Quarles and the men came in like shadows, so silent were they, and it was evident that the professor had given his companions instructions, for two of them quickly went toward the hall.

"The cellars, Wigan," he whispered. "I think it will be the cellars."

The house was a basement one, similar to No. 14, and from a stone passage we found a door giving on to a dozen steep steps. It was pitch dark below.

"Don't show a light," said Quarles as he pushed me gently to go forward. I didn't know it at the time, but only one man came down with us.

At the foot of the stairs a passage ran to right and left, and to the left, which was toward the garden side of the house, a thin line of light showed below a door. On tiptoe, ready for emergencies, and hardly daring to breathe, we approached it, and with one accord the professor and I put our ears to the door. For a while no sound came, then a paper rustled and a foot scraped lightly on the stone floor. We had chanced to arrive during a pause in the conversation, for presently a voice, pitched low and monotonous in its tone, went on with an argument:

"I can find no excuse for you in that, Bertha Capracci. It is not admitted that your husband found death at the hands of his associates, but, were it so, it is no more than just. There are papers here proving beyond all doubt that he betrayed his friends."

"I have already said that is untrue," came the answer in a woman's voice.

"There is no doubt," said another man.

"None," said a third.

Three men at least were sitting in judgment upon this woman, and it was evident they were not English.

"Besides, I am not one of you," said the woman.

"In name, no; in reality, yes; since your husband must have let you into many secrets," returned the first speaker. "Your woman's wit has outplayed our spies until recently, but, once discovered, you have been constantly watched. We cannot prove that the failure of some of our plans, costing the lives of good comrades, has been due to your interference, but we suspect it. We found you in constant communication with this English Jew, Jacob Morrison, who is in the pay of the Continental police. He is dead, a warning to others, killed in your house, and busy eyes are now looking for you as his murderess. You have hidden your identity so entirely that all inquiry must speedily be baffled, and so you have played into our hands. Your disappearance will hardly reach to a nine days' wonder, and who will think to look for your body under the flags of this cellar? Death is the sentence of the Society, and forthwith."

I waited to hear a cry of terror, but it did not come. Nor was there a movement to suggest that the men had risen at once to the work, or, in spite of the restraining hand the professor laid on my arm, I should have been beating at the door to break it down.

"I offer you one chance of life," the man's voice droned on after a pause. "Confess everything. Give me the names of all those to whom you have given information concerning us, and you shall have your miserable life."

"You have killed the only man who knew anything from me," she answered.

"It's a lie," came the hissing reply. "Your cursed husband told you so much about us, he may have explained some of the means we employ to make unwilling tongues speak. I'll have the truth out of you."

One of the men must have sat close to her, for her sudden cry of fear was instantly smothered, and there was the sound of struggle and rough usage.

"Now—quickly," whispered Quarles; and the man who had followed us to the cellars had struck with a stout piece of iron between the door and its framework. The wood splintered immediately, and, almost before I was prepared, we were facing our enemies, and Quarles was shouting for the other men in the house to come to us.

"Hands up!" I cried.

They were unprepared, that was our salvation. Not one of the three had any intention of surrender, that was evident in a moment, but they had to get their hands on their weapons, and, fortunately, only one of them had a revolver. The other two rushed upon us with knives.

I think Quarles was the first to fire, and he was not a thought too soon. He said afterward that he meant to maim and not to kill, but his bullet passed through the man's brain, and he dropped like a stone. He was the one with the revolver, and, regardless of his own safety, he meant to silence the woman for ever.

The weapon was at her head when the villain dropped, and I have sometimes thought that, whatever his intention the moment before, in the act of pressing the trigger the professor realized that only the man's death could save the woman.

It was hot work for a moment. The man who had burst open the door got a nasty knife thrust, and I had been obliged to fire at my assailant before our comrades rushed to our aid. There is no enemy more dangerous than a man armed with a knife when he knows how to use it, and when the space to fight in is so confined that to use firearms is to endanger your friends. Indeed, I thought the woman had been shot, but she had only fainted, although it was quite impossible to question her fully until next day.

"Those papers may be useful," said Quarles, when our captives had been taken to the police station, pointing to the documents which had fallen from a little table pushed aside in the struggle. "The ends of a big affair are in our hands, I fancy, and, with the help of Mrs. Fitzroy, we may get several more dangerous fanatics under lock and key."

Late that night I was with the professor in Chelsea. He had gone straight home from Hambledon Road, and, after a visit to the police station and a long consultation with Scotland Yard over the 'phone, I followed him. There were several questions I wanted to ask, for his handling of this affair seemed to me so near to the marvelous that I wondered whether he had had some knowledge of this gang before we had heard of the house in Kew.

"No, Wigan, no," he said, in reply to my question. "I did not even know there was such a place as Hambledon Road."

"I am altogether astonished."

"And not for the first time, eh, Wigan? Yet this case has been worked upon facts chiefly. It was clear that the idea of the woman going suddenly to the telephone to call for help was absurd, and, therefore, it was at least possible that she had spoken that message under compulsion. When the revolver was held to her head in the cellar to-night, it was probably not for the first time. As I said this morning, there was a desire to put the authorities on the scent. This suggested a conspiracy. So much for theory, now for facts."

"But we did not know murder had been committed then," I said.

"Mrs. Fitzroy said so in her message," Quarles answered, "and it was unlikely the police would have been called unless they were meant to discover something. But we had facts to go upon. It was evident that two persons had sat by the fire, the position of the chairs, the cigar ash on the hearth——"

"Cigarette, you mean."

"It was a cigar ash on the hearth, and I looked for a cigar end among the cinders and could not find one. It was cigarette ash on the writing-table, and I found the cigarette end, you will remember. It was possible, of course, that the same man had smoked a cigarette as well as a cigar, but the different position of the ash was significant. I concluded there were two men, one who had sat smoking a cigar by the fire, one who, in leaning over to ring up the police, had dropped ash from a cigarette on to the writing-table. I concluded that the cigar smoker was the murdered man, and you will remember there was a cigar case in the pocket of the man we found. I think we shall discover that it was the cigarette smoker who killed him, and then compelled Mrs. Fitzroy to send that message. No doubt he had a companion with him, perhaps more than one, and I believe they have been living at No. 6 for some time watching Mrs. Fitzroy. We have heard to-night who Jacob Morrison was, and it was on Wednesday evenings that he came to No. 14. Possibly the watchers had not become aware of his visits until that evening; they may have kept watch in the Hambledon Road, whereas Mrs. Fitzroy unbolted the gate at the bottom of the garden for him as soon as the servant went out. You remember the cigarette end?"

