"then herne must be guilty!" cried paul, looking at the name on the handkerchief.

"i am not sure," replied iris. "if he were guilty, he would not accuse mr. lovel."

"he was forced into that position," rejoined the journalist quickly. "he accused lovel until the discovery of the rainbow feather led him to believe that catinka had been on the spot, and might have seen him commit the crime. then he changed his tune, and asked me to seek no further evidence against lovel until he returned from seeing catinka. i know now that the violinist saw nothing, and, reassured on that point, i am certain that herne will return here tomorrow, and go on accusing lovel."

"but, paul," urged iris, "he might have seen lovel kill milly?"

"no; if he had done so, he would have had lovel arrested. iris, this handkerchief shows that herne was in the winding lane on the night and at the time of the murder. he came to barnstead in disguise; and, see, this handkerchief is spotted with blood--with milly's blood. i feel sure that herne is the guilty man."

iris covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "oh!" she moaned, "i have tried to put this frightful suspicion out of my mind, because i loved the man. i fancied that he might have killed milly in a fit of rage, and it was because i was sorry for him that i asked you not to search for the assassin."

"you thought i should find herne?"

"yes; but i could not believe him guilty. when i heard of mr. lovel's false alibi at the inquest i truly believed that he had killed milly."

"but, iris," expostulated paul, "the handkerchief is spotted with blood!"

"i know. perhaps mr. herne let it fall when he found the body."

"if so, and he found the body, why did he not call in the police? why did he sneak away to london in disguise, and let mr. chaskin bring home the corpse? no, iris; i believe that herne killed milly. only one man can tell us the truth, and the truth he must tell to save his own neck. i shall see lovel."

"do you think he will accuse mr. herne?" faltered iris.

"my dear, i don't know," replied paul, rising; "his own conduct is quite as mysterious as that of herne. all i do know is that both of them were lurking about the spot at the time the shot was fired, and that one of the two must have fired it. i suspect herne, but i shall do nothing against him at present."

"don't say anything to drek until you see mr. herne."

"no, i shall not," promised paul; "but herne does not return till to-morrow, and in the meantime i shall interview lovel. his evidence may either clear or inculpate herne."

"i can't believe mr. herne is guilty!" cried iris in despair.

"ah," said paul, looking at her with a frown, "that is because you love him."

"no, no! i did love him, but now i do not care for him save as a friend; and for such friendship's sake i should be sorry to see him convicted of a crime which he may not have committed."

"well. i'll say nothing against him until i see lovel. this very moment i'll go to the herne arms and question him."

"do, do; and come back to tell me if he can prove the innocence of mr. herne."

"i suspect he'll have enough to do to prove his own," said paul grimly; and forthwith left the house on his errand. with him he carried the incriminating handkerchief, which iris had forgotten to ask for back again.

on his way to the inn paul wondered why he had not adopted before the very obvious course of questioning lovel. he should have gone to him after brent's confession of the false alibi and have forced the young man to explain why he and the old gipsy had perjured themselves at the inquest; but on further reflection paul recollected that circumstances had intervened which had made it impossible to seek the interview with lovell. but now all obstacles had been removed; he had accumulated from brent, miss clyde, catinka and others a mass of circumstantial evidence; and at the coming conversation he was fully prepared to encounter any further deceptions which lovel might employ to evade discovery. paul did not believe that lovel was guilty, as even the passion of jealousy would hardly have incited him to slay the girl who loved and trusted him; but he was certain that lovel knew the name of the assassin; and he was equally certain that such name would be darcy herne.

at the inn mexton learnt that lovel was in his sitting-room, and at once he sent up his card with a request for an interview. he had a fancy that lovel, for obvious reasons, would refuse to see him; but, rather to his surprise, he was requested to walk upstairs. when the servant closed the door behind him paul found himself in a comfortable apartment, alone with the man who, as he believed, held in his hands the sole clue to the mysterious death of milly. lucas looked worn and ill; there were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared listless and indifferent, as though his vitality was exhausted. without offering his hand to mexton, he bowed and pushed forward a chair.

"hast thou found me out, o my enemy?" he said softly.

mexton stared, as well he might, for the biblical quotation was a strange one for lovel to use. paul thought it rather theatrical. "i am not your enemy, mr. lovel," he said, taking his seat. "i think you know that very well."

"how should i know, when brent tells me that you go to him to worm out my secrets?"

"as to that," replied paul coldly, "i have a right to discover any secrets which are likely to lead to the detection of milly's assassin."

"and you think i am the man?" questioned lovel, looking fixedly at his visitor.

"no; i do not think you killed the poor girl. i will give you the credit that you loved her too well to take her young life. but i think also," said paul with energy, "that you know who fired the shot."

"no; i am as doubtful of that as you are."

"i decline to believe that. herne killed the girl, and you know it."

"so far as i do know, herne did not kill the girl," replied lovel emphatically.

"then, if he is innocent, and you also, who is the murderer?"

"i don't know, i cannot say," said lucas wearily. "i have asked myself that question fifty times a day, but to it i can find no answer."

"the police might find an answer."

lovel laughed. "the police might arrest me, and find their answer by getting me hanged," he said coolly.

"well, drek may arrest you yet," said paul, raising his eyebrows. "you must be aware, mr. lovel, that your actions are very suspicious."

"because i told a lie to screen myself from possible danger?"

"yes; and because you induced gran jimboy to lie also. though how you induced her to perjure herself i can't guess."

