the two young people remained alone, looking at one another, and feeling quite aghast at the position in which they now found themselves. they had not expected sir joseph's appearance, much less that he would behave in so brutal a manner. moreover, he had repelled the hinted accusation so calmly, and had admitted so freely that he had been in walpole lane, that both audrey and ralph felt certain he was completely innocent. certainly, they had not directly accused him of committing the crime--the girl especially would have been horrified at the mere idea--but sir joseph had taken what they said to mean that they suspected him, and so had revenged himself in the cruel way he had done.
the bang of the door startled both from the momentary state of stupor into which the unexpected behaviour of branwin had plunged them. audrey, with a white face and startled eyes, looked at her lover. "what is to be done now?" she asked in a low voice.
"you must drive back home at once," said ralph, determinedly.
she shook her head. "it is useless. my father will go straight home and give orders that i am not to be admitted."
"oh, that is impossible. think of the scandal."
"papa does not mind the scandal. already he has shown how far he is prepared to go by having me watched by ranger. oh"--she clenched her hand--"think of the disgrace of it all!"
"then you must stay the night at some hotel."
"i cannot--i have no baggage. what hotel would take me in with no baggage? i have very little money too, and only the clothes i stand up in."
"oh, the money doesn't matter, my darling. i can provide you with what you require," said ralph, hastily; then muttered through his teeth: "but it is a confoundedly awkward situation in any case. your father is a brute."
"he is what he has always been," said audrey, with a tired sigh, for the late conversation had quite broken her up--"a man who has always had his own way. there is only one thing to be done"--and she rose.
"what is that?" asked shawe, hopefully.
"i must go to the pink shop and throw myself on the mercy of my aunt."
ralph brightened. "you clever darling to think of that," he said, looking at his watch. "it's half-past ten o'clock. i wonder if she will be still up?"
"i daresay; if not, we can rouse her. come, ralph"--she pulled down her veil to hide a very white face--"let us go at once. oh, i do hope that my father will say nothing of my being here to anyone. i now see how rash i have been. it's terrible."
"darling, i really don't think your father will say anything; for very shame he cannot. he will account for your absence by saying that you refused to obey him with regard to this marriage with anvers, and that he turned you out. everyone who knows what an animal he is will believe this version. i am quite sure that your visit here will never be known."
thus comforted, and seeing the commonsense view taken by shawe, audrey went down the stairs with her lover, and they passed out of the great block of buildings and through the gardens. the porter was not visible, and as audrey wore such a thick veil, it was not likely that he would be able to recognise her on any future occasion. in fleet street the barrister procured a cab, and they drove westward in silence. the whole thing seemed like a nightmare, and audrey shivered like a leaf. it was terrible to think that she had no home. if madame coralie refused to take her in, heaven only knew what she could do; but she had every hope that her aunt would stand by her at this crisis, particularly as she seemed to hate sir joseph.
"audrey darling, i think we must get married," said ralph, after a long silence; "things can't go on in this way."
"but your career?" said audrey, faintly.
"never mind my career. your father has deserted you, so you must become my wife, in order that i may have the right to protect you. madame coralie can keep you with her until we can arrange matters."
"but if mrs. mellop comes to hear of--"
"when you are my wife no one will dare to say a word," said ralph, decidedly. "if anyone does, he or she will have to reckon with me. besides, as i told you before, your father, brutal as he is, will not be such a fool as to soil the name of his own daughter. popularity is the breath of his nostrils, and people would cry out on him if he talked of your visit to me."
"yes." audrey felt cheered when ralph talked in this way. "i think you are right. but i do hope my aunt will take me in."
"from what you told me of the interview i think she will, dear. she seems to hate sir joseph in a very healthy manner. audrey, i really don't know how you came to have such a father. i don't believe that you are his daughter. there must be some mistake."
"i wish i were anyone else's daughter indeed," said the girl, sighing.