"Yes, it was a cheap kind."

"And foreign," said Quarles; "Spagnolette Nationale. You can buy them done up in a gray paper case at any shop which sells tobacco in Italy, trenta centesimi for ten, I believe, and you can get them at certain places in Soho. You heard me ask Baker what time it grew dark. I had something to do then, but much to do first. To begin with, I had to find out what days the dust was collected, then to make judicious inquiries about foreigners living in the neighborhood. You see, since Mrs. Fitzroy had been taken away just as she was, and since Baker had only seen that one taxi waiting, I concluded the lady had not been taken far. The only house containing foreigners which seemed to suit my purpose was No. 6, and, when it was dark, I went to examine the dust-bin. There I found two or three of these cases of gray paper. You see, Wigan, the case was comparatively an easy one."

"It is a marvel to me that Mrs. Fitzroy was not murdered before we found her," I said.

"I knew there was a risk, but we were helpless," Quarles answered. "I had heard of No. 6 and its inhabitants soon after one o'clock, but if we had gone to the house in daylight we should only have hurried a tragedy probably. Besides, I had a theory. These villainous societies almost invariably have methods and rules. If a member is dispatched, some semblance of justice is given to his sentence. I thought the men who had done the kidnapping were not of the first importance, and that Mrs. Fitzroy would not be done away with before she had been confronted with some chief member of the gang. It was very necessary they should wring a confession from her if they could."

Early next morning two houses in Soho were raided and a number of arrests made; but, except for the two men we had taken in Hambledon Road, I do not think we got hold of anybody of importance. The raid, at any rate, did something to disturb a nest of anarchists, and, with the information in the hands of the Continental police through Jacob Morrison, and with what Mrs. Fitzroy could tell us, the society was scattered, and their efforts are likely to be moribund for some time. Mrs. Fitzroy was an Englishwoman married to an Italian, who had been a member of the society and had been done to death by his associates some four years ago. She said he was innocent and was determined to avenge him. The man who had killed Morrison had been shot by Quarles. He was the cigarette smoker. His two companions whom we had captured got terms of imprisonment, and will be deported on their release. I can only trust that Mrs. Fitzroy will keep out of their way then.

CHAPTER VI
THE MYSTERY OF "OLD MRS JARDINE"

Early one morning Sarah Paget arrived at the doctor's, saying her mistress had been taken suddenly ill, and would he come immediately. She did not know what was the matter. The cook had sent her.

Three days before Dr. Hawes had gone away for a holiday, and his practice was in the hands of a locum, a young doctor named Dolman. He went at once. Mrs. Jardine was dead upon her bed. She had been found in the morning by Martha Wakeling lying just as the doctor saw her. She had been attacked in her sleep, Dolman thought, and her head had been smashed with some heavy instrument; Mrs. Harrison, the companion, had disappeared. Of course, the police were sent for at once, and the case came into my hands that same day.

Dr. Dolman had seen his patient for the first time on the previous afternoon. Dr. Hawes had told him that she was something of a crank, could only walk a little, and suffered from indigestion and general debility, which was hardly wonderful, since she would make no effort to go out even for a drive. She seemed to enjoy being a confirmed invalid under constant medical treatment, and would certainly resent any neglect.

"She was sitting in an arm-chair when I saw her," Dolman told me, "and was in good spirits; inclined to be facetious, in fact, and to enjoy her little joke at my expense. She wanted to know what a young man could possibly know about an old woman's ailments, and wondered that Hawes was content to leave his patients in such inexperienced hands as mine. I do not think she was as bad as she would have people believe."

Dolman had not spoken to Mrs. Harrison, but he had seen her. She was sitting in the adjoining room doing some needlework. He had taken little notice of her, and was doubtful if he would know her again.

Martha Wakeling said it was her custom to go into her mistress's room on her way down in the morning, and she had found her dead on the bed. She had heard no noise in the night. Mrs. Harrison occupied a room opening out of Mrs. Jardine's, and it was empty that morning. The bed had been slept in, but the companion had gone.

"Was she on good terms with Mrs. Jardine?" I asked.

"Yes, oh, yes."

"You say it rather doubtfully?"

"The mistress wasn't always easy to get on with, and I daresay she tried Mrs. Harrison at times."

"And so Mrs. Harrison murdered her in a fit of anger," I suggested.

"I don't say that. She is not to be found; that's all I know for certain."

"Where did Mrs. Harrison come from? Who was she?"

"I think she answered the mistress's advertisement."

"How long has she been here?" I asked.

"Just over a year. Mrs. Jardine didn't get on well with the last two companions she had. They were younger women, and the place was too dull for them. They wanted to go out more, and Mrs. Jardine wanted someone who was content to live the kind of life she did. So she got this elderly companion."

"Mrs. Harrison had friends, I suppose?"

"I never saw nor heard of any."

"But she received letters?"

"I can't call to mind that she ever did. I fancy she was one of the lonely sort."

She was also uninteresting and commonplace in appearance, according to Martha Wakeling's description. The word-picture I managed to draw up for circulation had nothing distinctive about it. Nor did Martha know much of her mistress's relations. Mrs. Jardine had not been on friendly terms with them, and had not seen any of them in her time, as far as she knew; the only one she had heard mentioned was a nephew, a Mr. Thomas Jardine, who lived somewhere in London.

The upper floor of the house was unfurnished and locked up, and an unfastened window on the ground floor, opening into the garden, suggested the way Mrs. Harrison had left. I took immediate steps to delay the publication of the news of the tragedy. There were points in the case which might modify first suspicions considerably, and a few hours of unhampered investigation might be of great value.

