'LIBRARY* ~» 1 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOJi 
 
 823 
 M4C4w 
 
 1866 

 
 / 7 <^T 53 
 
 The person charging this material is re- 
 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons 
 IoV dls^Lry action and may result In dismissal from 
 the University. 
 To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 DUE: 12* H 
 
 ] 
 
 c r o 4 1 
 
 * 
 
 JUN 8 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 V 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/wyllardsweird01brad
 
 WILLARD'S WEIRD 
 
 % B«W 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 LADY AUDLEYS SECRET," " VIXEN : 
 " IS'miAEL," 
 
 IN THREE VOLUME3 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL 
 
 MILTON HOUSE, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET 
 
 AND 
 
 35 ST. BRIDE STREET, E.O. 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 LONDON" ; 
 ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PAKCRAS ROAD, N.I
 
 3 ' 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 T 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 i. In a Cornish Valley . 
 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 ii. After the Inquest 
 
 
 45 
 
 hi. Joseph Distin 
 
 
 79 
 
 IV. BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER 
 
 
 112 
 
 v. People will Talk 
 
 
 131 
 
 vi. A Clerical Warning . 
 
 
 147 
 
 vii. A rapid Conversion 
 
 
 179 
 
 VIII. A VALUABLE ALLX 
 
 
 200 
 
 ix. Fever Dreams 
 
 
 211 
 
 x. " Touch Lips and part with Tears " . 
 
 247 
 
 xi. A fatal Love • . 
 
 
 . 283
 
 WYLLARD'S WEIRD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 
 
 There are some travellers who think when they 
 •cross the Tamar, over that fairy bridge of Brunei's, 
 hung aloft between the blue of the river and the 
 blue of the sky, that they have left England behind 
 them on the eastern shore — that they have entered 
 a new country, almost a new world. This land of 
 quiet woods and lonely valleys, and bold brown hills, 
 barren, solitary — these wild commons and large 
 moorlands of Cornwall seem to stand apart, as they 
 did in the days gone by, when this province was 
 verily a kingdom, complete in itself, and owning no 
 sovereignty but its own. 
 
 It is a beautiful region which the traveller sees, 
 perchance for the first time, as the train skims 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 2 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 athwart the quaint little waterside village of Saltash, 
 and pierces the rich depths of the woodland, various, 
 enchanting. • Now the line seems strung like a 
 thread of iron in mid-air above a deep gorge, now 
 winds sinuous as a snake through a labyrinth of 
 hills. A picturesque bit of road, this between 
 Plymouth and Bodmin Koad, at all times ; but, 
 perhaps, loveliest in the still evening hour, when 
 the summer sunset steeps the land in golden light, 
 while the summer wind scarcely stirs the woods. 
 
 In the mellow light of a July eventide the ex- 
 press from Paddington swept with slackened speed 
 round the curve which marked the approach to 
 a viaduct between Saltash and Bodmin Koad^a 
 heavy wooden structure, spanning a vale of Alpine 
 beauty. An exquisite little bit of scenery, upon 
 which the stranger is apt to look with some touch of 
 fear mingled in the cup of his delight : but to the 
 dweller in the district, familiar with every yard of 
 the journey, the transit is as nothing. He is carried 
 through the air serenely, as he smokes his cigar. and 
 reads his paper, and the notion of peril never occurs 
 to him.
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 6 
 
 One man, sitting by the window of a third-class 
 carriage near the end of the train, looked out at 
 the familiar scene dreamily to-night. He was an 
 elderly, gray-headed man, a parish doctor, hard- 
 worked and poorly paid ; but he had a keen 
 eye for the beautiful in Nature, dead or living, 
 and familiar as this spot was to his eye, it always 
 impressed him. He sat with his face to the engine, 
 puffing lazily at his black briarwood, and gazing at 
 the landscape, in that not unpleasant condition of 
 bodily and mental fatigue, when the mind seems 
 half asleep, and the external world is little more 
 than a dream-picture. 
 
 The train was not a long one, a good many of the 
 London coaches having been left behind at Ply- 
 mouth. Dr. Menheniot put out his head, and 
 surveyed the line of carriages as they rounded 
 the curve. There was a figure here and there by a 
 window; but the train -seemed sparsely occupied. 
 They were nearing the viaduct. . That narrow 
 thread of water trickling over its rocky bed in the 
 depth of the gorge was in winter a rushing torrent. 
 The line at this ' point was under repair, and the
 
 4 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 wooden palisade bad been removed in tbe progress 
 of tbe work. Tbe actual danger was in nowise 
 increased by the absence of tbis barrier, wbicli 
 would have crumbled like matchwood before the 
 weight of the train, had the engine run off the rails 
 — but there was a seeming insecurity to the eye of 
 the traveller as he looked into the gulf below ; and. 
 Dr. Menheniot gave an involuntary shudder. An- 
 other moment and the engine came on the viaduct. 
 Menheniot started up with a half-articulate ex- 
 clamation, "What, in God's name — "he began. 
 
 He opened the carriage-door, seemed as if he 
 were going to clamber out, to try and make his 
 way along the footboard to a distant carriage, out- 
 side which a girl was standing, holding on . to the 
 brass hand-rail at the side of the door. She 
 had that instant stepped out, or been thrust 
 out; Menheniot knew not which. He had seen 
 nothing till he saw her standing there, a slender 
 figure in a light-coloured gown, thin draperies 
 fluttering in the wind — standing there, hanging 
 between life and death, a creature to be rescued 
 somehow, were it at the hazard of a man's life.
 
 IN A COKNISH VALLEY. O 
 
 Before he could put himself in peril the chance 
 of rescue was over. A wild shriek rang through 
 the wood — a fluttering form went whirling down 
 the ravine, flashing white athwart the sunlit 
 greenery, and lay half huried amidst a tangle of 
 ferns and wild flowers at the bottom of the gorge. 
 
 Twenty or thirty heads were thrust out of the 
 windows. The train, which to Dr. Menheniot's eye 
 just now had seemed almost empty, was now alive 
 with people. The engine slackened speed, and 
 stopped at about a hundred yards from the 
 scene of the catastrophe. A dozen men of different, 
 ages and qualities leaped out of the train and 
 clambered down the embankment ; among others 
 Julian Wyllard, the Lord of the Manor of Pen- 
 morval — a man of middle age, soberly attired, a 
 tall stately figure, a man of mark in this part of 
 the country — before whom all gave way; except 
 little Dr. Menheniot, who hurried on ahead, intent 
 upon affording professional help, if such help could 
 avail. 
 
 Julian Wyllard had been an athlete in his boy- 
 hood and youth. He walked down the steep, rugged
 
 6 wyllard's weird. 
 
 hillside more easily than many men walk down 
 Regent Street. At the bottom , of the embankment 
 every one fell back involuntarily, as it were, and 
 allowed Mr. Wyllard to head the procession. They 
 went as fast as it was possible to go over that 
 broken ground, trampling down the ferns and 
 flowers, the tiny scarlet strawberries, and crimson 
 and orange fungi, as they went, every lip breathless, 
 every eye strained towards that one spot in the 
 hollow yonder where the doctor was hastening. 
 
 " No use, I fear," said Mr. Wyllard, as if answer- 
 ing the common thought. "The poor creature 
 must be quite dead." 
 
 " What, in .mercy's name, made her do it ?" 
 speculated a burly farmer; "was she frighted, do 
 you think, by some ruffian in the train ; or did she 
 want to make away with herself?" 
 
 The little cluster of passengers looked at one 
 another curiously, as if seeking among those rus- 
 tic countenances for the face of a scoundrel capable 
 of assailing unprotected innocence. But if guilt 
 were present in that assembly, there was no outward 
 indication of the diabolical element. Almost every
 
 IN A CORXISB VALLEY. 7 
 
 one there was known to the rest : small farmers, a 
 squire or two, the elderly lawyer from Camelford, 
 the curate of Wadebridge, a magistrate of Bodmin, 
 a cornchandler and respectable inhabitant of the 
 same town. Assuredly not among these would one 
 look for that debased and savage humanity which is 
 viler in its instincts than the wild beasts of the 
 jungle. 
 
 There might be other passengers lurking in the 
 train, among those loquacious women up yonder, 
 who were all putting their heads out of windows, 
 straining their necks to get their share in the 
 pity and the terror of the tragedy down below. 
 
 Mr. Wyllard and his companions found little 
 Dr. Menhenipt on his knees beside the piteous 
 figure lying in a heap, like a limp rag, among ferns 
 and ground-ivy. 
 
 He had lifted the poor bruised head upon his 
 arm, and he was looking down at the dead face, the 
 open eyes gazing in the set stare of a great horror. 
 Horror at the wretch who flung her down, or at 
 that awful gulf of death self-sought? Who could 
 tell? Those blood-bedabbled lips were mute for
 
 8 wyllard's weird. 
 
 evermore, unless the dead could be conjured into 
 speech. 
 
 "Is she quite gone ?" asked Julian Wyllard, his 
 compassionate countenance calm amidst the agitation 
 of the little crowd. 
 
 That spectacle of sudden violent death was no 
 new thing to his eyes. . He had lived in Paris 
 during the siege and the Commune, had seen the 
 corpses laid out in .long rows in the cemeteries, 
 and piled in bloody heaps in the streets. 
 
 " Quite dead, and a blessed thing too," answered 
 the doctor. " I don't believe she has a whole bone 
 in her body. She could only have lingered a little 
 while to suffer agonies. Her neck is broken. 
 Poor little thing ! She is quite a young Creature, 
 and must have been pretty." 
 
 Yes, it was a pretty little face, even in the 
 pallor of death. A small retrousse nose; large 
 dark eyes, with long black lashes ; pouting, childish 
 lips ; a delicately moulded figure, neatly dressed in 
 light-gray alpaca, a linen collar cut low in the front 
 and showing a good deal of the slim white throat, 
 linen cuffs, long thread gloves, and little stuff boots.
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 9 
 
 " She looks like a furriner," said Mr. Nicholls, 
 
 c 
 the burly farmer who had speculated as to the 
 
 cause of her death. 
 
 "Hadn't somebody better examine her pockets 
 for any papers which may identify her ?" said a 
 voice behind Wyllard. 
 
 It was the voice of a young man who had been 
 the last, to leave the train. He had followed the 
 rest at a few paces' distance, and had only just 
 arrived to look at the dead girl over Wyllard's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "You here, Bothwell?" exclaimed Wyllard, 
 turning quickly. 
 
 " Yes, I have been in Plymouth all day, and 
 thought I'd get back by your train," answered Both- 
 well Grahame easily. " Don't you think they ought 
 to examine her pockets?" 
 
 "Certainly; but it is a question as to whether 
 it should be done now or later," said Wyllard. 
 " She was evidently travelling alone, poor creature, 
 and she must have been in a compartment by her- 
 self, since nobody seems to know anything about 
 her. The chief thing to be done is to get her
 
 10 
 
 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 carried on to Bodmin Road, where there must he an 
 inquest." 
 
 Everyhody agreed that this was the voice of 
 wisdom. Dr. Menheniot turned out the pocket of 
 the neat alpaca gown. There was nothing but a 
 handkerchief, a little hunch of keys, and a second- 
 class railway ticket for Plymouth ; no card-case or 
 purse ; not even an old letter to offer a clue to the 
 dead girl's personality. This done, the doctor 
 arranged the * poor dislocated form decently, and 
 two sturdy men lifted it from the greenery, and 
 carried it gently up the embankment to the train, 
 where -that unconscious clay was. laid on the seat of 
 an empty second-class compartment. 
 
 " It is the very carriage she was in," said Both- 
 well, pointing to a* torn strip of gray alpaca hang- 
 ing on the metal handle. "Her gown must have 
 caught on the handle as she fell, and this shred was 
 left behind." 
 
 Both well gave the bit of alpaca to Dr. Men- 
 heniot. 
 
 "You can show that to the Coroner," he said; 
 " of course, you will he a witness."
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 11 
 
 " About the only one necessary, I should think," 
 said the doctor. " I saw her fall." 
 
 "Did you?" exclaimed Wyllard. "That's 
 lucky ! And what was your impression as to the 
 manner of her fall — whether she deliberately threw 
 herself out, or whether she was thrown out by a 
 villain ?" 
 
 This was asked in a lowered voice ; since the 
 murderer, if the deed were murder, might be within 
 hearing. 
 
 " Upon my soul, I cannot tell," protested Men- 
 heniot, with a troubled look. " The whole thing 
 was so rapid. It passed like a flash. I was smok- 
 ing, tired, in a dozy condition altogether, and this 
 horrible thing seemed like* a dream. I saw no 
 other head at the carriage window. I saw nothing 
 but that girl standing on the footboard as the train 
 came on to the bridge ; and then, all in a moment, I 
 saw her whirling clown into the gorge, like a 
 feather blown out of a window. If it was suicide 
 she certainly hesitated, for when I first saw her 
 she was standing on the footboard, holding the 
 hand-rail by the side of the door. She did not
 
 12 wyllard 's weird. 
 
 leap out of the* train with one desperate deliber- 
 ate spring. However determined she 'may have 
 been to kill herself, she must have faltered in the 
 act." 
 
 " It would be only human to do so. Poor young 
 thing — a mere child !" said Wyllard regretfully. 
 
 He talked .apart with the guard, recommending 
 that official to keep his eye upon the passengers 
 who got out at Bodmin Kokd, and at all stations 
 further down the line ; to mark any man of 
 ruffianly appearance or agitated demeanour ; to 
 give any such person in charge if he saw but the 
 slightest reason for suspicion. 
 
 The passengers had resumed their seats by this 
 time, and the train began to move slowly onward. 
 The whole period of -delay had not been twenty 
 minutes, and the line between Plymouth and 
 Penzance was tolerably clear at this hour. The 
 train would be able to recover lost time before the 
 end of the journey. 
 
 " You had better come into my carriage," said 
 Wyllard to the young man whom he had addressed 
 as Bothwell.
 
 IX A CORNISH VALLEY. 13 
 
 " I have only a third-class ticket," answered the 
 other. " I've been smoking." 
 
 " I never knew you doing anything else," said 
 Wyllard, with a touch of scorn. " Go back to 
 your third - class carriage. No doubt you want 
 another pipe." 
 
 " I believe after that shock it will do me good," 
 replied the young man, producing his tobacco pouxh 
 on the instant, and beginning to fill his little clay 
 pipe. 
 
 Mr. Wyllard went back to the compartment 
 where he had been sitting at ease all day and alone. 
 There is a mysterious power in the presence of such 
 a man. which, save in the stress of the tourist 
 season, can generally secure solitude. The tourist 
 season had not yet begun, and Mr. Wyllard was 
 known to be good for half-a-crown, and never to 
 offer less ; so his particular compartment was 
 sacred. Even bishops and notabilities of the land 
 were hustled away from the door, beguiled by the 
 promise of something better elsewhere. 
 
 He had strewed the carriage with newspapers 
 and magazines, and now he began to collect all
 
 14 wyllard's weird. 
 
 this literature and to strap it neatly together before 
 arriving at his journey's end. He was neat and 
 methodical in all small matters, yet he was in 
 nowise a prig or a pedant. His tall, powerful 
 frame and strongly marked features were upon a 
 large scale. He had a large brain and a large 
 manner. 
 
 # Look at him now as he sits in his corner of Jbhe 
 luxurious carriage, against a background of light- 
 drab cloth. A man in the prime of manhood, five- 
 and-forty at most ; a fine head well set on"; light- 
 brown hair, thick and silky, brushed aside from a 
 broad square forehead, in which there are all the 
 indications of intellectual power. Large, full blue 
 eyes, whose normal expression is severe, but the 
 expression softens \vhen the man smiles, brightens 
 and sparkles when the man laughs. He has a 
 beautiful smile, a sonorous laugh, and a voice of 
 power and compass rare among English voices. 
 The features are firmly modelled, bold, massive ; 
 the mouth, when the lips are closely set, as they 
 are just now, looks as if it were cut out of stone. 
 A man likely to love profoundly, and not likely to
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 15 
 
 hate lightly. A staunch friend, as everybody knows 
 in this part of the country ; but perchance a deadly 
 foe were great provocation given ; a man to keep a 
 secret as closely as the grave. A man to give 
 money as freely as if it were water. 
 
 The train stopped at Bodmin Eoad, in a pic- 
 turesque valley, deep amidst pine - clothed hills, 
 and adjoining a park of exceptional beauty. There 
 was a quiet little roadside inn, about five minutes' 
 walk from the station, and to this strange hostelry 
 the dead, girl was conveyed, a shrouded form lying 
 on a shutter, and carried by two railway-porters. 
 She was laid in a darkened chamber at the back of 
 the house, to await the advent of the Coroner, a gen- 
 tleman of some importance, who lived ten- miles off. 
 
 An open carriage was waiting for Julian Wyllard, 
 and in the carriage sat a beautiful woman, smiling 
 welcome upon him as he came out of the station. 
 The dead girl had been carried out by another 
 way. The lady in the carriage knew nothing of the 
 tragedy. 
 
 " How late the train is this evening !" she said. 
 " I Was beginning to feel uneasy."
 
 16 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 " There has been an accident." 
 
 " An accident ! 0, how dreadful ! But you are 
 not hurt ?" she cried anxiously, 1< oking at him from 
 top to toe, suspicious of some deadly injury which 
 he might he heroically concealing. 
 
 "No, it was not a railway accident. There is 
 no one hurt except a poor girl who threw herself, 
 or was thrown, out of the train." 
 
 " How terrible !" exclaimed Mrs. Wyllard. " Is 
 it any one we know — any one about here ?" 
 
 "No, she is quite a stranger, poor child, and 
 from her dress and general appearance I should take 
 her to be a Frenchwoman. But we shall know more 
 after the inquest." 
 
 " How very sad ! A stranger alone in a strange 
 land, and to meet such a death ! But do you really 
 believe that any one threw her out of the train, 
 Julian ? That seems too horrible to be true." 
 
 "My dear, I believe nothing. The poor crea- 
 ture's fate is shrouded in mystery. Whether she 
 killed herself or whether any one killed her is an 
 open question. I told the guard and the station- 
 master to be on the alert, and to stop any suspicious
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 17 
 
 character. I shall call at the police-office as we 
 drive through the town. Here is Bothwell," added 
 Wyllard, as the young man came sauntering lazily 
 along. " Did you know that he had gone to Ply- 
 mouth ?" 
 
 "Not I," replied Mrs. Wyllard. "He did not 
 appear at luncheon, but as he is always erratic I 
 did not even wonder about him. What took you to 
 Plymouth this morning, Bothwell ?'* she asked, as 
 her cousin came up to the carriage door. 
 
 They were first cousins, and it was his cousin- 
 ship with Julian Wyllard' s beautiful wife which 
 secured Bothwell Grahame free quarters at Pen- 
 morval. They were children of twin sisters who 
 had loved each other with more than common love, 
 who had seldom been parted till death parted them 
 untimely. Bothwell's mother was cut off in the 
 flower of her youth and beauty, leaving her only child 
 an infant, and her husband a broken-hearted man. 
 Captain Grahame went to India with his regiment, 
 less than a year after his wife's death, to fight and 
 fall in the Punjaub, and Bothwell, the orphan, was 
 brought up by his mother's sister, Mrs. Tregony 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Dalrnaine, at a fine old manor-house near the Land's 
 End. 
 
 He was two years younger than Theodora Dal- 
 rnaine, and he was to the child as a younger 
 brother. They were brought up together, played 
 together, and shared the same schoolroom and 
 the same governess, till Bothwell was drafted off 
 to Woolwich, having set his heart upon being a 
 soldier, and in his father's regiment. The bright, 
 quick-witted girl was considerably in advance of 
 the boy in all their mutual studies. She was 
 industrious where he was idle, for it must be 
 owned that even in the' beginning of things Both- 
 well was somewhat scampish in his mind and 
 habits. 
 
 He did pretty well at Woolwich — passed his 
 examinations respectably, if not with eclat. His 
 heart was set upon soldiering, and he did not object 
 to work when his heart was in the labour. He was 
 a good soldier, and one of the most popular men in 
 his regiment. He saw a good deal of service in 
 Afghanistan, as an officer of Engineers, not without 
 distinction : but he came to grief, in spite of his
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 19 
 
 many good qualities. He squandered every shilling 
 of his small patrimony, got into debt, and finally 
 left the army, and thus dropped out of that one 
 career for which nature and education had especially 
 fitted him, turned aside from the one path which 
 might have led him to fame and honour. And now 
 he was an idler, without place or station in the 
 world, money, or repute, an encumbrance and a 
 burden to his family, as he told himself every day. 
 He had vague ideas of chalking out a career for 
 himself; had visions of colonial paradises, where he 
 might do wonders ; was always devising some new 
 plan, inclining to some new place ; but his "aspira- 
 tions had not yet taken any tangible form. He 
 was continually falling in with some new adviser, who 
 wrenched all his ideas out of the soil in which they 
 had taken root, and transplanted them to another 
 locality. 
 
 " Spanish America !" said Smith ; " don't think 
 of it. You would be dead in a week. Have you 
 never heard of the vomito negro, the deadliest disease 
 known to man ? Otaheite is the place for you ! A 
 superb climate, a new area for an enterprising young
 
 20 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Englishman ! You would make your fortune in 
 three years." 
 
 Then came Jones, who laughed at- the notion of 
 the South Sea Islands, and advised Bothwell to get 
 a tract of waste land, near the mouth of the Gironde, 
 and grow fir-trees, and export their resin ; that was 
 the one certain road to fortune. You had first you 
 resin, a large annual revenue, and then you had 
 your timber for railway sleepers, returning cent per 
 cent. Bothwell did not venture to ask how you got 
 your resin after you had sold your timber. 
 
 Anon came Bobinson, who recommended Canada 
 and the lumber trade ; and after him Brown, who 
 declared that the only theatre for intelligent youth 
 was the interior of Africa. In the multitude of 
 counsellors there is wisdom, says Scripture ; but 
 Bothwell found that in the multitude of counsellors 
 there is bewilderment akin to madness. He had 
 an honest desire to get his own living ; but so far 
 uncertainty as to the manner of getting it had 
 barred the way to fortune. 
 
 " What took me to Plymouth ?" he repeated. 
 " Upon my word, I hardly know. It was so deadly
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 21 
 
 quiet at Penmorval this morning. I wanted to hear 
 the voices of my fellow-men. I went third class, 
 you know, Dora. It wasn't a very extravagant 
 proceeding," he murmured confidentially. " Shall 
 I ride on the box ?" 
 
 " You had better come inside," said Wyllard ; 
 " there is plenty of room ;" whereupon Bothwell 
 took the back seat of the barouche, opposite his 
 cousin and her husband. 
 
 Bodmin town was some miles from Bodmin 
 Ptoad, a lovely drive in the tranquil July eventide ; 
 but both those men were haunted by the vision of 
 that dead face, those dislocated limbs, hanging 
 loosely, like a dead stag hauled along by huntsman 
 and whip, while the hounds cluster round their prey. 
 An event so terrible was not to be dismissed lightly. 
 
 " I wonder who she was, and where she was 
 going?" said Bothwell. 
 
 " Some little nursery governess, I daresay, going 
 to her situation." 
 
 " In that case we shall hear all about her at the 
 inquest. She will have been expected, and her 
 employers will come to the fore."
 
 22 wyllard' s weird. 
 
 " What a terrible thing for her parents, if they 
 are living; most of all for her poor mother !" said 
 Mrs. Wyllard. 
 
 She pronounced the last word with peculiar soft- 
 ness. She had an exalted idea of the sacredness 
 of the relationship between mother and child. She 
 had passionately loved her own mother ; had passion- 
 ately longed for a child in the earlier years of her 
 wedded life. But she had been a wife seven years, 
 and no child had lived to bless her. A son had 
 been born within a year of her marriage — born only 
 to die : and now she had left off hoping that she 
 would ever be called upon this earth by the dear 
 name of mother. 
 