"you will soon be my wife, so that will settle everything," said ralph, as the cab turned into walpole lane. "here we are, dearest. there is a light in the upstairs window, so madame coralie has not yet retired."
having dismissed the cab, shawe rang the bell, and shortly badoura appeared to open the door, and to look with astonishment at the pair. "will you tell madame coralie that miss branwin wishes to see her," said shawe. "she is just returning from the theatre, and we called in here on our way to camden hill."
as audrey wore a long cloak over her dress badoura could not see that she was in walking costume, and quite believed the story. of course, she knew who shawe was, since that young gentleman had accompanied miss branwin on the morning when the death of the poor woman had been discovered. she, therefore, readily accepted the false explanation as a true one, and invited the two into the shop while she went upstairs to madame coralie, who was, it appeared, working late in the still-room at some newly-invented lotion. in the perfumed and dimly-lighted shop the lovers waited.
"that girl does not suspect the truth, you see," whispered ralph, hurriedly.
"thanks to your clever explanation," replied audrey, in the same low voice. "but what am i to say when i stay here all night?"
"your aunt will invent an explanation. don't trouble. here she is."
even as shawe spoke the heavy footfall of the woman was heard, and she came into the shop hurriedly. her eyes, which were visible above the black silk of the yashmak, looked startled and anxious, although the rest of her face could not be seen. evidently, and with very good reason, she was alarmed by this late and unexpected visit.
"aunt flora," began audrey, and had only uttered the name, when madame coralie pointed to shawe with an alarmed gesture. "oh, that is all right!" went on the girl, rapidly. "he knows all about it. i told you that i would tell him; don't you remember?"
"yes," said madame coralie, in her harsh voice, and peering at the young man anxiously, "i gave you permission to tell him. but mind you hold your tongue, mr. shawe." then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to audrey: "what is the matter that you come here at this hour?"
"my father has turned me out of the house, aunt flora, and i come to you for shelter," said audrey, rapidly. "i have nowhere to go."
madame coralie clutched her yashmak and stamped her foot. when she spoke her voice was almost inarticulate with rage. "do you mean to say that joseph has dared to turn you from your home at this hour?"
"yes." and audrey, assisted by shawe, rapidly related all that had taken place, although they both suppressed, for obvious reasons, any account of the suspicions they entertained on the evidence of parizade's keen sense of smell. "so you see," ended the girl, with a sob, "that unless you take me in i have no place to shelter my head."
"my dear!" madame coralie made as though to catch her niece in her arms, but checked herself abruptly. "of course you shall stay here as long as you like. but badoura told me you had come from the theatre."
"my excuse for this midnight visit," said ralph, quickly; "and now, madame, you must invent some reason for audrey stopping here for the night."
"oh, that is easy enough"--she stepped back and looked at the slender figure of the girl, scarcely visible in the dim light--"you are too thin, miss branwin, and you wish me to treat you."
"will badoura accept that excuse?" asked audrey, timidly.
"yes," said madame, bluntly; "she will accept any excuse that i like to give her. if she doesn't she loses her situation. don't trouble, miss--"
"why don't you call me audrey, aunt flora?"
"because i don't want the relationship known," said the woman, promptly; "it is just as well, therefore, that i should call you miss branwin. but we can't stay talking here all night. go away, mr. shawe, and don't come here again until i give you permission."
"but i want to see audrey."
"you can do so when she walks in kensington gardens as usual," replied madame coralie, sharply; "but if you come here people will talk, and the quieter this business is kept the better it will be for everyone."
"but if papa talks"--began audrey, only to be cut short.
"papa won't talk," said madame coralie, in a hard, dry voice. "he will have quite enough to occupy his mind in marrying miss rosy pearl--that is, if he ever does marry the creature."
"madame"--ralph started forward--"what do you mean?"
"never mind; go away at once." madame unlocked the door. "it is too late to chatter, and miss branwin looks quite worn out."
shawe admitted the truth of this speech, and after a farewell embrace, at which madame coralie looked benignly, he took his leave. when the door was once more closed, audrey followed her aunt up the stairs to the still-room, wherein the four assistants were working.
"you can all go to bed now," said madame coralie, with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. "zobeide"--she used her fingers at this point--"you can go to bed. badoura, miss branwin is staying here for the night. we spoke, when she saw me the other day, about treating her for the figure, as she is much too thin. she only made up her mind to come to-night. see that the bedroom opposite--no. 10--is made ready, badoura."
