audrey handed over a dingy envelope, bearing the london postmark, and addressed to her at the camden hill house. out of this shawe took an equally dingy piece of paper--a single sheet of very cheap stationery. on it a few lines in vile caligraphy were scrawled. he read them at once, while audrey sat down on a near chair and watched him silently.
"dear miss"--ran the anonymous letter,--"this is to warn you from invistigiting your poor ma's deth, as i know you are doing. keip off the gras and don't be silly, or you will sueffer the gratest grief of your life. this is from one who sines as you see--a frend."
"what do you think of it?" asked the girl, when her lover silently replaced the paper in its envelope and sat down beside her.
"i think there may be something in it," said shawe, slowly. "i wonder--"
"you wonder what?"
"if it would not be as well to take the advice of this," and he tapped the envelope as he handed it back to her.
"no!" cried audrey, her worn face flushing.
"a thousand times no. i shall learn the truth at all costs."
"but if it leads to more sorrow, dear?"
"i don't care what it leads to. to know the worst--whatever the worst may be--is better than this terrible suspense." she looked at the dingy communication dubiously. "i wonder who wrote this?"
"an uneducated person, apparently."
"i don't believe it," declared the girl, quickly. "all that bad spelling and bad writing is intended to mislead."
shawe shook his head. "how can you be sure of that?"
"i am sure of nothing. i am only assuming that such is the case. but, at all events, the person who wrote this letter knows that the matter of the death is being looked into."
"i don't see who can possibly know, save you and myself and perry toat."
"who is perry toat?"
"the detective whom i am employing to search."
"what has he found out?"
"she, dear. miss toat's name is peronella toat, and she calls herself perry on her card for business reasons. she has found out nothing very tangible, and confines herself to theorising a lot." ralph paused, and shook his head once more. "i fancy she is growing tired of the case." and he related perry toat's discoveries--such as they were--and also detailed her theories. when he ended audrey was almost as despairing as he appeared to be.
"there doesn't seem to be a single ray of light," lamented the girl, putting the envelope into her pocket. "madame coralie, her assistants, and her husband seem to be all innocent; unless," she added, with a quick look, "there is something in this idea of a prepared alibi."
"well, miss toat has learnt nothing likely to show that her surmise is right in that way, audrey. badoura apparently knows nothing, or, infatuated with eddy vail, refuses to say what she may know. as to peri banou, who is dumb, no information can be got from her, although she was in the shop when the crime was committed. she says that she was asleep on a divan, and zobeide certainly admits that she left her there when she went up to the still-room."
"badoura, peri banou, zobeide," said miss branwin, ticking off the quaint and musical names on her fingers. "you have mentioned only three of the assistants. what about the fourth?"
"parizade? oh! being blind, of course she can see nothing at all. she was behind the curtain in the still-room preparing some wash when madame coralie came to speak to her husband. that was about eight o'clock, just before madame came down to tell you that your mother would remain for the night."
"it was about half-past eight that madame came to the door."
"oh! my dear girl, you must be mistaken. madame herself and her husband both say it was five or ten minutes after eight o'clock when she came to you."
audrey shook her head vehemently. "mrs. mellop will tell you that we did not leave the house until a quarter past eight."
"the pink shop? that, of course, would make it right."
"no, our own house. there was a first piece at the theatre which mrs. mellop and i did not care about seeing. we only left in time to get to the theatre by nine, when the chief drama of the evening began. it was nearly half-past eight when we reached the pink shop, as it took us ten minutes, more or less, to get to walpole lane."
"there must be some mistake," said shawe, rather puzzled by this clear and positive explanation. "why, badoura says that eddy vail drew her attention to the clock in the still-room, and then it was five minutes to eight. almost immediately afterwards madame came up from seeing your mother tucked in for the night, and very shortly went to the shop door to speak to you."
"then the clock in the still-room must be wrong," said audrey. "tell miss toat what i say, and she may be able to learn if it is so."
"well, and supposing you prove that the still-room clock is wrong?"
"can't you see? in that case madame coralie could not have come up from seeing my mother safely to bed, for she must have come up to the still-room at about fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour. and the medical evidence says that my poor mother was murdered at eight o'clock."
"it does seem strange," said shawe, reflectively. "humph! i wonder if perry toat is right after all, and if this alibi--a very convincing one, i must say--is a faked affair. audrey"--he turned earnestly towards the girl--"say nothing of this to anyone."
"will you tell miss toat?"
"yes, i shall certainly do that. but, after all, both you and the still-room clock may be right. it only means that madame waited twenty minutes or so talking to her husband instead of coming down at once."