 They drove past familiar woods and hills, ferny 
 dells, and limpid brooks. They saw the great 
 brown tors standing afar off against the amber sky : 
 but that one haunting thought of a horrible death 
 spoiled all the beauty of the scene. . They had no 
 eyes for the landscape, but sat in serious silence. 
 
 Mr. Wyllard alighted at the Bodmin police- 
 station, and spent about ten minutes in conversa- 
 tion with the Inspector, who was at once shocked
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 23 
 
 and elated on hearing of the strange death on the 
 railway. He was shocked at the horror of the 
 thing ; he was elated at the idea of an inquiry and 
 investigation which might result in honour and 
 profit to himself. 
 
 Mrs. Wyllard sat in the carriage with Bothwell, 
 while her husband and the official conversed gravely 
 on the threshold of the station-house. Bothwell 
 talked about the girl and her mysterious death. He 
 described the poor little white face, the look of 
 horror in that glassy stare of death. 
 
 " Did she look like a lady ?" asked Dora, full of 
 painful interest. 
 
 " Hardly, I think. She had that pretty, neat 
 appearance which one sees in French girls of a class 
 just a little above the grisette. Her frock, and her 
 boots, and her cotton gloves must all have suited 
 herself and her station to a nicety. There was no 
 touch of that vulgar finery which makes a half-bred 
 English girl odious. I daresay Wyllard is right, 
 and that she was a poor little governess, going out 
 into a strange land to earn her bread and learn a 
 foreign language. There are thousands who go out
 
 24 wyllard's weird. 
 
 every year, I have no doubt ; only this one has con- 
 trived to jump into notoriety and an early grave at 
 the same time. By Jove ! here comes the Coroner. 
 We shall be the first to tell him that he will be 
 wanted to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Wyllard blushed faintly as she turned to 
 look at an approaching horseman. She had not, 
 even to this day, left off blushing at any sudden 
 mention of Edward Heathcote's name ; and yet it 
 was seven years since she had jilted him in order 
 to marry Julian Wyllard. 
 
 A sad story, all forgiven now, if not forgotten. 
 A deep wrong done by a noble-hearted woman to a 
 noble-hearted man. It was the one act of Theodora 
 Wyllard's life which she could not look back upon 
 without remorse. In all other relations of life she 
 had been perfect — devoted daughter, devoted wife- 
 But in this one thing she had sinned. This man 
 had loved her faithfully, fondly, from the dawn of 
 her girlish beauty, from the beginning of her 
 womanly grace. She had accepted his love, and 
 had seemed to herself to return it, measure for 
 measure. She had looked forward to the years when
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 25 
 
 they two would be one. And then, in a fatal hour, 
 another face flashed across the foreground of her life 
 — a new voice thrilled her ear — an influence was 
 exercised over her which she had never felt before, 
 a power too potent for resistance — and, in a moment 
 of passionate self-abandonment, she knelt at Edward 
 Heathcote's feet, and confessed her love for another. 
 Julian Wyllard had broken down all barriers, had 
 asked her to be his wife, knowing her to be engaged 
 to another man. But there are those who think' 
 that a great irresistible love outweighs all scruples 
 of honour or conscience. 
 
 " Why do you ask me for your freedom, as if it 
 were so great a favour ?" Heathcote said bitterly, as 
 he lifted her up from her knees. "Do you think I 
 would have you — this mere beautiful clay— now that 
 your heart has gone from me ? Do you think I, who 
 love you a hundred times better than I love myself, 
 would stand between you and happiness ? You are 
 free, Dora. I have seen this misery coming upon 
 me ever since this stranger came into your mother's 
 house." 
 
 "And you will forgive me ?" she pleaded, with
 
 26 wyllard's weird. 
 
 clasped hands, looking at him with streaming eyes, 
 sorry for him, deeply ashamed of her infidelity. 
 
 " Can I he angry with you, loving you as I do ? 
 God forgive you, Dora, for all your sins, large or 
 small, as freely as I forgive your sin against me." 
 
 He kissed her unresisting lips for the last time, 
 and so left «her, as nearly broken-hearted as a man 
 can be and yet recover. 
 
 He did recover, or was, at any rate, supposed to 
 be cured, since, two years after Theodora Dalmaine's 
 wedding, he married a fair young girl, penniless, 
 friendless, and an orphan ; a wife who loved, him as 
 he deserved to be loved, and who, after less than 
 two years of wedded life, died, leaving two children, 
 twin daughters. It was three years since the grave 
 had closed upon her, and Edward Heathcote was 
 still a widower, and was believed to have no thought 
 of marriage. 
 
 He came riding slowly along the street in the 
 fading light, a man of striking appearance, mounted 
 on a fine horse,, a man of about three-and-thirty, 
 tall, broad-shouldered. He had a dark complexion, 
 and dark-brown hair, deep.-set gray eyes, which
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 27 
 
 looked almost black under dark heavy brows, an 
 aquiline nose, a heavy moustache and beard. 
 
 He had begun life as a younger son, and had 
 practised for some years as a solicitor in the town 
 of Plymouth — had been town clerk and a man of 
 public importance in that place — when his elder 
 brother died a bachelor, and Edward Heathcote 
 inherited a snug little estate near Bodmin, with a 
 curious old country house called The Spaniards. 
 The place had been so named on account of the 
 Spanish chestnuts which flourished there in ex- 
 ceeding beauty. ■ On becoming owner of . The 
 Spaniards, and the estate that went with it, Edward 
 Heathcote retired from the law, and went to live at 
 the place of his birth, where he looked after the 
 well-being of his baby girls and his young sister, 
 and let his days glide by in the quiet monotony of a 
 country squire's life, hunting and shooting, sitting 
 in judgment upon poachers and small defaulters at 
 petty sessions, and acting as coroner for his division 
 of the county. He had been leading this life of 
 rural respectability for a year. 
 
 He rode up to the carriage and shook hands
 
 28 wyllard's weird. 
 
 with Mrs. Wyllard. He was her neighbour, and 
 had visited Penmorval during the last year. There 
 had never been the faintest indication in his man- 
 ner or his speech that Julian Wyllard' a wife was 
 any more to him than a friend. He was pleased to 
 visit her, anxious that she should be interested in 
 his motherless children, pleased to confide his plans 
 and his thoughts to her. Time had sobered his 
 enthusiasm about all things, and had softened all 
 bitter memories. He took life now as a gentle 
 legato movement. He had lived and suffered, and 
 done his duty, and that which was left to him was 
 rest. He sat down among his fields and his vine- 
 yards to take his ease just a little earlier than other 
 men, that was all. A great sorrow suffered in the 
 morning of life ages a man by at least a de- 
 cade. 
 
 "Why are you waiting outside the station- 
 house?" he asked; "have you had an alarm of 
 burglars at Penmorval ?" 
 
 "It is something much worse than that," 
 answered Mrs. Wyllard gravely ; and then Both well 
 related the catastrophe on the railway.
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 29 
 
 Julian Wyllard came back to the carriage just as 
 the story was finished. 
 
 " This will be a job for you, Heathcote, " he said. 
 
 " A very sad one. The story has a brutal sound 
 to me, remembering past stories of the same kind," 
 answered Heathcote. " It shall not be my fault if 
 the ruffian escapes." 
 
 " You think there is a ruffian, then ? You don't 
 take it for a case of suicide ?" 
 
 "Decidedly not, 1 ' replied the other promptly. 
 "Why should a girl choose such a death as that?" 
 
 " Why should a girl throw herself off the Monu- 
 ment ?" asked Wyllard. " Yet we know girls had a 
 rage for doing that, fifty years ago. However, you 
 will have a good opportunity for the display of your 
 legal acumen in a really mysterious case. I did all 
 I could in my small way to put the officials on the 
 alert along the line ; and if any scoundrel had a 
 hand in that poor child's death, I don't believe he 
 will get off easily. Where are you riding ?" 
 
 " Only for an evening stroll over the downs." 
 
 " You had better come home and have supper 
 with us. It will be too late to call it dinner."
 
 30 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " You are very good, but I dined at seven. Be- 
 sides, I shall have to arrange about this inquest for 
 to-morrow. I'll talk to Morris, and then ride on to 
 the Vital Spark, and settle matters with the people 
 there." 
 
 The Vital Spark was the small roadside inn 
 where tlje dead girl was lying. The Penmorval 
 barouche drove off, while Edward Heathcote stopped 
 to talk to Morris, the Inspector. The jury would 
 have to get notice early next morning. The inquest 
 was to be held at five in the afternoon. This would 
 give time for the tradesmen to get away from their 
 shops. The chief business of the day in Bodmin 
 town would be over. 
 
 " It will give time for any one in this neighbour- 
 hood, who knows anything about the girl, to come 
 forward," added Mr. Heathcote. " If she was going 
 to a situation in this part of the world, as Mr. 
 Wyllard suggests, some one must know all about 
 her." 
 
 "What a man he is, Mr. Heathcote !" said the 
 Inspector admiringly. " Such clearness, such de- 
 cision ; always to the point."
 
 IN A COENISH VALLEY. 31 
 
 " Yes, he is a very superior man," answered 
 Heathcote heartily. 
 
 He had schooled himself long ago to generous 
 thoughts about his rival. It pleased him to know 
 that Dora had been lucky in her choice, that she 
 had not taken a scorpion into her bosom when she 
 preferred another man to himself. He ha,d won- 
 dered sometimes — in a mere idle wonder, when he 
 saw her in her beautiful home at Penmorval — 
 whether it would have been possible for him to 
 make her life happier than Julian Wyllard had 
 made it; whether in his uttermost adoration he 
 could ever have been a better husband to her than 
 Julian Wyllard had been. He had looked search- 
 ingly for any flaw in the perfection of that union, 
 and he had perceived none. He was generous- 
 minded enough to be glad that it was so. 
 
 The carriage drove slowly up a long hill, and 
 across a wide expanse of heathy ground, before it 
 entered the gate of Penmorval, which was two 
 miles from the town. It was a beautiful old place, 
 standing on high ground, yet so richly wooded as 
 to be shut in from the outer world. Only the Cor-
 
 32 wyllard's weikd. 
 
 nish giants, Roughtor and Brown Willie, showed 
 their dark crests ahove the broad belt of timber 
 which surrounded the good old Tudor mansion. A 
 double avenue of elms and yews led to the old 
 stone porch. The long stone facade facing north- 
 ward looked out upon a level lawn divided from 
 the park by a haw haw. The southern front was 
 curtained with roses and myrtle, and looked upon 
 one of the loveliest gardens in Cornwall — a garden 
 which had been the pride and delight of many 
 generations — a garden for which the wives and 
 dowagers of three centuries of Cornish squires 
 had laboured and thought. Nowhere could be 
 found more glorious roses, or such a treasury of 
 out-of-the-way flowers, from the finest to' the 
 simplest that grows. Nowhere did April sunlight 
 shine upon such tulips and hyacinths, nowhere 
 did June crown herself with fairer lilies, or autumn 
 flaunt in greater splendour of dahlias, hollyhocks, 
 and chrysanthemums. The soil teemed with flowers. 
 There was no room left for a weed. 
 
 For a childless wife like Dora Wyllard a garden 
 such as this is a kind of spurious family. She has
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 33 
 
 her hopes, her fears, her raptures and anxieties 
 about her roses and chrysanthemums, just as 
 mothers have about their girls and boys. She 
 counts the blossoms on a particular Gloire de 
 Dijon. She remembers the cruel winter when 
 that superb John Hopper succumbed to the frost. 
 She has her nostrums and remedies for green- fly, 
 as mothers have for measles. That glorious old 
 garden helped to fill the cup of Mrs. Wyllard's 
 happiness, for it gave her inexhaustible employ- 
 ment. Having such a garden she could never say, 
 with the languid yawn of the idle and the pros- 
 perous, " What can I do with myself to-day ?" 
 But Dora was not dependent on her garden for 
 occupation. Exacting as the roses and lilies were, 
 manifold as were the cares of the hothouses and 
 ferneries and wildernesses, Mrs. Wyllard's hus- 
 band was more exacting still. When Julian. was 
 at home she could give but little time to her 
 garden. He could hardly bear his wife to be out 
 of his sight for half an hour. She had to be 
 interested in all his schemes, all his letters, even to 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 the driest business details. She rode and drove 
 with him, and, as he had no taste for field sports, 
 neither his guns nor his hunters took hini away 
 from her. He was a studious man, a man of 
 artistic temperament, a lover of curious books and 
 fine bindings, a lover of pictures and statues, and 
 porcelain and enamels — a worshipper of the beau- 
 tiful in every form. His tastes were such as a 
 woman could easily and naturally share with him. 
 This made their union all the more complete. 
 Other wives wondered at beholding such domestic 
 sympathy. There were some whose husbands could 
 not sit by the domestic hearth ten minutes without 
 dismal yawnings, men who depended upon news- 
 papers for all their delight, men whose minds were 
 always in the stable. Julian W^llard was an ideal 
 husband, who never yawned in a tcte-a-tcte with his 
 wife, who shared every joy and every thought with 
 the woman of his choice. 
 
 To-night, when they two sat down to the half-past 
 nine o'clock meal, with Bothwell, who was not much 
 worse than a Newfoundland dog, for their sole 
 companion, the wife's first question showed her
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 35 
 
 familiarity with the business that had taken her 
 husband to London! 
 
 "Well, Julian, did you get the Raffaelle ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " No, dear. The picture went for just three 
 times the value I had put upon it." 
 
 " And you did not care to give such a price ?" 
 
 " Well, no. There are limits, 'even for a mono- 
 maniac like me. I had allowed myself a margin. I 
 was. prepared to give a hundred or two over the 
 thousand which I had put down as the price of the 
 picture ; but when it went up to fifteen hundred I 
 retired from the contest, and it was finally knocked 
 down to Lamb, the dealer, for two thousand 
 guineas. A single figure — a half-length figure of 
 Christ bearing the cross, against a background of 
 vivid blue sky. But such divinity in the counte- 
 nance, such pathetic eyes ! I saw women turn away 
 with tears after they had looked at that picture." 
 
 "You ought to have bought it," said Dora, who 
 knew that her husband had a great deal more money 
 than he could spend, and who thought that he had a 
 right to indulge his own caprices.
 
 36 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " My clearest, as I said before, there are limits,' 
 he answered, smiling at her enthusiasm. 
 
 "Then you had your journey, and I had to en- 
 dure the loss of your society for three dreary days, 
 all for nothing ?" said Dora, 
 
 " Not quite for nothing. There was the pleasure 
 of seeing a very fine collection of pictures, and some 
 magnificent Limoges enamels. I succeeded in 
 buying you a little Greuze. I am told by French 
 art-critics that it is a low thing to admire Greuze, 
 the sign of a vulgar mind. He is the painter of 
 the bourgeois, the cpicicr. But, for all that, you 
 and I have agreed to like Greuze ; so I bought this 
 little picture for your morning-room. I got it for 
 five hundred and fifty, and I believe it is a genuine 
 bit in the painter's best manner." 
 
 "How good you are to me!" exclaimed Dora, 
 getting up and going over to her husband. 
 
 She bent down to kiss him as he sat at the table. 
 They had dismissed the servants from this in- 
 formal meal, so Mrs. Wyllard was not afraid of 
 being considered eccentric, if she showed that she 
 was grateful. She did not mind Bothwell. Five
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 37 
 
 hundred and fifty ! How freely this rich man 
 talked of his hundreds, as it seemed to Bothwell, 
 pinched by the consciousness of debts which the 
 cost of that picture would have covered — little seed- 
 lings of debts, scattered long ago by the wayside, 
 and putting forth perennial flowers in the shape of 
 unpleasant letters from creditors, which made him 
 hate the sight of the postman. 
 
 Neither Wyllard nor Grahame ate a hearty meal. 
 That picture of the dead face was too vividly present 
 in the minds of both. . Meat and drink and pleasant 
 talk were* out of harmony with that horror which 
 both had looked upon three hours ago. They took 
 more wine than usual, and hardly ate anything. 
 
 "Will you come for a stroll in the garden, 
 Julian?" asked Dora, as they rose from the 
 table. 
 
 It was half-past ten o'clock, a lovely summer 
 night. A- great golden moon was shining low 
 down in the purple sky, just above the bank of 
 foliage : not that far-off moon which belongs to all 
 the world, but a big yellow lamp lighting one's own 
 garden.
 
 38 wyllard's weird. 
 
 "Do come," she said, "it is such a delicious 
 night." 
 
 "I dare not. indulge myself, dear ; I have my 
 letters to open before I go to bed. I was just 
 going to order a fire in the library." 
 
 " A fire, on such a night as this ! I'm afraid you 
 have caught cold." 
 
 "I think it not unlikely," answered her hus- 
 band, as he rang the bell. 
 
 " Don't you think your letters might keep till 
 to-morrow morning,. Julian ?" pleaded Dora. "We 
 could have a fire in the morning-room, and sit and* 
 talk." 
 
 " That would be delightful, but I must not allow 
 myself to be tempted. I should not rest to-night 
 with the idea of a pile of unopened letters." 
 
 He gave his orders to the servant. His letters 
 and papers were all on the library table. A fire was 
 to be lighted there immediately. 
 
 "You will be late, I am afraid," said Dora. 
 
 " I may be a little late. Don't wait up for me 
 on any account, dearest. Good-night!" 
 
 He kissed her; and she said good-night, but
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 39 
 
 reserved her liberty to sit up for him all the same. 
 There is no use in a husband saying to a wife of 
 Mrs. Wyllard's temperament, " Don't sit up for 
 me, and don't worry yourself!" Sleep was impos- 
 sible to Dora until she knew that her husband was 
 at rest ; just as happiness was impossible to her 
 when parted from him. She had made herself a 
 part of his being, had merged her very existence 
 in his ; she had no value, hardly any individuality, 
 apart from him. 
 
 "Julian looks tired and anxious," she said to her 
 cousin, who stood smoking a cigarette just outside 
 the window. 
 
 "You can't be surprised at that," answered 
 Bothwell. " That business on the railway was 
 enough to make any man feel queer. I shall not 
 forget it for a long time." 
 
 " It must have been an awful shock. And men 
 with strong natures and powerful frames are some- 
 times more sensitive than -your fragile beings with 
 nervous temperaments," said Dora. " I have often 
 been struck with Julian's morbid feeling about
 
 40 wyllard's weird. 
 
 things which a strong man might be supposed to 
 regard with indifference." 
 
 " He is a deuced good fellow," said Bothwell, 
 who had been mor,e generously treated by his 
 cousin's husband than by any of his own clan. 
 "Won't you come for a turn in the garden? I 
 won't start another cigarette, if you object." 
 
 "You know I don't mind smoke," she answered, 
 joining him. "Why, how your hand shakes, Both- 
 well ! You can hardly light your cigarette." 
 
 "Didn't I say that I was upset by that business ? 
 I don't suppose I shall sleep a wink to-night." 
 
 They walked in the rose-garden for more than 
 an hour. Garden and night were both alike 
 ideal. An Italian garden, with formal terraces, 
 and beds of roses, and a .fountain in the centre, a 
 bold and plenteous jet that rose from a massive 
 marble basin. Boses, magnolia, jasmine, and Mary- 
 lilies filled the air with perfume. TLte moon had 
 changed from gold to silver, and was high up in 
 heaven. 
 
 It was everybody's moon now, silvering the 
 humble roofs of Bodmin, shining over the church,
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 41 
 
 the gaol, the lunatic asylum, and shining on that 
 humble village inn five or six miles away, beneath 
 whose rustic roof the stranger was lying, with no one 
 to pray beside her bed. 
 
 Bothwell sauntered silently by his cousin's side. 
 She, too, was silent, and felt no inclination to talk 
 or to listen. She was glad to be out in the garden 
 while her husband opened his letters. She knew 
 there was a pile of correspondence waiting for him 
 — such letters as devour the leisure of a country 
 gentleman of wealth and high standing, letters for 
 the most part uninteresting, and very often trouble- 
 some. It would take Julian Wyllard a long time 
 to wade through them all. But when the stable 
 clock struck twelve, Dora thought she might fairly 
 hope to find the task finished. 
 
 " Good-night, Bothwell," she said. " I'll go and 
 look for Julian." 
 
 The servants had all gone to bed, and the lamps 
 had been extinguished, except in the hall and 
 corridors. A half-glass door opened from the 
 garden into the hall, and this was always left un- 
 bolted for the accommodation of Bothwell, who
 
 -12 wyllard's weird. 
 
 was fond of late saunterings in the grounds. The 
 library was at the further end of the house, a 
 superb room, filled with a choice collection of 
 books, the growth of«the last seven years ; for Julian 
 Wyllard was a new man in the county, and had 
 only owned Penmorval during that period. 
 
 There was a good fire burning in the artistic 
 tiled grate — a modern improvement upon the old 
 arrangement in wrought iron. Mr. Wyllar'd had 
 opened all his letters, and had evidently burned 
 some of them, for an odour of calcined- paper and 
 sealing-wax pervaded the room. 
 
 He was sitting in a low chair beside the hearth, 
 in a stooping attitude, deeply meditative, looking 
 down at some object in his hands. He was so 
 profoundly absorbed as to be unconscious of Dora's 
 presence till she was standing close beside him. 
 
 The object which so engrossed his attention, 
 which had led his thoughts backward to the far- 
 away past, was a long tress of chestnut hair. He 
 had wound it round his fingers — a smooth, silken 
 tress, which flashed with gleams of gold in the 
 cheery light of the fire.
 
 IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 43 
 
 t 
 
 " What beautiful hair !" said Dora gently, as 
 she looked downward from behind his shoulder. 
 " Whose is it, Julian ?" 
 
 " It was ray sister's,'.' he answered. 
 
 " The sister who died so many years ago. Poor 
 Julian ! You have been sitting here alone, giving 
 yourself up to sad memories." 
 
 "I came upon this auburn tress among some 
 old papers just now, while I was looking for Martin's 
 lease." 
 
 He rolled the hair up quickly, and flung it into 
 the flaming coals. 
 
 "0 Julian, why did you do that?" asked his 
 wife reproachfully. 
 
 " What is the use of keeping such things, only 
 to perpetuate sorrowful memories ? God knows we 
 have enough of our dead. They haunt us and plague 
 us at every stage of life. We cannot get rid of them." 
 
 The bitterness of his tone jarred upon his wife's 
 ear. 
 
 "My dearest, you are wearied and out of spirits," 
 she said. "You have worked too long. Were 
 your letters troublesome ?"
 
 44 wyllard's weerd. . 
 
 " Not more so than usual, dear. Yes, I am 
 very tired." 
 
 " And that dreadful event on the line has troubled 
 you. Poor Bothwell is quite upset by it. I am so 
 sorry for you, Julian," said his wife soothingly, 
 leaning upon his shoulder, smoothing back the 
 thick hair from the broad, full brow. 
 
 " My dear child, there is no reason to be sorry 
 for me. Dreadful events are happening every day, 
 all over the world. We hear of them, and feel how 
 feeble a thing life is under such conditions as those 
 on which we all hold our existence. This evening I 
 happened to be brought face to face with a terrible 
 death. That is all the difference."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 
 
 There was great excitement in Bodmin on the 
 afternoon of the inquest ; a delicious summer after- 
 noon, which seemed made for quiet arcadian joys ; 
 an afternoon to be spent in day-dreams under forest 
 boughs, or drifting lazily adown a placid stream ; 
 rather than .for gathering together in a stifling 
 tavern -parlour, listening to the droning accents of 
 a police-constable, or the confused statements and 
 innocent prevarications of a railway-porter. But 
 it may be that the inhabitants of Bodmin fhad 
 drunk their fill of the cup of pastoral joys, that 
 they had had more than enough of heathery moor- 
 land and foxglove - bordered lane, dog - rose and 
 honeysuckle, waving boughs and winding streams, 
 and that this satiety made them flock to the little 
 inn beyond Bodmin Road station, where they 
 elbowed and hustled one another in the endeavour
 
 46 wyllard's weird. 
 
 to get a good view of the Coroner and the wit- 
 nesses. 
 
