



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by La
Trobe University, Melbourne Australia











Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source:
     http://arrow.latrobe.edu.au/store/3/4/6/5/2/public/B26995177.pdf
     La Trobe University, Melbourne Australia






_SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_
_ON_
"The Carbuncle Clue."
BY FERGUS HUME.
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
===============

"Everywhere throughout its source there is evident the same
wonderful originality that distinguished his first success. It
is as clever a piece of detective story writing as 'The Leavenworth
Case.'"--_Dundee Advertiser_.

"To say that Mr. Fergus Home's 'The Carbuncle Clue' is one of his best
stories hardly does justice to its merits. Very clever must be the
reader who, in the earlier chapters, finds even a faint clue in this
labyrinth of crime and intrigue."--_Morning Post_.

"It is in all truth a mystery, and one which when dipped into will be
followed with the greatest interest in all its maze of detail. There
is scarcely one of the opening chapters that does not reveal some new,
startling, and apparently inexplicable fact."--_The Scotsman_.

"Among the more successful of the purveyors of the detective order of
fiction is Mr. Fergus Hume. All who love mystery will find his last
story exactly to their taste."--_Publishers' Circular_.

"We were becoming afraid that Mr. Hume was over-producing--a fear
greatly allayed by 'The Carbuncle Clue.' Mr. Hume keeps his story well
in hand, and although the mystery changes its aspect many times, he
never allows it to drag; and in the end he springs the secret on
us in a way that effectually discounts any feeling of superiority
we may have cherished as to our powers of playing the amateur
detective."--_Literary World_.

"Apart from the author's reputation, 'The Carbuncle Clue,' standing on
its own undoubted merits, will commend itself to those of the reading
public who can admire a clever plot, with just a sufficient dash of
sensationalism. The skilful manner in which the plot is evolved and
the machinations of the conspirators disclosed, place the work on a
much higher level than the average detective story."--_Chester
Courant_.

"A capital story, one that will hold its reader enthralled to the end.
The clever detective--Mr. Fanks, alias Rixton--is, we think greatly
superior to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his many followers, inasmuch as he
is not omniscient, and is quite capable of making mistakes and getting
exasperated over them. He follows the slender clue with the sagacity
and patience of a bloodhound, and the mystery is so well maintained
that its solution only breaks on us as we turn the last page.--_Pall
Pall Gazette_.

"Mr. Hume is great in mysteries, but almost excels himself in the
complications of this carbuncle clue. It is brightly and briskly
written, and goes on without a hitch or momentary loss of interest
from beginning to end. The actors are admirably described. It is the
ordinary man and woman that Mr. Hume brings on the stage, and he pulls
the wires so deftly that it is with a sigh of regret that we close the
book. The publishing world has been inundated with detective stories
recently, but if all were so good as 'The Carbuncle Clue' there would
not be much reason to complain of the fashion."--_Manchester Courier_.

"One of the best detective stories that have appeared for a long
time."--_Manchester Guardian_.

"The whole plot is very ingeniously contrived. The interest never
flags, and, together with the mystery, is kept up to the very end of
the story."--_Glasgow Herald_.

"In 'The Carbuncle Clue' the author elucidates with his accustomed
skill a highly mysterious murder. The story is thrilling and
ingenious."--_Yorkshire Post_.

"Mr. Fergus Hume is a wonderful producer of books, and he proves
himself the possessor of considerable resource, while he is also very
versatile. 'The Carbuncle Clue' will be read with avidity by lovers of
this particular class of work, while it will also be found to contain
a goodly share of attraction for the general novel reader."--_Western
Daily Mercury_.

"For some time past the feeling has been that the detective story has
had its day, living only in the memory of the immortal Sherlock
Holmes. After perusing the mystery of 'The Carbuncle Clue,'
however, we feel inclined to change our mind. Mr. Fergus Hume
has a more than ordinary talent for the making and unravelling of
enigmas."--_Liverpool Mercury_.

"There are few weavers of mystery like Mr. Fergus Hume. In 'The
Carbuncle Clue' his best qualities as an adept in the art of
mystification are apparent. He is a magician in mystery and a wizard
in working up a sensation without divulging the denouement until the
opportune moment."--_Newsagent_.

"A splendid story, and the identity of the murderer of the unknown
man so mysteriously found stabbed to death in the chambers of a man
about town is cleverly concealed until the last. There is not a dull
line in the book, and the interest is never for a moment allowed to
flag."--_Blackburn Times_.

"A story replete with sensational excitement from the first to the
last. In our opinion it is one of the best novels he has yet
produced."--_The People_.

"A peculiar faculty is necessary for the composition of a really
ingenious story of the detective type, and Mr. Fergus Hume undeniably
possesses it in an unusual degree. 'The Carbuncle Clue' is a really
clever piece of work of its school. The mystery suffices to keep the
reader on the alert till he comes to the final page."--_Court
Journal_.

London: FREDERICK WARNE & CO., and New York.






TRACKED BY A TATTOO





TRACKED
BY A TATTOO

_A MYSTERY_



BY
FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "MONSIEUR JUDAS,"
"THE CARBUNCLE CLUE," "THE WHITE PRIOR,"
ETC.



LONDON
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.
AND NEW YORK






_Copyright.
Entered at Stationers' Hall_.






CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.         The Crime
II.        A Recognition
III.       The Result Of The Crime
IV.        Another Discovery
V.         The Red Star Advertisement
VI.        A Startling Incident
VII.       Difficulties
VIII.      A Mysterious Parcel
IX.        Vaud and Vaud
X.         Exit Dr. Renshaw
XI.        Another Link in the Chain
XII.       The Intervention of Chance
XIII.      The Tattooed Cross
XIV.       Fanks Makes Up his Mind
XV.        Coming Events
XVI.       Unhappy Lovers
XVII.      Two against One
XVIII.     On the Twenty-First of June
XIX.       The Defiance of Anne Colmer
XX.        The Green Overcoat
XXI.       The Eight Bells Enigma
XXII.      Mrs. Boazoph Receives a Shock
XXIII.     The Confession of Hersham
XXIV.      The Clue of the Handwriting
XXV.       At Mere Hall, Hants
XXVI.      Mrs. Prisom's Story
XXVII.     Mrs. Prisom's Story--_continued_
XXVIII.    Sir Louis Explains
XXIX.      Dr. Binjoy Protests
XXX.       A Letter from Hersham, Senior
XXXI.      The Secret is Revealed
XXXII.     Mrs. Boazoph Tells the Truth
XXXIII.    How and Why the Deed was Done
XXXIV.     The Same
XXXV.      The Opinion of Octavius Fanks






Tracked by a Tattoo.




CHAPTER I.
THE CRIME.


On the twenty-first of June, in the year one thousand eight hundred
and ninety-four Mr. Fanks, of New Scotland Yard, detective, was
walking down the Strand, between the hours of seven and eight in the
evening, in the character of Octavius Rixton, of the West End, idler.
It may be as well to repeat here, what is no doubt already known--that
this individual led a dual existence. He earned his money as a
detective, and spent it as a man about town. East of Trafalgar Square
he was called Fanks; westward he was known by his real name of Rixton.
But few people, were aware that the idler and the worker were one and
the same. Nevertheless of necessity four or five persons possessed
this knowledge, and of these one was Crate, a brother officer of
Fanks, who had worked with him in many cases, and who had a profound
respect for his capabilities. Fanks had obtained this ascendancy over
Crate's mind by his skilful unravelling of the Chinese Jar mystery.

This especial evening Rixton had cast off the name, clothes, and
personality of Fanks; and in "propriâ personâ," he was about to treat
himself to a melodrama at the Adelphi Theatre. As he was passing
through the vestibule, at a quarter to eight, a man came forward and
touched him on the arm. To the surprise of Rixton he recognised Crate.

"You mentioned that you were coming here this evening, Mr. Rixton,"
said this latter, who had been instructed to so address his chief on
particular occasions. "And I have been waiting for the last half hour
to see you."

"What is the matter, Crate?"

The subordinate beckoned Rixton to a quiet corner, and in a low tone
said one word, which made him dismiss from his mind the idea of
attending the theatre on that evening. The whispered word was
"murder."

"Where?" asked Fanks, assuming the detective on the instant.

"Down Tooley's Alley."

"Man or woman or child?"

"Man! I think a gentleman."

"When was the crime committed?"

"Between six and seven this evening."

"In a house or on the street?"

"In a house. The Red Star public-house."

"I know it," said Fanks, with a sharp nod, "a cut-throat place at the
bottom of Tooley's Alley. The assassin chose an excellent locality.
Poison, steel, or bludgeon?"

"The first I fancy; there are no marks of violence on the body. But
you had better come and see for yourself."

"I agree with you. Return to the Red Star, Crate, while I go to my
rooms to change my clothes. I am Rixton at present, and I don't want
to mix up my two personalities. Expect me in half an hour."

Crate departed with prompt obedience, and Rixton drove off in a swift
hansom to his chambers in Duke Street, St. James. In ten minutes he
had assumed his detective clothes and Fanks personality; in twenty he
was returning eastward; and at the expiration of half an hour he was
standing at the door of the house wherein the crime had been
committed. Such promptitude was characteristic of the man.

Tooley's Alley is a narrow zig-zag street, which, beginning at a point
in Drury Lane, twists its way through a mass of malodorous houses
until blocked finally by the Red Star Hotel. It is a famous Rialto of
rogues and vagabonds, for here "they most do congregate;" and here
come the police, when any especial criminal is wanted by the law. An
evil district with an evil name; a plague spot, which cannot be
eradicated either by law or by religion. There are many such in
London, and of all Tooley's Alley is the worst. It was plausible
enough that a gentleman should be trapped, robbed, and murdered in
this quarter; but it was more difficult to surmise what errand had
brought a gentleman into so dangerous a neighbourhood. A gentleman
done to death in Tooley's Alley! Fanks scented a mystery.

The Red Star was a gorgeous gin-palace, all gas, and glare, and
glitter. It was licensed to Mrs. Boazoph, a widow, whose character was
more than suspected by the police; but who contrived by a circumspect
demeanour to keep on the right side of the law. By virtue of her
position, her supposed wealth, and above all by reason of her talents,
she was quite the queen of Tooley's Alley. Why she should have been
permitted to hold her disreputable court in this hotbed of crime was
best known to the authorities; but hold it she did, and made money out
of her ragged subjects. In the neighbourhood she was popularly known
as Queen Beelzeebub.

Attracted by the news of the murder, a mob of raffish men and
slatternly women had collected round the Red Star, but the presence of
four policemen prevented them from entering the bar and drinking, as
they desired to do.

Fanks had no need to push through the crowd, for on recognising him
they fell to right and left to leave him a free passage. Under his
keen gaze a quiver of fear passed over many of the brutalised faces;
and here and there some especial rogue, scared by the memory of lately
committed crimes, shrank back into the shadows, lest this man, who
personified the law, should discover and punish. Fanks was the Nemesis
of Tooley's Alley; the god they desired to propitiate, and he was at
once hated and feared by his debased worshippers.

After exchanging a few words with the guardian policemen, Fanks
entered the house, and was met in the passage by Crate and by Mrs.
Boazoph. This latter, who appeared to be between forty and fifty years
of age, was a slender and pallid-faced woman, with almost white hair
smoothed back from her high forehead. She spoke habitually with folded
hands and downcast eyes, and her voice was low and soft, with a
refined accent. One would have taken this demure figure, clad in a
plain dress of lustreless black, for an hospital nurse, or for a
housekeeper. Yet she was--as the police asserted--the most dangerous
woman in London, hand and glove with thieves and rogues: not for
nothing had she gained her reputation and queenly title.

"Well, Mrs. Boazoph," said Fanks, abruptly, "this last scandal will add
largely to the excellent reputation already gained by your house."

"No doubt of it, sir," replied the landlady, without raising her eyes;
"it is most unfortunate."

"And most unexpected?"

"Certainly most unexpected, sir."

The detective looked at her sharply, and noticed that her fingers
played nervously with the stuff of her gown. Also he heard a tremor in
her voice as she answered. Now Mrs. Boazoph was not easily upset; yet,
as Fanks well saw, only her unusual self-control prevented her from
having an attack of hysteria. To many men the circumstance of the
crime having been committed in the house would have accounted for
this. Fanks was too well acquainted with Queen Beelzeebub to give her
the benefit of the doubt. She was disturbed by something more than the
mere fact of the murder.

"Do you know the man?" he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

"No!" retorted Mrs. Boazoph, with suspicious promptitude. "I never set
eyes on him until this evening."

And with this hinted defiance she stared Fanks boldly in the face.
When she saw that he was watching her twitching fingers, they became
motionless on the instant. Only one conclusion could the detective
draw from this behaviour; she knew more than she would own to, and she
was afraid lest he should find it out. After another look, which
discovered nothing--for she was now on her guard--Fanks turned sharply
to Crate.

"Where is the body?"

"Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms."

"Was the murder committed in one of the bedrooms?"

"No, Mr. Fanks. It was committed in the room at the end of this
passage."

"And why was the body removed out of that room?"

"I removed the body," said Mrs. Boazoph, in a low voice.

"You had no right to do so," rebuked Fanks, sharply. "It was your duty
to leave things as they were, when you discovered that a crime had
been committed, and to give immediate information to the police."

"I did do so, sir. The police were in this house ten minutes after I
saw the dead body."

"Nevertheless, you found time to remove it in that ten minutes."

"I thought it best to do so," said Mrs. Boazoph, obstinately.

"No doubt. I shall not forget your zeal," was Fanks' rejoinder.

The woman could not repress a shudder at the ironical tone of the
detective, and her pale face turned yet paler. However, she passed
discreetly over the remark and turned the conversation briskly.

"Shall I take you upstairs to see the body, sir?

"No; I shall first examine the room. Afterwards I shall hear your
story and inspect the corpse. Come with me, Crate."

Still preserving an impenetrable countenance, Mrs. Boazoph preceded
the two men into the little room at the end of the passage. It was an
apartment of no great size, furnished in a scanty, almost in a
penurious fashion. A window draped with faded curtains of red rep
faced the entrance There was no fireplace, and the furniture consisted
of a mahogany horse-hair sofa placed against the right-hand wall
looking from the door, a round table covered with a stained red cloth,
which stood in the centre of the room, and on either side of this two
chairs. A crimson felting carpeted the floor, and a few racing
pictures, crudely , adorned the salmon-tinted walls. Beyond
this the room contained nothing, save an iron gas-pipe suspended from
the roof, by which two jets flaring in pink globes lighted the
apartment.

Fanks glanced slowly round, taking in every detail, and walked across
to the window. It was locked, the curtains were drawn, the blind was
down. As it was too dark to see the outlook, Fanks turned to Mrs.
Boazoph for information.

"What does this window look out on to?"

"A yard, sir."

"Is there any outlet from the yard?"

"No, sir, excepting through the kitchen where the servants have been
all the evening."

"When you entered the room and discovered the fact of the murder,
where was the body?"

"Huddled up on yonder sofa, sir."

"Was the room in the same state as it is now?"

"In precisely the same state, Mr. Fanks."

"Wait a moment," interposed Crate; "you told me that you took some
glasses out of the room."

Mrs. Boazoph darted a tigerish glance at the detective, which revealed
the hidden possibilities of her nature. However, she replied with all
possible meekness--

"I quite forgot that, sir I did take two glasses off that table."

Recalling Crate's remark that the deceased had probably been poisoned,
Fanks was rendered angry and suspicious by this action; but as it was
mere folly to quarrel with so clever a woman as Mrs. Boazoph he made
light of the circumstance, and observed casually that no doubt the
glasses had been washed and put away.

"Yes, sir," assented the landlady, "they were washed and put away by
my own hands."

"I have always known you to be an extremely tidy woman," said Fanks,
ironically. "Two glasses, you say? Then there were two gentlemen in
this room between six and seven?"

"There were two men in this room between six and seven," replied Mrs.
Boazoph, making the correction with emphasis.

"Two men, you say? And they came to have a chat--by appointment?"

"I think so, sir. The white man came at six, and the black man arrived
an hour later."

"Ho! ho!" said Fanks, rather taken by surprise; "so one of the men was
a <DW64>. I see. And who lies dead upstairs?"

"The white man, sir."

"And the <DW64> assassin; what of him?"

"We have no proof that the <DW64> committed the crime, Mr. Fanks,"
protested Mrs. Boazoph, forgetting her caution for the moment. "There
are no marks of violence on the body."

"Of course not," said Fanks, with grim humour. "No doubt the white man
died a convenient and natural death, while the <DW64>, for no reason,
fled in alarm. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Mrs. Boazoph.
Probably it is as you say."

Not sufficiently clever to see the irony of this remark, Crate looked
surprised. But the woman was clearer sighted; and, seeing that she had
over-reached herself by saying too much, she relapsed into silence.
The detective, feeling that he had scored, smiled grimly, and went on
with his examination of the room.

"The body was on the sofa, you say?" he said after a pause.

"Yes; it was tumbled in a heap against the wall."

"And the glasses were on the table?"

"On the table and on the tray."

"Were there any signs of a struggle?"

"Not that I saw, Mr. Fanks."

"Can you describe the appearance of the white man; no, stop, I'll see
his body when I go upstairs. What of the black man?"

"He was a tall, burly, fat creature, sir, just like any other <DW64>."

"How was he dressed?"

"In a black opera hat, dark trousers, brown boots, and a long green
overcoat with brass buttons," said Mrs. Boazoph, concisely.

"Rather a noticeable dress," said Fanks, carelessly; "had you ever
seen the <DW64> before?"

"No, sir."

"Nor the white man?"

"I never saw white or black man in my life till this evening."

By this time the patience of Mrs. Boazoph was nearly worn out, and her
self-control was gradually giving way. She evidently felt that she
could hold out no longer, for, after replying to the last question,
she left the room suddenly. But that Fanks interfered Crate would have
stopped her.

"Let her go," said the former, "we can see her later on. In the
meantime," he continued, pointing to the table, "what is all this?"

Crate bent forward, and on the dingy red tablecloth he saw a number of
tiny black grains scattered about.

"It is a powder of some sort," he said; "I told you that I thought the
man had been poisoned."

Even as Crate spoke the gaslight went out, leaving them in complete
darkness.

"Ah!" said Fanks, rather startled by the unexpected incident, "Mrs.
Boazoph is fiddling with the meter."

"What the deuce did she do that for?" asked Crate, as his superior
struck a match.

"Can't you guess? She saw these black grains on the tablecloth, and
wants to get rid of them. That was why she left the room and turned
off the gas. She hopes that the darkness will drive us out. Then she
will explain the incident by a lie, and enter before us to relight the
gas."

"Well?" said Crate, stolidly.

"Well!" repeated Fanks, crossly. "I shall never make you understand
anything, Crate. Before lighting the gas she will pull off the
tablecloth and scatter the grains."

"Do you think she's in this, Mr. Fanks?"

"I can't say--yet. But she knows something. You get a candle,
and--hang this match," cried Fanks, "it has burnt my fingers."

As he uttered the exclamation the match, still alight, dropped on the
table among the black grains to which allusion has been made. There
was a flicker, a sparkle of light, and when Fanks struck another match
the grains had disappeared.

"Gunpowder!" said the detective, in a puzzled tone; "now, what
possible connection can gunpowder have with this matter?"

To this there was no answer; and by the glimmer of the single match,
the two men looked blankly at one another.




CHAPTER II.
A RECOGNITION.


Topping this discovery came the return of Mrs. Boazoph with a candle
and an apology. Her procedure was so exactly the same as that
suggested by Fanks that Crate could not forbear from paying the
tribute of an admiring chuckle to the perspicuity of his chief. Only
in her action with the tablecloth did Mrs. Boazoph vary from the
prescribed ritual.

"My regrets and apologies, sir," she said, addressing Fanks, with a
side glance at the table; "but one of the servants--an idle slut, whom
I have now discharged--turned off the gas at the meter by accident. I
hope that you were not alarmed by the sudden darkness. Permit me to
relight the burners."

And with this neat speech she mounted a chair with the activity of a
girl. Having remedied the accident she stumbled--or seemed to
stumble--in descending, and caught at the table to save herself,
thereby dragging the cloth on to the floor. Then it was that Crate
chuckled; whereupon Mrs. Boazoph was on her feet at once, with a look
of startled suspicion. However, as she had accomplished her object,
she recovered her equanimity speedily and made another apology, with a
lie tacked on to it.

"My regrets for the second accident," she remarked glibly, "but it is
due to overstrung nerves. Put it down to that gentleman, if you
please, and you will put it down to the right cause."

"Pray do not mention it, Mrs. Boazoph," said Fanks, significantly; "I
have already examined the cloth. And now, if you please, we will go
upstairs."

The woman drew back and bit her lip. She guessed that Fanks had seen
through her stratagem, and for the moment she was minded to excuse
herself. Fortunately her habitual caution saved her from a second
blunder; and she strove to conciliate Fanks by a piece of news.

"I trust that you will not think me presuming, sir," she said, "but in
the hope that there might be some chance of life remaining in It, I
sent for a doctor. He is now upstairs with It."

"Your kindness does you great credit," said Fanks, seeing his way
clear to a thrust, "you could not have behaved better if you had known
this man."

Holding the candle before her face, Mrs. Boazoph drew back a step,
with one hand clutching the bosom of her dress. Her composure gave
way.

"In one word, you suspect me," she cried with a glitter in her eyes.

"In one word, I suspect nobody," retorted Fanks. "I have not yet heard
all your story, remember."

"You know all that I know," said Mrs. Boazoph. "The man who came here
at six this evening--the man who lies dead upstairs, is a complete
stranger to me. I caught only a glimpse of him as he entered; I did
not speak to him. He asked for a private room in which to wait for a
friend. He was shown into this room, and waited. The <DW64> arrived ten
minutes later. I saw him--I showed him into this room; but indeed, Mr.
Fanks, I never set eyes on him before. The pair--white and black--were
together till close on seven. They had something to drink, for which
the dead man paid. I did not enter the room; it was the barmaid who
served them with drink. I did not know when the <DW64> went; but,
wanting the room for some other gentlemen, I knocked at the door at
seven o'clock to ask if they had finished their conversation. I
received no reply; I opened the door; I entered; I found the white man
dead, the <DW64> absent. After removing the body upstairs and covering
it with a sheet, as any decent woman would, I sent for the police.
That is all; I swear that it is the truth. Say what you please; do
what you please; you cannot fasten this crime on to me."

Fanks listened to this speech with great imperturbability, and made
but one comment thereon.

"I took you for a clever woman, Mrs. Boazoph," he said, "evidently I
have been wrong. Will you be so kind as to light us upstairs."

Mrs. Boazoph thrust the candle into his hands.

"I have seen _It_ once; I refuse to look upon it again."

She passed out of the room shaking as with the ague. Fanks nodded in a
satisfied way, and beckoning to Crate, he went upstairs. A frightened
housemaid on the landing indicated the room of which they were in
search; and they entered it to come face to face with the doctor
summoned by the zealous landlady. He introduced himself as Dr.
Renshaw, and made this announcement with a bland smile and a
condescending bow. Fanks eyed his tall and burly figure; his
Napoleonic countenance; his smooth, brown beard and his perfect dress.
There was a look about the man which he did not like; and he
mistrusted the uneasy glance of the hard, grey eyes. The detective
relied largely on his instinct. In this case it warned him against the
false geniality of Dr. Renshaw.

"The representatives of the law, I believe," said the medical man in a
deep and rolling voice. "I was about to take my departure; but if I
can be of service in the interests of justice, pray command me."

"I suppose there is no doubt that our friend there is dead," said
Fanks.

"Dead as Caesar, sir," said the magnificent doctor, waving his arm.

"Caesar died by steel," remarked Fanks significantly. "It appears that
this man died in an easier manner."

"There is another parallel," said the doctor, condescending to add to
the historical knowledge of the detective. "If we may believe Brutus,
the great Julius was slain as a traitor to the republic. This unknown
man," added Renshaw, pointing to the body, "also died the death of a
traitor."

"If, as you say, the dead man is unknown," said Fanks quickly, "how
can you tell that he was a traitor?"

"By inference and deduction," was the reply. "You can judge for
yourself. Far be it from me that I should set my opinion against that
of the law; but I have a theory. Would you care to hear it? If I may
venture on a jest," said Renshaw with ponderous playfulness, "the
medical mouse may help the legal lion."

"Let us hear your theory by all means," said Fanks easily, "but first
permit me to speak with my assistant."

The doctor bowed and passed over to the other side of the bed; while
Fanks went with Crate to the door. Here he hesitated, glanced at the
doctor, and finally led his subordinate into the passage.

"Crate!" he said in a rapid whisper, "I mistrust that man. He will
shortly leave this place. Follow him and find out where he lives. Then
set someone to watch the place, and return to me."

"Do you think that he has anything to do with it?" asked Crate.

"I can't say at present. I may be wrong about him and about Mrs.
Boazoph; all the same I mistrust the pair of them. Now off with you."

When Crate departed to watch for the outcoming of the doctor, Fanks
re-entered the chamber of death. Renshaw still stood beside the bed,
and seemingly had not moved from that position. Nevertheless, a mat
placed midway between bed and door, was rucked up. By the merest
accident Fanks had previously noticed that it was lying flat. Thence
he deduced that Renshaw had crossed to the door. In plain words,
Renshaw had been listening. Fanks was confirmed in this opinion by the
complacent smile which played round the lips of the doctor.

"Now for your theory, Doctor," said Fanks, noting all, but saying
nothing.

"Certainly, sir. As a detective you know, of course, of the existence
of secret societies."

"I do; and I know also that those who reveal the doings of such
societies are punished. Go on, Doctor."

"First you must inspect the body," replied Renshaw.

He drew down the sheet which concealed the face of the dead. In the
cruel glare of the gaslight, Fanks beheld a countenance discoloured
and distorted. The head was that of a young man with brown and curly
hair, well-marked eyebrows, and a moustache of the same hue as the
hair. The body was clothed in moleskin trousers, and a flannel shirt.
From the bedpost hung a rough, grey coat, and a cloth cap. A glance
assured Fanks that these clothes of a working man were perfectly new;
another glance confirmed his first belief that the dead man was a
gentleman. On looking intently into the face he started back in
surprise; but recovering himself, said nothing. If the doctor had
observed his action, he made no pointed remark thereon; but set it
down merely to a natural feeling of repulsion.

"I do not wonder that the state of the body revolts you, sir," he
said. "The corpse is swollen and discoloured in a terrible manner. Of
course, I can say nothing authoritatively until the post mortem has
been made; but from all appearances I am inclined to ascribe the death
to poison."

"Ah; then it is a case of murder?"

"So you say, sir; the secret society to which this man belongs, would
call it a punishment."

"How do you know that this man belongs to a secret society. Do you
recognise the body?"

"No, sir. The man is nameless so far as I am concerned. There are no
marks on his linen or clothes; and there are no papers in his pockets
likely to identify him. Oh, believe me, sir, the society has done its
work well."

"You seem to be very confident about your secret society?"

The doctor bent over the body, and rolled up the shirt sleeve of the
left arm. Between elbow and shoulder there appeared a swollen mark in
the shape of a rude cross, surrounded by a wheel; violet in colour,
and slashed across with a knife. To this he pointed in silence.

"I see what you mean," said Fanks, twisting his signet ring; always a
sign of perplexity with him. "The secret mark of the society has been
obliterated."

"Precisely. Now you can understand, sir, why I infer that this man was
a traitor. Evidently the <DW64>--of whose presence Mrs. Boazoph
informed me--was the emissary of the society, and killed this traitor
by poison. Afterwards, as was natural, he obliterated the secret mark
by drawing his knife across it."

"He did not do his work thoroughly then, Doctor. The secret mark is a
cross."

"The secret mark is more than a cross, sir," replied the doctor, "else
you may be sure that the <DW64> would have obliterated it more
perfectly."

The detective replaced the sheet over the face of the dead: and
prepared, as did the doctor, to leave the room. They turned down the
gas and departed; but while descending the stairs, Renshaw asked Fanks
a question.

"Are you satisfied that my explanation is a correct one?" he demanded.

"I am perfectly satisfied," said Fanks, looking directly at the man.

Strange to say, this unhesitating acceptance appeared to render
Renshaw uneasy; and the flow of his magnificent speech broke up in
confusion.

"I may be wrong," he muttered. "We are all liable to error; but such
as it is, that is my opinion."

"You would be willing to repeat that opinion at the inquest, Doctor?"

Renshaw drew back with a shudder.

"Is it necessary that I should go to the inquest?" he asked faintly.

"I think so," replied Fanks significantly. "You were the first to see
the corpse. You will have to describe the state in which you found it.
Your address if you please?"

"Twenty-four, Great Auk Street," said Renshaw, after some hesitation.
"I am staying there at present."

"Staying there?"

"Yes! I--I--not practise in London. I do not practise at all, in fact.
I travel--I travel a great deal. In two weeks I go to India."

"You must go first to the inquest," responded Fanks dryly. "But if you
do not practise in London, how comes it that Mrs. Boazoph sent for
you?"

"She did not send for me," explained the doctor, "but for my friend,
Dr. Turnor; he is absent on a holiday, and I am acting as his locum
tenens for a short period."

"Thank you, Doctor; that is a thoroughly satisfactory explanation;
quite as satisfactory as your theory of the death. Good evening. I
should recommend a glass of brandy; you look as though you needed it."

"Weak heart!" muttered Renshaw in explanation, and took his departure
with evident relief. But before he left the hotel, he acted on the
detective's suggestion. Mrs. Boazoph gave him the brandy with her own
hands. The action afforded her an opportunity of exchanging a few
words with him. Fanks thwarted her intent by also entering the bar,
and asking for refreshment; whereupon, the doctor finished his liquor
and departed.

Left alone with Fanks, the landlady drew a breath of relief, and
addressed herself to the detective.

"Do you wish to know anything else, sir," she said coldly. "If not,
with your permission, I shall retire to bed."

"I have learned all I wish to know at present, thank you, Mrs.
Boazoph. Go to bed by all means. I am sure that you need rest after
your anxiety."

The landlady, looking worn out and haggard, retired, and Fanks went to
the door to wait for Crate's return. In the meantime he made notes and
formed theories; these will be revealed hereafter, but in the meantime
the case was in too crude a state for him to come to the smallest
conclusion. However, he had already decided on the next step. In the
chamber of death he had made an important discovery which enabled him
to move in the matter.

In half an hour Crate returned with the information that Dr. Renshaw
had entered No. 24, Great Auk Street; and that he had set a detective
to watch the house. Fanks smiled on receiving this report.

"He is cleverer than I thought," he murmured; and left Tooley's Alley
with Crate.

"Well, Mr. Fanks, whom do you suspect?"

"No one at present, Crate."

"Oh! and what do you do next?"

"Make certain of the dead man's identity."

Crate stopped in surprise.

"Do you know who he is, Mr. Fanks?"

"Yes! He is a friend of my own. Sir Gregory Fellenger, Baronet."




CHAPTER III.
THE RESULT OF THE CRIME.


A week after his discovery of the identity of the dead man, Fanks,
having slipped his detective skin for the time being, was seated in
the writing room of the Athenian Club, with the "Morning Planet"
newspaper on his knee. He was not reading it, however, but was looking
absently at a long and lean young man, who was writing letters at a
near table.

Francis Garth, of the Middle Temple, barrister and journalist, was
one of the few West End men who knew the real profession of Rixton,
alias Fanks. In fact, there was very little he did not know; and
Fanks--as it will be convenient to call the detective--was debating as
to whether he should question him about the Tooley Alley crime. He was
urged to this course by the remembrance that he had seen Garth at the
inquest. This had been held on the previous day. The jury had brought
in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown,
and the conduct of the case had been placed officially in the hands of
Fanks. So far all was ship-shape.

And now the detective found himself at a standstill. No evidence had
been brought forward implicating either Mrs. Boazoph or Dr. Renshaw;
and, doubtful as was Fanks as to their honesty, he could gain no clue
from the one or the other of them likely to elucidate the mystery.
Failing this, he had determined to learn if possible all about the
previous life of the deceased, and in this way discover if anyone was
likely to be a gainer by his death. Garth, who had known the late Sir
Gregory intimately--who had been present at the inquest--was the most
likely person to furnish these details; and Fanks was waiting for an
opportunity of addressing him. On the result of the projected
conversation would depend his future movements.

"I say, Garth," said Fanks, "how much longer will your correspondence
take?"

"I shall be at your service in ten minutes," replied Garth, without
desisting from his occupation. "What do you wish to talk about?"

"About the death of your friend, Sir Gregory Fellenger."

Garth looked up and turned round with alacrity.

"Is the case in your hands, Fanks?"

"Yes; and I want some information from you."

"I shall be happy to give it. But wait for a few minutes; I am just
writing about it to a friend of mine--and yours."

"Humph! and the name?"

"Ted Hersham, the journalist."

They looked at one another, the same thought occupying both their
minds.

"Has your reason for writing anything to do with the left arm of our
friend?" asked Fanks, after a pause.

Garth nodded and returned to his work. When he had sealed, directed,
and stamped the letter Fanks spoke again.

"Garth?" he said; "I say, Garth?"

"Yes! What's the matter?"

"Don't send that letter till after our conversation."

"Ah! You guess why I am writing to him."

"My remark of a few moments ago ought to have shown you that," said
Fanks, dryly. "Yes; I guess your object, and I want you to leave the
case in my hands. It is too difficult a one for you to manage alone."

"I know that it is difficult, Fanks, but I wish to solve this
mystery."

"Because Fellenger was your friend?" asked Fanks.

"Because Fellenger was my cousin," replied Garth.

The announcement took Fanks by surprise, as he had not known of the
relationship. He was aware that Fellenger and Garth had been close
friends, but he knew little of the former, save as a club
acquaintance, and the latter was very reticent about his private
affairs, although he was curious concerning the affairs of others.

"So you wish to revenge the death of your cousin," he remarked after a
thoughtful moment.

Garth shrugged his shoulders.

"Hardly that," he replied; "between you and me, I did not care
overmuch for Fellenger. He was a bad lot, and we only held together
because of our relationship. But I should like to find out what took
him to Tooley's Alley and who killed him."

"A laudable curiosity. Do you suspect anybody?"

"Not a soul. I am as much in the dark as--you are."

"I may not be so much in the dark as you think," said the other.

"Then why did you ask me to assist you?" retorted Garth, sharply. "See
here, Fanks, I will tell you all that I know if you will promise to keep me
posted up concerning the progress of the case."

Fanks twisted his ring and reflected.

"I agree," he said briefly, "but you must not meddle--unless I tell
you to do so."

"Agreed!" And the pair shook hands on the bargain.

"And now," said Fanks, grimly, "that letter, if you please."

After a moment's hesitation Garth handed it over. He had a great
respect for the mental capacity of his friend, and on the whole he
judged it advisable to carry out the agreement which had been
concluded.

"Though I would send that letter if I were you," he expostulated;
"Hersham has----"

"I know what Hersham has," interrupted Fanks; "but I want him to see
me, not you. Wait till we know how we stand at the present moment.
Come into the smoking-room and answer my questions."

"What a peremptory chap you are," grumbled Garth, as they left the
room. "Evidently you don't confide in my discretion."

"I am about to do so," said Fanks, who understood the art of
conciliation; "we will work together, and all that I know you shall
know. But you must let me manage things in my own way."

In his heart Garth was flattered that Fanks should have chosen him as
his coadjutor, and, dominated by the stronger will of the detective,
he quietly took up the position of an underling. Garth was self-willed
and not usually amenable to reason; but Fanks had the law at his back,
without which Garth could not hope to do anything. Hence his
acquiescence.

"Come, now, old fellow," said Fanks, amiably, "we have a hard task
before us; so you must make it easier by answering my questions."

"Go on," said Garth, lighting a cigar; "I always give in to a man who
has had more experience than myself."

Fanks laughed at this delicate way of adjusting the situation, but as
he wished to keep on good terms with the touchy lawyer he let the
remark pass in silence. When they were fairly settled, and he saw that
they had the smoking-room to themselves, he took out his pocket-book
and began his examination as to the past of the dead man.

"The Fellengers are a Hampshire family, I believe?"

"Yes," replied Garth, with a nod; "Sir Gregory was the fourth baronet
and only son. The family seat is Mere Hall, near Bournemouth."

"You are Sir Gregory's cousin?"

"I am, on the mother's side."

"Who is the present baronet? Yourself or somebody else?"

"Somebody else," said Garth, with a sigh. "I should have told you if I
had been his heir. I wonder at so clever a man as you asking so very
frivolous a question."

"I have my reasons," said Fanks calmly. "Well, and who is the heir?"

"My cousin, Louis Fellenger; he is twenty-five years of age, and as
great a prig as ever lived."

"Where does he reside now?"

"I believe that he has gone to Mere Hall to take possession of the
property. But he did live at Taxton-on-Thames, a village near
Weybridge."

"Do you know Sir Louis intimately?"

"No. I have only seen him once or twice. He is a bookish, scientific
man, and an invalid;--at least," corrected Garth, "he has always a
doctor living with him; a tall, fat brute, called Binjoy, who twists
him round his finger. He has been with him for years."

"A tall, fat brute," repeated Fanks, smiling at this amiable
description. "Has the gentleman in question a long, brown beard?"

"No, he is clean shaven. A pompous creature, fond of using long words,
and proud of his voice and oratorial powers. Something like
'Conversation Kenge' in 'Bleak House.'"

"Humph!" said Fanks, rather struck by the description, which was not
unlike that of Renshaw, "we will discuss Dr. Binjoy later on. In the
meantime, just enlighten me as to your precise relationship with the
present baronet."

"It's easily understood. Gregory's father, Sir Francis--after whom I
was named--had a brother and sister. She married my respected father,
Richard Garth, and I am the sole offspring."

"And the brother was the father of the present Sir Louis?"

"Exactly. There is a great deal of similarity between all three cases.
Gregory was an only child and his parents are dead; Louis is an only
child, and his parents have also gone the way of all flesh; I am an
only child, and I am likewise an orphan."

Fanks made a note of the family tree in his book.

"So far so good," he said, with a nod. "Sir Gregory is dead and Sir
Louis has succeeded him; if Louis dies without issue, you are the
heir. And failing you?"

"The property goes to the Crown," replied Garth. "Louis and I are the
sole representatives of the Fellengers."

"The race has dwindled considerably. Now what about your dead cousin.
He was a trifle rapid, I believe?"

"A regular bad lot; but I kept in with him because--well, because he
was useful to me. Understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Fanks, who knew of Garth's financial
difficulties. "We will pass that. Have you any idea what took him to
Tooley's Alley?"

"Not the slightest. I saw him two days before his death--on the
nineteenth--and he said nothing about going there then."

"Did he behave as usual towards you?"

"No. He was out of sorts. He had lost a lot of money at cards, I
believe, and he was crabbed in consequence."

"There was no other trouble; no financial difficulty?"

"Not that I know of. Fast as he was, he could not get through ten
thousand a year before the age of twenty-eight."

"I have known men who have done so," said Fanks dryly. "However, if it
was not a question of money, what about the inevitable woman?"

"I don't think it was that, either," demurred Garth. "It was a man he
met--a <DW64>--not a woman."

"True. Well, you were at the inquest?"--

"How do you know?" asked Garth, starting.

"I saw you there in the crowd."

"You see everything, Fanks."

"It is my business to see everything, Garth. It is because you were at
the inquest that I sought you out to-day. Now that you have explained
to me your relationship to Sir Gregory I understand why you were
present. But to return to the main point. You heard the theory of Dr.
Renshaw?"

"Yes," replied Garth reflectively. "There might be something in that
secret society business. Not, mind you, that Gregory was the man to
meddle with rubbish of that kind. He was too much of a fool; but one
never knows; a man does not have a cross tattooed on his arm for
nothing."

"Do you think that it is the mark of a revolutionary society?"

"I can't say; I should like to know. That is why I was writing to
Hersham. Of course you know that he----"

"I know that he has a cross tattooed on his arm also. And it is for
that reason that I reject your secret society business."

"It isn't mine. I am merely following the lead of Renshaw."

"Then you are following a will-o-the-wisp," retorted Fanks. "See here,
Garth. I have known Hersham for a long time; he is the son of a
clergyman in the Isle of Wight. He was brought up to the law like
yourself; and also like yourself, he left it for journalism. As you
know, he is a merry, open-minded creature, who could not conceal a
secret if his life depended upon it. Do you think that if he had been
mixed up with secret societies that he would have been able to conceal
the fact from me?"

"Then why is there a cross tattooed on his left arm?" asked Garth.

"I intend to see him and find out. I noticed it long ago; but made no
remark on it, thinking that it was the result of some school-boy
freak. Now it has assumed a new importance in my eyes. Therefore you
must let me interview Hersham, and choose my own time and place for
doing so."

"I suppose you are right. Tear up that letter, please." Fanks held out
the letter.

"Tear it up yourself," he said.

This Garth did without further remark, and looked at his friend.

"What do you intend to do now?" he asked.

"Continue this conversation for a few minutes longer. You were
intimate with the dead man, Garth. Did you ever notice this cross?"

"I did not," said Garth, promptly, "or I should have asked what it
meant. By Jove!" he added, with a start. "Then all that obliteration
business must be nonsense."

"Of course," assented Fanks, smoothly. "I came to that conclusion long
ago. Fellenger had no cross on his arm when he entered Tooley's Alley.
It was tattooed that night by the <DW64>."

"What makes you think that?"

"I found a few grains of gunpowder on the tablecloth of the room in
which they were together; gunpowder is used in tattooing. Again, the
arm, when Renshaw showed it to me, was raw, as though the operation
had been done lately."

"But why should Gregory go to Tooley's Alley to be tattooed?"

"Tell me that, and the mystery of his death is at an end," said Fanks,
significantly. "But I am certain that Fellenger voluntarily let this
<DW64> tattoo his arm; and so came by his death."

"Came by his death," echoed Garth in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"Why," answered Fanks, seriously, "I mean that the needle used for the
tattooing was poisoned; and so--," he shrugged his shoulders, "--the
man died."




CHAPTER IV.
ANOTHER DISCOVERY.


Informed of this astounding fact, Garth stared at his friend in blank
astonishment. The detective resumed his cigar, and waited.

"You cannot be in earnest," said the barrister after a pause.

"Why not? The theory is feasible enough. It was proved at the inquest
that the man died from blood-poisoning."

"Yes. But it might have been administered in the liquor. The pair had
drinks, remember."

"I have not forgotten," said Fanks quietly, "but on your part remember
that no trace of poison was found in the stomach; while the blood was
so corrupted, as to show that the deceased had been inoculated with
some powerful vegetable poison. There was no mark on the body, save
the cross on the left arm; and, by your own showing, it was not there
when Fellenger went to Tooley's Alley. The assumption is that it was
done there; as is more than confirmed by the presence of gunpowder."

"Again, according to Mrs. Boazoph, there was no struggle; therefore
the deceased must have passed away quietly. My inference is that this
<DW64> desired to kill Sir Gregory--or else he was instructed to do so
by some one else who wished for the death of your cousin. What then so
easy, as for the <DW64> to have a poisoned needle prepared to execute
the tattooing. Quite unaware of the danger, Fellenger--for some
unknown reason--would permit the insertion of the fatal needle. As the
work went on, he would gradually be inoculated with the poison. When
the gunpowder and acids were applied the job would be finished, and he
would pull down his sleeve, quite ignorant that to all intents and
purposes he was a dead man. Then he sat and chatted with the <DW64>
till the end came; when he sank into a state of coma and died. When
certain that the death was an assured fact, the <DW64> took his
departure. Oh, it is all as plain as day to me;--all excepting one
fact."

"And that fact?"

"Why did Fellenger get a <DW64> in Tooley's Alley to tattoo him."

Garth reflected.

"I can only conclude that a secret--"

"Rubbish!" said Fanks, contemptuously, "you and your secret societies.
I tell you that is all nonsense. Even assuming that the cross is an
emblem of some association--which I do not grant for a moment--we have
proved that it was not tattooed on your cousin's arm when he went to
keep his appointment; therefore he could not at that time have been a
member of your mythical society. If, on the other hand, he was being
made a member--a ceremony which would not have taken place in a low
pot-house--why should he be killed? These societies admit living men
to work their ends; they have no use for dead bodies."

"That is all true enough, Fanks. We must reject the idea of a secret
society. But in an affair of robbery and murder--"

"In such an affair, the method of procedure would be different. A
bludgeon--a sand-bag--a knife--any of these weapons if you please. But
if this <DW64> had designed to rob Fellenger, he need not have
ingratiated himself into his confidence to permit the performance of
so delicate an operation as that of the poisoned needle. No. We must
reject that theory also."

"Then what do you think was the motive of the murder?"

"I am not a detective out of a novel, Mr. Garth. Ask me an easier
question."

He rose from his seat and began to walk to and fro. "The whole mystery
lies in the tattooing," he muttered to himself. "If I can only find
out why Sir Gregory permitted that cross to be tattooed; and why he
went to Tooley's Alley to have it done, I shall discover the
assassin."

"Hersham has a tattooed cross on his left arm," said Garth, "perhaps
he can explain the riddle."

"Perhaps he can; perhaps he can't," returned Fanks, sharply. "The
coincidence is certainly curious. I shall see and question Hersham;
but there is much to be done before then. You must help me, Garth."

"I am willing to do whatever you wish, my friend."

"Ah," said Fanks with a smile, "you have a touch of detective fever. I
suffer from it myself notwithstanding my experience. The unravelling
of these criminal problems is like gambling; a never-failing source of
excitement; and, like gambling, chance enters largely into their
solution."

"I don't see much 'chance' in this case."

"Don't you think again. Why, the very fact that you and I should know
that Hersham has a tattooed cross on his left arm is a chance. Such
knowledge--which is mere chance knowledge--might lead to nothing; on
the other hand, it may help to find the man who killed your cousin."

"Surely you do not suspect Hersham?"

"Certainly not. Why should I suspect him on the evidence of the
tattooed cross. For all I or you know, it may be a simple coincidence,
such as crops up constantly in real life. No. I don't suspect
Hersham."

"Do you suspect anyone?"

"I don't suspect any special person of committing the murder; but I
suspect some people, and particularly one individual, of knowing more
than they chose to say. But this is beside the point. I wish you to
help me."

"By all means. What is it you want me to do?"

"You know the chambers of your cousin; by my desire they have been in
the hands of the police since his death. Fellenger's valet is also
there--detained by my desire. Now I wish to search the chambers for
possible evidence and to examine him. You must take me there at once."

"Is it necessary when, by your own showing, you are all-supreme
already?"

"My friend," said Fanks, solemnly, "it is my experience that when the
lower orders--to which this valet belongs--come into contact with a
detective they are quite useless as witnesses, for the very simple
reason that the presence of the law paralyses them. To avoid this
danger you must introduce me into the chambers as a sympathising
friend only. You can question the servant in my presence, and having
got rid of him in the meantime, we can search the chambers together."

"But the police may recognise you."

"The police have their instructions; they will recognise me as Mr.
Rixton, of the West End."

Garth fell in readily with this scheme, and together the two men left
the club. As they proceeded along Piccadilly--the dead man's chambers
were in Half-Moon Street--Fanks resumed the conversation from the
point where it had been broken off.

"You have answered my questions capitally, Garth. Now, as we are
working together, I shall reply to anything you like to ask me."

The barrister, restored to a sense of importance by the thought of the
part he was about to play in the forthcoming interview with the valet,
availed himself readily of the opportunity of learning the plans of
the detective. Fanks had no hesitation in confiding them to him, as,
foreseeing that Garth would be necessary to the elucidation of the
mystery, he wished to interest him in the case as much as possible. He
was well aware that Garth was not the man to give up an idea when once
it had fixed itself in his head, and his present idea was to
investigate the mystery of his cousin's death. With characteristic
wisdom Fanks, who never wasted a person or an opportunity, made use of
this new factor in the case to further his own ends. Such economies
aided his frequent successes in no small degree.

"What are your plans?" asked Garth, taking advantage of the
permission.

"As yet I cannot be certain of them; but, so far as I can see at
present, they include the search and examination of chambers and
valet, a conversation with the landlady of the Red Star, a visit to
Taxton-on-Thames, and an interview with Dr. Renshaw."

"Why with the latter gentleman?"

"Because Renshaw is too confidential with Mrs. Boazoph, because he was
too conveniently on the spot at the time of the murder for my liking;
and, finally, because Renshaw had a cut-and-dried theory of the motive
of the crime prepared on the instant."