"yes, madame," said badoura; and, whatever she may have thought of the young lady's unexpected decision to remain for the night, she certainly showed no astonishment in her face as she disappeared. the other three girls departed swiftly, evidently glad to get to bed, as they were tired with their work. audrey and her aunt were left alone, and the girl would have spoken.
"no," said madame coralie, quickly, raising her hand, "don't speak, or you will faint. you are highly strung, my dear, and this position is too much for you. get a night's rest, and we can talk in the morning."
"but i must thank you, aunt flora, for your kindness."
"my kindness!" said the other, bitterly, and her harsh voice took on a softer note. "it is a kindness your coming to me, to cheer me in my loneliness. i hope you will stay long."
"but you have your husband, aunt flora."
"eddy--oh, yes; but he does not sleep in this place. i found him such a nuisance that i gave him money to take chambers. i see very little of him, as i found what a mistake i had made in marrying him. he cares nothing for me, but a great deal for what money i have. don't speak of him."
before audrey could say anything more badoura returned with the information that the bedroom was ready. madame coralie, who seemed to be a singularly capable woman who knew her own mind, at once insisted that her visitor should retire. so it was that in a very short space of time audrey found herself in a comfortable bed. for a few moments she mused on the strange chance that had brought her to sleep in the very house wherein her mother had been murdered; then the great fatigue she felt overcame her and she fell into a profound slumber, which lasted until the morning. so deep it was that she did not even dream.
at ten o'clock next morning she awoke, and found her aunt standing beside her with a cup of tea. madame coralie explained how she had looked in once or twice before, but that audrey had been sleeping so quietly that she had not had the heart to waken her.
"drink this tea and take another sleep," advised madame coralie, wisely; "as the more you sleep after last night's experience the better you will feel."
audrey, who still felt languid, willingly consented, and madame went out quietly. she did not, however, through absence of mind, quite close the door, and audrey was therefore wakened some time later by the sound of two voices conversing softly. at once she remembered that the still-room was opposite to the bedroom she occupied. evidently its door was open, and, as her own door was not closed, she could hear very plainly. half awake and half asleep she listened, not meaning to eavesdrop, but simply because she felt too tired to close the door or to give any evidence of her presence.
the voices were those of a man and a woman, and audrey recognised the latter one as that of badoura. but who the man was she could not guess.
"you are very cruel," said badoura, addressing her companion softly. "you are tired of me, i am sure."
"well, you always worry me so," said the man's voice, gruffly. "i can't be always running after you."
"you would not have said that once, eddy," replied badoura, and the name suddenly enlightened audrey to the fact that the forewoman was conversing with madame coralie's scampish husband. ashamed of listening, even half involuntarily, the girl would have risen to close the bedroom door, when the next sentence of badoura made her change her mind.
"if you are going to throw me over," cried badoura, passionately, "i shall tell all i know."
"what do you know?" demanded eddy, with a sneer. "there's nothing much you can tell my wife, if that is what you mean. she thinks that i am all that is bad, my dear silly girl."
"and so you are," snapped badoura, sharply. "but does she know that you put back the clock in the still-room half an hour on the night lady branwin--"
"it's a confounded lie!" gasped eddy vail, interrupting.
"it's true, and you know it," said badoura, triumphantly. "i was behind the curtain with parizade working when you came in about five minutes to eight o'clock. parizade is blind, and saw nothing, but i did. you put back the hand of the clock to 7.30."
"what if i did?" stammered eddy, evidently trying to bluff the girl.
"what if you did?" cried badoura, shrilly. "why, it means that you were downstairs at the time lady branwin was murdered. you stayed until the clock hand was again nearly at eight, and then your wife came up, so that you were able to prove an alibi. i said nothing because i loved you, but since you are going to treat me like dirt i shall tell the police."
"you dare, and i'll kill you!" said vail between his teeth.
"as you killed lady branwin," scoffed badoura, who was in a towering rage.
"i didn't kill her."
"yes you did, and you stole the diamonds, and--hush! there's madame." then audrey heard badoura quickly leave the room, and the sound of eddy throwing himself into a chair. she gasped with horror. was he the criminal after all? the question was a terrible one, but the answer seemed certain.