 An . inquest was not in itself such a thrilling 
 event. There had been inquests held in Bodmin 
 which inspired neither curiosity nor excitement in 
 the mind of the town. But this inquiry of to-day 
 interested everybody. "Who could tell what mystery 
 — what ' story of falsehood and wrong — had gone 
 before that sad, strange death ? The report had 
 gone about that the victim was a foreigner, and 
 this gave a deeper note to the mystery. Why had 
 she come to that spot to kill herself? or who had 
 lured her there to murder her ? These were the 
 questions which were discussed in Bodmin freely 
 that fair July morning j questions which gave birth 
 to various wise and abstruse theories, every one of 
 which seemed to the inventor thereof a most plau- 
 sible explanation of this dark problem in human 
 history. 
 
 "If anybody can throw light upon the business, 
 Squire Heathcote .is the man to do. it," said Mr. 
 Bate, grocer, general-dealer, and churchwarden. 
 
 Edward Heathcote was one of the most popular
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 47 
 
 men within ten miles of Bodmin. He was a native 
 of the soil, had . been known to the neighbourhood 
 from his childhood. He came of a race that was 
 held in high honour, which had produced men 
 famous with sword and gown in the days that were 
 gone. Honour, courage, and all generous feelings 
 were supposed to run in the blood of the Heathcotes. 
 He had succeeded to a small estate and a fine old 
 Grange, in which his forefathers had lived from 
 generation to generation. In the deepest night of 
 past ages there had been Heathcotes in the land. 
 Thus, albeit he was by no means a rich man as com- 
 pared with Julian- "Wyllard, he stood higher than 
 the wealthy financier in the esteem of those good 
 old conservatives who held that money is not every- 
 thing. Mr. Wyllard was a new-comer, had bought 
 Penmorval just before his marriage — choosing this 
 part of the world for his residence because Theodora 
 Dalmaine loved it, rather than for any leaning of his 
 own. He was known to have made the greater part 
 of his money himself — a low thing for a man to 
 have done. Even commercial fortunes become hal- 
 lowed after they have filtered from father to son fo r
 
 48 wyllard's weird. 
 
 three or four generations. Thus, although he was 
 altogether the most important personage in the 
 neighbourhood, and belonged to the landed gentry 
 by right of recent purchase, there were people who 
 looked upon Julian Wyllard as a parvenu, and who 
 were somewhat disposed to resent the weight which 
 his wealth gave him in local affairs. 
 
 Squire Heathcote was said to be the best coroner 
 who had filled that office at Bodmin within the 
 memory of the oldest inhabitant. His legal expe- 
 riences had been of a wider range than those of 
 the average provincial solicitor. He had served 
 his articles to a w r ell-known London firm ; he had 
 travelled a good deal, and had seen men and cities. 
 He had been brought into close relations with his 
 fellow-men under manifold conditions ; and he was 
 said to be a marvellous reader of character, an impar- 
 tial and clear-headed judge. On more than one 
 occasion he had shown an acumen rarely met with 
 at a rural inquest ; and he had disentangled more 
 than one knotted skein. It was argued, therefore, 
 that if any one could unravel the mystery of the dead 
 girl's fate, Squire Heathcote was the man to do it.
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 49 
 
 Nothing could he quieter or less pretentious than 
 his manner as he took his seat at the head of the 
 long tahle in the parlour of the Vital Spark; hut 
 there were signs of anxiety or emotion in the somhre 
 fire of the deep-set gray eyes, and the nervous 
 movement of the sun-hurnt hand, which played 
 with his dark chestnut-heard. He sat for some 
 minutes looking down at his notes, and then slowly 
 raised his eyes and surveyed the room, which was 
 quite full. 
 
 Julian "Wyllard was sitting near the opposite end 
 of the table, with little Dr. Menheniot by his side. 
 Both well Grahame. was seated apart from them 
 and nearer the jury. He had a haggard look, Mr. 
 Heathcote thought, as of a man who had passed a 
 troubled night. 
 
 There were three or four railway officials presentj 
 and these were the principal witnesses. First came 
 the guard on the down train from Paddington, whose 
 evidence was meagre, since it appeared that he had 
 only seen the dead girl standing on the footboard a 
 moment before she fell. She was. standing on the 
 footboard and clinging to the hand-rail, with her 
 
 VOL. i. e
 
 50 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 face to the coach ; she seemed to be talking to some 
 one inside. It had not seemed to him that she 
 threw herself off the footboard. It had seemed 
 rather as if she had dropped off. 
 
 "Was it your impression that she was thrown 
 off?" asked Heathcote. 
 
 " No, sir. I can't say that was my impression. 
 But the whole thing was too quick for me. to have 
 a very clear idea either way. My first thought was 
 how I could save her. I had only just stepped out 
 upon the footboard when she gave a shriek and 
 fell. She was at the farther end of the train. Be- 
 fore I could get to the carriage from which she had 
 fallen, the engine had slackened and the passengers 
 were getting out." 
 
 "Did you find the carriage out of which she 
 fell?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. There was an empty second-class 
 next but one to the engine. I believe that was the 
 compartment. There was a little basket with some 
 refreshments, and a newspaper, which I believe 
 belonged to the deceased." 
 
 The basket was on the table. It had a foreign
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 51 
 
 look ; a poor little basket, containing a few cher- 
 ries in a cabbage-leaf, and a little bag of biscuits. 
 The newspaper was the French Figaro. The Coro- 
 ner handed the basket to the jury, who examined 
 the contents curiously. There was no scrap of 
 writing, no card or old letter ; nothing to identify 
 the dead girl, or to indicate the place from which 
 she had come. 
 
 "Her clothes and the contents of her pocket 
 have been examined," said Mr. Heathcote, in reply 
 to a question from one of the jury, " but no mark 
 or clue has. been found. Nor has any luggage be- 
 longing to her been discovered, which is curious, 
 since it is not often that any one travels from Lon- 
 don to Cornwall without luggage. I have communi- 
 cated with the London police ; and I have sent an 
 advertisement to the Times, and to a Parisian news- 
 paper. Perhaps, by this means we shall discover 
 the girl's identity. In the mean time the question 
 is, how did she. come by her death ?" 
 
 The next witness was a porter from the Plymouth 
 station, who had taken notice of the girl there while 
 the train waited. He had seen her on the platform, 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 wyllard's weird. 
 
 alone. He was sure that*he had not seen her speak 
 to anybody. She walked up and down the platform 
 two or three times, and he thought she looked 
 puzzled and anxious, as if she expected to meet 
 somebody who had not come. He was too busy 
 looking after people's luggage to watch her closely, 
 but he had noticed her because she looked like a 
 foreigner. He saw her get into a second-class 
 compartment near the engine just as the train *was 
 starting. She got in hurriedly, and it seemed to 
 him that some one inside the compartment had 
 opened the door for her and helped her in ; but he 
 could not be positive about this, as he was a long 
 way off at the time. He had seen the deceased, and 
 he recognised her as the young person he . had 
 observed at Plymouth. 
 
 Dr. Menheniot was the next witness. He gave, 
 technical evidence as to the cause of the girl's 
 death ; but as to the circumstances that preceded 
 her fall, he could say no more than the guard. 
 Yes, a little more, for he had seen the carriage 
 door opened and the girl stepping out on the foot- 
 board. Yes, in answer to the Coroner's question,
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 53 
 
 it had seemed to him that some one thrust her 
 out, yet he could not swear that it was so. The 
 door had opened suddenly ; and he had seen her 
 standing on the footboard, clinging to the open 
 door. If she had meant to commit suicide, it ap- 
 peared to him that she would have leapt at once 
 from the carriage over the embankment. The act 
 of standing on the footboard and clinging to the 
 carriage would imply resistance. 
 
 " It might mean only hesitation," said Heath- 
 cote. " How long do you suppose she remained 
 standing on the footboard ?" 
 
 " Hardly a minute- — perhaps not more than 
 thirty seconds. I heard the guard signal for the 
 stopping of the train, and then I heard her shriek 
 as she fell. It was almost instantaneous. The 
 engine was just on the bridge when I first saw her. 
 It was in the middle of the bridge when she fell. 
 That will give you the best idea as to time." 
 
 " Not more than thirty seconds," said the 
 Coroner, who knew every yard of the line. " Is 
 there any one else here who can tell us anything 
 about this poor girl's death ?"
 
 54 wyllard's weird. . 
 
 There was no one else ; though there were twenty 
 people in the room who had been in the train 
 yesterday evening, and who had gone down into 
 the gorge to see that poor crushed form lying 
 amidst ferns and foxgloves, to look curiously at 
 the small white face, the childish lips for ever mute 
 in death. No one could tell any more, or indeed 
 as much about the details of the catastrophe as Dr. 
 Menheniot and the guard, both of whom had seen 
 the fall : whereas no one else happened to have 
 been looking out of window on the near side of the 
 train. 
 
 "We will adjourn the inquest for a fortnight," 
 said Mr. Heathcote presently, after a whispered 
 consultation with the jury. " The matter is much 
 too mysterious to .be dismissed without a very 
 careful investigation. A fortnight will give ample 
 time for the friends of the deceased to come forward. 
 I have ordered photographs to be taken, with a view 
 to her identification. Burial cannot, of course, be 
 delayed beyond the usual time." 
 
 There were morbid minds among the spectators 
 who envied the photographer his ghastly office.
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 55 
 
 The inquest was felt to have been disappointing. 
 . Kevelations had been expected, and none had come. 
 But Mr. Heathcote had pronounced the case deeply- 
 mysterious : and there was comfort in the idea that 
 he might know more than he cared to reveal yet 
 awhile. 
 
 Julian Wyllard had driven from Penmorval in 
 his own particular dog-cart, with one of the finest 
 horses in the district. Bothwell Grahame, who was 
 a great walker and altogether independent in his 
 habits, had come across the hills, and over cornfields 
 and meadows, as straight as the crow flies. The 
 master of Penmorval's smart trap and high-stepping 
 gray were out of sight before Bothwell left the path- 
 way in front of the Vital Spark, where he lingered 
 to talk over the inquest with some of his Bodmin 
 acquaintance. The young Scotchman was steeped 
 to the eyes in true Caledonian pride of race ; but he 
 had none of the petty pride which makes a man 
 scornful of that portion of the human family which 
 earns its bread by humble avocations. He was as 
 friendly with a railway-porter or a village tradesman 
 as with the proudest landowner in the county ; had
 
 DO WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 not two sets of manners for high and low, or two 
 distinct modes of speech for gentle and simple,, the 
 very intonation different for that inferior clay. 
 Bothwdl had never heen able to understand why 
 some of the men he knew talked to a tradesman or 
 a servant just as they would have spoken to a dog> 
 or, indeed, much less civilly than Both well spoke to 
 his dogs. He was a staunch Conservative in most 
 things ; hut in this one question of respect for his 
 fellow-man he was an unmitigated Radical. 
 
 And now he loitered in front of the inn door, 
 talking to the railway officials who had appeared at 
 the inquest, and who knew Mr. Grahame as a 
 frequent traveller between Bodmin Road and Ply- 
 mouth. 
 
 "There was one thing that didn't come out just 
 now," said the station-master, " and that was the 
 girl's ticket. The ticket was for Plymouth ; and yet 
 here was this poor young thing going on towards 
 Penzance. Why was she going beyond her first 
 destination, eh, Mr. Grahame ? Why did she walk 
 up and down the platform at Plymouth, as if she 
 expected some one to meet her there ? Why did
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 57 
 
 she get into the train at the last moment, just as it 
 was moving out of the station ? . Don't it seem 
 likely that the individual who wa*s to have met her 
 in the station for which she had taken her ticket was 
 the same individual that helped her into the train, 
 and that he made away with her ? A husband, 
 perhaps, who wanted to get rid of a troublesome 
 foreign wife. And he tells her to meet him at 
 Plymouth, and he is there to meet her, but not on 
 the platform as she expects. He is there in hiding 
 in a railway carriage, and he beckons her in just as 
 the train is starting, when he is least likely to be 
 observed in the bustle and hurry of the start." 
 
 "You put your story together very well, Mr. 
 Chafy," said Bothwell somewhat indifferently, as 
 if not deeply interested in the mystery which so 
 enthralled the Bodmin mind. " You ought to have 
 been a detective. But if this poor girl was mur- 
 dered, and her murderer was in the train, how is it 
 that you who are so sharp could not contrive to spot 
 him when you took stock of the passengers ? Mr. 
 Wyllard gave you the office, I remember." 
 
 " Murderers do not carry the brand of Cain, Mr.
 
 58 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Ghrahame," said Edward Heathcote, who had come 
 out of the inn door in time to hear BothwelTs 
 h. "The assassins of our civilised era are 
 high-handed gentlemen, very cunning of fence, and 
 have no more mark upon them than you or I." 
 
 " I helieve the girl's death was an accident," said 
 Bothwcll, with a touch of impatience — "one of those 
 profound mysteries which arc as simple as ABC. 
 She may have been standing by the door, admiring 
 the landscape, and the door may have opened as she 
 leant against it. She might recover herself so far 
 as to stand on the foot-board for a few seconds, 
 clinging to the hand-rail, and then she fell and was 
 killed." 
 
 "Nut a very plausible explanation, my dear 
 Qrahame. She was leaning against the door, look- 
 ing out at the landscape, you suggest, and the door 
 opened and let her out. How was it, then, that 
 when Menheniot and the guard saw her, she was 
 standing on the foot-board with her face to the 
 carriage ? Did she swing herself round on the foot- 
 board, as on a pivot, do you suppose? Rather a 
 difficult achievement, even for an acrobat."
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 59 
 
 * " You need not be so deuced clever," retorted 
 
 Bothwell, who seemed altogether out of sorts this 
 
 afternoon. "It is not my business to find out how 
 
 the young woman came by her death." 
 
 " No," said the Coroner, " but it is mine; and I 
 
 » 
 mean to do it." 
 
 "It won't be the first queer case you've got to 
 the bottom of, Mr. Heathcote," said the station- 
 master, in a tone of respect that amounted almost 
 to reverence. " You remember poor old uncle 
 Taylor, who was found dead at the bottom of the 
 Merrytree shaft over to Truro ? You put a rope 
 round the neck of the scoundrel that killed • him, 
 you did. There's not many men clever enough to 
 keep a secret from you." 
 
 "Good-night, squire; good-night, Cliafy,". said 
 Bothwell, moving off. 
 
 Heathcote followed him. 
 
 " If you are walking home, I'll go part of the way 
 with you," he said. 
 
 " What, are you on foot ?'' asked Bothwell, sur- 
 prised. " What has become of Timour ?"
 
 GO wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Timour is iu a barn, with his shoes off, getting 
 ready for the cub-hunting." 
 
 "And the rest of your stud ?" 
 
 "0, I have plenty of horses to ride, if that is 
 what you mean ; but I rather prefer walking, in such 
 weather as this. How is it you did not drive home 
 in your cousin's dog-cart?" 
 
 " I hate sitting beside another man to be driven," 
 said Bothwell shortly. " There are times, too, when 
 
 a fellow likes to be alone." 
 
 » 
 
 If this were intended for a hint, Mr. Heathcote 
 did not take it. He produced his cigar-case, and 
 offered Bothwell one of his Patagas. He was a 
 great smoker, and renowned for smoking good 
 tobacco ; so Bothwell accepted the cigar and lighted 
 it, but did not relax the sullen air which he had 
 assumed when Mr. Heathcote volunteered his com- 
 pany. 
 
 " You are not looking particularly well this 
 afternoon, Grahamc,." said Heathcote, when they 
 had walked a little way, silently smoking their 
 cigars. 
 
 "0, there's nothing the matter with me," the
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 61 
 
 young man answered carelessly. " I was up late, 
 and t had a bad night, that's all." 
 
 " You were troubled about yesterday's business," 
 suggested the Coroner. 
 
 " The girl's dead face haunted me ; but I had 
 troubles of my own without that." 
 
 "You must have seen a good many dead faces 
 in India." 
 
 "Yes, I have seen plenty — black and white — 
 but there are some things against which a man 
 cannot harden himself, and sudden death is one 
 of them." 
 
 He relapsed into silence, and Heathcote and 
 he walked side by side for some time without 
 a word, the lawyer contemplating the soldier, 
 studying him as if he had been a difficult page 
 in a book. Edward Heathcote had spent a good 
 deal of his life in studying living books of this kind. 
 His practice in Plymouth had been of a. very 
 special character ; he had been trusted in delicate 
 matters, had held the honour of noble families in 
 his keeping, had come between father and son, hus- 
 band and wife ; had been guide, philosopher, and
 
 62 wyllard's weird. 
 
 friend, as well as legal adviser. His reputation for 
 fine feeling and high moral character, the fact of his 
 good birth and ample means, had made him the 
 chosen repository of many a family secret which 
 would have been trusted to very few solicitors. His 
 name in, Plymouth was a synonyni for honour, and 
 his advice, shrewd lawyer though he was, always 
 leaned to the side of chivalrous feeling rather than 
 to stern justice. 
 
 Such a man must have had ample occasion for 
 the study of human nature under strange aspects. 
 It was, therefore, a highly-trained intellect which 
 was now brought to bear upon Bothwell Grahame, 
 as he walked silently beside the flowering hedgerows 
 in that quiet Cornish lane, puffing at his cigar, and 
 looking straight before him into vacancy. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote had seen a good deal of Captain 
 Grahame during the year he had lived at Penmor- 
 val ; but he never had seen such a look of care as 
 he saw in the soldier's face to-day. Trouble of 
 some kind — and of no light or trifling kind — was 
 gnawing the man's breast. Of that fact Edward 
 Heathcote was assured; and there was a strange
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 63 
 
 sinking at his own heart as he speculated upon the 
 nature of that secret trouble which Bothwell was 
 trying his best to hide under a show of somewhat 
 sullen indifference. 
 
 As coroner and as lawyer, Mr. Heathcote had 
 made up his mind more than an hour ago that, the 
 girl lying at the Vital Spark had been murdered. 
 She had been thrust out of the railway carriage, 
 flung, over the line into that dreadful gulf, by some 
 person who wanted to make away with her. Her 
 murderer was to be looked for in the train, had 
 travelled in one of those carriages, had been one 
 among those seemingly innocent travellers, ' all 
 professing ignorance of the girl's identity. One 
 among those three-and-twenty people whom Chafy, 
 the station-master, had counted and taken stock of 
 at Bodmin Boad station, must needs be the murderer. 
 That one, whoever he was, had borne himself so well 
 as to baffle the station-master's scrutiny. He had 
 shown no trace of remorse, agitation, guilty fear. 
 He had behaved himself in all points as an innocent 
 man. 
 
 But what if the criminal were one whom the
 
 64 wyllard's weird. 
 
 station-master knew and respected — a man of mark 
 and standing in the neighbourhood, whose very 
 name disarmed suspicion ? 
 
 Such a man would have passed out of the station 
 unobserved ; or if any signs of agitation were noted 
 in his manner, that emotion would be put down to 
 kindly feeling, the natural pity of a benevolent 
 mind. Had any hard-handed son of toil, a stranger 
 in .the land, reaper, miner, seafaring man— --had 
 such an one as this exhibited signs of discom- 
 posure, suspicion would at once have been on the 
 alert. .But who could suspect Mrs. Wyllard's 
 soldier-cousin, the idle open-handed gentleman, who 
 had made himself everybody's favourite ? 
 
 It would have been a wild speculation to sup- 
 pose, because Bothweil's countenance and manner 
 were so charged with secret trouble, that his was 
 the arm which thrust that poor girl to her 
 untimely death. Yet the Coroner found himself 
 dwelling upon this wild fancy, painful as it was to 
 him to harbour any evil thought of Dora Wyllard's 
 kinsman. 
 
 There were several points which forced them-
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 65 
 
 selves upon his consideration. First, Bothwell's 
 changed manner to-day — his avowal of a troubled 
 night — his evident wish to be alone — his incivility, 
 as of one whose mind was set on edge by painful 
 thoughts. Then came the fact of his journey 
 to Plymouth yesterday — a journey undertaken sud- 
 denly, without any explanation offered to his cousin 
 — seemingly purposeless, siuce he had given no 
 reason for absenting himself, stated no business in 
 the town. He had gone and returned within a few 
 hours, and his journey had been a surprise to his 
 cousin and her husband. Thirdly, there was his 
 clumsy attempt to explain the girl's death just now, 
 in front of the inn door ; his unwillingness to admit 
 the idea of foul play. He who excuses himself 
 accuses himself, says the proverb. Bothwell had 
 tried to account for the catastrophe on the line, and 
 in so doing had awakened the Coroner's suspicions. 
 After all, these links in a chain of evidence were 
 of the slightest ; but Edward Heathcote had set 
 himself to unravel the mystery of the nameless 
 dead, and he was determined not to overlook the 
 slenderest thread in that dark web. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 wyllard's weird. ' 
 
 " Wyllard seemed to have quite recovered from 
 the shock of yesterday evening," he said presently. 
 " I never saw him looking hetter than he looked 
 this afternoon." 
 
 "Wyllard is a man made of iron," answered 
 Bothwell carelessly. "I sometimes think there is 
 only one soft spot in his heart, and that is his love 
 for my cousin. In that he is distinctly human. I 
 • never saw a more devoted hushand. I never knew a 
 happier couple." 
 
 Bothwell sighed, as if this mention of the happi- 
 ness of others recalled the thought of his own miseiy. 
 At least, it was thus that Edward Heathcote inter- 
 preted the sigh. 
 
 Completely absorbed in his own cares, Bothwell 
 had forgotten for the moment that he was talking 
 to the man whom his cousin had jilted in order- 
 to marry Julian Wyllard. The courtship and 
 the marriage had happened while Bothwell was 
 in the East. It had never been more to him than 
 a tradition; and the tradition was not in his 
 mind when he talked of his cousin's wedded hap- 
 piness.
 
 AFTER* THE INQUEST. C7 
 
 " I am glad that it is so, -very glad," said Heath- 
 cote earnestly. 
 
 He spoke in all good faith. He had loved with 
 so unselfish a love that the welfare of his idol had 
 been ever of more account to him than his own 
 bliss. He had renounced her without a struggle, 
 since her happiness demanded the sacrifice. And 
 she was happy. That was the grand point. He had 
 paid the price, and he had won the reward. He 
 had loved with all his heart and strength; he had 
 never ceased so to love. That wedded life, which 
 to the outside world had seemed a life of domestic 
 happiness, had been on his part only a life of resig- 
 nation. He had married a friendless girl who loved 
 him — who had betrayed the secret of her love for 
 him unawares, in very innocence of inexperienced 
 girlhood. He had taken a helpless girl to his heart 
 and home, because there seemed upon this earth no 
 other available shelter for her ; and he had done his 
 best to make her happy. He had succeeded so well 
 that she never knew that this thoughtful kindness 
 which wrapt her round as with a balmy atmosphere, 
 this boundless benevolence which shone upon her
 
 68 wyllard's weird. 
 
 like the sun, was not love. She was one of the 
 happiest of women, and one of the proudest wives in 
 the west country ; and she died blessing him who 
 had made her life blessed. 
 