"You don't trust the man?"

"I think that his conduct is suspicious; but I do not accuse him of
anything--as yet."

"He does not look a man to be feared," said Garth, disbelievingly; "he
was very timid in giving his evidence at the inquest."

"That is one reason why I mistrust him. Dr. Renshaw is acting a part,
but I am unable to say whether he is mixed up in this especial affair.
I have my suspicions, but, as you know, I never like to speak unless
certain."

Garth looked curiously at the detective.

"You hint at the guilt of Mrs. Boazoph," he said, doubtfully.

"Do I? Then I should hold my tongue. There is no doubt that the <DW64>
committed the crime in the way that I told you of. But I believe that
he acted as the agent of a third party--not Mrs. Boazoph. I wish to
find out that party to hang him or her as an accessory before the
fact."

"You can't hang him or her."

"Perhaps not; but I can imprison him or her."

"Do you think that Mrs. Boazoph knows the motive of the crime?"

Fanks reflected.

"Yes, I think she does," he said, quietly; "it is my belief that the
motive for which you and I are searching is to be found in the past
life of Mrs. Boazoph."

"Her past is known to the police, is it not?"

"It is known for the last twenty years only. She appeared in London
twenty-one years ago, but who she is and where she came from, the
police know no more than you do."

"Then how can the motive be found in----"

"Garth," said Fanks, pausing, and touching the other with his finger,
"I have presentiments and premonitions; these rarely deceive me. In
this instance they point to Mrs. Boazoph. Do not ask me why, for I can
tell you no more. But I am sure that we are going forward on a dark
path; at the end of that path we will find--Mrs. Boazoph."

"I never thought that you were so superstitious, Fanks."

"I do not regard myself as so, I assure you. But," and here Fanks
became emphatic, "I believe in my instinct, in my presentiment."

Garth walked along in silence, rather inclined to ridicule the
apparent weakness of Fanks. However, he judged it wiser to keep these
thoughts to himself, and merely asked another question relative to the
<DW64>.

"I am at a loss about the <DW64>," said Fanks, "as I do not know where
to search for him. Under these circumstances I think it necessary to
follow the clue I hold in my hand. The going of your dead cousin to
Tooley's Alley to keep his appointment."

"How do you know that it was an appointment?"

"I learnt that much from Mrs. Boazoph. She said that the white man
came first and was asked for by the black man. That is an appointment,
and I wish to find out who made it."

"How can you discover that?"

"Well, I hope to do so by searching the chambers of your cousin. There
must be a letter or some sign whereby Fellenger knew where to meet the
<DW64>."

"The letter may have been destroyed."

"Possibly. From your knowledge of your cousin's character would you
think it probable that he would destroy the letter making the
appointment?"

"No," said Garth, after a moment's thought. "If the appointment was
made within the last month I should think that the letter was still in
existence."

"On what ground?" asked Fanks, eagerly.

"Well, Gregory used to read all his letters and then drop them into
the drawer of his desk. At the end of the month he went through the
pile, and the letters that were worth nothing were destroyed. So if
that letter making the appointment is in existence it will be in the
drawer of the desk."

"Good! This is a chance I hardly hoped to have."

"Chance again?"

"Yes; chance again," replied Fanks, good-humouredly. "How many men
burn their letters; but for the fortunate circumstance that your
cousin saved his for a month it would be almost hopeless to think of
gaining a clue; but now there is more than a hope."

"Provided that the appointment was made by letter."

"Of course," assented Fanks, gravely; "we must always take that into
consideration. But a question on my side. Did it strike you at the
inquest that there was a resemblance between Doctors Renshaw and
Binjoy?"

"I can't say that it did. Renshaw is much older than Binjoy, and he
wears a full beard, whereas Binjoy is shaven clean. Still they are
both burly; both have fine voices, and indulge in long words and
stately Johnsonian dialogue. You surely do not think the two men are
one and the same?"

"I have such an idea," said Fanks, dryly, "strange as it may appear.
But as my opinion is mainly founded on your description I may be
wrong. At all events Renshaw goes to India next week. If I find Binjoy
in the company of Sir Louis Fellenger after Renshaw's departure, I
shall admit my error. Otherwise--well, I must get to the bottom of the
matter."

"I have only seen each of them once," said Garth, "so do not depend
altogether on my powers of description."

"I won't. I depend on nothing but my own eyesight. For instance, if I
see a black man wearing a green overcoat with brass buttons, I shall
have a reasonable suspicion that I see the assassin of your cousin.
Hullo! what is the matter?"

For Garth was leaning against the iron railings of Green Park with a
look of dread on his face.

"By heaven, Fanks, you may be right!"

"About what?"

"About Renshaw and Binjoy being one and the same man."

"Indeed; what makes you think so," asked Fanks, dryly.

"Because Binjoy has a <DW64> servant who wears a green coat with brass
buttons."




CHAPTER V.
THE RED STAR ADVERTISEMENT.


Greatly to the surprise of Garth, the detective appeared to be
decidedly disappointed at this announcement.

"You don't seem to be overpleased at what I have told you," he said in
a tone of pique. "Yet it makes the case easier to you."

"I confess that I do not think so," was Fanks' reply. "I shall give
you my reasons after I have examined your cousin's rooms. At present I
must say that you have puzzled me."

Fanks' refusal to discuss the subject of the <DW64> did not at all
please Garth; especially as he considered that his discovery had
placed the solution of the case in their hands. But to his
protestations the detective only reiterated his determination to keep
silent, until the rooms had been searched. With this Garth was forced
to be content; although he could not conceive the reason of such
extraordinary conduct; and he ascended the stairs with an ill-grace.

"Were I in your place, I should follow out the clue of the <DW64>
without delay," he said, as they rang the bell.

"Were you in my place you would do as I am doing, and take time to
consider your movements," retorted Fanks as the door was opened.

Venturing on no further remonstrance Garth walked into the chambers,
followed by his friend. The servant who admitted them was a
light-complexioned, light-haired young fellow, who appeared to be
thoroughly frightened. His first remark exposed the reason of his
terror.

"I am afraid you can't come in, sir," he said to the cousin of his
late master, with a backward glance, "the police are here."

As he spoke a policeman made his appearance overflowing with official
importance. Prompted by Fanks the barrister at once addressed himself
to this Jack-in-office.

"I am the cousin of the late Sir Gregory Fellenger," he said, "and I
wish to go into the sitting-room for a few minutes."

"You can't enter, sir," said the policeman, stolidly.

"Why not; my friend here, Mr. Rixton----"

The officer started and looked at Fanks. Evidently he saw his orders
in the face of the detective; for he at once moved aside and granted
the desired permission. The valet Robert was astonished at this sudden
yielding; but he entertained no suspicion that there was any
understanding between the policeman and the fashionably-dressed young
man who had been introduced as Mr. Rixton. At a glance the detective
saw that he had to deal with a timid, simple creature, who might be
trusted to tell the truth out of sheer nervous apprehension. The
discovery afforded him satisfaction.

"I am much obliged to you, officer," said Garth, slipping a shilling
into the policeman's hand. "We shall not stay long. Robert, show us
into the sitting-room, if you please. I wish to ask a few questions."

A terrified expression flitted across the face of the mild valet, but
like a well-trained servant, he merely bowed and preceded Garth along
the passage. Fanks lingered behind.

"Maxwell!" he said to the policeman, "has anyone been here this
morning?"

"Yes, sir!" replied, the man, in a low tone. "A young lady, sir; very
pretty, with dark 'air and blue eyes. She asked to see Robert, sir."

"Oh, indeed! And how did you act?"

"I wouldn't let her see him, sir. He don't know she called."

"Quite right. What did she say when you refused?"

"She was upset, Mr. Fanks, and insisted on seeing him. I said as he
was out, so she said as she would call this afternoon at three
o'clock."

Fanks glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past two, so this unknown
woman might be expected in a short space of time. Fanks was curious to
see her and to learn the reason of her coming; as it might be that she
was indirectly connected with the case. As yet there was no woman
mixed up in the matter with the doubtful exception of Mrs. Boazoph;
but from long experience Fanks was sure that the necessary element
would yet appear. It seemed as though his expectations were about to
be realised.

"Was she a lady, Maxwell, or an imitation of one?"

"A real lady, sir; she gave me half a sov., sir."

"You had no business to take the money," he said, half smiling at
Maxwell's definition of what was a real lady.

"I couldn't help it, sir," said Maxwell, piteously, "she would give it
to me, sir. I am ready to return it, sir, if she should come back."

"Well! We shall see; show her into the sitting-room if she calls
again; has that valet been out to-day?"

"No, sir; he seems too frightened to go out. He does nothing but go
about the 'ouse 'owling. A poor miserable thing, Mr. Fanks."

"Has he said much to you?"

"Never a word, sir; he 'olds his tongue and 'owls; that's all."

This behaviour of the servant struck Fanks as strange; but he did not
make any comment thereon to the policeman. Again desiring Maxwell to
show the young lady into the room when she called, he went in search
of Garth. To his surprise he found the barrister alone.

"Where is Robert?" asked Fanks, sharply.

"I sent him out; thinking that we would search the room first."

"That won't do; we shall want his assistance, call him in at once."

Garth nodded and rang the bell. In a few minutes Robert, looking more
terrified than ever, made his appearance. With a glance at Fanks to
bespeak his attention--for the detective was lounging idly in a
chair--Garth began his interrogation at once.

"Robert," he said, with great deliberation, "how long have you been in
the service of my cousin?"

"Four years, sir."

"Was he a kind master?"

"A very kind master, sir. I would not wish for a better place."

"Do you remember the twenty-first of June?" asked the barrister, in
true police-court style.

"Yes, sir," replied the man with a shiver. "It was the night that my
master was murdered."

"At what time, did Sir Gregory leave the house?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know," repeated Garth, while Fanks pricked up his ears.
"Were you not in attendance on him?"

"No, sir. My master received a letter by the five o'clock post which
seemed to upset him very much. After a time he recovered and sent me
out to get seats for the theatre. When I got back at six he was gone.
I never saw him again," declared the man in a shaking voice, "never
again till I was called on to identify his dead body."

"You had no idea where your master was going?"

"No, sir! He did not tell me."

"When you left Sir Gregory to get seats for the theatre how was he
dressed?"

"In a frock coat and light trousers, sir; but when I saw the body it
was clothed in moleskin trousers and a flannel shirt."

"Did you ever see that disguise in his possession?"

"I can't say that I ever did, sir," replied the valet, hesitatingly.
"But the week before a parcel came for Sir Gregory, which he would not
let me open. I was about to do so when he stopped me. I think the
parcel contained the clothes--the disguise."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because the parcel was soft, and felt like clothes. Besides it came
from Weeks and Co., of Edgeware-road; and they sell more workmen's
clothes than anything else."

"On what day did the clothes arrive?" asked Fanks, idly.

"On the fourteenth, sir. I am certain of the date, because Sir Gregory
was taken ill in the morning."

"Taken ill!" repeated Garth. "At what time was he taken ill?"

"At breakfast, Mr. Garth, when he was reading the paper. He gave a cry
and I came in to find him in a faint like. I got him a glass of
brandy, and he dressed and went out. The parcel arrived in the
afternoon."

"What paper did your master take in?"

"The 'Morning Post,' sir," replied the man, turning to Fanks, who had
asked the question.

"The 'Morning Post' of the fourteenth. And where is the paper?"

"My master put it away, sir."

"Oh! Do you happen to know where he put it?"

"No, sir. I was out of the room at the time."

Fanks sank back in his chair and nodded to Garth to continue the
conversation; which the barrister did at once.

"How long had your master been in town before the murder?" he asked.

"About a month, sir. Before that we were at Mere Hall in----"

"I know where it is," said Garth, impatiently. "But about that letter
which came by the five o'clock post on the day of the crime. Did you
see it?"

"I saw the envelope when I brought it in, sir."

"Was the handwriting a man's or a woman's?"

"It was in female handwriting I am certain, sir."

"Your master was agitated when he opened it?"

"Very agitated, sir. He had an attack like that of the previous week
when he was reading the paper."

"The letter was from a woman?"

"I supposed it was, sir, judging from the handwriting."

"Had Sir Gregory anything to do at that time with any particular
woman?"

Robert grew even paler than usual, and placed his hand on his throat
with a nervous gesture. He replied, with difficulty, his eyes on the
ground.

"Not that I know of, sir," he said hoarsely.

Fanks was satisfied that the servant was lying,  but he made no
attempt to intervene. On the contrary, he signed to Garth to conclude
his examination and to let the man go. This the lawyer did forthwith.

"That is all, Robert; you can go. I shall remain here with Mr. Rixton
for a few minutes longer."

When the servant had taken his departure, Garth turned eagerly to his
friend. "Well, Fanks, and what do you think of all this?"

"I think that there is a woman at the bottom of it as usual."

"Mrs. Boazoph?"

"No, a younger and a prettier woman than Mrs. Boazoph. We will talk of
that later. In the meantime I wish to see that letter and the
advertisement."

"What advertisement?"

"The one in the 'Morning Post' which upset your cousin on the
fourteenth; in which drawer does he stow his letters?"

Garth went to the desk. He tried the middle drawer, but it was locked;
as were the other drawers. "He used to place his papers in the middle
drawer," said Garth, "but you see that it is closed."

"I thought it might be," said Fanks, producing a bunch of keys, "so I
brought these with me."

"No good. No skeleton keys will open these locks. They are of special
construction, and Gregory was very proud of them."

"These are the keys of the desk, Garth. They were found in the dead
man's pockets; and I brought them with me, in case the drawers should
be locked. I was right, it seems. And now let us make our search."

He opened the middle drawer and revealed a mass of letters all in the
envelopes in which they had come.

The two men went carefully through the pile; and in ten minutes they
were rewarded by finding the object of the search. The envelope, the
address of which, as had been stated by Robert, was in female
handwriting, contained three documents. Two printed slips cut from a
newspaper; a piece of cardboard in the shape of a five-rayed star,
painted red, and inscribed with some writing. Slips and star read as
follows:

The first printed slip, dated 14th June:

"Tattooed cross left arm. I alone know all. I alone can save you. If
you wish to feel secure, meet me when and where you please."

The second printed slip, dated 16th June:

"Tattooed cross left arm. I wish to feel secure. Name time and place,
and I shall be there."

The cardboard star, painted red:

[Illustration: Five pointed star with handwriting in arm viz.:
"Tooleys," "Alley," "21 June," "6-7," "Hotel."]




CHAPTER VI.
A STARTLING INCIDENT.


"Good!" said Fanks, surveying this documentary evidence with much
satisfaction. "We have more than hearsay to go on now. The case is
shaping better than I expected."

"You were right about an appointment having been made," said Garth.
"These slips and that star prove it."

"Yes! He who runs may read--now; but you were not so confident of my
foresight a few minutes ago. Well, we have made a step forward. Here
is the slip asking for the appointment; here is your cousin's reply,
leaving the question of the appointment to the first advertiser: and
finally here is the ingenious pictorial information indicating the Red
Star in Tooley's Alley, as the meeting-place. Sir Gregory disguised
himself in the workman's clothes bought from Weeks and Co., on the day
that the first notice appeared; kept the appointment between six and
seven; and so walked blindfolded into the trap of the Red Star, where
he met with his fate. The assassin laid his plans uncommonly well; but
she made one mistake."

"She! You don't mean to say that the murderer is a murderess?"

"No! The <DW64> killed Sir Gregory; that is beyond all doubt. But as I
said before, it is my opinion that the <DW64> was inspired by a third
party. Can't you see that the address on that envelope is in female
handwriting?"

"Certainly I can. But that does not prove that a woman inspired the
crime; you go too fast, Fanks."

"Perhaps I do, and, after all, I may be mistaken. But that address is
in no feigned hand; it was written by a woman. If a woman had nothing
to do with this death why should she bait the trap to lure the man to
his doom. And again, the directions on the cardboard star are in an
angular female hand. Both address and directions are in the
handwriting of an elderly woman."

"Come now!" cried Garth, disbelievingly. "You can't tell the woman's
age from her handwriting."

"I can tell that she is elderly. These angular, spiky letters were
formed by a woman who learned to write in early Victorian days. Female
handwriting has altered of late, my friend. The new woman goes in for
masculine handwriting, as well as for masculine dress. If a girl of
the present day had written this address, it would have been in a bold
and manly hand. As it is, I bet you five pounds that it was scribbled
by a woman over fifty."

"It may be so; but this is all deduction."

"Most of the evidence in criminal cases is circumstantial and
deductive. Another thing makes me think that it is a woman. There is a
great deal of useless mystery here. A man would not have troubled
about that. He would have inserted a third advertisement appointing
time and place; but this woman can't resist a touch of the mysterious.
Therefore she devises this silly cardboard star; sends it through the
post; and so betrays herself."

"How can she betray herself when there is no address?"

"There is no address; but there is a postmark. Look at the envelope."

Garth picked up the paper, and saw that the postmark was
Taxton-on-Thames.

"Why!" he cried in astonishment, "that is where my cousin Louis
lives."

"Yes, and it is where Dr. Binjoy lives, which is more to the purpose,"
said Fanks, dryly. "Did I not tell you that I was right to doubt that
gentleman."

Garth looked again at the envelope. "You say that this handwriting is
that of an elderly woman. I suppose you are thinking of Mrs. Boazoph?"

"Indeed I am not. I give Mrs. Boazoph more credit than to murder a man
in her own hotel and advertise the fact so openly. She is not a fool.
But patience, Garth, we are not yet at the end of our discoveries."

He again searched the drawers. In many of them there was nothing
likely to attract his attention; but in the lowest drawer on the right
hand side, Garth made a discovery. It was that of a pretty girl's
photograph, and this he showed to Fanks with a laugh.

"Gregory always had a weakness for pretty faces," he remarked. "Do you
not think that his taste was good?"

Fanks looked reflectively at the picture. It was that of a girl just
budding into womanhood, with a delicate face, and rather sad eyes. The
name of the artist was not printed at the foot, as is usual, nor was
the address of the studio inscribed thereon. Nevertheless, on the back
of the photograph the detective found writing which startled him.

"Garth!" he cried eagerly, "give me that envelope. Ah, I thought so."

"What is the matter?" asked Garth, astonished at the excitement of the
usually calm Fanks.

"Look at the envelope; look at the back of the photograph; compare the
handwritings."

Fanks placed them side by side on the desk. On the envelope was the
address of Sir Gregory in Half-Moon Street; on the photograph, an
inscription which ran as follows: "Emma. Born 1874; died 1893." The
handwriting on both was one and the same. Garth drew a long breath.

"By George, that is strange," he said, after a pause, "the woman who
wrote the one, wrote the other; there isn't a shadow of difference
between the writings. You are right, Fanks, the penmanship is that of
an elderly woman; no doubt the mother of the girl."

"That is my opinion also; but the girl, Garth? Who is she?"

The lawyer reflected and frowned. "I did hear that my cousin was
entangled with some woman," he said with reluctance. "But that was
many months ago. In fact, there was a rumour of a marriage. I asked
Gregory if this was so, and received a prompt denial. But for all
that," added Garth, looking at the portrait, "there might have been
some truth in the rumours. I never saw this lady; but my cousin could
be very secretive when he liked. Seventy-four to ninety-three; just
nineteen. Poor creature! Whosoever she was, I am certain that he
treated her badly."

"You may judge him too harshly."

Garth shook his head with a gloomy air. "I knew my cousin well," he
said. "He would have killed any woman with unkindness."

They looked at one another, and back at the photograph. There was
something sinister in the fact that the two articles were inscribed in
the same handwriting. The writing on the photograph recorded the
decease of a pretty woman; that on the envelope had lured the baronet
to his death. Was it possible that the follies of Sir Gregory had come
home to him in so fearful a fashion. The two men could not but incline
to this opinion.

"Well!" said Fanks, after a long pause, "I should like to ask Robert
what he knows about this woman."

"Very probably he knows nothing."

"I am not so certain about that," replied Fanks, "When you asked him
about a woman--about a possible entanglement, he could hardly speak
for fear; and he told a lie about it. He is a servile hound, that
fellow, and I daresay he did all Fellenger's dirty work for him. We
must have him in and force the truth from his unwilling lips."

"Will you go away after you have seen him?" said Garth, who was
beginning to weary of the matter.

"No. I wish to wait and see--a girl."

"A girl! What girl?"

"A young lady who called this morning to see Robert. Maxwell told her
the necessary lie that Robert was out, so she said she would call
again this afternoon at three."

"It is past three now," said Garth, glancing at the clock.

"All the better; she may appear at any moment. Maxwell has my orders
to show her in here."

"And then?"

"And then I shall find out why a lady should call upon that miserable
dog of a valet. In the meantime touch the bell and have him in."

"Shall I question him?"

"If you please. I wish to remain incognito."

Robert answered the bell so promptly as to suggest the probability
that he had been stationed at the keyhole. His face, however, was as
vacant and miserable as ever, so even if he had overheard, Fanks did
not think that he had sufficient brains to be dangerous. The valet
waited mutely for orders, with a cowed look on his face, and rubbed
one lean hand over the other. He was an uncomfortable creature in
every respect.

"Robert," said Garth, in as mild a tone as was possible, "I was
authorised by the police to look over my cousin's papers. I have done
so with the assistance of Mr. Rixton, and we have made several
discoveries."

"Yes, sir," said the man, moistening his dry lips.

"Do you know Taxton-on-Thames?"

"No, sir; I never heard of it."

Startled by this calm denial, Fanks bent forward to observe the man's
face. He was satisfied by a glance that Robert had spoken the truth;
he had never heard of Taxton-on-Thames. This discovery puzzled the
detective.

"Did your master--your late master--know of it?" he interpolated.

"Not that I am aware of, sir; he never mentioned the name to me."

"Robert," said Garth, solemnly, "you denied some time ago that Sir
Gregory was entangled with a woman. Think again and answer truly."

Robert shifted from one foot to the other and looked uneasily at his
questioner. Then he made an evasive reply.

"Sir Gregory was connected with no woman at the time of his death," he
said, doggedly.

"That may be; but was he connected with a woman in 1893?"

The valet started back with a gasp.

"How did you hear of that?" he asked, shaking in every limb.

"I heard it from no one; but I guessed it from this picture."

With a sudden movement he thrust the photograph under the eyes of the
pale and trembling creature. After one glance Robert recoiled with an
ejaculation of horror, and covered his face with his hands. Expecting
revelations, Fanks waited and watched.

"Come!" said Garth, quietly, "I see that you recognise the woman. Her
name, if you please?"

"I--I--promised never to speak of her."

"You must--for your own sake."

"I dare not. Let me go, Mr. Garth!"

He broke away from the lawyer, but before he could reach the door he
was in the grip of Fanks. "Come, Robert," said the latter, soothingly,
"you must make the best of a bad job. I know that you were devoted to
your master. At the same time he is dead, and it is necessary that the
mystery of his death should be cleared up. On the whole," added Fanks,
looking into the eyes of the servant, "I think it advisable that you
should confess."

"The woman you speak of had nothing to do with the death of my
master."

"I am not asking you that. I am inquiring her name. Answer!"

The sudden imperiousness in the detective's tone made Robert's heart
sink within him. He was incapable of a prolonged struggle, and
forthwith answered with all submissiveness--

"I--I--don't know her real name."

"What did she call herself?"

"Emma Calvert."

"Ah! And what did you call her, Robert?"

The valet looked at Garth with a look of malicious triumph. "I called
her Lady Fellenger," he said slowly.

Garth sprang up with a sudden exclamation, but he was stopped by
Fanks, who rapidly questioned the valet. "Was Emma Calvert really and
truly the wife of your master?"

"Yes, sir; they were married quietly in a Hampstead church. She was in
a dressmaker's shop, and my master was very much in love with her. I
heard that she was engaged to another gentleman, but she threw him
over, and married Sir Gregory before they went to Paris."

"So rumour was right for once," said Garth, shrugging his shoulders.
"Well, whether Gregory was married or single matters little to me. I
am not the heir."

"It may matter a great deal to the case," remarked Fanks, dryly.
"Perhaps, Robert, you can tell me where Emma Calvert came from?"

"I do not know; my master knew, but he never told me. Lady Fellenger
did not speak of her past in my presence."

"And where is she now?"

"Dead; she died in Paris."

"I see that you are telling the truth. She died in 1893."

"How did she die?"

"I can't answer you," burst out Robert, in a frenzy. "You will drive
me mad. Night and day I have her dead face before me. Look at me," he
continued, holding out his trembling hands. "I am a wreck of what I
was once. All through the death of Emma Calvert, of Lady Fellenger."

The two listeners arose to their feet. What dark mystery was connected
with the death of this woman that could so move the man? In searching
for one murder had they stumbled upon another?

"Did she meet her death; by foul play?" asked Garth, sternly.

"No! No! I swear it was not that; but she did not get on well with my
master. He wearied of her, he neglected her; she was very proud and
impulsive; and one night after a great scene--she--she----"

"Well, man--well?"

"She--she destroyed herself."

"Great heavens!" cried Garth, confirmed in his worst fears. "Suicide?"

"She drowned herself in the Seine," said Robert, in a low voice.

As he spoke a woman appeared on the threshold of the open door. Robert
gave one look at her, and raised his hands with a cry. "The dead!" he
moaned, retreating from the woman. "The dead returned to life. I saw
her laid out. I saw her buried; yet she is there--there!" and with a
cry he fell on the floor in a fit.

The others made no attempt to assist him. They were staring spellbound
at the woman. She was the original of the photograph which Garth held
in his hand.




CHAPTER VII.
DIFFICULTIES.


The woman who had caused this commotion stood in the doorway, looking
on in some surprise. She was dressed in the semi-masculine fashion now
affected by the sex--a serge gown, short and smart in appearance, a
natty jacket of the same material, worn over a black striped shirt,
and a Tyrolean hat of brown felt. Her face was oval and waxen in its
pallor, her eyes of a dark blue, and her hair black and luxuriant. A
look of determination was impressed on lip and eye, but this gave
place to an expression of surprise when she saw Robert fall on the
floor. Finally, when her eyes met those of Fanks', she started and
shrank back. Maxwell peered over her shoulder in gaping astonishment;
and for quite half a minute there was a dramatic pause. It was broken
by the woman, who stepped forward and addressed herself to Fanks.

"You see how the sight of me terrifies this wretch," she said,
pointing to the man on the floor; "you shall hear from other lips than
mine how he treated his master's wife. Wait, gentlemen, till I bring
up my friend to confront this man."

And with these extraordinary words she pushed back Maxwell and
disappeared.

Quite believing that she spoke in all good faith, Fanks made no sign
that she should be stopped. Indeed, he was too dumbfounded by the
strangeness of the situation to speak; and he looked helplessly at
Garth.

That gentleman was, if possible, even more surprised than his friend.
The sudden appearance of the presumably dead woman at once alarmed and
astonished them both; and they knew not what to make of the matter.

"Do you believe that it is Emma Calvert?" asked Garth, who was the
first to recover the use of his tongue.

"Emma Calvert, my friend?"

"Well, then, Lady Fellenger, if you prefer it."

"It doesn't matter what we call her," rejoined Fanks, with a shrug,
"seeing that she is dead."

"But she is not dead."

Fanks again shrugged his shoulders, and pointed to the photograph.
"The card says that Emma Calvert is dead," he remarked; "the valet
says that Emma Calvert is dead. How then can this living woman be Emma
Calvert, Lady Fellenger?"

"I can't explain," said Garth, obstinately, "but I am sure of one
thing; that she is the original of this picture."

"It would appear so," said Fanks, looking puzzled; "and yet--upon my
word, it is the most extraordinary thing I ever saw in life. Garth,
for once you see me at my wit's end and thoroughly mystified."

"Wait, Fanks. Wait the explanation of this woman; hear the story of
her friend. In the meantime, let us revive this wretched creature."

"He is in a kind of fit," said Fanks, kneeling down and loosening the
collar of the insensible man. "Get some water, Garth, and you,
Maxwell, go down and see if that woman and her friend are coming up.
We may as well see this business out."

These directions were obeyed, and Garth soon returned with a glass of
water, while Fanks--always provided against emergencies--produced a
smelling bottle and a flask of brandy. While thus employed they were
interrupted by Maxwell, with a look of alarm on his face.

"Well!" said Fanks, sharply. "Where is this woman and her friend?"

"I don't know about her friend, sir; but she's gone off."

Fanks sprang to his feet. "Gone off!" he repeated. "What do you mean?"

"What I say, sir," said the policeman, doggedly. "I went down and
could not see her. I asked the constable at the door, and he said as
she had drove off in a hansom."

A look of mingled surprise and distrust settled on the face of Fanks.
In a moment he guessed without much difficulty that the woman had
tricked him, and he felt small in his own estimation at having been so
neatly baffled. It was the most humiliating moment of his life.

"Attend to this man with Mr. Garth," he said roughly, "I shall see for
myself;" and, blaming himself for his simplicity, he caught up his hat
and took himself out of the chambers.

At the street door he looked up and down, but ho could see no trace of
the missing woman. A constable loitered on the pavement some distance
away, and although he was a stranger to Fanks the detective accosted
him without the least hesitation. This was less the time for
considering than for acting. Every moment was precious; every moment
lessened the chance of tracking and discovering the woman. Fanks, as a
rule, was one of the most self-contained of men, rarely losing his
self-control or cool temper, but at this moment he could have sworn
freely at his want of caution which had let a possible witness in the
case slip through his fingers. But he hoped that there was yet time to
retrieve his fault. "Officer," he said, walking quickly up to the
constable, "did you see a lady come out of yonder door?"

"Yes, sir. The policeman upstairs just asked me about her. She went
away in a hansom five minutes ago. I see it drive off like mad."

"Were you near at hand?"

"Just at her elber, so to speak, sir."

"Did you hear what address she gave the cabman?"

"What do you want to know for, sir?" asked the policeman, in a gruff
way.

"That is my business and not yours," retorted Fanks, unused to being
thwarted by members of the force; "I am Fanks, the detective, and I am
here on business. Quick, man, the address?"

As Maxwell had hinted that a detective was upstairs, the policeman at
once believed this statement and saluted respectfully. "She didn't
give no perticler address, but she jest said Piccadilly promiscus."

"What part of Piccadilly?" demanded Fanks, hailing a hansom.

"Jest Piccadilly, and no more, sir," repeated the officer.

"Do you know the number of the cab?"

"No, sir; there weren't no occasion of me to take it."

"Of course, of course," muttered Fanks, testily. "Can you describe the
hansom? Was there any particular mark, by which I can recognise it?"

"Well, sir, I did note as it had a red, white, and blue suncloth over
the roof, with a cabby as wore a white beaver, so to speak."

"That will do," cried Fanks, jumping into the vehicle which had driven
up; "which way did the cab turn?"

"To the right, sir; down Piccadilly."

"Cabby," cried the detective, as the driver looked through the trap,
"go down Piccadilly, and look for a hansom with a red, white, and blue
suncloth. It's a sovereign if you catch it."

"That's Joe Berners' cab, that is," said Jehu, and drove off briskly,
with his fare in a fever of excitement.

Fanks had enough to think about during that drive, the material being
amply supplied by the woman who had so cleverly tricked him. What
motive had brought this woman to Fellenger's chambers? For what reason
had she taken her departure so suddenly? Was Emma Calvert dead? If so,
who was the woman who bore so extraordinary a resemblance to her? If
Emma Calvert were not dead, and this was she, why had she come to
Half-Moon Street, and why had Robert fainted at the mere sight of her?
All these questions presented themselves to the mind of the detective,
and he found himself unable to answer any of them. If he discovered
the mysterious woman there might be a chance of explanation; failing
the woman, there remained the valet. But if the one was missing and
the other was ignorant, Fanks knew not what he should do in so
difficult a matter.

As it was the height of the season, Piccadilly was crowded with
vehicles of all descriptions, and the rate of progress was slow. Far,
very far, ahead Fanks thought that he could descry the noticeable
suncloth described by the constable, but of this he was not quite
sure; therefore he remained in his cab instead of alighting to make
certain.

During a block caused by the congested state of the roadway it flashed
into his mind that he had seen the woman's face before. He was
doubtful if this was so, and yet he had an uneasy feeling that it was.
The features of this unknown woman were familiar to him; but, as the
Americans say, "he could not fix her nohow." It only remained for him
to refresh his memory with a second glimpse; but at present he saw no
chance of getting one. He despaired of finding the woman of whom he
was in search.

The hansom showed no signs of moving on, and, finding that he could
walk quicker than he could drive, Fanks paid his cabman, jumped out,
and raced along the crowded pavement. He saw a number of people whom
he knew, but paying no attention to these he rushed along, intent on
getting to his goal. At length his exertions were rewarded, for by the
Isthmian Club he saw the wished-for cab ahead. It was turning into
Berkeley Square, and, as the throng was thinner in the side street,
Fanks secured another hansom with a likely-looking horse, and followed
in its wake. It struck him that he might as well find out where the
woman lived; therefore he did not attempt to catch up, but directed
his driver to keep persistently on the trail. It was his only chance
of gaining his ends with so crafty an opponent.

Then commenced a long, long chase, which cost Fanks the best part of a
sovereign. He followed to Oxford Street, thence emerged into Regent
Street; passed through Piccadilly Circus, down to Trafalgar Square.
After proceeding along the Strand, the cabs dropped down Arundel
Street to the Embankment, went up through Northumberland Avenue,
Cockspur Street, Waterloo Place, and again doubled the trail in
Piccadilly. Fanks began to weary of this interminable chase; he
wondered where this woman intended to stop. Still he held on in a
dogged fashion, determined to weary out his adversary, whom he began
to consider a foeman--or rather a foewoman--not unworthy of his steel.
He therefore kept up the chase on the doubled trail, and, to his
surprise, he found that the cab which he had so persistently followed
turned up Half-Moon Street, and stopped before the chambers of
Fellenger.

"Good Lord!" said Fanks to himself, "surely she has not been so great
a fool as to come to earth again, where she knows she will find me."

He was perfectly right in making this remark, for when he jumped out
and ran up to the first cab he found it--empty. Fanks swore, whereat
Joe Berners grinned.

"And it do serve y' right," said Joe, who was a surly person; "I never
did 'old as young gents should persecute innocents. G' on wi' y'."

Fanks recovered his temper on hearing this speech. It was most
humiliating to have followed an empty cab for so many miles; but it
was rather amusing to be accused of being a profligate when he was
ardently bent on doing his duty. The detective laughed, although the
joke was against himself.

"The question of persecution will bear argument, my friend," he said
in a laughing tone. "In the meantime, perhaps you will tell me what
you did with the young lady you picked up here?"

"Why!" said Mr. Berners, "she told me as you was after her for kisses
an' such like; so she gives me a sov. to mislead you. She got out of
my keb at the end of this street, she did; and told me to drive on an'
on for an hour or so, while she got away. I done that," added Joe,
with a grin, "an' you've bin follerin' a h'empty keb ever since I went
up to Berkeley Square."

"You have acted according to your lights, my friend," said Fanks, when
he realised how he had been tricked, "and I do not blame you. All the
same I am not a profligate, but a detective."

"Lor!" said Joe, "has she done anything, sir?"

"What she has done is nothing to you. Can you tell me in which
direction she went?"

"No, I can't, sir; and I don't bel've you, I don't," and so saying Joe
Berners drove off in high dudgeon.

Fanks made no attempt to stop him; for he saw that the woman had
defeated him, and the only thing left for him to do was to retire with
the best possible grace. To this end he paid his cab, shrugged his
shoulders, and went upstairs again. Since the woman had succeeded in
escaping him, the solution of the problem lay entirely with Robert.
Then a miracle. On the way up to the chambers the memory of that face
flashed across the mind of Fanks.

"Ah!" he said, with a start, "I remember now. I saw that face in the
crowd round the Red Star, on the night of the murder."




CHAPTER VIII.
A MYSTERIOUS PARCEL.


Before Fanks finally dismissed the matter of that futile chase he
asked a question of his friend the constable. "Did you notice," said
he, "if that young lady had a friend with her?"

"No, Mr. Fanks," said the other, promptly, "she was all alone."

"Humph! I thought so," meditated Fanks, as he ascended the stairs,
"the accusing friend was a myth. Well, I guess there's a vacancy for a
fool, and I'm elected. I've lost her once; but she won't escape me a
second time. Taxton-on-Thames isn't London."

The links of the chain which brought forth this remark were as
follows:--The postal mark on the envelope was Taxton-on-Thames;
the handwriting thereon was the same as that on the back of the
photograph--to all appearance that of the missing woman--therefore
Fanks thought that he might gain some information about her in the
village. The link of the writings connected her with the riverside
town; and by following such a clue he hoped to arrive at some knowledge
of her identity.

With this resolution, he entered the chambers and found Robert
restored to sensibility, sitting on the sofa, with Garth and Maxwell
in attendance. The latter looked up eagerly as the detective entered.
But Fanks had no idea of letting an inferior into his methods of
working, and he dismissed him forthwith.

"Maxwell, you can leave the room," he said sharply; and when the
policeman had taken his departure he turned to Garth, and continued,
"I lost her after all, my friend; she gave me the slip with singular
dexterity. That going down to bring up a witness was all bosh; she
told that story as a blind to get out of the room without suspicion."

"But who is she?" asked Garth, at this tale of failure.

Fanks smiled grimly, and looked at the valet. "No doubt Robert can
tell us that, he said, significantly.

"I think she is Lady Fellenger--Emma Calvert," said Robert, faintly.

"That is all nonsense. You told us distinctly that Emma Calvert was
dead; the inscription on the portrait affirms your statement. How then
can this living woman be the lady in question?"

"It might have been her ghost."

"Rubbish! Ghosts don't appear in the daytime; and drive off in cabs;
moreover there are no such things as ghosts. Your explanation is weak,
Robert; try another story."

"It is the best that I can give, sir; if she isn't Emma Calvert; who
is she?"

"That is what we wish to find out," said Garth. "You say that Lady
Fellenger--whom you will persist in calling Emma Calvert--is dead?"

"I saw her lying at the Morgue, sir," declared Robert, passionately.
"I saw her placed in her coffin; I saw her buried, and the earth
heaped over her. She is dead; I swear that she is dead."

"Where is she buried?"

"In Pere la Chaise, in Paris."

Fanks began twisting his ring. "You say that she destroyed herself,"
he said; "had you anything to do with her death?"

The man broke down, and burst out weeping, exculpating himself between
his sobs. "I had nothing to do with her death," he declared, "she was
always a good mistress to me, but my master treated her shamefully.
When he married her and first came to Paris they were quite happy. But
Sir Gregory grew tired of her; he grew tired of everyone; and he began
to neglect her for others. She was very proud, and she put up with it
for a time. At last she got angry at him, and insisted that he should
take her back to London and introduce her to his friends. This he
refused to do, and he taunted her with having been in a shop. He
called her Emma Calvert even before me."

"You are sure that she was his wife?" interrupted Fanks.

"I was present at the marriage myself, sir. It took place in a
registry office. She was his wife and Lady Fellenger sure enough, but
after some months he would not call her by that name. He knew that she
was proud," added Robert, in a lower tone, "and I think he wished to
drive her to her death."

"I always said that he was a bad lot," interposed Garth, in disgust.

"He was not a good man, sir, but he was a good master to me. But the
end of it all was that one evening they had a terrible quarrel, and in
a fit of rage she ran out of the house. I would have followed her, but
my master would not let me go. When next I saw her, she was lying dead
in the Morgue."

"You think that she flung herself into the river?"

"I am sure of it, sir. Her body was taken out of the Seine. My master
seemed to feel her death terribly, but all the same I think he was
relieved that his marriage was at an end. He got it put about in some
way that the death was an accident, and the body was buried in Pere la
Chaise. After that he made me promise not to tell anyone that he had
been married, and we returned to England. That is all I know, except
that she has come back to haunt me."

Fanks stood biting his fingers. The servant was evidently in earnest,
and according to his story the ill-fated wife of the late Sir Gregory
was dead and buried; yet, going by the likeness of the portrait to the
woman who had vanished, she was alive. Fanks had been engaged in
several very difficult cases, but they were all child's play compared
to the intricacy of this problem. He was at his wits end, startled,
mystified.

While the valet wept and Fanks thought, Garth broke the silence. "We
are off the track," he said roughly; "we are seeking to solve the
mystery of my cousin's death, not to trouble about that of his unhappy
wife."

"It is all of a piece," replied Fanks, "the one death is connected
with the other; how, I am unable to say at present. In the face of it,
I can hardly bring myself to believe that Emma Calvert is dead."

"Robert swears that she is," said Garth, with a shrug.

"I do, I do, I swear it," wailed the man. "I saw her buried."

The tones of the wretched creature were so heart-rending that both his
listeners believed that he spoke the truth. The detective placed the
portrait, the pasteboard star, and the envelope containing the slips
of print in his pocket, and beckoned to Garth. "We can do no more good
here," he said in a low tone. "I must think out the matter by myself;
let us go away."

"But Robert?"

"I shall stay here, sir," said the servant, rising; "Mr. Vaud said
that I was to stay here until Sir Louis Fellenger came to town."

"Who is Mr. Vaud?" demanded Fanks.

"Oh, he is Fellenger's lawyer," explained Garth, quickly, "of the firm
of Vaud and Vaud, of Lincoln's Inn Fields. I was wondering why my
cousin had not come up to take possession of the property; but it
appears that he is ill."

"Was he not at the funeral?"

"Yes, and, mighty bad he looked; he must have taken to his bed since.
I suppose that not finding himself able to come he sent for Mr. Vaud."

"Yes, sir," said the valet, "and Mr. Vaud came here to find the police
in possession; so he told me to stay here."

"Quite right," said Fanks. "I shall see Mr. Vaud myself."

Before leaving the chambers Fanks told Maxwell to keep a sharp lookout
on Robert, of whom he had some suspicion. Then with Garth he went down
slowly, talking and thinking. Garth had asked him what was to be done
next, and he did not know what to say. Ultimately he declared that he
would interview Vaud.

"Why?" asked Garth, after a pause.

"Because if I do not see him, he will see me. I must explain why I
wish the police to continue in possession of the dead man's chambers;
and also I want a letter of introduction to the new baronet."

"I can give you that; but I do not understand why you should wish to
see him. He can do no good."

"I am not so sure of that," responded Fanks, dryly, "and in any case I
must tell him what I am doing. As the heir he must be anxious to clear
up the mystery of his cousin's death."

"I don't think he'll trouble much," replied Garth, doubtfully.
"Gregory and Louis hated, one another like poison. They had not met
for ten years."

"Why did they hate one another?"

"I don't know. Louis is a better man than Gregory. He was a scoundrel,
as you have heard. An out-and-out scamp."

"And something worse than a scamp," said Fanks; "but about this
introduction? Are you on good terms with your cousin Louis?"

"I don't like him," answered Garth, after a pause, "he is a scientific
prig. All the same there is no ill-will between us."

"Very good. You can give me that introduction as soon as you like."

"I'll write it to-day; and if you wish to see Vaud the elder you'll
find him at Lincoln's Inn Fields, a pleasant old gentleman of the
out-of-date school."

"You emphasise the elder Vaud. Is there a son?"

"Yes, a fellow of thirty or thereabouts, He is the partner, but he has
been ill of late, and has only returned from a tour of the world. But,
I say Hersham, you know."

"I shall call on him to-morrow," said Fanks, "and question him about
the tattooed cross."

"When shall I see you again?"

"Call to-morrow night at my Duke Street chambers. I may have some news
for you."

"About Emma Calvert?"

"About Dr. Renshaw."

"Do you still connect him with the crime?"

"I connect him with Dr. Binjoy, and I connect Dr. Binjoy with his
<DW64> servant; and further I connect a black man wearing a green coat
with brass buttons with the murder."

"Then you suspect that the servant of Dr. Binjoy killed Fellenger, and
that Binjoy in the disguise of Renshaw was at the Red Star to assure
himself that his instructions had been carried out."

"That is exactly what I don't mean."

"Then what are you driving at?"

"Ask me the same question in five weeks, and I'll tell you."

"Will it take you all that time to find out the truth?"

Fanks laughed at the implied sneer. "I am no miracle-monger, my dear
sir," he said; "I am groping in the dark; and a mighty hard task it
is. I do not know in which direction to move at the present moment. If
only some thing would turn up likely to point out a path. Renshaw,
Mrs. Boazoph, and Robert are all sign-posts, but which to go by, I
really cannot say. Five weeks, Garth, and then perhaps failure."

All this time they were still standing at the door at the foot of the
stairs. Now Fanks made a movement, but before he could step on to the
pavement he was aware that Maxwell was coming down the stairs quickly.
In another moment he was at the elbow of his superior officer, holding
out a small packet wrapped up in brown paper. Fanks took it gingerly,
and examined it with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Well, Maxwell," he said, "what is this?"

"I don't know, sir," said the breathless Maxwell. "I guessed that you
mightn't be far away, so I took the liberty to come after you."

"To give me this packet?"

"Yes, sir. I found it a few minutes ago in the letter-box on the door.

"Ah!" said Garth, in a startled tone, "was it there last time you
looked?"

"No, sir; not an hour ago. It ain't got no postmark or stamp."

"And it is addressed to Sir Gregory Fellenger," said Fanks; "I'll open
it," and without further remark Fanks did so. Therein was a morocco
case. When this was opened they saw lying on a bed of purple velvet a
long and slender needle of silver. Garth would have picked it out, but
Fanks stopped him with a shudder. "Don't touch it," he said; "there is
death here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Fanks, "that I hold in my hand the poisoned needle with
which your cousin was murdered."




CHAPTER IX.
VAUD AND VAUD.


Here, indeed, was food for reflection. That the instrument with which
the crime had been committed should come into the detective's
possession was extraordinary; but that it should have been left
anonymously at the rooms of the murdered man was inconceivably
audacious. Fanks at once returned to the chambers, and closely
questioned Maxwell and Robert. It struck him that the latter might
have had a hand in placing the mysterious parcel in the letter box.

"I examined the box an hour ago, sir," said Maxwell, "as you told me
to look after all letters. There was nothing in it then. It must have
been placed in it since."

"While we were in the sitting-room, no doubt," said Garth. "Do you
know anything of this, Robert?"

"I, sir? Lord, no, sir; I never set eyes on it before."

"We left ten minutes ago," remarked Fanks. "What have you been doing
since that time."

"I have been with Mr. Maxwell, sir."

"Was he with you all the time, Maxwell?"

"Yes, sir," replied the policeman in great alarm. "He came out into
the kitchen, and we was together for a chat; then I thought it was
near post time, and I goes to the box. I found that parcel, and as I
knowed you couldn't be far off I ran down stairs."

This explanation was perfectly satisfactory, yet for the life of him,
the detective could not help looking at Robert with suspicion.
However, as he had not been out of Maxwell's company, he could not
possibly have put the parcel in the box, therefore Fanks was
reluctantly compelled to believe in his innocence.

"That will do," he said, at length, and drew Garth away. When they
again descended the stairs, Garth began to ask him questions, but
Fanks cut these short. "I must be alone to think it out," he said, in
apologetic explanation. "Go away, Garth, and let me puzzle over the
matter by myself."

The young lawyer was unwilling to do this as he was filled with
genuine curiosity concerning the needle. However, he could suggest
nothing, and he saw that his mere presence worried his friend. He
therefore obeyed the request, and went off to meditate on his own
account. As for Fanks, he repaired to his rooms, and with the needle
before him he sat for considerably over an hour thinking what it all
meant. The mystery was deeper than ever.

There was no doubt that someone had left the parcel in the letter box
within the hour. According to Maxwell, it had not been there when he
last looked in; according to Robert, he had not been out of the
policeman's company since he left the sitting-room. Who, then, placed
this damning evidence of the crime in the box? The assassin himself?
But the assassin, as had been proved clearly, was a <DW64>. A few
questions to the constable stationed near the door had elicited the
fact that no <DW64> had gone up. In fact, the man had sworn that he had
seen nobody ascend the stairs since the time Fanks returned from his
unsuccessful pursuit. So scanty were the facts which he had to go on,
that Fanks could not even build up a theory. He was completely in the
dark, and he seemed likely to remain so.

The instrument was of silver, the length of a darning needle, and
while the point was as sharp as a lancet, it broadened gradually till
when it passed into a slim, ebony handle, it was--for a needle, quite
bulky. In this broad part the poison was doubtless contained, and
thence it oozed, drop by drop, to the deadly point. Fanks shuddered at
the sight of the piece of devilish ingenuity. The infernal dexterity
of the thing gave him an idea.

