it took audrey some time to recover from the announcement so unexpectedly made by miss toat. in fact, she felt so faint that the detective made her drink a glass of water. when better she asked a question which had been in her mind all the time.
"you don't accuse mr. shawe of--"
"no, no, no!" said miss toat, hastily. "how can you think of such a thing? mr. shawe is perfectly innocent. he wrote the letter because he suspected another person."
"who is the other person?"
perry toat hesitated. "i think it will be best for you to ask mr. shawe to give you an explanation," she said a trifle stiffly. "i can't say for certain whom he suspects. but it must be someone known to you, or he would not have worded his letter in the way he has done."
audrey leant her elbow on the table, and her now aching head on her hand. "i don't see how you can make out that mr. shawe wrote the letter," she said.
for answer perry toat placed before her the letters which she had taken out of the tin box. these were from ralph, giving various instructions to the detective. beside these she placed the anonymous epistle.
"you can see," said miss toat, quietly, "that although the handwriting of the anonymous letter is disguised, there is a great similarity to that of mr. shawe's. here and here"--she pointed out several letters; and then, to clinch the matter, she said positively: "the paper is some which mr. shawe's office-boy keeps to make notes on. i have noticed that. also the postmark is london."
"but all this is not strong enough to prove that mr. shawe wrote the letter."
"i think it is, miss branwin. however, it will be easy for him to deny the authorship if you ask him. i must say," added miss toat, determined to be perfectly frank, "that the evidence is slight, and i go mostly by the similarity of the writing. also i told mr. shawe something which parizade told me, which seemed to alarm him. ever since then he has tried to stop me looking into the matter. therefore i judge that to enlist you on his side he wrote this," and miss toat laid her lean hand on the anonymous epistle.
"but why couldn't he speak plainly to me? i see no reason why he should trick me in this manner," argued audrey, distressed to find that ralph had behaved in so underhanded a way.
"i can't answer that question; and, in spite of my belief, i may be wrong in suspecting mr. shawe. however, it is easy to learn the truth. take any letter which mr. shawe has written to you and place it before him, along with this anonymous one. then see what he says, and report to me his reply."
audrey agreed to do this, and went away, much puzzled. the mystery of the case was affecting her nerves; and, now that ralph seemed to be on the side of the enemy, she did not know which way to turn for advice. perry toat's intentions were good, but she seemed to be more clever at theorising than in finding real evidence likely to be of service for the elucidation of the problem. so far, what discoveries she had made--and these were but trifling--had resulted in nothing. poor audrey went home lamenting inwardly that the truth would never become known.
however, there was only one thing to be done, and she did it. that is, she wrote a short note to ralph asking him to call at the camden hill house. as mrs. mellop was now absent, and sir joseph would probably go out in the evening according to his usual custom, the coast would be clear for ralph's visit. besides, audrey was weary of playing a secret game, and wished her lover to come forward boldly, and claim her even at the risk of sir joseph's displeasure. this would fall on her sooner or later, so it was just as well to get it over at once. she sent the letter by special messenger, and then went to lie down, as her head was aching. it was not to be wondered at, seeing what a shock she had sustained.
sir joseph came home to express his satisfaction that mrs. mellop was out of the house, and ascribed his daughter's weary looks when she met him to regret for the loss of her friend. audrey hastened to undeceive him.
"i told you that i did not like mrs. mellop, papa, and i have not changed my opinion," she said very distinctly.
"well, my dear, you were right for once," replied branwin, more amiably than usual. "she talked too much, and i began to feel that she was a nuisance. however, she has gone, and you needn't see her again." he paused, then abruptly made his announcement. "i intend to take you abroad."
"i don't care to go, papa."
"it doesn't matter what you care, you will do as you are told. a change of scene will do you good, as you look pale enough. i wish you to stop with madame lemain. she is a charming woman, and her husband is a very good friend of mine. you shall stay in paris until you agree to obey me and marry lord anvers. not a word. i have made up my mind."
"and i have made up mine," cried the girl, greatly angered. "i refuse to marry lord anvers, and i have told him so."
"oh, that doesn't matter," branwin assured her, coolly. "anvers intends to propose again."
"he will receive the same answer."
