by Annie Haynes
“Gave you notice? Oh Mason, I am sorry!”
To Joan Mason had always seemed inseparable from the Hall.
“I will speak to Miss Davenant,” she added. “She could not really have meant—”
“I beg your pardon, my lady!” Mason drew herself up with dignity. “But I would rather Miss Davenant was not asked to change her mind. It is most likely that I should not have stayed here much longer anyway. I am over-old to learn the ways of new mistresses. But if I might speak to your ladyship to-morrow or the next day—”
“Why, of course,” Joan said heartily. “Come over before lunch, Mason, and we will have a long afternoon together. I dare say I shall have thought of some fresh plan—”
“Oh, my lady—” Mason could not voice her thanks.
Evelyn and Warchester had walked to the door. On the threshold Evelyn paused and looked up into Warchester’s face with mocking blue eyes.
“It is strange that Lord Warchester should turn out to be an old acquaintance, is it not? When I heard of my new brother-in-law I little thought that in him I should recognize my friend, Paul Wilton. Do the good stick-in-the-mud folks down here know of Lord Warchester’s multiplicity of names? Why, this is the third I have heard —Wilton first, Warchester now, and once—”
“Hush!” Warchester interrupted her sternly with a glance at the two footmen who, it seemed to him, might be within hearing. “Do not mention that name! Heavens, don’t you realize—”
Evelyn laughed recklessly.
“Guess I realize enough to know it might be awkward if I called you by it in the market-place!” Her eyes gleamed strangely. “Good thing I didn’t meet you there, wasn’t it? Now we are both prepared—”
Warchester’s face had become very pale.
“For what?” he questioned beneath his breath. Involuntarily his eyes strayed to Joan, looking so fair and dainty in spite of her fatigue, then wandered from her to the painted face of the woman beside him. How was he to have guessed, he asked himself passionately—how should it have ever entered his mind that these two out of all the world should be sisters?
Evelyn shook her head.
“I do not know—how should I?” Her eyes narrowed as she watched him closely, as she saw how he flinched beneath her gaze. “Perhaps”—with another of the hard laughs that Warchester was learning to hate—“you would come in and talk it over, say, to-morrow morning. You know you must be careful for Joan’s sake.”
Warchester controlled himself with an effort.
“We will leave Lady Warchester’s name out of the question, if you please,” he said sternly. “If you wish it I will come over to-morrow, though I fail to see what purpose it will serve.”
“To-morrow then, I shall expect you,” Evelyn responded, waving her much beringed hand at him as she turned back. “Ta-ta! It is rather cold out here now the sun has gone down. I hope you have plenty of wraps, Joan?”
“I don’t think I shall need them. I like the touch of chill in the air,” Joan responded absently. “Good-bye, Evelyn,” kissing her sister’s cheek. “I am glad you are better. You must come over and see me at the Towers soon.”
“Of course!” Evelyn smiled and glanced at the tall dark man standing by the car. It was a pleasure to her to think that, in spite of his apparent calm, these seemingly innocent words of hers were making him wince. “Naturally, I want to see my sister’s new home, and also that of my old friend, Lord Warchester.”
As they drove down the avenue Warchester glanced more than once at Joan. She was sitting upright in her corner, her head bent forward, two little perpendicular lines between her level brows telling their own story of mental perturbation. She did not speak until they turned out of the lodge gates and were bowling swiftly along the road to the Towers. Then, still without looking at him, she said slowly:
“It is very strange that you should have known Evie. When we were trying to find her did you never guess—”
“Guess! How should I guess?” Warchester questioned roughly. “I had known her as Cécile De Lavelle. What should make me think—what faintest likeness between you is there that I should dream it was possible that she could be your sister? Even now—now that I have seen you together, that I have heard you call her sister, that I have seen you kiss her—I cannot bring myself to believe that this monstrous, this inconceivable thing is true, that you and that woman are sisters.”
Something in his tone brought a ray of comfort to Joan’s heart. She glanced at him timidly. She ventured to slip her hand in his beneath the rug.