"Must have been manufactured by a scientific man," he mused, touching
the slender, silver line gingerly. "It's too clever for an amateur.
Louis, the new baronet, is a man of science; he has succeeded to the
title. Can it be that--but, no!" he added, breaking off abruptly, "he
would not commit a crime in so obvious a fashion, much less, leave the
means he used at the address of his victim."

Nevertheless, the idea lured him so far afield, into so many
speculations that, finding they led to nothing, he locked up the
poisoned needle, put it out of his thoughts, and paid a visit to New
Scotland Yard. Here he explained to the person in authority, that,
while he had every hope of capturing the assassin of the late Sir
Gregory Fellenger, yet he was bound to point out that the expenses of
the case would be considerable. To this, the person in authority
replied by placing before Fanks a letter from Messrs. Vaud and Vaud,
of Lincoln's Inn Fields. It stated that they had been directed by
Sir Louis Fellenger--who was at present confined to bed through
ill-health--to assure the authorities that he wished every effort to
be made to discover the murderer of his cousin; and that he would
willingly bear the costs of the investigation. This communication
concluded by requesting that the detective in charge of the case
should call at the offices of the lawyers at his earliest convenience.

"Very meritorious of Sir Louis to save the Government expense," said
the person in authority. "Use what money you require, Mr. Fanks, but
be reasonable--be reasonable."

"I shall be as reasonable as I possibly can be, sir," replied Fanks;
"but in my opinion, the case will be both long and expensive. It is
the most complicated matter that I ever took in hand."

"The more difficulty, the more glory," said the person in authority.
"Go on with the case, Mr. Fanks; act as you please, make use of all
our resources. I have every confidence in you, Mr. Fanks; if anyone
can lay his hand on the assassin of Sir Gregory Fellenger, you are the
man. I wish you good day, Mr. Fanks."

Dismissed in this gracious manner, Fanks left the room with the
intention of obeying forthwith the injunction of Vaud and Vaud. Before
he could depart he was intercepted by Crate.

"A communication from Dr. Renshaw," said Crate, with an air of great
importance. "He called here this afternoon with the intention of
seeing you. In your absence, he saw me; and stated that he was leaving
for India to-night by the P. and O. steamer 'Oceana.' Before leaving,
he wished to see and speak with you."

"Before leaving, he has to see and speak with me," retorted Fanks,
coolly. "I would have him arrested on suspicion if he attempted to
leave London without according me an interview."

"You have no evidence on which you can arrest him, Mr. Fanks."

"I have more evidence than you are aware of, Crate. If Dr. Renshaw
could have defied me he would have done so; but he dare not. Where is
he now?"

"He is still at Great Auk Street, where he has been watched ever since
the night of the murder."

"When does the 'Oceana' leave the Docks?"

"To-night at ten o'clock. Dr. Renshaw goes down from Fenchurch Street
by the eight train."

"It is now a quarter past five. Good! I shall call at Great Auk
Street; in the meantime, I have to keep another appointment."

"Have you found out anything since I saw you last, Mr. Fanks?"

"I have found out that there is a woman in the case," said Fanks. "And
that reminds me, Crate. You must go to Paris by to-night's mail. Are
you busy with anything else?"

"No, Mr. Fanks. I shall be ready to start when you please. What am I
to do in Paris?"

Fanks sat down at Crate's table and wrote a name and a date. "Get me a
certificate of the death and burial of Emma Calvert, who died in Paris
last year; she committed suicide, which was passed off as an accident,
and was buried in Pere la Chaise. I do not know the month of the
death, but you can do without that. Wire me all particulars. You can
get the French police to help you. Ask in the office here for
necessary credentials and authorisation. Don't spare expense, I have
full power to draw all moneys I want."

After delivering these necessary instructions, Fanks drove off to
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and presented his card at the office of Vaud and
Vaud. He was at once shown up to the room of the senior partner, and
found him as Garth said, a dignified gentleman of the old school. He
was red-faced and white-haired; emphasised his remarks by waving a
"pince-nez," and spoke with some of the magnificence of Dr. Renshaw.

"This is a most lamentable business, Mr. Fanks," he said, when the
detective was seated. "I usually go home before five o'clock, but in
the interests of our client, Sir Louis Fellenger, I remained, on the
chance of seeing you. I am glad to see you."

"I came as soon as I was able, Mr. Vaud; but you only sent for me
to-day. I wonder you did not wish to see me before."

"There was no necessity, my dear sir. We only heard from Sir Louis
yesterday that he was prepared to bear all expenses connected with the
investigation of the case."

"Sir Louis is ill, I believe, Mr. Vaud?"

"Sir Louis is never well, sir," said the lawyer impressively. "He is a
delicate man, and he is given over to the arduous science of
experimental chemistry. The earnestness with which he prosecutes his
researches keeps him in a constant state of anxiety; and his health
suffers accordingly. He is now at Mere Hall, attended by Dr. Binjoy."

"Is Dr. Binjoy with Sir Louis at Mere Hall at this present moment?"

"Certainly. Dr. Binjoy never leaves the side of Sir Louis. He has the
greatest influence over him. Though I must say," added Vaud, "that
even the influence of the doctor could not prevent his patient rising
from his sick-bed to attend the funeral of the late baronet."

"He must have been fond of his cousin," said Fanks, pointedly.

"On the contrary, the cousins had not seen one another for ten years
and more," said Mr. Vaud, solemnly. "I do not wish to speak evil of
the dead, but the late Sir Gregory was certainly a butterfly of
fashion, while the present Sir Louis is a man of science. They never
got on well together, and therefore kept out of each other's way."

"And very sensible, too," said Fanks, dryly. "Do you happen to know if
Dr. Binjoy has been in London lately?"

"I happen to know on the best authority--that of Sir Louis--that
Binjoy has not been in London for the last six weeks. Sir Louis has
been ill for that period; the doctor has not left his bedside."

Fanks made a mental note of this answer, and turned the conversation
in the direction of the crime. "You know that Fellenger died from
poison?"

"From blood-poisoning," corrected Vaud. "So I saw in the papers. A
most remarkable case, my dear sir. What took our late client to that
locality, and why did he submit himself to the tattooing needle?"

"I can't say. Are you aware of any motive which might have induced the
dead man to have a cross tattooed?"

"No, sir. As a matter of fact," continued Mr. Vaud, "the late Sir
Gregory and myself were not on the best of terms. He was extravagant,
and he resented my well-meant advice. I saw as little of him as of Sir
Louis."

"Then you are not intimate with Sir Louis?"

"I cannot say that I am. Sir Louis has led a secluded life at
Taxton-on-Thames. I have only seen him once or twice."

"And Dr. Binjoy?"

"I have never seen him at all."

"Was Sir Louis rich?"

"On the contrary, he was very poor. Five hundred a year only."

"Well, Mr. Vaud," said Fanks, rising. "I have to thank Sir Louis for
his offer to bear the expenses of this case; and I shall do my best to
bring the criminal to justice."

"Have you any clue, Mr. Fanks?"

"I have a variety of clues, but they all seem to lead to nothing."

"Do you think that you will be successful?"

"I can't say--yet. I hope so."

"I hope so, too, but I am doubtful; very doubtful. Well, good evening,
Mr. Fanks. Do you want any money?"

"Not at present. I shall write to you when I do."

"That's all right. I trust you will succeed, Mr. Fanks. But in my
opinion you are wasting time and money. The crime is a mystery, and
for all that I can see, it will remain a mystery."




CHAPTER X.
EXIT DR. RENSHAW.


Fanks had gained some useful information from the lawyer, and it would
appear that the conversation had settled, at least, two important
points in the case. Of these the first was that Sir Louis could not
have had anything to do with the commission of the crime, or the
leaving of the parcel at the chambers in Half Moon Street. Yet the
needle had been prepared by a man learned in experimental chemistry;
and, as that was the special study of the new baronet, it might be
that he was responsible for the preparation of that deadly instrument.
By the death of his cousin he had gained a fortune; therefore that
might stand as a motive for the committal of the crime. But Sir Louis
had been ill for some months; he had been confined to bed, therefore
he could not have been in London on the night of the murder; nor later
on--being still in bed--could he have deposited the needle in the
letter box. Clearly, the case against Louis broke down entirely.

As for Binjoy, he also had not been in town for six weeks. If this
were so, he could not be identical with Renshaw, in which case the
suspicions entertained by the detective could not fail to prove
groundless. Then again, the fact that Binjoy had a <DW64> servant
habited like the assassin--also a black man--was highly suspicious.
Binjoy might have instructed the <DW64> to slay, and himself have
remained at Taxton-on-Thames in attendance on Sir Louis. But then what
could be his motive for the perpetration of so terrible a crime? Fanks
sought for this motive.

In the first place, he noted that the absence of Louis from town on
that night was deposed to by Binjoy; in the same way Louis said that
Binjoy had not left Taxton-on-Thames for six weeks. Both these
statements had been made to Fanks by Vaud. It would then appear that
Louis and the doctor were in collusion to obtain the property of
Gregory by procuring his death at the hands of the <DW64>. But even
this theory failed to discover, or point out, who was the man who had
called to leave the parcel at Half Moon Street. The constable had
asserted positively that no <DW64> had gone up the stairs. If then the
messenger was not the <DW64>, it was either Binjoy or Sir Louis. Mr.
Vaud said that the one was ill, the other in attendance. Thus the case
stood when Fanks left the office of Vaud and Vaud; and he felt utterly
unable to cope with the intricacies which met him on every hand. There
seemed no way in or out.

Yet in the face of the presumption that Renshaw was not the double of
Binjoy, the detective determined to follow up that clue. He did not
like the way in which the doctor had behaved, either in the chamber of
death, or at the inquest; he was suspicious of his apparent intimacy
with Mrs. Boazoph: therefore, for his own gratification, he went to
Great Auk Street to interview the man, and to see whether his
suspicions had any foundation in fact. On arriving at the house he was
unable to decide on his next action, but before he left it again he
had determined what to do.

A stupid-looking man-servant received Fanks, and took him into a dull
waiting room, while he went to inform Dr. Renshaw of the name of his
visitor. In a few moments he returned and conducted the detective to
the back of the house, where he found Renshaw waiting for him in the
company of another man. This latter was Dr. Turnor, for whom Renshaw
had been acting as "locum tenens;" a lean, little man with a ferret of
a face, and a sharp, jerky way of speaking which must have been
exceedingly irritating in a sickroom. Renshaw was more imposing in
looks than ever, and, with habitual restlessness, combed his long,
brown beard with his fingers; but in the badly-lighted room Fanks
could not find out if the beard was false. So closely did Renshaw
resemble Garth's description of Binjoy, that notwithstanding
Vaud's evidence, Fanks was on the alert to discover if--as he truly
believed--the two were one and the same. The ensuing conversation was
likely to prove interesting in more ways than one.

After being introduced to Fanks, and acknowledging the introduction
with a sour smile, Turnor arose to leave the room. He was stopped by
Renshaw, who evidently did not relish the idea of facing a difficult
interview by himself. Another proof, as Fanks considered, of his
uneasy conscience.

"Pray do not depart, Turnor," he said, in his usual pompous manner. "I
have no secrets from you. I trust, Mr. Fanks, that you see no
objection in my adopting this course?"

"Certainly, I see no objection," replied Fanks, quietly. "Let Dr.
Turnor stay by all means. I have nothing particular to say."

Turnor, who had resumed his chair, looked up at this, and Renshaw
stared at his visitor with pompous indignation.

"Then why are you here, sir?" he demanded in a more confident tone.

Fanks shrugged his shoulders. "Really, I cannot tell you, unless it is
because you left a message at my office that you wished to see me."

"I did so in fulfilment of my promise to communicate with you before
leaving London."

"Indeed! So you think of starting again on your travels? You will like
that much better than staying in London."

"There is no reason why I should not like to stay in London," said
Renshaw, with an angry glance.

"No reason in the world, that I can see."

"I am going out to India--to Bombay. I proceed to Aden by the
'Oceana,' and there I exchange into the 'Cylde.'"

"It is really very good of you to tell me all this, doctor," said
Fanks, ironically; "I trust that you will have a pleasant voyage."

Renshaw looked nonplussed and a trifle disappointed at the coolness of
the detective. It was Fank's intention to bring about this feeling;
for if Renshaw had nothing to do with the crime, if he was not
masquerading under a false name, the detective did not see that it was
necessary to make these elaborate explanations. It seemed to Fanks
that Renshaw's anxiety to bestow gratuitous information as to his
movements had its root in a design to mislead the police.
Notwithstanding the assurances of Vaud, his suspicions of Renshaw
revived in full force under this clumsy diplomacy; and he bent his
energies to get to the bottom of the matter. To this end he affected
indifference, and gave Renshaw plenty of rope with which to hang
himself.

"Am I to understand that I am free to go?" demanded the stout doctor,
in a highly dramatic manner.

"I suppose so; this is a free country."

"You do not think--my friend--any knowledge--murder?" jerked Turnor,
as he looked eagerly at Fanks.

The detective saw the eagerness and wondered. "Hallo! my friend," he
thought, "are you in this also?" However, he answered the question in
the calmest manner. "I was not aware that I had made any accusation
against Dr. Renshaw," was his suave reply.

"But I have been watched," cried Renshaw; "watched like a criminal."

"You don't say so," said Fanks, imperturbably. "And who is watching
you? And why have you been watched?"

The two doctors looked at one another, and, from a covert sign made by
Turnor to Renshaw, the detective became convinced that there was an
understanding between them. He guessed that the sign hinted at the
conclusion of the interview, and this interpretation proved correct.
Turnor rose and jerked out an apology.

"Mistake!" said the little man. "Told Renshaw--moonshine--no watching.
Hope you'll catch--murderer."

"I have little hope of that," said Fanks, dolefully. "He has concealed
his trail too cleverly," and he chuckled inwardly as he saw the two
faces brighten.

"Well! well! well! We will say no more, Mr. Fanks," said Renshaw, in a
patronising tone. "I deemed it my duty to let you know that I go to
India to-night. I shall not return to England for many years, as I
propose exploring Thibet. Good evening; I am delighted that my fears
that I was being watched have proved to be groundless."

But Fanks was not to be got rid of so easily. He wished to ask Turnor
a few questions, for he believed that the little man knew all about
this mysterious Renshaw. However, he made his examination carefully,
as he did not wish to startle the pair, but rather to lull their
suspicions, so that he might the more easily carry out his plans. He
had already decided upon his next step.

"You were not in London at the time of the murder, Dr. Turnor?" he
asked.

"No," replied the doctor, promptly. "If I had been, I should have been
summoned by Mrs. Boazoph. As it was, Renshaw went."

"Yes, I saw Renshaw," said Fanks; "and I believe that he was right in
his theory that the crime was due to a secret society."

"What makes you agree with my theory?" said Renshaw, quickly.

"Well," drawled Fanks, keeping an eye on both men, "you see I can't
find out the meaning of that tattooed cross. It must be the work of a
society, else it would not have been obliterated. If I could only find
out what that cross means I would hang someone." Renshaw wiped the
perspiration off his bald forehead and laughed in an uneasy manner. "I
wish I could help you," he said, "but I know nothing about the cross,
or the society."

"And what do you say, Dr. Turnor?"

"Nothing--was away on that night. Read about cross--papers. Queer."

Fanks saw plainly enough that the pair were on their guard, and that
there was nothing more to be got, out of them. The only thing to be
done was to watch and wait the progress of events. With this idea he
said goodbye, and took his departure. Once outside and he made up his
mind that Renshaw should be tracked. His anxiety to show that he was
leaving England appeared to be suspicious, and Fanks concluded that he
did not intend to go as he had so emphatically declared.

"I shouldn't be surprised to find that he was Binjoy after all,"
thought the detective. "He professes a deal too much, and his friend
Turnor is a deal too eager. I shouldn't wonder if the pair were in
league. However, I have thrown them both off their guard. Now I'll
play my own game. I'll find out the owner of that silver needle yet,
and then I'll punish its owner. I wonder," added Fanks, with a silent
laugh, "I wonder whether the criminal will prove to be black or
white?"

With this peculiar remark he went in search of the detective whose
duty it was to guard the house, and rated himself severely. "You have
let yourself be seen," said Fanks. "Have you not more sense than to
play the fool? Keep yourself out of sight; remain here until I send
another watcher, and report yourself at the Yard."

The detective, much abashed, tried to exculpate himself, but Fanks
would not listen to his excuses. He hurried to New Scotland Yard,
picked out a smart man, and instructed him to relieve the disgraced
watcher, and to follow Renshaw to the Docks.

"And then, sir?" asked the man.

"Then if Renshaw goes on board the steamer you will report the fact to
me without loss of time."

"Am I to come back here, Mr. Fanks?"

"No; I shall be at the Docks in disguise. If you see a clergyman
holding a white handkerchief in his right hand you will see me. If you
are doubtful ask the clergyman what the time is, and you will be safe
as to my identity. Off with you, and send that fool back to Mr.
Crate."

"What are you about to do, Mr. Fanks?" asked Crate, when the man had
gone.

"Learn if Renshaw is lying or not. I'll see if he boards the steamer
at the Docks, and find out if he has taken a passage to Bombay--a fact
which at present I am much inclined to doubt."

"And if he goes on board the steamer?"

"In that case I'll follow him as far as Plymouth to make sure that he
does not get off there."

"If he doesn't?"

"I shall know that he has nothing to do with this murder."

"And if he does get off at Plymouth?"

"Why," said Fanks, rubbing his hands, "I shall track him to Mere Hall
in Hampshire."

Crate looked astonished, for he could by no means follow the thoughts
of his superior. "How do you know that he will go there?" he demanded
in a disbelieving manner.

"Because if Dr. Renshaw leaves the steamer at Plymouth under that name
I shall find him at Mere Hall as Dr. Binjoy."




CHAPTER XI.
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN.


True to his appointment Garth called the next evening at the chambers
in Duke Street, only to find that Fanks was absent, and that a note
was awaiting him.

"Dear Garth," wrote the detective, "I have been called unexpectedly
out of town and shall not return for at least three days. Visit me at
the expiration of that time and prepare yourself for a surprise."

"A surprise," said Garth to himself, as he departed; "I wonder if he
has found out about Emma Calvert, and if his discovery has anything to
do with the death in Tooley's Alley."

Think as he might he could find no answer to this question, and he was
forced to restrain his curiosity until such time as Fanks should
return. In the meantime, out of curiosity, he called upon Mr. Vaud to
learn what that gentleman thought about the position of affairs.

Mr. Vaud thought nothing about them. A detective had charge of the
case, and, in Mr. Vaud's opinion, it would be better to wait the
solution by him of this criminal problem. All this, as well as much
more, was expressed to Garth by the pompous lawyer. "And I should
advise you, Mr. Garth," he concluded, "not to let this unhappy episode
divert your energies from your business."

"As to that, I have precious little to do," retorted Garth, with some
heat; "you do not put much in my way, Mr. Vaud. I am always hard up."

"I am aware of that," replied Vaud, ignoring the beginning of the
speech, "and I am aware also that our late client assisted you several
times."

"Because I was necessary to him," said Garth, bitterly. "And I'll tell
you what, Mr. Vaud, had I known then what I know now about my cousin I
should never have accepted his help."

"Oh, dear me!" said Mr. Vaud, "quite so. Sir Gregory had many faults;
but are you a saint yourself, Mr. Garth?"

"I don't pretend to be one. Still, I never drove a woman to her
death."

"Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Garth?"

"Do you know the name of Emma Calvert, Mr. Vaud?"

The lawyer paled and pushed his chair from the table. "I--I
have--heard the--name," he stuttered.

"Then you have heard the name of a very injured woman, Mr. Vaud."

Before the other could reply a knock came to the door, and immediately
afterwards it opened to admit a tall and handsome young man. He bowed
to Garth and placed some papers before Mr. Vaud. "Will you please
excuse this intrusion, father, and look over these?" he said quietly.

"My son Herbert, Mr. Garth," said the elder Vaud, and again the young
man bowed. He rather resembled his father in appearance, but there was
a sternness about his manner which was wanting in that of the elder
gentleman. He was dark-haired, and clean shaven, with thin lips and a
compressed mouth. There was a look of resolution and hard work about
him which did not recommend his personality to pleasure-loving Garth.
However, the latter bowed and smiled when introduced, and scribbled on
a sheet of blotting-paper while Herbert spoke to his father. Still
thinking on the subject of his discourse with Mr. Vaud he absently
wrote the name of Emma Calvert. Young Vaud moved near him while
looking for a special paper, and in doing so his eye fell on the name.
With an ejaculation he drew back, and turned as pale as his father had
done.

"What do you know of Emma Calvert?" he demanded abruptly; "why do you
write down her name?"

"Herbert!" said the father, warningly--almost imploringly.
"I shall speak," said Herbert, his composure replaced by intense
excitement. "What do you knew of Emma Calvert, sir?"

Garth looked up surprised. "I know as much as Robert, the valet of
Fellenger, could tell me."

"A scamp who served a scamp," muttered the young man.

"Sir Gregory was my cousin, Mr. Herbert."

"Then your cousin was a scoundrel, Mr. Garth."

"Herbert, leave the room," said his father, sternly

The son looked defiantly at his father, and turned away without a
word. At the door he paused and addressed Garth. "I know that your
cousin was murdered, Mr. Garth," he said savagely. "I am glad that he
met with such a death. He escaped me, but he could not escape
punishment. I hated Sir Gregory and I bless the man who killed him."

He left the room, and in dumb astonishment Garth turned to the elder
Vaud for an explanation. The old man had buried his face in his hands;
but he looked up when Garth touched him, and groaned aloud.

"I am sorry you wrote down that name, Mr. Garth," he said at length.
"Its effect on my unfortunate son is always terrible."

"But for what reason?"

"I did not intend to tell you, but as you know so much, you may as
well know all. Herbert was in love with this girl. He wished to marry
her, and it was he who introduced her to Sir Gregory. You can guess
the rest."

"I can guess that my cousin married the girl and took her to Paris,
where he neglected her and drove her to suicide."

"I know about the marriage," said Mr. Vaud. "I am glad that Sir
Gregory did her that justice. I also know of the death. Sad, very
sad."

"She must have been a pretty girl to have so strongly attracted two
men."

"I never saw her," said Vaud. "I did not even know that Herbert was in
love with her until she eloped with Sir Gregory. Then my son came with
his broken heart and told me all. He would have followed Sir Gregory
to Paris but that he fell ill of brain fever. Afterwards he was
ordered on a sea voyage; and returned only six weeks ago. He heard of
the death of Lady Fellenger in Paris, and--"

"Did he know that Fellenger had married her?"

"Afterwards; not at first. He discovered all about the marriage and
death in Paris. How, I do not know. But he came back broken in health
and heart. He will never be the same man again; and whenever the name
of Emma Calvert is mentioned, the consequences are as you see."

Garth rose to go. "It is a cruel story," he said sadly, "but
Fellenger's sins have come home to him in a terrible fashion.
Good-bye, Mr. Vaud."

Then Garth took his leave; and withdrew to meditate on the villainy of
his cousin, which had ruined two lives. Half-way along the Strand, he
was struck by a sudden thought. If young Vaud had known and loved Emma
Calvert, he would be the man to identify the woman who had presented
herself at Fellenger's chambers. He believed Emma Calvert to be dead;
brought face to face with the missing woman, and he would see that she
was alive. "Though it will be difficult to find that woman," he said,
resuming his walk, "she has given us the slip. Still she may call to
see Robert again, and he is being watched by Maxwell; so the chances
are that we may find out whether she is my cousin's wife or her ghost.
If she is confronted with Herbert Vaud we may arrive at the truth. But
will the truth lead to the detection of Gregory's assassin. I doubt
it."

He thought of calling upon Herbert and telling him about the
appearance and flight of the presumedly dead woman; but the same
reason which had prevented him from seeing Hersham, prevented this
visit. "No!" he said, resolutely. "I must interview Fanks and ask his
advice. The matter is too difficult for me to handle alone."

Having come to this sensible conclusion; he went about his daily
business and postponed moving in the matter until the return of Fanks
from his mysterious journey. His appointment had been for the previous
night; and Fanks had asked him to wait three days. As he had employed
one day in seeing Mr. Vaud, he thought that he would utilise the
second by interviewing Mrs. Boazoph. For this purpose he called at the
Red Star, but he was disappointed, Mrs. Boazoph, the barmaid informed
him, was out of town--on business. Garth left Tooley's Alley in a
meditative mood. "Fanks has gone to the country on business; Mrs.
Boazoph has gone to the country on business. I wonder if the same
errand takes them there."

Nothing further transpired; and, on the evening of the third day,
Garth presented himself at Duke-street. Fanks was within and received
him in the most amiable manner. Garth noted that his friend looked
weary, and ventured an opinion that Fanks had made a long journey that
day.

"You are about right," said Fanks, indicating a seat. "I only got back
three hours ago from Hampshire."

"You have been to Mere Hall?"

"I have been in the neighbourhood of Mere Hall. And I have also been
to Plymouth," he added, after a pause.

"What have you been doing there?"

"Following our friend Renshaw, alias Binjoy."

"You don't mean to say that the two are one," cried Garth, jumping up.

"I do, and I can prove it by the clearest evidence you ever heard in
your life. Sit down and listen."

Garth resumed his seat, and leaned forward with much curiosity to hear
the promised recital. It was well worthy of an attentive hearing.

"I told him that I suspected Renshaw to be Binjoy in disguise," said
Fanks, "your description of the one fitted the other in many respects;
and the eagerness with which Renshaw tried to impress me with the fact
that he was going to India, roused my suspicions. I determined to see
for myself if he was really leaving England, so I disguised myself as
a parson, and went to the docks. Renshaw had been followed there by my
emissary, and he duly went on board the P. and O. steamer 'Oceana.'
Assured of this I dismissed the watcher, and took up the running to
Plymouth."

"But how about your passage."

"Oh, I fixed that up all right; how, I need not stop to explain. You
may be sure that I kept a watch on our friend; and confident in my
disguise, I tried to get speech with him. This was impossible, as he
remained in his berth the whole time. I discovered, however, that his
passage was booked to Bombay, exchanging at Aden into the 'Clyde.' At
Plymouth he feigned to be so ill as to be unable to proceed further on
his journey, and rather than do so, he forfeited his passage money,
and got off--"

"Then he did not go to India after all?"

"My dear sir; he had no intention of going to India. I followed him
ashore; and then I am sorry to say that I lost him. It is not
creditable to my intelligence," said Fanks, shrugging his shoulders.

"What did you do?"

"The best I could. I saw the local police, and had the railway
stations and boats watched. He could not leave Plymouth either by land
or water without my knowing it. To make a long story short, I was
informed that a stout gentleman, somewhat like my man, was awaiting a
train at a certain station. I went there--"

"And you saw Renshaw?" interrupted Garth.

"Indeed, no. I saw a clean-shaven man much younger in appearance than
Dr. Renshaw, and dressed differently. From your description I
recognised him as Binjoy, and to clinch the matter, I followed him to
Mere hall."

"Then you are certain that Renshaw is Binjoy?"

"Positive. I made inquiries in the village, and I was informed that
Sir Louis was ill, and that Binjoy was attending him. Of course I said
nothing, for, to tell you the truth, I did not know what to say. But
you will observe, Garth, that I have proved that these two men are one
and the same."

"And the <DW64>. Did you see Binjoy's <DW64> servant?"

"I inquired about him, and I was informed that Binjoy had brought
no <DW64> servant with him. No doubt, he left him behind at
Taxton-on-Thames."

"Then my idea is correct," said Garth, "the <DW64> committed the crime
at the instigation of Binjoy; and Binjoy in the disguise of Renshaw,
went to the Red Star to see that it was accomplished. Now he has got
rid of the <DW64> and of his disguise; so cutting off every trace of
his connection with the crime."

"A very plausible theory," said Fank, shaking his head, "but the
motive?"

"Motive? Why Binjoy wanted Louis to inherit the property. He has a
great influence over Louis; what would benefit the one would benefit
the other. Oh, depend  upon it, Fanks, it is as I say."

"No!" said Fanks, "there is a third person in it. A woman!"

"Emma Calvert?"

"Mrs. Boazoph!"

"Oh, come now; she is out of town on business."

"I know that; and her business was at Mere Hall in Hants. I saw her
there."




CHAPTER XII.
THE INTERVENTION OF CHANCE.


It was a moment or so before Garth could quite grasp the fact of this
new intrusion of Mrs. Boazoph into the case. When he did so, he
remarked that she had no doubt gone to Mere Hall to see Louis
Fellenger. Fanks dissented. "In my opinion she went to see Binjoy."

"For what reason?"

"I can't tell you. It must be a powerful reason which would make this
woman seek out Binjoy when he had so carefully destroyed his
connection with Renshaw. But I have long had my suspicions of Mrs.
Boazoph. She removed the dead body; she answered my questions in a
hesitating manner, and attempted to exculpate herself without being
requested so to do. Also she got rid of the grains of gunpowder. All
these things show that Mrs. Boazoph knows more about the matter than
she chooses to tell."

"Do you think that she knows who committed the crime?"

"I wouldn't swear to that," said Fanks, with some hesitation; "but she
must have identified Renshaw with Binjoy, else she would never have
sought out the latter at Mere Hall."

"Do you believe that Mrs. Boazoph inveigled Fellenger to her hotel by
means of that advertisement, and then had him killed?"

"How can I tell?" retorted Fanks; "you know as much about the matter
as I do. But I will do Mrs. Boazoph the justice to say that I hardly
believe she would adopt a course so dangerous to herself. I do not
think that she had anything to do with the advertisement."

"The envelope was addressed in a woman's handwriting."

"No doubt; but the handwriting may not be that of Mrs. Boazoph. Still
she is in some way connected with Binjoy, and he is mixed up in the
crime."

"You mean that he employed the <DW64> to commit it?"

"It looks like it; and yet," continued Fanks, with a frown, "the
evidence is too clear for me to take that view."

"Why! The clearer the evidence, the more certain you must be of the
truth."

Fanks shook his head. "From my experience I am inclined to doubt
easily-obtained evidence. Everything points to the committal of the
crime by the <DW64> servant of Binjoy, and for that reason I do not
care to accept it. It would seem that in case of trouble Mrs. Boazoph
and Binjoy had provided for their own safety by throwing suspicion on
the <DW64>."

"But one thing is clear enough," said Garth, impatiently, "the <DW64>
killed my cousin."

"A <DW64> killed your cousin, but not necessarily the <DW64> of Binjoy."

Garth looked puzzled. "I am more in the dark than ever," he said.

"Same here, Garth. Depend upon it this murder is no bungling affair.
It is a cleverly-planned and cleverly-executed scheme; carried out by
people who know what they are doing. As the case now stands I cannot
see my way. The evidence--in my opinion--leads to nothing. If Crate
had this matter in hand he would arrest Binjoy on suspicion, and hunt
for the <DW64> servant as the supposed murderer, and by doing so he
would make a mess of the whole business. I shall arrest nobody--at
present. Save to yourself and perhaps Crate I shall give my opinions
to nobody. I shall watch and wait; put two and two together, and when
they make four I shall pounce on the assassin. It will take time and
patience and money, but, as I said before, the case is a delicate one.
We are dealing with people who are as clever and cleverer than we are.
I confess that the outlook is anything but promising," concluded
Fanks, with a sigh.

"You cannot guess who committed the crime?"

"No, I cannot. To all appearances it was the <DW64>, but--and this is
the main point--was it the <DW64> of Binjoy, and would the <DW64> be
clever enough to conceive so subtle a method of committing a crime as
the mode of the poisoned needle? Again, would a <DW64> be in possessiondied 
of such information as would induce Fellenger to permit the use of the
needle? The whole mystery lies in that cross tattooed on the arm. When
I discover its meaning I shall be able to name the assassin."

"Then why not see Hersham?" suggested Garth. "He has a similar tattoo
mark on his left arm. He may be able to tell you what you wish to
know."

"I have an appointment with Hersham at his rooms to-morrow. I may
learn something from him; on the other hand, I may learn nothing."

"And what about Emma Calvert?"

"Oh, I shall find out about her at Taxton-on-Thames. I may discover
dead Lady Fellenger of Paris alive at the Surrey village under another
name. And yet," added Fanks, producing a paper, "Crate's report proves
that the woman died in Paris in 1893, and was buried in Pere la
Chaise."

"If that is so, who was the woman who appeared so strangely? The
evidence of the photograph and the valet both prove that she is Emma
Calvert."

"I can only surmise that she did not die; but that either knowingly or
unknowingly some woman was buried in her place. It is the only
explanation that I can give. Yet, for all I know, Emma Calvert may
have employed that <DW64> to kill her wicked husband."

"It is a wild theory," said Garth, "why should this woman, the lawful
wife of my cousin, pretend to be dead, and submit to have her identity
destroyed by the false burial? If she is alive, I can quite conceive
that she should have my cousin killed out of revenge; but why the
pretended death, which--to all appearances--was acquiesced in by
Fellenger?"

"I can't answer that question until I wring the truth from Robert."

"There is no necessity for Robert. I have found another person who can
tell you the truth."

"Oh!" said Fanks, looking up sharply, "and this person?"

"Herbert Vaud; the son of the lawyer you saw the other day."

"You don't say so," exclaimed Fanks, eagerly, "you laugh at chance,
Garth; well, here is another chance which may put us on the right
track. If we solve the mystery of Emma Calvert, we may unravel the
Tooley Alley enigma. Tell me all you know; omit no detail. Begin,
begin!"

Flattered by the interest taken in his discovery, Garth related at
great length the extraordinary conduct of young Vaud; the cause of
such conduct as explained by the elder Vaud; and drew attention to the
fact that if confronted with the missing woman, Herbert might be able
to recognise her, either as an imposter, or as the dead Emma Calvert.

Fanks listened with the closest attention; nor did he venture a remark
until Garth had concluded his story. Then he drew a breath and
reflected.

"It is most extraordinary," he said at length, "dare you disbelieve in
chance. Chance led you to the office of the Vauds; chance made you
scribble that name on the paper; chance drew the attention of Herbert
Vaud to the name. I have always found that chance is my best friend."

"All this is beside the point," said Garth, impatiently, "what do you
say?"

"Your discovery may lead to something," replied Fanks, cautiously. "I
shall see Herbert Vaud after I have interviewed Hersham. Between the
two of them I may learn something likely to throw light on the
darkness of this case; but we are only on the threshold of our
difficulties as yet."

Garth rose to take his leave. "I agree with you," he said, "the future
looks anything but hopeful. But I shall leave you now; as you are
tired after your long journey."

Fanks stretched himself. "I am rather weary," he remarked, yawning,
"and I shan't be sorry to go to bed. Come and see me to-morrow, and
I'll tell you how I get on with Hersham. And Garth," added Fanks,
going to the door with his guest, "don't do any more detective
business on your own account. It will take me some time to exhaust the
information you have brought me. When I have arrived at some
conclusion regarding this new evidence, I shall tell you what to do."

Garth was quite willing to be guided by Fanks' advice; the more so as
he was entirely at a loss how to proceed, and was waiting for the more
experienced head of the detective to guide him. With quite sufficient
to think about for the next twenty-four hours he took his departure,
and left Fanks to enjoy a well-earned rest.

The appointment with Hersham was for twelve o'clock the next day; and
punctually at that time Fanks took his way up to Acacia Road, St.
John's Wood, where the journalist had his lodgings. Certainly not a
very central position for a man engaged in the press; but Hersham had
been brought up in the Isle of Wight, beside the sea, and amid green
trees. From the effect of early association he could not bear to be
cooped up amid bricks and mortar, where he could scarcely breathe.
Therefore he had taken up his abode in a suburb where he was certain
of fresh air. He went to and fro between Fleet Street and St. John's
Wood on his bicycle, and thus by a little dexterity, he managed to
attend to his duties on the "Morning Planet," and yet to live a
comparatively rural life.

When Fanks arrived at noon, Hersham, for health's sake, was digging in
the garden; but, on seeing the detective, he came forward to greet his
visitor. He was a slender, handsome young man of eight and twenty, or
thereabouts; with curly, brown hair and blue eyes. He wore a
moustache, but otherwise he was clean-shaven. Usually his face was
pleasant and smiling, with a high colour and a genial expression. On
this occasion he was rather pale, and there was an anxious look in his
eyes which did not escape the detective. He had seen the same
expression in the eyes of Binjoy.

"How are you, Fanks," said Hersham, with an obvious effort at
lightness. "I see that you are punctual to the minute. I am glad of
that; as I can't give you much time. I have an engagement with my
editor at one-thirty."

"Oh, I can explain my business in half an hour," replied Fanks,
lightly. "I won't take up more of your valuable time than I can help.
You were astonished to get my note."

"Frankly speaking, I was," said Hersham, with an uneasy look. "I can't
conceive what you want to see me about. I hope," he added, with a
faint smile, "that it is nothing in your line of business?"

"That is just the point. It is in my line of business."

To the surprise of Fanks, the young man gave a kind of gasp, and
without a word he turned and led the way into the house. This
behaviour was so different to his usual manner, that Fanks suspected
trouble; and, with nothing but his incurable suspicion to go on, he
wondered if this agitation was in any way connected with the business
he had come about. In plain words, with the tattooed cross; and with
the crime of Tooley's Alley. The room into which Hersham ushered the
detective, was a simply-furnished apartment of a bright and cheerful
character. Furniture, carpet, wallpaper, and curtains, were all of a
light and pleasant complexion. Two dwarf book-shelves on either side
of the fireplace were filled with well-chosen volumes; while boxing
gloves and foils on the walls showed that the tastes of the journalist
were not exclusively literary. Excellent pictures adorned the walls;
and photographs--mostly those of pretty women--were ranged on the
mantlepiece. As a whole, the room was remarkably bright and attractive
in both of which respects it thoroughly reflected the character of its
occupant.

With commendable hospitality, Hersham produced a bottle of whisky, two
glasses, and a jug of water. Signing to Fanks to help himself, he sat
in a chair near the window, and waited for his apparently unwelcome
visitor to speak. Fanks did not open his mouth, and Hersham looked up
to see the cause of his silence. The detective was staring at the
photographs on the mantleshelf--or rather, he was gazing with
astonished eyes at one portrait. It was little wonder that he did so;
for the picture was that of the young woman, who had appeared and
disappeared so unexpectedly at the chambers of Sir Gregory Fellenger,
in Half-Moon Street. For once in his life, Fanks was rendered dumb
with astonishment.

"What are you staring at?" asked Hersham, sharply.

The detective pointed to the picture. "Who is that young lady?" he
asked in a tone of intense curiosity.

"I don't see what business that is of yours," replied Hersham, "but to
gratify your curiosity I may tell you she is the girl I am engaged
to."

"The girl you are engaged to! Is she alive?"

"Of course she is," said Hersham, half angry, half amused, "why should
she be dead. Do you know her? Have you seen her? Why do you ask?"

"I shall tell you that later on," answered Fanks, "but tell me. Is the
name of that girl Emma Calvert?"

"I never heard of Emma Calvert," retorted Hersham, crossly, "the name
of that young lady is Anne Colmer."

"Of Taxton-on-Thames?"

"Yes! Of Taxton-on-Thames."




CHAPTER XIII.
THE TATTOOED CROSS.


Fanks was prepared for most surprises, and, from experience, he was
capable, of controlling his emotions thoroughly. In this instance,
however, he was so overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the discovery
that it was some time before he could arrange his thoughts and plan of
action. The coincidence of the tattooed cross was extraordinary, but
the resemblance of the portraits was still more so. Before he could
comment on the fact Hersham asked an abrupt question.

"Why do you speak of these things?" he said anxiously, "and what do
you know about Miss Colmer?"

"I know nothing about Miss Colmer," replied Fanks, quickly. "Hold on a
minute, my good fellow, I have had what people call a turn."

Hersham accepted this explanation with a doubtful air, and pushed the
spirits towards the detective. Accepting this attention, Fanks poured
himself out a stiff glass. A sip or two braced his nerves and set his
brain to work, so that shortly he was able to face the unexpected
situation. For obvious reasons he did not wish to reveal too much to
Hersham; yet under the peculiar circumstances of the case he was
forced to tell him a certain amount. To gain his ends with the least
possible risk to his plans he was reduced to manufacturing a plausible
theory from the facts within his knowledge. The task was one of some
little difficulty, but he succeeded fairly well in suppressing so much
of the truth as he did not wish known.

"That photograph took me by surprise, Hersham," he said after a pause.

"Why should it take you by surprise?" said the other, jealously. "Have
you ever met with Miss Colmer?"

"I have not met the lady," replied Fanks, slowly, "but I have seen
some one who greatly resembles her. So greatly indeed that I thought
the person I saw was the original of that photograph."

"Where did you see this person?"

"At Paris--in the Morgue."

It seemed to Fanks that Hersham changed colour on hearing this; but he
kept his feelings under control, and merely remarked, "In the Morgue?
A case of murder, no doubt."

"No! Suicide by drowning. Afterwards I heard that the body was that
of an English girl called Emma Calvert." He purposely suppressed
the fact of the marriage. "She is buried in Pere la Chaise under the
name--whether true or not, I cannot say--of Calvert. You cannot wonder
that the sight of that picture, which I took for that of the dead
woman, should startle me, the more especially as you assure me that
the original of that photograph is still alive and is engaged to you."

"Was it for this purpose that you came to see me?" demanded Hersham.

"No; I came to see you about something else. Nevertheless, before
telling you the object of my visit, I should like to have the mystery
of the photograph explained."

"How do you know that I can explain it?"

"Perhaps you can, perhaps you can't. On the other hand, perhaps you
can and perhaps you--won't."

Hersham bit his lip, and took a turn up and down the room. He appeared
to be on the verge of revealing something, but checked himself when
about to speak. At this stage Fanks wisely held his tongue, and
resolved to let Hersham make the first remark. Evidently the young man
had something on his mind, and what the something was Fanks was
determined to find out; but he left the mode of revelation entirely to
his host. Hersham was aware of this, and hesitated and faltered and
frowned. Ultimately he resumed his seat and accepted the situation.

"I have always looked upon you as a friend, Fanks," he said in a
hesitating manner; "and I have every reason to believe that you wish
me well."

"My dear fellow," said Fanks, wondering what could be the reason of
this appeal, "you are perfectly right. I would do anything to prove my
friendship for you."

"Then answer me candidly. Did you come here to ask me about that cross
which you know is tattooed on my left arm?"

"Yes," said Fanks, unhesitatingly; "I did. How did you guess my
errand?"

"I read the report of the inquest on the body of Fellenger, and I
remarked the fact of the poisoned needle and the tattooed cross. I was
informed that you had the case in hand; I knew that you had seen the
mark on my arm. So when you wrote asking me to see you it was not hard
for me to guess what you wanted. You see, I was right."

"I congratulate you on your penetration, my dear Hersham," replied.
Fanks, coolly. "At the same time, I do not see what this speech has to
do with your former one about friendship."

"I can explain. You asked me a question about that photograph; and to
answer it in a satisfactory manner I shall be forced to tell you
something about the family of the girl to whom I am engaged."

"Does your explanation concern the late Sir Gregory Fellenger?"

"Yes. It has a great deal to do with the late Sir Gregory."

"And with Emma Calvert?"

"With the woman you call Emma Calvert."

"Ought I to say Lady Fellenger?" said Fanks, quickly.

Hersham shrugged his shoulders. "That makes no difference to my
explanation," he said, and rose to get the photograph off the
mantelshelf. "You think that this is the picture of Emma Calvert?"

For answer, Fanks produced the portrait he had found in Fellenger's
rooms, and showed it to Hersham. "Is this the picture of Anne Colmer?"
he asked.

"No, that is Emma Calvert."

"Then these photographs are those of two different women?"

"Certainly. The one is Emma Calvert who committed suicide in Paris.
The other is Anne Colmer who is alive and engaged to me."

Fanks considered for a minute. "I now begin to see light," he said, in
a sober tone. "Am I right in assuming that Emma is the sister of
Anne?"

"You are perfectly right. She is the twin-sister."

"Ah! That accounts for the resemblance."

"It does," replied Hersham, with a nod, "the two sisters were so
exactly alike that apart you could not tell one from the other--at
least, so I have been told."

"Oh! Then you never saw the two sisters together?"

"I did not. I never saw Emma in my life."

"Of course you know her sad story," said Fanks, after a pause.

"Anne's mother told it to me. I know that Emma married Fellenger
secretly, and was driven to her death by his brutality. Now, you can
see why I reminded you of our friendship before telling you the
truth."

"No!" said Fanks, sharply, "I can't see."

"Why! I am engaged to the sister of the dead girl; so I thought--"

"That I might accuse you of killing Sir Gregory out of revenge?"

"Well, I did have that thought in my head; and then the coincidence of
the cross, you know."

Fanks laughed, and took the hand of Hersham. "My dear lad," he said.
"I have no idea of accusing you of the crime; your engagement to Miss
Colmer is no proof that you killed the man who acted so badly towards
her sister. Do not, therefore, hesitate to tell me all you know. How
Emma Calvert came to London; how she met with Sir Gregory; and how she
was loved by Herbert Vaud?"

"What!" cried Hersham. "You know that also?"

"I know more than you think, Hersham; therefore, if you attempt to
deceive me I shall find you out. Now go on with your story."

"I do not want to deceive you," replied the journalist, "but you
must understand that I only speak from hearsay. If you want the tale
first-hand you must see old Mrs. Colmer, at Taxton-on-Thames."

"Hum!" said Fanks, remembering his theory regarding the directing of
the envelope which contained the cardboard star. "What kind of a
person is the lady in question?"

"An invalid," said Hersham, promptly. "A paralytic; she has not moved
hand or foot for years."

"Confound it!"

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing. Only your information has upset a theory. Never mind; go
on."

"There isn't much to tell," said Hersham. "Mrs. Colmer is a decayed
gentlewoman, whose husband died and left her with two little girls.
To support these she set up a dressmaker's establishment at
Taxton-on-Thames. When the children grew up, Mrs. Colmer was smitten
with paralysis and laid on the shelf. Anne and Emma carried on the
business, and thus supported their mother. Emma came to London to gain
experience in a fashionable dressmaker's establishment; and Anne
remained behind to look after the shop at Taxton-on-Thames. While in
London, Emma met with young Vaud at the house of a friend of her
mother's. He fell in love with Emma and wished to marry her. She liked
him, but she did not love him; nevertheless, for her mother's sake,
she accepted his offer. Then in an unlucky hour Herbert introduced
Fellenger to Emma; she loved him, or was attracted by his title. At
all events, she ran away with him to Paris and became his wife."

"She was married in a London office. Registrar's."

"I did not know that," said Hersham. "Emma told her mother that she
was married, but she did not write where. Well, young Vaud had an
attack of brain fever, and afterwards he went on a sea voyage. On his
return he crossed to Paris to learn what had become of Emma. He
ascertained that she was dead and buried; in some way he learned the
whole miserable history. Vaud returned to England to see Fellenger;
but before he could meet with him the baronet was killed in Tooley's
Alley; and the fate of Emma was avenged by an unknown hand. That is
the story, Fanks; you can make what use you like of it."

"It is a wretched story," replied Fanks. "I can now understand the
hatred which young Vaud bears towards the memory of his false friend;
and I can understand also how I mistook Anne for Emma. But," added
Fanks, with emphasis, "I cannot understand why Anne came to the
chambers of Fellenger, and why she ran away when she saw me."

Hersham looked jealous, and frowned. "I cannot understand that
myself," he said. "She hated Fellenger as much as did Herbert Vaud;
and I do not know why she should go to the rooms of the scoundrel."

"She asked for the valet."

"Robert, the whimpering, pitiful dog?"

"Anne might have gone to see him to ask for particulars of her sister's
death."

"Well, yes," replied Fanks, thoughtfully; "but that does not explain
why she went away when she saw me."

"I can only surmise that she did not wish to explain what brought her
there, and so tell the tale of her sister's death to a stranger."

"No, there is more in it than that," said the detective, remembering
that Anne had been among the crowd on the night of the murder; "but we
will talk of this hereafter. In the meantime, let us return to the
main object of my visit, and show me this famous cross."

Hersham made no objection to this request, and removed his coat.
Rolling up his sleeve he exposed the cross tattooed on the flesh of
the left forearm. It was a St. Catherine cross, the size of a florin,
and Fanks examined it long and carefully. "Did you get that tattooed
at school?" he asked when Hersham had resumed his coat.