Even a perfunctory search among Mrs. Jardine's papers proved that if she had not seen her nephew recently she had heard from him. I found two letters asking for money, a whine in them, and at the same time an underlying threat, as though the writer had it in his power to do mischief. Apparently Mrs. Jardine had a past which might account for her being a crank. A talk with her nephew should prove interesting.

I went to the address given in the letters—a flat in Hammersmith—but it was not until next morning that I got an interview with Thomas Jardine.

He was a big loose-limbed man, a gentleman come down in the world through dissipation. I told him I had come on behalf of Mrs. Jardine, and his first words showed that he was either an excellent actor or that the news of his aunt's death had not yet reached him.

"If you are her business man and have brought me a check, you are welcome," he said.

"I have not brought the check—at present."

"Come, there's a hopeful tone about you," he returned, "and I'm hard up enough not to be particular or spiteful. Is the old girl willing to come to terms?"

"I am in rather a difficult position," I answered, carefully feeling my way. "I want to do the best I can for both sides, and, as you are probably aware, Mrs. Jardine is not one to talk very fully, even to her man of business."

"I warrant she has given you her version of the story."

"But not yours. I should like to hear yours."

"They won't agree; but the unvarnished truth is this. She was a Miss Stuart, or called herself so, and my uncle met her on a sea trip. He was in such a hurry to put his head in the noose that he married her without knowing anything about her. He imagined he had caught an angel; instead—well, to put it mildly, he had found an adventuress. She had taken good care to discover she had got hold of a rich man, and soon began her tricks. She alienated my uncle from his family, not particular about the truth so long as she got her way. My father was the kind of man who never succeeds at anything, and my uncle was constantly helping him. This came to an end when Mrs. Jardine got hold of the reins. She didn't spend money; she got it out of her husband and hoarded it, no doubt conscious that her opportunity of doing so might suddenly come to an end. It did. My father made it his business to hunt up her past history. It wasn't edifying. A lot she denied, but plenty remained which there was no denying. She had been a decoy for Continental thieves, she had seen the inside of a prison, and it would have been unsafe for her to travel in certain countries. She and my uncle separated. You can imagine Mrs. Jardine's feelings toward my father, but my uncle also seemed to hate him for having opened his eyes. I believe he gave him a sum of money and told him he would have nothing more to do with him. My uncle was a religious man, had strong views of right and wrong—some stupid views, too. When he died, to everybody's astonishment he had left his money to Mrs. Jardine for her life. At her death it was to come to my father for his life, and afterward to his son, without any restrictions whatever."

"To you?" I said.

"To me. My father has been dead some years, so as long as that old woman lives I am being kept out of my own. That is my side of the story."

I nodded, showing extreme interest—which, indeed, I felt. But for the fact that the companion was missing, this man's position would be a very unpleasant one. No one could have more interest in his aunt's death than he had.

"I daresay the old woman has told you that her husband's accusations were all false, and that by leaving such a will he repented before he died," Jardine went on, "but I have told you the facts."

"And yet you have written to her for money," I said quietly.

"So she has shown you the letters, has she?"

"I have seen them. Why write to her when you could so easily raise money on your expectations?"

"Raise money! Good heavens, I've raised every penny to be got from Jew or Gentile. There are the letters which came this morning. I haven't opened them yet, the outside is quite enough; money-lenders' complaints, half of them, and the other half bills demanding immediate payment. If you've ever had dealings with the fraternity, you can tell what is inside by the look of the envelope."

I turned the letters over; he was probably right as to their contents. There was one, however, in a woman's handwriting which interested me. I almost passed it to him, and then thought better of it.

"It struck me that there was a threatening tone in your letters," I said.

"Perhaps. I was not averse from frightening her a little if I could."

"Not very generous," I said.

"I don't feel generous. She'd have to come down very handsomely to make me drink her health."

"If your story is the correct one, there may be a reason for your aunt leading so secluded a life," I went on. "In marrying your uncle she may have tricked her confederates."

"It is more than possible," Jardine answered.

"Do you know any of them who would be likely to do her an injury?" I asked.

"You're thinking I would give the old woman away to them?" he laughed. "No; I have worked on the shady side at times, but I am not so bad as that."

"I wasn't thinking so."

"Then I don't understand your question. Is it likely I should have acquaintances in a gang of Continental thieves?"

"The night before last Mrs. Jardine was murdered," I said quietly.

The man sprang from his chair.

"Murdered! Then—by heaven! you're—you're thinking that——"

"And her companion, a Mrs. Harrison, is not to be found," I added.

"Mrs. Jardine—dead! Then I come into my own. The night before last—where was I? Drunk. I didn't get home."

"I know that. I called here yesterday."

"Are you thinking that I had a hand in it?"

"I am looking for her companion," I answered.

Had there been no missing companion I should have been very doubtful about Thomas Jardine; as it was, the two became connected in my mind. I left the Hammersmith flat, stopping outside to give instructions to the man I had brought with me to keep a watch upon Jardine's movements.

Then I went to Wimbledon to see Martha Wakeling again, but I did not tell her I had seen Jardine.

"Do you think you could find me any of Mrs. Harrison's handwriting?" I asked.

"I believe I can," she said, after a moment's thought. "She wrote a store's order the other day which was not sent. I believe it's in this drawer. Yes, here it is."

I glanced at it and put it in my pocket.

"I wonder whether this nephew has anything to do with the affair?" I said contemplatively.

"No," she said with decision.

"Why are you so certain? You said you didn't know him."

"I don't."

"I have discovered one thing," I said carelessly. "By Mrs. Jardine's death he comes into a lot of money."

"I've heard my mistress say something of the kind."

"You see, there would be a motive for the murder."

"The thing is to find Mrs. Harrison," she said. "A woman doesn't go away in the middle of the night unless she has a good reason for doing so."

Details of the crime, so far as they were known, were now published, and the description of Mrs. Harrison was circulated in the press.

