mr. dowker was not a man to let grass grow under his feet, so he went straight to the photographer whose name was on the back of the portrait found in lena sarschine's possession, and ascertained without much difficulty that it was that of lady balscombe.
"now, what the deuce was that portrait doing in her desk?" he muttered, as he left the gallery, "and why should lydia fenny mistake it for her mistress? i wish i could get a picture of miss sarschine."
but he could not manage this, for, according to lydia fenny, miss sarschine would never consent to have her portrait taken, so that he had no means of learning if there was such a wonderful resemblance between the two women, except by personal description, which was not by any means satisfactory.
under these circumstances there was only one thing to be done--see captain dicksfall, the father of lena--so putting a few things together dowker caught the afternoon train to folkestone from charing cross.
dowker duly arrived at folkestone and took up his abode in an hotel in the sandigate road, where he ordered himself a pleasant little dinner and made the acquaintance of a fatherly old waiter who knew everyone and everything.
barbers have the credit of being most notorious gossips, videlicet figaro, and the barber in "the arabian nights," but, as a matter of fact, they are not worse than waiters, who generally hear everything that's going on in their locality, and, being of a garrulous nature, do not keep their knowledge to themselves.
this waiter at the prince's hotel rejoiced in the name of martin, and, hovering about dowker, armed with a napkin and a pint bottle of heidsieck, managed to satisfy that gentleman's curiosity concerning the existence of captain michael dicksfall.
"yes, sir--know him well, sir--by sight, sir," he said, brimming the empty glass with champagne. "h'old gentleman, sir--bin in the army--'ad two daughters."
"two daughters?" repeated dowker eagerly.
"yes, sir--miss amelia and miss helena, sir--twins--as fine-looking gals as you ever saw, sir--tall, 'andsome, and golden 'air."
"oh, indeed!" replied dowker indifferently. "and are they living with captain dicksfall?"
"no, sir," said martin gravely. "you see, sir, miss helena fell in love with a gent who was stopping at the pavilion, sir, and went off with him."
"what was his name?"
"don't know, sir. he called himself carrill, but they do say it was not his right name."
"humph!"
dowker pondered a little over this. it was as he had thought after reading the letters. lord calliston had masqueraded at folkestone under the name of carrill, and had inveigled helena dicksfall away from home, and kept her in st. john's wood as "lena sarschine."
"and the other young lady," he asked, "miss amelia?"
"oh, she made a good match, sir," replied martin. "married sir rupert balscombe, sir, about a year ago. but i did 'ear, sir, as 'ow she 'ad bolted last week, sir, with lord calliston--same blood, sir; it will come out," and martin departed to attend upon an important customer.
"same blood," repeated dowker musingly. "i wonder if he knows it's the same man? calliston evidently had a penchant for the family, for there seems to be no doubt that miss sarschine and lady balscombe were sisters. so he kept one and made love to the other! queer--deuced queer! well, i think i had better look up captain dicksfall."
he finished his wine, and putting on his hat, went out into the cool evening and strolled leisurely along the leas, first having taken the precaution of putting dicksfall's address in his pocket.
there were a great number of people on the leas, and that pleasant promenade was crowded with youth, beauty, and fashion. charming girls in charming dresses, well-dressed men, happy-looking boys, and here and there a shaky-looking invalid, formed the greater part of the assembly, so that dowker found a good deal of amusement in watching the passers-by. the lift was hard at work lowering people to the beach below or taking them up to the higher level, and the pier was full of gaily-dressed idlers, who looked like pigmies from the heights above. very pleasant and amusing to an unoccupied man, but dowker being down on business, and not pleasure, turned away from the pleasant scene and went up past harvey's statue towards the heart of the new town.
he had no difficulty in finding captain dicksfall's cottage, which was a comfortable-looking place with a small garden in front. a neat maid-servant admitted him into a dusky passage, and from thence showed him into a small drawing-room, at the end of which, near the window, captain dicksfall lay on a sofa, looking out on to the quiet street. a haggard, pale face, worn by suffering, but which had once been handsome. he lay supinely on the sofa in an attitude of utter lassitude, covered by a heavy rug, and his slender white hands were toying with a book which was lying on his lap.
he turned fretfully when dowker entered, and spoke in the querulous voice of an invalid.
"what is it, my good man?" he said peevishly. "why do you come and disturb me at this hour? my doctor has ordered complete rest, and how can i get it if you trouble me?"
"selfish old chap," thought dowker, but without saying a word he took his seat near the invalid and commenced to talk.
"i am sorry to trouble you, sir," he said respectfully, "but i wanted to see you about your daughters."
"my daughters!" echoed captain dicksfall, angrily. "you are making a mistake, i have only one--lady balscombe!"
dowker felt disappointed. only one daughter! if so, lena sarschine could be no relation of lady balscombe, and his theory about the possible motive for the committal of the piccadilly crime would fall to the ground. but then the name, helena dicksfall--the portrait of the old gentleman before him. it must be true.
"i understood you had two daughters, sir, lady balscombe and miss helena dicksfall?"
the invalid turned sharply on him.
"who the devil are you to intrude yourself into my private affairs?"
dowker came at once promptly to the point.
