak boards; but all to no purpose. I began to think that by some specially contrived mechanism the hiding-place might only be discernible at eleven o'clock, and though the idea seemed farfetched, I don't like to leave any possibility untested, so I sat down to wait till the hour should strike.

"While I was waiting, I suddenly heard footsteps which appeared to come from inside the wall of the room, or from below the floor. I concluded instantly that there was a secret passage within the walls although I had failed to find the entrance, so I left the library quickly and quietly, and made my way to the garden, from which I was able to look back into the room through the window. By the time I took up my post of observation the person I had heard approaching had entered. To my surprise it was a young lady about whom I seemed to recognize something vaguely familiar, but whom I was not aware of ever having seen before. She was occupied in examining the papers in Lord Ashiel's writing bureau, and after watching her for some time, I concluded that she must be Julia Romaninov; partly from certain foreign ways and gestures which she displayed, and partly from her present employment, as I knew of no one else who was interested in the papers of the dead man. I imagined that she knew of the possible relationship which Lord Ashiel supposed might exist between himself and her, and that she was searching for evidence of her birth. Whether she was staying at the castle, which I was told all visitors had left, or whether, like myself, she had made her way into it from outside, was a question I could not then determine, though the next day I discovered that she was stopping with Mrs. Clutsam at the fishing lodge, near by.

"The fact of her being still in the neighbourhood, the business I found her engaged upon—an unusual one, to put it mildly, for a young girl—and the hour, at which she had chosen to go about it, all gave me much food for thought, and I felt sure she could tell me news of the stranger who had landed in the bay and who wore such uncommonly pointed boots. When I recognized in her, on the following day, a young person who had, a few weeks previously, made me the victim of a barefaced and audacious robbery, I could no longer doubt that she and the unknown boatman were in league together; and, since no Englishman would be likely to wear boots so excessively pointed at the toes, I did not hesitate to conclude that they were both members of the Society of the Friends of Man, a conclusion which became a certainty when I subsequently saw them together. This discovery rather shook my belief in the guilt of young Ashiel, although I had an inward conviction that in spite of everything he would turn out to be the murderer. Still, I was after the Nihilist brotherhood as well, and I determined if possible to put a spoke in the wheel of that association when I had finished with the first and most important business.

"In the meantime, as I stood in the dark garden, watching the girl ransack the private papers of her dead host, I felt no fear of her finding what she was looking for. Lord Ashiel had convinced me that he would hide his secret affairs more carefully than that; and, as I expected, the time came when she gave up the search and departed the way she had come. And that way, to my astonishment, was through the grandfather's clock I had spent so much time in examining. No sooner had she gone than I returned to the library, where I soon discovered that the hidden entrance lay through the one part of the clock I had not investigated. A trap in the floor could be opened by turning a small knob, and I found beneath it the top of that flight of stairs which we now know leads out to the door under the battlements. There were fifteen steps in the flight, and my first idea was to examine the eleventh one of them. I was rewarded by the discovery of a concealed drawer, which in its turn disclosed a single sheet of paper.

"On it were written some words that I could not at first understand, but of which finally, by good luck, and with your help, Lady Ruth, I was able to decipher the meaning. They referred, in an obscure and veiled fashion, to the great statue erected by Lord Ashiel in that glen of which his wife had been so fond; where the beginning of the track used by the cattle drivers and robbers of old, which is known as the Green Way, leads up over the hills to the south. Guided by Lady Ruth, I found on the pedestal of the statue a spring, which has only to be pressed when a door in one end of the erection swings open, and discloses the hollow chamber in the middle of the pedestal. At the far end of the cavity was the tin box, of which the key lay temptingly on the top. I lost no time in springing towards it, for here I felt sure was all I wanted to find, but as I inserted the key in the lock the door slammed to behind me and I found myself shut in the dark interior of the pedestal. Luckily Lady Ruth was with me, and quickly let me out. I found that the door was controlled by an elaborate piece of clockwork, which is set in motion by the pressure upon the floor of the feet of any intruder, causing the door to shut almost immediately behind him. But for you, Lady Ruth, I should be there now. But the incident gave me an idea.