When the inquest was adjourned, no doubt most people were surprised. Although I did not suppose the companion innocent, I was not satisfied that she alone was responsible for the crime. I had wondered whether the letter which I had seen in Jardine's flat had come from her, but the store's order which Martha Wakeling had given me proved that I was wrong. Possibly Mrs. Harrison was a member of the gang which Mrs. Jardine had forsaken, and the murder was one of revenge; yet Thomas Jardine profited so greatly that I could not dismiss him from my calculations. Besides, the old lady's will was suggestive. Over her husband's money she had no control, but she had saved a considerable amount, and, as though to make restitution to her husband's family, but with a curious reservation—only if she died a natural death.

Should she die by violence or accident, this money went to her "faithful servant and friend, Martha Wakeling." It was evident she had feared violence—apparently from her nephew—and it was significant that her papers proved that, although Jardine knew he was her heir, he was not aware of the condition.

Before the day fixed for the hearing of the adjourned inquest I went to see Christopher Quarles.

I had nearly finished the story before he showed any interest, and then we went to the empty room, with Zena with us, where I had to tell the tale all over again. He had to have his own way, or there was nothing to be got out of him at all.

"Was there no information to be had from Sarah Paget?" he asked, when I had finished.

"None whatever."

"Did Mrs. Jardine keep much money in the house?"

"Martha Wakeling says not."

"Then the companion was likely to get little by murdering her mistress," said Quarles.

"Either she did it in a fit of uncontrollable passion," I said, "or the motive was revenge."

"Possible solutions," returned the professor, "but robbed of their weight when we consider the motives which Thomas Jardine and Martha Wakeling had."

"I think——"

"One moment, Wigan; I am not theorizing, I am using facts. By murdering his aunt, Jardine lost her money——"

"He inherited three or four thousand a year," I interrupted.

"Which was mortgaged up to the hilt or over it; he told you so himself. Mrs. Jardine's money would have been very useful to him, and by killing her he would lose all chance of it."

"He did not know the condition," I said.

"So far as we know," Quarles answered. "I don't think we must consider that point as proved. Now take Martha Wakeling's position. By the violent death of her mistress she will come into this money. Was there any provision for her in the will if Mrs. Jardine died a natural death?"

"She got a legacy of a hundred pounds."

"You appreciate the enormous difference," said Quarles with that exasperating smile he had when he thinks he has driven his opponent into a corner.

"At any rate, we have no reason to suppose that Jardine did know the condition," I returned. "I do not believe he committed the murder, but I am inclined to think he and Mrs. Harrison are accomplices."

"A theory—my method, Wigan. Very good, but by the handwriting on that envelope you have tried to establish a connection between Jardine and Mrs. Harrison, and have failed."

"At present," I said irritably.

"It is a pity that some of the old superstitions do not hold good," said Quarles, "or at least are without significance in these practical days. You might have confronted Jardine with his victim, and the wounds might have given evidence by bleeding afresh. I suppose you haven't done this?"

"No, Jardine has not seen his aunt," I answered, still irritably.

The professor looked at Zena.

"It is curious the tragedy should happen while Dr. Hawes was away," Zena said. "What kind of man is his locum, Mr. Wigan?"

"Quite above suspicion," I answered.

"Ah, your question sets me theorizing, Zena," said Quarles, "and we have got to watch Martha Wakeling, Wigan. Yes, I am going to help you, and we'll start to-morrow morning."

We returned to the dining-room, and after a pleasant hour, during which we appeared to forget that such a place as Wimbledon existed, I left, far more of a lover than a detective.

Next morning Quarles called for me.

"We'll go to the stores first," he said. "I have a fancy to look at the items in the list sent. There might be some drug which would make Mrs. Jardine sleep more soundly."

"The list was not sent. I have it here."

"I mean the one sent in place of that," said the professor. "Of course one was sent. People who are not in the habit of having much money in the house would see that the store cupboard was replenished."

He was right. A list was shown to us, and I had some difficulty in not showing signs of excitement. The writing was the same as that on the envelope in Jardine's flat. It was peculiar writing, and I could swear to it.

"I think we shall find that Martha Wakeling wrote that," said Quarles. "If so, we establish a link between her and Jardine which neither of them has mentioned."

"But since she would profit by the crime, why should she communicate with him?"

"We are going to find out," he answered. "I presume you have not been keeping any particular watch upon Martha Wakeling?"

"No."

"Has she mentioned what she intends to do when this affair is over?"

"I think she said she would go back to her old village somewhere in Essex."

"Quite a rich woman, eh?" laughed Quarles. "But I doubt the statement about her old village. She is more likely to go where she is not known."

"You will change your opinion when you have talked to her."

"I hope to know all about her before I talk to her," Quarles returned. "We are going to Wimbledon, but not to an interview yet."

Arriving there, I went to the house to make sure that Martha Wakeling was there, and then, taking care not to be seen, joined the professor in the garden, where we hid in a shrubbery to watch anyone who came from or went to the house. It was a long wait—indeed, Quarles was rather doubtful whether anything would happen that day—but in the afternoon Martha Wakeling came out and passed into the road.

"We have got to follow her and not be seen," said Quarles.

There was some difficulty in doing so, for she was evidently careful not to be followed. She went to the station, and by District Railway to Victoria, and to a house in the Buckingham Palace Road.

"We must find out whom it is she comes to visit here, Wigan," said Quarles. "We will wait a few minutes, and then you must insure that we are shown up without being announced. I do not fancy we shall meet with any resistance."

The woman who opened the door to us showed no desire for secrecy. The lady who had just come in did not live there, she explained. If I wanted to see her, would I send in my name? It was not until I told her that I was a detective that she led the way to the first floor, and we entered the room unannounced.

In an armchair sat an elderly woman, and from a chair at her side Martha Wakeling rose quickly. Quarles had entered the room first, and she did not notice me in the doorway.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked.

"It is a surprise to find you in London," I said, coming forward.

"You! Yes, my sister is——"

Quarles had crossed toward the woman in the arm-chair.

"I am glad to see the journey has not hurt you, Mrs. Jardine," he said quietly.

It was a bow drawn at a venture, but Martha Wakeling's little cry of consternation was enough to prove that Quarles was right.

The arrest of Mrs. Jardine for the murder of her companion created a sensation, and I am doubtful whether the plea of insanity which saved her from the gallows and sent her to a criminal lunatic asylum was altogether justified.