“You didn’t like her in the old times, did you, Paul? Not as you like me?”
“Like her as I like you!” Paul replied. “Joan, haven’t you realized that you are the only woman in the world for me? Oh, my dear, have I failed so utterly to make you understand?”
Chapter Fifteen
“MR. LOCKYER and another gentleman are in the library, my lord.”
“Mr. Lockyer!” Warchester was lounging on the divan, his thoughts, to judge from his expression, none of the pleasantest. He sprang up. “I will come to them at once. Tell her ladyship Mr. Lockyer is here.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The footman withdrew and Warchester hurried to the library. He had taken a great fancy to Septimus Lockyer, though so far he had seen little of him. He had heard that he was expected at the Trewhistles’ however, and had sent a pressing invitation to him to spend a few days at the Towers.
As he opened the door he was wondering whether the keen-faced, kindly lawyer would be of any help to him now. Then with a sigh he shook his head. His affairs were of too tangled a nature even to be set straight by Septimus Lockyer.
Mr. Lockyer was standing by the fireplace, talking in a low, earnest tone to his companion.
“Ah, my dear Warchester; this is kind!” he said as his host entered the room. “I hope I have not disturbed you. I ventured to bring Mr. Hewlett with me. Mr. Hewlett—Lord Warchester. Mr. Hewlett has been actively engaged in the search for my missing niece, and, hearing last night that you had recognized an old friend in Miss Evelyn Davenant, he thought it would be interesting to hear where you had met her.”
“Certainly! Won’t you sit down, Uncle Septimus?” Warchester’s change of countenance did not escape the eyes of either of the two men watching him. “I really knew very little of Miss Davenant—that is to say, I only met her in a casual way one does meet such people. She was only known to me under her stage name of De Lavelle. I need not say I had not the very remotest idea she was identical with the missing Evelyn Spencer.”
“Quite so, quite so!” Septimus Lockyer assented.
He had settled himself comfortably in one of the morocco-covered easy-chairs by the fireplace. Warchester took the opposite one facing the window; Hewlett, the detective, sat farther back in the shadow of the curtains. He was totally unlike the popular idea of a detective—short and thick-set in figure, with a florid complexion, a big fair moustache, fair hair retreating from his temple, and mild blue eyes, in one of which was screwed a monocle.
“We—that is to say Mr. Hewlett—had already discovered that she had gone on the stage under the name of De Lavelle before, in reply to the advertisement, Evelyn appeared on the scene,” Mr. Lockyer went on. “I say the stage, but I believe, as a matter of fact, it would be more correct to say—er—the music-halls.”
He looked inquiringly at Warchester, who nodded his assent. What in the world did these two men want? he was asking himself. By what concatenation of unlucky events had they come to hear of his early acquaintance with Evelyn Spencer?
“Would you just tell me what you knew of her, when you were introduced and all that?” Septimus Lockyer went on persuasively. “There were two Miss De Lavelles, I believe?”
“At one time,” Warchester acquiesced, “they were called the Sisters De Lavelle, but it was perfectly well-known that they were not related, though there was a certain vague likeness between them. They used to sing and dance together, had turns at tw
o or three halls every evening, for at one time they were very popular. But in spite of the undoubted resemblance between them, in spite of the fact that they were dressed alike, it was their very contrast that made them so piquante. We used to call them the Saint and the Demon.”
“I remember.” Septimus Lockyer nodded. “I have heard of them. I saw them once—that was why I fancied the photograph was familiar. And my niece, Evelyn, was—”
Warchester laughed.
“Your niece and my sister-in-law, my dear Uncle Septimus, was the Demon! I fear we have to face that fact both of us.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Lockyer looked amused. “Ah, well, what’s in a name, and what became of the Saint?”
“Ah, there I can’t help you!” Warchester was brushing a speck of cigar-ash from his waistcoat. My acquaintance with the Sisters De Lavelle ended before their partnership was dissolved. I have no further knowledge of their movements.”
“And the Dem—I mean my niece, Evelyn—was Marie,” Septimus Lockyer remarked.