"i think not, audrey. a few weeks in paris may cause you to change your mind, since you will not be seeing that rascal shawe every day, as i have reason to believe you are doing."
"i see ralph whenever i can," audrey confessed, candidly and defiantly, "and if you do not consent to my marriage with him i shall run away."
"by all means, if you choose to risk the loss of your dowry," said sir joseph, grimly. "i hold the purse, remember, and if you disobey me not one shilling of my money will you get. i don't intend to talk of this matter any more to you. either you do what i want or i shall disown you as a daughter. in paris you may perhaps make up your mind," and without another glance at the pale-faced girl branwin left the room.
but audrey was still unconquered. her father took the wrong tone with her when he hoped to bully her into compliance. had he spoken affectionately and been more amiable she might have overlooked his previous neglect, and have striven to please him. "but whatever he said or did," muttered the girl to herself, "i should never consent to marry lord anvers." so it seemed that sir joseph's design of sending her abroad for reflection was likely to prove useless.
the time audrey had appointed for her lover to call was eight o'clock; but he did not make his appearance. sir joseph had not gone out, as the girl had expected him to, and was writing letters in his library. alone in her late mother's sitting-room audrey paced to and fro, with her eyes on the timepiece. at half-past eight she grew quite sick with apprehension, as she began to believe that something must have happened to ralph, or else that he was afraid to face her. perhaps, after all, ralph, since he had written the letter, had something to do with the crime, as he so pointedly avoided a meeting. audrey felt that she could not pass the night without knowing the truth, and at a quarter to nine o'clock made up her mind that as her lover would not come to her she would go to him. he had chambers in the temple, as she well knew; for when lady branwin was alive they had gone there to have afternoon tea with the young barrister. it was impossible to remain in a state of suspense any longer, so audrey ran up to her room, changed from her dinner dress into a quiet walking frock, and stole out of the house as unobstrusively as she could. fortunately she had a couple of pounds in her purse, so did not hesitate to call a cab. in a very short time she was speeding along in a taxi on her rash errand.
and it was rash. here she was, a young girl, going by night to call on a young bachelor. even though she was engaged to him, this daring was enough to make every matron in society shriek with horror. while driving through the lighted streets, audrey could not help thinking of what mrs. mellop would say did she know of this escapade; for the little widow herself was terribly afraid of mrs. grundy, and, although lively enough under the rose, would never have dared to act in this way. but the girl did not care. mrs. mellop was not likely to hear about the matter, and, even if she did, audrey was too anxious and worried to take notice of spiteful remarks. her whole life's happiness was at stake, and she felt that it was impossible to wait any longer for an explanation. ralph apparently knew something, and in some way was connected with what took place on that fatal night. what that something might be audrey dreaded to think. all the same, she was determined to know what it was. she could bear anything save suspense.
on arriving in fleet street the girl dismissed her cab, and walked into the gardens, wherein rose the tall pile of buildings containing shawe's chambers. a shilling and a word to a friendly hall-porter soon procured her admission into the building, and she went up in the lift to the third floor. knowing ralph's number, she rang the bell, wondering if he was at home, or if her journey had been in vain. in a few minutes the door was opened, and the barrister himself appeared. for the moment, as audrey wore a veil, he did not recognise her in the dim light of the passage.
"may i inquire what you want?" he asked politely.
"ralph!" said the girl, faintly, and leant against the wall, as the strength which had kept her up was now failing her.
"good heavens, audrey!" cried shawe, dismay. "what are you doing here?"
"mahomet would not come to the mountain, so the mountain has to come to mahomet," replied audrey, with an anxious smile.
"but, my dear girl, it isn't right, and you--"
"oh! never mind appearances," she interrupted feverishly. "no one knows me as i wear this thick veil. let me in, ralph, i have much to say to you."
shawe immediately conducted her into his sitting-room. there was nothing else to be done, as he knew that audrey could be obstinate when she chose, and would refuse to depart without an explanation. moreover--and this almost banished the enormity of her visit from his mind--he dreaded lest she should have learnt something which he particularly did not wish her to know. the young man felt sure that she really might have gained the forbidden knowledge, since she had dared to take such a bold step.