 And now the gossips were all full of pity for the 
 widower's loss and loneliness— a poor bereaved crea- 
 ture living in a lonely old Grange, with a young 
 sister, the twin daughters, just four years old, and 
 an ancient maiden lady who looked after the sister, 
 the children, the house, and the servants, and in 
 her own person represented the genius of thrift, 
 propriety, prudence, wdsdom, and all the domestic 
 virtues. People in the neighbourhood of Bodmin, 
 and his old friends at Plymouth, all thought and 
 talked of Mr. Heathcote as borne down by the weight 
 of his bereavement, and all hoped that he would soon 
 marry again. 
 
 The Spaniards lay in a valley between Bodmin 
 Eoad station and Penmorval. It lay on Bothwell's 
 road to his cousin's house, and he had thus no 
 excuse for parting company with the Coroner, had 
 he been so inclined. The old wrought-iron gate 
 between gray granite pillars, each crowned with the
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 69 
 
 escutcheon of the Heathcotes, stood wide open, and 
 the rose and myrtle curtained cottage by the gate 
 had as sleepy an air in the summer evening as if it 
 had stood by the gate of the Sleeping Beauty's 
 enchanted domain. Even the old trees, the great 
 Spanish chestnuts, with their masses of foliage, had 
 a look of having outgrown all reason in & century 
 of repose. No prodigal son had laid the spend- 
 thrift's axe to the good old trees around the birth- 
 place of the Heathcotes. There was only the extent 
 of a wide paddock and a lawn between the hall-door 
 and that grand old gateway, and the house, though 
 substantial and capacious, hardly pretended to the 
 dignity of a mansion. It was long and low and 
 rambling — a house of many small rooms, queer wind- 
 ing passages, innumerable doors and windows, and 
 low heavily -timbered ceilings; a house in which 
 strange visitors and their servants were given to see- 
 ing ghosts and hearing unearthly noises of funereal 
 significance — albeit the family had jogged on quietly 
 enough from generation to generation, without any 
 interference from the spirit world. People coming 
 from brand-new houses in Earl's Court or Turn-
 
 70 wyllard's weird. 
 
 ham Green protested that The Spaniards must be 
 haunted ; and shuddered every time the mice scam- 
 pered behind the panelling, or the wind sighed 
 amidst the branches of those leafy towers that girdled 
 lawn and meadow. 
 
 Bothwell thought that Mr. Heathcote would leave 
 him at the gate of The Spaniards. 
 
 " Good-night," he said somewhat shortly. 
 
 " I'll go on to Penmorval with you, and hear 
 what impression the inquest made upon Wyllard," 
 said the other. " It's not half-past seven yet — your 
 cousin will be able to spare me a few minutes before 
 dinner." ' 
 
 Bothwell walked on without a word. Ten minutes 
 brought them to the gates of Penmorval, by far the 
 lordlier domain, with a. history that was rich in 
 aristocratic traditions. But that ancient race for 
 which Penmorval had been built, for whose sons 
 and daughters it had grown in grandeur and dignity 
 as the centuries rolled along — of these there remained 
 no more than the echo of a vanished renown. They 
 were gone, verily like a tale that is told ; and 
 the parvenu financier, the man who had grown
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 71 
 
 rich by his own intellect and his own industry — 
 naturally a very inferior personage — reigned in their 
 stead. 
 
 . Penruorval seemed not quite so dead asleep as 
 Heathcote Grange, alias The Spaniards. In the 
 sweet stillness of the summer evening, Bothwell 
 and his companion heard voices — women's voices — 
 familiar and pleasant to the ears of both. 
 
 Mrs.-Wyllard was strolling in the avenue, with 
 a young lady by her side, a girl in a white gown 
 .and a large leghorn hat; tall, slight, graceful of 
 form, and fair of face — a girl who gave a little cry 
 of pleased surprise at seeing Heathcote. 
 
 " I was just rushing home, Edward," she said, 
 " for fear I should keep you waiting for dinner." 
 
 " Indeed, Hilda ! Then I can only say that your 
 idea of rushing is my idea of sauntering," her 
 brother answered, smiling at the girlish face, as he 
 shook hands with Mrs. Wyllard. 
 
 " What did Mr. Wyllard think of the inquest ?" 
 he asked. " You have seen him, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Only for a minute as he drove by to the house, 
 while Hilda and I were walking in the avenue.
 
 72 
 
 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 Why, Bothwell, how fagged and ill you look !" ex- 
 claimed Dora to her cousin. 
 
 " Only bored," answered Bothwell, which was 
 not complimentary to the companion of his long 
 walk. 
 
 "But you look positively exhausted, poor fel- 
 low," pursued Dora pityingly. " Why didn't you 
 come back in the dog-cart ? There was room for 
 you." 
 
 "I wanted to be alone." 
 
 " And I wanted company," said Heathcote, 
 laughing, "so I inflicted my society upon an 
 unwilling companion. Very bad manners, no 
 doubt." 
 
 "I'm afraid you got the worst of the bargain," 
 muttered Bothwell, with a sullen look, at which 
 Hilda's blue eyes opened wide with wonder. 
 
 "Do you know, Mr. Heathcote, an idle life does 
 not agree with my cousin," said Dora. "I never 
 know what jit is to be weary of Penmorval or the 
 country round ; but for the last three or four weeks 
 Bothwell has behaved as if he hated the place, and 
 could find neither rest nor amusement within
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 73 
 
 twenty miles of us. He is perpetually running off 
 to Plymouth or to London." 
 
 " I wish women would take to reading their 
 dictionaries, instead of cramming their heads with 
 other women's novels," exclaimed Bothwell savagely, 
 " for then perhaps they might have some idea of the 
 meaning of words. When you say I run up to 
 London perpetually, Dora, I suppose you mean that 
 I have been there twice — on urgent business, by 
 the way — within the last five weeks." 
 
 "And to Plymouth at least a dozen times," pro- 
 tested Dora. "All I can say is that you are my 
 idea of perpetual motion." 
 
 " I know you are hardly ever at home, Mr. 
 Grahame," said Hilda, supporting her friend. 
 
 They strolled towards the house as they talked, 
 and half-way along the avenue they met the master 
 of Penmorval, correctly attired in sober evening- 
 dress, with a light overcoat worn loosely above his 
 faultless black. 
 
 " How do you do, Heathcote ? Do you know, 
 Dora, that it is ten minutes to eight ? You'll stop 
 and dine with us, of course," added Wyllard corcli-
 
 74 wvllard's weird. 
 
 ally. "You refused last night; but now Hilda is 
 here, and you have no excuse for going home." 
 
 " I only came to afternoon tea," said Hilda. 
 
 " And you and my wife have been gossiping 
 from five o'clock until now. Deepest mystery of 
 social life, what two women can find to talk about 
 for three mortal hours in the depths of a rural seclu- 
 sion like this !" 
 
 "A mystery to a man, who cannot imagine that 
 women either think or read," retorted Dora, taking 
 her husband's arm. "You men have a fixed idea 
 that your wives and sisters have only two subjects of 
 conversation, gowns and servants. Of course, you 
 will stay and dine, Mr. Heathcote. I am not going 
 to dress for dinner, so please don't look at your 
 frock-coat as if that were an insuperable obstacle. 
 You and Hilda are going to stop, whether you like 
 it or not." 
 
 "You know we always like to be here," said 
 Hilda, in her low sweet voice. 
 
 She stole a shy little look at Bothwell, as if 
 wondering what he thought of the matter; but 
 Bothwell's countenance was inscrutable.
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 75 
 
 Hilda was pained but not surprised by his man- 
 ner. He bad changed to her so strangely within 
 the last few months — he who half a year ago had 
 been so kind, so attentive. She was not angry — she 
 was not vain enough to wonder that a man should 
 begin by caring for her a little, and then leave off 
 caring all at once, and relapse into absolute indif- 
 ference. She supposed that such fickleness w T as 
 a common attribute of the superior sex. 
 
 They all went to the house, and through a glass 
 door into the large low drawing-room, where the butler 
 immediately announced dinner. The two ladies had 
 only time to take off their hats before they went into 
 the dining-room. They were both in white, and 
 there was a grace in Dora Wyllard's simple gown, a 
 cluster of roses half hidden by the folds of an Indian 
 muslin fichu, a swan-like throat rising from a haze 
 of delicate lace, which was more attractive than the 
 costliest toilet ever imported from Paris to be the 
 wonder of a court ball. Yes, she was of all women 
 Edward Heathcote had ever known the most gra- 
 cious, the most beautiful. Those seven years of 
 happy married life had ripened her beauty, had
 
 76 . wyllard's weird. 
 
 given a shade of thoughtfulness to the matron's dark 
 eyes, the low wide brow, the perfect mouth, • but 
 had not robbed the noble countenance of a single 
 charm. The face of the wife was nobler than the 
 face of the girl. It was the face of a woman who 
 lived for another rather than for her own happi- 
 ness ; the face of a woman superior to all feminine 
 frivolity, and yet in all things most womanly. 
 
 Edward Heathcote sighed within himself as he 
 took his place beside his hostess in the subdued 
 light of the old panelled room, a warm light from 
 lamps that hung low on the table, under rose- 
 coloured shades, umbrella - shaped, spreading a 
 luminous glow over silver and glass and flowers, 
 and leaving the faces of the guests in rosy shadow. 
 He sighed as he thought how sweet life would have 
 been for him had this woman remained true to her 
 first love. For she had loved him once. Eight 
 years ago they two had clasped hands, touched lips, 
 as affianced lovers. He could never forget what she 
 had been to him, or what she might have been. He 
 sat at her husband's table in all loyalty of soul, in 
 staunch friendship. He would have cut his heart
 
 AFTER THE INQUEST. 77 
 
 out ratter than debased himself or Dora by one 
 guilty thought. Yet he could but remember these 
 things had been. 
 
 The two ladies left almost immediately after 
 dinner, and Bothwell sauntered out into the garden 
 directly afterwards. Not' to rejoin them, as he 
 would have done a few months ago, but to smoke 
 the cigar of solitude in a path beside a crumbling, 
 old red wall, and a long, narrow border of holly- 
 hocks, tall, gigantic, yellow, crimson, white, and 
 pink. There were fruit-trees on the other side of 
 the wall, which was supported with tremendous but- 
 tresses at intervals of twenty feet or so, and about 
 wall and buttresses climbed clematis and passion- 
 flower, jasmine, yellow and white, and the great 
 crimson trumpets of the bignonia. 
 
 The banker and the lawyer sat silently for a few 
 minutes, Julian Wyllard occupied in the choice of 
 a cigar from a case which he had first offered to 
 his guest ; and then Edward Heathcote asked him 
 what he thought of the inquest. 
 
 " I thought it altogether unsatisfactory," an- 
 swered Wyllard. " You did your best to thrash out
 
 78 wyllard's weird. 
 
 a few facts ; but those fools of railway people had 
 nothing to tell worth hearing. Everybody knows 
 that the poor creature fell off the train — or was 
 thrown off. What we want to find out is whether 
 there was foul play in the business." 
 
 "It is my belief that there was," said Heath- 
 cote, looking at him fixedly in the dim roseate light, 
 almost as unsatisfactory for such a scrutiny as the 
 changeful glow of the fire. 
 
 " And mine," answered Wyllard ; " and so strong 
 is my conviction upon this point that I stopped at 
 the post -office on my way home, and telegraphed 
 to my old friend Joe Distin, asking him to come 
 down and help us to solve the mystery." 
 
 "Do you mean the criminal lawyer?" 
 
 "Whom else should I mean? He and I were 
 schoolfellows. I have asked him to stop at Pen- 
 morval while he carries on his investigation."
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 
 
 Mrs. Wyllard was surprised and even horrified 
 when, on the morning after the inquest, her hus- 
 band told her that he had invited Distiu, the criminal 
 lawyer, to stay at Penmorval while he investigated 
 the mystery of the nameless girl's death. The 
 presence of such a man beneath her roof seemed to 
 her like an outrage upon that happy home. 
 
 " My dear Dora, what a delightful embodiment 
 of provincial simplicity you show yourself in this 
 business !" said her husband laughingly. " I. believe 
 you confound the lawyer who practises in the crimi- 
 nal courts with the police-agent you have read about 
 in French novels. A man of low birth and educa- 
 tion, with nothing but his native wit to recommend 
 him ; a man whose chief talent is for disguises, and 
 who passes his life in a false beard and eyebrows, in 
 the company of thieves and murderers, whom it is
 
 80 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 his business to make friends with and then betray. 
 Joe Distin is a solicitor o£ long standing, whose chief 
 practice happens to be in the Old Bailey. He is a 
 most accomplished person, and the friend of princes." 
 
 "He is your friend, Julian, so I ought not for a 
 moment to have doubted that he is a gentleman," 
 answered Dora sweetly, with her hand resting on 
 her husband's shoulder. Such a lovely hand, with 
 long tapering fingers, and dimples where other 
 people have knuckles, like a hand in an early Italian 
 picture. " Still, I wish with all my heart that he 
 were going to stay at the hotel. I don't want you 
 to be involved in this terrible business. Why should 
 you concern yourself about it, Julian ? Nothing 
 you can do can be of use to the poor dead girl. 
 What is it all to you? What have you to do with it?" 
 
 "My duty," answered Wyllard firmly. "As a 
 magistrate I am bound to see that a terrible crime 
 — if crime it be — shall not go unpunished in my 
 district. I have no particular aptitude in unravelling 
 mysteries. I therefore send for my old schoolfellow, 
 who has won his reputation among the sinuous ways 
 of crime."
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 81 
 
 " Ah, I remember. You and Mr. Distiri were 
 together at Marlborough, 1 ' said Dora musingly. 
 " That is enough to make him an interesting person 
 in my mind." 
 
 "Yes, we were companions and rivals in the 
 same form," answered Julian. " There were some 
 who thought us two the sharpest lads in the school. 
 In all our studies we were neck and neck : but in 
 other points the difference between us was a wide 
 one. Distin was the son of a rich London solicitor 
 — an only son, who could draw upon an indulgent 
 father for means to gratify every whim, who had his 
 clothes made by a fashionable tailor, and could afford 
 to hire a hunter whenever he got the chance of riding 
 one. I was one of many children — the fourth son 
 of a Warwickshire parson ; so I had to reckon my 
 cash by sixpences, and to wear my clothes till they 
 were threadbare. Yes, there was an impassable gulf 
 between Distin and me in those days." 
 
 "And now you must be a great deal richer than 
 he, and you can receive him in this lovely old 
 place." 
 
 " There will be some pride in that. Yes, Dora, 
 
 VOL. i. g
 
 82 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Fortune was at home to me when I knocked at her 
 door. I have been what is called a lucky man." 
 
 " And you are a happy one, I hope," murmured 
 his wife, leaning her head upon his shoulder, as he 
 stood before the open window, looking dreamily out 
 at summer woods. 
 
 " Ineffably happy, sweet one, in having won you," 
 he answered tenderly, kissing the fair broad brow. 
 
 " You must have been wonderfully clever," said 
 Dora enthusiastically, "beginning without any capi- 
 tal, and within twenty years making a great fortune 
 and a great name in the world of finance." 
 
 "I was fortunate in my enterprises when I was 
 a young man, and I lived at a time when fortunes 
 were made — and lost — rapidly. I may have had a 
 longer head than some of my compeers ; at any rate, 
 I was cooler-headed than the majority of them, 'and 
 I kept out of rotten schemes." 
 
 " Or got out of them before they collapsed," Mr. 
 Wyllard might have said, had he displayed an 
 exhaustive candour. 
 
 But in talking of business matters to a woman a 
 man always leaves a margin.
 
 JOSEPH DISTIX. 83 
 
 So after a good deal more discursive talk between 
 husband and wife it was agreed that Mr. Distin's 
 visit was not to be regarded as an affliction. A 
 telegram arrived while Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard were 
 talking, announcing the lawyer's arrival by the same 
 train which had carried the nameless waif to her 
 grave in the valley, the train which was due at Bod- 
 min Road at a quarter before eight. The dog-cart 
 was to meet the guest, and dinner was to be deferred 
 till nine o'clock for his accommodation. 
 
 " You can send a line to Heathcote and ask him 
 to dine with us to-night," said Wyllard. "I know 
 he is interested in this business, and would like to 
 'meet Distin." 
 
 " And Hilda — you won't mind having Hilda ?" 
 
 " Not in the least. Hilda is an ornament to 
 any gentleman's dining-table. But how fond you 
 have become of Hilda lately !" 
 
 " I was always fond of her. Do you know there 
 is something that puzzles me very much ?" 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "A few months ago I thought Bothwell was in 
 love with Hilda. He seemed devoted to her, and
 
 84 wyllard' s weird. 
 
 was always asking me to have her over here. I was 
 rejoicing at the idea of the poor fellow getting such 
 a sweet girl for his wife, for I thought Hilda rather 
 liked him, when all at once he cooled, and appeared 
 actually to go out of his way in order to avoid her. 
 Strange, was it not?" 
 
 " The fickleness of an idle mind, no ck>ubt," 
 answered Wyllard carelessly. 
 
 He had not his wife's keen interest in the joys 
 and sorrows of other people. He was said to be a 
 kind-hearted man. He was good to the poor in a 
 large way, and never shut his purse against the 
 appeal of misfortune.- But he could not be worried 
 about the details of other people's lives. He did 
 not care a straw whether Bothwell was or was not 
 in love with Hilda. To his wife, on the contrary, 
 the question was vital, involving the happiness of 
 two people whom she loved. 
 
 " If your cousin does not put his shoulder to the 
 wheel before long he will fall into a very bad way," 
 said Wyllard decisively. 
 
 "He would be very glad to do it, if he only 
 knew what wheel to shoulder," said Both well's voice
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 85 
 
 outside, as he sauntered to the window, wafting aside 
 the smoke of his cigarette: 
 
 It seemed to Dora as if her cousin spent his 
 home life in smoking cigarettes and sauntering in 
 the gardens, where, on his energetic days, he helped 
 her in her war of extermination against the green- 
 
 fly- * 
 
 " There is always a wheel to he moved by the 
 man who is not afraid of work," said Wyllard. 
 
 " So I am told, but I have found no such wheel, 
 as a civilian. Seriously, Julian, I know that I am 
 an idler and a reprobate, that I am taking advantage 
 of your kindness and letting life slip by me just 
 because I have the run of my teeth in this fine old 
 'place, and because you and Dora are worlds too good 
 to me. I have been taking my own character be- 
 tween my teeth and giving it a good shaking within 
 the last few days, and I mean to turn over a new 
 leaf. I shall go abroad — to the South Seas." 
 
 "What are you to do for a living in the South 
 Seas ?" • 
 
 " Something. Sub-edit a colonial paper, keep a 
 grocery store, turn parson and convert the nigger. I
 
 86 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 shall fall upon my feet, you may be sure. I shall 
 fine] something to do before I have been out there 
 long. Or if Otaheite won't give me a roof and a 
 crust, I can cross to the mainland and drive sheep. 
 Something I must do for my bread. Into the new 
 world I must go. The atmosphere of the old world 
 is stifling me. I feel as if I was living in an orchid 
 house." 
 
 " No, Bothwell, you are not going to the other 
 end of the world," said Dora affectionately. " You 
 ought not to say such things, Julian, making him 
 feel as if he were an intruder, as if he were not 
 welcome here ; my first cousin, the only companion 
 of my youth that remains to me now my dear 
 mother is gone. Surely we who are rich need not 
 grudge our kinsman a home." 
 
 " My dearest, you ought to know that I spoke 
 for Bothwell's sake, and from no other motive than 
 my care for his interest," answered Julian gravely. 
 " A young man without a profession is a young man 
 on the high-road tc^perdition." 
 
 " I believe you with all my soul," cried Bothwell, 
 with feverish energy, " and I shall sail for Otaheite
 
 JOSEPH DISTIX. 87 
 
 in the first ship that will carry me. Not because 1 
 do not love you, Dora, but because I want to be 
 worthier of your love." 
 
 He lighted a fresh cigarette, and sauntered away 
 from the window, to breathe latakia over the John 
 Hoppers and Victor Verdiers on the wall. 
 
 Dora's eyes filled with tears. She was angrier 
 with her husband than she had ever been since her 
 marriage. 
 
 "It is very unkind of you to drive Bothwell out 
 of your house," she said indignantly. "You make 
 me regret that I have not a house of my own. You 
 forget how fond we have always been of each other 
 — that he is as dear to me as a brother." 
 
 "It is because I remember that fact that lam 
 anxious to stimulate Bothwell to action of some 
 kind," answered her husband. " Do you think it is 
 good for any young man to lead the kind of life your 
 cousin leads here?" 
 
 "If he were to marry he would become more 
 industrious, I have no doubt,'^ said Dora. "You 
 might pension off old Mr. Gretton, and make Both- 
 well your land-steward."
 
 88 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " "Which in Both well's case would mean a genteel 
 dependence, under the disguise of a responsible posi- 
 tion. Bothwell would be seen on every racecourse 
 in the west country — would play billiards at the 
 George, shoot my game, and let somebody else do 
 my work." 
 
 " Do you mean that my cousin is a dishonourable 
 man ?" asked Dora indignantly. 
 
 " No, dear. I mean that he is a man who has 
 spoiled one career for himself, and will have to work 
 uncommonly hard in order to find another." 
 
 This was cruel logic to Dora's ear. For the first 
 time in her life she thought that her" husband was 
 ungenerous ; and for the first time in her life she 
 reckoned her own fortune as an element of power. 
 Hitherto she had allowed her rents to be paid into 
 her husband's bank. She had her own cheque-book, 
 and drew whatever money she wanted ; but she never 
 looked at her pass-book, and she did not even ask 
 what income each year brought her, or what surplus 
 was left at the end of the year. She had never 
 offered to help Bothwell with money ; she had felt 
 that any such offer would humiliate him. But now
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 89 
 
 she considered for the first time that her money 
 must have accumulated to a considerable extent, and 
 that it was in her power to assist Bothwell with 
 capital for any enterprise which he might desire to 
 undertake. If he had set his heart upon going to 
 the South Sea Islands, he should not start with an 
 empty purse. 
 
 The train from Paddington came into Bodmin 
 Road station with laudable punctuality, and without 
 mischance of any kind; and the dog-cart brought 
 Mr. Distin to Penmorval before half- past eight. 
 Dora was in the drawing-room when he arrived. 
 She had dressed early in order to be ready to wel- 
 come her husband's friend ; even albeit he came to 
 her with a perfume of the Old Bailey. 
 
 In spite of Wyllard's praise of his old school- 
 fellow, Dora had expected a foxy and unpleasant 
 individual, with craft in every feature of his face. 
 
 She was agreeably surprised on beholding a good- 
 looking man, with aquiline nose, dark eyes, hair 
 and whiskers inclining to gray, slim, well set up, 
 neat without being dapper or priggish — a man who
 
 90 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 might have been taken for an artist or an author, 
 just as readily as for a lawyer versed in the dark 
 ways of crime. 
 
 "My friend Wyllard looks all the better for his 
 rural seclusion," said Distin, after he had been intro- 
 duced to Dora. "He seems to me a younger man 
 by ten years than he was when I met him in Paris? 
 just ten years ago. And that means twenty years to 
 the good, you see." 
 
 "Is it really ten years since you have met ?" 
 exclaimed Dora. 
 
 "Exactly a decade. Our last meeting was a 
 chance encounter in the Palais Royal -in the summer 
 of '72, when Paris was just beginning to recover 
 herself after the horrors of the Commune. We ran 
 against each other one day at dinner-time — both 
 making for Vefour's, where we dinecj together and 
 talked over old times. I thought that evening my 
 friend looked aged and haggard,- nervous and worried, 
 and I put it down to the ruling disease of our epoch, 
 high-pressure. I knew it could not be the effect of 
 late hours or dissipation of any kind, for Wyllard 
 was always as steady as old Time. But now I find
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 91 
 
 him regenerated, glorified by rustic pleasures. Happy- 
 fellow, who can afford to enjoy his otium cum digni- 
 tate in the very prime of life." 
 