The method in her madness was so extraordinary that the result of the trial would have been different, I fancy, had not Martha Wakeling's courage and care of her mistress aroused everybody's sympathy.

Martha Wakeling knew little of her mistress's past, but she had always known that she was not such an invalid as she pretended to be. If she chose to live that kind of life, it was nobody's business but her own, and the servant never suspected that she was afraid of being seen by some of her former associates.

Martha's story made it clear that Mrs. Jardine had nursed a great hatred for her husband's family, especially for her nephew, the son of the man who had made the accusations against her. Her will, her every action in the tragedy, pointed to premeditation. She chose the time when Dr. Hawes was away, and, saying it would be an excellent joke to mislead a young doctor, she arranged that Mrs. Harrison should take her place when Dolman came. The companion could not refuse, very possibly enjoyed the joke.

Martha Wakeling knew of this arrangement, thought it silly, but never suspected any sinister intention.

In the middle of the night her mistress woke her up, and told her that she had killed Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Jardine was excited, and explained that everyone would suppose that she herself had been murdered, and that her will and papers, and her nephew's impecunious position, would certainly bring the crime home to him. This was her revenge. She was mad; Martha was convinced of that. Mrs. Jardine never seemed in doubt that her servant, who was the only person who knew the truth, would help her. Mrs. Jardine intended to go away that night, and when the affair was over Martha would join her, and they could go and live quietly somewhere. She did not want her husband's money—she had enough of her own, and, since by her will it would come to Martha, there was no difficulty. Martha refused to be a party to such a crime, and succeeded in showing her mistress that she was in danger. Even if the body was taken for Mrs. Jardine, it was Mrs. Harrison who would be suspected, not Thomas Jardine. Poor Mrs. Harrison was dead, nothing could alter that, and Martha schemed to protect her mistress. She so far entered into her plan as to let it be supposed that the dead woman was Mrs. Jardine. Since the companion would not be found, the hue and cry would be after her. All that day her mistress was concealed in the house, as much afraid now as she had been exultant before, and in the evening Martha got her a lodging in Buckingham Palace Road.

Afterward she intended to take her away to some place where they were not known and look after her. Three times she had been to see her, fearful that her mistress might betray herself. And she had written to Thomas Jardine to warn him that his aunt had made no secret of her hatred, and that it might be said he had killed her. That communication Thomas Jardine had thought wise to keep to himself—for the present, at any rate—fully alive to the fact that, since he was drunk and quite unable to prove an alibi on the fatal night, and that it was not proved that the companion had committed a motiveless crime, he was in danger of arrest.

Zena had said it was curious the tragedy should happen while Dr. Hawes was away, and the professor declared it was this remark which had led him to believe that the dead woman was Mrs. Harrison and not Mrs. Jardine. On this supposition the attitude of Martha Wakeling was understandable. She might naturally wish to protect her mistress, and she was the only person who could help her in the deception.

The fact that I had given her a reason to suppose that I suspected the nephew would show her the necessity of warning him, and at the same time she would attempt to throw all the suspicion on Mrs. Harrison, who was past suffering.

This was Quarles's theory, and he had found the fact to support it in the handwriting of the store's order.

CHAPTER VII
THE DEATH-TRAP IN THE TUDOR ROOM

A man, riding across an open piece of country near Aylesbury early one morning, came upon a motor cyclist lying near his machine on the roadside. The machine had been reduced to scrap-iron. The man, who was dressed in overalls, seemed to have been killed outright by a blow on the head. Since the man still wore his goggles, and there was no sign of a struggle, Baines argued, and reasonably, I think, that death was not the result of foul play. That he had been run into by a motor car, and that the people in the car had either not stopped to see what damage was done, or, having seen it, feared to give information, was perhaps giving too loose a rein to imagination.

However, this was Baines's idea; and he had succeeded in hearing of a car with only one man in it which had been driven through Aylesbury at a furious pace on the night when a second and similar tragedy occurred, this time near Saffron Walden.

The man had been killed in the same fashion, he wore goggles and overalls, and the machine was smashed, though not so completely. Neither of the men had been identified. In the first case, there might be a reason for this, as the man was a foreigner. In the second case, the man was an Englishman. Both the machines were old patterns, and of a cheap make, carried fictitious numbers, and Baines had been unable to find out where they had been purchased.

He held to his theory of the car, but was now inclined to think that the cyclists had been purposely driven into. Granted a certain shape of bonnet—and the car driven through Aylesbury appeared to have this shape—he contended that, in endeavoring to avoid the collision, a cyclist would be struck in exactly the manner indicated by the appearance of the head. He was therefore busy trying to trace a devil-mad motorist.

The discovery of a dead chauffeur on a lonely road near Newbury now brought me into the affair. He had apparently been killed in precisely the same manner as the victims of the Aylesbury and Saffron Walden tragedies; and so I was brought in contact with Baines. From the first he scorned my arguments and suggestions. It seemed to me that this third tragedy went to disprove his theory of a madly driven motor car, but he insisted that it was only a further proof. Was it not possible, he asked, that the mad owner of the car, believing that his chauffeur knew the truth, had killed him to protect himself? I asked him how he supposed the car had been driven at the chauffeur in order to injure him, exactly as it had injured men on cycles. When Baines answered that the chauffeur was probably on a cycle at the time, I wanted to know why, in this case, the motorist had gathered up the broken machine and taken it away. In short, we quarreled over the affair, and Baines was furious when I was able to prove that in neither case was the wrecked cycle a complete machine. True, in one case, only some trivial pieces were missing which might have been driven into the ground by the force of the fall; but in the other an important part was wanting, without which the machine could not have been driven.

I came to the conclusion that there had been foul play, that the broken machines were a blind, and that the men had been brought to the places where they were found after they were dead.

I returned to London to pursue inquiries in this direction, and found the letter from Quarles asking me to go and see him as soon as possible.

I went to Chelsea that evening, and was shown into the dining-room. The professor looked a little old to-night, I thought.

"Very glad to see you, Wigan. I want your help."

"I shall be delighted to give it, you have helped me so often. Your granddaughter is well, I trust?"

"Yes, she is away. She has taken a situation."

"A situation!" I exclaimed.