"sit down here, dear," he said, wheeling forward a comfortable armchair. "you look pale; let me give you a glass of wine."
"no, i don't want any wine. i feel all right."
"but, audrey," said ralph, who could scarcely conceal his dismay, "how did you escape mrs. mellop and your father?"
"mrs. mellop has gone home," explained the girl, with a faint smile, as she thought of the little widow's discomfiture, "and my father was busy in his library. i slipped out quietly."
"but you should not have come here, darling. think of what the world will say. it is so rash."
"i don't care what the world says," retorted audrey, crossly. "the world is doing nothing for me that i should consider it. you blame me for coming to see you, when you have broken two appointments with me."
"i broke the first i admit, my dear; but i made no second appointment."
"you had my note asking you to come to me this evening?"
"yes, but i did not come."
"you had no intention of coming?"
"no," said shawe, without hesitation. "i had no intention of coming."
"ralph"--audrey caught his hand--"do you think that you are treating me in a straightforward way?"
"yes and no. perhaps i should be more open with you, and yet if i was you would be afraid and angry."
"i am angry in any case, seeing that you will not trust me; but afraid"--she looked at him very straightly--"why should i be afraid?"
shawe dropped into an opposite chair with an air of lassitude. "if i explained that, audrey, i should have to be more frank than i care to be."
"why? for what reason?"
"there are things which i do not wish you to know."
"in connection with my mother's death?"
"yes," said ralph, after a second's pause, "in connection with your mother's death. audrey"--he knelt at her feet and looked anxiously into her face--"why not leave this matter alone and marry me?"
"how can i when you refuse to trust me?" she said sternly.
"i do trust you. i trust you entirely."
"then tell me what you know."
"i can't. it is too difficult."
"is that why you chose to write me an anonymous letter?" she asked quickly.
the barrister rose and flushed a deep red, while he looked at her with startled eyes. "what do you mean?" he stammered.
"i mean what i say. perry toat examined that letter, and by comparing your handwriting with that of my unknown correspondent, by looking at the postmark, and by recognising the common paper as some used by your office-boy to keep notes, she is certain that you wrote the letter."
there was a long pause. shawe, driven into a corner, said nothing, and did not even meet her reproachful eyes. standing on the hearth-rug he stared at the floor, opening and shutting his hands.
"well," said audrey, after a pause, and very impatiently, "what do you say?"
"i wrote the letter, and for a very good reason," admitted the young man, nervously.
"what is the reason?" she demanded, looking at him searchingly.
"i can't tell you, audrey; don't ask me."
"but i do ask you, and you must tell me. why did you write that letter?"
"if you will have the truth," burst out shawe, "i wished to spare you pain."
"so you said in the letter," audrey assured him, coolly; "but what pain is it that you wish to spare me?"
"never mind; never mind." ralph impatiently waved his hand. "you should not be here, audrey. let me take you back home."
the girl laughed bitterly. "is that all you have to say? i don't leave this room until you tell me the truth. i want to know why you wrote an anonymous letter instead of speaking to me openly."
"had i spoken openly you would have asked questions which i could not answer."
"you must answer them now. did you murder my mother yourself?"
"good heavens! no. how can you ask such a thing?" cried shawe, furiously. "is this the opinion you have of me?"
"very well," said audrey, coolly; "you are innocent yourself, so we will let that pass. miss toat said that you have never been the same since she told you something that parizade had said. what is it?"
shawe reflected for a few moments. "i see that i shall have to tell you all, my dear," he said sadly, "although i have done my best to spare you the knowledge. parizade, while wandering about the pink shop on the night of the crime, smelt a strong scent of harris tweed. listen," and ralph told the girl in detail the same story as the blind woman had told perry toat.
"well," said audrey, much puzzled, "it seems that someone who wore harris tweed was in the passage hiding. but what has this to do with your desire that i should know nothing?"
"who is it that constantly wears harris tweed--almost constantly, that is?" asked shawe.
"plenty of people wear harris tweed--both men and women. why, my father--"
"yes," said ralph, interrupting pointedly, "your father."
audrey grew red and white by turns. "my father--you suspect my father?"
"i believe that he is guilty," said ralph, solemnly, and nodded.