"I did not get it done at all. I have had it ever since I can
remember; and I have asked my father often about it, but he cannot, or
will not, give me any information."

"He will not most probably. Are you sure that there is no story
attached to the tattooing?"

"None that I know of; but my father might be better informed."

"Would your mother know?"

"I have no mother; she died when I was a baby."

"Strange," muttered Fanks, pensively; "it is strange that you should
have this mark on you and yet be ignorant of its significance. I wish
you would speak to your father about it."

"He won't tell me anything; I have asked him before."

"You have no idea why a cross similar to this should have been
tattooed on Sir Gregory's arm by a <DW64>?"

"Certainly not. I did not even know Sir Gregory."

"I wonder if your father could tell me?"

"I don't know. He might or he might not. Do you think that this cross
has anything to do with the murder you are investigating?"

"That is just what I do think," retorted Fanks. "The man was killed by
means of a poisoned needle used to prick in a cross similar to that on
your arm."

"But that insinuates that I am mixed up in the matter."

"It does nothing of the sort. Don't be an ass."

But Hersham was not content with this friendly assurance. "You think
that I have something to do with the crime," he said obstinately.

Fanks looked at his agitated face, at his trembling hands, and a
strange suspicion entered his mind. "I'll tell you what I do think,"
he said in an abrupt tone; "I think that you have not told me all the
truth."

Hersham trembled still more, and clasped his hands together. "I
cannot," he muttered, shrinking away from Fanks; "I dare not."




CHAPTER XIV.
FANKS MAKES UP HIS MIND.


Naturally Fanks was astonished at this confession; but he was so
conversant with the character of the young man that he could not
believe the journalist was guilty. Despite the coincidence of the
tattooed cross and the relationship of Fellenger's wife with Anne
Colmer, he did not think for a moment that his friend had anything to
do with the crime. Nevertheless, it would appear from the hesitation
of Hersham to speak openly that he had some knowledge--if not of the
crime itself--at all events of the circumstances leading to its
accomplishment. This was the only construction he could place on this
last outburst.

"After what I have said, Hersham, I think you ought to confide in me,"
he remarked after a pause. "I do not suspect you in any way; yet you
refuse to aid me. You ought to be the first to help me."

"I do not see how you make that out," replied Hersham, with a pale
face. "I never met with Sir Gregory. I heard nothing but evil of his
life, and he drove to suicide the sister of the girl to whom I am
engaged. Why should I help you?"

"Ah!" cried Fanks, sharply; "then you can help me if you choose."

"I certainly cannot," returned Hersham, doggedly. "I have not the
slightest idea who killed Fellenger. I can tell you nothing."

"Yes, you can; only you refuse to. Why I cannot say. You had better be
careful, Hersham; you will not find me easy to deal with if you rouse
my suspicions."

"Do you threaten me?"

"I warn you," retorted Fanks, smartly, "I am not accustomed to have my
offers of help repelled. Your remark of a few moments ago shows me
that you know something. What is it?"

"I know nothing."

"You do! Speak, if not for your own sake, at least for that of Miss
Colmer."

Hersham stepped up to Fanks with an angry face. "How dare you
introduce the name of Miss Colmer?" he cried. "I forbid you to speak
of her."

"All the worse for you and for--her. She called at the chambers of the
dead man. Why did she call there? She was at Tooley's Alley on the
night of the murder. What was she doing in such a place? You refuse to
tell me? I shall ask her."

Hersham sprang forward, and grasped the arm of Fanks to prevent his
leaving the room. "Think of what you are about," he gasped. "Ask her
nothing, you hear me, nothing."

"That rests with yourself. Tell me what you know and--"

"I know nothing," said Hersham, and turned away with an obstinate
look.

"Good!" said Fanks, putting on his hat. "We now understand one
another. I shall find out all without troubling you. Good-bye. And you
may thank your stars that I do not arrest you on suspicion."

"I swear that I am innocent."

"I know that, else I would have had you in custody by this time. But
you are screening another person. Anne Colmer, for instance."

"She knows nothing."

"I shall judge of that for myself," retorted Fanks, and left the room.

In Acacia Road the detective hailed a cab and drove to the nearest
telegraph office. It had occurred to him that Hersham might attempt
to communicate with Anne; and he was resolved to checkmate such a
move. To this end he sent a wire to the head of the rural police at
Taxton-on-Thames, instructing him to delay if possible all letters and
telegrams which might come to Miss Colmer. Thereby he hoped to prevent
Hersham warning the girl.

Arriving at New Scotland Yard, he detailed a man to watch Hersham, and
sent him up to Acacia Road. A glance at "Bradshaw" assured him that to
reach Taxton-on-Thames, Hersham would have to start from Waterloo.
Thither he sent another detective, to keep an eye on the trains.
Therefore, by letter, by telegram, and by railway, he had stopped
Hersham from communicating with Anne Colmer. After taking these
precautions he saw Crate.

"I am going to Taxton-on-Thames at three o'clock," he said.

"Are you going to look for the woman who directed the envelope, Mr.
Fanks?"

Fanks stretched out his legs, and began fiddling with his ring. "That
is just what is puzzling me, Crate," observed he. "I have told you of
my conversation with Mr. Hersham. Well, unless he is deceiving me,
Mrs. Conner, is a paralytic. She could not have directed that
envelope; yet, going by the writing, I'll swear that an elderly woman
penned the address. If not Mrs. Colmer--an obvious impossibility--who
wrote it?"

"Anne Colmer," said Crate, promptly.

"No. For disguise, she would rather have adopted a masculine hand."

"Mrs. Boazoph?"

"If Mrs. Boazoph had been traced to Taxton-on-Thames I should say yes;
if the letter had been sent from Mere Hall I should have said yes.
But," added Fanks, with emphasis, "as it did not come from Mere Hall,
and Mrs. Boazoph has nothing to do with Taxton-on-Thames, I am not
inclined to suspect the lady."

"Then there is nobody else."

"There must be somebody else; and the somebody else committed the
crime."

Crate thought. "Do you think that the <DW64> sent that star?" he asked.

"I feel perfectly certain that the <DW64> had nothing to do with the
star."

"But we have proved conclusively that a <DW64> killed Fellenger."

Fanks smiled complacently. "I should not be at all surprised if we
found out that a <DW64> had nothing to do with the murder," he said,
slowly.

"But that is impossible, Mr. Fanks."

"Nothing is impossible in a criminal case," said Fanks. "Look here,
Crate, as you know, it is not my habit to give an opinion before I
have thoroughly threshed out the subject matter of a case; but in this
instance, I shall depart from my rule. I should not be surprised if I
had already spotted the assassin of Sir Gregory Fellenger."

"No!" cried Crate in admiration. "And who is it, Mr. Fanks. Man or
woman?"

"Walls have ears, Crate. I shall whisper the name and when the case
comes to an end--if it ever does--you can laugh at me or congratulate
me at your will. Now then."

Fanks approached his mouth to the ear of Crate and whispered a single
name. "That is my opinion," he said slowly.

Crate shook his head. "No, Mr. Fanks. I am loth to put my opinion,
against yours, but I think you are making a mistake."

"Perhaps I am," assented Fanks, carelessly, "the case is a difficult
one, and I am quite prepared to find out that I am wrong. All the
same, I am confident that the person I named is guilty. I'll bet you
five pounds to five shillings that I am correct."

Crate grinned and took up the bet. The behaviour of his chief
flattered him, and he would not have minded losing. But he could not
bring himself to agree with Fanks as to the name of the guilty person;
for he had a theory of his own in which he believed. This theory was
diametrically opposed to that of his superior.

"How long shall you be at Taxton-on-Thames," he asked Fanks, when this
little piece of amusement was concluded.

"I may be a few days, a few hours, or a month. It all depends on what
I find out. I must interview Anne Colmer; see her mother; and make
inquiries about Binjoy and his <DW64> servant."

"But the doctor is at Mere Hall. You must go there to ask about the
<DW64>."

"Rubbish. As I told you before, the <DW64> has never been seen at Mere
Hall. Binjoy lived at Taxton-on-Thames, and it is there that I must
ask after this mysterious black man. Afterwards, I can go to Mere
Hall."

"Have you any reason for going?"

"One. I wish to find out why Mrs. Boazoph visited the Hall."

"And what about the tattooed cross, Mr. Fanks?"

"Oh, I shall see that later on. But in the meantime I must pay these
visits. Firstly, Taxton-on-Thames. Secondly, Mere Hall. Thirdly, the
Isle of Wight and the Rev. Mr. Hersham."

"Humph!" said Crate, doubtfully. "From what you say, I should think
Mr. Hersham junior would thwart your plans, if he could."

"I have not the least doubt of it," replied Fanks dryly, "but he is
being watched. If he tries to thwart me I shall, at least, have the
satisfaction of knowing it. By the way, do you know anything about
Bombay?"

"That's in India, isn't it?" said Crate, rather taken aback by the
apparent irrelevancy of this question. "I don't know anything about
Bombay, Mr. Fanks, except what I've seen in books."

"You must extend your knowledge then; for I may want you to go there
in a week or so."

"Has my going there anything to do with this case?" demanded Crate,
still very much astonished at the turn the conversation had taken.

"It has everything to do with this case," replied Fanks, enjoying his
perplexity, and the confusion of his somewhat slow-moving mind.

"Dr. Renshaw did not go to India," was Crate's next remark.

"Quite so. Renshaw having resumed his real name of Binjoy, is now at
Mere Hall--in safety, as he thinks. I can lay hands on him any time;
but I can't lay hands on that <DW64>. You must do that, Crate."

"But the <DW64> isn't in India, Mr. Fanks?"

"In my humble opinion--I may be wrong--he is," replied the other. "See
here, Crate. Dr. Binjoy must know that as I am employed by Sir Louis
to hunt down the assassin, I must see him sooner or later. If I see
the new baronet, I can hardly help seeing his 'Fidus Achates.' Now,
although Binjoy has--as he thinks--destroyed all trace of his
connection with Renshaw, yet he cannot quite alter his personal
appearance, which is rather noticeable. He may shave off his beard so
as to make himself look younger; he may even get rid of his stoutness;
but he cannot alter his voice or entirely change his pompous manner.
He must, therefore guess that I may be struck with his resemblance to
Renshaw. In some way--for I give him the credit of being clever--he
will endeavour to account for the resemblance. I do not know the
particular lie he will stick to; but of one thing I am certain;--he
will keep up the deception that Renshaw is in India by means of
prepared letters written to Dr. Turnor."

"It is my opinion, Crate," continued Fanks, solemnly, "that Binjoy has
got rid of his <DW64> servant by sending him to Bombay; and, from
Bombay the <DW64> will forward letters--already written--to Turnor of
Great Auk Street. I may be wrong, of course, and I do not wish to act
in a hurry. But the first letter I see from India, purporting to be
from Binjoy-Renshaw, that very day you start for Bombay to look for
the <DW64> who is at present missing. I am content to stake my
professional reputation that you will find him there."

"Well, you are a 'cute one, Mr. Fanks," said Crate in an admiring
tone. "I should never have thought of that."

This tribute of respect from Crate put an end to the conversation for
the time being. Fanks went to his chambers, packed a few clothes, and
repaired to Waterloo Station. The detective who was watching there,
assured him that Hersham had not been seen on the platform; and Fanks
went down to Taxton-on-Thames quite satisfied that he had what the
Americans call "the inside running."

He amused himself while in the train by making notes in his pocket
book; and with figuring out the questions which he intended to ask
Miss Colmer. Notwithstanding his assurance to Crate, he was very
doubtful if he would be able to discover the assassin of Sir Gregory,
for the further he went into the case the more intricate did it
become. So far as he could see at the present moment, the person who
had killed the Tooley Alley victim had every chance of escaping the
gallows. All that the detective could do was to go on in the darkness;
and trust to any stray gleam of light which might reveal the assassin;
but at present, he could not see an inch ahead of him.

On arriving at Taxton-on-Thames he drove at once to the local post
office; and, as he expected, he there found a telegram, which the
police had succeeded in delaying. It was addressed to Anne Colmer,
and ran as follows: "Detective coming; answer him nothing." There
was no name; but from the context, and the place whence it had been
sent--High Street, St. John's Wood--Fanks had no difficulty in
guessing that it had come from Hersham.

"Very good," he murmured. "What Hersham knows, the girl knows. I
failed to get the information from him; I may from her."




CHAPTER XV.
COMING EVENTS.


The Colmers, mother and daughter, dwelt at the further end of the
village in a cottage adjoining the shop. The former was small, but the
latter was quite an imposing structure for so sparsely-populated a
neighbourhood. Indeed its owners made an excellent income out of the
dressmaking business; and they were fairly comfortable in the position
of life into which they had been forced by circumstances. They
employed five or six girls in the workroom and three in the shop, so
that Anne found her hands full in looking after these underlings, and
in supervising the general run of the business. She was an admirable
administratrix.

As may be guessed from the nature of her complaint, Mrs. Colmer was a
mere cypher in the domestic economy of Briar Cottage--for so the house
was named. The old woman usually sat in a wheeled chair beside a bow
window, looking out on to the back garden. This latter sloped down to
the river banks, and was prettily laid out, with a summerhouse at the
lower end. From her window the paralytic could see the passing of
boats and steamers, and enjoy the brightness of the aquatic life. She
viewed this panorama from morn to eve; read on occasions, and
meditated on her past life, which had been none of the happiest.

A mild and placid woman, she was of a singularly sweet disposition;
and although she was chained to her chair by her affliction, she never
complained. The paralysis extended only to her limbs, but her brain
was still active, and she could give, and did give, her daughter
excellent advice in connection with the business. The sorrowful
expression on her face showed how keenly she had felt the loss of
Emma. But that was not the only melancholy event in her life; there
were others which will be spoken of in due course. Mrs. Colmer was not
without her troubles, but she had her consolations also, and of these
the love of Anne was the greatest.

On the day of Fanks' arrival the old lady was seated in her usual
place, between five and six, waiting for Anne. Tea was ready for the
girl, but Mrs. Colmer had already been fed by her nurse, and was
looking forward to the usual conversation which took place at this
time. All day Anne was busy in the shop, and Mrs. Colmer was left to
her own devices; but when the labours of the day were ended, mother
and daughter met to converse. To Mrs. Colmer this had been the
happiest hour of the day--but that was before Emma went to London. She
still talked to Anne, and took an interest in domestic and local
affairs; but she was haunted by a feeling of impending evil, and she
clung despairingly to her remaining child, dreading lest she should
meet with the fate of her sister. An atmosphere of apprehension
existed in Briar Cottage.

In due course Anne entered, and, having kissed her mother, sat down to
tea. She was as beautiful as ever, but there was a haggard look on her
face which accorded but ill with her youth. It would seem as though
she dreaded the future also, and was expecting the happening of some
terrible misfortune. After a short discussion of domestic matters the
conversation languished, for, wrapped in her own thoughts, Anne did
not seem inclined to talk. Mrs. Colmer noticed this, and commented
thereon with affectionate solicitude, bent on knowing what made Anne
so absentminded.

"Is there anything wrong, my dear?" she asked nervously.

"Nothing, mother; I am a little tired, that is all."

"There is more than that, Anne. For some days you have not been at all
like yourself."

"Can you wonder at that, mother?" replied Anne, bitterly. "Think of
all that has happened this last month."

An angry light came into the faded eyes of the old woman. "You should
be glad of what has happened," she said in a stern voice; "that wicked
man has been punished for his evil courses. He drove my Emma to her
death, and himself has perished by violence. An eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth; that is Scripture."

"All the same, mother, I wish that he had not been murdered. Gregory
was a brute, I know, and the death of poor Emma lies at his door; but
murder--" she shuddered. "It is so terrible to think that he should
have been cut off in the midst of his wickedness."

"He has gone down into the pit, child. Let us talk no more of him. It
is said that we must forgive our enemies, but it is hard for me to
forgive him, even though he is dead. My beautiful Emma, she should
have lived as Lady Fellenger, instead of dying through his cruelty. I
hope, Anne, that your marriage will turn out happier than that of your
poor sister."

"Ted will be the best of husbands," said Anne, in a tone of
conviction. "He loves me as dearly as I love him. I wonder when he is
coming down to see me again? I have so much to tell him."

"About your visit to Half-Moon Street?"

"That and other things," was Anne's answer; then, after a pause,
"though indeed he may not be so ignorant of that visit as you think."

"Who could tell him but yourself?"

"That detective, mother. He saw me when I entered the room, and he
followed me also. If I had not escaped him in the manner I told you, I
should have been in trouble."

"You need not be anxious about that now, Anne. The detective can never
find you----"

"I am not so sure about that," said Anne, in parenthesis.

"And as to Mr. Hersham knowing about your visit to Half-Moon Street,"
Mrs. Colmer continued, "I do not see how this detective you speak of
can possibly tell him."

"I can see, mother. Mr. Hersham knows this detective--a Mr. Fanks; and
he will probably see him about the case in the interests of the
'Morning Planet.' Should they meet--as they are almost sure to do--my
name will certainly be mentioned. Then the story of my visit will come
out, with the result that Fanks will find me here."

Mrs. Colmer turned slightly pale. "Are you afraid to meet him," she
asked.

Anne shrugged her shoulders. "I can't say that I am overpleased," was
her reply. "He is a clever man, and I shall have considerable
difficulty in keeping my own counsel."

"You must tell him nothing--nothing."

"You can be sure of that, mother. Should Mr. Fanks come here he will
go away as wise as he came. I know when to hold my tongue as on this
occasion. Matters are too serious to be spoken of openly."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Mrs. Colmer in an agitated tone. "Into what
difficulties have we not been led. I wish I had never let Emma go to
London."

"Rather wish that she had never met with Herbert Vaud, mother."

"But, Anne, she loved Herbert."

"I do not think so, else she would never have married Sir Gregory. But
you know she always was ambitious and impulsive; look where her
ambitions have led her. If she had not met with Herbert she would not
have become the wife of that wicked man; if she had not been his wife
she would not have been driven to her death; and if she had not died,
we should not have been involved in all this trouble."

"Trouble, trouble!" moaned Mrs. Colmer. "What troubles we have had,
and more will come."

"Do not be afraid, mother," said Anne, kissing her. "You have always
me to stand between you and danger. I may never meet with this
detective; I may never be questioned by him, and so all will be well.
But should he come, why--I shall know how to answer him."

"You will say nothing."

"On the contrary, I shall say a great deal," replied Anne. "But such
things as will mislead Mr. Fanks. He shall never be set on the right
path by my telling; be sure of that."

"I wish I could see you married to Ted, my dear," said her mother,
comforted by these assurances. "It would be such a relief to my mind."

"I am afraid we will not be able to marry for some considerable time.
My dear Ted is very clever, but he cannot earn enough for us both to
live on; and I do not wish to be a drag on him. No, no, mother, we
must wait until things mend, and the outlook is brighter."

"You could have married Dr. Binjoy."

"I would not marry Dr. Binjoy if there was not another man in the
world," said Anne, with supreme contempt. "He is a self-indulgent
sensualist. My Ted is worth a dozen of him."

"Still he is well-off," sighed Mrs. Colmer.

"I do not see how you make that out, mother. He was, and is, entirely
dependent on Sir Louis Fellenger for his money; and I want to have
nothing to do with the Fellengers. Their family have cost us dear
enough already."

This reference to the dead Emma made Mrs. Colmer weep, and Anne had
considerable difficulty in quietening her. However, she succeeded in
the end, and left her mother to her own thoughts, while she herself
went out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. Moreover, she
wanted to be alone, for the purpose of thinking over the position of
things. Anne could not but recognise that if certain contingencies
arose, she and her mother would find themselves very awkwardly placed.

The evening was warm, and the sky was filled with a mellow light,
which rendered languid the atmosphere. Against this, the trees stood
out in bold relief, every twig and leaf being sharply outlined against
the amber sky. The sound of distant laughter, and the musical splash
of oars came to the ears of the girl as she walked slowly down the
path towards the summerhouse. A low, redbrick wall ran along the bank
of the river, and as she leaned over this low parapet, Anne could see
some considerable distance to right and left. Before a boating house
on the opposite shore a number of people were collected; and every now
and then a boat would shoot out into the gleaming waters bearing two
or three of them away. Someone musically inclined had brought a banjo,
and Anne could hear the thrumming of the strings, and the echo of the
latest music-hall ditty. Altogether, the scene was not without its
charm; but she was too much taken up with her own troubles to pay much
attention to the pleasant picture spread out before her. The quiet of
the evening brought no peace to her.

"How foolishly I have acted," she thought, with a shiver. "If I had
been wise I would have left these matters alone. I feel certain that
Mr. Fanks recognised me as the woman he saw in Tooley's Alley. If he
finds me out, he will ask me what I was doing there on the night of
the murder. What can I say. I dare not tell him the truth, and he may
refuse to believe what I say to him. I acted for the best, it is true,
but my good intentions have led me into a position of danger. But I
may be wrong--I may be quite safe. That man may never find me. If he
does,"--she shivered again, and looked up the river.

Under the glow of the sunset sky, the waters rolled, a broad sheet of
gold flecked here and there with the dark forms of boats. To the left
Anne saw a skiff containing one oarsman, coming swiftly down the
stream. In a half dreamy moment she calculated that he would pass
almost immediately under the wall. Then she returned to her
self-communings.

"If Ted were only here," she thought. "I should like to tell him all
that I have done, and ask him how to act. For his own sake he must
keep silent; and for the sake of my mother I must hold my tongue. Oh,
it is terrible--terrible to know what I know, and yet remain dumb. And
I am afraid of that detective. His eyes seemed to pierce me through on
that day. Should he find me out he may compel me to speak. And if I
speak--oh, the disgrace and shame of it. Why, why are such things
permitted in this world. Oh, Ted! Ted, I wish you were here to comfort
me."

She leaned her head on the wall and burst into tears. Anne was not
easily moved; and it was an unusual thing for her to thus give way to
her emotions. But she was only a girl after all, and her system was
strung up and nervously excited by the knowledge of the secret she
knew. She would like to have confided in someone, if only to relieve
her overburdened mind; but she shrank from the consequences of such a
step. A word from her, and the murder in Tooley's Alley--but, no, she
put the thought out of her mind, and, still leaning her head on her
arms, she wept bitterly.

Meanwhile the single oarsman rowed steadily towards the red brick
wall, which was evidently the point for which he was making. Soon he
came abreast of it; shortly he came under it, and Anne raised her head
at the sound of the splash of oars, to behold the very man of whom she
had been thinking. It was Ted Hersham.




CHAPTER XVI.
UNHAPPY LOVERS.


Hersham brought his boat under the wall with a sweep, but before
disembarking he looked up to Anne with an anxious expression on his
face.

"Did you get my telegram?" he demanded hastily.

"Telegram!" she repeated. "I have received no telegram from you."

"I thought so," said the journalist, and laughed in a savage sort of
manner.

"What do you mean?" demanded Anne, noting how haggard he looked. "Is
anything wrong?"

"More than I like to say," was his answer.

At that moment it seemed to Anne that her presentiments were about to
become true, and she waited with vague terror for his next speech. Ted
did not open his mouth for some minutes, being fully occupied in
making fast his boat prior to landing. In spite of the importance of
the interview, and his desire to prepare Anne for the immediate coming
of Fanks, he did not hurry himself, but executed his task with the
utmost deliberation. On her part the girl held her peace, and not
until her lover had taken her in his arms to kiss her passionately did
she speak. Then she led him to the summerhouse--out of sight of Mrs.
Colmer at the window--and broached the subject which was uppermost in
her mind.

"Ted," she asked in a low voice, "is there any danger?"

"There is a great deal of danger."

"From what quarter?"

"From the worst of all quarters. Fanks has found you out."

"Ah!" she sat back suddenly and her face turned pale with
apprehension. "Is he here?"

Hersham nodded. "I sent a telegram to warn you not to answer his
questions."

"I did not receive it."

"I guessed you would not," replied her lover, with a nod. "Fanks
visited me to-day, and left me with the intention of coming down here
to see you. I sent the wire. Then I fancied that he might manage to
get it delayed at the office here. I did not dare to go by Waterloo,
as I made sure he would have the station watched. In this dilemma
there was nothing left for me to do but to come down on my bicycle,
which I did. I rode to Warby's boat-house, left my machine there, and
came on to warn you."

Anne considered for a few minutes. "How was it that Mr. Fanks found me
out?" she asked anxiously.

"He saw your portrait in my rooms."

"What was he doing in your rooms?"

"He came to question me about the cross tattooed on my arm."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"Nothing! What could I tell him? I am quite unaware how the cross came
to be there. But with regard to his recognition of you; how was it
that you went to the chambers of that dead scoundrel?"

"I went to get a photograph of Emma's that was in the possession of
her late husband."

"Why did you wish to get the photograph?"

"It had some writing on the back, which may implicate another person
in this trouble of the death. I think," she added, pointedly, "that
you can guess the name of that person."

"I think I can," replied Hersham, gloomily, "and the worst of it is
that Fanks will certainly find out that name."

"Impossible! I may be able to thwart him on that point."

"I hope so; but you do not know the man as I do. He is the most
patient and pertinacious of men. He will stick to this case until he
has the assassin of Sir Gregory in jail."

"God forbid!" ejaculated Anne, with a shudder.

"Amen to that!" answered Hersham. "Oh, Anne, my dear Anne," he
continued, taking her hand, "how I wish we could end all this and fly
to the ends of the earth!"

"My dear," she said gently, "we have others to think of besides
ourselves. It would never do to desert them at the present moment.
Besides there may not be so much chance of discovery as you think."

"I don't know; I am certain of nothing," said Hersham, with a sigh. "I
only dread one thing--lest Fanks should force you into betraying that
which you would rather hide."

"Don't trouble about that, Ted," returned Anne, dryly. "I think Mr.
Fanks will find me more than his match. You need not have come to
prepare me, for I am quite ready for the gentleman as soon as he
chooses to call."

"That will be very soon. He is in the village now. I don't want him to
see me. For that reason I came here in a boat."

"Do not be foolish, Ted," said Anne, quickly. "You must let him see
you, else he will suspect that you know something about this matter.
And you must be aware, dear, that you have your own safety to look
to."

"Oh!" groaned Hersham, "how are we to extricate ourselves from this
mess?"

"I think we will leave that to time; and you have me to comfort you."

"Dearest!" he drew her towards him; "without you I should not be able
to move one step. At present all is dark and dreary; but let us hope
that there are brighter days in store."

"I am certain that there are," said Anne; "but we have a great deal to
endure before peace comes. We must go through the valley of
humiliation to reach the promised land."

"Well!" said Ted, emphatically, "when we do reach it I think we must go
to America, there to commence a new life. It is no use trying to
construct a new one here out of the ruins of the old."

"That we shall see," replied Anne, with a sigh "God knows we have had
a great deal to endure since the death of my poor sister. But let us
for the moment banish this gloomy subject, and talk of ourselves. How
are you getting on with your work?"

Hersham smiled and kissed her. He saw that she was striving to lighten
the burden which had been laid upon him; and he was grateful for the
kindness. All the same he found it difficult to put his troubles out
of sight and memory, seeing that they were so insistent, and that
within the next half hour he might be called upon to defend himself
from a dangerous charge. Alone as they were in the summerhouse, they
were afraid to speak openly, lest the birds of the air should carry to
Fanks undesirable news which would please him, but ruin them. Under
these circumstances Hersham agreed with Anne that it was best to let
affairs connected with the case of Tooley's Alley remain in abeyance,
until they were compelled to take action. In the meantime the unhappy
pair went hand in hand into a Fool's Paradise of make-believe, and
hollow joys. There was something pitiful in this playing with
happiness.

"We will be very poor, my love," said Hersham, somewhat later in the
conversation; "and I am afraid that you will miss all the luxuries to
which you have been accustomed."

Anne laughed and kissed him. "You silly boy," she said kindly; "my
luxuries are of the cheapest kind, as you well know. Besides I can
face poverty with a brave heart with you."

"But your mother?"

"I am afraid she will not live long," sighed Anne. "She is growing so
weak, and she has long, long fits of silence. Poor mother! she has had
a hard life. I do not think she ever got over the death of Emma."

"Does she know anything about these other matters?"

"Very little. I kept as much from her as I could. Indeed, she would
never have heard of the death at all had it not been for Herbert
Vaud."

"He might as well have held his tongue," said Ted, angrily; "but the
fact is, that since Emma's death and his illness he has not been quite
right in his head. He returned comparatively well, as you know; but
that journey to Paris to inquire after Lady Fellenger unsettled him
again."

"Don't talk of Lady Fellenger," said Anne, with a shudder.

"Why not? Your sister was lawfully the wife of Sir Gregory."

"I know that. All the same, I hate to hear the name of the family."

"And yet," said Hersham, meaningly, "you were fond enough of Louis."

Again Anne laughed. "You must not be jealous of my friendship for
Louis, Ted. He is a good fellow in his way. I was never in love with
him as I am with you, but I liked him."

"And Binjoy, that pompous doctor, did you like him?"

"I hated him. I hate him still," she flashed out. "He is the evil
genius of Louis. If these matters only concerned Dr. Binjoy, I should
not keep silent and bear the burden I am doing."

"You have me to bear it with you," said. Hersham, softly.

"I know that, my dear. But there are some things which men and women
have to face singly. Such a thing is this coming interview with Mr.
Fanks. I wanted you to see him so as to disarm any suspicions which he
may entertain. Still, I wish you to take no part in the conversation."

"But why?" asked Ted, with a frown. "I can't leave you to fight my
battle."

"You must in this case," replied Anne, "you are a dear, good fellow,
Ted, but you allow your heart to govern your head."

"That is very true. And it is the reverse with you, Anne."

"Not so far as you are concerned, Ted. I am as weak as water with you.
If you see me hard to other people you must set it down to the severe
training I have had in the school of adversity. I am only a girl in
years, but I am a woman in experience."

"You are the dearest and bravest woman in the whole world," said
Hersham fondly, kissing her hand, "and if happiness comes to us in the
future, it will be through you. I shall do what you say and hold my
tongue. But, my darling, are you sure that you can cope with Fanks."

"I do not know as I have only seen him, but once we cross swords and I
shall soon learn my strength. I have a large stake to fight for, and
the remembrance of that will make me desperate."

"Well," said Ted, dolefully, "we cannot turn back now. The enemy is
within our gates, and we must fight. 'Væ victis.'"

"You may well say that," said Anne, bitterly. "'Woe to the vanquished'
indeed. Come let us go to the house and see my mother, but you must
say nothing to her about our conversation. She knows as much as is
good for her, and her health will not stand any great shock."

"In that case," observed Hersham, as they strolled up the path, "you
must not let her see Fanks."

"Trust me, Ted. Forewarned is forearmed."

Mrs. Colmer was delighted to see Ted, for he was a great favourite
with the invalid. She had no suspicion of what had brought him down in
so unexpected a manner, and chatted to the young man in the most
cheerful of spirits. Meanwhile Anne gave her lover a cup of tea, and
cut him some sandwiches. All the time she was straining her ears to
catch the fall of the knocker on the front door. Every moment she
expected to bear the crash which would announce the arrival of the
detective, and as the minutes went by her nerves became strained to
their utmost pitch. Ted saw what she suffered, but in the presence of
Mrs. Colmer he could say nothing, and the old lady went chattering on.
There was something cruelly ironical about the situation.

At last, Hersham could bear the suspense no longer, and making some
excuse to Mrs. Colmer, he drew Anne out into the passage. There he
placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Are you afraid?" he said, anxiously. "Are you afraid of the coming
interview with this man?"

"Yes," said Anne, and shivered; the colour had left her cheeks, and
she suddenly appeared older, and more haggard.

"Why are you afraid? Because of your visit to those chambers?"

"That and another thing."

"Does the other thing concern yourself."

"Yes. It concerns a visit to London on that night."

"Heavens! Where did you go?"

Before Anne could answer, a sharp knock came to the door, which drove
all the blood into their hearts.

They looked at one another, for they now felt that the danger was on
them. What would happen within the next hour.

"Where did you go on that night?" asked Hersham, hoarsely.

"To Tooley's Alley--to the Red Star Hotel."

"Anne, Anne. And you saw--"

Anne nodded. "Yes," she said, steadily, "I saw."




CHAPTER XVII.
TWO AGAINST ONE.


On arriving at Taxton-on-Thames Fanks had taken up his abode at the
Royal Arms Hotel. It was his intention to make inquiries about Sir
Louis Fellenger, Dr. Binjoy, and the <DW64> servant of the latter.
Ignorant that he had been thwarted by Hersham, he had also intended to
interview Anne Colmer without loss of time, before she could see or
even hear from her lover. The intercepted telegram proved conclusively
that this girl knew something which Hersham did not want her to
reveal; and in the absence--as Fanks supposed of all warning--he hoped
to take her at a disadvantage. In this mood he took his way to her
home.

So far as the detective could see, his future plans depended almost
entirely upon the information which he expected to obtain from this
girl within the next few hours. And in that supposition lay the irony
of the situation. Being in this frame of mind, his astonishment may be
conceived when on the door of Briar Cottage being opened he saw before
him the man whom he thought was at that moment in London. For the
minute he was unable to speak, but recovered himself to ironically
congratulate Hersham on his dexterity in evading the machinery of the
law. In reality Fanks was angered, but he had too much good sense to
give way to bad temper. It was, in his opinion, useless to make bad
worse.

"So you have stolen a march on me, Hersham," he said sardonically. "I
was doubtful of your honesty in London; I am still more so now. How
did you manage to dodge the traps I laid for you?"

"By knowing where they were laid," said Hersham, sullenly. "I guessed
you would have the railway stations watched, so I came down here on my
bicycle."

"A very ingenious idea; you have no doubt warned Miss Colmer not to
answer my questions?"

"Yes," said Hersham, defiantly; "I have done so. As I did not receive
a reply to my telegram, I guessed that you had intercepted my message
in some way. It has arrived now, when it is too late. To see Miss
Colmer, to warn her, I came down here at the risk of my own safety."

"Oh!" remarked Fanks, taking note of this injudicious speech. "That is
as much as to say that you risked being arrested by me. I don't know
that you are wrong, my friend. You deserve punishment for your
trickery."

"You have evidence against me?"

"I have sufficient to ensure your arrest. On the whole, Hersham," said
the detective, "I should advise you to help me. Otherwise I shall
arrest you within the hour. Take your choice."

Before Hersham could answer this question Anne appeared at the door
with a pale face and a determined manner. At once she intervened in
the conversation, and placed herself between the two men.

"There is no necessity to threaten, Mr. Fanks," said she, quickly.
"Come inside, and let us discuss this matter calmly. I am sure that
Mr. Hersham will agree that this is the best course."

The journalist nodded sullenly, and the two men passed into the house,
conducted by Anne. She led them into a room, the window of which
looked on to the road, and here, when they were seated, she addressed
herself more particularly to Hersham.

"You were wrong to speak as you did to Mr. Fanks," she said meaningly.
"There is no reason why you or I should conceal anything. I am
perfectly willing to tell all that I know--which is not much--and to
afford this gentleman every information in my power."

"You will regret it if you do, Anne," said Hersham, warningly.

"You will regret it if you don't," interposed Fanks. "I really do not
understand why you should act in this childish manner. I have always
been your friend, yet you treat me a though I were your bitterest
enemy."

"You are trying to trap me."

"If your conscience is clear I do not think you need be afraid of
being trapped," retorted Fanks; "but it seems useless to hope for any
sense from you. Perhaps this young lady may be more amenable to
reason."

"You can depend upon me to help you, Mr. Fanks," said Anne, calmly.

Hersham rose to his feet with an agitated look on his face. "I shall
leave you to reveal what you think fit," he declared. "At the same
time I wash my hands of the consequences which may result."

And with a significant look at Anne, he left the room.

Fanks gave him a parting warning as he passed through the door. "You
had better stay here, Hersham," he said, "as I may want to see you
again. Whether you stay or go I can lay my hands on you at any
moment."

"You are having me watched?" questioned Hersham, fiercely.

"Yes, I am having you watched; and you may thank yourself that you are
placed in so unpleasant a position. Now, then, will you go to London,
or stay here?"

Hersham hesitated for a moment, then, biassed by a look from Anne, he
compromised. "I shall stay in the village," he said, and passed
through the open door, leaving the detective with Miss Colmer.

Strange to say, Fanks was by no means at his ease with this woman the
more so, as he mistrusted her promise to tell him all she knew. She
had deceived him by flying from the chambers in Half-Moon Street; she
might again mislead him with false reports. If she had anything to
conceal, this ready acquiescence hinted that she would not tell her
secret; and the detective was far more distrustful of her craft than
of the foolish behaviour of Hersham. He might combat obstinacy with
more or less success, but to deal with a diplomatic person like Miss
Colmer, required a dexterous use of all the intelligence he possessed.
Fanks, therefore, prepared for a duel of words; and weighed both
expression, and information, during the ensuing conversation.

"Well, Mr. Fanks," said Miss Colmer, coolly, "I must congratulate you
on your cleverness in determining my identity; I thought when I left
you in Sir Gregory's chambers that I should be able to elude you
altogether. I was wrong, it seems; you have found me out. Now that you
have done so, may I ask what you want to know?"

"I want to know a great many things," said Fanks, emulating her
coolness; "but the question is whether you will consent to answer all
my questions?"

"You can judge for yourself. Ask me what question you will, and I
shall answer to the best of my ability. But," added she, pointedly,
"before you begin, let me ask you one question. Do you suspect that I
have anything to do with the murder of Sir Gregory?"

"I can't answer that until you have replied to my questions, Miss
Colmer; but, judging from your readiness to afford me information, I
fancy that you do know something of the matter."

"You are right, I do know something of the matter; but I cannot
promise to tell you who killed Sir Gregory. I know that he was
murdered--no more; and even that information I gained from the
newspapers."

Fanks made no reply to this remark; whereupon Miss Colmer continued:
"Why do you think that I know anything about the crime? I never met
Sir Gregory."

"Why did you come to the rooms of Sir Gregory?" replied Fanks. "I
connect you with the murder because of that visit."

"If you know the story of my poor sister, you know why I came to
Half-Moon Street," said Anne, coldly. "It was to ask the servant,
Robert, for a portrait of Emma, that had been taken from her by Sir
Gregory."

"I have seen that photograph, Miss Colmer. Did you want it back for
the picture, or because it had some writing on the back?"

"What writing do you mean?" asked the girl, sharply.

Fanks produced the celebrated envelope from his pocket. "That is the
writing," he said; "whosoever wrote that, also wrote on the back of
the photograph of your sister. Perhaps you can tell me who is the
scribe."

Miss Colmer looked earnestly at the envelope, and shook her head. "I
never saw that writing before," she said, decisively.

"Yet you can see that the post mark is of this village."

"So it appears; nevertheless. I cannot name the writer; and I cannot
understand why you show it to me."

"Well, Miss Colmer," said Fanks, disappointed with this answer, "when
I find out who wrote this envelope I shall know who killed Sir
Gregory."

"I am sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Fanks. I see that you think the
envelope came from this house, but I assure you that you are wrong.
Both my mother and myself considered Sir Gregory a villain because of
his treatment of poor Emma; but we did not wish his death. If you came
here to find the assassin you have wasted your time. I know nothing
about the matter."

"Then what is it that Hersham did not wish you to reveal?"

"Nothing; he wished me to deny that I had been at the chambers of Sir
Gregory on that day, lest you should think I had something to do with
the murder."

"Oh!" said Fanks, disbelievingly. "And did Hersham wish you to deny
also that you had been in Tooley's Alley on the night of the murder?"

Anne became pale at the directness of this attack, and took refuge in
a plain denial. "I was not there," she said, obstinately. "Neither on
that night nor at any time."

"Pardon me, I saw you myself."

"You must have been mistaken."

"I think not. Yours is not a face I could easily forget."

"Thank you for the compliment," said Anne, "but in this case I am
afraid it is unmerited. I was not at Tooley's Alley on that night. If
you doubt me, you can ask my mother."

"No!" said Fanks, after a moment's reflection, "I shall not ask your
mother--yet." As a matter of fact, the detective was well assured that
mother and daughter had prepared an alibi in case of discovery. Not
being ready to analyse the matter, by reason of lack of information,
and certain that Anne would persist in her denial, he wisely postponed
all discussion until a more fitting occasion. He, therefore, on the
face of it, accepted Anne's assertion, and merely remarked that
Hersham was foolish to induce her to conceal what had better have been
told.

To this, Anne replied, promptly: "You must forgive him, Mr. Fanks,"
she said. "He knows that I hated Sir Gregory for his treatment of my
sister; and he fancies that my unlucky visit might implicate me in
this matter. But I have told you the reason I went there; so you must
blame or excuse me as you see fit."

"I shall do neither, at present," said Fanks, significantly. "But I
shall ask you why you ran away from me on that day?"

"I was afraid of you."

"Why, you did not know me; you never saw me before."

"I saw your portrait," said Miss Colmer, frankly. "You gave one to
Ted--Mr. Hersham--and he told me that you were a detective. When I saw
you in those chambers I guessed that you had the case in hand; and I
was seized with a panic fear lest you should suspect me to be mixed up
in the crime. For that reason I fled. How did you trace me?"

"It was wrong of you to go, Miss Colmer," said Fanks, not replying
directly, "and I was naturally suspicious of your flight."

"But you don't suspect me now?"

"Not since you have explained your visit. You ask me how I traced you.
First, from your marvellous resemblance to your dead sister; and,
secondly, from the post mark on this envelope. As I told you, the
writing on envelope and portrait are the same. You see the
connection?"

"Yes. I see the connection. And now, Mr. Fanks, I have told you all I
know; is there any other question you wish to ask me?"

"Yes. Where was this photograph taken you wanted?"

"In this village."

"Was it your sister's possession?"

"It was; it was the only photograph we had of her. The negative was
broken and there was no picture of my sister in existence. After the
death, my mother wanted this picture; and, as I guessed that it might
be at Sir Gregory's chambers, I went up for it."

"Did you see it in your sister's possession before she went away with
Sir Gregory?"

"Yes. She took it from here when she went to London."

"Was there any writing on the back then?"

Anne reflected a moment. "No," she said. "There was no writing on it
then."

"Do you think your sister wrote on the back of the portrait before she
committed suicide?"

"If the writing on the back of the photograph is the same as that on
this letter--or rather, envelope--I do not think she wrote it. This is
not my sister's handwriting."

"You cannot think who wrote it?"

"No, Mr. Fanks; I am entirely ignorant of that."

Needless to say, Fanks took his departure from Briar Cottage in a very
puzzled frame of mind. Before leaving, he told Miss Colmer that he
would call again the next day. When he got back to his hotel he asked
himself how much of her story he could believe; and he came to the
conclusion that not one word of it was true. He was as far off
discovery as ever.




CHAPTER XVIII.
ON THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE.


Up to the present time the visit of Fanks to Taxton-on-Thames had been
a complete failure. He had been thwarted by Hersham; he more than
suspected that he had been tricked by Anne; and he saw no means of
obtaining any information likely to lead to the elucidation of the
mystery which enveloped the death of Sir Gregory Fellenger. It was in
very low spirits that the detective returned to the Royal Arms, and
after a good dinner, which somewhat cheered him, he sat down with a
pipe to consider what he should do next.

He had no hope of obtaining any information from Hersham or Anne
Colmer, as for some reason or another each of them declined to speak.
Fanks thought they could put him on the right track if they pleased;
but he saw no means by which he could force them to speak openly. In
spite of his threats he could arrest neither of them, as he had not
sufficient evidence to do so. Unable, therefore, to force or to
flatter them into plain speaking, he was completely baffled in his
efforts to solve the enigma in this direction. For the time being he
was at a standstill.

In this dilemma he left the decision regarding his future movements to
"chance," and, in the expectation of hearing something of value to his
plans, he strolled into the tap-room of the hotel. Here he hoped to
find the village gossips, and to gather from their idle talk
information concerning Sir Louis Fellenger, Dr. Binjoy, and the <DW64>
servant. However, there was no one in the room save a bent and crooked
old man, with a pair of keen eyes. He was seated in a corner of the
settle, with a tankard of beer before him; and with garrulous
complacency he introduced himself as Simeon Wagg, the parish clerk of
Taxton-on-Thames. He had a long tongue and a fund of gossip at his
disposal; and he was ready to afford Fanks all the information in his
power about the parish and its inhabitants.

"I hev more edication than the most folk about here," piped this
ancient. "Theer ain't much as I don't know if I do so choose. Thirty
year, sir, hey I bin official in this yer church an' village; and I've
buried an' married an' christened wi' five passons. They come, they
go; but old Simeon he staay like t' church itself. He! he! he!"

"I suppose you know Sir Louis Fellenger?"

"I knaw Mr. Louis Fellenger," corrected the aged gossip. "He warn't no
barrownit when I seed him. Now he hev gone inter th' 'Ouse of Lors, es
I hev heard. But he was in the third 'ouse es you go down by Fox's
Farm. Aw, yis, I knaws him; sold hisself to Ould Scratch, he did."

"What do you mean, Mr. Wagg?"

"Whoy, this ere Mister Fellenger he was a-pothicary an' a chimist, an'
he raised the 'nemy of mankin', as the saaying goes. An' they do saay
es the black maan wor a devil, from all of which Good Loord deliv'r
us, es I ses i' t' church."

"Did you know Dr. Binjoy?"

"Aye! He were laarge an' beer-baarel like; aw, vis, an' the woords he
sid, passon culdn't spake like he. He wint awaay wi' Mister Fellenger
t' be a barrownit, es I hey heaard tell."

"Did the <DW64> servant go with them?"

"Aw, no. T' blaack devil he was turned out o' doors on t' twenty
first, he was. I know t' toime, I do, 'cause blaack maan he nearly run
me over on his bikikle, he did."

Fanks pricked up his ears at this. It was on the twenty-first that the
murder had been committed in London. He addressed himself with renewed
attention to the task of extracting information from this piece of
antiquity.

"How was it that the <DW64> nearly ran over you on his bicycle?"

"Naow, I'll jes' tell ye, I will," said Simeon, settling himself for a
long story. "This yere blaack maan--Caesar is his name--he worn a
grean coat wi' brass buttons, he did. I knawed him in t' dark by that
coat, I did."

"Was it in the dark that he ran over you?" asked Fanks.

"Aye; it jes' were, Mister. I was on t' Lunon Roaad, I was; about
nine, es I cud tell by t' striking clock fro' t' church. An' this yere
blaack maan he coom along, he did, on t' divil machine, an' he laaid
me flaat on my back, he did; an' I bean't so yooung es I was, Mister.
I shoated to he, but he niver saaid nothing, he didn't. He run on an'
left me lying on my baack in t' durt, he did. I were main aangry, I
were."

"I don't wonder at it, Mr. Wagg," said Fanks, amiably. "But how did
you know it was the <DW64> Caesar?"

"I seed his groan coaat, I tell 'ee; his face were muffled oop-like,
but his coaat were plaain in t' gaas lamp, it were. I hev seen t'
coaat heaps of times, I hev. An' t' nex' day he were sent away, he
were."

This story made Fanks wonder if Caesar had been up to town on the
twenty-first. A <DW64> had committed the murder in Tooley's Alley
between six and seven. So if he returned to Taxton-on-Thames on a
bicycle there was plenty of time for him to come down before nine
o'clock, or, as the old man said, after nine o'clock. A good wheelman
could easily cover the distance between London and Taxton-on-Thames in
two hours. Again, Mrs. Boazoph had sworn that the murderer had been
arrayed in a green coat with brass buttons; and this description
matched that of the <DW64> who had so nearly run over Wagg on the
London Road. Time and date corresponded; and then the <DW64> had been
dismissed the next day--he had been smuggled out of the way by his
master. On the whole, Fanks thought that matters looked rather black
against the stout doctor. He proceeded with his enquiries.

"Did Dr. Binjoy discharge his servant, or did Sir Louis?"

"Weel theer naow," said the aged one, taking the pipe out of his
mouth, "blamed if I knaw who did give him t' kickout. Muster
Fellenger, he were ill, he were, an' hed bin fur weeks; t' doctor he
was wi' him, he was, an' I niver saaw one of 'en--an' naw one else es
I heerd of did, fur daays an' daays. But Missus Jerusalem, she es is
t' housekeeper t' Muster Fellenger, she said es haow Caesar hed bin
turned awaay. He got off fro' t' village, he did; an' I niver see'd
him since, I didn't. Then t' cousin of Muster Louis died, he did; an'
Muster Fellenger he went awaay wi' doctor to be barrownit, he did."