"The world hasn't much use for a professor of philosophy in these days, and that leads to financial difficulty for the professor," Quarles answered. "You glance round at the luxury of this room, I notice, and I can guess your thoughts. Selfish old brute, you are saying to yourself. But it was the child's wish, and we bide our time. She is made much of where she is. I think it is my loneliness which deserves most pity. Besides, there is no disgrace in honest work, either for man or woman."

Something of challenge was in his tone, and I hastened to agree with him. In a sense, the information was not unpleasant to me. Life was not to be all luxury for Zena Quarles. The social standing of a detective, however successful he may be, is not very high, and the necessity for her to work seemed to bring us nearer together. The value of what I could offer her was increased, and a spirit of hopefulness took possession of me.

"But I didn't ask you here to pity either Zena or myself," Quarles went on, after a pause. "I daresay you have heard of Mrs. Barrymore?"

"I have."

"She advertised for a private secretary, and Zena answered the advertisement. When a woman goes deeply into philanthropic work, visits hospitals, rescue homes, and the like, she often does it to fill a life which would otherwise be empty. Not to Mrs. Barrymore. She is a society woman as well, is to be met here, there and everywhere. She is a golfer, a yachtswoman, fond of sport generally, and withal a charming hostess. It is no wonder she wants a secretary. You don't suppose I should let Zena go anywhere to be treated as a kind of housemaid, and in a way that no self-respecting servant would stand?"

"Of course not. I gather that you know Mrs. Barrymore personally?"

"I saw her once or twice when she was a child. I knew her mother."

I looked up quickly, struck by his tone.

"There is romance in every life, Wigan. Here you touch mine. Mrs. Barrymore's mother married an American. She chose him rather than me, and, although I afterwards married, I have never forgotten her. Naturally, I feel an interest in her daughter, Mrs. Barrymore, and I want your help."

"In what way?"

"I want your opinion of her."

"But I don't know her."

"You must get to know her. She puzzles me, and certain things which Zena has told me make me think I might help her. I should like to do so, if I can. We have been useful to each other, Wigan, because our methods are different. I have formed a certain opinion of Mrs. Barrymore, the result of theorizing. I shall not tell you what it is because I want your unbiased view, arrived at by your method of going to work."

"There is a mystery about her, then?"

"My dear Wigan, that is exactly what I want to find out."

"How am I to make her acquaintance?" I asked.

"Not as Murray Wigan, certainly," he said, and then he added, after a pause: "Would you mind pretending to be Zena's lover? When I saw her a few days ago I said I would suggest this way to her."

Mind? Pretend! The professor little knew how the proposal pleased me. He was offering me a part I could play to perfection.

"It is a good idea," was all I said.

"We even thought of a name for you—George Hastings—and you are a surveyor. Being in Richmond, you thought you might venture to call, not having seen Zena for some time. Mrs. Barrymore lives at Lantern House, Richmond. If you see Mrs. Barrymore, as I hope you will, and make yourself agreeable, she may give you permission to come again. I think it will work all right."

"Will to-morrow be too soon to go?" I asked.

"No."

"If I am given the chance, I will certainly go again when I can. Unfortunately, I am very busy just now."

"Ah, I haven't asked you about your work. Anything interesting?"

"One case, or, rather, three cases in one." And I told him about the cyclists and the chauffeur.

"Only wounds in the head? What kind of wounds?" he asked.

"I did not see the cyclists. I can only speak of the chauffeur from direct knowledge. The forehead, just by the margin of the hair, was bruised and the skin slightly abraded. At the base of the head behind, under the hair, there was another bruise—round, the size of half a crown. There was no swelling, no blood. I am told that the cyclists were also bruised about the temples."

"What had the doctor to say?"

"Very little in the chauffeur's case. Some severe blow had been delivered, but he could not say how. He was puzzled. When I suggested the man might have been run down by a car—quoting Baines's idea—he said it was a possible explanation. He said so, I fancy, merely because he had no other suggestion to offer."

"And the man's face, Wigan?"

"If a man could see death in some horrible shape, and his features become suddenly fixed with terror, he might look like the chauffeur did," I answered.

"He has not been identified either?"

"Not yet, but I'm hoping to trace him."

"Have you thought of one point, Wigan?" said Quarles, with some eagerness. "He may not have been a chauffeur, nor the others cyclists. They may only have worn the clothes."

"It is possible," I returned. "His hands had done manual work, but not of an arduous kind. There were curious marks on the body, a discoloration under the arms, and the skin somewhat chafed. Also, on the outer side of the arms, there were marks just above the elbows—depressions rather than discolorations. A rope bound round the body might have produced the latter."

"There would have been marks upon the chest and back as well," said Quarles.

"I do not say it was a rope," I returned. "Have you any helpful theory, professor?"

For a few moments he had seemed keen—I should not have been surprised had he suggested our going to the empty room. Now he became apathetic, loose-minded, a man incapable of concentration. I had never known Quarles quite like this before.

"I will think of it. When I read the accounts in the papers, I thought I should like to assist you," he said slowly. "But it is impossible to-night. Zena is not here. I am an incomplete machine without her. You must have realized that, Wigan, by this time."

I have intimated before that the empty room, the listening for inspiration, and Quarles's faith in Zena's questions did not impress me very much. His excuse now I took as an intimation that he wanted to be alone.

"I will call at Mrs. Barrymore's to-morrow," I said as I rose to go.

"That's right; Lantern House, Richmond. And, by the way, Mr. Hastings—that is your name, remember—my granddaughter does not call herself Zena Quarles, but Mary Corbett. I have an old friend, Mrs. Corbett, and she has lent her name and her address for letters. Mrs. Barrymore may have heard of me from her mother, and mine is not a name easily forgotten. Besides——"

"I understand. You would help Mrs. Barrymore without her knowing it."

"There may be another reason. One does not advertise his financial difficulties if he can help it."

"Professor, we are friends," I said, with some hesitation. "If you want——"

"No, no," he answered quickly, "I do not want to borrow yet. Thank you all the same, Wigan. Good night. And don't forget you are in love with Mary Corbett."