“Evelyn was Cécile,” Warchester contradicted curtly.
“Oh, Evelyn was Cécile, was she?” Septimus Lockyer said slowly. “Oh, ah, of course—Evelyn Cecil Mary! Took her second name instead of her first, didn’t she? Quite so, quite so!”
There was a pause. Warchester sat silent apparently contemplating the immaculate polish of his boots with interest. Mr. Lockyer was tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the leather-covered arm of his chair; the detective was gazing out of the window absently.
The door opened suddenly and Joan entered with a rush.
“Oh, Uncle Septimus, is it not funny that just as I heard you were here I should have found—I beg your pardon,” as her glance fell on the detective. “I fancied you and Paul were alone.”
“Dear, dear, did you? And what does that matter?” The great K.C. was smiling at the pretty, blushing face as he imprinted a paternal kiss on her forehead. “This is Mr. Hewlett, who has been spending a good deal of time looking for your sister, Evelyn, lately. And now what is it you have found just as you heard I was here? And why is it funny?”
“Well, it is funny, because you have wanted it so much, and have looked for it so often,” Joan answered. “But I don’t suppose you will care about it now—it is too late.”
Mr. Lockyer’s smile deepened.
“Something that I have wanted very much and you have looked for very long? You are exciting my curiosity, Joan. What is this wonderful discovery, and why is it too late?”
“Why, because Evelyn is here now!” Joan replied, answering his last question first. “It is her last letter, Uncle Septimus—don’t you remember how vexed Mr. Hurst was when I couldn’t find it? Well, Mason was clearing up the Hall the other day, attending to some alterations Evelyn wanted made, and she found this little work-box of mine,” holding it up. “I used it for a year or two after I came to Davenant, and then it was thrown aside and I think I forgot all about it. But, see, Evelyn’s last letter is in it. When I heard you were here I could not help running down to tell you, but it is just too late after all. It will not interest you now. I got it the day before I came to Davenant, and I never heard of my sister again until she came here the other day. She wrote several times, she says, but the letters never reached me. I suspect Mrs. Spencer did not forward them.”
“I dare say she did not,” Mr. Lockyer assented. “Yes, your discovery comes a little late, my dear; however, better late than never! I should like to look at the letter, if you will allow me.”
“Of course; I am sure Evelyn would not mind.”
Joan searched in her work-box, produced the missing letter, and handed it to him. It was directed in a weak, straggling handwriting to “Miss Polly Spencer, No. 10A Grove Street Mews, Hinton Square, W.”
Mr. Lockyer opened it. A small object dropped out and rolled on the floor. Joan darted after it, but the detective was before her.
“Allow me, madame!” He pursued it into a corner and captured it.
“Is this madame—the half of a sixpence?” he inquired as he laid it on the table. “I can’t see anything else, but—”
“Yes, that is it, thank you, Mr. Hewlett!” Joan said gratefully. “My sister sent it to me as a keepsake.”
“Ah, she mentions it here!” Mr. Lockyer remarked. “And I see she writes from 15 Suffolk Lane, Highgate. Lovely part that; I have stayed there myself when I was a junior. May I read this aloud, Joan?”
The girl hesitated a moment.
“Oh, certainly, if you like! But it will sound rather silly, I think, now that we have found Evelyn.”
“I don’t think it sounds silly at all,” Mr. Lockyer contradicted. “It shows that your sister was very fond of you, Joan.”
“My darling little Polly”—he read aloud—“This is just to tell you that I am often thinking of you and of the time when I shall be able to have you with me again. I hope it will not be long before I can now, for I am doing pretty well. You must not be frightened if you do not hear from me now for a little time; for I may be going where letters will take some time to reach you, but you may be sure of one thing—I shall never forget my little sister Polly. I send you a sovereign with this; you are to give it to Dad and ask him to see that you have a new dress. A little bird who saw you the other night when you did not see her, my little Polly, told me that you were very shabby and wanted a new dress—oh, so badly! Mind you get a pretty one. Yesterday I had a bright new sixpence given me. I thought of my little sister, and I broke it in two. I send you the one half, the other I shall wear round my neck always. I have bored a little hole in your half, and you are to put a piece of cord through and tie it round your neck to remind you always of your loving sister Evie.