"You don't think that Dr. Binjoy was up in London on the night you met
Caesar on the bicycle?"

"Noa, sir, I doan't. Whoy Muster Fellenger he were ill, he were; an'
t' doctor he kep in t' sick room, he did. No one iver saaw him for
daays, they didn't."

From this information, it seemed to Fanks as though there were an
understanding between Sir Louis and the doctor. This old creature who
represented the village opinion was quite sure that Dr. Binjoy had
been in attendance on Fellenger on the night of the twenty-first. Yet
Fanks knew by personal observation that Binjoy, under the name of
Renshaw, had been in Tooley's Alley. He would not have returned to
Taxton-on-Thames on that night, as the house in Great Auk Street had
been watched. And yet Fanks had proved beyond all doubt that Renshaw
and Binjoy were one and the same person. Was it possible that Sir
Louis was telling a lie to screen Binjoy from the consequences of his
being in town; and was it possible that the two had employed the
<DW64>, Caesar, to commit the crime, and then had smuggled him out of
the way--say to Bombay--so that he should not betray them. In a word,
were Fellenger and Binjoy guilty of the murder of the cousin of the
former? It seemed impossible; and yet, as Sir Louis was employing
Fanks to hunt down the assassin, it was hard to believe. The
conversation of Simeon Wagg only introduced a new perplexity into this
perplexing case.

There was nothing more to be got out of the old clerk; so Fanks
retired to bed in a very melancholy frame of mind. He did not know
which way to move in the midst of such contradictory information. The
night brought counsel; and the next morning Fanks arose with a
definite object. He would return to town and advertise for the <DW64>.
Caesar must have left his bicycle somewhere, so if he advertised for a
<DW64> in a green coat with brass buttons, he might find out something.
Those with whom the bicycle had been left would be able to give a
description of the <DW64> who had arrived and departed with it; and so
Fanks hoped to learn if the black murderer of Tooley's Alley was the
same as the servant Caesar of Dr. Binjoy. Regarding the shielding of
the doctor by Louis Fellenger, the detective resolved to leave that
question until he went to Mere Hall and saw the two men together.

"I am afraid that Crate will have to go to Bombay, after all," said
Fanks to himself as he left the hotel.

He did not go at once to town, as he wished to see both Hersham and
Anne Colmer; also he was desirous of having an interview with the
mother. Half-way down the street he met with the journalist, who
saluted him in rather a sullen fashion.

"I was just about to call on you," said Hersham. "I wish to go to town
by the midday train, if you have no objection."

"You can go as soon as you please," retorted Fanks, "you are not so
much good to me that I care to keep you here."

"You need not make yourself so infernally disagreeable, Fanks," said
the young man, tartly. "I have told you all I know, and so has Miss
Colmer."

"As to that, I have my own opinion, Hersham. I certainly think that
you and she have a secret between you which you will not share with
me."

"It does not concern you."

"Ah, you have a secret, then?"

"Yes, I have, but it is private business, and has nothing to do with
the death of that titled scoundrel."

"I should like to judge of that for myself," said Fanks, coldly.
"However, I daresay I'll find out all I wish to know without your
assistance."

Hersham came forward, and laid his hand on the arm of the detective.
"I say, Fanks," he observed, earnestly, "I know I'm not treating you
well, but you must make allowances for the natural fear I feel at
being brought into contact with the law. I know something; and I
should like to tell it to you, but I can't make up my mind to do
so--yet. Still, I give you my word of honour that if you ask me again
next week I shall tell you all; I shall place my life and liberty in
your hands."

"Good heavens, man!" cried the startled Fanks. "You don't mean to say
that you are concerned in the murder?"

"No, I am not, but when I tell you all, you will see why I did not
speak before. Give me a week to make up my mind."

"I'll give you the week," said the detective, briefly, and without
further speech, Hersham took his leave in an abrupt manner, evidently
relieved to be so dismissed.

On presenting himself at Briar Cottage, Fanks was at once admitted,
and was shown by the servant--a neat-handed Phyllis--into a different
sitting-room from the one he had seen before. In a large chair by the
window which looked out on the garden, an old lady was seated. She was
dressed completely in white; and the lower part of her body was
swathed in a shawl of Chinese crape. Her face was pale and careworn,
and her eyes were red-rimmed as from constant crying. An open Bible
lay on her lap, and from this she raised her eyes as Fanks entered. He
had little hesitation in guessing that this was Mrs. Colmer, the
paralytic mother of the living Anne and the dead Emma.

"You must excuse my rising to receive you," she said in a low and
sweet voice, "but I am unable to move hand or foot. Doubtless, my
daughter has told you of my affliction. My daughter will see you
presently."

Fanks bowed, and there was a silence between them for a few moments.
He glanced round the neatly furnished room; at the pictures and
photographs; but among them all he could not see one of the dead Emma.

At the elbow of Mrs. Colmer, on a small table, stood a pile of
photographs, at which she had evidently been looking prior to his
entrance, and Fanks surmised that a portrait of Emma might be there.
He was anxious to discover one, if possible, as Anne had denied that
there was a photograph of her sister in existence save the one which
she had sought at Sir Gregory's chambers. Fanks thought that if he
could find another in the pile at Mrs. Colmer's elbow he would be able
to convict Anne out of her own mouth, and expose the falsity of the
motive she gave for her visit. He cast about for some means whereby to
accomplish his purpose.

"You will excuse me, Mrs. Colmer," he said, rising from his seat, "but
that is an excellent picture of the Bay of Naples."

He had crossed over to the other side of the room to look at the
picture, and so found himself standing by the small table which held
the sundry pictures. In turning away he pretended to stumble, and so
knocked over the table and photographs.

"Thousand apologies," said Fanks, in confusion, stooping to pick them
up.

He looked in vain for the face he sought; but he made a discovery
which startled him not a little. The last photograph which he picked
up off the carpet was one of--Mrs. Boazoph.




CHAPTER XIX.
THE DEFIANCE OF ANNE COLMER.


Before Fanks could remark on the strangeness of this discovery, the
door opened and Anne entered the room. With characteristic quickness
she recognised the photograph in the hand of the detective. At once
she came forward, and signed to him to be silent. At the same time she
spoke to her mother.

"Mr. Fanks has been shown into this room by mistake," she said,
hurriedly; "so with your permission, mother, I shall conduct him into
the next room."

"As you please, Anne; you know best."

Accepting this permission Anne drew Fanks quickly into the passage,
and led him into the apartment he had seen on the occasion of his last
visit. He still held the photograph in his hand; and at this she
looked anxiously as she signed to him that he should take a seat.
Fanks placed himself in a comfortable armchair; Miss Colmer took up
her position opposite to him, and both prepared for a difficult
conversation. As was natural from her late action, she made an
observation on the picture of Mrs. Boazoph.

"I see that you recognise that face," said Anne, coolly; "no doubt you
wonder how that photograph came to be in this house?"

"I do wonder. Am I to hear the truth from you, Miss Colmer?"

"Certainly; there is no reason why I should tell you a lie."

Man and woman looked directly into one another's eyes, and a look of
mutual distrust passed between them. It was Fanks who first took up
the unspoken challenge.

"I think you would tell me a lie if there was anything to be gained or
concealed by it," said the detective, dryly.

"You are not far out there," returned Anne, coolly. "I am above petty
moral doubts in such circumstances. But in this instance, Mr. Fanks, I
have nothing to gain or to lose by telling a falsehood. You saw Mr.
Hersham this morning," she added abruptly and irrelevantly.

"Yes. Have I you to thank for the alteration in his demeanour?"

"You have; I persuaded him to tell you all. Has he done so?"

"No; he has postponed the confession for a week."

"What foolish weakness," muttered Anne, with a sigh. "I wish he had
told you this morning."

"Do you? Why?"

"Because you may find out that which he wished to hide before he can
brace his mind to a confession. I love Edward Hersham dearly, Mr.
Fanks; but I can see his faults and weakness of character as plainly
as you can. I entreated him to tell you all at once. He consented; yet
you see when it comes to the point his feebleness makes him shrink
from the ordeal."

"You hint at danger to Hersham. May I ask if it is connected with the
committal of this crime?

"No, you may not, Mr. Fanks. Edward can tell you the truth for himself
in a week; he is foolish but he is not guilty."

Fanks was at once piqued and delighted with this woman. She was so
clever and so inscrutable that he could not help respecting her. For
the first time for many days he had met with a woman with the mind of
a man; and he felt that he would need all his intelligence to beat
her. On the other hand, he was not unprepared to expect defeat in
place of victory.

"What would you say, Miss Colmer, if I told you that I had found the
assassin of Sir Gregory?" he asked, craftily.

"I should at once congratulate you, and doubt you," was the quick
response. "No, Mr. Fanks, you are not yet successful, else you would
not come to see me, nor would you be astonished at seeing the
photograph of Mrs. Boazoph."

"You know her, it seems?"

"I do; but my mother does not know her under that name."

"What do you mean?"

Miss Colmer made no immediate reply. She compressed her beautiful lips
tightly together, and looked out of the window.

"I see that I shall have to make a confidant of you, sir," she said,
slowly, "although I do not recognise your claim to demand an
explanation."

"Pardon me, Miss Colmer," said Fanks, with the utmost politeness, "the
law gives me every right. By your visit to Half-Moon Street where the
murdered man lived you implicated yourself in the matter. I can see by
the hints of yourself and Hersham that you both know more than you
choose to tell; and as I am deputed to search out the truth, I can
call on you to reveal all you know."

"I made my confession yesterday."

"Was it the truth?"

"It was the truth so far as it went."

"Ah! then there is more to tell?"

"Yes," said Anne, after a pause; "there is more to tell; but not yet,
not yet."

Fanks leaned forward and looked into her eyes. "Miss Colmer," he said
in a low tone, "tell me who killed Sir Gregory?"

"I do not know; I swear I do not know. See here, Mr. Fanks," she
cried, suddenly, "I do not know the truth, but I have an inkling of
the truth; I may be wrong; I fervently trust that I am wrong; still I
am doubtful; very, very doubtful. I can't tell you of my suspicions:
they might get an innocent person into trouble."

"Are you alluding to Hersham?"

"I decline to say; by my advice Mr. Hersham is about to tell you all
he knows; I cannot take the words out of his mouth; he would never
forgive me; and I do not wish to lose his love."

"Then you mean Mrs. Boazoph?"

"I refuse to speak; I shall leave you if you ask further questions,"
she said, almost fiercely. "You nearly discovered what I think is the
truth in those chambers; I did not know that you were there, but I
went up to Half-Moon Street to prevent the truth being discovered, if
I could. I failed because you were present."

Fanks sat up alertly. She had given him a clue. "Is the truth to be
discovered in Half-Moon Street?" he asked, eagerly.

Anne moistened her dry lips, and turned away her face. "Yes! I believe
it is," she murmured, "and I hope you will never discover it."

She was so moved that Fanks thought she was about to faint. With
considerable dexterity he left the question alone for a time and
turned the conversation toward the subject of Mrs. Boazoph.

"You have not yet told me about this portrait," he said, gently.

"I will do so now," said Anne, recovering her nerve, "Mrs. Boazoph is
my mother's sister; she is my aunt."

"Oh!" said Fanks, considerably astonished, "then how is it that your
mother does not know the name of Boazoph?"

"Because she only knows her sister as Mrs. Bryant."

"But I do not understand," said Fanks, rather bewildered.

"The matter is easy of explanation. My mother is a gentlewoman,
although we keep a shop; and she is very proud of her birth and blood.
The behaviour of my sister nearly killed her. You can, therefore,
guess what she would think of my aunt, Mrs. Boazoph, did she know that
she kept a notorious hotel in Tooley's Alley; and was so well known to
the police as she is."

Fanks looked at this woman in astonishment. It was so strange to hear
her speak in this manner of her own flesh and blood. Anne noticed his
astonishment; and a faint blush crept over her cheek. "I see what you
are thinking of, Mr. Fanks. But I know my aunt; she has told me all
about her unhappy life. Believe me, she is more to be pitied than
blamed."

"Like Hersham?" said Links, dryly.

"Yes, like Mr. Hersham," she retorted, defiantly. "My aunt made an
unhappy marriage with a man far beneath her. His name was Bryant, not
Boazoph, so my mother only knows her sister by that name. Bryant lost
all his money, and was set up by some of his friends in the Red Star,
in Tooley's Alley. There, from some shame at his fall, he called
himself Boazoph. When he died, my aunt carried on the business; and I
daresay you know all the rest of her life."

Fanks nodded. "I suppose Mrs. Boazoph visits you occasionally, as Mrs.
Bryant?" he said, inquisitively.

"She comes once or twice in the year; and, for my mother's sake, I see
her; but I do not approve of Mrs. Boazoph's misguided life, and I am
not what you would call friendly with her."

"Yours is indeed an unfortunate family," said Fanks, bluntly, and with
less of his usual courtesy. "Your sister driven to her death by that
dead scoundrel; your aunt one of the most notorious women in London;
your mother paralysed; your lover mixed up in this murder."

Anne lost her temper at this brutal speech, which was just what Fanks
wished her to do, and why he had made it. Inherently a gentleman, he
would never have thought of taunting the poor girl with the crime and
follies of her family had he not desired to get the better of her; but
in this instance he desired to make her angry; and took this way--an
unworthy way it must be confessed. With a burst of indignation, Anne
rose to her feet.

"I always understood that you were a gentleman, Mr. Fanks," she said
bitterly, "but I see I am mistaken. If you think to trap me into
helping you by insulting my family, you are mistaken. I shall tell you
nothing--now."

"Perhaps I may force you to help me," said Fanks, looking very wicked.

"I am afraid not. In what way do you hope to accomplish so impossible
a task?"

"Why," said Fanks, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, "by arresting
your lover."

"You dare not."

"I dare! I dare anything. Look you here, Miss Colmer, I am
growing tired of being in the dark; and rather than remain in it any
longer, I shall resort to strong measures. In some way--of which you
know--Hersham is mixed up in this crime. If you won't be persuaded to
tell, you must be forced to speak out, if only to save Hersham from
being tried for the crime. I shall arrest him."

"Do so; and you will only be the loser by so rash an action."

Fanks walked to the door. "Good day, Miss Colmer, I shall do as I say;
and the blame will lie at your door."

Anne said nothing; but, very pale and very determined, she stood
looking at Fanks. He admired her for the way in which she was
fighting, and he privately considered that if the way to the truth lay
through Anne Colmer, there was small chance of it being discovered. He
made one more attempt to induce her to speak.

"Come," he said, pleadingly, "be advised; save yourself and Hersham,
by telling the truth."

"I don't know the truth, I only guess it."

"Your guess may be the correct one; let me know what it is?"

"No, no, no!"

"You won't speak?"

"No. Not for worlds."

It was plain that whatever she knew she would not reveal, so Fanks,
shaking his head, left the room. When he was out of the door, Anne
broke down, and, falling into a chair, she burst into tears. Yet she
had no idea of yielding: for better or worse the die was cast, and if
Hersham was arrested, at her door would lie the ruin and disgrace of
his life. Truly, it was a powerful reason which made Anne conceal the
truth at the expense of her lover's liberty, and--it might be--of his
life.

As for Fanks, he went off to the station, and caught the train to
town. He had gone to Taxton-on-Thames full of hope of success; he left
it beaten on every point--and by a woman. His sole chance of learning
anything further lay in advertising for the <DW64>; and in the chance
that Hersham would confess next week. Anne Colmer was as silent as the
Sphinx; all the same, Fanks had not done with that young lady.




CHAPTER XX.
THE GREEN OVERCOAT.


It may be here mentioned that Fanks had no intention of arresting
Hersham at the present time, he had threatened to do so in order to
induce Anne to speak out; but this having failed, he thought no more
about the matter. The journalist was being watched, and he could be
arrested at any moment; so Fanks was quite at his ease on that score.
The slightest false step, and Hersham would find himself within the
walls of a jail; but up to the present time Fanks had not collected
sufficient evidence against him to warrant any magistrate authorising
his imprisonment. The confession of the next week might bring about
the intervention of the law, but till then Fanks left Hersham under
the eye of the watching detective, and devoted himself to searching
for the mysterious <DW64> who had worn the green coat with brass
buttons.

It may seem strange to the reader that so astute a man as Mr. Fanks
should advertise for a <DW64>, when he was confident that the only
<DW64> connected with the matter was in Bombay. But this apparent
riddle will be explained when Mr. Fanks receives the expected answer
to his paragraph in the "Morning Planet." This appeared two days after
he left Taxton-on-Thames, and read as follows:--

"Ten pounds reward will be given to any person who can inform
advertiser of the whereabouts of a black man dressed in a green coat
with brass buttons. Twenty pounds will be given to anyone who can give
information as to the movements of the said black man on the night of
the twenty-first of June last, between the hours of six and nine.
Apply Messrs. Vaud and Vaud, Lincoln's Inn Fields."

It cannot be said that this advertisement was a masterpiece of
composition, but the clumsy wording was due to Crate, and Crate not
being a scholar had written it in such a fashion. Fanks commented on
its prolixity to the author himself on the morning of its appearance.

"You could have shortened that advertisement considerably," he said,
smiling. "I never saw so roundabout a request for information."

"What does it' matter?" replied Crate, growing rather red. "I ain't no
scholar, Mr. Fanks, and I did the best I could. If, the fish bites,
sir, that is all you want."

"I hope the fish will bite, Crate," said Fanks, fretfully; "if not, I
do not know what I shall do. Never have I been so unlucky as over this
case. Everything seems to go wrong with me. But if I can find anyone
who saw this <DW64> on the night of the murder we my hear strange
things."

"About Mrs. Boazoph and Dr. Binjoy?"

"About Miss Colmer and Hersham. Though to be sure such information may
run me into a blind alley. By the way, did Mr. Garth call to see me in
my absence?"

"Twice, sir."

"The deuce!" muttered Fanks, with a frown. "I wonder why he is so
anxious over this case?"

"I think I can tell you that, sir."

"And I think I can guess what you are about to say," retorted Fanks.
"However, let me hear your theory."

"Well, I may be wrong," said Crate, modestly, "but it seems to me that
this Mr. Garth is anxious to find out that Sir Louis Fellenger is
concerned in the murder of his cousin, because----"

"Because he wants to inherit the Fellenger title and property as next
heir," finished Fanks, smartly.

"Exactly, sir; what do you think of my theory?"

"There may be something in it, Crate," replied Fanks, thoughtfully;
"of course, Mr. Garth comes into the Fellenger estates on the death of
the present baronet. But," he added, emphatically, "we know that this
<DW64> actually killed Sir Gregory, so Louis could only be associated
with the case as an accessory before the fact. Therefore he could not
be hanged, even if the case were proved against him. Where would Mr.
Garth be then? In such an event the estates would probably be thrown
into Chancery while Sir Louis was undergoing imprisonment, and would
not come to Garth for years. Your idea is a good one, Crate, but I do
not see how it would benefit our friend."

Crate scratched his chin. "I suppose that Mr. Garth is lawyer enough
to know all that," he said, grudgingly, "and wouldn't risk his neck
for the mere chance of such a thing. He----"

"Ah! now you are on another track. Mr. Garth may be anxious to prove
the case against Sir Louis, but I do not think he killed Sir Gregory
himself."

"Oh, I know who you think is guilty, Mr. Fanks. All the same, I do not
agree with you; and I should not be surprised if this Garth turned out
to be the real criminal."

"Garth isn't a <DW64>."

"I guess you have your own ideas about that <DW64>, Mr. Fanks."

The detective smiled and rose from his seat. "I guess I have, Mr.
Crate. You are improving, my friend; and you are beginning to see
further than your nose. I should not wonder if I made something of you
yet. So you suspect Garth?"

With becoming modesty, but a good deal of emphasis, Crate asserted
that he did, and moreover said that if permitted by his superior
officer he would have great pleasure in proving his case against the
barrister. To this Fanks assented readily enough.

"Prove your case by all means, Crate," he said, dryly. "I do not agree
with you in the least; all the same I am always open to correction.
One thing only I ask. You must tell me all you do, all you discover,
as I do not wish you to cross my trail."

This Crate assented to without demur, and Fanks departed to Duke
Street, where he changed his clothes for the more stylish ones of
Rixton. Thence he went to the Athenian Club, and, as he expected,
found Garth in the smoking-room. The lean lawyer looked so haggard and
worn out that Fanks wondered if there might not be more in Crate's
theory than appeared at first sight. But he rejected this idea almost
as soon as it crossed his mind; he was confident that the true
assassin of Sir Gregory was--but that revelation comes later. In the
meantime he greeted Garth with his customary coolness, and sat down
beside him with a view to learning all that had transpired during his
absence.

"Were you waiting for me here?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Not exactly," replied Garth, with some hesitation. "I hoped that you
would come in here sooner or later, and I wished to see you. But at
present I am waiting for Herbert Vaud."

"Really! Do you expect him shortly?"

Garth looked at his watch. "He ought to be here now."

"What do you wish to see him about?" asked Fanks, eyeing his companion
keenly; "anything about this case?"

Garth nodded. "Yes; young Vaud knew Emma Calvert, and I wish to learn
if she is really dead."

"You can set your mind at rest on that point," said Fanks, coolly.
"Emma Calvert is six feet below the soil of Pere la Chaise."

"But the woman who appeared at my cousin's chambers; the woman whom
Robert said was she."

"That is Anne Colmer, the twin sister of the dead woman."

"Anne Colmer! She is engaged to Ted Hersham."

"She is. I have been down to Taxton-on-Thames, and I have found out
all the family history."

"Have you found out who wrote on the back of the photograph; who
directed that envelope?"

"No," said Fanks, gloomily, "I have not discovered anything yet about
that."

"Do you think that Anne Colmer wrote it?"

"I am certain from personal observation that Anne Colmer did not."

"Did her mother?"

"Impossible. Mrs. Colmer is a hopeless paralytic."

"Then who wrote it?"

"That is just what I have to learn. I am no further in the case than I
was when I saw you last. Have you discovered anything?"

"No; but I had hoped to have learned about Emma from Herbert."

"Well," said Fanks, with a sigh, "we know all about Herbert Vaud; we
are aware of the identity of Emma Calvert. It is not in that direction
we must search. Our only chance of finding out the truth, lies in
discovering this <DW64>."

"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Planet.' Anybody who can
give information is to call at the office of Vaud and Vaud, I see."

"I thought it best that they should receive the information," said
Fanks, "seeing that they are the solicitors of Sir Louis. I hope that
something will turn up; but I am doubtful; I am very doubtful."

At this moment the waiter brought in a telegram to Mr. Garth. The
barrister opened it, and uttered an ejaculation of surprise. After a
pause, he handed the telegram to Fanks. "Queer, isn't it?" he said.

Fanks looked at the message, which ran as follows: "Cannot see you
to-day; have to wait in to see Fanks about advertisement. H. Vaud."

"Humph!" said Fanks, rising briskly to his feet, "it is strange that I
should be here with you; and stranger still that the advertisement
should be answered so promptly. I told Vaud to write to Scotland Yard
should anything turn up; but this will save me a journey."

"Can I come with you?"

"If you like; I must call at my room first," said Fanks. "By the way,
my friend," he added, turning sharply on Garth, "you don't know
anything about this very apropos telegram?"

"Good Lord, no! How should I? You don't think that I sent it?"

"No, I don't. But it is--no matter. Let us get on; there is no time to
lose."

As a matter of fact, Fanks did not like the look of things at all. He
was naturally suspicious of this telegram, fitted in so very neatly
with the subject of their conversation, that he thought Garth might
know more of it than he had chosen to say. But a moment's reflection
convinced him that he suspected the lawyer wrongly. Garth did not know
that he was coming to the Athenian Club; therefore, he could not have
made such an arrangement. Fanks dismissed the matter from his mind;
and allowed Garth to come with him to his room.

In Duke Street he picked up a photograph, and placed it in his pocket.
Garth saw the face of the picture, and whistled. "You don't think that
person has anything to do with it?" he asked, anxiously.

"This person has to do with the present matter," said Fanks, smartly,
"but I can't say if the person has anything to do with the death in
Tooley's Alley. I am only taking this portrait on chance; I may be
wrong. However, we shall see," and not another word would Fanks say,
until he arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Here they found Herbert in his father's room with an apology. "I have
to take the place of my father to-day, Mr. Fanks," said the young
lawyer, who looked ill, "he is not well, and deputed me to see after
this matter."

"Touching the advertisement?" said Fanks, eagerly.

"Yes. A man turned up this morning in answer to it. He is waiting in
the next room; and he says that he knows all about the <DW64> you are
in search of."

"Good. Let us have him in. You do not mind my friend, Mr. Garth, being
present, I hope?"

"Not at all," replied Herbert, coldly; "that lies more in your hands
than mine. Show in that man who came about the advertisement," he
added to a clerk who entered.

The gentleman in question entered. A dried-up little man, brisk and
keen-eyed, with a horsey look about him. He glanced sharply at the
three men, pulled his forelock, and proceeded to ask about the reward.

"I want thirty puns," he said, calmly.

"Oh, no, you don't," retorted Fanks, "you want ten or twenty. The two
rewards are separate; you must not add them together."

"But I can tell of the whereabouts of this <DW64>; and I can tell his
movements. I know all about him, so I ought to get both rewards."

"You'll get either the ten or the twenty," said Fanks. "Now no more
talk; what is your name?"

"Berry Jawkins; I am barman at the Eight Bells public on the Richmond
Road."

"Ho; Ho!" muttered Fanks, "I thought as much."

"On the twenty-first a <DW65> came riding a bicycle about eight
o'clock; he came into the bar; and had a drink. He wore a green coat
with brass buttons. After he had his drink, he asked if he might wash
his face. I sent him out to the pump in the back yard; he washed and
came in. Then gents," said the little man, with emphasis, "I got a
surprise, I can tell you."

"What kind of surprise?" demanded Garth, with an astonished look.

"Why, sir; that <DW65> weren't no <DW65> at all; he were a white man;
as white as you make 'em."

"A white man," said Fanks, producing the portrait from his pocket.

"A white man with a smile and a moustache; a very good-looking sort of
feller," added the barman, "he explained how it was he--"

"Wait a moment," said Fanks, "is that the man you saw?"

Berry Jawkins started back in surprise, the moment he set eyes on the
photograph which Fanks had thrust under his nose. "My gum, here's a
start," said Mr. Berry Jawkins. "That's the very identical person who
washed himself at the Eight Bells. How did you come to know of him,
sir?"

"I suspected it for some time," said Fanks, "do you recognise the
face, Mr. Vaud?"

Herbert looked at the face, and his countenance reflected the
astonishment of Berry Jawkins and of Garth.

"Why!" exclaimed the young solicitor, starting back, "it is Ted
Hersham."




CHAPTER XXI.
THE EIGHT BELLS ENIGMA.


Although Fanks quite expected this revelation, he was, nevertheless,
rather astonished at its unexpected confirmation. From that bicycle
ride of Hersham's to Taxton-on-Thames to thwart his designs on Anne
Colmer, Fanks had deduced certain suspicions; the hesitation of the
journalist had confirmed those suspicions. Frankly speaking, he
had no reason to connect Hersham with the <DW64>; but he had been
satisfied from the evidence of Simeon Wagg that Caesar--Dr. Binjoy's
servant--had not been away from the Surrey village on that fatal
night. Failing the real <DW64> someone must have personated the black
man; from the behaviour of Hersham, Fanks thought he might be the
person in question. His random shot had hit the bull's-eye; it was
quite an accident that it had done so.

"I expected as much," said Fanks, again restoring the photograph; to
his pocket-book. "I told you, Garth, that I was right to trust to my
instincts. This discovery explains the extraordinary conduct of
Hersham."

"In what way?"

"I shall tell you later on. In the meantime let us hear what this man
has to say."

He turned towards Berry Jawkins as he spoke, and waited for him to
speak. The barman looked rather downcast, and when he did open his
mouth it was to revert to the subject of the reward.

"I'm a poor man, gentlemen," he said, in a whining tone, "and I hope
you mean fair about this thirty puns."

"We mean fair about the twenty pounds, man," said Vaud, sternly. "You
heard what Mr. Fanks said."

"Oh, yes, I heard fast enough," retorted Berry Jawkins, "and I don't
hold with him; the rewards added together make thirty puns."

"No doubt they do; but then the rewards are not to be added together,"
said Fanks. "You had better tell all you know, Mr. Berry Jawkins, or
I'll look into the matter myself, and then you'll get no reward."

"Ah you'd go back on me. Well, d'y see, I shan't tell anything."

Fanks shrugged his shoulders. He had no desire to quarrel with the man
or to waste time in arguing. The only way to induce speech from this
obstinate creature was to pay him the money, which, after all, he had
earned fairly enough. The detective therefore advised Herbert Vaud to
fulfil the terms of the advertisement, which was accordingly done, and
Mr. Jawkins found himself the richer by twenty pounds.

"Though it should have been thirty puns," said the obstinate creature;
"but there ain't no chance of getting what's fair out of the
aristocracy. I am a Radical, I am, and I goes----"

"We don't want to have your political opinions, man," said Fanks,
sharply. "Come to the point."

"I'm coming to it," grumbled Berry Jawkins. "On the night of the
twenty-first I was in the bar. Business was bad that evening,
gentlemen, and there was not a blessed soul in the bar but myself.
Just about eight o'clock I thought as how I might shut up, when the
door opened and in came a black man. He said, 'I've left my bike
outside: I want a drink of Scotch cold,' he ses. And, mind you, I
twigged that he wasn't a <DW65> when he spoke, and I saw as he was a
gent by the peculiar refinement of his jawing. But as it wasn't my
business, I said nothing till he asked to wash his face. Then I told
him to go round to the pump in the back yard, 'tho'' ses I, 'a gent
like you will want hot water.' 'I ain't a gent,' ses he, 'I'm only a
poor strolling Christy Minstrel,' he ses. Then I laughs, seein' as he
was lying; but he scowls and bolts out to the back. When he comes back
his face was white--as white as you or me--and he had a moustached
like the feller in that photo. In fact, gents, he is the feller in
that photo, as I can swear to in any court of law. Well, he comes back
clean, and finishes his Scotch cold, and goes out. I thinks his manner
queer-like, and goes to the door. He gets on his bike, and goes off
down the road like a house on fire."

"Which way did he go? To London or down the country?"

"Oh, down the country, for sure, gents. Well, I didn't say anything
about all this, for I thought as he might be a gent doing a bolt in
disguise; but it wasn't any of my business to split, perticular as he
had given me two shilling, just for fun like. But, all the same, I
keeps my eye on the papers to see if there was anyone wanted. Then I
comes to this Tooley Alley murder, and a description of the <DW64> in a
green coat and brass buttons. 'That's my man,' I ses, 'but hold hard,
Berry Jawkins, and don't say nothing till you see as there is a
reward.' So I waits and waits, till in this morning's paper I sees a
reward of thirty puns----"

"Twenty pounds!"

"Very well, gents all, we'll say twenty, tho' to my mind it ought to
be another tenner. But, as I ses, I sees this reward, and comes up to
get it. I have got it," said Jawkins, slapping his pocket, "tho' not
the amount I did expect; now, having told all, I goes, hoping you'll
catch that black-white <DW65> and hang him, for I think he is a
aristocrat, and I hates them, they being my natural enemies."

Having heard this history, Fanks let Berry Jawkins go, as there was no
reason why he should be detained. First, however, he found out that
Mr. Jawkins was always to be heard of at the Eight Bells in his
capacity of barman. The man having left the room, Fanks turned towards
Garth and Herbert to see what they thought of the revelation which had
been so unexpectedly made. They returned his gaze, and Garth was the
first to break the silence.

"Well," he said, in a low tone, "so Hersham is the culprit after all?"

"Pardon me, Garth; but I do not think that we have proved that yet.
What do you say, Mr. Vaud?"

"I can say nothing," replied Herbert, coldly. "I have no opinion in
the matter. As my father is absent I am attending to the case by his
desire; but, personally speaking, I would not lift one finger to
discover the assassin--or rather, the punisher of Gregory Fellenger."

"You hated him then?" said Fanks, quietly.

"I hated him; I still hate him; even though he is dead. You wonder at
my speaking in this way, Mr. Fanks, but--"

"No!" replied Fanks, with a certain pity in his tone. "I do not
wonder; your father told Mr. Garth here the story of Emma Calvert; and
Mr. Garth repeated it to me. I know you hate the very memory of that
dead scoundrel."

"Can you wonder at it?" said Herbert again. "I loved her; she did not
love but she might have grown to do so in time. But he came with his
lies and money to drag her away from me. He married her certainly, but
he drove her to suicide; and if he had not met with his death by this
unknown hand, he would have had to reckon with me for his baseness."

"You would have killed him yourself, perhaps?"

Herbert Vaud opened and shut his hand convulsively. "I don't know what
I should have done," he said in a thick voice. "But he is dead, so
what does it matter. But if I had my way, the assassin of Gregory
Fellenger should go free."

"He may go free after all," said Fanks, quietly, "we have not yet
solved the problem of his death."

"We have proved that Hersham was disguised as the <DW64>," said Garth,
impetuously.

"We have proved that Hersham was disguised as _a_ <DW64>," replied
Fanks, making the correction with point, "but we have not proved that
he was--that he is--the <DW64> who killed your cousin in Tooley's
Alley."

"If he did not, why was he blacked up on the very night the murder was
committed. He must have had some reason for so masquerading."

"I have no doubt he had a reason; and I have no doubt that he will
explain his reason to me when I see him. But, on the face of it, I do
not think that he is the <DW64> of Tooley's Alley."

"Why not?" said Garth, impatiently. "Look here, Fanks. The skein runs
out as clean as a whistle. Hersham has a cross tattooed on his arm.
The death of my cousin was caused by a similar cross being pricked on
his arm. Hersham is engaged to Anne Colmer; you tell me that she is
the sister of the girl, Emma Calvert, who committed suicide in Paris,
as the victim of Sir Gregory. The envelope, making the appointment
comes from Taxton-on-Thames; Anne Colmer comes from the same place;
she lives there. Hersham was disguised as a <DW64> on the very night of
the murder--at the very time the murder was committed. What is more
reasonable than to suppose that Hersham was inspired by Anne Colmer to
kill the man who had deceived her sister. There, in a few words you
have the motive of the crime; and the way in which it was carried out.
Oh, there is no doubt in my mind that we have the real man at last.
Were I you, I should arrest Hersham without delay."

"If you were in my place, you would do what I intend to do," said
Fanks, quietly, "and take time to consider the matter. I admit that
you have made a very strong case out against Hersham, but there is one
important particular which you have overlooked."

"What is that?" asked Garth, "it seems to me that there is not a link
missing."

"That comes of being too confident. Can you see the missing link, Mr.
Vaud?"

The young lawyer reflected for a few moments in a composed and
careless manner, then looked up, and professed his inability to amend
the case as set out against Hersham. Fanks shrugged his shoulders at
their lack of penetration, and explained his theory.

"The <DW64> who was in Tooley's Alley had no moustache," he said,
slowly, "as was proved by the evidence of Mrs. Boazoph. Hersham, on
the contrary, both as <DW64> and white man, had a moustache; as has
been proved by the story of Berry Jawkins."

"It might have been a false moustache," said Garth, still sticking to
his point.

"It was not a false moustache," retorted Fanks, shaking his head, "if
Hersham intended a disguise he would have worn a beard. A moustache
would disguise him little. But for the sake of argument, we will grant
that the moustache was intended as a disguise. If so, why did he
retain it when he washed the black off his face; or, if it was part of
his disguise, why did he wear it both as the black and the white man.
No, no. I am sure that Hersham wore his own moustache; and not a false
one. And again," added Fanks, with an afterthought, "I saw Hersham
shortly after the murder--within two or three days in fact--he then
wore a heavy moustache; and you can trust me when I say it was not a
false one. If then Hersham was the Tooley Alley <DW64>, who we have
agreed committed the murder, how did he manage to grow his moustache
in so short a period. The thing is impossible," finished the
detective, "that one point alone assures me that Hersham is guiltless
of the crime."

"Mrs. Boazoph may have made a mistake," suggested Garth, "remember she
did not see the <DW64> go out."

"She saw him go in, however. Mrs. Boazoph is too clever a woman to
make a mistake of that sort. The black man who committed the murder
had no moustache; our friend, masquerading as a Christy Minstrel, had
one. Against the evidence of Mrs. Boazoph we can place the evidence of
Berry Jawkins; the one contradicts the other; and both evidences
conclusively prove that Hersham had no hand in the commission of the
mysterious tragedy."

"And another thing," said Herbert, suddenly. "Mr. Garth couples the
fact of the murder with the name of Miss Colmer. As a friend of the
family, I protest against that. I know Mrs. Colmer, I know her
daughter; and I am certain that neither of these unfortunate people
have anything to do with the death of that scoundrel."

"Nevertheless the envelope which contained the appointment of the Red
Star in Tooley's Alley as the rendezvous bore the Taxton-on-Thames
postmark. Mrs. Colmer and her daughter live at Taxton-on-Thames."

"What of that? Sir Louis Fellenger and his medical friend lived at the
same place. You might as well say that the new baronet committed the
crime so as to succeed to the title and estates. The one theory is as
feasible as the other."

"Very true," said Fanks, in a desponding tone; "I am as much in the
dark as ever. At the present moment we can build up a theory on
anything. For instance, I might say that our friend Garth here killed
his cousin."

"The deuce!" cried Garth, aghast.

"You are startled," said Fanks, keenly watching the effect of his
speech on the young man. "I don't wonder at it. I merely say this to
show how slow you should be in condemning Hersham."

"But I don't see how you could bring me in," stammered Garth.

"It is easy enough. You are the heir, failing Sir Louis; you know the
purport of that tattooed cross. You might have killed your cousin, and
have sent the appointment from Taxton-on-Thames to implicate Sir Louis
in the matter, and so have removed the two people between you and the
title at one sweep."

"But I don't want the title."

"Possibly not; but you want money. But do not look so afraid, Garth. I
don't think you committed the crime; you are no doubt as innocent as
Mr. Herbert here."

"If I had committed the crime I should not deny it," said Herbert,
gloomily. "I should glory in causing the death of such a scoundrel. If
Fellenger had not been killed by the <DW64> in Tooley's Alley, Mr.
Fanks, you might have had to arrest me as the cause of his death. As
it is, my revenge has been taken out of my hands. But the same end has
been arrived at. I am glad the blackguard is dead."

Here the argument ended, and Fanks went out arm in arm with Garth.
Both of them were sorry for the unhappy Herbert Vaud, and both of them
were more puzzled than ever over the case. As yet all evidence had
failed to throw the least gleam of light on the subject.




CHAPTER XXII.
MRS. BOAZOPH RECEIVES A SHOCK.


Shortly after the conversation at Lincoln's Inn Fields Fanks took his
leave of Garth. He was rather weary of the lawyer's company, and,
moreover, he found such a third person a hindrance to the free speech he
wished to induce from those with whom he conversed. In his own heart
he was perfectly satisfied that Garth was connected in no way with the
crime, for the test which he applied in the office of Vaud and Vaud
entirely satisfied him. Nevertheless, he was not so certain that Garth
would not be pleased to learn that his cousin--the sole person who
stood between him and the Fellenger estate--was implicated in the
affair.

On these grounds he therefore excused himself to the barrister, and
walked off by himself, intent on his own business. Garth, who was
suffering from a bad attack of detective fever, was not over pleased
at being thus dismissed; still he thought it best to obey his friend,
and so he departed, to think over the aspect the case had now assumed.
In fact, he intended to do a little detective business on his own
account, and, if possible, he wished to surprise Fanks by an
unexpected discovery. There were now three different people following
three different lines of action with respect to the case, so it was to
be hoped that one of them at least would run down the assassin of Sir
Gregory Fellenger, unless indeed all failed on the principle that too
many cooks spoil the broth.

On leaving the barrister, Fanks took his way towards Tooley's Alley.
It was his intention to see Mrs. Boazoph and to try an experiment on
that astute lady. From her demeanour Fanks believed that the landlady
of the Red Star knew more about the case than she chose to confess,
and that she was anxious to screen the man or woman who had done the
deed. Of this belief he wished to make certain.

Mrs. Boazoph received the detective with her customary composure. She
was quite prepared for his visit, as she knew that her connection with
the case was too patent to escape his vigilant eye. Anticipating a
trying conversation, she directed Fanks to be shown into her private
sitting-room, and she braced herself up to confuse and baffle him.

No one would have guessed the landlady's thoughts from the amiable
manner in which she received her almost declared enemy. She was
positively genial in her conversation and demeanour, and Fanks augured
ill from this.

"Well, Mrs. Boazoph," said he, mildly, "I suppose you are wondering
what brings me here?"

"Indeed I am doing no such thing, Mr. Fanks. You came to find out what
I know about this crime."

"I congratulate you on your perspicuity, Mrs. Boazoph. And what do you
know about it?"

The woman raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.

"I know nothing at all," she replied. "I gave my evidence at the
inquest; you heard it."

"Well?"

"Well, there is nothing more to be said."

"I beg to differ with you, Mrs. Boazoph; there is a great deal more to
be said."

"Not by me," said Mrs. Boazoph, obstinately, closing her mouth. "If
you think that I am going to assist you to find out who killed this
wretched man, you are very much mistaken."

"Strange," said Fanks, in a musing tone, meant to reach her ear, "the
same thing was said in almost the same words by Anne Colmer."

"What do you know about Anne Colmer?"

"More than you can guess. For instance, I know that she is the niece
of--Mrs. Bryant."

With a start, instantly repressed, she looked to him in a hard and
fixed manner, a disbelieving smile on her lips. "Mrs. Bryant," she
repeated, "and who is Mrs. Bryant?"

"If you don't know, I am sure I do not."

"Speak plainly. I hate epigrams."

"So do I. They are such a bar to intelligent conversation. Well, Mrs.
Bryant is a lady of birth, who married beneath her. Mr. Bryant was a
bully, a sot, a spendthrift, and he lost all his money by fast living.
When he became poor, his friends--for strange to say, this unpleasant
person had some friends--set him up in an hotel. He was ashamed to
stick his own name over his door; so he cast about for another.
Perhaps you can tell me what that other name was?"

"No."

"What a singularly obstinate person you are," said, Fanks, shaking his
head. "Believe me, it is no use our wasting time in discussing facts.
Be sensible, Mrs. Boazoph, and admit that you are Mrs. Bryant."

"No."

"Mrs. Bryant, the sister of Mrs. Colmer, of Taxton-on-Thames,
dressmaker, and decayed gentlewoman."

"I don't know her; I never heard her name."

"Really!" said Fanks, with gentle pity, "then I must inquire of Mrs.
Colmer, of Taxton-on-Thames, how is it that her sister, Mrs. Bryant,
is the notorious Mrs. Boazoph, of London."

"You are a fiend!"

"And what is Mrs. Bryant, alias Boazoph?"

"She is a most unhappy woman; a woman rather to be pitied than
blamed."

"Ah!" said Fanks, drawing a long breath of satisfaction. "So you admit
your identity at last."

"I can do nothing else. I do not wish my poor sister to know that I am
Mrs. Boazoph. She thinks that I live on the money left to me by my
late husband; she does not know that I keep this hotel; that I am the
woman who has been mentioned so often in the papers, in connection
with thieves, rogues, and detectives. Yes. I admit that I am Mrs.
Bryant, the sister of Mrs. Colmer. Who told you?"

"Your niece, Anne."

"She had no business to do so."

"Very probably; but she could not help herself. I forced her to speak;
how, it does not matter; but I extracted the truth out of her, Mrs.
Bryant."

"Call me Mrs. Boazoph," flashed out the woman, "and relieve me of your
presence as speedily as possible. What do you wish to know?"

"I wish to know the agreement you made with Dr. Binjoy, regarding this
crime."

"Who is Dr. Binjoy?"

"Come now, Mrs. Boazoph, do not let us have another argument. I have
neither the time nor the patience to endure one, I assure you. I know
more than you think; and I can force you to speak if I so choose. I
would rather not choose, if it is all the same to you. Let us conduct
this conversation pleasantly, if possible. You know that Dr. Binjoy is
the same as Dr. Renshaw?"

"Indeed, I do not. How can you prove it?"

"Very easily. I followed Dr. Renshaw on his presumed journey to
Bombay, and tracked him to Mere Hall at Bournemouth."

Mrs. Boazoph quailed, and shrank back. This man knew so much, that she
did not know where she stood.

For the moment, she did not know what to do; but, unable to deny the
identity of Renshaw with Binjoy, she admitted it.

"Good!" said Fanks, in a satisfied tone, "we are getting on. And the
agreement you made with this man?"

"I made no agreement with him."

"Then why was he here on the night of the murder?"

"It was an accident. For some reason of his own, Dr. Binjoy, whom I
met at Taxton-on-Thames, was in the habit of changing his name when in
London. He usually stayed with Dr. Turnor, who is an old friend of
his; and did his work when Turnor was absent. When I found out the
murder, I sent for Dr. Turnor, he was away, and Dr. Binjoy came under
his name of Renshaw. I was astonished to see him. I did not know that
he was in town."

"Oh! Had you any reason to go to Mere Hall to see him?"

"Mere Hall!" stammered Mrs. Boazoph, "you saw me at Mere Hall?"

"I saw you with my own eyes; you cannot deny that."

"I have no wish to deny it," retorted Mrs. Boazoph, with asperity,
"yes I was at Mere Hall. I went there to warn Binjoy against you."

"Indeed; and no doubt Binjoy assured you that he had baffled me by the
pretended journey to Bombay."

"Yes, he said that."

"And did he say that he had sent his <DW64>, Caesar, to Bombay, in his
place?"

Mrs. Boazoph drew back and gasped, holding tightly on to the arms of
her chair. "You know that?" she said, in alarm.

"I know that, and a great deal more," said Fanks, grimly. "In fact, I
more than suspect that I know the assassin."

"Then you know that Caesar killed Sir Gregory?"

"You jump to conclusions, Mrs. Boazoph," said Fanks, noting the tone
of relief in which she made this remark. "I do not know that Caesar
killed Sir Gregory Fellenger. But I know that both you and Dr. Binjoy
would like me to think so."

"Man! Man!" cried Mrs. Boazoph, with an hysterical laugh, "do you
think that I had anything to do with this crime?"

"Why not; the man was killed in your house: you called in a doctor,
who is the dearest friend of the present baronet; it was to Binjoy's
interest that Sir Gregory should be got out of the way."

Again Mrs. Boazoph seemed relieved. "Then you suppose that Binjoy
instructed Caesar to kill Sir Gregory?"

"No, I do not; Caesar had nothing to do with the commission of the
crime."

"Then who was the black man who killed the baronet?"

"It was no black man."

"But it was," said. Mrs. Boazoph, angrily. "I saw him myself enter the
room."

"You saw a white man disguised as a <DW64> enter the room."

Mrs. Boazoph bounded to her feet. "What!" she cried, "do you mean to
say that the black man was a disguised white man?"

"Yes, I do say so; although I daresay it is no news to you."

Mrs. Boazoph stamped her foot. "It is news to me, I tell you. I
thought that Caesar killed Sir Gregory at the behest of Dr. Binjoy.
When you entered the room I hoped to keep the fact from you; because I
did not wish Binjoy to get into trouble. But you say that Caesar did
not commit the crime, and so you have upset my ideas altogether. Now,
Mr. Fanks, I tell you truly, that if this <DW64> did not kill Sir
Gregory, I do not know the name of the assassin."

Fanks looked puzzled. She evidently spoke in all good faith, and he
could not but believe her. He wondered if she was right, and whether
the <DW64> of Dr. Binjoy had killed the baronet after all. "Did you
recognise as Caesar the black man who came here on that night?" he
asked.

"No; how could I? I never saw Caesar in my life. But I know that
Binjoy had a <DW64> servant; that he smuggled him off to Bombay; and
that he was the friend of Sir Louis Fellenger. Therefore I thought
this <DW64> was the instrument Binjoy made use of to kill Sir Gregory."

"Do you know anything about a tattooed cross, Mrs. Boazoph?" asked
Fanks, going on another tack.

The woman fell into her chair as pale as a sheet of paper. The mention
of the tattooed cross had a most powerful effect on her mind, and she
stared thunderstruck at the detective. Not a word could she utter for
at least two minutes. When she spoke her voice was thick and unsteady.
"What do you know of the tattooed cross?" she muttered.