 " You hear what he says, Dora," said Wyllard 
 laughingly. " Now, I daresay what he thinks is : 
 ' How can this poor devil endure his existence out 
 of London — two hundred and forty miles from the 
 clubs — from the opera-house — from the first nights 
 of new plays^ — the crowd of familiar faces ?' I know 
 my friend Distin of old-, and that he could not exist 
 out of London any more than a fish can live out of 
 water." 
 
 "I like my little London," admitted Distin 
 coyly, almost as if he were talking of a fascinating 
 woman. " There's so much in it, and it's such a 
 devilish wicked place, to those who really know it. 
 But I think the country a most delightful institution 
 — from Saturday to Monday." 
 
 " The cockney stands confessed in that one re- 
 mark," said Wyllard, laughing. 
 
 " That is the worst of Devonshire and Cornwall," 
 pursued Distin, in his airy way. " Charming scenery, 
 eminently picturesque; but not available between
 
 92 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Saturday and Monday. Now, there is one ineffable 
 charm in those pretty places up the river, and that 
 rural district round Tunbridge Wells." 
 
 " Pray what is that ?" 
 
 " One is always so delighted to arrive on Satur- 
 day afternoon, and so charmed to leave on Monday 
 morning. The rustic aroma just lasts till Sunday 
 night, and the keen craving for town begins with the 
 dawn of Monday. But I must go and get rid of two 
 hundred and forty miles of dust," said Mr. Distin, 
 slipping off as lightly as a boy. 
 
 He left the drawing-room at twenty minutes to 
 nine, and returned at. five minutes before the hour, 
 in full evening-dress. It was like a conjuring trick. 
 His costume was of the quietest, yet there was a 
 finish and style about everything that impressed 
 even the ignorant. One felt that the very latest 
 impress of Fashion's fairy fingers had touched that 
 shirt, had meted out the depth of the silk collar, the 
 curve of the sleeve. That black pearl centre-stud 
 might have been the last gift of a prince or a grate- 
 ful beauty. One ring, and one only, adorned the 
 solicitor's left hand; but that ring was a table
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 93 
 
 diamond, two hundred and forty years old, said to 
 have been given by Anne of Austria to the Duke of 
 Buckingham. 
 
 Bothwell, who took some pride in his clothes, 
 looked clumsy and unfashionable beside the London 
 lawyer, or at any rate fancied that he did. Edward 
 Heathcote was at all times a careless dresser, but 
 his tall figure, and a certain dash which was more 
 soldierly than civilian, made him an important per- 
 sonage in every circle. He had the free grace, the 
 easy movements, of a man who has spent his boy- 
 hood and youth out of doors — hunting, shooting, 
 fishing, mountaineering. 
 
 The dinner w r as lively, thanks chiefly to Joseph 
 Distin, for Bothwell had a dispirited air, and Hilda 
 could not help feeling unhappy at seeing his gloom,, 
 though she tried to conceal her sympathy. Mr. 
 Wyllard and Mr. Distin had the conversation to 
 themselves during the greater part of the meal, for 
 Mr. Heathcote was graver and more reserved than 
 usual, and Dora had a subdued and thoughtful air. 
 She would have been quite ready to admit that 
 Joseph Distin was a very agreeable person, and alto-
 
 94 
 
 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 gether worthy of her husband's friendship ; but she 
 could not dissociate him from the horror of the event 
 which caused his presence in that house. She felt 
 that of those gathered around her table that night, in 
 the shaded light of the low lamps, amidst the per- 
 fume of hothouse flowers, the greater number were 
 brooding upon a mystery which might mean murder. 
 
 She was very glad to escape to the drawing-room 
 with Hilda, directly dinner was over. 
 
 " And now, I suppose, they will talk of that poor 
 creature's death," she said. " Come, Hilda, sing 
 one of Schubert's ballads, and let us try to forget all 
 that horror." 
 
 Hilda seated herself at the piano obediently, and 
 began " Mignon." She had a superb mezzo-soprano, 
 clear as a bell, ripe and round *tnd full. The rich 
 notes went pealing up to # the low ceiling and floating 
 out at the open windows. Perhaps Bothwell heard 
 them in the dining-room, for he came sauntering in 
 presently, and slipped quietly into a seat in a sha- 
 dowy corner. Hilda always sang and played from 
 memory. There was no irksome duty to be done in 
 the way of turning over music.
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 95 
 
 " What made you desert the gentlemen, Both- 
 well ?" asked Dora, when the song was over. 
 
 "They were talking of that diabolical inquest 
 again. Nobody in Bodmin seems able to talk of 
 anything else.. Wherever I went to-day I heard the 
 same ghastly talk — every imaginable suggestion, and 
 not one grain of common sense. What ghouls people 
 must be to gloat over such a subject ! No wonder that 
 men who live in great cities despise the rustic mind." 
 
 " I do not find that the inhabitants of cities are 
 any less ghoulish," retorted Dora, who felt warmly 
 about her native soil, and would have fought for 
 Cornish people and Cornish institutions to the death. 
 " See how the London papers gloat over the details 
 of crime." 
 
 These three spent l the evening very quietly in the 
 drawing-room, while the three men in the dining- 
 room were discussing the event on the railway.. 
 
 Hilda sang some of Mrs. Wyllard's favourite 
 songs, while her hostess sat in the lamp-light by an 
 open window working at a group of sunflowers on a 
 ground of olive plush. Bothwell kept in his dark 
 corner all the evening, so quiet that he might have
 
 96 wyllard's weird. 
 
 been asleep, save that lie murmured a " Thank you, 
 Miss Heathcote, very lovely," after one of Hilda's 
 songs. She thought that he was only grateful for 
 having had his slumber soothed by a vague strain 
 of melody. 
 
 The men in the dining-room had turned away 
 from the lighted table, and were sitting in a little 
 knot in the embrasure of the wide Tudor window, 
 smoking their cigars, half in the ruddy glow of the 
 lamps and half in the mellow light of the newly- 
 risen moon. They could hardly see each other's 
 faces in that uncertain light. Stodden, the butler, 
 had wheeled a table over to the window and arranged 
 the claret-jugs and glasses upon it, before he left the 
 room. The little knot of men smoking and drinking 
 by the window looked a picture of comfort, with the 
 soft sweet air blowing in from the garden, and the 
 great full moon shining over the roses and the foun- 
 tain in the old-fashioned parterre. Joseph Distin's 
 keen eye noted every detail of his friend's surround- 
 ings ; and he told himself that, for the fourth son 
 of a village vicar, Julian Wyllard had done remark- 
 ably well.
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 97 
 
 Between them Wyllard and the Coroner had con- 
 trived to put the London lawyer in fall possession 
 of the facts relating to the girl's death. Those facts 
 were unfortunately of the scantiest. Edward Heath- 
 cote breathed no hint of that dark suspicion about 
 Bothwell which had flashed into his mind after the 
 inquest, and which he had vainly endeavoured to 
 shake off since that time. Bothwell's manner at 
 dinner this evening had not been calculated to 
 disarm suspicion. His moody brow, his silence and 
 abstraction, were the unmistakable signs of secret 
 trouble of some kind. That trouble was coinci- 
 dental in time with the event on the railway ; for 
 Heathcote and Bothwell had met in Bodmin, and 
 had ridden home together on the previous day, and 
 the young man had been cheery enough. 
 
 '•'.The ticket found upon the girl was from 
 London to Plymouth, I apprehend," said Distin, 
 when he had heard everything. 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then she started from Paddington that morn- 
 ing. My business will be to find out who she 
 was, and the motive of her journey." 
 
 vol. i. h
 
 98 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " And do you think there is a possibility of 
 tracing her in London, without a shred of evidence 
 — except the photograph of a dead face ?" exclaimed 
 Wyllard. "To my mind it seems like looking in a 
 brook for a bubble that broke there a week ago." 
 
 "As a west countryman you should remember 
 how otter-hounds hunt the bead on the water," 
 answered Distin. " With a photograph, the police 
 ought to be able to trace that girl — even in the 
 wilderness of London." 
 
 " But if she were a foreigner, and only passed 
 through London ?" suggested Wyllard. 
 
 "Even then she would leave her bead, like the 
 otter. She could not get a night's shelter without 
 some one knowing of her coming and going. Un- 
 less she slept in the lowest form of lodging-house — 
 a place through which the herd of strange faces are 
 always passing — the probabilities are in favour of 
 her face being remembered." 
 
 " Judging by the neatness of her clothes and the 
 refinement of her features, she must have been the 
 last person likely to set foot in a common lodging- 
 house," said Heathcote. " But there was no money
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 99 
 
 found upon her ; neither purse nor papers of any 
 kind." 
 
 " That fact is to me almost conclusive," said 
 Distil). 
 
 " Upon what point ?" 
 
 "It convinces me that she was made away with." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Wyllard, much surprised. 
 " The thing never occurred to me in that light." 
 
 "Naturally, my dear friend. You have not 
 devoted twenty years of your life to the study of 
 the criminal mind," answered the lawyer easily. 
 "Don't you see that the first thought of a man who 
 made up his mind to throw a girl out of a train — 
 unless he did the act in a blind fury which gave him 
 no time for thought of any kind — his first precau- 
 tion, I say, would be to see that there was no evi- 
 dence of her identity upon her, more especially where 
 the victim was a stranger in the land, as this poor 
 thing was ? The identification of the victim is often 
 half-way towards the identification of the murderer. 
 But if the dead can be buried unrecognised — a name- 
 less unknown waif, in whose fate no private indi- 
 vidual is interested — why, after the funeral the
 
 100 
 
 murderer may take his ease and be merry, assured 
 that he will hear no more of the matter. Public 
 interest in a mysterious crime of that kind soon dies 
 out." 
 
 "And you think that this poor girl was the 
 victim of a crime?" asked the Coroner, surprised to 
 find his own idea shared by the great authority. 
 
 "In my own mind I have no doubt she was 
 murdered." 
 
 "But why should she not have committed 
 suicide ?" 
 
 "Why should she have travelled from London 
 to Cornwall in order to throw herself over that 
 particular embankment?" demanded Distin. "An 
 unnecessary luxury, when there were the Holborn 
 Viaduct and a score of bridges at her service, to say 
 nothing of the more natural exit by her own bed- 
 room window. Besides, in the statistics of self- 
 murder you will find that nineteen out of twenty 
 suicides — nay, I might almost say ninety-nine out 
 of a hundred — leave a piteous little note explaining 
 the motive of the deed — an appeal to posterity, as 
 it were. c See how great a sufferer I have been,
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 101 
 
 and what a heroic end I have made.' No, there is 
 only one supposition that would admit .this girl being 
 her own destroyer. Some ruffian in the train might 
 have so scared her that she flung herself out, in a 
 frantic effort to escape from him. But against this 
 possibility there is the fact of the absence of any 
 purse or papers. She could not have been travelling 
 that distance without, at least, a few shillings in 
 her possession." 
 
 "Who knows!" said Julian Wyllard. "Very 
 narrow are the straits of genteel poverty. If, as I 
 suppose, she was a poor little nursery governess 
 going to her 'situation, she may have had just money 
 enough to pay for her railway ticket, and no more. 
 She may have relied upon her employers meeting 
 her at the station with a conveyance." 
 
 " If she were a nursery governess, due at some 
 country house on that day, surely her employers 
 would have communicated with the Bodmin police 
 before now," said Distin. 
 
 " News finds its way slowly to sleepy old houses 
 in remote districts off the railway," replied Wyllard. 
 " There are people still living in Cornwall who
 
 102 wyllard' s weird. 
 
 depend upon a weekly paper for all news of the 
 outer world." 
 
 " If the poor girl were going to such benighted 
 wretches, let us hope they will wake in a day or 
 two, and enlighten us about her," said Distin. 
 "And now to be distinctly practical, and to tell 
 you what I am going to do. Mr. Heathcote's car- 
 riage was announced nearly an hour ago, and I saw 
 him looking at his watch just now." • 
 
 " I was only uneasy about Mrs. Wyllard and my 
 sister. We are keeping them up rather late," said 
 the Coroner apologetically. 
 
 "Dora won't mind. She loves the tranquillity 
 of midnight," replied Wyllard. "Go on, Distin. 
 What is your plan ?" 
 
 " Your adjourned inquest does not come on for 
 nearly a fortnight," said Distin. "Now, you can't 
 expect me to waste all that time in Cornwall, 
 delicious as it would be to dream away existence 
 among the roses of your delightful garden ; so the 
 best thing I can do is to run up to London 
 to-morrow morning" — he spoke as if he were at 
 Maidenhead or Mario w — "find out all I can there,
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 103 
 
 and return here in time for the Coroner's next sit- 
 ting. By which time," added the specialist cheerily, 
 " I hope we shall have got up a pretty little case 
 for the Public Prosecutor. Mr. Heathcote will 
 kindly keep me informed of any new details that 
 crop up here. I shall have the poor little girl's 
 photograph in my pocket-book. You'll send a mes- 
 senger to your town early to-morrow morning, Wyl- 
 lard, and tell the photographer to meet me at the 
 station with his photographs of the dead girl ? He 
 ought to have them ready by that time." 
 
 "I will give the order to-night," said Wyllarci ; and 
 then the three men repaired to the drawing-room. 
 
 " I have been very happy here," said Hilda to 
 her brother; " but I thought you were never com- 
 ing for me. Mrs. Wyllard must be dreadfully tired." 
 
 "Never tired of your company, Hilda," inter- 
 jected Dora. " Nor of Schubert." 
 
 " And as for Mr. Grahame, he has been asleep 
 ever since dinner." 
 
 . " That is a baseless calumny, Miss Heathcote. I 
 have not lost a note of your songs. I am told that 
 Schubert was rather a low person — convivial, that
 
 104 • wyllard's weird. 
 
 is to say somewhat Bohemian ; fond of taverns and 
 tavern company. But I will maintain there must 
 have been a pure and beautiful soul in the man 
 who wrote such songs as those." 
 
 "I am so glad you like them," answered Hilda, 
 brightening at his praise. " I daresay you often 
 heard them in India." 
 
 " No ; the people I knew in India had not such 
 good taste as you." 
 
 " But in a country like that, where ladies have 
 so little to do, music must be such a resource," per- 
 sisted Hilda, who was curiously interested in Mr. 
 Grahame's Indian experiences. 
 
 She was always wondering what his life had 
 been like in that strange distant world, what kind 
 of people he had known there. She wondered all 
 .the more perhaps on account of Bothwell's reticence. 
 She could never get him to talk freely of his Indian 
 days, and this gave the whole thing an air of 
 mystery. 
 
 The clock in the great gray pile of stabling was 
 striking twelve as the Coroner's carriage drove awaj r . 
 
 "I cannot think what has happened to Mr.
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. ' 105 
 
 Graliame," said Hilda. " He used to be so lively,, 
 and now he is so dull." 
 
 " The change is palpable to others, then, as well 
 as to me," thought Heathcote. " Whatever the 
 cause may be, there is . a change. God help him if 
 my fear is well grounded ! If I were a criminal, I 
 would as soon have a sleuthhound on my track as 
 Joseph Distin." 
 
 Mr. Distin was on his way to London before 
 noon next day, curled up in a corner of a coupe, 
 looking out eagerly at every station for the morning 
 papers. He had the dead girl's photographs — full- 
 face, profile — in his letter-case. On making his 
 adieux at Penmorval he declared that he had tho- 
 roughly enjoyed. his little run into the country, his 
 night in the fresh air. 
 
 " So delicious to wake at six — my usual hour — 
 and smell your roses, and hear your fountain," he 
 said. "I look forward with delight to my return 
 the week after next." 
 
 During that interval which occurred between 
 Mr. Distin's departure and the adjourned inquest,
 
 106 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Edward Heathcote gave himself up to his usual 
 avocations, and took no further trouble to fathom 
 the mystery of the stranger's untimely fate. After 
 all, he told himself, wearied by brooding upon a 
 subject that troubled him greatly, it was not for 
 him to solve the problem. He was not the Public 
 Prosecutor, nor was he a detective, nor even a crimi- 
 nal lawyer, like Joseph Distin. His business was 
 to hear what other people had to say, not to hunt 
 up evidence against anybody. His duty began 
 when he took his seat at an inquest, and ended 
 when he left it.. Why, then, should he vex his 
 mind with dark suspicions against a man who was 
 the near kinsman, the adopted brother, of that 
 woman for whose sake or for whose happiness he 
 would have gladly died ? 
 
 This was how Edward Heathcote argued with 
 himself; and it was in pursuance of this conclusion 
 that he gave himself up to a life of idleness during 
 the twelve days that succeeded Mr. Distin's depar- 
 ture. He rode far afield in the early morning, 
 he drove with his- sister and the twins in the after- 
 noon. He appeared at two archery meetings and
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 107 
 
 three tennis-parties, a most unusual concession to 
 the claims of society, and he dawdled away the rest 
 of his existence, reading the last new books in 
 English, French, and German, and discussing them 
 with Hilda's duenna, Theresa Meyer stein, a curious 
 specimen of the German Fraulein, intensely domes- 
 tic, and yet deeply learned — a woman able to turn 
 from Schopenhauer to strawberry jam, from Plato 
 to plum-pudding — a woman who knew every theory 
 that had ever been started upon the mind and its 
 functions, and who could tell to a hundredweight 
 how much coal ought to be consumed in a gentle- 
 man's household. Mr. Heathcote had discovered 
 this paragon of domesticity and erudition, acting as 
 deputy-manager at a boarding-house at Baden, 
 during the first year of his widowhood, and he 
 brought her away from the white slavery and the 
 scanty remuneration of that institution to the luxury 
 of an English country house, and the certainty of a 
 liberal recompense for her labours. Fraulein Mey- 
 erstein rewarded her employer by a most thorough 
 fidelity, and adored Hilda and the twin daughters. 
 Her soul had languished in a chilling atmosphere,
 
 108 wyllard's weird. 
 
 for lack of something to- love, and she lavished the 
 garnered treasures of long years upon these Cornish 
 damsels who were committed to her care. 
 
 More than once during those long summer days 
 Hilda urged the necessity of calling at Penmorval ; 
 but her brother told her she could go alone, or take 
 the Fraulein, who dearly loved a drive, and a gossip 
 over a cup of tea, and who was always kindly 
 received by Mrs. Wyllard, in spite of her short 
 petticoats, anatomical boots, and Teutonic bonnets. 
 
 " You can perform those small civilities without 
 any assistance from me," said Heathcote. "You 
 women are so tremendously posted in the details of 
 etiquette. Now, it would never have occurred to me 
 that because we dined at Penmorval a few nights 
 ago, we were strenuously bound to call -upon Mrs. 
 Wyllard before the end of the week. I thought 
 that, with friends of long standing those Draconic 
 laws were a dead letter." 
 
 "I don't mean to say that we need be ceremoni- 
 ous, Edward," answered Hilda, "but I am sure 
 Dora will expect to see us. She will think we are 
 forgetting her if we don't go."
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. 109 
 
 " Then you go, dear, and let her see that you 
 are not forgetful, whatever I may be," said Heath - 
 cote. 
 
 He had a horror of entering that house of Pen- 
 morval just now, lest he should see or hear some- 
 thing that would give him new cause for suspecting 
 Both well. He had a feeling that he could only cross 
 that threshold as the bringer of evil : and it would 
 be a bitter thing for him to carry evil into her home 
 for whose peace he had prayed night and morning 
 for the last eight years. 
 
 So Hilda drove her ponies up the hill to Pen- 
 morval, and Miss Meyerstein sat beside her in all 
 the glory of her new bonnet, sent from Munich by a 
 relative, and reported as the very latest fashion in 
 that city. . Unhappily for the success of the bonnet 
 in Cornwall, Bodmin fashions and Munich fashions 
 were wide as the poles asunder. Bodmin boasted a 
 milliner who took in the fashion-magazines, and be- 
 guiled her clients with the idea that everything she 
 made for them was Parisian. The Bodmin milliner 
 had a heavy hand, and laid on feathers and flowers 
 as if with a trowel ; but her bonnets and hats were
 
 110 
 
 light as thistledown in comparison with the art of 
 Bavaria. 
 
 It was the afternoon of the adjourned inquest, 
 and Joseph Distin was on the scene, ready to watch 
 the inquiry. He had arrived at Penmorval in time 
 for breakfast, after travelling all night. 
 
 " Such a good way of getting rid of the night," 
 he said, as he discussed a salmi of trout, caught in 
 the stream that traversed Penmorval Park. 
 
 Alone in the library with Julian Wyllard after 
 breakfast, the London lawyer confessed that for. once 
 in his life he had been pretty nearly beaten. He 
 had shown the photographs of the dead face to two 
 of the cleverest detectives in London — had set one 
 to work in the east and the other in the west, pro- 
 mising a liberal reward for any valuable information ; 
 and nothing had come of their labours. One had 
 tried every lodging-house within a certain radius of 
 Paddington. The other had explored the neighbour- 
 hood of London Bridge Station, and failing there, 
 had come as far west as Charing Cross. The ground 
 had been thoroughly beaten, and no likely place had
 
 JOSEPH DISTIN. Ill 
 
 been forgotten in which a stranger of this girl's class 
 could find shelter. 
 
 " She might have gone to the house of friends," 
 suggested Wyllard. 
 
 " If she had friends in London — were they ever 
 such slight acquaintances even — they would have 
 been heard of before now," argued Distin. "I take 
 it that she was unknown to a mortal on this side of 
 the Channel, except the man who murdered her, and 
 who had no doubt some very powerful motive for 
 wanting to get rid of her." 
 
 "What dp you suppose that motive to have 
 been ?" 
 
 " My dear Wyllard, what a question for a clever 
 man to aski" exclaimed the lawyer, with a shade of 
 contempt. " To speculate upon the motive I must 
 have some knowledge of the man, and of this girl's 
 murderer I know nothing. If I could once find the 
 man, I should soon find the motive. Such a murder 
 as this generally means the breaking of some legal 
 tie that has become onerous — some bond which 
 death alone can loosen."
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. , 
 
 The room at the Vital Spark was filled to over- 
 flowing on the occasion of the adjourned inquiry. 
 At the previous examination only the inhabitants of 
 Bodmin and its immediate neighbourhood had been 
 present ; but on this second afternoon people had 
 come from long distances, and there was not stand- 
 ing room for the audience, which filled the passage, 
 and waited with strained ears to catch a stray word 
 now and then through the open door. 
 
 The idea of a profound mystery — of a dastardly 
 crime — had been fostered in the local mind by the 
 newspapers, which had harped upon the ghastly 
 theme, and gloated over the particulars of the name- 
 less girl's fate in paragraphs and leaderettes ad 
 nauseam. Articles headed "More details concerning 
 the Bodmin Mystery," " Further particulars about 
 the strange death on the railway," had served as the
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 113 
 
 salt to give savour to cut and dried reports about 
 the harvest, the markets, and those small offenders 
 whose peccadilloes furnish the material for Justice 
 to exercise her might upon at petty sessions. 
 
 Every one had read about that strange death of 
 a lonely girl in the summer. sunset. Every one was 
 interested in a fate so melancholy — an abandonment 
 so inexplicable. 
 
 " I thought that there was hardly ever a human 
 being so isolated as to be owned by no one," said the 
 curate of Wadebridge. "Yet it would seem that 
 this poor girl had no one to care for her in life, or 
 to identify her after death. If she had one friend 
 living in England or France, surely that person must 
 have made some sign before now." 
 
 "People in France are very slow to hear about 
 anything that happens in England," replied Dr. 
 Menheniot, to whom the curate had been talking. 
 
 " But I heard Mr. Heathcote, at the first inquiry, 
 say that he meant to advertise in a Parisian news- 
 paper." 
 