P.S. My love to Dad. Send me a line soon to let me know how you are.”
“Quite a nice letter, I call it,” Septimus Lockyer remarked as he laid it down.
“And I suppose you never answered it?”
“Of course I did! I wrote and told her I was coming to Davenant Hall. I used to wonder whether she resented my good fortune. But it seems she did not have the letter.”
“Would you allow me to glance at the letter, madame?” Hewlett was fixing his glass more securely in his eye as he leaned forward.
Joan looked a little surprised.
“Oh, certainly! I don’t suppose there is any reason why you should not, more particularly”—with a smile—“as you know what is in it already.”
Mr. Lockyer handed it to him.
“I have never studied handwriting myself, but I believe it is one of your hobbies, isn’t it?”
“To some extent, yes,” the detective replied as he scrutinized the paper. It was a fancy blue, poor in quality, and the writing ran across it in straggling, uneven lines. In some curious fashion it seemed to interest Mr. Detective Hewlett intensely. He turned it upside-down, looked at it that way and this, and finally held it up to the light as if trying to see through it. As he gave it back to Mr. Lockyer he gave an almost imperceptible sign.
Mr. Lockyer looked at Joan.
“Well, now, my dear, I must wish you good-bye. I have promised to drive Mr. Hewlett to the station.”
“Oh, Uncle Septimus, at least you will stay to lunch!” Joan exclaimed in dismay.
Warchester laid one hand lightly on her shoulder.
“We must make your uncle promise to come to us for a few days when he leaves the Trewhistles, Joan.”
“Well, well, you are very good. We will see about that later. But now I must be off. I am due to pick Reggie up at the Home Farm in half an hour. Ready, Hewlett!”
Mr. Lockyer picked up the letter and the half of the sixpence from the table.
“I suppose you don’t mind my taking these, Joan? I may want to look at them later.”
“Oh, of course, if you like,” Joan said uncertainly.
Mr. Lockyer apparently did not notice her hesitation. He carefully put both in his pocket-book, and held put his hand.
“I must s
ay good-bye, for this morning, Joan. Later on perhaps I might come up and have a smoke with your husband.”
“By all means, pray do!” Warchester responded politely.
But the lawyer noticed that the note of cordiality was absent.
Outside, when the motor-car was fairly started, Lockyer looked at the detective.
“Well, I did your bidding, but for the life of me I can’t see what you want with that letter!”
“No? I had a fancy—” the detective began slowly, when there was a diversion. A carriage and pair had dashed in at the lodge gates, and the horses, coming suddenly upon the motor, began to shy. The coachman had them well in hand, however, and when the commotion had somewhat subsided Septimus Lockyer looked at his companion.
“The Davenant liveries. Now, Hewlett, you will have a chance of being introduced to my new niece. Come along!”
He drew the car to the side of the road; recognizing him, the coachman pulled up. The carriage had only one occupant, as the lawyer had surmised—the new mistress of Davenant Hall.
Evelyn was resplendent to-day; she had declined to wear full mourning, having had it modified to some extent by white. Her gown was of a black filmy material, the yoke and sleeves being exquisite lace; a lace scarf, which had been one of Mrs. Davenant’s most treasured possessions was floating round her shoulders. Her yellow hair was elaborately curled and waved beneath her enormous hat. Altogether she had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with herself and with the world.
She greeted Mr. Lockyer with an expansive smile.
“You are out early this morning, Uncle Septimus! Been up to see Joan? How is she? I thought she seemed pretty dicky yesterday.”
The lawyer looked amused.
“I think Joan is very well. Perhaps by contrast with you, my dear Evelyn. But may I introduce a gentleman who has been most anxiously looking forward to see you for some time—one to whom, I may say, you have given a great deal of trouble? Mr. Hewlett—Miss Davenant.”