"my name is dowker. i am a detective."
captain dicksfall struck his hand angrily down on the pillow.
"sent by sir rupert, i presume?" he said with a sneer. "he wants to get a divorce, and you have come to me for evidence. i know nothing--my daughter was always a good daughter to me, and if sir rupert had treated her well, this elopement with lord calliston would never have taken place. he is to blame--not she."
"i do not come from sir rupert," said dowker coldly, "but from scotland yard."
"about what?"
"the death of your other daughter."
captain dicksfall started up with a groan, and stared wildly at dowker.
"good god! is helena dead?"
"who is helena?" asked dowker, stolidly.
"my daughter--my daughter."
"i thought you said you'd only one, sir."
the sick man turned away his face.
"i had two," he said in a low tone, "but one, the eldest, ran away with some scamp, called carrill. since then i have heard nothing of her, so i always say i have only one."
dowker thought for a few moments. it was a very delicate position to occupy, and, feeling it to be so, for a moment he was doubtful as to how to proceed.
"captain dicksfall," he said at length, "i know i am only a common man and you are a gentleman; it is not for such as me to speak to you about your private affairs, but this is a matter of life or death to a human being, and, if you hear my story, i am sure you will not refuse to help me by telling me what i want to know."
dicksfall was looking at the detective with a sombre fire burning in his unusually bright eyes, then with a sigh he lay down and prepared to listen.
"tell me what you wish," he said languidly, "and, if possible, i will do what you require."
whereupon, dowker told him the story of the jermyn street murder, the elopement of lady balscombe, and the reasons he had for believing that the two incidents were connected in some mysterious way. he also informed him of the arrest of myles desmond, and of the doubts he entertained concerning his criminality.
at the conclusion, dicksfall was silent for a minute, then turned towards the detective, and clasped his thin fingers nervously together.
"i am a proud man," he said with a touch of pathos, "and do not care about telling the world my private affairs; but in a case like this i think it is only right i should put myself aside for the sake of clearing the character of an innocent man. what do you wish to know?"
"was lena sarschine your daughter?"
for answer dicksfall pointed to a small table near at hand, upon which was a morocco frame containing two portraits. dowker took them to the window and looked at them.
"both of the same lady?" he asked.
dicksfall smiled faintly.
"you are not the first who has been deceived," he said with a sigh. "no! one is my daughter helena, who, from your story, i believe to be lena sarschine, and the other is amelia, lady balscombe--twins."
dowker examined the photographs closely, and was astonished at the likeness, which was further aided by both of them being dressed exactly alike.
"it is wonderful," he said, and no longer marvelled at the way in which lydia fenny and anne lifford had confused the identity of the portrait found in lena sarschine's desk.
"i have been living here for many years," said dicksfall in a low voice, "and my two daughters lived with me. their mother has been dead a long time. about three years ago, a young man, who called himself carrill, came here and stopped at the pavilion hotel. he obtained an introduction to me by some means, and appeared to be struck with the beauty of helena. i thought he was going to marry her, when i heard rumours as to the fastness of his life, and also that he was not what he represented himself to be. i taxed him with it, but he denied the accusation, yet so transparent was his denial that i forbade him the house, the result was that helena ran away with him, and, until the time you spoke to me of her and told me his real name, i did not know it, and never entertained any suspicion as to his real rank in life. i was so angry that i forbade helena's name to be mentioned in my hearing, and always said, as i did to-night, that i had only one daughter--my daughter amelia, married to sir rupert balscombe last year, and i thought that she would, at least, not follow the example of her sister. now, however, i know all, but, to tell you the truth, i blame sir rupert for her elopement, as i know she was a kind daughter, and i am sure she'd have made a good wife. he was very jealous of her, and had a fearful temper, so i daresay he drove her to it. from what you say, i suppose my poor helena went to see her sister on the night of the elopement to dissuade her from going with lord calliston, and surely she had the best right to speak of one who had ruined her own life, but evidently her arguments were of no avail, and she called at calliston's chambers to remonstrate with him. he was not there, and she went out to her death, and then amelia eloped with him, as you have told me. i was a fast man in my youth, and the sins of the father are being visited on the children."
"but this does not clear up the mystery of lena sarschine's death."
"don't call her by that name," said dicksfall angrily. "it is the name that shames her. no; you are right, it does not explain her death, but i do not know, from what you say, what motive myles desmond could have had in murdering her."
"i don't believe he did," said dowker bluntly, "but i want to find out your daughter's past life. had she any lovers?"
dicksfall flushed a deep red.
"she was always a good daughter to me," he said quietly, "but i believe she was very much admired."
"do you know the name of anyone who admired her?"
"no."
"not one?
"not one."
there was clearly nothing more to be gained from dicksfall, so dowker respectfully said good-bye and took his leave.
"at all events," he said to himself, as he wended his way back to his hotel, "i've found out one thing--lena sarschine and lady balscombe were sisters, and both loved the same man. what i'd like to know is, whether lady balscombe killed her sister out of jealousy. d--n it, i'm getting more perplexed than ever. this visit instead of clearing up the mystery deepens it. i think i'll see sir rupert balscombe and ask him about things; as his wife is mixed up in it, i've a right, and i'd give anything to save that young fellow's life, because i'm sure he's innocent."