 " Then be sure the advertisement appeared," 
 answered Menheniot. " Heathcote is one of those 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 wyllard's weird. 
 
 few men with whom meaning and doing are the 
 same thing." 
 
 The inquiry dragged its slow length along, and 
 hardly one new fact was elicited. There was a great 
 deal of repetition, in spite of the Coroner's attempt 
 to keep all his witnesses to the point. Mr. Distin 
 sat near the Coroner, and asked a few questions of 
 two or three of the witnesses ; and though he elicited 
 no actually new facts, he seemed to put things in a 
 clearer light by his cross-examination. 
 
 Just before the close of the inquiry, he said : 
 
 "I see Mr. Grahame, of Penmorval, is here this 
 afternoon. I should like to ask him a question or 
 two, if you have no objection." 
 
 • The Coroner paled ever so slightly at this sug- 
 gestion, but he had no objection to offer : so Both- 
 well Grahame was asked to come up to the table, 
 and kiss the Book, which he did with a somewhat 
 bewildered air,, as if the thing -came upon him as an 
 unpleasant surprise. 
 
 " You were in the train that evening, I believe, 
 Mr. Grahame," said Distin. 
 
 " I was."
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 115 
 
 " Were you alone in a compartment, or in com- 
 pany with other passengers ?" 
 
 "I had a third-class compartment to myself." 
 
 " And you saw this girl fall ?" 
 
 " I saw her fall — hut as I saw just a little less 
 than Dr. Menheniot and the guard saw, I don't see 
 the good of my being questioned," answered Both- 
 well, with rather a sullen air. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," returned Mr. Distin 
 suavely, " every witness sees an event from a 
 different point of view. You may have noticed 
 something which escaped the two witnesses we have 
 just heard." 
 
 " I noticed nothing more than you have been told 
 by these two, and I saw less than they saw. I did 
 not look out of the window till I heard the girl's 
 shriek, and I saw her in the act of falling." 
 
 " Good. But you may have observed this soli- 
 tary girl — a foreigner, and therefore more noticeable 
 — on the platform at Plymouth. You were on the 
 platform at Plymouth, you know." 
 
 "I was. But I did not see the girl at the 
 station."
 
 116 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Strange that she should have escaped your 
 observation, although the porter who was busy with 
 his duties had time to notice her," said Mr. Distin. 
 
 " Would it surprise you to hear that during the 
 four or five minutes I spent in the station before the 
 train started I was standing at the bookstall buying 
 papers, with my back to the platform ?" 
 
 " That would account for your not having seen 
 this noticeable young stranger. You were in Ply- 
 mouth for several hours, I believe, Mr. Grahame ?" 
 
 "I was; but upon my word I don't see what 
 bearing that fact can have upon this inquiry." 
 
 " Perhaps not. Still, you will not object to tell 
 us what you were doing in Plymouth — how you dis- 
 posed of your time there." 
 
 This question evidently troubled Bothwell, 
 simple as it was, and easy as it ought to have been 
 to answer. 
 
 " I played a game at billiards at the Duke of 
 Cornwall," he said. 
 
 "I am sure you are too good a player for that to 
 occupy more than half an hour," said Mr. Distin, 
 with his silky air, as if he were employed in a very
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 117 
 
 pleasant business, and were bent upon being as 
 cheery as possible. 
 
 "I had to wait for the table." 
 
 " Come now, Mr. Grahame, you need not be 
 mysterious about so simple a matter," exclaimed , 
 Mr. Distin. " You don't mean to tell us that you 
 went to Plymouth by the 12.15 train " — he had 
 ascertained this fact before the inquiry began — 
 "and spent the whole of the day there, in order 
 to play a game at billiards in a public billiard- 
 room. You must have had ' other business in Ply- 
 mouth." 
 
 " Certainly. I had other business there." 
 
 " Will 3 7 ou kindly tell us what that business 
 was ?" 
 
 "As it concerned 'others besides myself, and as 
 it has not the faintest bearing upon this case, I must 
 decline to answer that question." 
 
 " Really, now, I should advise you to be more 
 frank. You leave Bodmin early in the day — with- 
 out giving any notice of your departure — and you 
 return late in the evening. A most mysterious 
 catastrophe occurs in the train which brings you
 
 118 wyllard's weird. 
 
 home — a death so strange, so horrible, that it casts 
 a cloud over all the passengers travelling by that 
 train — leaves a stigma upon all, as it were, until 
 the guilt of that deed can be brought home to one. 
 Surely, under such circumstances, the utmost frank- 
 ness is desirable. Every traveller in that train 
 should be ready to answer any question which 
 those who are charged with the elucidation of this 
 mystery may ask." 
 
 " I have answered your questions as to what 
 occurred to me in the train, and at the station ; but 
 I decline to be catechised about my business in 
 Plymouth," answered Bothwell doggedly. 
 
 " That will do," said Distin; and Bothwell went 
 to his seat next Julian Wyllard, whose handsome 
 presence appeared in the front rank of spectators, 
 amongst those of the elite who were favoured with 
 chairs, while the commonalty stood in a mob at the 
 back of the room. 
 
 The audience had been breathless during this 
 examination of Bothwell Grahame. The young 
 man's sunburnt face was clouded with anger, his 
 dark strongly-marked brows were scowling over
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 119 
 
 those gray-blue eyes which once had such a pleasant 
 expression. 
 
 "I can't think what has come to Grahame," 
 muttered a sporting squire to his next neighbour. 
 " He used to be such a pleasant fellow, but to-day 
 lie looks like a murderer." 
 
 "You don't think he threw the girl out of the 
 train, do you ?" asked the other. 
 
 " God forbid ! But by that London lawyer's 
 questions one would think he suspected' Grahame of 
 having had a hand in the business." ' 
 
 The jury gave their verdict presently, " Death 
 from misadventure." 
 
 " Tell Dora not to expect me at dinner," said 
 Bothwell to Julian Wyllard, before they left the 
 inn ; " I shall dine in Bodmin." 
 
 " Have you any engagement ?" 
 
 "No, but I can easily make one. I am not 
 going to break bread with your lawyer friend. So 
 long as he is at Penmorval I shall be missing." 
 
 " My clear Bothwell, you have no right to be angry 
 at a simple question which you might have so easily 
 answered," remonstrated Wyllard gravely.
 
 120 wyllard's weird. 
 
 "It was a question which I did not choose to 
 answer, and which he had no right to ask. It was 
 an outrage to ask such a question — to press it as 
 he did. Fifty years ago he might have been shot 
 for a lesser insult. By Jove, I never felt more 
 sorry that the good old duelling days are over — the 
 days when one man could not insult another with 
 impunity." 
 
 "How savage you are, Both well, and against a 
 man who was only in the exercise of his profession!" 
 
 " He had no right to question me as if I were a 
 murderer," retorted Bothwell savagely. " Did he 
 think that I spent my time in Plymouth plotting 
 that girl's death ? If I had made up my mind to 
 push a woman over an embankment, I should not 
 have wanted to spend a day in Plymouth in order 
 to plan the business. A murder of that kind 
 must be touch and go — no sooner thought of than 
 done." 
 
 "All trouble would have been saved, my dear 
 fellow, if you had given a straight answer to a 
 simple question." 
 
 " To answer would have been to acknowledge. his
 
 B0THWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 121 
 
 right to question me. No judge would have allowed 
 counsel to have asked such a motiveless question. 
 Nowhere except at a petty rustic inquiry would 
 such a thing he permitted." 
 
 "I can only say that you are needlessly angry, 
 Bothwell," said Wyllard. " Here comes Distki. 
 You had better drive home with us." 
 
 " No, thank you ; I shall be home before the 
 house shuts up; but you'll see no more of me 
 to-night." 
 
 " Good-night, then." 
 
 The Penmorval barouche was waiting before the 
 porch of the Vital Spark — a great day for that rural 
 hostelry when such a carriage could be seen waiting 
 there — a great day at the bar, where all the strength 
 of the establishment could not serve brandies-and- 
 sodas and pale ales fast enough. Joseph Distin 
 came tripping out, and took his place in the car- 
 riage beside Julian "Wyllard. He had lingered at 
 the inn for a few minutes' talk with the Coroner. 
 
 "Is not Mr. Grahame going back with us?" 
 he asked, as they drove towards the town. 
 
 " No. You wounded his dignity by those ques-
 
 122 wyllard's weird. 
 
 tions of yours. He is a curious young man, and 
 is easily offended." 
 
 " He is a very curious young man," answered 
 the lawyer, with a thoughtful air. 
 
 He was looking at the landscape intently as they 
 drove along the shady road, between deep banks and 
 luxuriant hedges ; but he would have found it 
 rather difficult to say afterwards what kind of timber 
 prevailed in the hedgerows, or what crops grew in 
 the fields. 
 
 He was thoughtful all that evening, though he 
 did his utmost to make himself agreeable to Mrs. 
 Wyllard at dinner, talking to her of art, music, the 
 drama, society, all the arts and graces and plea- 
 sures of life — doing everything in his power to dis- 
 tract her thoughts from that one grim theme which 
 was the motive of his presence in that place. 
 
 When she was gone, and Distin and his host 
 were alone together over their claret, the lawyer 
 dropped his society manner as if it had been a mask, 
 and began to talk seriously. 
 
 " For the first time for a good many years I find 
 myself completely at fault," he said, leaning across
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 123 
 
 the table, and cracking filberts in sheer distraction of 
 mind. "I thought that I should be able to get up 
 a case while I was in London, but not a shred of 
 evidence have I discovered. If this girl had dropped 
 from the moon, it could not be more difficult to trace 
 her." 
 
 " Well, my dear Distin, you have done your 
 best, and we must be satisfied," replied Wyllard 
 quietly. " I felt it to be my duty as a magistrate 
 to do all in my power to fathom the mystery of that 
 poor girl's death. The best thing I could do was to 
 put the case in your hands. If you cannot help us, 
 no one can. We must be satisfied." 
 
 "But I am not satisfied, Julian; I never shall 
 be satisfied until I have solved this problem," said 
 Distin resolutely. ."lam not the sort of man who 
 can stand being baffled 'in a matter of this kind. Is 
 all my professional training to go for nothing, do 
 you think ? And yet in your interest it might be 
 best that I should let this business drop out of my 
 mind — forget the whole story if possible." 
 
 " How do you mean, in my interest ?" exclaimed 
 Wyllard, surprised. " What bearing can the case
 
 124 wyllard's weird. ' 
 
 have upon me or my interest, beyond my desire to 
 do my duty as a magistrate ?" 
 
 "I fear that this mysteiiy touches you nearer 
 than you suppose. Surely, Wyllard, you must have 
 been struck by the manner of your wife's kinsman 
 under my examination. " 
 
 " Great Heaven !" cried Wyllard, " you don't 
 mean to tell me that you suspect Bothwell Grahame 
 of any hand in this business ?" 
 
 "In perfect frankness, between man and man, I 
 believe that young man to be in some way — either 
 as principal or accessory — concerned in the murder 
 of that girl." 
 
 "My dear Distin, you must be mad." 
 
 " Come now, my dear Wyllard, you cannot pre- 
 tend that you did not notice the strangeness of 
 Mr. Grahame's manner this afternoon : his refusal 
 to answer my question about his business in Ply- 
 mouth." 
 
 "He was angry at your catechising him in that 
 manner ; and I must confess that your question 
 appeared to the last degree irrelevant, even to me." 
 
 " Granted. My question was irrelevant. But
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. . 125 
 
 it was a test question. I should never have cross- 
 examined Mr. Grahame, if I had not seen reason for 
 suspecting him before the inquiry began. I was 
 painfully impressed by his manner the night I dined 
 here with him ; and I believe, from certain indica- 
 tions dropped unconsciously by your Coroner, that 
 he too saw reason for suspecting ' Mr. Grahame. 
 His manner to-day confirms my suspicion. I am 
 deeply grieved that it should be so, on your wife's 
 account." 
 
 "You had need be sorry for her. Why, Both- 
 well is like a brother to her. It w T ould break her 
 heart," said Wyllard, strongly agitated. 
 
 He had risen from the table, and was walking 
 slowly up and down the room, between the windows 
 opening wide upon the gray evening sky, and the 
 warm lamplight within. Joseph Distin could not 
 see his face, but he could see that he was strongly 
 moved. 
 
 " My dear fellow, let us hope that Mrs. Wyllard 
 will never know anything about this suspicion of 
 mine," said Distin soothingly. "I have — so far — 
 not one scrap of evidence against Mr. Grahame ;
 
 126 wyllard's weird. 
 
 except the evidence of looks and manner, and the 
 one fact of his refusal to say what he was doing in 
 Plymouth the day of the girl's death. There is 
 nothing in all that to bring a man to the gallows. 
 I may have my own ideas about this mystery, and 
 Mr. Heathcote may have pretty much the same 
 notion, but there is nothing to touch your wife's 
 cousin so far. I shall go back to town, and try to 
 forget the whole matter. All you have to do is to 
 keep your own counsel, and take care that Mrs. 
 Wyllard knows nothing of what has passed in 
 strictest confidence between you and me." 
 
 " I w r ould not have her know it for worlds. It 
 would break her heart ; it might kill her.. Women 
 cannot bear such shocks. And to think that a man 
 can be suspected of a crime on such grounds — sus- 
 pected by you, a student of crime and criminals — 
 •because of a moody manner, a refusal to answer a 
 question ! The whole thing seems too absurd for 
 belief." 
 
 " Say that the thing is absurd, and that for once 
 in his life Joe Distin has made a fool of himself. 
 Take your wife to Aix-les-Bains — or to Biarritz — "
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 127 
 
 Julian Wyllard started at that last word as if he 
 had been stung. 
 
 " What the deuce is the matter with you, or with 
 Biarritz ?" asked Distin sharply. 
 
 ''Nothing. My mind was wandering, that's all. 
 You were saying — " 
 
 " That you had better forget all that has passed 
 between us to-night — forget the death of that girl — 
 make a clean slate. Take your wife to some foreign 
 watering-place, the brightest and gayest you can 
 find. And let Bothwell Grahame dree his weird as 
 best he may. The catastrophe on the railway will 
 be forgotten in a week." 
 
 " I doubt it. "We have not much to think about 
 at Bodmin, and we exaggerate all our molehills into 
 mountains. That girl's death will be the talk of the 
 town for the next six months." 
 
 " And yet people go on existing in such places, 
 and think they are alive !" exclaimed Distin. 
 
 He left Penmorval after breakfast next morning, 
 without having seen Bothwell, who was out on the 
 hills breaking in a new horse while the family were
 
 128 wyllard' s weird. 
 
 at breakfast. He had been out since five o'clock, 
 the butler told Mrs. Wyllard. 
 
 "Is he riding Glencoe ?" she asked, with a look 
 of alarm. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "He is a dreadful horse, I know, Julian," she 
 said. " Manby told me about him only yesterday. 
 He had narrowly escaped being thrown the day 
 before ; and he said that Glencoe was a really 
 dangerous horse, and that we ought to get rid of! 
 him." 
 
 " So that he may break somebody else's bones," 
 suggested Mr. Distin. " That is what a good coach- 
 man always advises." 
 
 "And now Bothwell has gone out on him, 
 alone." 
 
 " You would not have him take some one to pick 
 him up if he were thrown," said Wyllard. "My 
 dear Dora, there is not the slightest occasion for 
 alarm. The horse is young, and a little gay; but 
 your cousin excels as a rough-rider, and there will 
 be no harm done." 
 
 "But why should he want to ride that horse?"
 
 BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 129 
 
 said Dora; "I'm sure Manby would advise him 
 not." 
 
 " The very reason why he should do it," replied 
 her husband. 
 
 " I wonder, if he is trying to kill himself while I 
 am eating my breakfast calmly here ?" speculated 
 Joseph Distin. ''He must know that I suspect 
 him ; and he may think that the game is up." 
 
 Whatever Bothwell's intention might have been, 
 he came back to Penmorval before eleven o'clock, 
 bringing home the big bay hunter bathed in sweat, 
 and as tame as a sheep. 
 
 " A fine, honest horse ! Only wants riding,'' he 
 said, as he flung the bridle to the groom, who had 
 been watching for him at the stable-gates, with an 
 air of expecting to see broken bones. 
 
 In the hall Bothwell met Dora, cool, and calm, 
 and beautiful, in her white muslin breakfast 
 gown. She was bringing in a basket of flowers 
 from the hothouse, to be arranged by her own 
 hands. 
 
 "Is that London lawyer gone yet?" asked Both- 
 well curtly. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 wyli^abd's weird. 
 
 He could not be civil even to his cousin when he 
 spoke of Joseph Distin. 
 
 " Yes, he has gone — I hope, never to come back 
 again," said Dora. " He is really a very well-bred 
 man, and he made himself most agreeable here ; but 
 he seemed to bring with 'him an atmosphere of crime. 
 I could not help thinking of all the horrible cases he 
 must have been concerned in, and that he had grown 
 rich by the crimes of mankind. He could find out 
 nothing about that poor ■ girl's death, it seems, 
 although he is so clever." 
 
 "Which goes rather to establish my view that 
 the girl fell out of the train by accident," replied 
 Bothwell. 
 
 \ ■
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 
 
 The year- was a month older since Joseph Distin 
 went back to town, baffled and angry with himself, 
 yet glad for his friend's sake that his discoveries 
 had gone no further. The heather was purpling on 
 the hills,- where the dwarf furze flashed here and 
 there into patches of gold. The tourist season had' 
 set in ; but the tourist for the most part avoided the 
 little town of Bodmin, nestling snugly inland among 
 the hills, and turned his face to the sea, and the 
 wild rocks which defend that romantic western coast, 
 to the Lizard and the Land's End, to rugged Tin- 
 tagel and sandy Bude. 
 
 Life at Penmorval had drifted by as calmly as an 
 infant's sleep, in those four weeks of soft summer 
 weather. There had been no visitors staying in .the 
 house, for both Julian "Wyllard and his wife loved a 
 studious repose, and there were long intervals in
 
 132 wyllard's weird. 
 
 which they lived almost alone. Penmorval would 
 be full by and by, in October, when the pheasant- 
 shooting began ; and in the mean time it was plea- 
 sant to Dora Wyllard to be able to ride and drive 
 with her husband — to be the companion of his walks, 
 to read the books he read, and to waste long evenings 
 in inexhaustible talk. They always had so much to 
 say to each other. The sympathy between them 
 was so complete. 
 
 Hilda Heathcote was at Penmorval nearly every 
 day. She ranked almost as one of the family. She 
 came to Mrs. Wyllard for counsel and instruction 
 upon all manner of subjects — sometimes for a gar- 
 dening lesson, sometimes for a lesson in crewel- 
 work, in French, German, Italian. Dora was in 
 advance of her young friend in all these subjects ; 
 but the pupil was so bright and quick that it was 
 a pleasure to teach her. Between them Mrs. Wyl- 
 lard and Miss Heathcote achieved marvels in the 
 way of art-needlework — piano-backs which were as 
 beautiful as pictures, portieres worthy to rank with 
 the highest examples of Gobelin tapestry, counter- 
 panes that ought to have been exhibited at South
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 133 
 
 Kensington. The calm leisure of country life lent 
 itself to such slow and elaborate labours. 
 
 Mrs. Wyllard had a big box of foreign books 
 once a month from Rolandi's library, and she meted 
 out to Hilda such volumes as were fit for a young 
 English lady's perusal ; and then they met to talk 
 over the books, sometimes alone, sometimes with 
 Bothwell as a third. Bothwell was very scornful of 
 all the sentimental books, laughed at the super- 
 refined heroines of French novels, the dreamy heroes 
 of German romance ; but he read all the books that 
 Hilda read, and he seemed to enjoy talking about 
 them at that protracted function of afternoon tea 
 from which he rarely absented himself. 
 
 The weather was peerless during this month of 
 August, and Mrs. Wyllard' s afternoon tea : table was 
 set out in an arbour of clipped yew, at the . end of 
 the Italian garden, a point from. which there was 
 a fine view of the moors, and the great brown hills 
 beyond. 
 
 Bothwell's sullen gloom had passed away soon 
 after Mr. Distin's departure. He seemed to Hilda 
 to have become once again the old Bothwell — gay,
 
 134 wyllard's weird. 
 
 and cheery, and kind, and frank. But lie did not 
 commit himself by any of those delicate little atten- 
 tions to Hilda which had made him such an agree- 
 able person half a year ago. That particular phase 
 of his character was a thing of the past. 
 
 A month had gone since the close of the inquest 
 at the Yital Spark, but Bodmin people had not for- 
 gotten the strange death of the nameless girl, and 
 had not left off talking about it. They talked about 
 Bothwell, too, and of his refusal to give a plain 
 answer to a plain question ; and towards the end of 
 that month Bothwell Grahame woke up all at once 
 to the consciousness that he was under a cloud. He 
 discovered that he was being cut by his old acquaint- 
 ances, so far as they dared cut a man of his standing 
 and temperament. . They were not uncivil ; they 
 gave him good-day if they met him in the street ; 
 they would even deign to discuss the state of the 
 weather, the results of the harvest. But Bothwell 
 felt nevertheless that he was living under a cloud ; 
 there was a tacit avoidance of him, a desire to get off 
 with as slight a greeting as civility would permit. 
 Hands were no longer held out to him in friendship ;
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 135 
 
 salutations were no longer loud and cheery. No 
 one asked hirn to stop and play hilliards at the chief 
 inn, as people had been wont to do, waylaying him 
 when he wanted to get home. Now he could pursue 
 his walk without let or hindrance. He had even 
 seen one of his most familiar friends stroll dreamily 
 round a. corner to avoid meeting him. 
 
 During the whole of those four weeks he had 
 not received a single invitation to play lawn-tennis, 
 he for whose presence tennis-parties used to com- 
 pete. There were two or three engagements out- 
 standing at the time of the inquest. He had kept 
 these, and had played his best, struggling against 
 a coldness in the atmosphere. It had seemed to 
 him that everybody was out of sorts. There was an 
 all-pervading dulness-. Nobody could find anything 
 pleasant to talk about. He had been very slow to 
 perceive that cloud which hung over him : but by 
 the end of the month the fact had become too pal- 
 pable, and Bothwell Grahame understood that he 
 had been sent to Coventry. 
 
 " What does it all mean ?" he asked himself, 
 aghast with indignant wonder. " What can they
 
 136 wyllard's weird. 
 
 have to say against me ? Can any one have found 
 out— r 
 
 Bothwell's cheek paled as he thought of that one 
 transaction of his life which he would least like to 
 see recorded against him. But he told himself, after 
 a few minutes'' reflection, that nobody in Bodmin 
 could possibly know anything about that particular 
 episode in a young man's history. 
 
 He puzzled himself sorely about this change in 
 the manner of his acquaintance ; and on trying back 
 he discovered that the change dated from the day of 
 the adjourned inquest. He recalled too the curious 
 manner in which everybody had avoided the subject 
 of the inquest ; how when any mention of the dead 
 girl had been made in his presence the conversation 
 had been changed instantly, as if the subject must 
 needs be tabooed before him. 
 
 "Upon my soul," said Bothwell, "I begin to 
 think they suspect me of having thrown that girl 
 out of the carriage. Because I refused to answer 
 that insolent ruffian's questions, these village wise- 
 acres have made up their minds that I am a mur- 
 derer."
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 137 
 
 He went back to Penmorval in a white heat of 
 indignation. A week ago he had made up his mind 
 to start for Peru. He had found out all about the 
 steamer which was to carry him. He had obtained 
 letters of introduction to the proprietor of a news- 
 paper, and to some of the local aristocracy. He was 
 ready to set forth upon his quest of fortune in the 
 land of gold and jewels. But now he told himself 
 that wild horses should not drag him away from 
 Penmorval. He would stand his ground until he 
 had humiliated those fools and rascals whom he had 
 once called his friends. He would make them 
 taste of the cup of their own foil} 7 . 
 