"I know that Sir Gregory let this disguised man tattoo a cross on his
left arm, and that the needle used was poisoned. Now, can you tell me
why Sir Gregory let a cross be pricked on his arm?"

"No! no! I--I--can't tell you that."

"Does that mean that you won't tell me?"

"It--means that I--I--can't tell you," gasped Mrs. Boazoph. "I did not
know Sir Gregory Fellenger."

"Do you know anyone else who has a cross tattooed on his left arm?"
asked Fanks, preparing for his great stroke.

"No! Why do you ask me?" she muttered, in a terrified tone.

"Because the man who has that cross tattooed on his left arm was the
disguised <DW64>; he was the man who killed Sir Gregory."

"Ah Heavens! Oh, Edward Hersham?" moaned Mrs. Boazoph, and fell upon
the floor in a faint.




CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CONFESSION OF HERSHAM.


When Fanks saw Mrs. Boazoph lying at his feet his first intention was
to wait until she recovered. Later on he changed his mind, and when he
had placed her in the hands of the servant he went home full of
thought and dark surmises. It seemed to him that the case was centring
in Ted Hersham; that the whole situation depended on the right reading
of the tattooed cross riddle. Mrs. Boazoph knew something about the
cross, she knew something about Hersham; but what it was Fanks could
by no means make up his mind. It seemed to him that in exploring the
depths of Mrs. Boazoph's mind he had found a still lower deep; and he
was puzzled what to think.

"Confound the woman," he thought, meditating over a pipe; "I said that
we should find her at the end of the path which leads to the discovery
of the mystery, and it seems that I was right. She screened Binjoy for
some reason which I cannot discover; she will now attempt to save
Hersham, lest he should fall into my clutches. Why should she take all
this trouble for those two men? And what does she know about the
tattooed cross? Does Binjoy know about it also? And was it he who made
the obliterating mark? I can't think Hersham guilty, and yet things
look black against him. But no," said Fanks, rising, "the disguised
man who slew in Tooley's Alley and Hersham are two different people; I
proved that conclusively to Garth. What's to be done now?"

It was difficult to decide. At first he almost resolved to return to
Mrs. Boazoph and urge her confession; again, he thought it best to
wait until he heard what Hersham had to say. It might be, he thought,
that Hersham's confession would throw some light on his relation to
Mrs. Boazoph. The hints of Anne Colmer, the terror of Hersham, the
fainting of Mrs. Boazoph were all of a piece, and Fanks felt confident
that beneath these perplexities lay the key to the riddle. It was not
that he had no clue; he was in reality quite bewildered by the
multiplicity of clues, so bewildered that he did not know which clue
to seize first. At length he came to the conclusion that it would be
best to wait till he saw Hersham and heard what he had to say, and
afterwards to follow up the clue placed in his hands by the fainting
of Mrs. Boazoph.

"I'll write to Hersham, and remind him that he promised to see me in a
few days and tell the truth," said Fanks, going to his desk; "and if
he reveals all I am certain that his confession will contain the
information that Mrs. Boazoph wrote and warned him against me."

He was confident, as he said, that she would do this. If she tried to
save Binjoy, she would certainly try to help Hersham; but her reason
for doing the one was as inscrutable as her reason had been for acting
in the way she did towards Binjoy. The further he went into the case
the darker it grew; and in sheer despair Fanks wrote his reminder to
Hersham, and did nothing more for the next few days but meditate over
the tangle in which he found himself involved. His meditations led to
no result, and when Hersham called on him at the Duke Street chambers
in three days, the detective was at his wit's end how to proceed.

However, he was delighted to see Hersham, as he had doubted whether
the young man would fulfil his promise. Now that he had come to do so
there might be some chance of seeing a gleam of light. Fanks did not
tell the journalist what he had discovered concerning his movements on
the night of the twenty-first, as he wanted to see if Hersham would
confess as much. If he did so, such frankness would confirm his belief
that the young fellow had nothing to do with the commission of the
crime. If, on the other hand, Hersham concealed the proven facts Fanks
intended to force him into confession by revealing what he had heard
from Berry Jawkins. By the result he would be guided in his future
movements. The ensuing conversation was likely to prove as interesting
and important as that which he had held with Mrs. Boazoph.

"I am glad to see you, Hersham," he said, in a gentle tone, "as I hope
what you have to tell me may throw some light on the darkness of this
Tooley Alley crime."

"I can throw no light on the cursed thing," said Hersham, gloomily. "I
am only here to exonerate myself."

"From what? What do you mean?"

"Why should you ask me that?" said Hersham, angrily. "Is it not you
who suspect me of killing this man?"

"Decidedly not. I do not think you killed Fellenger. As I told you
before I do not believe you had anything to do with it."

"Then why did you have me watched?" demanded the young man.

"Ask that of yourself," said Fanks, coolly. "You roused my suspicions;
you hinted that you knew something; you thwarted me with regard to
Anne Colmer. Cast your mind back to our first conversation, man; you
will say that I had every reason for acting as I did. If you had told
me the truth at first; had you become my ally instead of my enemy, you
would not have had all this trouble. But, for all that, I do not
suspect you of being a murderer. Had I done so," finished Fanks, "you
would have been in a cell long e'er this."

"I held my tongue because I was afraid of you," said Hersham,
sullenly.

"If you are innocent, there is no reason to be afraid of me."

"I am innocent; and yet I am afraid of you. Yes, I am dreading to tell
you what I am about to reveal."

"Why so?"

"Circumstances may so close round an innocent man," continued Hersham,
not heeding the interruption, "that it would seem as though he were
guilty. Think yourself, Fanks. Innocent men have been hanged e'er now,
because circumstantial evidence was strong against them."

"True enough," replied Fanks. "I suppose it is natural that you should
be afraid. No man would run the risk of putting his head into the
noose if he could help it. You say that circumstances are strong
against you. What are these circumstances?"

Hersham bit his lip, and turned a wan face on his friend. "I place my
life in your hands, mind you," he said, hoarsely.

"It will be safe there," replied Fanks, getting up and fetching a
decanter of brandy from the sideboard. "Nothing will induce me to
believe that you had anything to do with the commission of this
crime."

"Will you swear to that?" cried Hersham, stretching out a shaking
hand.

"Certainly if it will comfort you. Here, my friend, drink this, and
tell me what you know. It may help me to nab the person I have my eye
on."

Hersham drank the brandy. "Have you found out who killed Fellenger?"

Fanks shrugged his shoulders. "I think so," he said, "but who can
tell; I may be wrong."

"Is it a man or woman?" asked Hersham, quickly.

"I shan't tell you."

"Is it--"

"I shan't tell you, my friend. But I shall tell you this for the
quieting of your fears, that it is not you whom I suspect. Now sit
down again, and let me hear what you have to say."

Hersham resumed his seat obediently, and began his recital. He
confessed exactly what Fanks expected he would confess; what Fanks
already knew, but the detective listened to this twice-told tale with
the keenest attention. Thereby he hoped to learn some new detail which
had been overlooked by the zealous Berry Jawkins.

"About the beginning of June," said Hersham, in a hesitating voice, "I
was engaged on a series of papers for the 'Morning Planet' on Street
Music. To gain the information I required, I thought it would be an
excellent plan to go about the streets of London in guise, and to get
at the root of the matter. I told my editor that I would burnt-cork my
face and go with some street minstrels. He approved of the idea, and I
did so."

"And how were you dressed?"

"In a great coat with brass buttons. I also wore brown boots. Now, you
can see why I was afraid to tell you. That is the dress the <DW64> you
are looking for wore."

"Yes!" said Flanks, perplexedly, "I know that; but I do not see why
you should have been afraid to tell me. You can explain your movements
on that night."

"That is exactly what I can't do," said Hersham, his face growing
dark.

"I don't understand."

"I shall explain. On the night of the twenty-first I intended to go
out in the streets in disguise. Before doing so, I told the office boy
that if a telegram came for me he was to bring it at once to me; I
expected a wire about six o'clock; and I told the boy that I would be
in the Strand near St. Clements Church."

"From whom did you expect the telegram?"

"From Anne Colmer. That day I had received a letter from her, saying
that she was greatly worried about something; what it was she did not
tell me; but she said that if she wanted me she would wire, and that I
was then to come down at once to Taxton-on-Thames."

"Go on," said Fanks, greatly interested in the introduction of Anne's
name.

"Well, I blacked my face, and went out with the genuine <DW65>s to
sing and play. About six, or a little after, I was near St. Clement's
Church, and there the office boy came to me with a telegram."

"Why did you expect the telegram at six?"

"Because I was in the office about five, and it had not come then. I
thought it might come after I left, so I appointed St. Clement's
Church as the meeting-place where the boy might find me."

"And you obeyed?"

"What was in the telegram?"

"A request that I should come down to Taxton-on-Thames at once."

"Yes, there was no reason why I should not. I thought that Anne was in
trouble; I went down at once on my bicycle."

"Why did not you go by train? It would have been easier."

"Not for me. I was in the habit of running down to Taxton-on-Thames on
my machine; it is only two hours' run."

"Had you your machine in town?"

"Yes; I had left it at a shop in the Strand where I usually leave it;
though sometimes I ride it on to the office in Fleet Street. On this
occasion it was in the Strand. As soon as I got the telegram I left my
troupe and went off on my bicycle.

"Didn't you wash your face?"

"Not at that time; I was in such a hurry and so anxious to learn what
was the matter with Anne, that I did not think of doing so. I rode
along until I was recalled to the spectacle I must have presented, by
the laughing, and the guying of the boys. Then I thought that I might
startle Anne, and I determined to wash myself."

"And did you?"

"Not immediately. On the way to Richmond I had an accident, and the
tyre of my back wheel was punctured. The air escaped, and I was over
an hour mending it. Then I had to go slowly, and did not get to
Richmond till after eight o'clock. I went into the hotel called
the Eight Bells, and had a drink and a wash. Then I came out a
white man to the astonishment of the barman, and went on down to
Taxton-on-Thames. I got there shortly after nine o'clock."

"Didn't you nearly run over a man as you neared the village?"

"Yes, I did," said Hersham, in some astonishment. "But how do you know
that?"

"I'll tell you later on," replied Fanks, smiling. "But about the
result of your trip to Taxton-on-Thames?"

Hersham's face fell. "There was no result," he said, in a low voice.
"When I arrived I went at once to Briar Cottage and asked for Anne. I
was told that she had gone up to town by the five o'clock train."

"Gone up to town!" repeated Fanks. "That is curious. Why did she go up
to town after sending you a wire to bring you down?"

"I can't say. She returned by the night train, and I was at the
station to meet her. I asked her why she had gone to town, and she
refused to tell me. She merely said that she had sent the wire shortly
before five o'clock, and that she had found occasion to go up by the
five train."

"Can you conjecture what took her to town?"

"No; and she will not tell me."

Fanks said nothing. He was meditating on the strange story told to him
by Hersham, and on the stranger conduct of Anne Colmer. The mystery
concerning this young lady, which had begun in the chambers of Sir
Gregory, seemed to be thickening. Fanks was puzzled and gloomy.




CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CLUE OF THE HANDWRITING.


On concluding the recital of his movements on the night of the
twenty-first of June, Hersham looked anxiously at Fanks to see what
the detective thought of the matter. The latter made no immediate
comment, whereupon the journalist, impatient of the silence, made the
first observation.

"I have told you all," he said; "now what is your opinion?"

"Let me think for a minute or two," replied Fanks, holding up his
hand. "I must consider."

Thereupon he thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled to the
window, where he stood looking absently at the adjacent chimney-pots.
Hersham eyed him with continued anxiety, but he did not dare to
interrupt, so that Fanks had ample time to reflect over the strange
story which had been related to him.

He had heard the main facts of it before from Berry Jawkins, and these
corresponded entirely with the narrative of the journalist. Still, the
additional evidence concerning Anne Colmer disquieted Fanks not a
little. Her behaviour was strange, to say the least of it, and far
more suspicious than that of Hersham. Why had she sent a telegram to
withdraw her lover from London at the very time of the committal of
the crime? And why had she--so to speak--nullified that telegram by
going herself to town almost immediately after she had despatched it.
Such conduct was decidedly suspicious; and it looked as though she was
implicated in the matter in some underhand way. Why had she behaved in
so mysterious a fashion, and why had she refused to reveal her reason
for so acting to Hersham?

So far, so good; but there remained a greater mystery. It was Anne
Colmer herself who had instructed Hersham to confess to Fanks; yet she
must have known that her very extraordinary conduct would need
explanation. But would she explain? Fanks thought not. He recalled
his conversation with her; how she had refused to speak lest her
evidence--whatever it was--should be detrimental to an innocent
person. Clearly that innocent person could not be Hersham, for he had
established his innocence in the eyes of the detective. Then if the
person in question was not Hersham, who could he--or she--be? Mrs.
Colmer, Dr. Binjoy, Anne, or Caesar, the missing <DW64>?

Not the first, thought Fanks, decidedly not the first, for Mrs. Colmer
was confined to her room by paralysis, and could not take an active
part in the business. Scarcely the second, for Anne could have no
reason to screen the doctor--at least no reason that Fanks could even
guess at. If the third--and seeing that Mrs. Boazoph was her aunt it
might be so--the motive might be that Anne desired aid to carry out a
scheme of revenge against the destroyer of her sister. As to Caesar,
Fanks had quite settled in his own mind that the <DW64> was innocent,
and that his personality was being made use of merely to screen the
chief actor or actors in the tragedy.

The result of Fank's meditations therefore resulted in his having an
increased suspicion of Mrs. Boazoph. Her behaviour at the time of the
discovery of the murder, her visit to Mere Hall, and her fainting at
the mention that Hersham was the probable criminal--all these things
were suspicious; and now the probable visit of Anne Colmer to her
aunt--although such visit was not yet proved--clinched the matter. All
the interest of Fanks now centred in Mrs. Boazoph; and he addressed
himself again to Hersham in the hope of learning something tangible,
likely to connect her more intimately with her niece either in London
or at Taxton-on-Thames. He was right to act in this way; an
indefinable instinct had placed him on the right path.

"I wish you had told me of this before," he said to Hersham, as he
resumed his seat. "It would have saved me a lot of trouble."

"I did not wish to tell you. I was afraid to speak lest I should
inculpate myself. I am sure my movements on that fatal night must
appear very suspicious to you. What is your opinion of me now?"

"The same as before. I am satisfied that you have told me the truth.
No, Hersham, it is not you whom I suspect."

"Then who is it?" asked the young man, eagerly.

"I'll tell you that later on," replied Finks. "In the meantime you
must answer a few more questions. I am not yet quite clear on some
points. How did you obtain your disguise?"

"Oh, that was Miss Colmer's suggestion."

"The deuce it was!" said Fanks, rather startled at this admission.

"Yes! I told her of my idea to disguise myself in order to
obtain a thoroughly realistic description of street music, and of
those who make it. I asked her how she thought I should dress. In a
half-laughing way she advised me to take Binjoy's servant Caesar as my
model."

"Which you did?"

"Certainly. I thought the suggestion a good one. Caesar was rather an
oddity in his way, and dressed with that mixture of vivid colours
which is so dear to the black race. When off duty he usually wore a
red neck scarf, a brown felt hat, black trousers, and a long green
coat with large brass buttons, quite a noticeable garb in fact. He had
several of these quaint garments, and he had brought one to Anne's
establishment to get yellow velvet cuffs and collar sewn on to it. On
the promise that I would not keep it more than a fortnight Anne lent
me the coat, which I wore for my purpose."

"Strange," said Fanks, thoughtfully. "So you wore the very coat of the
man whom we suspected in the first instance?"

"I did. It is odd now that you mention it."

Fanks considered. "Did anyone suggest your disguising yourself as a
<DW64> for this street music business, or was it your own fancy?"

"It was the suggestion of Dr. Binjoy."

"Oh, was it? Humph! I am beginning to see daylight."

"Why, you don't think----?"

"I think nothing at present," said Fanks, quickly; "matters are in too
crude a state."

This observation was hardly true, for Fanks was beginning to think
that the affair of the green coat looked singularly like a conspiracy.
He was unwilling to communicate his suspicions to Hersham, because of
necessity they included Anne Colmer; therefore he passed the matter
off as before mentioned. Nevertheless, he thought it doubtful that the
disguise was the result of an accident. That Binjoy should suggest the
idea of blackening the face, that Anne should induce Hersham to dress
up in the very clothes of Caesar, both these things seemed suspicious
and quite impossible to understand. He could guess Binjoy's object,
presuming that Binjoy had designed the murder--it was to avert
suspicion from himself and servant by throwing it on Hersham. But what
Fanks could not see was why Anne should act as she did, when Hersham
was her lover. She surely did not wish to implicate Hersham in the
matter--if it could be presumed that she was connected with it
herself, of which Fanks was by no means sure--and yet Fanks was
honestly puzzled to understand the action, so at variance with her
position. With his usual sense he therefore abandoned the subject for
the present, and re-addressed himself to the examination of Hersham.

"Did you know Dr. Binjoy?"

"I did, and disliked him greatly. I don't think he liked me either,"
added Hersham, smiling, "for I was his successful rival."

"With Miss Colmer?"

"Yes! Fancy, that old man fell in love with Anne and wished to marry
her; asked her to be Mrs. Binjoy four or five times, in fact. Like his
impudence, wasn't it? However, Anne told him that she was engaged to
me, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I don't think he liked me
any better for my triumph."

"No," said Fanks, dryly. "I have no doubt he would do his best to
injure you."

"Fanks, do you think he designedly induced me to act as a duplicate of
Caesar?"

"That I can't say. It looks suspicious. His being at the Red Star on
the night of the murder under an assumed name is still more
suspicious. All the same he has managed the business so cleverly that
I can bring nothing home to him."

"Do you think that he designed the murder of Fellenger so as to get
the estates for Sir Louis?"

"His actions bear that interpretation," said Fanks, scratching his
chin; "but I have no proof as yet. I may find out at Mere Hall."

"Are you going there?"

"Next week. I wish to see my employer, Sir Louis, and tell him what I
have done; at the same time I intend to observe Binjoy. By the way,"
added the detective, "did you like Sir Louis?"

Hersham shrugged his shoulders. "So, so," he replied. "He is a dry
stick, wrapped up in his scientific studies. He passes most of his
days with Binjoy in the laboratory making experiments. A tall, stout
fellow, he is, not at all like a dry-as-dust savant."

"Humph!" said Fanks, twisting his ring; "a tall stout creature. Dr.
Binjoy is also tall and stout?"

"Yes! and so is the <DW64>, Caesar. The trio are all fat and healthy."

"Humph!" said Fanks again. "I wonder--but that is impossible."

"What is impossible?"

"Something that came into my head. What it is, does not matter. I
shall no doubt prove its impossibility at Mere Hall."

"You suspect Sir Louis?"

"Such a suspicion did cross my mind. But, as Sir Louis is employing me
to hunt down the murderer, he would hardly act in such a way. Never
mind that at the present moment, Hersham, but tell me if you have
written to your father?"

"About the tattooed cross? No, I have not done so yet. I don't see how
my father can help you."

"I am of another opinion," said Fanks, dryly. "It is my firm
conviction that the whole secret of that murder in Tooley Alley lies
in the explanation of that tattooed cross. Do not look so scared,
Hersham. I do not suspect your father."

"I should think not," said Hersham, fiercely.

Fanks laughed indulgently, in nowise offended with the indignant tone
adopted by the young man. Indeed, he rather admired him for being so
ready to take up the cudgels on behalf of his parent. Nevertheless, he
stuck to his point, as he was determined to fathom the meaning of the
tattooed cross, and he saw no one was so likely to help him to an
interpretation as the Rev. George Hersham, Vicar of Fairview, Isle of
Wight.

"You must do as I ask," he said, "and write to your father. I must
know why he had that cross tattooed on your arm."

"I don't believe my father had anything to do with it," said Hersham,
angrily. "However, as you insist on it, I shall go home and see him.
If he tells me, I shall tell you. If he refuses, as he has done
before--"

"In that case I'll come down to Fairview and see him myself."

"As you please," said Hersham, with a feigned air of indifference, but
real vexation. "I'll do my best; I can do no more."

"Don't be angry, old fellow. I don't wish to vex either you or your
father, but you must see that it is important that I should know the
meaning of this cross. You will go and see Mr. Hersham?"

"Yes; before the end of the week. Will that content you?"

"Yes," replied Fanks, in his turn. "And now, before you go, just tell
me if you received a letter from Mrs. Boazoph, and if you have brought
it with you?"

"Now it is strange that you should have guessed that," said Hersham,
in astonishment. "I did get a letter from Mrs. Boazoph; I brought it
to see what you thought of it. It quite slipped my memory till you
spoke of it. Here it is. Came yesterday from Fairview."

"From Fairview!" repeated Fanks, making no attempt to take the letter
which Hersham held towards him. "Was it sent to that address?"

"Yes, care of my father, who forwarded it on to me. See for yourself."

"Did Mrs. Boazoph know of your address in the Isle of Wight?"

"No, that's odd," added Hersham, staring at Fanks. "How did she get
it?"

"From Miss Colmer."

"I have never given any but my London address to Miss Colmer. I had my
reasons for not doing so."

"So Mrs. Boazoph knew of your address without your telling her," said
the detective, stretching out his hand for the letter. "Queer! If I am
not mistaken I--By Jove!"

"What is the matter?"

"Wait. Wait," said Fanks, in great excitement. "Let me read the letter
first. My word, here is a discovery."

"What discovery?" asked Hersham, staring at the letter.

But Fanks paid no attention to him. He was already devouring the
communication from the landlady of the Red Star, which ran as
follows:--

"Dear Mr. Edward Hersham,--Come and see me at once. Important
business, and, in the meantime, hold no communication with the man who
calls himself Fanks. I will explain when we meet.--Yours, Louisa
Boazoph."

"I wish you had shown me this before," said Fanks.

"I was so anxious about what I had to confess, that I forgot, Fanks.
Is it important?"

"I should think so. You must see her at once, and tell me what she
says. We may find the key to the whole business in her conversation."

"Do you think Mrs. Boazoph has anything to do with it?"

For answer, Fanks got out the photograph of the dead Emma Calvert, and
the envelope which had contained the red star. He pointed out the
handwritings on both to Hersham.

"You see that," he said, eagerly. "The handwriting on the back of the
portrait, and that on the envelope are the same as that on your
letter."

"True enough," said Hersham, examining the three objects closely, "but
what of that?"

"Only this. That Mrs. Boazoph addressed the envelope, and enclosed the
red cardboard star, which lured the late Sir Gregory Fellenger to his
death on the evening of the twenty-first of June."




CHAPTER XXV.
AT MERE HALL, HANTS.

Fanks was rather astonished when he learned that Mrs. Boazoph had
contrived the lure which had drawn Fellenger to his death. He had
given the landlady credit for more cleverly concealing her scheme, and
that she should have carried out a plan so compromising, in so open a
manner, seemed to him to be the height of folly. Nevertheless, he was
pleased that he had discovered who had directed the fatal envelope;
and he was still more pleased that Mrs. Boazoph had sent for Hersham.
If possible he intended to learn her reason for seeking an interview,
and to ascertain why she had fainted at the intelligence that Hersham
was likely to be arrested for committing the crime. A true report of
that conversation--and Fanks had no doubt that Hersham would repeat it
faithfully to him--might afford the clue to the mystery. At the
present moment Fanks was convinced that the landlady of the Red Star
could unravel the riddle if she chose, and he was resolved to force
her to do so. But here an element on which Fanks had not calculated
came into play.

As instructed by the detective, Hersham duly called at the Red Star
only to be informed that Mrs. Boazoph was dangerously ill, and could
not see him. This he reported to Fanks, and at first the detective
deemed the illness an excuse to postpone the interview, the more
especially as Dr. Turnor was the medical man in attendance. He
mistrusted Turnor as much as he did Binjoy, and thought that the
former had persuaded Mrs. Boazoph to relinquish the idea of seeing and
confiding in Hersham. Such confidence might prove as fatal to Turnor
as to Binjoy; and if so there was no doubt that Turnor had compelled
Mrs. Boazoph to hold her tongue lest she should compromise him. Thus
Fanks argued out the situation; and he sought Tooley's Alley to
ascertain if Mrs. Boazoph was really ill, or merely feigning at the
order of Turnor.

A view of the sick woman showed him plainly that he was wrong. Mrs.
Boazoph was laid on a bed of sickness, incapable almost of speech, and
Fanks concluded promptly that there was no chance of learning anything
until she recovered. The result of the last interview had shaken her
terribly, and she was thoroughly worn out with nervous prostration.
Turnor, more like a ferret than ever, eyed Fanks complacently, and
seemed relieved that things were going so badly for the case. Fanks
questioned him, but could learn nothing definite, for, if the
detective was clever, the doctor was cleverer, and defeated Fanks on
every point. Indeed, he carried the war into the camp of the enemy.

"I suppose I am right in ascribing this illness to you, sir," he said,
with a sly smile. "It seems that my patient fainted at her last
interview she had with you."

"She did. I said something which startled her."

"That was very wrong of you, Mr. Fanks. Mrs. Boazoph is a woman of
delicate organisation, and a sudden shock might bring about her death.
She has a weak heart."

"I am sorry to hear so, sir," retorted Fanks, gloomily. "I counted on
gaining some information from her. Do you think she will soon
recover?"

"Not for some time," said Turnor, in a satisfied tone. "I presume you
wish to learn something from her, relative to the case you have in
hand?"

"You are quite right. I do wish to learn something relative to the
murder which took place in this hotel. But if Mrs. Boazoph cannot tell
me what I wish to know, you may be able to do so."

Dr. Turnor spread out his hands in a deprecating manner. "I, my dear
friend," he said, "what can I know about the case?"

"As much as Dr. Renshaw could tell you," retorted Fanks, fixing Turnor
with his keen eye.

"Dr. Renshaw told me nothing, because he knew nothing."

"I have my own opinion about that, Dr. Turnor."

"Really; I thought you were satisfied that my friend had nothing to do
with the matter. He went to India, you know."

"Are you sure he went to India, Dr. Turnor?"

"Oh, yes; he will be soon be at Bombay. I got a letter from him at
Aden, where he changed into the 'Clyde.'"

"No doubt," said Fanks, affably, "I expect you will hear from him when
he is settled in Bombay."

"Certainly; Renshaw and I are great friends."

"I am sure of that. You confide your secrets to one another, and work
in unison."

"What do you mean by working in unison, Mr. Fanks?" said Turnor,
drawing himself up.

"I don't think I need afford you any explanation, Dr. Turnor. You are
playing a dangerous game, sir."

"You insult me, sir."

"Is it possible to insult you, Dr. Turnor?" sneered Fanks.

"I'll make you prove your words," said Turnor, with rather a pale
face.

"There will not be much difficulty in doing that--at the proper time."

The ferret of a man eyed Fanks nervously and savagely. "Do you think I
have anything to do with the matter of Sir Gregory's death?" he burst
out.

"I'll tell you that when I return from Mere Hall," was Fank's reply.

"Mere Hall?" repeated Turnor, betraying himself, which was the reason
Fanks had mentioned the name; "what do you know of Mere Hall?"

"That is just what I wish to ask you. What do _you_ know of Mere Hall,
sir?"

"Nothing, nothing. I merely repeated your words."

"In a very singular fashion, doctor."

The little man turned away with a scowl. "I shall defend myself from
your insinuations," he said, in a stifled voice, "if you suspect me,
say so."

"Suspect you of what?" asked Fanks, innocently; "you speak in
riddles."

Turnor pointed to the woman lying on the bed. "Perhaps Mrs. Boazoph
can solve them," he said.

"Perhaps she can," retorted Fanks, with equal coolness; "and I trust
it will not be to your disadvantage when the answers come."

"I can look after myself, Mr. Fanks," said Turnor, and left the room
without the detective making any effort to detain him.

Fanks was suspicious of Turnor, from his connection with the so-called
Renshaw; and this conversation went a long way towards confirming
these suspicions. However, as he wished to go to Mere Hall and follow
up the Binjoy clue, he had no time to attend to the Turnor matter.
Nevertheless, on leaving Tooley's Alley he sought out Crate, and
instructed him to look after the doctor.

"Find out his financial position," said Fanks; "what kind of practice
he has, how he lives, what kind of character he bears, and all about
him."

"Very well, Mr. Fanks," said Crate, noting the instructions down, "and
what about Mrs. Boazoph?"

"Keep an eye on her, and should she recover so far as to see Mr.
Hersham or to journey to Taxton-on-Thames, let me know. You can write
or wire me at the Pretty Maid Inn, Damington."

"That's near Mere Hall, ain't it, sir?"

"A quarter of a mile away. I shall stay there some time to watch
Binjoy and Sir Louis Fellenger."

"Do you suspect him, Mr. Fanks?"

"If you remember the name I mentioned, you would not ask me that,
Crate."

The underling was abashed and said no more, but turned the
conversation to the subject of Garth. "What am I to do about him,
sir?"

"Oh," said Fanks, dryly, "you think he is guilty, so I will leave him
to you. But do not neglect my interests to look after that business. I
tell you, Crate, the man is innocent."

"I have my own opinion about that."

"Then keep to your opinion, but mind my instructions."

"Well, I will tell you one thing, sir," said Crate. "Mr. Garth has
left town."

"You don't say so," said Fanks, frowning, "he did not say that he was
going away. Where has he gone to?"

"I can't tell you that, sir, I lost him. But I'll tell you where he
hasn't gone--and that is to Taxton-on-Thames."

"I didn't expect he would go there, but it does not matter. I have my
hands full without thinking of Garth. I leave him to you. In the
meantime, goodbye; I am off to Hampshire."

Fanks arrived at Damington about five o'clock, and put up at The
Pretty Maid Inn as he had done before when following Binjoy in the
disguise of a parson. But thanks to his cleverness in "making up," no
one at the inn suspected that he was the same man. The landlady--a
genial soul with a plump person and a kindly face, quite an ideal
landlady of the Dickens type--welcomed him without suspicion, as a
gentleman come down for the fishing, and detailed all the gossip of
the neighbourhood. She was especially conversant with the affairs of
Sir Louis Fellenger.

"Such a nice gentleman," said Mrs. Prisom, "rather melancholy and
given to hard study, which ain't good for a young man. But he comes
here and takes a glass with a kind word and a smile always."

"Does Dr. Binjoy come over with him?" said Fanks.

"Oh yes, sir; I am sorry to see that the doctor ain't well lately, he
looks pale and mopey-like. Seems as if he had something on his mind."

"And what do you think he has on his mind, Mrs. Prisom?"

"Well, it ain't for me to say, sir; but I should think as he was sorry
he and Sir Louis did not get on so well as they might."

"What makes you think they do not get on well?" said Fanks, pricking
up his ears.

"It is the way they look at one another," said Mrs. Prisom,
reflectively. "And they say Dr. Binjoy is going away; though what Sir
Louis will do without him, I don't know."

"Dr. Binjoy going away," murmured Fanks, rather startled, "now what is
that for?"

Mrs. Prisom could not tell him; she could only say that the doctor was
departing from Mere Hall that day week; and that it was reported in
the village that he had quarrelled seriously with Sir Louis. "Though
of course," added Mrs. Prisom, "it may not be true."

"I must see to this," thought Fanks. "I wonder if this sudden
departure has anything to do with the murder. Is it a case of thieves
falling out; I must keep my eyes open." After which resolution, he
asked the landlady if she was well acquainted with the Fellenger
family.

"I should think so," said Mrs. Prisom, with pride, "I knew that poor,
young man who was murdered in that wicked London, as well as I know
myself. A noble gentleman, but wild; ah me!" sighed Mrs. Prisom, "just
like his father."

"Did you know Sir Gregory's father?"

"Did I know Sir Gregory's father," echoed Mrs. Prisom, contemptuously,
"do I know the nose on my face, sir? The late Sir Francis and myself
were playmates. Yes, you may well look astonished, sir, but it is the
truth. I was the daughter of the steward at Mere Hall, and I was
brought up with the late Sir Francis almost like brother and sister. I
could tell you many a good story of him," finished Mrs. Prisom, with a
nod and a smile.

"You must do so," said Fanks, returning the smile, "I am fond of
stories."

The fact is, he was wondering if he could find the motive for the
murder in the family history of the Fellengers. Many great families
had secrets, which, if divulged, might lead to trouble; and it might
be that the Mere Hall folk's secret had to do with the tattooed cross.
If it proved to be so, then Fanks thought there might be a chance of
penetrating the mystery of Sir Gregory's death. The family secret and
the death in Tooley's Alley were widely apart; but there might be a
connecting link between them, at present hidden from his gaze. At all
events, it was worth while examining Mrs. Prisom, and hearing her
story.

This Fanks resolved to do that evening; but in the meantime he left
the garrulous landlady, and went out for a stroll in the direction of
Mere Hall. It was not his intention to see Sir Louis on that evening
but rather to wait till the morning. Nevertheless, he had a desire to
look again at the splendid mansion of the Fellengers, more to pass
away the time than with any ulterior motive. In the calm twilight he
strolled along, and soon left the village behind him. His way lay
through flowery hedges, bright with the blossoms of summer; and, under
the influence of the hour and the beauty of the landscape, Fanks quite
forgot that he was at Damington for the purpose of unmasking a
murderer. From his dreams he was rudely awakened, and brought back to
real life.

As he sauntered along, swinging his stick, he saw a man ahead, whose
figure and gait seemed to be familiar. In the clear, brown twilight he
could see fairly well; and so it appeared could the man he was looking
at; for the figure made a pause and jumped over the hedge. Fanks
wondered at this, for he had noted that the figure was that of a
gentleman, or, at all events, someone other than a labourer. With his
usual suspicion, and as much out of curiosity as anything else, Fanks
jumped over the hedge also; whereupon the stranger began to run across
the fields. By this time, Fanks was thoroughly convinced that
something was wrong; so he gave chase at once, with a chuckle of
delight at the excitement of the adventure.

Across the green meadow they raced, and Fanks saw the man fading into
the dim twilight. He redoubled his sped; so did the fellow, but in the
next field Fanks found that he was gaining. The fugitive sprang over
another hedge; with Fanks close on his heels. But when the detective
landed he could see nothing of the stranger. A backward glance showed
him that the man had doubled, and was running along beside the hedge.
The next instant, Fanks was following on his trail; and, although the
mysterious figure made the greatest efforts to escape, Fanks drew
closer. Then an accident brought the race to an end, for the man
stumbled over a clod, and rolled on the grass. The next moment Fanks,
panting for breath, stood over him.

The detective peered down, to see who it was he had caught, and, to
his surprise, he recognised Garth.




CHAPTER XXVI.
MRS. PRISOM'S STORY.


"What the deuce are you doing here?" asked the detective, angrily,
"and why did you run away when you saw me?"

"As to my being here," replied Garth, sitting up and wiping his face,
"I came down to watch my cousin, of whom I was suspicious; and I ran
away because, on catching sight of you in the twilight, I took you for
Louis Fellenger."

"Oh! And for what purpose are you down here?"

"I have told you. I suspect that my cousin, through his medical
friend, is concerned in the murder of Sir Gregory."

Fanks frowned, and Garth having got on his feet, they walked on
together. He wished that Garth would leave the case to him, and
resented the presence of the young lawyer on the spot. "Where are you
staying?" he asked, abruptly.

"At the Pretty Maid Inn. I suppose you are there also, as it is the
only comfortable lodging in the village."

"Yes, I am there, and, now as I have dropped across you, we may as
well go back to supper. I had intended having a look at the Hall, but
on second thoughts I shall go back with you to pump Mrs. Prisom."

"I know Mrs. Prisom very well," said Garth; "she is an old servant of
our family, but I do not see what you can learn from her."

"I may learn nothing, on the other hand I may learn a great deal. She
was well acquainted with the father of the late baronet."

"And she was well acquainted with my mother, and with the father of
the present baronet. But in what way do you expect her to help you?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I want to find out if there is anything in the
family history of the Fellengers likely to have induced Sir Gregory to
submit to that tattooing."

"I am a member of the family, and I don't know of any reason," said
Garth.

"Mrs. Prisom belongs to a generation before you," replied Fanks, "and
it is possible that she may know something. Of course, it is only
fancy on my part. Still, a drowning man clutches a straw, and I am
clutching at this. We may learn something."

Garth shook his head. He knew the history of his family, and there was
nothing he could recall likely to touch on the subject of a tattooed
cross.

Mrs. Prisom received them both with great dignity, and in half an hour
they were seated at a well-spread table. Both did justice to the
viands set before them; and during the progress of the meal they
chattered about the case. While they were thus conversing Fanks
elicited an important fact concerning Sir Louis.

"I don't know why you should suspect your cousin," he said, in reply
to a remark of Garth's. "Mr. Vaud told us that both Sir Louis and
Binjoy were at Taxton-on-Thames on the night of the murder. The first
was ill, and the second was in attendance."

"True enough," replied Garth, frankly; "all the same, you proved that
Binjoy was masquerading in London on the evening of the twenty-first."

"Yes; it is strange that Sir Louis should say that Binjoy never left
his side. I suppose you suspect your cousin on that account?"

"By no means. I suspect my cousin because he was himself in London on
that night."

Fanks leaned back in his chair, and stared at the barrister. "What is
that you say?" he cried. "Was Sir Louis in Tooley's Alley on that
evening?"

"Oh, I won't go so far as that. But Louis certainly went up to London
on that night. I found that out from Mrs. Jerusalem."

"And who is Mrs. Jerusalem?"

"She was the housekeeper of Sir Louis at Taxton-on-Thames. When he
came in for the title he brought her here. I saw her yesterday, and
she inadvertently admitted that much."

"How did you get that out of her?"

"Well, it was a fluke. She is an old servant of our family, like Mrs.
Prisom. I met her while out walking, and she recognised me. I made her
promise not to tell Sir Louis that I was here."

"But what excuse did you make?"

"None," said Garth, coolly. "I'll tell you a secret, Fanks. Mrs.
Jerusalem likes me and hates Sir Louis. She was a foster-sister of my
mother's, and she desires to see me in the place of my scientific
cousin."

"Indeed," said Fanks, eyeing Garth in a strange manner; "and has she
done anything likely to forward your interest in that respect?"

"I suppose you mean to hint that she would like to clear Sir Louis out
of my path by accusing him of the murder?" said Garth, coolly; "well,
you are about right. Mrs. Jerusalem connects the absence of Sir Louis
from Taxton-on-Thames with the death of Sir Gregory. She saw the
report of the inquest, you know; she recognised--as she thinks--the
description of Binjoy's servant Caesar, and, by putting two and two
together, she told me yesterday that it is her firm conviction--on the
slightest of proofs, remember--that Louis killed Gregory by means of
the black man."

"Humph!" said Fanks, thoughtfully; "I must see this lady. But if she
dislikes Sir Louis and Binjoy why does she stay in the service of the
former?"

Garth shrugged his shoulders. "One must live," he said, "and Mrs.
Jerusalem has a very easy time of it with my cousin. When my mother
died, and we were as poor as rats, my father got Louis's father to
take Mrs. Jerusalem into his service, and she has been there ever
since. Oh, she will not tell my cousin that I am here," concluded
Garth, with a satisfied nod.

"Mrs. Prisom may," suggested Fanks. "You may be sure that a good deal
of gossip goes on between inn and Hall. How long have you been here?"

"About three days."

"Then you may be certain that your cousin knows of your presence in
the village. If he has any danger to fear from you he will take his
measures accordingly. I don't like your Mrs. Jerusalem, Garth; she
ought to be true to her salt."

"I can't help that," retorted Garth, sulkily. "She would willingly
keep house for me if I had a house to keep, but as I have not she
stays where she is. But what do you think of her suspicions? Do yours
point in the same way?"

"They did not," replied Fanks, promptly; "but your discovery of Sir
Louis's visit to town on that night puts quite a different complexion
on the case. All the same, I can come to no conclusion until I see
this spy of yours."

"She isn't a spy," said Garth, gloomily. "I did not drag the
information out of the creature. She thought that she was doing me a
good turn by betraying my cousin. She thinks that if he killed Gregory
he ought to suffer, and let me have the property."

"And what do you think?" asked Fanks, with a keen glance.

"I don't want to build up my life on the ruins of another man's; it is
a bad foundation. I know you believe that I wish to get my cousin into
trouble, but you are wrong. I would help Louis to escape if I could."

"There may be no necessity for that; we have proved nothing against
him as yet. I hardly think that a man who has committed a crime would
put down money to hunt out himself, and thereby lose the benefit he
gained by his wickedness. No, no, Garth, I do not believe Sir Louis is
such a guilty fool. However, I shall give my opinion when I see him
and question Mrs. Jerusalem."

"Will you tell my cousin that I am here?"

"Certainly. There is nothing to be gained by concealment. You only
place your honour in the hands of that Jerusalem creature, and make
yourself her accomplice. However, I am ready to bet you that Sir Louis
knows you are here through Mrs. Prisom."

Garth made no reply, but stating that he was weary, went off to bed.
The detective, left alone, thought over what he had been told, and
found himself unable to come to any conclusion. He did not like the
way in which Garth was acting, but, all the same, he believed that the
lawyer had no ill intentions towards his cousin, despite Crate's
opinion to the contrary. The young man laughed as he thought how he
had picked up the trail of Garth when it had been lost by the astute
Crate. "I am afraid that Crate will never make a success of the
detective business," thought Fanks, lighting his pipe. "But I don't
agree with him about Garth; and I don't agree with Garth about Sir
Louis. Certainly, it is strange that Sir Louis should have feigned
illness, and shielded Binjoy, and then have gone up to town on that
night. What the deuce were he and his medical friend doing there? Dr.
Turnor knows; I believe that Sir Louis was alone with Binjoy in the
Great Auk Street house. It is odd, to say the least of it. I wonder if
that <DW64> was the actual Caesar, or Binjoy or Sir Louis in disguise.
At all events, he wasn't Hersham, for that young man has exonerated
himself clearly enough. H'm. I'll reserve my decision as to Mrs.
Jerusalem's story till I see Sir Louis. Perhaps the secret of the
crime is to be found at Mere Hall, after all. No, no, no!" said Fanks,
getting on his feet with an emphatic stamp. "The secret is connected
with that tattooed cross. I wonder who can tell us about it."

At, this moment, as if in answer to his query, the door opened, and
Mrs. Prisom came in to clear away the dinner things. As a rule, she
left this duty to the parlour maid, but as Garth, an offshoot of the
great Fellenger family, was dining under her roof, she would let no
one but herself attend to him. She looked surprised when she saw that
Garth was not in the room. At once Fanks explained the absence of his
friend.

"Mr. Garth has retired to bed," he said, "as he is very tired. I shall
go myself soon, as your country air makes me sleepy, but at present I
should like to have a chat with you, Mrs. Prisom."

Mrs. Prisom smiled in an expansive manner, and expressed the honour
she felt at such a request, adding that she dearly loved a chat.

"All the better," thought Fanks, as she cleared away the dishes. "You
will be the more likely to tell me what I want to know."

In a few minutes the table was tidy, and Mrs. Prisom, at Fanks'
request, had brought in her knitting. He guessed that she would talk
better with the needles clicking in her active hands, and herein he
judged wisely, for thus employed Mrs. Prisom would gossip for hours,
provided she had a good listener.

"I suppose you knew the mother of Mr. Garth?" said Fanks, plunging at
once into the history of the Fellenger family.

"Miss Eleanor? Ah, that I did; but she was a proud young lady, and
didn't care to play with me, even as a child, because I was the
daughter of the steward. They were all proud, the Fellengers, except
Sir Francis."

"That was Sir Gregory's father?"

"Yes. There was Sir Francis, the eldest and the merry one; Mr.
Michael, the father of the present Baronet, Sir Louis, he was proud,
too; and then Miss Eleanor, who married Mr. Garth. But I liked Sir
Francis the best of all," concluded the old lady, with a sigh.

There was a look in her eyes as she said this, which made Fanks think
that she had been in love with the gay baronet, in the old days.

"He was a bonny man, Sir Francis Fellenger," she resumed. "Never a
maid but what he had a smile for, and many a kiss did he take without
the asking," laughed Mrs. Prisom. "Oh, he was a merry blade. But all
sailors have those ways."

"Was Sir Francis a sailor?" asked Fanks, suddenly.

"He was a Captain in the Navy before he came into the title," said
Mrs. Prisom, "then he settled down and married Miss Darmer, a
Shropshire lady. But she died, poor soul, when Sir Gregory was born,
and it was five weeks after her death, that Sir Francis was killed by
being thrown from his dog-cart."

"Sir Francis was a sailor?" asked Fanks, abruptly. "I suppose when he
went to sea and came home a middy, he had anchors, and ships, and true
lovers' knots, and such like things tattooed upon his skin."

"He just had," replied Mrs. Prisom, laughing. "He had quite a fancy
for that sort of thing. He told me he learnt how to do it in Japan."

"He learnt how to do it," echoed Fanks, leaning forward in his
excitement.

"Yes, yes; and very clever he was at drawing such pictures on the
skin. I shall never forget how angered my mother was when Sir
Francis--Master Francis he was then--insisted on pricking those blue
marks on my arm."

"Did he do that?" demanded the detective, little expecting what would
follow.

"He did, sir; the mark of it remains to this day," and Mrs. Prisom
drew up the sleeve of her left arm. Fanks bent forward, and saw
tattooed thereon--a cross. Was he then about to unravel the mystery of
the tattooed cross which had puzzled him for so long?




CHAPTER XXVII.
MRS. PRISOM'S STORY.--CONTINUED.


Fanks restrained his joy at this important discovery; he was afraid
lest Mrs. Prisom should cease to speak should she think that the
revelation was of consequence to him. That she should have the same
symbol as that possessed by Hersham, as that attempted on Sir Gregory,
appeared to hint at its owning a certain significance. What that
significance might be he now set himself to discover.

"Why did Sir Francis choose a cross to tattoo on your arm, Mrs.
Prisom," he asked, as the old lady pulled down her sleeve.

"I cannot say, Mr. Fanks. I fancy it was because he could draw a cross
better than anything else. You see it is St. Catherine's cross, with
four arms and a wheel--at least, that is what Sir Francis called it."

"It is St. Catherine's cross," said Fanks, recalling the mark on
Hersham's arm. "Perhaps Sir Francis attached some meaning to it. Do
you know if he tattooed anyone else with the same symbol?"

At this remark Mrs. Prisom suddenly desisted from her occupation, and
not only refused to speak but taxed Fanks with trying to fathom her
meaning for some ill purpose. "Why should you come down here, and ask
questions about Sir Francis Fellenger?" she asked, with a troubled
look; "why do you wish to know all these things?"

There was no help for it. If Fanks wished to learn the truth he would
have to tell her the real purpose of his visit; and then out of love
for the memory of Sir Francis she might do what she could to aid him
to discover the person who had murdered Sir Gregory. Resolving to risk
all on the casting of this die, he spoke out boldly and to the point.
Yet he approached the old lady with a certain amount of caution.

"I have an important reason for asking you these questions," he said,
in an earnest tone, "and I shall tell you my reason shortly. But first
say if you regretted the death of Sir Gregory."

"I regretted it because he was the son of his father, but I did not
care over much for him. He was a bad man, Mr. Fanks, a very bad man. I
loved the father as an old playmate, and as one who was always kind to
me and mine; but the son--ah!" Mrs. Prisom shook her head and sighed.

"You know that he was murdered?"

"Yes; but they never found out who murdered him."

"No; they are trying to find out now. You may be able to help me to do
so."

"Help you?" said the old lady, in a frightened tone. "Who are you,
sir?"

"My name is Fanks, as, you know, Mrs. Prisom. But what you do not know
is that I am a detective, anxious to learn who killed Sir Gregory."

"I know nothing of the murder, sir. I am a simple old body, and cannot
help you in any way."

"Oh, yes, you can, Mrs. Prisom. You can help me by relating all you
know about this tattooing."

"But what can the death of Sir Gregory have to do with an old story of
man's treachery and woman's folly?"

"More than you think. The whole secret of the death lies in the
explanation of that tattooing. Come, Mrs. Prisom, you must tell me all
you know."

Mrs. Prisom thought for a moment, and then made up her mind. "I'll do
what I can," said she. "Those who are concerned in this tale are dead
and gone; and, so long as it does not hurt the living, I see no reason
why I should not gratify your curiosity; but I must ask you not to
repeat what I tell you, unless you are absolutely obliged to do so. It
is no good spreading family scandals, but as you have appealed to me
to help you to revenge the murder of my old, playfellow's son, I will
confide in you."