On the following afternoon I went to Richmond, having supplied myself with some surveying instruments to support the part I was to play. This was unnecessary, perhaps, but I like to be on the safe side. I was excited. I was in love, there was no pretense about it, and if I could contrive to let Zena see the reality through the pretense, so much the better.

Lantern House, which had grounds running down to the river, was large, rambling, and parts of it were very old, contemporaneous with the old Palace of Richmond, it was said. A small cupola in the central portion of the building, possibly once used for star gazing, may have suggested the name.

Zena evidently expected me, for the servant, without making any inquiry, showed me into a room opening on to the gardens at the back. Zena rose hastily from a writing-table and hurried to meet me.

"George!" she exclaimed.

I caught both her outstretched hands in mine.

"Dearest!"

She turned quickly, a color in her cheeks, and then I saw that we were not alone. A lady had risen from a chair at the end of the room, and came forward.

"This is George Hastings, Mrs. Barrymore," Zena said.

"Well, Mr. Hastings, you may kiss her if you like. I shall not be shocked," and she laughed good-humoredly. "Mary told me that you might come, and I am interested in the man she honors. So many girls make fools of themselves, and marry worthless specimens. Outwardly, I see nothing to take exception to in you. Your character——"

"I think Mary is satisfied," I said.

"So it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, eh?"

I laughed a little awkwardly, playing my part well, I fancy, and showing just sufficient anxiety to impress Mrs. Barrymore favorably.

She was a very handsome woman, tall, athletic, and evidently addicted to sport. Yet there was nothing ungraceful about her. Her manner was gracious and attractive, her dress was charming. It was a marvel she had succeeded in remaining a widow.

"I will leave you," she said presently. "But I can only spare Mary for a very short time to-day. You know, my dear, how busy we are with the appeal for that rescue society. Don't look so disappointed, Mr. Hastings. You may come to-morrow and have tea with Mary."

"Thank you so much."

"But remember, only a few minutes to-day."

As she went out of the room, Zena gave me a warning look. I was evidently to play my part even when Mrs. Barrymore was not there.

"Was there any harm in my coming, Mary?" I asked.

"No, dear. Mrs. Barrymore is very kind to me. George, you haven't kissed me yet."

She was afraid that curious eyes might be upon us, and felt that the parts we had assumed must be played thoroughly. I think the color deepened in my own cheeks as I bent and touched her forehead with my lips. I know hers did. For me it was a lover's kiss, the first I had ever given.

"There is danger, but I am not sure what it is," she whispered, as we stood close together. And then, drawing me to a chair, she said aloud: "Tell me all you have been doing, George."

I concocted a story of my surveying work, and managed to be the lover too. If we had an audience I fancy the deception was complete.

We were not left long together. Mrs. Barrymore came back with an apology, and I departed, thinking a great deal more about Zena than of any mystery there might be about her employer. Yet, from thinking of her, I began to fear for her. What danger could there be at Lantern House?

There was some mystery—the professor had said as much—but surely he would not let his granddaughter run any risk? Still there was danger enough for Zena to take precaution that our deception should not be discovered, even to the extent of allowing me to kiss her. I passed a restless night, and was in Richmond next day long before it was possible for me to go to the house.

When I did go, I was at least an hour before my time.

I was shown into the same room as on the previous day. Mrs. Barrymore was there alone.

"You are early," she said with a smile. "Lovers are ever impatient. Did you meet Mary?"

"No. Is she out?"

"Oh, you need not go. She will be back to tea, and I am not sorry to have a quiet talk with you, Mr. Hastings. I am interested in Mary Corbett. She is nearly alone in the world, and my sympathy goes out to such women. I have worked a great deal for societies dealing with women's status and employment, and am most anxious to see a revision of the laws which at present press too heavily on my sex. Come, tell me all about yourself, your present position, your prospects—everything."

The story I told her would not have done discredit to a weaver of romance, and she was so sympathetic a listener that I felt a little ashamed of myself for practicing such deception.

"I think I am satisfied," she said at last, "and I judge you have a soul above the mere commercial side of a surveyor's business—that the beautiful has an appeal to you. Do you know anything about this house?"

"I believe part of it is old," I said.

"Very old," she returned. "I like modern comforts, but I love the old things too. We have a few minutes before tea and Mary's return. I will show you the old part of Lantern House, if you like. I have tried to give the rooms their original appearance, and am rather proud of my achievement."

She was giving me an opportunity which I could hardly have expected, a chance of seeing something which would give me a clew to the mystery concerning her. I might have known better what to look for if only the professor had been more explicit.

Talking pleasantly, calling my attention to a view from a window, or to some unique piece of furniture, Mrs. Barrymore led me through several rooms, the contents of which told of the wealth and taste of the mistress of the house.

"I only use the old rooms on great occasions," she said, as we passed from a small boudoir into a dim passage. "I have thought of letting the public see them on certain days on payment of a small fee for the benefit of some charity, but I have not quite made up my mind. It would cut into my privacy a little, and in some ways I am selfish. There are two steps down, Mr. Hastings."

She had opened a door and preceded me into a room, Tudor in its construction, Tudor in its contents—at least, I suppose the contents were all in keeping, but I had not sufficient knowledge to be quite definite upon the point. The effect, if somewhat stiff and severe, was pleasing.

"A Philistine friend of mine complains of the somberness," said Mrs. Barrymore, "and wants me to have the electric light here as it is in the rest of the house. Fancy Henry the Eighth wooing his many wives under the electric light! Why, they would almost have seen what a villain he was. Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hastings, and imagine yourself back across the centuries. It was just such a chair as that which the fat king used when he talked statecraft or divorce with Wolsey."

She seated herself by the table, and I took the chair she indicated. Never did blind man walk into a pit more unsuspectingly. The seat gave under me, half a dozen inches, perhaps, setting the hidden mechanism to quick work. My ankles were gripped, the arms closed across me, pinning me securely just above the elbows, and a bar shot under my chin, holding my head rigidly against the back of the chair.

Mrs. Barrymore got up quickly, went behind me, and, in a moment, had passed a cloth of some thick material over my mouth. Then she came and stood in front of me.