 He was much too hot-headed to keep the secret 
 of his wrongs from that cousin who had been to him 
 as a sister. He went straight to Dora, and told her 
 of the foul suspicion that had arisen in men's minds 
 against him. 
 
 She had read the report of the inquest, and 
 although she had wondered at his refusal to answer 
 Mr. Distin's questions, she had been able to 
 understand that his pride might revolt against 
 being so catechised, and that he might choose
 
 138 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 to persist in that refusal as a point of personal 
 dignity. 
 
 " Any one who can suspect you for such a reason 
 — any one who could suspect you for any reason — 
 must be an idiot, Bothwell," she exclaimed. " There 
 is no use in being angry with such people." 
 
 "But I am angry with them. ' I am rabid with 
 anger." * 
 
 "Why did you not answer that question, Both- 
 well ?" asked his cousin thoughtfully. 
 
 "Because I did not choose." 
 
 "Yet it would have prevented all possibility of 
 misapprehension if you had given a straight answer. 
 And it would have been so easy," argued Dora. 
 
 "It would not have been easy. It was not pos- 
 sible to answer that question." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I could not answer it without injuring 
 some one I — esteem," replied Bothwell, relapsing into 
 that curious, sullen manner which Mr.. Heathcote 
 had observed on the day of the inquest. 
 
 " Bothwell, you have secrets, then — a secret 
 from me, your adopted sister !"
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 139 
 
 " Yes, I have my secrets." 
 
 " I am so sorry. I used to hope that I should 
 have a share iu the planning of your life ; and now I 
 begin to fear — " 
 
 " That my life is wrecked already. You are 
 right, Dora. My life was wrecked three years be- 
 fore I left India, but I did not know then what 
 shipwreck meant. I thought that there was land 
 ahead, and that I . should make it ; but I know 
 now I was drifting towards a fatal rock upon which 
 honour, happiness, and prosperity must needs go to 
 pieces." 
 
 " Don't talk in riddles, Both well. Tell me the 
 plain truth, however bad it may be. Y"ou know you 
 can trust me." 
 
 . " I do, dear soul, as I trust Heaven itself. But 
 there are some things a man must not tell. Yes, 
 Dora, I have my secret, and it is a hard one to carry 
 — the secret of a man who is bound in honour to 
 one woman while he fondly loves another." 
 
 " Both well, I am so sorry for you," said his 
 cousin softly. 
 
 She put her arms round his neck as if they had
 
 140 wyllard's weird. 
 
 still been boy and girl. She put her lips to his 
 fevered forehead. She comforted hirn with her love, 
 being able to give him no other comfort. 
 
 Hilda Heathcote came up the avenue ten minutes 
 later, escorting a matchless donkey, which was of so 
 pale a gray as to be almost white. It was a donkey 
 of surpassing size and dignity, and gave itself as 
 many airs as if it had been a white elephant. It 
 carried a pair of panniers, highly decorated in a 
 Moorish fashion, and in the Moorish panniers sat 
 Edward Heathcote's twin daughters. 
 
 The twins were as like as the famous Corsican 
 Brothers in person, but they were utterly. unlike in 
 disposition, and the blue and pink sashes which they 
 wore for distinction were quite unnecessary; since 
 no one could have mistaken Minnie, the overbearing 
 twin, for Jennie, the meek twin. People only had 
 to be in their company half an hour to know which 
 was which for ever after. Whereas Jennie was quite 
 a baby, and could hardly speak plain, Minnie was 
 preternaturally old for her years, and expressed her 
 opinion freely upon every subject. Minnie always
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 141 
 
 came to the front, was always mistress of the situ? 
 ation, and where Jennie shed tears Minnie always 
 stamped her foot. Needless to say that Minnie was 
 everybody's .favourite. Naughtiness at four years 
 old, a termagant in miniature, is always interesting. 
 Mr. Heathcote was the only person in Cornwall who 
 could manage Minnie, and who properly appreciated 
 Jennie's yielding nature. Jennie felt that her father 
 loved her, and used to climb ( on to his knee and 
 nestle in his waistcoat ; while Minnie was charming 
 society by those little airs and graces which were 
 spoken of vaguely as "showing off." 
 
 To-day Minnie was in a delightful humour, for 
 she was being escorted in triumph to a long-promised 
 festival. Since the very beginning of the summer 
 the twins had been promised that they should go to 
 drink tea with Mrs. Wyllard some day when they 
 had been very good. Jennie had done everything to 
 deserve the favour ; but Minnie had offended in some-, 
 wise every day. She had been cruel to the dogs — 
 she had made an archipelago of blots- in her copy- 
 book, while her pothooks and hangers were a worse 
 company of cripples than Falstaff's regiment. She
 
 142 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 had been rude to the kind Fraulein. She bad been 
 rebellious at dinner, had protested with loud wailings 
 against the severity of seven-o'clock bed. Only 
 towards the end of August had there come a brief 
 interval of calm, and Hilda had been quick to take 
 advantage of these halcyon days, knowing how soon 
 they would be followed by storm. 
 
 The tea-table was laid in the yew-tree arbour, 
 such a table as little phildren love, and which has an 
 attractive air even to full-grown humanity. Such a 
 delicious variety of cakes and jams and home-made 
 bread, such nectarines and grapes. Minnie shouted 
 and clapped her hands at sight of the feast, while 
 Jennie blushed and hung her head, abashed at the 
 dazzling apparition of Mrs. Wyllard in an Indian 
 silk gown with a scarlet sash, and flashing diamond 
 rings. Hilda had no such jewels on her sunburnt 
 fingers. 
 
 " What a nice tea !" cried Minnie, when the blue 
 and the pink twin had each been provided with a 
 comfortable seat, each in a snug corner of the arbour, 
 banked in by the tea-table. " Why do we never have 
 such nice teas at home? Why don't we, Aunt
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 143 
 
 Hilda ?" she repeated, when her .question had heen 
 ignored for a couple of seconds. 
 
 "Because such nice things would not be whole- 
 some every day," replied Hilda. 
 
 "I don't believe that," said Minnie. 
 
 " Minnie !" cried Jennie, with a shocked air. 
 " You mustn't contradict people. You mustn't con- 
 tradict Aunt Hilda, because she is old." 
 
 " If cakes weren't wholesome she wouldn't have 
 them," said Minnie, ignoring the blue twin's inter- 
 ruption, and pointing her chubby finger at Mrs. 
 "Wyllard. " She can have what she likes, and she 
 is grown up and knows -everything. She wouldn't 
 give us unwholesome things. I know why we don't 
 have such nice teas at home." 
 
 " Why not, Minnie ?" asked Dora, to encourage 
 conversation. 
 
 "Because Fraulein is too stingy. I heard cook 
 say so the other day. She is always grumbling about 
 the cream and butter. You' don't grumble about the 
 cream and butter, do you ?" she asked, in her point- 
 blank way.
 
 144 wyllard's weird. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm not so good a housekeeper as 
 the Fraulein," answered Dora. 
 
 " Then I like bad housekeepers best. I shall be 
 a bad housekeeper when I grow up, and there shall 
 always be cakes for tea — ever so many cakes, as there 
 are here. I'll have some of that, please," pointing 
 to an amber-tinted pound-cake, " first." 
 
 By this Minnie signified that she meant to eat 
 her way through the varieties of the tea-table. 
 
 " And what will Jennie take ?" asked Dora, 
 smiling at the blue twin. 
 
 " Jennie's a bilious child," said Minnie authori- 
 tatively ; " she ought to have something plain." 
 
 Jennie, with her large blue eyes fixed pathetically 
 on the pound-cake, waited for whatever might be given 
 to her. 
 
 "Do you think just one slice of rich cake would 
 make you ill, Jennie ?" asked Dora. 
 
 "I am sure it would," said Minnie, ploughing 
 her way through her own slice. " She's always sickj 
 if she. eats rich things. She was sick when we went 
 to see grandma. Grandma isn't rich, you know, 
 because her husband was a clergyman, and they're
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 145 
 
 always poor. But she gives us beautiful teas when 
 we go to see her, and lets us run about her garden 
 and pick the fruit, and trample on the beds, and do 
 just as we like ; so we don't mind going to tea with 
 grandma, though she's old and deaf. Jennie had 
 cherries and pound-cake the last time we went to see 
 grandma, and she was ill all night. You know you 
 were, Jennie." 
 
 The blue twin admitted the fact, and meekly 
 accepted a hunch of sanitarian sponge-cake. • 
 
 " You must not talk so much, Minnie; you are a 
 perfect nuisance," said Hilda; and then she looked 
 round hesitatingly once or twice before she asked, 
 " What has become of Mr. Grahame ? He generally 
 honours us with his company at afternoon tea." 
 
 "Bothwell has been a little worried this morn- 
 ing," faltered Dora. "He is not very well." 
 
 Her heart sank within her at the thought that 
 this girl — this girl whom she had once thought of as 
 Bothwell's future wife — would come in time to know 
 the dark suspicion which hung over him like a 
 poisonous cloud. She would be told by and by that 
 people thought of him as a "possible murderer, a 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 wyllard's weird. 
 
 wretch who had assailed a defenceless girl, set upon 
 her as a tiger on his prey, hurled her to a dreadful 
 death. She would learn that there were people in 
 the neighbourhood capable of suspecting this very 
 Bothwell Grahanie, gentleman and soldier, of so 
 dastardly a crime. 
 
 Dora had hardly been able to realise the awful- 
 ness of the situation yet. In her desire to comfort 
 her cousin she had made light of the unspoken 
 slander, the cruel taint which had' been breathed 
 upon his name. But now as she sat at her tea-table 
 ministering to her two little guests, trying to appear 
 interested in their prattle, her heart was aching as 
 it had not ached since she had been forgiven by 
 Edward Heathcote. From that hour until the 
 strange girl's death her life had been cloudless. 
 And now a cloud had drifted across her horizon, 
 darkening the sunlight : a cloud that hung heavily 
 over the head of one whom she dearly loved.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 
 
 The children's tea-party lasted a long time, and the 
 twins enjoyed themselves prodigiously in the yew- 
 tree arbour, albeit both their hostess and their aunt 
 were curiously absent-minded, and returned vaguest 
 answers to Minnie's continuous prattle, and to occa- 
 sional remarks propounded gravely by Jennie be- 
 tween two mouthfuls of cake. 
 
 Perhaps the twins enjoyed themselves all the 
 more under this condition of things, for they were 
 allowed to range at will from one dainty to another, 
 and were not worried by those troublesome sugges- 
 tions of unwholesomeness, which are apt to harass 
 juvenile gourmands. 
 
 Tea was over at last, and then they had a game 
 at ball on the grass in front of the fountain ; after 
 that they fed the gold fish, until Hilda began to 
 talk of getting them home. It was nearly seven 
 o'clock by this time, and Bothwell had not appeared.
 
 148 wyllard's weird. 
 
 The whole business seemed flat, stale, and un- 
 profitable to Hilda, for want of that familiar pre- 
 sence. He bad been such a pleasant companion of 
 late — not attentive or flattering of speech, as young 
 men are to girls they admire. He had said none of 
 those pretty .things which call up blushes in girlish 
 cheeks; but he had been kind and brotherly, and 
 Hilda was satisfied to accept such kindness from 
 him. She thought it even more than her due. She 
 was not what is called a high-spirited girl. . She 
 did not expect • men to bow down and worship her ; 
 she did not expect that hearts were to be laid at her 
 feet for her to trample upon them. She had none 
 of the insolence of conscious beauty. If ever she 
 were to love, it would be secretly, meekly, patiently, 
 as Shakespeare's Helena loved Bertram, with a gentle 
 upward-looking affection, deeming her lover remote 
 and superior as a star. 
 
 There had been a time when she thought that 
 Bothwell cared for her a little, and then he had been 
 to her as Bertram. Now he was kind and brotherly, 
 and she was grateful for his kindness. 
 
 She was somewhat heavy-hearted as she arranged
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 149 
 
 her disordered hair — rumpled in a final game of 
 romps with the twins — and put on her hat to go 
 home. The donkey was waiting before the old stone 
 porch, and Fraulein Meyerstein had come to assist 
 in escorting the twins. 
 
 "I thought Minnie might be troublesome after 
 tea," she said, as if tea had the effect of champagne 
 upon Minnie's temperament. 
 
 They set out across the fields in the warm glow 
 of evening sunlight, a little procession — the children 
 full of talk and laughter, Hilda more silent than 
 usual. It was harvest-time, and the corn stood in 
 sheaves in one wide field by which they went, a field 
 on the slope of a hill on the edge of the moorland. 
 On the lower side of the field there was a tall 
 overgrown hedge ; a hedge full of the glow of 
 sunshine and the colour of wild flowers, red and 
 blue and yellow, an exuberance of starry golden 
 flowers, scattered everywhere amidst the tangle of 
 foliage. 
 
 • There was a gap here and there in the hedge, 
 where cattle or farm-labourers had made a way for 
 themselves from field to field, and through one of
 
 150 wyllard's weird. 
 
 these gaps a man scrambled, and jumped into the 
 path just in front of the donkey. 
 
 The animal gave a feeble shy, and the twins 
 screamed, first with surprise and then with pleasure. 
 The man was Bothwell, whom the twins adored. 
 
 "Why didn't you come to tea?" asked Minnie 
 indignantly. " It was very naughty of you." 
 
 "I was out of temper, Minnie; not fit company 
 for nice people. How do you do, Hilda?" 
 
 He had fallen into the way of calling her by her 
 Christian name almost from the beginning of their 
 acquaintance ; in those days when he had been so 
 much brighter and happier than he seemed to' be 
 now.. 
 
 The donkey jogged on, carrying off the twins, 
 Minnie holding forth all the time, lecturing Both- ' 
 well for his rudeness. The Fraulein followed, 
 eager to protect her charges. They were only a 
 few paces in advance, but Hilda felt as if she were 
 alone with Bothwell. 
 
 " So the children have had their long-promised 
 tea-party," he said, '" and I was out of it. Hard 
 lines."
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 151 
 
 " They missed you very much," said Hilda. 
 •"But did not you know it was to be this after- 
 noon?" 
 
 "I knew yesterday — Dora told me," answered 
 Bothwell, hitting the wild flowers savagely with his 
 cane, as he walked by Hilda's side. 
 
 Unconsciously they had fallen into a much slower 
 pace than the Fraulein and the donkey, and they 
 were quite alone. 
 
 " I knew all about the tea-party, and I meant to 
 be with you ; and then something went wrong with 
 me this morning, and I felt only fit company for 
 devils. If Satan had been giving a tea-party any- 
 where within reach, I would have gone to that" 
 concluded Bothwell vindictively. 
 
 "I am very glad Satan does not give tea-parties 
 in Cornwall. Of course you know that he would 
 never trust himself in our county, for fear our Cor- 
 nish cooks should make him into a pie," answered 
 Hilda, trying to smile. " But I am very sorry to 
 hear you have been worried." 
 
 " My life has been made up of worries for the 
 last six months. I try sometimes to be cheerful —
 
 152 wyllard's weird. 
 
 reckless rather — and to forget ; and then the viper 
 begins to bite again." 
 
 Hilda would have given much to be able to com- 
 fort him. It seemed almost as if he looked to her 
 for comfort, and yet what could she say to a man 
 whose troubles she knew not, who kept his own 
 secret, and hardened his heart against his friends ? 
 
 They walked on in silence for a little way. Some 
 of the reapers were going homeward in the soft 
 evening light ; there was a great wain being loaded 
 a field or two off, and the voices of men and women 
 sounded clear and musical through the summer still- 
 ness. 
 
 " Would you be sorry for a man who had brought 
 trouble on himself from his own folly, from his own 
 wrong-doing, Hilda ?" Bothwell asked presently. 
 
 " I should be all the more sorry for him on that 
 account," she answered gently. 
 
 " Yes, you would pity him. Such women as you 
 and Dora are angels of compassion. TJiey never 
 withhold their pity ; but it is tempered with scorn. 
 They despise tlfe sinner, even while they are merci- 
 ful to him."
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 153 
 
 " You ought not to say that. I am not given to 
 despising people. I am too conscious of my own 
 shortcomings." 
 
 "You are an angel," said Bothwell piteously. 
 " Hilda, how much I have lost in life — how many 
 golden opportunities I. have wasted !" 
 
 "There are always other opportunities to be 
 found," answered the girl, trying to speak words of 
 comfort, vaguely, hopelessly, in her utter ignorance 
 of his griefs or his perplexities. " There is 
 always the future, and the chance of beginning 
 again." 
 
 " " Yes, in Queensland, in the Fijis, in Peru. If 
 you mean that I may some day learn to make my 
 own living, I grant the possibility. Queensland or 
 Peru may do something for me. But my chances of 
 happiness, my chances of renown — those are gone 
 for ever. I lost all when I left the army. At seven 
 and-twenty I am a broken man. Hard for a man to 
 feel that this life is all over and done w 7 ith before he 
 is thirty." 
 
 " I fancy there must be a time in every life when 
 the clouds seem to shut out the sun : but the dark-
 
 154 wyllard's weird. 
 
 ness does not last for ever," said Hilda softly. "I 
 'hope the cloud may pass from your sky." 
 
 " Ah, if it would, Hilda — if that cloud could pass 
 and leave me my own man again, as I was nine 
 years ago, before I went to India !" 
 
 "You seemed to be very happy last winter — in 
 the hunting season," said Hilda, trying to speak 
 lightly, though her heart was beating as furiously as 
 if she had been climbing a mountain. 
 
 "Yes, I was happy then.^ I allowed myself to 
 forget. I did not know just then that the trouble I 
 had taken upon my shoulders was a lifelong trouble. 
 Yes, it was a happy time, Hilda, last winter. How 
 many a glorious day we had together across coun- 
 try ! You and I were always in the first flight, and 
 generally near each other. Our horses were always 
 such good friends, were they not ? They loved to 
 gallop neck-and-neck. my darling, I was indeed 
 happy in those days — unspeakably happy." 
 
 He had forgotten all prudence, all self-restraint, 
 in a moment. He had taken Hilda's hand and 
 lifted it to his lips. 
 
 " my dear one, let me tell you how I love
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 155 
 
 you," he said. " I may never dare say more than 
 that, perhaps, but it is true, and you shall hear it, 
 if only once. Yes, Hilda, I love you. I have loved 
 you ever since last winter, when you and I used to 
 ride after the hounds together. 0, those happy 
 winter days, those long waits at the corners of lanes, 
 or in dusky thickets, or on the bleak bare common ! 
 T shall never forget them. Do you think I cared 
 what became of the fox in those days, or whether we 
 were after the right or the wrong one ? Not a jot, 
 dear. The veriest tailor that ever hung on to a 
 horse could have cared no less for the sport than I. 
 It was your sweet face I loved, and your friendly 
 voice, and the light touch of your little hand. I was 
 full of hope in those days, Hilda ; and then a cloud 
 came over my horizon and I dared hope no more. I 
 never meant to tell you — I knew I had no right to 
 tell you this ; but my feelings were too strong for 
 me just now. Will you forgive me, Hilda, that I, 
 who dare not ask you to be my wife, have dared to 
 tell you of my love ? Can you forgive me ?" 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive," she answered 
 gently, looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes.
 
 156 wyllard's weird. 
 
 She was very pale, and. her lips trembled faintly 
 as she spoke. In her inmost heart she was exult- 
 ing- at the knowledge of his love. It was as if she 
 had drunk a deep draught of the strong wine of life. 
 In the rapture of knowing herself beloved she had 
 no room for any other consideration. His love 
 might be foolish, vain, unprofitable, fatal even. 
 For the moment she could not measure the conse- 
 quences, or look into the future. She cared only 
 for the fact that Bothwell Grahame loved her. 
 That love which she had given to him in secret, in 
 all maiden modesty, purest, most ethereal sentiment 
 of which woman's heart is capable, had not been 
 lavished upon a blind and dumb idol, upon a god of 
 wood and stone. 
 
 They walked on for a few minutes in silence, 
 Bothwell still holding Hilda's hand, but saying 
 never a word. He had said too much already, since 
 he dared say no more. He had told his secret, and 
 had entreated to be forgiven. And now he came to 
 a dead stop. Fate had walled him round with 
 difficulties, had set a barrier before his steps : Fate 
 or his only folly, that easy yielding to temptation
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 157 
 
 which a man prefers to think of afterwards as 
 fatality. 
 
 The thud of a horse's hoofs upon the grass on 
 the other side of the hedge startled Bothwell from 
 his reverie, and Hilda from her beatitude. They 
 looked up, and saw Edward Heathcote cantering 
 towards them on his powerful black. Mr. Heath- 
 cote, was renowned for his hunters. He never 
 counted the cost of a good horse ; and he never had 
 been known to buy a bad one. He was a man who 
 could pick out a horse in a field a quarter of a mile 
 off, ragged and- rough and unshorn, altogether out 
 of condition, long mane and neglected tail, and 
 could distinguish the quality of the animal to a 
 shade. He had made many of the hunters he rode, 
 and was not afraid to tackle the most difficult sub- 
 ject. He loved horses, and they loved him. This 
 was a subject upon which he and Bothwell sym- 
 pathised ; and it had been a link between them 
 hitherto. Nothing ' had been more friendly than 
 their intercourse until the last few weeks, during 
 which time Mr. Heathcote had carefully avoided 
 Penmorval and Bothwell Grahame.
 
 158 wyllard's weird. 
 
 He rode through a gap in the hedge, ' acknow- 
 ledged Both well's presence with a nod that was 
 barely courteous, and then turned to his sister. 
 
 "You had better hurry home, Hilda, if you 
 mean to be in time for dinner," he said. 
 
 Bothwell was not slow to take the hint. 
 
 " Good-bye, Hilda," he said, offering her his 
 hand. 
 
 He called her by her Christian name boldly in 
 her brother's hearing. There was even a touch of 
 defiance in his manner as he shook hands with her, 
 and lingered with her hand in his, looking at her 
 fondly, sadly, hopelessly, before he turned and 
 walked slowly away across the bright newly-cut 
 stubble, which glittered golden in the evening 
 light. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote dismounted and walked beside 
 his sister, with the black's bridle over his arm, the 
 well-broken horse following as quietly as a dog. 
 
 " You and frrahame were in very close con- 
 fabulation as I rode up, Hilda," said Heathcote 
 gravely, with scrutinising eyes upon Hilda's blush- 
 ing face. " Pray what was he saying to you ?"
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 159 
 
 Hilda hung her head, and hesitated before she 
 replied. 
 
 " Please do not ask me, Edward," she said 
 falteringly, after that embarrassed silence. " I 
 cannot tell you." 
 
 1 ' You cannot tell me, your brother, and natural 
 guardian ?"" said Heathcote. "Am I to understand 
 that there is some secret compact between you and 
 Bothwell Grahame which cannot, be told to your 
 brother ?" 
 
 " There is no secret compact. How unkind you 
 are, Edward !" cried Hilda, bursting into tears. 
 " There is nothing between us ; there is nothing 
 to tell." 
 
 " Then what are you crying about, and why 
 was that man bending over you, holding your hand 
 just now when I rode up ? A man does not talk in 
 that fashion about nothing. He was making love 
 to you, Hilda." 
 
 " He told me that he* loved me." 
 
 " And you call that nothing !" said Heathcote 
 severely. 
 
 "It can never come to anything. It was a secret
 
 160 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 told unawares, on the impulse of the moment. I 
 have no right to tell you, only you have wrung the 
 secret from me. Nothing can ever come of it, 
 Edward. Pray forget that this thing has ever heen 
 spoken of between us." 
 