"i'll explain if you like," said lovel coldly. "i see that i must tell the truth sooner or later, and i would rather make you my father confessor than drek. i run less risk of arrest, you see."

"i don't know, lovel. if i think you guilty i shall certainly have you arrested."

"my good, sir," cried lovel with irony, "if i were guilty of murder i should have left this neighbourhood long ago! my staying here proves my innocence."

"i'll wait to hear your story before agreeing to that."

"very good, mexton. you shall hear my story, and in addition i will tell you all that took place in the winding lane on the night poor, dear milly was killed. then," added lovel with emphasis, "you will be as puzzled as i am."

"puzzled by what?"

"by the mystery of the case. who killed milly i can't tell you; and if i cannot no one else can."

"i don't understand--" began paul, when lovel cut him short.

"do not let us waste any more time," he said impatiently. "hear my confession, as you may call it, and judge for yourself." he paused, passed his hand across his forehead, and in a moment or so continued, "my name is lucas lovel, as you know, and i came down here some eight or ten months ago to sketch and paint. who i am i knew no more than yourself until three weeks ago."

"about the time of the murder?" interjected mexton.

"yes," assented lovel, bending his head. "there was a mystery about my birth. i did not know where i was born, or who were my father and mother. i was brought up by an old maiden aunt in london, and she resolutely refused to tell me about my parentage. i was educated at an excellent school, and as i wished to be an artist i was sent to the studio of a celebrated painter to study. afterwards i went abroad, to paris and rome, whence i was recalled two years ago by the death of my guardian. by her will i inherited her house in clapham, and some two hundred pounds a year--enough to keep me from starving, but not enough to give me the luxuries of life. about a year ago i became acquainted with catinka and her mad schemes for freeing poland. at her house i met herne."

"you met herne?" echoed paul, much interested.

"i did; and i thought he was as mad in his own way as catinka was in hers. however, we became friends, and he asked me down to barnstead. as you are aware, i stayed with him for some time; but we quarrelled because i admired miss lester too much, and i left his house to take up my abode in these rooms, where i have been since. it was my love for milly which kept me here, in this dull neighbourhood."

"i know; but it would have been more honourable had you gone," said mexton, reprovingly.

"why--because the girl i loved was engaged to a religious lunatic?" cried lovel, his pale face growing red with anger. "it was for that very reason i stayed. i was determined that beautiful milly should not be sacrificed to that cold-blooded fanatic. besides, she loved me, and but for the attraction of herne's money she would have become my wife. i met her often, as you know; and some wretch sent tales of these meetings to herne."

"do you know who wrote herne those letters?" asked paul eagerly.

"no; if i did, i'd kick the person who sent them," said lovel viciously. "i have no idea who was so cruel. well, mexton, while paying court to milly, and urging her to break off the engagement with herne, i met with old mother jimboy, the gipsy. she positively haunted my steps, and never saw me without speaking to me. i found her a great nuisance."

"perhaps she wrote the anonymous letters," suggested mexton, thinking of the dirty paper and the illegible handwriting as described by catinka.

lovel shook his head very decidedly. "no, my friend," he said, gravely. "mother jimboy did not write those letters, for a reason which you shall hear. she would do nothing to injure me; but, on the contrary, she would protect me as the apple of her eye. for my sake she told a lie at the inquest, so that i should not be suspected of a crime which i did not commit."

"she must have strong reason for this guardianship," said mexton, surprised.

"a strong one," assented lovel, nodding. "the reason of kinship, mr. mexton." he paused to give effect to his words. "that old gipsy is my grandmother."

"your grandmother!" echoed paul, curiously. "are you, then, a gipsy?"

"on my father's side i am--half a romany, half a gorgio; but my looks are of the gipsy race. can you not see for yourself?" he said, turning his face to the light.

it was as he stated, for on looking at him keenly paul beheld unmistakable traces of romany blood--the oval face, swart and oriental, the thin nose, the full red lips, and above all the peaked eyes, with the glazed look which reveals the true gipsy. lovel looked like an arab astray in the west; and would have suited the rich robes of the oriental rather than the plain garb of an english gentleman. paul instinctively felt that the young man spoke the truth. he was no englishman; he was not even kin to the dark spaniard or the swart italian; he was of the gentle romany, undeniably a gipsy.

"when did you discover that you were of gipsy blood?" asked paul.

"i have told you," said lovel quietly. "about three weeks ago. on the day before that fatal sunday night i met milly on the common, and she promised to meet me in the winding lane the next night, after service. shortly before, gran jimboy had read milly's hand, and prophesied that she would come by a violent death. i was angry with the old woman, and when milly left me i went in search of mother jimboy to reprove her."

"how did she take your reproof?"

"by telling me that she was my grandmother. it appeared that her son, my father, who was a pureblooded gipsy, had been a fine singer, and left the romany tents for the stage. he sang also at private houses in london, and in one of them he met with my mother, who was an heiress in a small way. she fell in love with the gipsy tenor, and ran off with him. they were married, and when i was born my mother died, and asked her husband to take me back to her sister; my father died also, and it was by my aunt--the old maid i spoke of--that i was brought up. before i was six years of age my father was drowned while going to america; and as he had squandered all the money his wife brought him, i was left penniless. my aunt, who was angered by her sister's marriage, decided to tell me nothing, but gave me my father's name--lovel is a gipsy name, you know--and left me her little money. so you see, mr. mexton, i am a gipsy."

"i see," said paul, rather bored. "but what has all this family history to do with the murder?"