Fanks assured Mrs. Prisom that he would be as reticent as possible
about her forthcoming history, and would not use it unless compelled
to do so. Satisfied on this point, Mrs. Prisom commenced; at the same
moment Fanks took out his note-book to set down any important point.

"The other person who was tattooed," said Mrs. Prisom, "was Madaline
Garry." Fanks whistled softly and made a note in his book. "Only a
thought which struck me," he explained. "Madaline Garry; was she also
tattooed with a cross?"

"Yes, sir. Madaline and Jane Garry were the daughters of old Captain
Garry, a retired naval officer, who lived in Damington. I knew them
both very well, as we used to meet on terms of equality in parish
work. Jane was the quiet one, but Madaline was a flighty girl, fond of
admiration and dress. She attracted the attention of Sir Francis, and
it was thought at one time that he would marry her. However, he did
not do so, but brought home the lady from Shropshire to Mere Hall.
Still, Madaline must have been fond of him, for she let him tattoo on
her arm a cross similar to this one of mine, I saw it one day while
she was changing her dress, and remarked it. She said Sir Francis had
pricked it on her arm as a sign that she was engaged to him, and that
it was like a wedding ring. I warned her against Sir Francis, and
mentioned the lady of Shropshire to whom he was said to be paying his
addresses. She laughed at this, and said Sir Francis would marry her.
'If he doesn't,' she added, 'I shall know how to avenge myself.'"

"Did she know that you had a cross on your arm also?"

"Oh, yes, I told her; but I never expected to marry Sir Francis, and
he did me no harm. I can't say the same of Madaline. He acted badly
towards her. I don't say that Sir Francis was a good man," added Mrs.
Prisom, in a hesitating manner; "but he was good to me. He certainly
should have married Madaline Garry."

"Did he go about tattooing all the girls he was in love with?"

"He was not in love with me," rejoined Mrs. Prisom, with dignity, "and
I only let him tattoo me because I was a schoolgirl and his old
playfellow. I knew no better then; but Madaline was a grown woman when
he loved her, and marked her with the cross. I suppose it was to bind
her to him;--not that it did much good, for shortly afterwards he
married Miss Darmer, and in a rage at his desertion Madaline took up
with an old admirer--Luke Fielding was his name--and she married him
almost on the same day that Sir Francis led his bride to the Hall."

"Did she ever forgive him?"

"She said she did," replied Mrs. Prisom, with hesitation; "but I have
my doubts of that. At all events, she was stopping at the Hall within
the year of her marriage."

"How was that?"

"Well, you see, sir, in nine months after the marriage Mr. Fielding
died, leaving Madaline with no money and a little child. About the
same time Lady Fellenger died at the birth of the dead Sir Gregory.
Somebody was wanted as a nurse, and Madaline asked Sir Francis if she
could come. She was poor, you see, and wanted money, although after
the death of her husband she was living with her father. At first Sir
Francis would not let her come--feeling ashamed-like, no doubt--but in
some way she prevailed against him, and went to the hall as the nurse
to the heir."

"And what about her own child?"

"She took him also, by permission of Sir Francis."

"Oh! was the child of Madaline a son?"

"Yes. Her son and that of Sir Francis were born almost on the same
day; she insisted that her son should come to the Hall also, so Sir
Francis agreed in the end."

"And Madaline Garry nursed the heir--that is, the late Sir Gregory?"

"She did," assented Mrs. Prisom. "Till Sir Francis was killed, as I
told you, five weeks after the death of his wife. His body was brought
home and buried; but, almost immediately after the funeral, Madaline
disappeared with her child. She was never heard of again; and I have
no doubt that by this time she is dead."

"How long ago is it since she disappeared?" asked Fanks.

"Twenty-eight years, sir. Where she and the child went, I do not know;
for she had no money. Poor soul; I was sorry for her."

"And her sister and Captain Garry?"

"Captain Garry died soon after. Madaline was his favourite child; he
never held up his head after she disappeared. When the Captain died,
Miss Jane went to some relatives in Scotland."

"And the heir?"

"Sir Gregory? Oh, Dr. Binjoy got another nurse for him."

Fanks glanced up in astonishment. "Dr. Binjoy!" he repeated. "Was he
here?"

"Of course he was, sir," replied Mrs. Prisom, with a slight shade of
surprise, "he was at the births of both Madaline's child and Sir
Gregory. Afterwards, when the father of Sir Louis died, he asked Dr.
Binjoy to look after his son, who was sickly. The doctor agreed; and
he has been with Sir Louis ever since."

"Yet now they are about to part."

"It seems strange, doesn't it, sir?" said Mrs. Prisom, "but ever since
Dr. Binjoy has been here with Sir Louis, they have got on badly. I
think it was the chemistry which kept them together; for their
characters are quite unlike one another."

"You like Sir Louis?"

"Yes. But I don't like Dr. Binjoy. No. Not though I have known him for
so many years. He was a lover of Madaline Garry also, but she would
have nothing to do with him. I am glad he is leaving Sir Louis."

"Was Binjoy friendly with Sir Gregory?"

"I can't say, sir. I do not think he had much love for him; because he
was the heir and kept Sir Louis out of the property."

"Oh; and no doubt Binjoy wanted Sir Louis to have the property, so
that he could get a share of the money."

"I think so, sir. They said that Dr. Binjoy was always very gay; and
used to go to London to lead a fast life."

"Who said that? Did you ever go to Taxton-on-Thames?"

"No, Mrs. Jerusalem told me. You know she was the housekeeper of the
late Mr. Garth; and, after his death, she went to keep house for Sir
Louis at Taxton-on-Thames. When Sir Louis came in for the property he
brought her here."

"Is she a native of this village?"

"Oh, yes; she was a school friend of mine, though I never liked her
over much. I believe she was in love with the late Mr. Garth. At all
events, she is devoted to his son. I wonder she left him to keep house
for Sir Louis. But, as poor, young Mr. Garth had no money, I suppose
she had to do the best she could for herself."

In Fanks' opinion, the love of Mrs. Jerusalem for the late Mr. Garth
explained why she was so anxious to benefit the son; but it did not
indicate why she should hate Sir Louis. Mrs. Prisom's next words
enlightened him on this point.

"It is more strange," pursued Mrs. Prisom. "Because Mr. Michael, the
father of Sir Louis, treated Mrs. Jerusalem very badly. Yes, almost as
badly as Sir Francis did Madaline Garry."

"I wonder Sir Francis was not afraid that Madaline Garry would avenge
herself for his treatment," said Fanks, now satisfied as to the cause
of Mrs. Jerusalem's hatred for Sir Louis.

"I think he was afraid," replied Mrs. Prisom, rising and rolling up
her work. "I can't explain what he said to me in any other way."

"What was that?" said Fanks, eagerly.

"I was at the Hall one day, shortly after the death of Lady
Fellenger," said the landlady, "and I saw him in his study. He was
grieving greatly for the death of his wife; but he also told me how
pleased he was at the birth of an heir. While he was talking, Madaline
entered, and spoke about something; then she nodded to me, and went
away. As the door closed after her, Sir Francis looked anxious.
'Nancy,' he said, turning to me--he always called me 'Nancy,'" said
Mrs. Prisom, in parentheses. "'Nancy,' he said, all in a flutter like,
'if it should chance as I die, and anything goes wrong about my son,
remember that cross I tattooed on your arm; and if you want any
further proof, look in this desk.' Just then, we were interrupted, and
he did not say any more. I never saw him again," added Mrs. Prisom,
with emotion, "for he was brought home dead that day week."

"Can you understand what he meant?"

"No, sir," said Mrs. Prisom, rising. "I can only say from the look he
gave the door, that he was afraid of Madaline. What he meant by the
cross and the desk I know no more than you do. But he was wrong in
thinking that Madaline would harm his child--for that was what he
thought, I'm sure--for she went away a week after his death with her
own, and Sir Gregory grew into a fine, young gentleman, though wild,
very wild."

After which speech, Mrs. Prisom, exclaiming that it was close on ten
o'clock, left the room; and Fanks sat meditating over the strange
history he had heard, far into the night. Already he saw a connecting
link between the story of Madaline Garry and the tragedy of Tooley's
Alley.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
SIR LOUIS EXPLAINS.


The outcome of Fanks' midnight meditations, was that he resolved to
devote himself entirely to following the clue afforded by Mrs.
Prisom's story of the tattooed cross. The dead father had chosen the
symbol of St Catherine's martyrdom for some unknown purpose; the
murdered son had perished while the same emblem was being tattooed on
his arm. For some reason he had wished to be marked in such a way, and
the murderer had taken advantage of the wish to inoculate the blood of
his victim with a deadly poison. If then, Fanks could learn the
significance of the cross, he might be able to fathom the mystery of
the death. The question he asked himself was, whether he could find
out the truth concerning the cross in the study of the late Sir
Francis.

The warning which the dead man had given to Mrs. Prisom, seemed
strange to the detective. That it was dictated by fear of Madaline
Garry, he felt sure; but as she had passed away, and had foregone her
vengeance it would seem that the warning was useless. Nevertheless,
Fanks resolved to see the desk referred to by Mrs. Prisom, and to
search for the evidence hinted at by Sir Francis. Also, for reasons of
his own, which the reader may guess, he wired to Hersham at the
Fairview vicarage, to seek an explanation from his father relative to
the cross tattooed on his arm. The tale of the Reverend Hersham might
show why the special symbol of Sir Francis was figuring on the skin of
a young man who had nothing to do with the Fellengers and their mad
freaks. After concluding the first part of his scheme by despatching
this letter, Fanks proceeded to the second, and walked to Mere Hall to
see the desk referred to by Mrs. Prisom. Garth had refused to
accompany the detective to the Hall; and gave his reason for such
refusal. "It is no good my going," he said, "I don't wish to see my
cousin; and if, as you think, he knows that I am here, there is no
longer any reason why I should stay in Damington. I shall go up to
town by the midday train, and leave you to find out if he has anything
to do with the crime."

"Well, as I know all you know, and a great deal more besides, I don't
think it is necessary for you to stay," said Fanks, dryly. "I'll
follow up the clue afforded by the malice of Mrs. Jerusalem. Return to
town by all means, and if you want anything to do, just join Crate in
watching the Red Star Hotel in which Mrs. Boazoph lies ill."

This Garth promised readily enough, much to the amusement of Fanks, as
the latter was simply throwing him into the society of Crate in order
to afford that person a chance of learning the connection--if any--of
Garth with the crime. He was assured in his own mind that Garth was
innocent, but he was willing to afford Crate some innocent amusement,
by setting him to find the mare's nest of his own imagination. When
Garth, therefore, departed, Fanks smiled in his own quiet way; and
went off to solve the more difficult riddle which awaited him at Mere
Hall.

When he was nearing the Hall, a woman stepped out of a gap in the
hedge almost in front of him. She was dressed in a black silk dress
with lavender  shawl over her shoulders; and she wore also a
bonnet of grey velvet made Quaker fashion, and close fitting over the
ears. But it was not at her dress that Fanks looked; he was staring at
the most malignant countenance he ever saw in his life. She was pale
and thin-lipped; her hair and eyes and eyebrows were of a light, sandy
hue; and she had a stealthy, observant way with her, which made Fanks
mistrust her on the instant. Like an apparition she arose from the
ground; and laid one thin hand on his breast to detain him.

"One moment, Mr. Fanks," she said, in a perfectly unemotional voice.
"You must speak to me before you go to Mere Hall."

"Why must I?" demanded Fanks, with a stare, "and how is it you know my
name?"

"Mr. Garth told me your name and your errand."

"Oh!" cried Fanks, remembering Garth's excuse for retiring to bed on
the previous night. "So you are Mrs. Jerusalem?"

"That is my name; and I wish to tell you--"

"I wish to hear nothing," said Fanks, roughly. "Mr. Garth had no
business to speak about me. What is there between you and him that he
should act in this underhand way without telling me? He said he was
going to bed last night. Instead of that, he sneaks out and sees you."

"There you are wrong," replied Mrs. Jerusalem, still without a trace
of emotion. "Mr. Garth did not come to me. On the contrary, it was I
who came to him at the inn while you were talking to Mrs. Prisom. He
came out of his bedroom to see me for a few moments; and then I went
away."

"And why did he not tell about this meeting?" asked Fanks, angrily.

"Because I asked him not to. I wished to take you by surprise. If you
had heard of my midnight visit, you might mistrust me; as it is--"

"As it is, I mistrust you still. Well, Mrs. Jerusalem, we will waive
the point. I know you accuse Sir Louis of this murder. Is it to betray
the master whose bread you eat, that you have sought this meeting?"

"That is just why I am here," was the quiet reply. "I hate my
master--"

"Because his father, Michael Fellenger, treated you ill. I know all
about that, Mrs. Jerusalem."

"Ah!" said the woman, coldly. "I see you employed your time with Mrs.
Prisom to good purpose. Well, you can understand that I hate Sir
Louis, and I would gladly see Francis Garth sit in his place?"

"And for this purpose you have concocted a story against Sir Louis."

"I have concocted no story. I tell the truth. Sir Louis and Dr. Binjoy
went up to London on the night of the murder; although they now
pretend that the one was ill, and the other attended him. They sent me
out of the house on that night; but I suspected, I watched, I
discovered. Do you know why the pair went up to London?" she
continued, grasping Fanks by the arm. "To kill Sir Gregory. Do you
know why they killed Sir Gregory? To get money for their scientific
experiments. Do you know how they killed Sir Gregory? Ask them about
the poisoned needle. Yes. They made use of their scientific knowledge
to slay the man whose money they wanted."

"Who put the advertisement in the paper?"

"Ask Mrs. Boazoph, she knows."

"Does she?" said Fanks, disgusted with her malignity, "and perhaps you
know about the tattooed cross?"

"No, I don't know about the tattooed cross," said Mrs. Jerusalem, "but
I daresay Madaline Garry can tell you."

"Madaline Garry? Do you know her? Is she still alive?"

"I know her, she is still alive. See Sir Louis, Mr. Fanks," said the
woman, stretching out her lean hand, "tear the mask off the lying face
of Dr. Binjoy who loved Madaline Garry and ask him where she lives;
and what evil he has worked with her aid?"

More Fanks would have asked, but with a sudden movement she eluded his
detaining hand, and before he could recover from his astonishment she
was far down the road to the village, gliding like an evil shadow into
the sunny distance. Fanks thought of following her, but on second
thoughts he pursued his journey to the Hall. "Sir Louis and Binjoy
first," he muttered, "afterwards Mrs. Jerusalem and Madaline Garry."

Despite his belief in the evidence of Mrs. Jerusalem, which was
obviously dictated by a malignant spirit, he caught himself wondering
if she was really right, and if, after all, Sir Louis was guilty. But
the moment afterwards he rejected this idea, as it was incredible that
Sir Louis would commit a crime and then offer a reward for the
detection of the assassin. Still Fanks admitted to himself that if Sir
Louis was not frank, he would find it difficult to come to a decision
touching his innocence or guilt.

On sending in his card at Mere Hall, the detective was admitted into
the study of Sir Louis Fellenger. Here he found not the baronet but
his old acquaintance Dr. Renshaw, who advanced boldly and introduced
himself as Dr. Binjoy. In place of wearing a thick brown beard he was
clean-shaven, and his face looked young, fresh-, and smooth.
For the rest he was as tall and burly as ever, as unctuous in his
speech; and to complete the resemblance between himself and the doctor
of Tooley's Alley, there lurked an unmistakable look of anxiety in his
grey eyes. It was impossible to think how he hoped to deceive so
clever a man as Fanks by so slight a change in his personal
appearance; but he evidently thought Fanks knew nothing of the truth,
for he came forward with a bland smile, prepared to carry on the
comedy.

"My dear sir," said Binjoy, with magnificent pompousness, "your card
was brought to Sir Louis, but he has been busy in his laboratory, and
is rather untidy in consequence, he deputed me to receive you. Pray be
seated."

Fanks smiled slightly and sat down, while Dr. Binjoy, rendered uneasy
by the silence, carried on a difficult conversation.

"I presume, Mr. Fanks, that you have come to report your doings to Sir
Louis touching this unfortunate death of my friend's predecessor in
the title. May I ask if you have any clue to the assassin?"

"Oh, yes," said Fanks, quietly; "you will be pleased to hear, Dr.
Binjoy, that I have every hope of arresting the right man."

Binjoy turned grey and looked anything but delighted. Indeed an
unprejudiced observer would have said that he looked thoroughly
frightened. But he controlled himself so far as to falter out a
question as to the name of the guilty man. Fanks mentioned the name of
Renshaw, and thereby reduced his listener to a state of abject terror.

"Renshaw is innocent, sir," said the doctor, tremulously, "I would he
were here to defend himself; but he is in India at present, at Bombay.
I received a letter from him, dated from Aden."

"How strange," said Fanks, innocently; "Dr. Turnor got a letter from
him also."

Binjoy saw that he had over-reached himself, and bit his lip. "We need
discuss Renshaw no longer," he said, coolly. "Let us talk of other
matters till Sir Louis enters."

"By all means," said Fanks. "Let me ask you, Dr. Binjoy, what you
were doing at Dr. Turnor's in Great Auk Street on the night of the
twenty-first?"

Binjoy went pale again, and stammered out a denial. "I was not in town
on that night," he protested. "I was attending on Sir Louis, who was
ill. I never left the house at Taxton-on-Thames."

"Oh, yes, you did. You went up with Sir Louis."

"Prove it, prove it," gasped Binjoy, with white lips.

"I can prove it by the mouth of Mrs. Jerusalem. She saw you leave; she
saw Sir Louis return alone."

"A lie! A lie!"

"It is not a lie, and you know it. It is time to have done with this
farce, Dr. Binjoy. I know who you are. I know all about your
impersonation and disguise. I know why you called yourself Renshaw. I
traced you to Plymouth and saw you disembark; I followed you to this
place, and now I have you."

Binjoy stared wildly for a moment at seeing his mask of lies fall away
from him, and then sank back in his chair with a shiver, moaning and
crying. "It is a lie, a lie," was all he could gasp.

"It is not a lie," said a voice at the door, and Fanks turned to see
Sir Louis. "It is not a lie," repeated the baronet. "Binjoy is
Renshaw; he went up with me to town on the night of the twenty-first.
If you want to know who killed my cousin, Mr. Fanks, there is the
assassin."




CHAPTER XXIX.
DR. BINJOY PROTESTS.


Silence ensued after this astounding statement had been made by Sir
Louis, during which time Fanks narrowly observed the personality of
the speaker. The baronet was a tall, and rather stout young man, with
a round face, destitute of beard and moustache. He was shabbily
dressed in an old tweed suit. He wore spectacles, and his shoulders
were slightly bowed as from constant bending over a desk. His
appearance was rather that of a studious German than that of a young
Englishman, but Fanks, from this hasty observation, judged him to be
of a sensible and reflective nature. Such a man would not make so
terrible an accusation unless he was able to substantiate it on every
point.

Binjoy arose to refute the accusation of his quondam pupil. "That
man," he said, pointing an unsteady hand at the baronet, "is lying. He
hates me because I know his secrets. For their preservation he seeks
to destroy me. But if I fall he falls also; if I am guilty he is
doubly so. Let him speak and admit that our sin is mutual."

"I admit nothing of the sort," retorted Sir Louis, coming forward.
"You tell your story, and I shall tell mine. Mr. Fanks can judge
between us."

"You had better be careful, Louis," said Binjoy, with an attempt at
bravado. "I hold you in the hollow of my hand."

"We will see," said Fellenger, coldly. "Be seated, Mr. Fanks. Before
you leave this room you shall hear my story, and decide as you think
best. I refuse to be the accomplice of that man any longer."

"Louis, I implore you."

But Fellenger turned a deaf ear to the voice of the charmer, and sat
down near Fanks, to whom he addressed himself. "For the sake of Binjoy
I concealed the truth; out of pity for him I held my tongue; but when
he strives to make me an accomplice in the crime, when he attempts to
blackmail me by threatening to inform you of our doings on the night
of the twenty-first of June, I prefer to forestall him, and let you
know the worst of myself."

"You were listening to our conversation, Sir Louis?" said Fanks.

"I was," replied the baronet, coldly. "I know what Mrs. Jerusalem
thinks; I know how Binjoy has been lying to you; and I am sick of
living on the verge of a precipice, over which that man and my
housekeeper threaten to push me. At any cost you shall hear the truth
so far as I am able to tell it to you. Ask what questions you like,
Mr. Fanks, and I shall answer them; when I fail no doubt the worthy
doctor there will come to my aid, and shield himself if possible at my
expense."

"I shall say nothing," said Binjoy, wiping his lips. "My only desire
is to save myself from the consequences of your falsehoods. I wish you
no harm."

"Just hear him!" cried Louis, in a mocking tone. "Would you believe
that my friend there threatened to blackmail me last week by saying he
would denounce me to the police. Well, Binjoy, here is a
representative of the law. You can now speak. I give you full power to
do so."

Binjoy did not accept this challenge. He sat back in his chair to
listen to the forthcoming conversation, and to defend himself if
necessary.

"Well, Sir Louis," said the detective, "I have heard your accusation
and the denial of Dr. Binjoy. Until I hear your story and his I attach
no value to either."

Binjoy drew a long breath of relief. "I can defend myself," he said,
in a defiant tone. "I can prove to you that Louis lies."

"You shall have ample opportunity of doing so," replied Fanks, coldly;
"in the meantime I shall hear what Sir Louis has to say."

"I must begin at the beginning," said Louis, quietly. "That man Binjoy
was the doctor in this village of Damington. When my father died
leaving me an orphan--for my mother had died some years before--he
asked Binjoy to look after me."

"And I have done so," broke in Binjoy, "and this is my reward."

"This is your reward for trying to blackmail me," said Fellenger,
dryly. "You did your best to ruin me, and to put bad thoughts into my
heart as to Gregory's wealth and my own poverty. See here, Mr. Fanks,"
added Louis, turning to the detective, "I am a man of science; I am
devoted to my work. I wanted neither money nor title, and I would not
have lifted a finger to obtain either. I did not like Gregory; he was
a brutal and wicked boy, and when we were playmates together he
treated me like a dog. I never saw him for years. We never
corresponded or treated each other as relatives, but for all that I
did not wish him evil; I did not desire his death; least of all did I
desire to rob him of his titles and lands. Do you believe me, sir?"

Fanks looked at the open face of the young man, and glanced at the
scowl which rested on the countenance of Binjoy. Drawing his own
conclusions, he replied quietly, "I believe you, Sir Louis; proceed,
if you please."

"Binjoy," pursued Louis, "was always lamenting that I was not the
owner of the Fellenger estates; and now that I am he hopes to make me
pay him large sums of money to purchase his silence."

"What does he threaten to accuse you of?" said Fanks.

"Of murdering my cousin under the disguise of the <DW64> Caesar, but I
am innocent, Mr. Fanks, as I hope to prove to you. I was trapped by
that man and his accomplice, Dr. Turnor."

"Ah!" murmured Fanks, while Binjoy scowled. "I was sure that the
ferret had something to do with the matter."

"Of that you shall judge for yourself," said Fellenger. "Have you
heard of Mithridates, Mr. Fanks?"

The detective was rather astonished at this apparently irrelevant
question; but having some knowledge of ancient history, he said that
he had heard of the monarch. "He was a king of Pontus, wasn't he; who
lived on poisons?"

"Exactly. He accustomed himself to taking poisons for so long that in
the end the most deadly had no effect on him. I always thought that
this was a fable and I wanted to see if I was right. For this purpose,
I tried experiments on dogs. I inoculated an animal with a weak
poison, and gradually increased the dose. Whether I was successful
does not matter; it has nothing to do with my story. But I may tell
you this, that, with the aid of Binjoy, I prepared a very powerful
vegetable poison for my final experiment; with this I impregnated a
needle."

"Oh!" said Fanks, "now I am beginning to see. Was it an ordinary
needle?"

"No, it was not an ordinary needle," replied Fellenger. "In the first
place it was silver; in the second, it was hollow; in the third, it
was filled with this deadly vegetable poison, of which I told you."

"Prepared by Dr. Binjoy?"

"Prepared by both of us," said Binjoy, savagely. "Let him take his
share of the guilt."

"I am not guilty. Mr. Fanks can judge of that for himself when I tell
him what I know," retorted the baronet. "Well, Mr. Fanks, we prepared
this needle and placed it in a case; for the least prick with it meant
death by blood poisoning. We intended to use it on the dog, when the
animal was sufficiently saturated with weaker poisons to admit of the
experiment being made. You may be sure, sir, that I was very careful
of that needle; I placed it in my cabinet. Dr. Binjoy had access to
that cabinet."

"I had not," contradicted Binjoy.

"Yes, you had; you possessed a key as well as myself," retorted Sir
Louis, sharply.

"I did not," said the doctor, obstinate in his denial.

"Don't lie, Binjoy, I found you with it opened one day; the day Anne
Colmer was with you, and I was so angry."

"Oh, Anne Colmer knew about this needle?" said Fanks.

"I can't say," said Fellenger. "While I was living at
Taxton-on-Thames, Miss Colmer sometimes came to the house. But I was
angry at Binjoy for opening that cabinet in her presence, as there
were a lot of dangerous drugs in it."

"She touched none of them," growled. Binjoy.

"Oh!" said Fanks, sharply. "Then you admit that you showed Miss Colmer
the cabinet of poisons."

Binjoy scowled, and grew a shade paler; as he saw that he had over
reached himself. However, he said nothing, lest he should make bad
worse; and, with a significant glance at Fanks the baronet resumed his
story.

"One day, in the middle of June," said Fellenger, "I found the needle
missing; and Binjoy told me he had given it to Turnor."

"I did not say that," exclaimed Binjoy, wrathfully. "I said that I
missed it one day when Turnor was in the laboratory; and I thought
that he might have taken it. As it proved, he did not. I know no more
than yourself who took it."

"We will see," said Louis. "I was ill at the time: and when Binjoy
hinted that Turnor had it, I determined to go up to London, and get it
again. I rose from my bed of sickness and went up to London on the
evening of the twenty-first."

"But was it necessary that you should have gone up?" said Fanks,
"would not a line to Dr. Turnor have done?"

"Probably. But the preparation of the poison was a secret, and when I
heard that the needle was in Turnor's possession, I was afraid lest he
should analyse the preparation. I went up to town with Binjoy post
haste to recover it again. This haste may appear strange to you, Mr.
Fanks; but you do not know how jealous we men of science are of our
secrets. But, at all events, we went up to town that evening. Do you
deny that, Binjoy?"

"No, I don't deny it," retorted Binjoy, gloomily. "Mr. Fanks tracked
me to Plymouth; he knows that I am Renshaw."

"I do. May I ask, Dr. Binjoy, why you took a false name?"

Binjoy pointed to his friend. "It was to save that ungrateful man," he
said, in a tragic voice. "When I saw you at the Red Star, and found
out that it was Sir Gregory who had been murdered, I foresaw how you
might suspect Louis as the cousin of the dead man. Mrs. Boazoph sent
for Dr. Turnor, I came instead of him, leaving Turnor with Louis. I
had been to the Red Star before, and Mrs. Boazoph knew me as Renshaw."

"And you wore a false beard. How was that?"

"I used to go up to London to enjoy myself," said Binjoy,
apologetically, "and I did not want any rumours to creep down to
Taxton-on-Thames concerning my movements. This is why I adopted the
false name; and disguise."

"Did you know of this?" said Fanks, turning to Louis.

"I do now, I did not then," said he, promptly. "When I arrived in
town, I went with Binjoy to Dr. Turnor's house in Great Auk Street.
Turnor denied possession of the needle. Shortly afterwards, a message
came that the landlady of the Red Star wanted Turnor. I would not let
Turnor leave the room; as I felt sure that he had the needle, and
thought that he might make away with it. Binjoy went in his place; but
he had no disguise on when he went out of the house."

"I put it on outside," explained Renshaw, alias Binjoy. "I did not
tell you all my secrets, as you were always so straight-laced, you
might have objected to my enjoying myself."

"I should certainly have objected to your disguising yourself, and
going under another name," said Louis, coldly, "I do not like such
underhand doings. I did not know that you went to the Red Star as
Renshaw; when you came back I had gone."

"Ah!" murmured Fanks, "that accounts why we didn't catch you. The
house was not watched till Binjoy came back. Did you return to
Taxton-on-Thames?"

"Yes. I returned without the needle, which Turnor denied having. I
felt very ill, and got into bed at once."

"Was Mrs. Jerusalem in the house, then?"

"Yes. Binjoy, as I afterwards learned, had sent her out. It was part
of the trap. He wanted to make out that I had got rid of the woman so
that I could go up to town and kill my cousin."

"When did you hear of your cousin's death?"

"The next day. Turnor came down; and said that Binjoy could not return
as he was being watched by detectives."

"Quite so. And Turnor told you about your cousin's death?"

"He did; and then he said that if I did not hold my tongue, and
pretend that I had not left Taxton-on-Thames that night, I should be
in danger of being accused of the crime. What could I do, Mr. Fanks; I
saw my danger, I held my tongue."

"Yes," said Fanks. "I can see why you were afraid. You were in a
dangerous position."

"I was in a trap," retorted Louis. "Can't you see, Mr. Fanks. Gregory
was killed with a poisoned needle. I had talked about that needle to
many people. Many scientific men knew that I was experimenting with
it. I was in Turnor's house at the very time that the crime was
committed."

"And you were thereby able to prove an alibi."

"Indeed, no. Turnor told me that he needed money; and he swore that he
would deny that I had been in his house; that he would denounce me as
the murderer of my cousin, if I did not give him a cheque. I could do
nothing, I was afraid; the circumstances were too strong for me. I
would have told the police; but in the face of Turnor's denial; in the
face of Binjoy's treachery in luring me into that house at the very
time of the murder, I dreaded lest I should be arrested and condemned
on circumstantial evidence. And the <DW64>, Binjoy's servant, was
smuggled off to Bombay by Binjoy, to close the trap more firmly on
me."

"That's a lie," said Binjoy. "I sent the <DW64> away to Bombay to avert
suspicion. I feigned a voyage to Plymouth for the same reason. I
ordered Caesar to meet me at Plymouth; and sent him to Bombay in my
place."

"I know you did," said Fanks, "you no doubt did that when I lost you
in the town after you disembarked."

"Well, you see, Mr. Fanks," said Louis, "that I am innocent. I held my
tongue, and lied about Binjoy, because I was afraid of the
circumstantial evidence which might be brought against me. Thanks to
Binjoy and Turnor, I was in a trap; I was at their mercy. I have told
you all because Binjoy tried to blackmail me last week. Now what do
you say?"

"Say, Sir Louis. I believe that you have told the truth. You are
innocent of this crime. But the question is, what does Dr. Binjoy
say?"

"I say that there is not one word of truth in the whole story," said
the doctor, with a scowl.




CHAPTER XXX.
A LETTER FROM HERSHAM, SENIOR.


Upon hearing this untruthful and obstinate denial of the baronet's
story, Fanks wheeled round his chair, until it directly faced that of
Binjoy. At the sullen creature he looked sternly, and shook an
emphatic forefinger in his face.

"Now look you here, Dr. Binjoy, or Renshaw, or whatever you choose to
call yourself," he said, sternly. "I believe that Sir Louis has spoken
the truth about this matter. I have not the least doubt that you and
your accomplice, Turnor, lured him into the Tooley Alley crime, with
which, to my belief, he has nothing to do whatever. You laid a trap,
and he fell into it--unluckily for him; but for his wise resolution to
confess his doings on that night to me, I have no doubt that you would
have blackmailed him."

"I did not want to blackmail him," said Binjoy in a low voice. "I did
not lure him into a trap. On the contrary, when I found out that it
was his cousin who had been murdered, I did all I could to save
him--to draw suspicion on to myself. I feigned the voyage to Plymouth;
I made use of my false name; I sent off Caesar to Bombay; and I closed
the mouth of Dr. Turnor. What more could you expect me to do?"

"I quite believe that you did all these things; and for why? Because
you wished to rivet your chains more securely on your victim. When you
found that he was in possession of the property, you resolved to get
whatever money you wanted out of him in order to lead a debauched life
in town. Oh, yes, Doctor, I quite believe you changed your name and
assumed a disguise while in London. You did not wish that the scampish
Renshaw of the Red Star should be identified with, the respectable Dr.
Binjoy, late of Taxton-on-Thames, and now of Mere Hall in Hampshire. I
can understand that, and I can understand that you designed the murder
so that Sir Louis could become possessed of money which you intended
to spend."

"I did not design the murder," said Binjoy, in a hoarse voice. "I
swear I do not know who committed the crime. When I was called in by
Mrs. Boazoph, I was as ignorant as anyone that Gregory Fellenger had
been murdered. I only acted as I did because I saw how dangerous it
was that Louis should be suspected. He was in the neighbourhood--"

"Lured there by yourself?"

"No! No! I did not lure him there. That we should be at Turnor's
house, so near to Tooley's at that time, was quite an accident."

"Was it an accident that Dr. Turnor came down to Taxton-on-Thames, and
threatened to blackmail me," broke in Louis.

"I know nothing of what Turnor said or did. It was not because you
paid him money that he held his tongue; but because I told him to do
so."

"You tried to blackmail me, also. That was why we quarrelled; that was
why you were going away next week. And I dare swear, Binjoy," added
Sir Louis, quietly, "that had you gone, you would have found means to
betray me to the police. That is why I have told Mr. Fanks everything.
You cannot harm me now.

"Don't you be too sure of that," growled Binjoy; "you have got to
clear yourself of suspicion."

"Sir Louis has cleared himself in my eyes," said Fanks. "But you have
yet to explain what became of the poisoned needle."

"I do not know; I missed it as did Sir Louis, but I do not know who
took it. You can't prove that I committed the crime."

"I am not sure of that," said Fanks, coolly. "See here, Dr. Binjoy,
you wanted Sir Louis to get the Fellenger estates so that you could
handle the money. Sir Louis can prove that much. You had access to
this poisoned needle with which the crime was committed; you went up
to London on the evening of the twenty-first of June; you repaired to
the Red Star about the time the deed was committed; you lied about
your name; you took a pretended voyage; you sent your <DW64> to Bombay
in order to throw the suspicion on him. Now you attempt to blackmail
Sir Louis--you and Turnor--by threatening to accuse him of committing
a crime of which he is guiltless. From my own soul I believe that he
is the victim of conspiracy; I believe that you lured him up to Great
Auk Street to entangle him in the matter. And," added Fanks, rising,
"I believe that you, in disguise of a <DW64>, killed Sir Gregory
Fellenger with that poisoned needle."

"I did not. I swear I did not. It is all a mistake," gasped the
wretched man. "Ask Turnor."

"The other blackguard, the other blackmailer? No, thank you. He would
only lie to me as you are doing. You are guilty. Confess your share in
this crime. Confess the mystery of the tattooed cross."

"The tattooed cross? What do you know about the tattooed cross?"

"More than you think," returned Fanks, significantly. "What about
Madaline Garry and her revenge?"

Binjoy's eyes seemed to be starting out of his head with terror and
surprise. His face was of a deathly paleness, and great drops of
perspiration rolled down his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the words
rattled in his throat, and with a gasp the man, strong as he was,
fainted quietly in the chair. He had been struck down by his own
terrors; rendered insensible by an instinctive knowledge of his
danger.

"What do you intend to do, Mr. Fanks?" asked Louis, looking at the
inanimate form of Binjoy with strong distaste. "Arrest this man?"

"I do. I shall send a telegram to London to get a detective down. In
the meantime--I shall stay here so as not to lose sight of him."

"You don't think that I would help him to escape?" said Louis,
indignantly. "I am only too glad to see the scoundrel captured. He has
been the curse of my life ever since my father placed me in his care;
he spoilt my nature, he half ruined me, but I stood it all until he
tried to blackmail me. Then I revolted against his tyranny. If you had
not appeared here so opportunely I should have written for you to come
and hear my confession. I admit that I was afraid to speak before, for
these villains had laid their plans so skilfully that I was afraid my
tale would not be believed. But now the scamp has been caught in his
own trap, and I am glad of it."

"All the same, I am not sure that he killed your cousin."

"Why not? All the circumstances seem to point to his having done so."

"No doubt. But some time ago I thought I had spotted the person who
had executed the crime. From that opinion I am not inclined to depart.
Evidently, Binjoy knows all about the affair, and possibly he may be
brought in as the accessory before the fact, but you can see for
yourself that the man is a rank coward. He has fainted. No man of his
timid nature would be brave enough to commit so daring a crime, and
then face me within an hour of such commission. No, Sir Louis, we have
not yet caught the assassin."

"Then why arrest Binjoy?"

"Because he knows who is guilty, and I wish to force him into
confession. Just send the servant with this telegram, will you, and
tell him to ask if there are any letters for me at the Pretty Maid
Inn?"

"What about Binjoy?"

"Leave him here with me for a time. Should I get a letter I may ask
you to take me over the house. Till then I shall watch my man."

"What is this letter you expect?" demanded Louis, with curiosity.

"I'll tell you that when I have despatched my telegram. Send a groom
with it at once, please."

Sir Louis obeyed and left the room, while Fanks remained to revive the
insensible Binjoy. He threw water on his face, loosened his collar,
but the doctor still continued insensible. Becoming alarmed, Fanks
rang the bell, and sent for a medical man. The upshot of the affair
was that Binjoy was put to bed in high fever. The shock inflicted on
him by the detective had unsettled his brain; and when Crate arrived
at Mere Hall there was no question of arresting the guilty man. Binjoy
was dangerously ill, and suffering from an attack of brain fever. What
with the doctor ill in the country and Mrs. Boazoph ill in town, Fanks
began to grow uneasy. If all the principals of the case were rendered
incapable of confession in this manner, he did not see how he was to
arrive at any solution of the riddle. He was two days meditating over
the next move in the game. "Mrs. Boazoph knows something," said Fanks,
to himself, "and Dr. Binjoy knows more; but if both are ill and
incapable of confession, what am I to do?"

There was no answer to this question, but later on the detective's
hands were full in elucidating the mystery of the tattooing. He asked
the baronet if he knew anything about the fancy Sir Francis had for
pricking crosses on the arms of women whom he loved.

"I never heard of it," said Louis. "I did not know much about my uncle
Francis, and still less about my cousin, his son Gregory. I am afraid
we are a singularly unamiable family, Mr. Fanks, for we all seem to
quarrel."

"Have you quarrelled with Garth?"

"Not exactly. But we do not get on well together. He used to come and
see me at Taxton-on-Thames, but I am afraid he thought me a scientific
prig. Indeed, he hinted so much."

Fanks laughed at this, remembering how Garth had made use of the words
attributed to him by Sir Louis. However, he did not explain the reason
of his laughter, but asked the baronet about Madaline Garry. To this
also he received a denial. Sir Louis knew nothing about the lady or
her connection with the late Sir Francis.

"All these things were before my time," he said, shaking his head. "If
you want to know about our family secrets, ask Mrs. Prisom, at the
inn. I believe she is a perfect book of anecdotes regarding the
Fellenger family."

"I have asked her," said Fanks, quietly. "She told me a great deal;
but not all I wish to know. Is there anyone else?"

"Well, there was Mrs. Jerusalem," said Sir Louis. "But she has walked
off. I intended to tell you, since you referred to her."

"Where has she gone?"

"I do not know. On that day you met her she went off and never came
back. I can't say I am sorry, as I feel, from your description, she
bore me ill-will. Perhaps on account of the way my father treated her;
but you must ask Mrs. Prisom to tell you that story."

"I don't need to do that," replied Fanks. "I know that Mrs. Jerusalem
hated you, and that is enough. She must have intended to bolt the day
I met her; but I thought she would have waited with the amiable
intention of assisting you into trouble. I wish I knew where she had
gone."

"Perhaps she will come back?"

"Let us hope so. Now that Binjoy is ill, and she hates him, I should
like to know what she can say about him. By the way, there is a
question I wish to ask you. Why was it, when you were afraid of being
implicated in the crime, that you offered to supply the money for me
to hunt down the criminal?"

"Well, that was Binjoy's idea. You see he thought that he had
completely destroyed the trail likely to bring you across my track; so
he said it would still further avert suspicion if I offered that
reward. I did so, but, to tell you the honest truth, if I had not
intended to confide in you in order to stop the blackmailing of
Messrs. Binjoy and Turnor, I should not have risked doing so. By the
way, are you going to arrest that atrocious little scamp?"

"Not yet. Binjoy is ill, and cannot have warned him; Mrs. Boazoph is
in the same plight; no, I will let him wait. He has no idea that he is
in any danger. When the time comes, I will pounce on him, if
necessary; though I hope he will not take a fit also. I can get
nothing out of Binjoy or Mrs. Boazoph, while they are ill."

"You may not need to do so. You may find out the truth when the letter
comes from Hersham."

"I wish it would come," said Fanks. "I want to know why he has the
same symbol on his arm as that on the arms of Mrs. Prisom and Madaline
Garry."

"You speak as if Madaline Garry were still alive?"

"Mrs. Jerusalem says she is. That is why I want to trace Mrs.
Jerusalem; she might help me to learn where I can find Madaline Garry.
The clue to the mystery of the cross lies with her; or else," added
Fanks, "it is hidden in the desk of the late Sir Francis. You remember
I told you his parting words to Mrs. Prisom?"

Two days after this the long expected letter came from Hersham. And
not only from him, but one from his father, was enclosed also. The
contents caused Fanks surprise; and yet, he half expected to read what
he did. He was beginning to guess the mystery which filled Dr. Binjoy
and Mrs. Boazoph with such fear. After all, he would be able to
discover the truth without them; although their testimony would be
necessary to confirm it.

"Dear Fanks" (wrote Hersham). "When you read the enclosed, you will be
astonished, as I was. I have not yet recovered from the shock of
learning the truth; but, as you will see, the mystery of the tattooed
cross is a greater one than ever. I can give you no assistance--all is
told in the enclosed letter, which I particularly asked to be written
for you. I cannot say if it will solve the Tooley Alley riddle, but it
has certainly invested my life with a mystery which I shall not rest
until I solve. I can write no more, for my head is in a whirl. Tell me
what you think of enclosed. And believe me, yours, Ted Hersham (as I
suppose I may still sign myself)."

The enclosed was a letter from the Rev. George Hersham, to the effect
that Ted was not his son; that he was no relation to him.

"I am a bachelor" (wrote Mr. Hersham). "I adopted Ted from motives of
pity, and a desire to cheer my lonely life. Nearly twenty-eight years
ago, a poorly clad woman came to my door. She was starving, and
carried an infant in her arms. I gave her succour, and procured her
work. After a time, she grew restless, and wished to go away, but in
that time I had become fond of the child. In the end, I offered to
adopt it. To this she consented, rather to my surprise; though,
indeed, she did not seem at any time very much attached to the babe.
However, she gave me the child, and went away with a little money I
had given her. I afterwards received a letter from her in London, but
she then stopped writing, and for years I have never heard anything
about her. The child--now my son, Ted--was marked with a cross on the
left arm, when I adopted him. The woman never told me why he had been
so tattooed. I knew nothing of the woman's history, save that her name
was--Madaline Garry."




CHAPTER XXXI.
THE SECRET IS REVEALED.


On receipt of Mr. Hersham's letter, Fanks sought out Sir Louis, and
showed him the communication. He had told the baronet all that he had
heard from Mrs. Prisom; for, without permission, he could not hope to
examine the desk of the late Sir Francis. If he did not do so, he
would not be able to discover the secret of the tattooed cross;
therefore, for the gaining of his ends, and also with a belief in
Fellenger's good sense, he made him his confidant, and finally placed
the letter in his hands. Louis read it carefully; and, knowing all
that had gone before, he understood it partially. Nevertheless, he was
puzzled as to the real meaning of the affair; and looked to Fanks for
an explanation.

"What do you think of that?" asked Fanks, when the baronet gave back
the letter in silence. "Can you understand it?"

"I do not think it is very difficult to understand," said Fellenger,
with a shrug of his shoulders, "Madeline Garry went from the Isle of
Wight; she was starving, and she met with a good Samaritan, who took
her in. Afterwards, she sought London, and left her child behind to be
adopted. That child is your friend, Edward Hersham. The story is plain
enough."

"It is so far as you have related it. But Hersham has the cross of St.
Catherine tattooed on his arm. Why should the child of Madaline Garry
be marked in that way?"

"Perhaps my uncle marked the child. He seemed to have had a passion
for tattooing."

"Why should Sir Francis mark the child of Fielding?"

There was something so significant in the tone of the detective that
Sir Louis looked at him intently. What he saw in his face prompted his
next remark. "You don't think Hersham is illegitimate, do you?" he
asked.

"Indeed, that is my opinion," returned Fanks. "Why was Sir Francis
afraid of Madaline Garry? Because he had done her a wrong. Why did she
marry Fielding, almost on the same day that your uncle married Miss
Darmer? Why did Sir Francis tattoo the child with his favourite cross?
The answer to all these questions is--to my mind--to be found in the
fact that the child of Madaline Garry was also the child of Sir
Francis Fellenger. I feel convinced that Hersham is the half-brother
of the man who was murdered at Tooley's Alley."

"It seems likely," assented Louis, nursing his chin with his hand.
"But how can you establish the truth of your statement?"

"There are two ways. One is by asking Binjoy. He may know as he was in
attendance both at the birth of Gregory, and at that of Hersham. He
may tell the truth; but as he is delirious, there is no chance of
getting any information from him. The second way is to find out
Madaline Garry, and force her to own up. But the only person who knows
where she is, is Mrs. Jerusalem, who has vanished. If I find Mrs.
Jerusalem, I may find the other woman. But at present that is
impossible also."

"Quite impossible. I do not see what you can do."

"Do you remember what Mrs. Prisom said about the desk in the study of
your late uncle?"

"Yes. She alluded to some secret in connection with the desk, which
was to be used for the benefit of Gregory, should Madaline Garry
attempt to revenge herself."

"Exactly. Well, we must examine the desk. I fancy that Sir Francis,
dreading the anger of the woman whom he had wronged, wrote out a full
account of his sin; and of the reason why he tattooed the cross on the
arm of the child. If we can find that paper--which Sir Francis plainly
hinted was in the desk, we may discover why your cousin was murdered."

"I cannot conceive what you mean."

"You will know soon enough," replied Fanks, a trifle sadly. "I have a
very shrewd idea of what will be the outcome of my search. If things
are as I think, it will not be long before I run down the assassin of
Sir Gregory. I have an instinct--and more than an instinct--that the
clue to the mystery which has eluded me so long, is about to be placed
in my hand. I shall be pleased for my own sake; I shall be sorry for
yours."

"Why. What do you mean? I do not understand. Explain yourself, Mr.
Fanks."

"No," replied Fanks, shaking his head. "I may be wrong, and I do not
wish to cause you unnecessary pain. Let me examine the desk. If I am
wrong, all the better for you; all the worse for the case. If am
right, I had rather you learned the truth without my intervention.
Come, Sir Louis, let us seek the study of your late uncle. Do you know
where it is?"

"Oh, yes," said Sir Louis, leading the way. "It has been shut up since
his death. You know my cousin was not a man of books, so he did not
use it. As for myself, I am always in my laboratory in the old wing.
If Sir Francis left any secret paper in his desk, it will be there
still. Unless," added Louis, with an afterthought, "unless it was
taken away by the woman he feared."

"No. If the paper had given Madaline Garry power to revenge herself on
the heir of her old lover, she would have used that power; and then
Mrs. Prisom might have interfered by acting on the last request of Sir
Francis. Nothing of this has happened; so I am sure that if the paper
is in that desk, we shall find it; if we find it we shall learn the
truth about this tattooed cross; and, consequently, discover the
motive which prompted the murder of your cousin."

After which speech, the detective went with Sir Louis to the study of
the late Sir Francis Fellenger.

Sir Louis unlocked the door; and they entered into the long-disused
room. It had been shut up for many years, the atmosphere was dusty and
musty, with a chill smell of decay. Fanks opened the shutters, and the
strong sunlight poured into the apartment; it illumined the dusty
carpet on which their feet made marks; it gleamed on the old-fashioned
furniture, cumbersome and comfortless, such as was used in the
early days of the Victorian era; and--to the satisfaction of the
detective--it revealed a mahogany escritoire, all drawers and
pigeon-holes, and brass handles. The key, massive and rusty, was still
in the lock; and Louis, turning it over with, a harsh creak, threw
open the heavy sheet of mahogany which covered the writing cloth. This
was lined with dingy green cloth, ink-stained and dusty, but on it
there rested no papers nor pens nor ink. Evidently the papers had been
arranged before the desk had been closed, and left to its many years'
solitude.

