when dora took leave of allen, she returned to the red house with the firm conviction that to save the doctor she would be obliged to marry joad. in the face of this old man's evidence, she did not see how allen could defend himself. it was true that he could produce the letter of mr. edermont, giving him a midnight invitation to his study; but such production would not mend matters. it would only show that he had been present at the very hour of the murder, and would confirm the evidence of joad. once that was proved, what plea could he put forward to prove his innocence? none. a quarrel might have taken place on the subject of their previous conversation, and allen might have killed edermont in a fit of rage. that was the view, dora truly believed, which the judge and jury would take of the matter. and on the face of it what view could be more reasonable?
it was no use bringing lady burville into the question, for her evidence could throw no light on the subject. when she left the house edermont was alive; when scott arrived the old man was dead, and there was nothing to show that anyone had been in the study between lady burville's departure and dr. scott's arrival. medical evidence could prove that lady burville was too feeble a woman to strike so terrible a blow, of too nervous a character to carry out so brutal a crime. no; if lady burville came into court, it would be to save herself, and to condemn allen. under these circumstances, it only remained to hush the matter up by granting joad's wish. dora hated the man, but for the sake of allen she decided to marry him. yet, as she still had a few days' grace before giving him his answer, she resolved to say nothing of her resolution at present. it might be that in the interval the real criminal might be discovered.
all that night dora tossed and tossed on her bed, courting sleep in vain. she was like a rat in a trap, running round and round in the endeavour to escape. she would have done anything rather than consent to this marriage with joad; but unless some miracle intervened, she saw no chance of escaping the ceremony. to be saddled with such a husband! to live in constant companionship with such a satyr! the poor girl wept bitterly at the very thought. what would she feel when joad demanded payment of the price of his silence?
towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and awoke more despondent than ever. it was with a listless air that she descended to breakfast, and only with a strong effort could she force herself to eat. meg gance, who brought in the meal, informed her mr. joad was already in the library, engrossed in his daily occupation.
"he come here afore nine," said meg, who was a large, stupid countrywoman, with more muscle than brains; "it wasn't so when master lived, was it, miss dora?"
"no. but i don't suppose it matters much now when mr. joad comes, meg."
"i dunno 'bout that," said the servant, putting her large hands on her hips; "it takes long to clean up bookshop, it do. i rarely get it done afore nine. i declare, miss, when mr. joad come this morn, i couldn't believe 'twas so late. thought i, clock's gone wrong again."
"what clock?" asked dora, remembering the strange remark made by pallant.
"lor, miss, how sharp you speak!" said meg, rather startled by the abruptness of the question. "why, clock in hall, for sure!"
"was it ever wrong, meg?"
"a whole hour, miss; though how it could have lost hour in night i dunno. but it was ten when i looked at it in morning, while kitchen clock was nine. too fast by hour, miss dora."
"on what night was it wrong?" asked dora, eagerly feeling that she was on the verge of a discovery.
"why, miss, it went wrong on night master had head bashed. not as i wonder, miss, for my aunt had husband as died, and clock--her clock, miss--struck thirteen. seems as clock knows of deaths and funerals," concluded meg reflectively.
"was the clock in the hall wrong by an hour when you saw it in the morning after the crime had been committed?"
"for sure, miss dora. but lor' bless you, miss, it don't matter. i jes' put it right by kitchen clock, as has never lost a minute since i came here, and that's six years, miss."
"why did you not mention that the clock was wrong when you gave your evidence?"
meg stared at her mistress.
"i never thought, miss," she said gravely; "and i wasn't asked about clock. it didn't matter, i hope?"
"no," replied dora carelessly, "it didn't matter. you need say nothing about it to mr. joad, or, indeed, to anyone."
"i aren't much of a chat at any time, miss," cried meg, tossing her head; "and as for mr. joad, i'd as lief speak to blackbeetle! i won't say naught, bless you, no, miss."
"very well, meg. you can clear away."
this meg did with considerable clatter and clamour; while dora left the room, and without putting on a hat walked slowly across the lawn, in the dewy freshness of the morning. on reaching the beehive chair under the cedar, which was joad's favourite outdoor study, the girl sat down, and looked contemplatively at the scene before her. a space of sunlit lawn, with a girdle of flaming rhododendrons fringing it on the right; tall poplars, musical with birds, bordering the ivy-draped wall; and beyond the wall itself the red-tiled roof of joad's cottage, showing in picturesque contrast against the delicate azure of an august sky. after regarding the scene to right and left, as it lay steeped in the yellow sunlight, dora's gaze finally rested on the glimpse of joad's house. there it stayed; and her thoughts reverted to the remark about the clock made by pallant, and to the later explanation given by meg gance. what connection these things had with joad may be gathered from the girl's thoughts.
they ran something after this fashion: "could it be possible that joad had killed edermont? there seemed to be no motive for his committing the crime, and he was not the kind of man to run needlessly into danger. yet the discovery about the clock was certainly very strange. i knew it was correct on the night of the murder," meditated dora. "i set my watch by it before i went upstairs. that was at half-past nine, and my watch has been right ever since. when meg looked at it in the morning, it was an hour wrong; therefore, somebody must have put it wrong with intent. it is impossible that so excellent a clock could suddenly slip for an hour, and then go on again. could joad have been in the house on that night, and have put it on an hour? at the time of the murder the clock struck one, and at that hour joad, according to his own showing and mr. pride's corroboration, was in the cottage. if the clock had been put wrong, the murder must have taken place at twelve, since it was an hour fast in the morning. there was ample time for joad to commit the crime at twelve, and be back in his cottage by one."
dora got up, and walked restlessly to and fro. she could not quite understand why the clock should have been put on an hour, so as to give a false time, when there was no one to hear it in the night. that she had woke up and heard it strike was quite an accident, although there had been nights when she had heard every hour, every chime, strike till dawn. suddenly she remembered that once she had said something to joad about her sleepless nights. on the impulse of the moment she walked into the library.
