Who? Part 11

A slight pause ensued during which Judson watched Cyril as if expecting him to speak.

"And you have still nothing to say to me, my lord?" The detective spoke with evident disappointment.

"No, what else should I have to say?" replied Cyril with some surprise.

"That is, of course, for you to judge, my lord." His meaning was unmistakable. Cyril flushed angrily. Was it possible that the man dared to doubt his word? Dared to disbelieve his positive a.s.sertion that he knew nothing whatsoever about the murder? The d.a.m.nable--suddenly he remembered! Remembered the lies he had been so glibly telling all day.

Why should any one believe him in future? His ignominy was probably already stamped on his face.

"I have nothing more to say," replied Cyril in a strangely meek voice.

"That being the case, I'd better be off," said Judson, rising slowly from his chair.

"Where are you going now?"

"I can't quite tell, my lord. It is my intention to vanish, so to speak."

"Vanish."

"Yes, my lord. I work best in the dark; but you will hear from me as soon as I have something definite to report."

"I hope you will be successful," said Cyril.

"Thank you; I've never failed so far in anything I have undertaken. I must, however, warn you, my lord, that investigations sometimes lead to conclusions which no one could have foreseen when they were started. I always make a point of reminding my employers of this possibility."

What the devil was the man driving at, thought Cyril; did he suspect him by any chance? That would be really too absurd! The man was an a.s.s.

"I shall never quarrel with you for discovering the truth," said Cyril, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring fiercely down at the little grey man. Then, turning abruptly on his heel he stalked indignantly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER VI

THE MYSTERIOUS MAID

"My lord."

Cyril shook himself reluctantly awake.

"Sorry to disturb you, but this 'as just come," said Peter, holding out a tray on which lay an opened telegram. His expression was so tragic that Cyril started up and seized the message.

It was addressed to Peter Thompkins, Geralton Castle, Newhaven, and read: "Change for the better. Your presence necessary." Signed, "Stuart-Smith."

"Why, that is good news!" cried Cyril greatly relieved. "What are you pulling such a long face for?"

"You call it good news that you haven't got rid of that young woman yet?" exclaimed Peter. "This Stuart-Smith, whoever he may be, who is wiring you to come to 'er, thinks she's your wife, doesn't he? That was bad enough when you were just Mr. Crichton, but now it's just hawful. A Lady Wilmersley can't be hid as a Mrs. Crichton could, begging your pardon. Oh, it'll all come out, so it will, and you'll be 'ad up for bigamy, like as not!" Peter almost groaned.

"Nonsense! As soon as the young lady recovers, she will join her friends and no one will be any the wiser."

Peter shook his head incredulously.

"Well, my lord, let's 'ope so! But what answer am I to send to this telegram? You can't leave the castle now."

"It would certainly be inconvenient," agreed his master.

"If you did, you'd be followed, my lord."

"What do you mean? The police can't be such fools as all that."

"'Tisn't the police, my lord. It's those men from the newspapers. The castle is full of them; they're nosing about heverywhere; there's not one of us as hasn't been pestered with the fellows. It's what you are like, what are you doing, what 'ave you done, and a lot more foolish questions hever since we set foot here yesterday afternoon. And 'we'll pay you well,' they say. Of course, I've not opened my mouth to them, but they're that persistent, they'll follow you to the end of the earth if you should leave the castle unexpectedly."

This was a complication that had not occurred to Cyril, and yet he felt he ought to have foreseen it. What was to be done? He couldn't abandon the girl. Suddenly Stuart-Smith's stern face and uncompromising upper lip rose vividly before him. Even if he wished to do so, the doctor would never allow him to ignore his supposed wife. If he did not answer his summons in person, Smith would certainly put the worst interpretation on his absence. He would argue that only a brute would neglect a wife who was lying seriously ill and the fact that the girl had been flogged could also be remembered against him. Dr. Smith was capable of taking drastic measures to force him into performing what he considered the latter's obvious duty.

Cyril did not know what to do. He had only a choice of evils. If he went, he would surely be followed and the girl's existence and hiding-place discovered. That would be fatal not only to him but to her, for she had feared detection above all things--why, he could not even surmise--he no longer even cared; but he had promised to protect her and meant to do so.

On the other hand, if he did not go, he ran the risk of the doctor's publishing the girl's whereabouts. Still, it was by no means certain he would do so, and if he wrote Smith a diplomatic letter, he might succeed in persuading him that it was best for the girl if he stayed away a day longer. Yes, that was the thing to do. Hastily throwing on a dressing-gown, he sat down at the desk. It was a difficult letter to write and he destroyed many sheets before he was finally satisfied. This was the result of his efforts:

"DEAR DR. STUART-SMITH:

"I am infinitely relieved that your patient is better. As you addressed your wire here, I gather that you know of the tragic occurrence, which has kept me from her side. It is impossible for me to leave before the funeral without explaining my mission, and this I am very loath to do, as I am more than ever anxious to keep her malady a secret. Dr. Monet has always believed in the possibility of a cure, and as long as there is a chance of that, I am sure you will agree with me that I ought to make every sacrifice to protect her from gossip. If she did recover and her illness became known, it would greatly handicap her in her new life. Having to stay away from her would be even more distressing to me than it is if I could flatter myself that my presence would have a good effect upon her. I am sure, however, that such would not be the case.

"I shall return to London late to-morrow afternoon and will telephone you immediately on my arrival.

"I am sending this by a trustworthy servant, who will bring me your answer. I am most anxious to hear what you think of your patient's condition, mentally as well as physically. I am sure she could not be in better hands."

Then Cyril hesitated. What should he sign himself? Thompkins? No, he wished to inspire confidence; his own name would be better. So with a firm hand he wrote "Wilmersley."

It was the first time he had used his new signature and he heartily wished it had not been appended to such a doc.u.ment.

"Now, Peter," he said, "you must take the next train to London and carry this to Dr. Stuart-Smith. If he is not at the nursing home, telephone to his house and find out where he is. The letter must be delivered as soon as possible and you are to wait for a reply. If the doctor asks you any questions, answer as briefly as possible. In order to avoid comment you had better let it be known that you are going up to town to do some shopping for me. Buy something--anything. I want you also to call at the lodgings and tell them we shall return to-morrow. If you are followed, which I can't believe you will be, this will allay suspicion. Take a taxi and get back as soon as possible. Don't drive directly to the Home.

You may mention to the doctor that I am extremely anxious about Mrs.

Thompkins."

"Very good, my lord."

"Throw the sheets I have scribbled on into the fire and the blotting paper as well," ordered Cyril.

He felt rather proud of having thought of this detail, but with detectives and pressmen prowling around he must run no risks. It was with a very perturbed mind that Cyril finally went down to breakfast.

"Mrs. Eversley would like to speak to you, my lord, as soon as convenient," said Douglas as his master rose from the table. Cyril fancied he detected a gleam of suppressed excitement in the butler's eye.

"I'll see her at once," Cyril answered.

A stout, respectable-looking woman hesitated in the doorway.

"Come in, Mrs. Eversley," cried Cyril. "I'm glad to see you again. I've never forgotten you or your doughnuts."

The troubled face broke into a pleased smile as the woman dropped a courtesy.