"I returned to the cottage with the papers, and found two telegrams. One was from the analyst in Edinburgh to whom I had sent the grains of dust collected in the gun-room, saying that among other ingredients lime was very predominant. Now there is no lime in a peaty soil such as this, and the gardener, to whom I talked of soils and manures, with an air of wisdom which I hope deceived him, told me that the rose-bed outside the library had received a strong dressing of it. There was also, said the report, traces of steel and phosphates, of which there is a combination known as basic slag, which the gardener had mentioned as being occasionally used. I considered that it was tolerably certain, therefore, that young Ashiel's rifle had been the weapon the imprint of whose butt was still discernible on the bed when I went over it.

"The second telegram contained an answer from the colonel of his regiment, to whom I had written asking if there was anything in the record of Mark McConachan which would make it appear conceivable that he was badly in need of money, and likely to go to extreme lengths to obtain it. I had told the colonel as much about the case as I then knew, and pointed out that the life or death of a man whom I had strong reason to think innocent might depend upon his withholding nothing he might know which could possibly bear upon the matter. The telegram I received in reply was short but emphatic. 'Record very bad,' it said, 'am writing,' This was enough for me. I went over to Crianan, saw the police, and imparted my conclusions to the local inspector. I then proposed that a little trap should be laid, into which, if he were not guilty and had no intention of destroying his uncle's will, there was no reason to imagine young Lord Ashiel would step. The inspector consented, and I returned, with himself and two of his men, to Inverashiel. You know how successful was the ruse I indulged in. I simply went to the young man, and told him I had discovered the place where his uncle had put his will and other valuable papers. I explained to him where it was and how the pedestal could be opened, but I said nothing about its shutting again. Neither, I am afraid, did I confess that I had already visited the statue and taken away the documents. I said, on the contrary, that I preferred not to touch the contents except in the presence of a magistrate, and suggested he should send a note to General Tenby at Glenkliquart to ask him to come over and be present when we removed the papers. This he did, and I then left him after he had promised to join us at the cottage in a couple of hours. I knew very well where we should find him at the end of those hours; and, as I expected, he was caught by the clockwork machinery of the pedestal door."



CHAPTER XXIII

Sir Arthur Byrne took his adopted daughter back to Belgium on the following day, since, although she would have to return to England to give evidence against Mark in due course, some time must elapse before his trial came on, and he judged it best to remove her as far as possible from a place whose associations must always be painful.

Then ensued a series of weary long weeks for Juliet, in which she had no trouble in convincing herself that David had forgotten her. She heard nothing from him directly, though indirectly news of him filtered through in letters they received from Lady Ruth and Gimblet. He had not, it appeared, taken his cousin's guilt as proved so readily as Mark had affected to do in his own case, refusing absolutely to hear a word of the evidence against him, and maintaining that the whole thing was a mistake as colossal as it was ghastly.

Only when he was persuaded unwillingly, but finally, that it was Juliet's word which he must doubt if he were to continue to believe in Mark's innocence, did he give in, and sorrowfully acknowledged himself convinced.

All this Lady Ruth wrote to the girl, together with the fact that Sir David was still in attendance on his mother, now happily recovering from the nervous shock she had sustained.

From Gimblet, and from Messrs. Findlay & Ince, they heard that by the will which the detective had found all Lord Ashiel's money and estate were left to the adopted daughter of Sir Arthur Byrne, known hitherto as Juliet Byrne, with a suggestion that she should provide for his nephews to the extent she should think fit.

The will, though not technically worded, was perfectly good and legal, and Juliet could have all the money she was likely to want for the present by accepting the offer of an advance which the lawyers begged to be allowed to make.

