and was sentto the post office, Stratfield Mortimer, where the police haveascertained that the deceased called for it about ten days ago. Noaddress is given, and the envelope is missing, but the communication isto the following effect:--`Dear Nelly,--The cord is now drawn so tightthat it must snap ere long. England is safer than the south, no doubt,but it will not be so much longer. Therefore I remain here, butfortunately not "en convalescence." Do not tell Liane anything, butremember that the matter must be kept a profound secret, or one or otherof us must pay the penalty. That would mean the end. For myself, I donot care, but for you it is, of course, entirely different. We arewidely separated, yet our interests are entirely identical. Rememberme, and be always on your guard against any surprise. Au revoir.' Itwill be noticed, gentlemen, by those of you who know French," theCoroner added, "that the words `en convalescence' occur here in a rathercurious sense. It is, in fact, nothing less than thieves' argot,meaning under police surveillance; and it is strange that it should bewritten by one who otherwise writes well and grammatically. The name ofthe dead girl's mysterious correspondent is a rather uncommon one--Mariette Lepage."
"Mariette Lepage!" George cried aloud in a tone of dismay, causing nota little consternation among those assembled.
The strange-sounding foreign name was only too deeply impressed upon hismemory. The writer of that curious letter, with its well-guardedexpression in the argot of the Paris slums, was the unknown woman towhom, under his father's will, he was compelled to offer marriage.
CHAPTER FIVE.
CAPTAIN BROOKER'S OBJECTION.
As everyone expected, the Coroner's jury, after hearing Zertho'sevidence at the adjourned inquest, returned the usual verdict of "Wilfulmurder against some person or persons unknown." It was the onlyconclusion possible in such a case, the mystery being left for thepolice to solve. Later that afternoon Inspector Swayne was closetedwith George and Mr Harrison at Stratfield Court, and after an hour'sconsultation regarding the curious letter found in Nelly's pocket, thedetective left for London.
While that conversation was taking place Liane and her father, havingreturned from the inquest, were sitting together in the littledining-room. Brooker had cast off his shiny frock-coat with a sigh ofgenuine relief, assumed his old well-cut tweed jacket, easy andreminiscent of the past, while his daughter, having removed her glovesand veil, sat in the armchair by the fireplace still in her large blackhat that gave a picturesque setting to her face. The windows were open,the blinds down, and the room, cool in the half-light, was filled withthe sweet perfume of the wealth of old-world flowers outside.
"Our ill-luck seems to follow us, even now, my dear," he observed,thrusting his hands deep into his empty pockets and lazily stretchingout his legs. "That inquisitive old chap, the Coroner, was within anace of raking up all the past. I was afraid they intended to adjournagain."
"Why afraid?" asked Liane in surprise. "You surely do not fearanything?"
"Well, no, not exactly," her father answered, with a quick glance ather. "But some facts might have been then elicited which are best keptsecret."
Liane looked at the Captain, long and steadily, with eyes full ofsadness, then said, earnestly,--
"What caused you to suspect Zertho, father?"
"Suspect him. I never suspected him!"
"Do not deny the truth," she answered, in a tone of mild reproach. "Iknow that before you went to London you sent him a message which, had hebeen guilty, would have allowed him time to escape."
"But he was entirely unaware of the tragedy," her father answered,rolling a cigarette with infinite care. "Zertho could have had noobject in murdering Nelly. Besides, it had already been proved by thestation-master that he had left by the train he saw him enter."
"Then why did you take the trouble to go to London?" she inquired.
"My motive was a secret one," he replied.
"One that even I must not know?" she inquired, in genuine surprise.
"Yes, even you must not know, Liane," he answered. "Women are apt togrow confidential towards their lovers, and if the secret were once out,then my plans would be thwarted."
"You suspect someone?" she asked, in a low, harsh voice.
"Well," he answered, regarding his unlit cigarette intently, "I will notsay that I actually suspect someone, but I have a theory, strange thoughit may be, which I believe will turn out to be the correct one."
Liane started. Father and daughter again exchanged quick glances. Shefancied she saw suspicion in his eyes.
"May I not assist you?" she asked. "You know that in the past I've manytimes brought you luck at the tables."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "In this I must act entirely alone.George Stratfield no doubt occupies all your thoughts." She thought shedetected a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
The girl blushed deeply, but did not answer. Her father, inveteratesmoker that he was, lit his cigarette and sat silent and self-absorbedfor a long time. He was thinking of the bright happy girl who, cold anddead in her tiny room upstairs, was the victim of a foul, terrible, andmysterious crime.
"How long have you known this man?" the Captain inquired at last.
"Three months."
"And has he proposed to you?"
"He has," she faltered, blushing more deeply.
He drew a long breath, rose slowly, and pulling aside the white blind,looked out as if in search of something. In truth, he was hesitatingwhether he should speak to her at once, or wait for some otheropportunity. Turning to her at last, however, he said briefly, in alow, pained tone,--
"You must break off the engagement, Liane. You cannot marry him."
"Cannot!" she gasped, her face turning pale. "Why?"
"Listen," he continued huskily, coming closer to her, laying his bighand upon her shoulder, and looking down upon her tenderly. "Throughall these years of prosperity and adversity you alone have been the onebright joy of my life. Your existence has kept me from going to the badaltogether; your influence has prevented me from sinking lower indegradation than I have already sunk. For me the facile pleasures of astray man have ceased, because, for your sake, Liane, I gave up the oldlife and returned here to settle and become respectable. I admit thatour life in England is a trifle tame after what we've been used to, butit will not, perhaps, be always so. At present my luck's against me andwe must wait in patience; therefore do not accept the first man's offerof marriage. Life's merely a game of _rouge-et-noir_. Sometimes youmay win by waiting. Reflect well upon all the chances before you stakethe maximum."
"But George loves me, dad, and his family are wealthy," she protested,meeting her father's earnest gaze with her large grey eyes, in whichstood unshed tears.
"I don't doubt it, my girl," he answered huskily. "I was young once.I, too, thought I loved a woman--your mother. I foolishly believed thatshe loved me better than anyone on earth. Ah! You wring from me myconfession, because--because it should serve you as a lesson." And hepaused with bent head, while Liane held his strong but trembling hand."It is a wretched story," he went on in a low, harsh voice, "yet youshould know it, you who would bind yourself to this man irrevocably. Atthe time this woman came into my life I was on leave down in the Southof France, with wealth, happiness and bright prospects. I loved her andmade her my wife. Then I went with my regiment to India, but already myfuture was blasted, for within a year of my marriage the glamour fellfrom my eyes and I knew that I had been duped. A fault committed by herthrew such opprobrium upon me that I was compelled to throw up mycommission, leave her and go back to England. I could not return to myfriends in London, because she would discover and annoy me; therefore Ihave drifted hither and thither, falling lower and lower in the socialscale, until, ruined and without means, I became a common blackleg andswindler. But it belongs to the past. It is dead, gone--gone for ever.Those years have gone and my youth has gone. I've lived like other mensince then. Heaven knows it has not been a life to boast of, Liane.There have been days and years in
it when I dared not trust myself toremember what had been--days of madness and folly, and months of uselessapathy. Ah!" he sighed, "I was straight enough before my marriage, butmy life was wrecked solely by that woman."
His daughter listened intently, and when he had finished she echoed hisdeep sigh. Her father had never before told her the tragic story. Shehad always believed that her mother died of fever in India a year aftermarriage.
"Then my mother is not dead?" she observed reflectively.
"I do not know. To me she has been dead these eighteen years," heanswered, with a stern look upon his hard-set
If Sinners Entice Thee Page 9