"mr. joad," she said to the old man, who was reading near the window, "that hall clock."
it seemed to dora that a pallor crept over the red face of the man she addressed. however, he looked up quietly enough, and spoke to her with the greatest calmness.
"what about the hall clock, miss dora?" he asked in a puzzled tone.
"it is disturbing me again. i really must have it removed. in the dead hours i hear it strike in the most ghostly, graveyard fashion. as it did on that night," she concluded under her breath.
"do you have many sleepless nights now?"
"how do you know that i have sleepless nights at all?" she asked quickly.
joad looked at her in surprise.
"you told me so yourself shortly before we lost julian," he said quietly. "it was toothache, was it not?"
"yes--something of that sort," she answered carelessly. "but it is not toothache now. still, i lie awake thinking."
"of me?" said joad with a leer.
"the week is not yet over, mr. joad," she said coldly; "till the end of it you have no right to ask me such a question. good-bye for the present; i am going out on my bicycle."
this was an excuse. confident that joad had altered the clock, on the chance that she would hear it during her sleepless nights, she was confident also that for such reason, and for a more terrible one, he had been in the house on the night of the murder.
"he put on the clock so as to prove an alibi," she thought, wheeling her bicycle down the path to the gate. "if he killed edermont at twelve o'clock--the right time when it struck one--he would have ample opportunity of getting back to his cottage through the postern. i quite believe that he was with pride at one o'clock; but i also believe he was in the study at twelve."
she had proved to her own satisfaction that joad could have been in the house; she wished to discover if he had killed edermont. the assassin had committed the crime to obtain the manuscript containing the story of her guardian's life. if joad were guilty, that manuscript would be in his possession. this was why dora excused herself on a plea of riding her bicycle. she was determined to search joad's cottage, and find out if the manuscript was hidden there.
with this intent she hid the bicycle behind the hedge on the other side of the road, and went to the cottage. there was plenty of time for her to search, as joad took his mid-day meal in the red house and never returned to his house until nine at night. she had the whole day at her disposal, and determined to search in every corner for the manuscript she believed he had hidden. if she found it, she would then be able to prove allen guiltless and joad guilty. it would be a magnificent revenge on her part. the man would be caught in his own trap.
it can be easily guessed by what steps dora had arrived at this conclusion--the chance remark of pallant anent the possibility of the clock being wrong; the chance explanation of meg which proved that the clock was an hour fast on the morning after the murder had taken place; the memory of her own remark to joad about her sleepless nights; and the conclusion that the old man had put the clock wrong for purposes of his own. the inference to be drawn from these facts was that joad had been in the house on the night of the second of august. if he had been in the house, it was probable that he had killed edermont, since allen and lady burville, the only other people who had been present at the same hour, were innocent. it had been proved by sundry scraps of evidence that the murder had been committed to obtain possession of the manuscript. therefore, if joad were guilty, he must have hidden the fruits of his crime. where? in the cottage, without doubt.
the front door of the cottage was locked, so dora went round to the back. she knew that joad was in the habit of hiding the key of the back door under the water-butt, and sure enough she found it there. to open the door and pass into his study was the work of a moment. so here she was in the stronghold of the enemy. but where was the manuscript?
the room was not very large, and lined on all four sides with books. a writing-desk, littered with papers, stood before the single window, and a few chairs were scattered round. there were also a horsehair sofa, a small sideboard of varnished deal, three or four china ornaments, and a little clock on the mantelpiece. the floor was covered with straw matting, but what the pattern of the paper was like no one could tell, for it was hidden completely by the books. the whole apartment looked penurious in the extreme and very untidy. books lay on chairs and sofas, and the fireplace was filled with torn-up letters, newspapers, and hastily scribbled manuscripts.
"the books first," decided dora, after a look at this chaos.
there was no need to go through them one by one, for dust lay thickly upon bindings and shelves. she had only to glance to see those which had been disturbed within the last few weeks. those that had been taken down she examined carefully, but could find no trace of the manuscript. she looked on the top of the bookcase, went down on her knees to search the lower shelves, and still found nothing. at the end of an hour dora had gone through the whole library of joad, but had come across no trace of the wished-for paper. he had hidden it--always presuming that it was in his possession--more cunningly than she had thought.
"now for the desk."
another hour's search in drawers and pigeonholes and blotting-pad likewise revealed nothing. dora emptied out the wastepaper basket, and sorted every scrap, and still she was unsuccessful. then she lifted portions of the matting, removed the cushions of the chairs, searched the sideboard, and dived into the recesses of the sofa. all to no purpose.
"perhaps he has not got it after all," thought dora, disappointed, "or he has burnt it."
burning suggested the fireplace; but she saw that there had not been a fire for months in the grate. it then struck her that mr. joad might have taken an idea from poe's "purloined letter," and have hidden the manuscript in some conspicuous place. the fireplace alone was unsearched, so she went down on her knees and turned out the disorderly mass of papers. her patience was rewarded at last. from under the heap she drew forth a crumpled mass of paper, foolscap size, and spread it out carefully. then she uttered a cry. "the confession of julian dargill, better known as julian edermont," she read. "ah! i was right. here is the stolen story of the past, and joad is the man who killed my guardian."