Gimblet wrote, further, that the list of names of members of the Nihilist society entitled the "Friends of Man" which he had discovered at the same time as the will and, contrary to Lord Ashiel's wishes, sent off by registered post to Scotland Yard, had been communicated to the heads of the police in Russia and the other European countries in which many of those designated were now scattered, with the result that a large number of arrests had been quietly made, and the society practically wiped out. The foreign guest of the Crianan Hotel was still at large. The name of Count Pretovsky was not on the list and nothing could be proved against him. He had moved on to another hotel farther west, where he was lying very low and continuing to practise the gentle art of the fisherman. A member of the Russian secret police was on his way to Scotland, however, and it was likely that Count Pretovsky would be recognized as one of the persons on Lord Ashiel's list who were as yet unaccounted for.

Gimblet told them, besides, that he had succeeded in finding the widow of the respectable plumber named Harsden, whom Julia had mentioned as being her father. Mrs. Harsden corroborated the story, and said that it was certainly the Countess Romaninov to whom Mrs. Meredith had consigned the little girl they had given her.

Widely distributed advertisements also brought to light the nurses of the two children; both the nurse who had taken Julia out to Russia and the woman who had been with Mrs. Meredith when she took over the charge of the McConachan baby, quickly claiming the reward that was offered for their discovery. There was no longer any room for doubt that Juliet Byrne was the same person as Juliana McConachan, or that Julia Romaninov had begun life as little Judy Harsden.

All this scarcely sufficed to rouse Juliet from the apathy into which she had fallen. To her it seemed incredible to think with what excitement and delight such news would have filled her a few months earlier.

Now, since David plainly no longer cared for her, nothing mattered any longer. Her depression was put down to the shock she had suffered, and efforts were made to feed her up and coddle her, which she ungratefully resented.

She had nothing in life to look forward to now, so she told herself, except the horrible ordeal of the trial which she would be obliged to attend.

It was in the dejection now becoming habitual to her, that she sat idly one fine October morning in her little sitting-room at the consulate. She had refused to play tennis with her stepsisters, not because she had anything else to do, but because nothing was worth doing any more, and because it was less trouble to sit and gaze mournfully through the open window at the yellow leaves of the poplar in the garden, as from time to time one of them fluttered down through the still air.

How unspeakably sad it was, she thought to herself, this slow falling of the leaves, like the gradual but persistent loss of our hopes and illusions, which eventually make each human dweller in this world of change feel as bare and forlorn as the leafless winter trees.

On a branch a few feet away, a robin perched, and after looking at her critically for a few moments lifted up its voice in cheerful song.

But she took no heed of it, and continued to brood over her sorrows.

All men were faithless. With them, it was out of sight, out of mind, and she would assuredly never, never believe in one again. The best thing she could do, she decided, was to put away all thought of such things, and forget the man whom she had once been so vain as to imagine really cared for her.

And just as she told herself for the hundredth time that she had given up all hope and had resigned herself to the role of broken-hearted maiden, the door opened, and David was shown in.

By good luck, she was alone. Lady Byrne was not yet down, and her stepsisters were out; so there was no one to see her blushes and add to her embarrassment.

In the surprise of seeing him, all her presence of mind vanished, leaving her speechless and trembling with agitation.

For his part, David approached her with a confusion as obvious as her own.

"Juliet," he stammered as soon as they were left alone together, "I know I oughtn't to have come, but I simply couldn't keep away."

"Why oughtn't you to have come?" was all she could ask foolishly.

"Because I know you can't want to see me," said the absurd young man, "though I do think you liked me pretty well before, didn't you? when Maisie Tarver tied my tongue; or ought to have, I'm afraid I should say. But she had enough sense to drop me when I was arrested. She couldn't stand a man arrested for murder any more than you or anyone else could?"

He said the last words with an air of shamefaced interrogation.

"Why," said Juliet, who was being carried off her feet on the top of a rapturous flood, "what nonsense! You were as innocent as I was. What would it matter if you were arrested twenty times!"

"Well, I shouldn't care to be, myself," said David, without apparently deriving much satisfaction from such a suggestion. "Once is enough for me. And anyway," he added inconsequently, "you can't very well marry a fellow who is first cousin to a man who's as good as hanged already!"

THE END