"but if she came at once--"
"then the matter will have to be looked into. i shall ask miss toat to question badoura and eddy vail, who noticed the time. they may be able to say how long madame coralie remained in the still-room. but, my dear, it is all a mere theory--"
"and one that may prove to be true. really, ralph"--audrey spoke with a flush on her face--"you don't seem anxious to learn the truth."
"i am in one way, and not in another. i remember that anonymous letter."
"i don't care what the letter says. the person who wrote it is evidently concerned in the death of my poor mother, and is afraid lest he or she should be caught."
"there may be some truth in that," admitted shawe. "however, you had better leave the matter in my hands. i shall tell perry toat what you say about the difference in time, always supposing that madame coralie did not linger in the still-room. when i hear of anything definite likely to supply a clue i shall let you know."
"you have let me know very little hitherto," said audrey, bitterly.
"my darling"--he took her hands and looked into her eyes--"surely you are not dissatisfied with me?"
"i am in a way," she admitted, blushing guiltily. "i am so anxious to learn the truth and revenge my mother. if you won't search, i shall search myself."
shawe could do nothing in the face of this determination but agree. he scribbled perry toat's address on his card and gave it to the girl. audrey slipped it into the dingy envelope which held the anonymous letter, with the intention of calling on the detective whenever she could.
"if you go on with the matter i shall help you to the best of my ability," he said earnestly, as she turned away. "don't think that i do not desire your wish to be gratified. i only want you to be happy."
"i won't be happy until i learn who murdered my dear mother," said the girl, obstinately; then she took his arm, and they walked across to the gate near the palace. "but i am glad that you will help me. all i ask is that you will let me assist you."
"you shall go to perry tat yourself and take an immediate hand in the game we are playing," said the barrister, decidedly, "as i see that in no other way will you be satisfied. and now let me see you home."
"don't come too far with me, dear. my father may have risen by this time, and if he meets you there will be trouble."
"i don't mind that," said shawe, throwing back his well-shaped head. "i am not afraid of sir joseph. by the way, talking about the possibility of that clock being wrong, was your father with you in the car?"
"no. he went out at six o'clock for one of his prowls."
"what do you mean by one of his prowls?" asked shawe, surprised.
"well, papa, for all our talking, is really kind when he chooses. he is sorry for poor people--for the really ragged, unwashed poor, that is--and sometimes he goes out quietly and wanders round the streets, giving money to beggars and helping those who need help."
"you throw quite a light on your father's character," said ralph, grimly. "i should have thought that sir joseph was the last person in the world to help anyone or to act the secret philanthropist."
"mrs. mellop told me that he did so. she saw him once or twice in a tweed suit in the evening helping people--giving money, that is. and papa must go out for some such purpose, for he usually puts on evening dress for dinner."
"and changes it afterwards?"
"no; on the nights he goes out he doesn't change his clothes, and very often doesn't come to dinner. on that night mrs. mellop and i had the meal to ourselves, and went alone to the theatre. papa had gone out at six in his usual clothes for a prowl. perhaps," ended audrey, wistfully, "i have misjudged my father, and he may not be so hard as i think. i never knew that he helped the poor until mrs. mellop told me; and she only saw him by chance when her taxi-cab broke down one evening on the embankment."
"well, i am glad to hear that sir joseph has some redeeming qualities," said shawe, somewhat cynically; for the whole story sounded improbable, seeing what he knew of the man.
neither of the young people noticed at the time that they were near the gates of branwin's mansion, and were therefore astonished when sir joseph himself stepped out. he was dressed in a rough tweed suit, and looked more bulky and aggressive than ever. with a scowl he fairly snatched his daughter from the barrister's arm. "i expected something of this sort, audrey, when you went out so early," he said, in his domineering tones. "i was just coming to kensington gardens. mrs. mellop kindly told me how you met this rascal in--"
"i am no rascal, sir," said shawe, spiritedly.
"yes, you are. you know that i don't wish my daughter to marry you, and yet you arrange secret meetings in the gardens."
"i am to blame, if anyone," said audrey, hotly, "for i arranged the meeting."
"a pretty confession for a young lady," said her father, grimly; "but i shall take care that you arrange no more. as for you, sir"--he turned on ralph--"i forbid you to think of miss branwin. she is to marry lord anvers."
"i shall not," cried audrey, growing white, but perfectly determined.
"you shall. i have spoken to lord anvers, and he is willing to make you his wife. you understand, mr. shawe?"
"i understand that i intend to marry audrey," said the barrister, coolly, "so it matters little what arrangements you have made with anvers, who is indeed the rascal you called me."
"go inside, audrey," said branwin, and pushed his daughter within the gates hurriedly. "mr. shawe, good-day!" and he also stalked in, without commenting on the young man's speech.
ralph thus was left outside, like the peri at the gates of paradise.