Fanks bent down and unlocked the drawers one after the other. These
contained nothing but masses of newspaper, everyone of which they
examined carefully, but without finding any writing referring to the
cross. There were also bundles of old letters; and musty accounts, and
ancient records of ships, and stores, and divers expenses; doubtless
remnants of Fellenger's naval days. In another drawer they found
sea-shells, and seaweed mounted on cardboard; while some shallow
repositories contained pictures, and small charts. But nowhere could
they discover the paper to which Sir Francis had referred in that last
long conversation with Mrs. Prisom.

"Well, it is not in any of these," said Fanks, rising with a look of
disappointment. "I wonder where it can be?"

"Perhaps there is a secret drawer," suggested Sir Louis.

"It is not unlikely; and no doubt the paper would be hidden in such a
receptacle out of fear of the woman.

"I believe you are right, Sir Louis; let us look for a secret drawer.
If there is one I shall find it; I have been at this sort of work
before; and I have an idea how to go about it."

Fanks made no vain boast, for after a hard search of an hour or more;
after sounding with the knuckles and measuring with a tape, they
stumbled across a hiding-place, contrived in the thickness of the wood
at the back of the desk. Herein was a paper yellow with age, which
Fanks drew slowly out; for it was so fragile with time that he thought
it would crumble in his hand; carrying this to the strong light of the
window he read carefully, while Sir Louis waited for a revelation of
its contents. The face of the detective paled when he read it; and he
glanced pityingly at the baronet, when he finished his perusal.

"It is the paper I hoped to find," he said, slowly, "and it clears up
the most important point of the case. But I told you, Mr. Fellenger,
that the contents would give you pain. Read them for yourself."

"Why do you call me Mr. Fellenger?" asked Louis, quietly.

"You will find the answer to that question in this paper," replied
Fanks, and passed it to the baronet. After a pause, and a sharp glance
at the detective, Fellenger took the thin yellow sheet, and read it
slowly. This was what he read, in the faded handwriting of Sir
Francis:

"I have deceived Madaline Garry; I am the father of the child born to
her about the same time that my heir, Gregory, was born. Madaline
wished me to marry her; but, for reasons which I need not explain
here, I was unable to do so. She married Luke Fielding, and he is
supposed to be the father of her child. This is not so; the boy is
mine. When my wife died, Madaline insisted on coming to the Hall and
nursing Gregory. For obvious reasons I could not refuse her; she would
have revealed the truth, and have disgraced me and her family, had I
not yielded to her wish. She came to the Hall with her own child and
nursed that of my late wife. But I was afraid that she would change
the children so that her son should enjoy what rightfully belonged to
his half-brother. I was twice nearly sending her away on account of
this fear; but she threatened to disgrace me by revealing the truth;
so I let her stay. But, to avert the danger, I one night tattooed on
the left arm of my son, Gregory, the cross of St. Catherine, which I
had already tattooed on the arm of Madaline and of Nancy Prisom.
Should the children be changed, and I die, the truth can be
ascertained by the tattooed cross. The child marked with the cross is
my son and heir, Gregory Fellenger; the other is his brother, Edward,
the son of myself and Madaline Garry. I hope, in this way, that I
shall prevent Madaline from revenging herself on me, as I feel sure
she intends to do.

     (Signed), Francis Luddham Fellenger."


On reading this extraordinary document, Louis felt the room whirl
round him, and he was fain to be seated. Fanks turned silently towards
him and received back the paper--the paper which robbed the young man
at one sweep of title and property. Louis recovered himself, and
smiled faintly. "I understand," he said, in a low tone, "Sir Gregory
enjoyed the title and estates wrongfully; Hersham is the rightful
heir."

"Yes. Madaline Garry fulfilled her vengeance. She put her child in the
place of the real heir, after the death of Sir Francis, and took away
the son of Lady Fellenger. That was why she came to the Hall to be the
nurse; she wanted her child to enjoy the property. Owing to the
tattooing and the father being alive, she could not change the
children; but when Sir Francis was killed she did so, and therefore
secured the title for her son. I now understand why she parted so
readily with Hersham so that he should be adopted by the Vicar of
Fairview; he was not her child, but that of her rival in the
affections of Sir Francis; I can see all this; so can you; but," added
Fanks, with hesitation, "can you guess how this discovery affects
you?"

"Certainly," replied Louis, calmly, "I shall have to give the property
up to my cousin, who now goes by the name of Hersham. I assure you, I
shall not mind the loss so much as you seem to think. As I told you, I
care nothing for money, and everything for science. Oh, believe me,
Mr. Fanks, I am quite content to surrender title and estates, and go
back to Taxton-on-Thames, as plain Louis Fellenger."

"You can contest this matter?"

"I shall not contest the matter. I believe that paper to be true. We
found it together; and it proved beyond a doubt--by the evidence of
the cross tattooed on Hersham's left arm, that he is the rightful Sir
Gregory, and the owner of these estates. Let him have them; I shall
not raise one finger to prevent his enjoying what is rightfully his
own. Besides, I like Hersham--as I may still call him--he is a good
fellow. I used to meet him at Taxton-on-Thames. Let him marry Anne
Colmer, and take up his position; he will make a much better baronet
than I."

They left the room, and went downstairs again to the library. In there
Louis asked Fanks a question which had been in his mind for some time.

"I say, Mr. Fanks," he said, "what makes you say that this tattooed
cross clears up the mystery of Tooley's Alley?"

"Well," said Fanks, "someone must have known this story; and have told
it to Sir Gregory. That was why he allowed the cross to be tattooed on
his arm."

"I don't see that."

"Why, the person who told him the story assured him that the only
chance he had of keeping the property was to be tattooed with the
mark, which Sir Francis said was on the arm of his real heir."

"Oh, I understand now. But who was the person who told Sir Gregory the
secret of that cross and tattooed it on his arm?"

"Ah," said Fanks, "tell me the name of that person, and I'll tell you
the assassin of the son of Madaline Garry, who wrongfully bore the
title and name of Sir Gregory Fellenger."




CHAPTER XXXII.
MRS. BOAZOPH TELLS THE TRUTH.


Immediately after this great discovery, Fanks received a letter from
Garth informing him that Mrs. Jerusalem was in London, located at the
Red Star. "Mrs. Boazoph," said the writer, "is much better, and is now
permitted to leave her bed; rather I fancy to the disappointment of
Turnor. Should you want to get any information out of Mrs. Boazoph now
is the time to do so." The result of this communication was that Fanks
resolved to go at once to town and interview the landlady.

"You see that I want to get something out of Mrs. Boazoph," he said to
Louis. "I want her to tell me who killed Sir Gregory."

"Do you think she knows that?"

"I think she has known it all along," retorted Fanks. "You can take it
from me, Fellenger, she recognised the <DW64> when he entered the hotel
on that night. For some reason, which I mean to discover, she has held
her tongue. I intend to force her to reveal the name by threatening to
arrest Hersham, in the event of her refusing to speak."

"Will she tell in order to save Hersham?"

"I think so; and for more reasons than one. You see she fainted when I
told her that I could prove the crime against that young man. It may
be that she knows how hardly he has been dealt with by Madeline Garry,
and therefore she may be anxious to save him further trouble."

"But how could she learn the story of Madeline Garry and the changing
of the children," objected Fellenger.

"From Anne Colmer, who must have learned it from Dr. Binjoy. I believe
he is at the bottom of the whole affair. I do not say that he killed
Gregory; but he can tell us who did."

"How can you prove that?"

"Well, the person who killed Gregory must have known that story of the
changing of the children, so as to induce him to let the cross be
tattooed on his arm. Dr. Binjoy must have told that person; Dr. Binjoy
must have supplied that needle; Dr. Binjoy, my friend, is at the
bottom of the whole devilish affair."

"You forget Madeline Garry; she might have told the murderer about the
changing of the children."

"I don't think so. Madeline would not have been likely to reveal
anything detrimental to her son; and on the face of it she could not
have obtained access to the poisoned needle. No, I suspect Binjoy as
an accessory before the fact. I shall see Mrs. Jerusalem, and force
her to tell me where to find Madeline Garry; though to be sure I have
a pretty good notion of where to find her as it is."

"What! Do you know who Madeline Garry is?"

"I think so. A speech of Mrs. Prisom's put me on her track; but I may
be wrong so I shall say nothing as yet."

"You are clever in guessing things, Mr. Fanks. Perhaps you can tell me
who killed Gregory?"

"Well," said Fanks, looking straight at his questioner, "I might even
go as far as that. I do not know for certain who is the assassin; but
I have a shrewd notion. I shall have my doubts set at rest on that
point when I see these women in town. I shall interview Mrs. Boazoph,
take down her confession, and make her sign it. I shall act in the
same way with Binjoy, with Anne Colmer, with Robert, the valet of the
dead man, and with Turnor, the accomplice of your medical friend."

"Do you think they are all in it?"

"I am more than certain they are," said Fanks in a confident tone.
"Well, Mr. Fellenger, will you come up with me and see the last act of
the comedy?"

"No, I shall stay here with Mr. Crate; and keep an eye on Dr. Binjoy,
But you must write me all that befalls you at the Red Star. Do you
really think that you will find the truth in that house?"

"I am certain of it. Believe me the tragedy will end as it began--in
the Red Star in Tooley's Alley. I hope all will go as I wish," added
Fanks with a gloomy air. "I have had no end of trouble with this case.
And although I think I see daylight at last, I must not be too
confident. The whole proving of my theory lies with Mrs. Boazoph."

Having thus settled his plans, Fanks left Crate at Mere Hall to look
after Dr. Binjoy, and repaired to town. Immediately on his arrival,
which took place about noon, he sent for Garth, and questioned him
concerning Mrs. Jerusalem. Having received satisfactory replies, he
entrusted a special commission to the lawyer, and, with a detective,
he went himself to the Red Star. That short conversation with Fanks so
astonished Garth, that he went on his errand--which had to do with
such conversation--in a state of great surprise and no little
nervousness.

At the Red Star Fanks inquired for Mrs. Jerusalem, and was confronted
by Dr. Turnor. The ferret looked rather disconcerted as the detective
appeared; and tried to dissuade him from seeing Mrs. Boazoph as he
wished to do. "She is yet weak," he urged, "and I do not think it will
be wise of you to talk with her as yet."

"I don't care how weak she is," said Fanks, grimly. "I intend to talk
to her, and to you too."

"What can you have to say to me?" demanded Turnor, with an attempt at
bravado.

"I'll tell you that after I have seen Mrs. Boazoph and Mrs.
Jerusalem," was the reply. "I know all your doings on the night of the
twenty-first, Dr. Turnor; and I am aware of your attempt to blackmail
Sir Louis Fellenger."

After which speech Fanks went upstairs to the room occupied by Mrs.
Boazoph. At the door he met with Mrs. Jerusalem. She looked at him in
an expressionless way, and spoke in her usual cold and unemotional
manner. Her first question was of Fanks' visit to Mere Hall.

"Did you find out the truth, sir?" she asked.

"I found out the truth; but not the particular truth you wished for,"
replied Fanks, who disliked this woman immensely. "Your master is not
guilty."

"Then who is guilty if he is not?"

"I'll reveal that in a few moments, Mrs. Jerusalem. I may tell you
that I know all about Madaline Garry and the tattooed cross, also
about Mr. Louis Fellenger."

The woman drew back, and for the first time since Fanks had known her,
an expression of surprise flitted across her face. "He said Mr.
Louis," she said to herself. "How much does he know?"

"He knows most of the circumstances which led to the murder in this
house," retorted Fanks, moving towards the door, "and now with your
assistance he is about to learn the rest."

"At all events the truth will be bad for Louis Fellenger," muttered
Mrs. Jerusalem. "If it was to benefit him I would not move a step. As
it is," she added, throwing open the door, "come in, Mr. Fanks, and
ask Mrs. Boazoph to tell you the story she related to me this
morning."

Fanks nodded, and without saying a word entered the apartment. In
spite of the warm weather there was a fire burning in the grate, and
beside it crouched Mrs. Boazoph. She was seated on the carpet warming
her thin hands at the blaze; and she turned her face as the detective
entered. He was astonished at the change wrought in her by illness.
Her face was lined and drawn with pain; her hair was falling about her
ears in rough masses; and the looseness of her dress showed how
emaciated she had become. The poor creature was but a shadow of the
notorious woman who had defied the police for so long; and at the
first glance Fanks saw that death was written on her haggard face. If
there was anything to be learned from this wreck there was no time to
be lost in hearing it. Nemesis had claimed at least one victim for the
death of Sir Gregory Fellenger;--or rather Edward Fielding.

"Have you come here to see me die, Mr. Fanks?" asked Mrs. Boazoph,
with a faint smile.

"I hope it is not so bad as that," replied Fanks gently, for he pitied
the exhaustion of the poor creature. "You may get better."

Mrs. Boazoph shook her head. "I think not," she said quietly. "The end
is coming fast. I do not care; my life has been none so happy that I
should wish to live. I am anxious to die."

"Are you anxious to make reparation for your crimes?"

With a start Mrs. Boazoph looked at the other woman, who still stood
at the door. "What have you told him?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

"I have told him nothing," replied Mrs. Jerusalem, coldly, "but he
knows all."

"That is impossible," muttered Mrs. Boazoph, with a shiver. "He cannot
know all. Who is there to tell him?"

"I was told by the dead."

"The dead? What dead?"

"By your dead lover, on whose son you avenged your betrayal, Mrs.
Bryant."

She shivered, and looked up angrily. "Not that name, I am not Mrs.
Bryant."

"I can give you another name if you like," said Fanks, pointedly.
"Shall I say Mrs. Fielding or--Madaline Garry?"

The woman rose to her knees with an effort; and parting the tangled
mass of her grey hair she looked at Fanks in a terrified manner.
"Madaline Garry is dead," she said, in a low voice. "She died when she
married Luke Fielding. Neglect and dishonour killed her."

"Madaline Garry did not die then," said Fanks, determinedly. "She
lived to avenge herself on her lover by exchanging his child for that
of her own."

"They were both his children," cried Mrs. Boazoph, with sudden fury,
"I see you know all; so I can speak as I choose. I loved Francis
Fellenger, and he betrayed me. I should have been his wife, but, like
the coward he was, he married another woman. I became the wife of Luke
Fielding, of the man I hated, in order to conceal the truth from my
father. The child I bore was not his. It should have borne the title
of the Fellengers."

"And it did bear the title of the Fellengers," said Fanks, in an
impressive voice. "It took the place of the real heir, thanks to your
schemes. And you, Madaline Garry, deserted the infant of your rival,
after you had robbed him of his birthright. Wretched woman; make
reparation while you can; give back his name to Edward Hersham, before
it is too late, or" added Fanks, drawing nearer, "keep silence to the
end; and let him suffer on the gallows for the murder of your son."

"No! No!" shrieked Mrs. Boazoph, clutching at her chair to raise
herself, "not that, anything but that. He is innocent. I tell you that
he is innocent!"

"If he is innocent, who then is guilty?" asked Fanks.

Mrs. Boazoph reeled, and would have fallen but for the arm of Mrs.
Jerusalem, who sprang forward to catch her. A draught of brandy
brought back her strength, and she sat in the chair by the fire,
rocking herself to and fro, with heart-rending sobs. Fanks approached
to speak to her, but she waved him off.

"Do not touch her yet," said Mrs. Jerusalem, in a low tone, "she will
recover soon."

Quiet as was the whisper, Mrs. Boazoph heard it, and moaned. "Never,
never on this side of the grave," he wept. "My race is run; and weary
have been my days. I never had a chance like other women. Once I was
Madaline Garry, the darling of her father, the prettiest girl in
Damington. But Francis Fellenger made me what I am. I curse him,
living or dead, I curse him." She broke into hysterical laughter. "I
revenged myself well. I put my child and his in the place of the heir.
It was my son who reigned at Mere Hall; it was my son who spent the
moneys of that evil family, and bore their title. I am glad of it; I
am glad of it. The real heir--her child--had to work for his bread;
but mine reigned in his place; he took the seat of his father. Of what
use was it that Francis marked his son as he marked me? See," she
cried, pulling up the sleeve of her dress. "Do you see this cross on
my skin, you bloodhound of the law? Francis Fellenger marked me like
that to show that I was his wife; yet he married another. Francis
marked his legitimate son like that, yet the son ate the bread of
strangers, and another sat in his seat. I have done my work, I have
had my revenge, I am willing to die."

"Are you willing that the son whom you disinherited should die at the
hands of justice?"

Mrs. Boazoph moaned, and hid her face in her hands. "Ah, no!" she
said, in a plaintive voice. "He has suffered enough. My son is dead,
so let the other take back his name and estates. My son is dead; he
perished in the house of his mother; the mother who was too cowardly
to avenge him, who was afraid to reveal the name of the assassin. My
son is dead, but not by the hand of his half-brother did he meet with
his death."

"Then who killed him. Tell me," cried Fanks, eagerly. "You have
sinned. Make what reparation you can for your sins while there is yet
time. Look up, Madaline Garry, and tell me if that man slew your son?"

While Fanks had been speaking, the door had opened softly, and Garth
in the company of another man appeared on the threshold. The two stood
spell-bound when they heard this speech of the detective; and Mrs.
Boazoph turned her face slowly towards them. Suddenly she crushed down
her weakness, and arose to her feet with miraculous strength.
Stretching out her hand at the man who stood terror-stricken awaiting
her words, she cried out in a shrill and triumphant voice:

"Yonder is the man who killed my son; yonder is the man who must
suffer in the place of Edward Hersham. You wish to know who came here
as a <DW64> and killed my son? There he stands--Herbert Vaud!"

"I thought so," murmured Fanks, and the next instant he had the
handcuffs on Vaud's wrists.




CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOW AND WHY THE DEED WAS DONE.


The evidence of Mrs. Boazoph:--

"My name is Madaline Garry. I was born in the village of Damington,
where my father lived for years after his retirement from the navy. I
have one sister, Jane, now Mrs. Colmer, of Taxton-on-Thames. We lost
our mother at an early age, and, being without maternal care, we grew
up to be rather more independent than most young women. Jane was
always much quieter than I, and she was not considered so beautiful.
Yes, I am now an old woman, and I can speak without vanity; I was
considered very beautiful, in my youth, and I had many lovers who
wished to marry me. Luke Fielding especially was in love with me, but
I refused to marry him as, in my turn, I was in love with Sir Francis
Fellenger. He had then lately given up the sea on his accession to the
title; but still retaining his pleasure in his old profession he was
accustomed to visit my father, and the two would talk over naval
matters together.

"At first he came solely for these chats, but afterwards he came
because he was in love with me. Had I played my cards well, I might
have been Lady Fellenger; but in my love and weakness I trusted too
much to his honour, and I learned, too late, that he had none. He had
promised to make me his wife; but he afterwards told me that the
fortunes of his family were at a low ebb; that if he did not make a
rich marriage he should be forced to sell the Hall. He swore that he
loved no one but me, and said that although he married another woman I
should always be his real wife. Again I yielded to his cunning, and
held my peace about his villainy. Nay, more, to hide his wickedness, I
married my old admirer, Luke Fielding, almost at the same time that
Francis brought home Miss Darmer to take the place which should have
been mine. I should have been Lady Fellenger, and not that puling
minx. Afterwards, I discovered that he loved her--loved her, the
villain, after all the lies he had told to me. I swore to be revenged,
and I told him so.

"Then my husband died, and I was left penniless, as Luke had been
trying to increase his fortune by speculation. I became a mother, and
the son born of me had the right to call Sir Francis Fellenger father.
In my destitution I went back to my father, and nursed my boy, while I
watched events at the Hall. There the punishment of Francis had
already begun. His wife, for whose sake he had forsaken me, died at
the birth of her son. So matters stood. The two children, both of
Francis Fellenger, although but one was acknowledged, had been born
within a few days of one another. A nurse was wanted at the Hall. I
required money; and I saw an opportunity of working out my revenge by
changing the children. I insisted that I should come to the Hall as
the nurse of the heir. Francis resisted, until I swore to reveal all
his villainy. Then he yielded, and I attained my end; I was
established at Mere Hall as the nurse of the heir, and my child,
Edward Fielding--falsely so called--was in the nursery with me.

"The two children lay side by side in the cradle. I could have changed
them then, but I was unable to do so with safety; for, guessing my
purpose, Francis had marked his son with the St. Catharine's Cross,
which he had long before pricked on my arm. I could not, therefore,
change the children with safety while Francis lived, and I began to
think that I should not succeed in my revenge. Then the powers above
us intervened. Francis, while driving home one stormy night, was
thrown out of his dog-cart and killed. I saw my opportunity, and I
took it. Nobody knew of the tattooed cross on the skin of the real
heir, save myself and Dr. Binjoy, who had been attending on both
children. He was in love with me, and I made him promise to be silent.
When I had secured his promise, which I did by saying that I would
marry him, I changed the children; in the cradle of the heir I placed
my own child, and with the son of my rival I left the village.

"I never intended to marry Binjoy, whom I hated, and when I fled he
was forced to hold his tongue, lest he should be accused of complicity
in the abduction. I went to London, but my money came to an end; I
travelled to the Isle of Wight, where my sister was staying. She had
left Ryde, I found out, and had gone to Scotland. I had no money, I
was hungry, and perishing with cold, when I was rescued by that good
Samaritan, the Vicar of Fairview. He wished to adopt the child, and,
as I hated it, as being the son of my rival in the affections of
Francis, I let him take it. Then I went to London, afterwards to
Scotland, where I lived with my sister, who married Mr. Colmer. Later
on I became the wife of a drunken and wealthy brute called Bryant.
Then came misfortune. My sister's husband lost his money, and died of
broken heart. She took her little girls, Emma and Anne, and set up in
Taxton-on-Thames as a dressmaker.

"I came South with my husband. He lost his money also, but he was set
up by his friends in the Red Star public-house in Tooley's Alley. We
took the name of Mr. and Mrs. Boazoph, so as to cut off all links with
our former lives. My husband drank, and ultimately he died of drink.
As Mrs. Boazoph I carried on the business and drifted into evil ways.
I assisted thieves and rogues. If you wish to know my history for
twenty years ask the police; they will tell it to you. My sister had
become paralytic and never knew me as Mrs. Boazoph. To her I was Mrs.
Bryant, living on the little money left to me by my good husband. I
hope she may die in that belief, so that I may retain at least one
person's respect.

"All this time I had watched the fortunes of the two children. The
false Sir Gregory had grown up to be a wicked young man, fast and
dissolute, the true Sir Gregory, passing under the name of Edward
Hersham, had become a journalist, and was reported steady and clever.
Dr. Binjoy had left Damington, and was living at Taxton-on-Thames with
Louis, the son of Michael Fellenger. Then my niece Emma came to London
to enter a dressmaker's establishment. She found out the truth about
my life, and told her sister. I asked them to keep the knowledge from
their mother.

"Binjoy also found out where and how I was living. He used to come up
to town and stay at Dr. Turnor's or with me as Dr. Renshaw, hoping by
a feigned name to hide the iniquitous life he led while in town. He
wanted to oust my son and get Sir Louis to hold the Fellenger estates.
I refused to let him do this, and threatened to produce the real heir
should he attempt to do so. Young Vaud used to come to my hotel. He
saw Emma and fell in love with her. I was glad of this, as I knew
that the young fellow was good and true, much better than my wretched
son, for whom I had sinned. Vaud became engaged to Emma. He went to
Taxton-on-Thames and saw my sister; she gave her consent to the match.
All was going well, when Emma, who had become acquainted with my son,
the false Sir Gregory, went off with him to Paris. He married her and
neglected her. She destroyed herself, as was confessed to me by the
valet Robert, a dog of a creature.

"I was distracted when I learned all this. I went to my sister and I
told her that the false Sir Gregory was my son. I returned to town to
find that young Vaud was seriously ill. Afterwards he was sent on a
sea voyage, and he went over to Paris when he got back to rescue Emma
from my miserable son. She was dead, and he returned to see if he
could take vengeance on her murderer. He told me that he would kill
Sir Gregory, but I thought that it was an idle threat. Afterwards I
saw nothing more of him for some time. My sister asked for the address
of Sir Gregory, as she wanted a photograph of Emma which had been
taken at Taxton-on-Thames.

"When I went to Gregory's rooms in Half-Moon Street to tell him the
truth, I saw the photograph. I wrote on it the date of the birth and
death of his victim. I told him about the tattooed cross, and how I
could prove that he was not the real Sir Gregory, because he had not
that mark on his arm. He did not believe me, and turned me out of his
rooms, me--his mother. At that moment I hated him for his likeness to
his father who had wronged me. But I could not harm him. I went to
Taxton-on-Thames; I said nothing. I wrote on an envelope the address
of Sir Gregory, and gave it to my sister, so that she could write to
him for the photograph, on the back of which I had written. All this
took place before the murder.

"Then Gregory came to my hotel on the evening of the twenty-first of
June. I did not see him, but I saw Vaud, who entered afterwards,
disguised as a black man. I recognised him at once, and asked him why
he was dressed up like the servant of Binjoy. He said it was to play a
trick on the doctor, who was in the inner room waiting to see him. I
believed him, although I thought his behaviour strange. But I know
that he had not been quite right in his head since his illness, so
that I thought his dressing-up was a freak, and let him pass into the
inner room, where I presumed he was about to see Binjoy. I went back
to my own room, and never dreamt that the supposed doctor was my son
in disguise. Had I known I would not have left the half-crazed Vaud go
into him, knowing how he hated my son as the destroyer of Emma.

"I know nothing more. I saw Binjoy later on. I asked him if he had
seen Vaud; he said no, that he had just come to the hotel. I went into
the inner room and found my son dead. I did not know how he died till
Binjoy told me about the blood-poisoning. Then I sent for the police,
and Mr. Fanks arrived. I saw the grains of gunpowder. I thought they
were the evidence of some drug which had destroyed my son. I got rid
of them by pulling off the tablecloth. I did not tell the truth or
speak out, because I was afraid of being inculpated in the crime. My
character was so bad that I knew the police would have no mercy if
they thought I was mixed up in the murder. I did not want to disgrace
my sister, or let her know my real life, my feigned name. I afterwards
went down to Mere Hall and saw Binjoy. I said I would put the rightful
heir in his own place, and oust Louis. Binjoy said if I did he would
tell my story, and that with his evidence I would be accused of the
murder. I therefore held my tongue; I could not bring back my son to
life. He had treated me badly, and I did not want to get Vaud into
trouble, as I knew that he was mad with grief and rage, and was not
responsible for his actions. On the whole I thought it best to hold my
tongue, and for the above reasons I did so.

"I have now spoken because Edward Hersham, the rightful heir, is
accused of the crime. He has suffered enough injustice, and I do not
wish to see him hanged. Binjoy can tell his own story of how he came
to the hotel on that night and met with Mr. Fanks. Vaud can confess if
he will as to how he plotted and carried out the crime. For myself, I
have said all I have to say. What is set down here is the truth. I am
deeply sorry for my evil ways, but I am paying for my follies with my
life; all I ask for is forgiveness and forgetfulness. I have sinned, I
am punished. All good Christians pray for the soul of a wicked but
deeply wronged woman.

     (Signed), Madaline Bryant (better known as Louisa Boazoph)."




CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE SAME.


The evidence of Theophilus Binjoy:--

"I am a medical man; and in my early manhood, I practised in the
village of Damington. I was present at the birth of Edward Fielding,
and of Gregory Fellenger. I know about the mark on the arm of the real
heir. Madaline changed the two children, and I said nothing as she
promised to marry me. I was madly in love with her. She left the
village, and deceived me. Afterwards I held my tongue lest I should
get into trouble; also I hoped when the false Sir Gregory grew up, to
have a hold on him. I was prevented from doing this by Madaline (whom
I had discovered in Tooley's Alley, under the name of Mrs. Boazoph).
She threatened to reveal the name of the true heir if I meddled with
her son. I therefore did nothing. I saw the poisoned needle which
Louis had made ready for an experiment. It was in a cabinet in the
laboratory. Young Vaud came to Taxton-on-Thames nearly crazed with the
death of Emma Colmer, whom he had courted as Emma Calvert. She had
been driven to her death by her husband, the false Sir Gregory, and
had killed herself in Paris. Vaud asked me about poisons. He said
nothing to me about killing Sir Gregory, or I should have dissuaded
him from doing so wicked and rash an action.

"I swear I did not wish the death of the young man. What I said to him
in the laboratory, was purely without ulterior motives.

"I admit I showed him the poisoned needle. I was interested in the
experiment, and, being full of it, I spoke of our intention of trying
the poison on the dog. When Vaud left the laboratory, I did not miss
the needle; I did not miss it until Louis spoke to me about it. As
Turnor had lately been in the laboratory, and we had been speaking
about the experiment, I thought he had taken the needle. It never
struck me that Vaud had benefited by my explanation, and had stolen
the needle to kill Gregory. With Louis I went up to town on the
twenty-first of June, to see Turnor, and ask him for the needle; I had
no motive in taking Louis to Turnor's. If Turnor attempted to
blackmail Louis, I knew nothing about it. I repel with scorn the
insinuation that I purposely inveigled Louis to Great Auk Street to
entangle him in the crime, and so blackmail him. I never heard of the
murder until I went to the Red Star, according to my usual custom of
an evening. Madaline asked me if I had seen Vaud, who was disguised as
a <DW64>. I said I had not.

"We went into the room; and found the body of Sir Gregory; he was
disguised as a working-man; Vaud had disappeared. I ordered the body
to be taken upstairs, and made an examination. I then saw that Gregory
had been killed by being inoculated with the poison which Louis and I
had discovered. I recognised the cross of St. Catherine, half tattooed
on the arm; and I guessed from that how Vaud had induced Gregory to
let himself be pricked with the poisoned needle. I showed the mark to
Fanks when he came upstairs. But before doing so, I obliterated it
with a cut of the knife. I did this because I thought I might be
inculpated with the crime. I remember advising Hersham (who I did not
know was the real heir) to disguise himself as a <DW64> so as to gain
realistic descriptions of street music. I did not do so with any
wrongful intention of connecting him with the murder. Madaline had
told me how Vaud was dressed as my <DW64> servant; I saw that the death
had been brought about by the poisoned needle stolen from our
laboratory by Vaud; and with these two things in my head I recognised
my danger at once. I gave my feigned name to Fanks; I suggested that
the crime was the work of a secret society. Then I went back to
Turnor, and I was aware that I was being watched and could not return
to Taxton-on-Thames without being discovered.

"I consulted Turnor; he advised the voyage to Bombay, and said I ought
to send Caesar in my place, in order to get rid of him, since the
murderer of Gregory had been disguised in his livery; and also that
Caesar could send letters (already written by me) from India, in order
to keep up the deception, and baffle the police. I adopted the idea,
and, assisted by Dr. Turnor, I carried it out with great success. I
had an interview with Fanks in the character of Dr. Renshaw, and I
told him that I was going to Bombay. I then took a passage to India in
the P. and O. steamer 'Oceana'; and wired to Caesar to meet me at
Plymouth.

"Thither I went and gave the letters (purporting to be written by
myself from Bombay) to Caesar and sent him off in my place.
Afterwards, I took off my disguise, and went back to Mere Hall. I had
no idea that I had been followed by Mr. Fanks, and thinking that I had
destroyed all links with the crime in Tooley's Alley, likely to
endanger Louis and myself, I advised him to offer a reward so as to
still further avert suspicion.

"This he did, and I thought all was well, till Madaline came from Mere
Hall to warn me against Fanks, and to threaten to put the real Gregory
in the place of Louis. I stopped her doing this, and defied Fanks. How
he over-reached me; how I was betrayed by Louis, has been told by
others. I can swear with a clear conscience that I acted throughout in
the interests of Louis, who has treated me with the basest
ingratitude. I have no more to say, save to express my pleasure that
Mr. Hersham has recovered his real name in the world. I hope he will
remember that it was indirectly through me that he was re-instated in
his estates; by my confirming the statements of Madaline, and that of
the late Sir Francis, his father. I think that he should reward me. In
this hope I take my leave.

     (Signed), Theophilus Binjoy."


The evidence of Anne Colmer--

"I am the daughter of Mrs. Colmer, of Taxton-on-Thames, the sister of
Emma Colmer, who died in Paris under the name of Emma Calvert, and the
niece of Madaline Garry, better known as Mrs. Boazoph. I saw the
letter--or rather the envelope--which she directed for my mother, to
get back the photograph of my sister from Sir Gregory. It was taken
out of our house by Herbert Vaud, and I believe he sent it to Sir
Gregory with the cardboard star, making the appointment in Tooley's
Alley. I had no idea that Vaud contemplated revenging the death of my
sister on Gregory. I knew that he hated him, and that he would do him
harm if he could, but I did not know that he would go so far as
murder.

"I wired to Ted Hersham on the twenty-first, as my mother told me that
she suspected that Vaud had taken the envelope, and that he
contemplated harm to Sir Gregory. I wanted Ted to get back the
envelope. Afterwards, I thought that I would see my aunt in Tooley's
Alley, as I knew she had great influence with Vaud. I sent the
telegram, and immediately, without returning to the house, I went up
to town. I was detained by the train breaking down, and I did not
arrive in town till nearly seven o'clock. I went to the Red Star,
where I saw Mr. Fanks; and then heard of the crime. I fancied that
Vaud might have committed it, but I was not sure. I was afraid lest my
mother should be implicated in it; as she informed me that she had
told Vaud about the substitution of the false Sir Gregory, and about
the tattooed cross. This story had been related to her by Mrs.
Boazoph, when we learned that Sir Gregory had caused the death of his
wife, my sister.

"I determined to recover the envelope, in case my aunt should get into
trouble, and to obtain the photograph, lest the police should trace
the connection of the so-called Emma Calvert with myself and my
mother. I went up to the chambers in Half-Moon Street. There I saw Mr.
Fanks, and I recognised him as a detective. I had seen him and heard
his name when I had been at the Red Star, shortly after the committal
of the crime. I was afraid we would all get into trouble, therefore, I
took advantage of Robert's faint to leave the room. I got into a cab,
and told the man that I was being followed by a gentleman. He assisted
me to escape by dropping me in Piccadilly, and afterwards--as I
learned--he misled Mr. Fanks, who followed me.

"I know nothing about the poisoned needle, or how the crime was
accomplished. I heard afterwards about the tattooed cross from my
mother. It was with no intention of getting Ted into trouble that I
told him to assume the dress of Caesar. When the detective suspected
it, I advised him to make a clean breast of it, which he afterwards
did. I did not tell Mr. Fanks what I knew, as I was afraid of getting
my mother and aunt into difficulties. All this is true, I swear, and I
know no more about the matter.

     (Signed), Anne Colmer."


The evidence of Mrs. Colmer:--

"I told Vaud about the substitution of Gregory for Edward Hersham. My
sister, Mrs. Bryant, had confessed it to me. I was mad with rage and
grief at the way in which my girl had been treated by Gregory, and I
thought Vaud might see about getting him turned out of the place he
wrongfully occupied, and so punish his wickedness. I had no idea that
Vaud intended to kill Sir Gregory. Bad as he was, I did not wish to go
that far. I only wanted him to be deprived of his estates and title,
so that he should suffer. I gave the envelope, which had been written
by my sister, Mrs. Bryant, with the address in Half-Moon Street, so
that Vaud should call on Sir Gregory, and tell him the truth, and
should get back the photograph of my poor girl.

"I knew nothing of the murder, which took place in a low hotel in
Tooley's Alley, and which was kept by a notorious woman called Mrs.
Boazoph. I also told Vaud that Ted Hersham was writing articles on
street music, and that, to study the subject, he was going about
London in the guise of a <DW64>. I only told him this in the course of
conversation, and without any motive. This is all I know about the
affair.

     (Signed), Jane Colmer."


The evidence of Dr. Turnor:--

"I did not take the poisoned needle. I knew nothing of such an
instrument. Louis and Binjoy came up to me on the twenty-first to ask
me about it. I denied having it, but Louis did not believe me. When I
was called in by Mrs. Boazoph he would not let me go out of the room.
Binjoy went under the name of Renshaw. He used that name and a
disguise in order to enjoy himself in London. After he left, Louis,
finding, that I had not the needle, returned to Taxton-on-Thames.
Binjoy came back; he told me that Gregory Fellenger was dead, and that
he was being watched. I saw his danger, and advised him to keep up his
fictitious character so as to deceive the police. I suggested the
voyage to India; I helped to carry out the plan.

"He got away to Mere Hall safely, as we thought. When Fanks asked me
questions, I did my best to baffle him for the sake of Binjoy. I had
no other motive. I was ignorant of the tattooed cross, of the changing
of the children. I saw Sir Louis when he succeeded to the estates by
the death of his cousin. I did not blackmail him. The sum of money he
gave me was a reward for my helping Binjoy to escape. I know nothing
of the murder save what I read in the newspaper. I consider that I
have been ungratefully treated by Mr. Louis Fellenger, and most
insolently by the man who calls himself Fanks. I have nothing more to
add.

     (Signed), Walter Turnor."


The confession of Herbert Vaud:--

"I killed Gregory Fellenger. I am glad that I killed him. When I found
out in Paris how he had deceived and slain the woman I loved, I
determined to make him pay for his wickedness. 'An eye for an eye,'
that is Scripture. I wished to kill Gregory without harm to myself;
and an opportunity soon occurred. I was at Mrs. Colmer's, at
Taxton-on-Thames, commiserating, with her on the death of her daughter
and my affianced wife. I did not tell her I wished to kill the
scoundrel; I told nobody. She related to me the history of the
changing of the children, which had been told to her by her sister,
Mrs. Bryant, whom I knew as Mrs. Boazoph. She wanted to avenge the
death of her daughter on Gregory by depriving him of his title and
estates. Also, she gave me the address of Gregory, written on an
envelope by Mrs. Boazoph, and asked me to call upon him for the double
purpose of telling him what he really was, and also, to get the
photograph which had been seen and written upon by Mrs. Boazoph, in
Gregory's chambers.

"I took the envelope, but at that time I did not design the murder. I
wanted to kill Gregory, but I could not see how to do it with safety
to myself. I afterwards went to Mrs. Boazoph, and learned from her
that she had told her son about the tattooing, and the falseness of
his position. She implored me not to see him about his relationship to
her. I agreed; for I wished to kill him, and make him suffer. The
taking away of his property was not good enough in my eyes to punish
him for his wickedness.

"Afterwards I went to Taxton-on-Thames to see Binjoy. I knew that he
was a chemist, and I desired to ask him about a poison to kill
Gregory. He told me about the poisoned needle, and showed it to me.
Whether he did so in order to put the idea into my head I do not know.
I did not tell him that I intended to kill Gregory; so far he is
guiltless; but he certainly showed me the way--innocently, perhaps--to
kill Gregory. When I came back from Taxton-on-Thames I had the
poisoned needle in my possession, and saw how to carry out my plan. I
remembered the tattooed cross on the arm of the rightful heir, and I
resolved to make use of that to induce Gregory to let me tattoo his
arm with the poisoned needle.

"I placed the advertisement in a paper, which I knew he took in. I saw
his answer, and I then sent him the cardboard star appointing the
meeting-place in Tooley's Alley. I imitated the writing on the
envelope when designing a star, so that, if necessary, the blame might
rest on Mrs. Boazoph, his mother. For the same reason I chose the Red
Star as the meeting-place. To make things doubly sure, I made use of
Hersham's masquerade as a <DW64>; and I adopted his disguise to
implicate him. Moreover, I thought that, failing Hersham, I might be
able to throw the blame on Binjoy and his <DW64> servant. In every way
I thought that I was safe.

"I went to the Red Star on the twenty-first; I met Mrs. Boazoph, and
made an excuse to her for my disguise (which she penetrated) that I
was about to play a trick on Binjoy. She thought that I was mad, and I
let her remain in that delusion. But I here state that I am quite
sane; that I killed Gregory with the greatest deliberation, and that I
do not regret what I have done. I went into the room; I met Gregory.
He took me for the <DW64> of Dr. Binjoy, whom he had never seen. The
lights were low, and I said little; also I disguised my voice. Gregory
was a remarkably stupid creature, else I should never have succeeded
in my plan; also he was rather drunk. I counted on his density in
coming into his presence. At all events he did not know me; and when I
told him that the rightful heir must have the cross pricked on his
arm--a fact which I said I had heard from Binjoy--he let me tattoo it
in his arm. I did so with the poisoned needle, and in a short space of
time he became insensible; afterwards he died. Then I pulled down his
sleeve and left the hotel. The gunpowder scattered on the table was
used by me as a device to make Gregory think that I was really
tattooing him.

"Afterwards I left a parcel containing the poisoned needle at his
chambers, to rid myself of all evidence of the crime. Well, I killed
him and went away. No one else is guilty of the crime but me. I
conceived it without assistance. I alone committed the crime in
Tooley's Alley and killed Gregory Fellenger, or, rather, Edward
Fielding, the son of Madaline Garry and Sir Francis. I am not sorry. I
glory in having punished a villain. I am sorry that I was found out,
but I was not surprised when Mrs. Boazoph betrayed me. I wondered that
she did not do so long ago. When this is read I shall be dead.

     (Signed), Herbert Vaud."




CHAPTER XXXV.
THE OPINION OF OCTAVIUS FANKS.


A few months after the confession of Vaud and the end of the Tooley
Alley case, Fanks was seated with Louis Fellenger in the house of the
latter at Taxton-on-Thames. Lois had surrendered the estates to
Hersham, who was now known by his rightful title of Sir Gregory
Fellenger. Mrs. Boazoph was dead; Anne Colmer contemplated marriage
with the new Sir Gregory; and Mr. Fanks was having a chat with
Fellenger about the extraordinary matters in which they both had been
concerned.

"When did you get back to town, Fanks?" asked Louis, when they were
comfortably seated.

"Last week, old fellow. I have been enjoying myself in Italy, and I
assure you that I needed it after the wear and tear of the Tooley
Alley affair. I came down to have a chat with you about it."

"I am glad you have. There are one or two points about those
confessions which I do not understand. That case was a hard nut to
crack, Fanks."

Fanks looked up from the pipe he was filling. "Hard?" he echoed; "you
may well say that, Fellenger. I have had many hard cases in my time,
but the Tooley Alley mystery was the hardest of them all. The affair
of Monsieur Judas was difficult; so was the Chinese Jar Puzzle. The
Carbuncle Clue gave me some trouble; but all these were child's play
compared to the mystery of your cousin's death. I thought I should
never get a hold of the rope with which I designed to hang Vaud."

"You didn't hang him, however."

"No; he managed to hang himself before his trial. I was not sorry,
poor devil."

"Nor was I," said Louis; "and I think that Vaud was mad when he killed
Gregory, mad with despair and grief at the end of Emma Calvert. The
old man has gone abroad, I hear."

"Yes; I met him in Italy. He is quite broken down, as he was very
proud of his son Herbert. But he told me that he always thought
Herbert would do something rash, although he never suspected that he
killed Gregory. How could he when the young man conducted himself so
circumspectly? I don't think Herbert was insane," said Fanks,
decisively; "he acted too cleverly and cunningly for that. He killed
Gregory in cold blood with the greatest determination. Besides, look
at the measures he took to secure his safety. No, no, my friend; Vaud
was not mad."

"Crate told me that you suspected him for some time before you found
out the truth."

"Yes, I did. I suspected him without any evidence to go on. But he
protested so much, and behaved so queerly, that I thought he was the
man I wanted. All the same, as I had no evidence to go on, I held my
tongue until I was certain. When I left Binjoy ill at Mere Hall I
could think of no one so likely to have committed the crime as Vaud;
so, on the chance that Mrs. Boazoph would tell the truth, I sent Garth
for him. When he came into the room at the Red Star Mrs. Boazoph
spotted him at once. I knew that the woman was aware of the real
murderer. I saw that on the night the crime was committed. Her action
with the gunpowder gave me that tip."

"And Mrs. Boazoph, alias Mrs. Bryant, alias Mrs. Fielding, alias
Madaline Garry, is dead also. I was sorry for that woman, Fanks."

"So was I," said the detective, promptly. "She had a hard time of it.
I don't think that she was naturally bad, and in happier circumstances
she might have been a decent member of society. But look at the
training and misfortunes she had. Sir Francis, a fool of a first
husband, a brute of a second, and all the temptations at Tooley's
Alley to contend against. I wonder she was as decent as she was. I am
a deal sorrier for her than for your friend Binjoy, who got off
scot-free."

"Don't call him my friend," said Louis, with a shudder. "I hate the
very name of the man. It was only out of respect for my father that I
bore with him for so long. I was glad when he went away. Did you ever
see so insolent a confession as he made?"

"Oh, I was prepared for anything from a scoundrel like Binjoy. He gave
me a rub for myself; and so did his friend, Turnor. 'Arcades Ambo.'
Blackguards both," quoted Fanks, smiling. "But Hersham did not
remember him as he expected him to."

"No, the present Sir Gregory, whom you will call Hersham, sent Binjoy
away pretty sharply, I can tell you. Binjoy and Turnor actually had
the cheek to call on him at Mere Hall, and ask him for money in order
to leave England; on the plea that their substantiation of Mrs.
Boazoph's evidence had gained him the estate."

"I think it was your decency in letting Hersham have the estates
without going into Court that made things so smooth, Fellenger. Do you
regret the loss?"

"No, I assure you I do not. I was satisfied that Hersham was truly the
heir; the evidence of that paper we found, and of Mrs. Boazoph, was
quite enough. I was glad to come back here, and go on with my
experiments in peace. I accepted a thousand a year from Hersham, which
he insisted on giving me; so you see I am fairly well off."

"And you are good friends with Hersham--I beg his pardon--Sir Gregory
Fellenger, of Mere Hall, in the county of Hants?"

"I am excellent friends with him and with his future wife, Anne
Colmer. You know, of course, that they are going to be married in a
month or so, that is, if Mrs. Colmer does not die in the meantime?"

"From what I hear from Garth, it is likely that she will die," said
Fanks. "I expect the poor woman will be glad to go now that she sees
her daughter will make a good marriage."

"Garth came to see me the other day," said Louis, "and he told me that
at one time he thought I had committed the crime."

"I thought so, too," said Fanks, quietly. "Mrs. Jerusalem did her best
to make me suspect you."

"I am glad you found that I was guiltless. By the way, where is Mrs.
Jerusalem?"

"She is keeping house for Garth. I hear that Hersham gave Garth some
money, knowing how hard-up he was, so he has set up a house on the
strength of it. I don't envy Garth his housekeeper."

"Oh, she loves him in her own savage way," said Louis, coolly. "I
daresay when he marries he will give her the go-by. I am sure she
deserves it for the double way in which she treated me. Then she will
go to the Union, or become an emigrant to America, like Messrs. Binjoy
and Turnor."

"Why America?"

"She has a sister there. I wonder what those two scoundrelly doctors
are doing in the States?"

"Evil, you may be sure of that," replied Fanks. "Let us hope that they
will be lynched some day. I am sure that they deserve it."

"They do," assented Fellenger. "I am sorry they did not get into
trouble."

Fanks laughed. "That was certainly your own fault, my dear fellow," he
said.

"Well, I was unwilling to prosecute for that blackmailing, because I
did not want the public to know more of our family scandal than was
necessary. I was sorry to let the blackguards go, but, after all, it
is best so. Don't you think so yourself?"

"No, I don't," said Fanks. "You are too full of the milk of human
kindness, my dear Fellenger. I should have punished the rascals."

"I am sure you would not if your family had been involved in such a
business. I am glad you kept so much from the public ear; there are
quite enough scandals as it is. Well, we have discussed the case a
good time, so suppose you come inside and have some luncheon."

"I'm agreeable," was Fanks' reply, and he got up to follow his friend.
"By the way, can I take any message from you to Hersham and Miss
Colmer? I am going down to Mere Hall next week."

"Tell them I hope they will ask me to dance at the wedding."

"Of course they will. I shall dance also," added Fanks, with a smile.
"I deserve to, for I danced enough after the evidence of this Tooley
Alley case. May I never have such another; it was more like a
detective novel than a story in real life. But it is over now, thank
Heaven. We have acted our several parts; the bad have been punished
and the good rewarded, so we can drop the curtain on the Tragedy of
Tooley's Alley."



THE END.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tracked by a Tattoo, by Fergus Hume

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