"Caught!" she said. "That chair holds you helpless and speechless. I know just how you feel. I am going to tell you why. I daresay you know I am an American—at least my father was, although my mother was English. I married an Englishman, who was a genius, a crank, and a devil. We lived in the States, where you know electrocution is the death penalty, and my husband, a genius in all that had to do with electricity, invented an improved method, using little current and dangerous in one particular—it is impossible to tell how the victim has died. He was so pleased with his invention he would not make it public. He used it chiefly to terrify me. I was rich, my money was my own, and to get money from me he has forced me into that chair, also an invention of his, and sworn he would kill me. Mine was a life of torture and terror. Then I played the siren with him. I asked him to explain his devilish machine to me, and vowed to make over to him a large sum of money in exchange for the secret. He agreed—the fool! I kept my promise and paid the money, but one night when he was drunk, I pushed him into that chair. He was the first victim of his own invention, and to this day his death remains a mystery."

She laughed very quietly—not like a mad woman—and, going to a corner of the room, she opened a panel near the floor and brought out a curious contrivance, circular in shape, but not a complete circle—something like a metal cap with a triangular piece missing at the back. Wires were attached to it, and were also secured within the cupboard. They uncoiled as she came across the room carrying the metal cap in her hand.

"My husband was the type of brute who loves to torture women in some form or other," she said. "There are thousands of such men, especially in England, I think, or why are societies so necessary to protect women, to help them, to relieve them? Such devils are better out of the world, and I had the power to be something more than a philanthropist. I had the knowledge and the money to be an active agent. I came to England. I hate Englishmen because of my husband, and I have made a beginning. It was easy among my charitable concerns to hear of men who were brutes, and who would not be missed. In such a man I took an interest, was kind to him, brought him here to Lantern House to befriend him. He has sat in that chair as you are sitting, he has worn this cap as you wear it. How to get rid of him afterward? Underneath us is a basement where I have a car ready, a car I drive myself, and of the existence of which nobody knows. An old house was an advantage to me, you see. It is easy to put goggles and overalls on a dead man. To contrive an iron frame which should keep him in a sitting position was not difficult, and you are exactly over a trap through which you can be lowered into the car. Then a drive in the night, when I am dressed like a man, and have a companion with me who sits upright beside me, then an unfrequented piece of country, and I come home again—alone. Twice cyclists have been found—one of them a foreigner—their broken machines beside them. It was easy to buy a fifth rate motor machine, smash it, and carry it in the car. The cycle confused investigation, and I was secure from detection. Then a chauffeur was found. I did not take so much trouble with him, and I wondered how his death would be explained."

She laughed again.

"You may say you are not one of these brutes—perhaps not. But do you remember the day Lord Delmouth married Lady Evelyn Malling? Such a wealth of wedding presents required careful watching, and a guest was pointed out to me as Murray Wigan, the great detective. I never forget a face, and I never underrate an enemy. I heard that Murray Wigan was inquiring into the mysterious death of the chauffeur. I knew you the moment you came into the house. Who the girl is, I do not care. Your accomplice has nothing to fear—I do not war against women. I sent her to London. When she returns she will learn that you have been and gone. You will be found, Murray Wigan, sixty or seventy miles from London, and since death by this method draws the features strangely, it is doubtful if you will be identified. You were clever to get upon my track, but you pay the penalty."

The perspiration stood out heavily upon me. Fear gripped me, and I was helpless. Yet even in this supreme moment, even when this fiend of a woman fitted that horrible metal cap upon my head, I remembered the marks upon the dead chauffeur. He had been electrocuted as I was to be. It was the frame holding him in a sitting posture which had marked his body—it was this awful chair which had left those depressions on his arms. I was glad to know the truth. It was the ruling passion, strong in death.

The woman crossed to the cupboard quickly. There was a click, the moving of the switch, and then—nothing. Thank God! Nothing. The cap gripped my head, that was all.

The woman looked at me, and then rushed to the door, only to stagger backward as Christopher Quarles and Zena met her on the threshold. Their first thought was for me, and Mrs. Barrymore had the moment for which she had always been prepared, doubtless. The poison pilule had been concealed in a signet ring she wore, and in a few moments she was lying dead in that horrible Tudor room.

That Mrs. Barrymore had invited me to come to tea on the following day, when there was no reason why I should not have stayed then, had aroused Zena's suspicions, and she had watched Mrs. Barrymore's every movement. Until then she knew nothing of the secret of the Tudor room, but she saw her employer go there and examine the cupboard.

In the night Zena went and examined it, and destroyed the current by rendering the switch ineffective. Every day since Zena had been at Lantern House Quarles had met her in the grounds. Of course she had not gone to London that day, but had met her grandfather, and they had entered the house together, unseen. They would have been in time to prevent my going through that horrible ordeal had I not arrived an hour before I was expected.

"You had no right to let Zena ran such a risk," I said to Quarles. "You ought not to have sent her to Lantern House to test your theories."

"She ran no risk," was his answer. "It was only against man Mrs. Barrymore fought. I am sorry you had such an experience, Wigan. I never supposed she would attempt your life, did not imagine she would know who you were. Indeed, I was doubtful of my theory altogether. When the first cyclist was found, I suspected electrocution in some form, and the other two cases went to confirm the suspicion. I knew something of Barrymore, a hateful brute but a genius, and I knew his wonderful knowledge of electricity. His death must have been a relief to his wife, and the manner of it made me suspicious of her. He was found on a lonely road miles away from his home in Washington, and no one could tell how he died. Was it remarkable I should wonder if Mrs. Barrymore were responsible for the crimes here? And I would have saved her if I could, for the sake of her mother. If I could have done that, Wigan, you would have got no theory out of me in this case, and your friend Baines might have gone on hunting for his mad motorist for the rest of his days."

So I had touched the professor's romance, and now had one of my own. I had pretended to be a lover, and I had found a moment to tell Zena that it was no pretense with me. The color deepened in her cheeks as it had done when I kissed her, but she did not stop my confession.

"My grandfather——"

"He can still remain with us," I said eagerly, seeing no difficulties. "Say yes, Zena."

"It must not be yet."

"But some day?"

"Perhaps—some day."

And I was content.