 "I begin to understand," said Heathcote. "He 
 asked you to marry him, and you refused him. I 
 am very glad of that." 
 
 " You have no reason to be glad," replied Hilda, 
 with a flash of anger. She was ready to take her 
 lover's part at the slightest provocation. " You 
 have no right to make guesses about Mr. Grahame 
 and me. It is surely enough for you to know that 
 I shall never be his wife." 
 
 They had left the stubble-field, and were in a 
 lane leading to The Spaniards, a lane sunk between 
 high banks and wooded hedgerows, such as abound 
 in that western world. • 
 
 " That is enough for me to know," answered 
 Heathcote gravely, " but nothing less than that 
 assurance would be enough. I hope it is given in 
 good faith ?" 
 
 There was a severity in his manner which was
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 161 
 
 new to Hilda. He had been the most indulgent of 
 brothers hitherto. 
 
 "Why should you speak so unkindly about Mr. 
 Grahame?" she said. "What objection have you 
 to make against him, except that he is not rich ?" 
 
 " His want of money would make no difference 
 to me, Hilda. If it were for your happiness to marry 
 a man of small means, I could easily reconcile myself 
 to the idea, and would do my best to make things 
 easy for you. I have a much graver objection against 
 Bothwell Grahame than the fact that he is without 
 a profession and without income. There is a hor- 
 rible suspicion in men's minds about him which 
 makes him a man set apart, like Cain ; and my 
 sister must have no dealings with such a man !" 
 
 "What do you mean, Edward?" exclaimed 
 Hilda, turning angrily upon her brother, with in- 
 dignant eyes. " What suspicion ? How dare any 
 one suspect him ?" 
 
 " Unhappily, circumstances are his worst ac- 
 cusers. His own lips, his own manner, have given 
 rise to the conviction which has taken hold of men's 
 minds. When the idea that Bothwell Grahame was 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 wyllard's weird. 
 
 the murderer of that helpless girl first arose in my 
 own mind, I struggled against the hideous notion. 
 I told myself that I was a madman to imagine such 
 a possibility. But when I found that the same facts 
 had made exactly the same impression upon other 
 minds — " 
 
 " You could think such a thing, Edward !" ex- 
 claimed Hilda, pale with horror. " You, who have 
 known Bothwell for years, who knew him when he 
 was a hoy, you who have called yourself his friend, 
 seen him day after day ! You, a lawyer, a man of 
 the world ! You can harbour such a thought as this ! 
 I could not have believed it of you." 
 
 " Perhaps it is because I am a man of the world, 
 and have seen life on the seamy side, and know too 
 well to what dark gulfs men can go down when the 
 tempter urges them. Perhaps it is because of my 
 experience that I suspect Bothwell Grahame." 
 
 "0, it is too horrible !" cried Hilda passionately. 
 " I feel as if I must be mad myself, or in company 
 with a madman. Bothwell Grahame — Bothwell, 
 whom I remember when I was a child, the frank, 
 generous-hearted lad, who went away to. India to.
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 163 
 
 fight for his country, and who fought so well, and 
 won such praise from his commanding officer — " 
 
 " Yes, Hilda," interrupted her brother, " and 
 who, just when he seemed on the high road to 
 fortune, threw up his chances, and abandoned his 
 profession, to become an idler at home. That same 
 Bothwell Grahame who, when he was asked what he 
 did with himself during a long day at Plymouth, 
 .could give no account of his time. That same 
 Bothwell, whose manner, from the hour of that cata- 
 strophe on the line, became gloomy and sullen — 
 altered so completely that he seemed a new man. 
 That same Bothwell, whom everybody in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Bodmin suspects of a foul crime. 
 That is the man whom I do not wish my sister 
 io marry ; albeit he is of the same flesh and blood 
 as the woman whom I respect above all other 
 women upon earth." 
 
 "lam glad you have remembered that — at last," 
 said Hilda bitterly. "I am glad you" have not 
 quite forgotten that this murderer is Dora Wyllard's 
 first cousin — brought up with her, taught by the 
 same teachers, reared in the same way of 'thinking."
 
 164 wyllard's weihd. 
 
 " God grant; I may see reason to alter my 
 opinion, Hilda," replied her brother. " Do you 
 suppose that this suspicion of mine is not a source 
 of pain and grief ? But while I think as I do, can 
 you wonder that I forbid any suggestion of a mar- 
 riage, between my sister and Bothwell Grahame ?" 
 
 " I have told you that I shall never be his wife," 
 said Hilda. " Pray do not let us ■ ever speak his 
 name again." 
 
 They were at the entrance to The Spaniards by 
 this time — not the great iron gates by the lodge, 
 but a little wooden gate opening into the fine old- 
 garden, second only in beauty to the Penmorval 
 parterres and terraces. 
 
 " Will you mind if I don't appear at dinner, 
 Edward ?" asked Hilda presently, as they went into 
 the house. " I have a racking headache." 
 
 "Poor little girl!" said her brother tenderly. 
 " You are looking the picture of misery. I am very 
 sorry for you, my dear. I am very sorry for us all ; . 
 for I fear there is .calamity ahead for some of us. 
 If Bothwell is wise he will go to the other end of 
 the world, and take, himself as far as possible out of
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 165 
 
 the ken of his countrymen. If he should ask you 
 for counsel, Hilda, that is the best advice you can 
 give him." 
 
 "If he should ask me, that is just the very last 
 counsel he would ever hear from my lips," answered 
 Hilda indignantly. " I would entreat him to stand 
 his ground — to live down this vile calumny — to wait 
 the day when Providence will clear his name from 
 this dark cloud. Such a day will come, I am sure 
 of that." 
 
 She went to her own room, and shut herself up 
 for the rest of the evening. The convenient excuse 
 of a headache answered very well with the servants. 
 She declined all refreshment — would not have this 
 or that brought up on a tray to oblige Glossop, her 
 own maid, who was deeply concerned at her young 
 mistress's indisposition. 
 
 " I have a very bad headache," she said, "and 
 all I want is to be left alone till to-morrow morning. 
 Don't come near me, please, till you bring me my 
 early cup of tea." 
 
 Glossop sighed and submitted. It was not often 
 that Miss Heathcote was so wilful. Glossop was
 
 166 wtllard's weird. 
 
 the coachman's daughter, had been born and brought 
 up at The Spaniards, in old Squire Heathcote's time. 
 She was a buxom young woman of five-and-thirty, 
 and counted herself almost one of the family. 
 
 At last Hilda was alone. She locked her door, 
 and began to pace her room, up and down, up and 
 down, with her hands clasped upon her forehead, 
 trying to think out her perplexities. 
 
 It was a fine spacious old bedroom, lighted by 
 old-fashioned casement windows, looking two ways — 
 one to the garden, one to that timber-belted lawn 
 which might almost take rank as a park. There 
 was a sitting-room adjoining, which was Hilda's 
 own particular apartment, containing her books and 
 piano, and the little table on which she painted 
 china cups and saucers. Hilda had spent many a 
 happy hour in these rooms, practising, studying, 
 painting, dreaming over high-art needlework. But 
 this evening she felt as if she could never again be 
 happy, here or anywhere. A dense cloud of trouble 
 had spread itself around her, enfolding her as a 
 mantle of darkness, shutting out all the light of life. 
 The sun was sinking behind the tall chestnuts,
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 167 
 
 iu a sea of red .and gold. Every leaflet of rose or 
 myrtle that framed the casements showed distinct 
 against that clear evening sky. Such a pretty room 
 within, such a lovely landscape and sky without ; and 
 yet that young soul was full of darkness. 
 
 She had defended her lover with indignant firm- 
 ness just now. She had protested his innocence — 
 declared that this thing could not be true ; and now 
 in solitude she looked in the face of that cruel 
 slander, and her faith began to waver. 
 
 What could be stranger or more suspicious than 
 Bothwell's conduct this evening ? With one breath 
 he had avowed his love ; with the next he had told 
 her that he was unworthy to be her lover — that they 
 two could never be man and wife. 
 
 Yes, it was true that he had changed of late — 
 that he had become gloomy, despondent, fitful. His 
 manner had been that of a man bowed down by the 
 burden of some secret trouble. But was he for this 
 reason to be suspected of a horrible crime ? It was 
 abominable of people to suspect him — most of all 
 cruel and unworthy in her brother, who had known 
 him from boyhood.
 
 168 wyllard's weird. 
 
 And then came the hideous suggestion, as if 
 whispered in her ear by the fiend himself, " What 
 if my brother should be right?" Her own experi- 
 ence of the world was of the slightest. Her chief 
 knowledge of life was derived from the novels she 
 had read. She had read of darkest deeds, of strange 
 contradictions in human nature, mysterious work- 
 ings of the human heart. Hitherto she had con- 
 sidered these lurid lights, these black shadows, as 
 the figments of the romancer's fancy. Now she 
 began to ask herself if they might not find their 
 counterpart in fact. 
 
 She had read of gentlemanlike murderers — 
 assassins of good bearing and polished manners — 
 Eugene Aram, Count Fosco, and many more of the 
 same school. "What if Bothwell Grahame were such 
 as these, hiding behind his frank and easy manner 
 the violent passions of the criminal ? 
 
 No, she would not believe it. She laughed the 
 foul fiend to scorn. Her woman's instinct was truer 
 than her brother's legal acumen, she told herself; 
 and as for those Bodmin busybodies, she weighed 
 their wisdom as lighter than thistledown.
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 169 
 
 " I would marry, hini to-morrow, if he asked me 
 to be his wife," she said to herself. " I would 
 stand beside him at the altar, before the face of all 
 his slanderers. I should be proud to bear his 
 name." 
 
 She blushed crimson at her own boldness, as 
 she stood before her mirror, with hands clasped, 
 in all the fervour of a vow ; but from that moment 
 her faith in Bothwell Grahame knew no wavering. 
 
 In an age when infidelity and scorn of religious 
 ceremonial is very common among young men, 
 Bothwell Graharne had always been steadfast to the 
 Church, and to the good old-fashioned habits in 
 which he had been brought up by his aunt. He 
 was not a zealot, or an enthusiast ; but he attended 
 the services of his church with a fair regularity, and 
 had a proper respect for the rector of his parish. 
 Even in India, where men are apt to be less orthodox 
 than at home, Bothwell had always been known as 
 a good Churchman. 
 
 For the last year it had been his custom to receive 
 the sacrament on the first Sunday of the month.
 
 170 wyllard's weiud. 
 
 He had risen early, and had walked across the dewy 
 fields to the old parish church, and had knelt among 
 the people who knew him, and had felt himself all 
 the better for that mystic office, even when things 
 were going far from well with him. There was 
 much that was blameworthy in his life ; yet he had 
 not felt himself too base a creature to kneel among 
 his fellow-sinners at the altar of the Sinner's Friend. 
 It was a shock, therefore, to receive a letter 
 from the Rector on the last day of August, request- 
 ing him to absent himself from the communion 
 service on the following Sunday, lest his presence 
 before that altar should be a scandal to the other 
 communicants. 
 
 "God forbid that I should condemn any man 
 unheard," wrote the Rector; "but you can hardly 
 be unaware of the terrible scandal attaching to your 
 name. You have not come to me, as I hoped you 
 would come, to explain the conduct which has given 
 rise to that scandal. You have taken no step to set 
 yourself right before your fellow-men. Can you 
 wonder that your own silence has been in somewise
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. . 171 
 
 your condemnation ? My duty to my flock compels 
 me to warn you that, until you have taken some . 
 steps to free your character from the shadow that 
 now darkens it, you must not approach the altar of 
 your parish church. 
 
 "If you will come to me, and open your heart 
 to me, as the sinner should to his priest, I may be 
 able to counsel and to help you. If you can clear 
 yourself to me, I will be your advocate with your 
 fellow-parishioners. — Always your friend, 
 
 " John Monkhouse." 
 
 "He did wisely to write," said Both well, crush- 
 ing the letter in his clenched fist. "If he had 
 spoken such words as those to me, I believe I 
 should have knocked him down, priest though 
 he is." . 
 
 He answered the Rector's letter within an hour 
 after receiving it. 
 
 "I have nothing to confess," he wrote, "and 
 that is why I have not gone to your confessional. 
 The difficulties and perplexities of my life are such
 
 172 wyllard's weird. 
 
 as could only be understood by a man of my own 
 age and surroundings. Tbey would be darker than 
 Sanscrit to clerical gray hairs. 
 
 "Because I did not choose to answer questions 
 which I could not answer without betraying the 
 confidence of a friend, my wise fellow-parishioners 
 have agreed to suspect me of murdering a girl whose 
 face I never saw till after her death. 
 
 "I shall attend to receive the sacrament at the 
 eight-o'clock service next Sunday, and I dare you to 
 refuse to administer it.— I have the honour to be, 
 yours, &c. Bothwell Grahame." 
 
 ■ 
 He walked to Bodmin and delivered his letter at 
 
 the Eectory door. He would not run the risk of an 
 
 hour's delay. On his way home he overtook Hilda, 
 
 near the gates of The Spaniards. She was very pale 
 
 when they met, and she grew still paler as they 
 
 shook hands. 
 
 After a word or two of greeting, they walked on 
 side by side in silence. 
 
 " I wonder that you can consent to be seen with 
 me," said Bothwell presently, after a farmer's wife
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 173 
 
 had driven past them on her way from market. 
 " You must have heard by this time what people 
 think about me — your brother foremost among them, 
 I believe, for he has given me the cut direct more 
 than once since the inquest." 
 
 "lam sorry that he should be so ready to believe 
 a lie," said Hilda, " for I know that this terrible 
 slander is a lie." 
 
 " God bless you for those straight, strong words, 
 Hilda !" exclaimed Bothwell fervently. " Yes, it is 
 a lie. I am not a good man. I have taken one 
 false step in my life, and the consequences of that 
 mistake have been very heavy upon me. But I am 
 not capable of the kind of wickedness which my 
 Bodmin friends put down to me. I harve not risen 
 to the sublimer heights of crime. I am not up to 
 throwing a fellow-creature out of a railway-carriage." 
 
 " Why did you not answer that man's questions 
 at the inquest?" asked Hilda urgently, forgetting 
 that she had hardly the right to demand his con- 
 fidence. " That refusal of yours is the cause of all 
 this misery. It seems such a foolish, obstinate act 
 on your part."
 
 174 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " I daresay it does. But I could not do more 
 or less than I did. To have answered that inquisi- 
 tive cur's prying questions categorically would have 
 been to injure a lady. As a man of honour, I was 
 bound to run all risks rather than do that." 
 
 " I begin to understand,"- said Hilda, blushing 
 crimson. 
 
 Why had she not guessed his secret long before 
 this ? she asked herself. The mystery that sur- 
 rounded him was the mystery of some fatal love- 
 affair. She was only a secondary person in his life. 
 There was another who had been more to him than 
 she, Hilda, could ever be — another to whom he was 
 bound, for whom he was willing to sacrifice his own 
 character. She felt a jealous pang at the mere 
 thought of that unknown one. 
 
 "No, you can never understand," exclaimed 
 Bothwell passionately. "You can never imagine 
 the misery of a man who has bound himself by a 
 fatal tie which chains him to one woman, long after 
 his heart has gone out to another. I gave away my 
 liberty while I was in India, Hilda : pledged myself 
 to one who could give me but little in return for my
 
 A CLERICAL WARNING. 175 
 
 faith and devotion. I dare not tell you the circum- 
 stances of that bondage — the fatality which led to 
 that accursed engagement. I am desperate enough 
 to break the tie, now that it is too late, now that I 
 dare not offer myself to the girl I love, now that my 
 name is blasted for ever. Yes, for ever. I know 
 these narrow-minded rustics, and that to the end of 
 my life I shall in their sight bear the brand of Cain. 
 Here is a fine example of liberal feeling, Hilda." 
 
 He handed her the Hector's letter, crumpled in 
 his angry grasp. 
 
 She read it slowly, tears welling up to her eyes 
 as she read. How hardly the world was using this 
 poor Bothwell ! and the harder he was used the 
 more she loved him. 
 
 " What are you going to do ?" she asked. 
 
 " I shall kneel before the altar of my God, as I 
 have knelt before." 
 
 " There will at least be one communicant there 
 who will not shrink from you," said Hilda softly. 
 "*\Ye will kneel side by side, if you like." 
 
 " God bless you, my darling. God help me to 
 clear my name from this foul stain which fools have
 
 176 wyllard's weird. 
 
 cast upon it ; and then a day may come when you 
 and I may kneel before that altar, side by side, 
 and I may be thrice blest in winning you for my 
 wife." 
 
 There was a brief silence before Hilda murmured, 
 " You have told me that you are bound to another." 
 
 " Yes, and I have told you that I will break 
 through that bondage." 
 
 " Can you do so with honour ?" 
 
 "Yes. It will be more honourable to cancel my 
 vow than to keep it ; and when I am a free man — 
 when this shadow has been cleared from my name — 
 will you take me for your husband, Hilda — a man 
 with his way to make in the world, but needing only 
 such an inducement as your love to undertake the 
 labours of a modern Hercules ? Will you have me, 
 Hilda, when I am my own man again ?" 
 
 "I will," answered Hilda softly, yet with a firm 
 faith that thrilled him. " I shall have to brave my 
 brother's anger, perhaps ; but I will not wait till 
 your name is cleared from this slander. Of what 
 use is fair-weather love ? It is in storm and cloud 
 that a woman's faith should be firmest. When you
 
 A CLEKICAL WARNING. 177 
 
 have freed yourself from that old tie which has grown 
 a weariness to you, when you can come to me in all 
 truth and honour, my heart shall answer frankly and 
 fully, Both well. And then you can tell all our 
 friends that we are engaged. It may be a very long 
 engagement, perhaps. I shall not be of age till two 
 years hence, you know; but that does not matter. 
 People will know at least that i" do not suspect you 
 of a crime." 
 
 "My noble girl!" he cried, beside himself with 
 
 joy- 
 Never had he thought to find any woman so 
 frank, so generous, so brave. He would have caught 
 her in his arms, pressed her to his passionately 
 beating heart, but she -drew herself away from him 
 with a decisive gesture. 
 
 " Not until you are free, Bothwell ; not until 
 you can tell me that the old tie is broken. Till 
 then we can be only friends." 
 
 "Be it so," he answered submissively. " Your 
 friendship is worth more to me than the love of 
 other women. Will you walk to Penmorval with 
 me ? Dora has been wondering at your desertion." 
 VOL. i. n
 
 178 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Not to-clay. Please tell Dora that I have not 
 been very well. I will go to see her to-morrow. 
 Good-bye, Bothwell." 
 
 "Good-bye, my beloved." 
 
 They parted at the gate of The Spaniards.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 
 
 Three days after that compact between Bothwell 
 and Hilda, an officious friend went out of his way 
 to inform Mr. Heathcote that his sister and Mr. 
 Grahame had been seen together several times of 
 late, and that their manner indicated a more than 
 ordinary degree of intimacy. They had been ob- 
 served together at the early service on Sunday morn- 
 ing; they had sat in the same pew; they had walked 
 away from the church side by side — indeed, Mr. 
 Heathcote' s friend believed they had actually walked 
 to The Spaniards together. 
 
 "It is a shame that such a man as Grahame 
 should be allowed to be on intimate terms with an 
 innocent girl," said the worthy rustic, in conclusion. 
 
 '•'My dear Badderly, I hope I am able to take 
 care of my sister without the help of all Bodmin," 
 retorted Heathcote shortly. " Everybody is in great
 
 180 WYLLARD S WEIRD. 
 
 haste to condemn Mr. Graham e ; hut you must not 
 forget that my sister and I have heen intimate with 
 him and . his family for years. We cannot he ex- 
 pected to turn our hacks upon him all at once, 
 hecause his conduct happens to appear somewhat 
 mysterious." 
 
 Notwithstanding which kindly word for Both well, 
 Edward Heathcote went straight home and ques- 
 tioned his sister as to her dealings with that gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Hilda admitted that she had seen Mr. Grahame 
 two or three times within the last week, and that 
 she had allowed him to walk home with her after 
 the early service. 
 
 ' ' Do you think it wise or womanly to advertise 
 your friendship with a man who is suspected of a 
 most abominable crime?" asked her brother severely. 
 
 " I think it wise and womanly to be true to my 
 friends in misfortune — in unmerited misfortune," 
 she answered firmly. 
 
 "You are very strong in your faith. And 
 pray what do you expect will be the end of all 
 this ?"
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 181 
 
 "I expect — I hope — that some clay I shall be 
 Both well's wife. I shall not be impatient of your 
 control, Edward. I am only nineteen. I hope dur- 
 ing the next two years you will find good reason to 
 change your opinion about Bothwell, and to give 
 your consent to our marriage — " 
 
 "And if I do not?" 
 
 " If you do not, I must take advantage of my 
 liberty, when I come of age, and marry him without 
 your consent." 
 
 " You have changed your tune, Hilda. A week 
 ago you told me that you and Bothwell would never 
 be married. Now, you boldly announce your be- 
 trothal to him." 
 
 " We are not betrothed — yet." 
 
 "0, there is a preliminary stage, is there? A 
 kind of purgatory which precedes the heaven of 
 betrothal. Hilda, you are doing a most ill-advised 
 and unwomanly thing in giving encouragement to 
 this man, in spite of your brother's warning." 
 
 " Am I to be unjust because my brother con- 
 demns a friend unheard ? Believe me, Edward, my 
 instinct is wiser than your experience. Why do.
 
 182 . wyllard's weird. 
 
 you not question Bothwell ? He will answer you 
 as frankly as he answered me. He will tell you his 
 reasons for refusing to satisfy that London lawyer's 
 curiosity. Edward, how can you be so cruel as 
 to doubt him, to harden your heart against him and 
 against me?" 
 
 "Not against you, my darling," her brother 
 answered tenderly. "If I thought your happiness 
 were really at stake, that your heart were really 
 engaged, I would do. much: but I can but think 
 you are carried away by a mistaken enthusiasm. 
 You would never have cared for Grahame if the 
 world had not been against him ; if he had not 
 appeared to you as a martyr." 
 
 " You are wrong there, Edward," she answered 
 shyly, her fingers playing nervously with the collar 
 of his coat, the darkly-fringed eyelids drooping over 
 the lovely gray eyes. " I have liked him for a long 
 time. Last winter we used to hunt together a good 
 deal, you know — " 
 
 " I did not know, or I should have taken care to 
 prevent it," said Heathcote. 
 
 " 0, it was always accidental, of course," she
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 183 
 
 apologised. " But in a hunting country, the fast- 
 goers generally get together, don't they ?" 
 
 " In your case there was some very fast-going, 
 evidently." 
 
 " I used to think then that Both well cared for 
 me — just a little. And then there came a cnange. 
 But I know the reason of that change now ; and I 
 know that he really loves me." 
 
 " 0, you are monstrous wise, child, and mon- 
 strous self-willed for nineteen years old," said her 
 brother, in those deep grave tones of his, a voice 
 which gave weight and power to lightest words, 
 " and you would take your own road in life without 
 counting the cost. Well, Hilda, for your sake I 
 will try to get at the root of this mystery. I will 
 try to fathom your lover's secret ; and God grant I 
 may discover that it is a far less guilty secret than 
 I have deemed." • 
 
 He kissed Hilda's downcast brow and left her. 
 She was crying ; but her tears were less bitter than 
 they had been, for she felt that her brother was now 
 on her side ; and Edward Heathcote's championship 
 was a tower of strength.
 
 184 wyllard' s weird. 
 
 Once having pledged himself to anything, even 
 against his own convictions, Heathcote was the last 
 man to go from his word ; hut if he needed a 
 stronger inducement than his sister's sorrowful 
 pleading, that inducement was offered. 
 
 He received a note from Dora Wyllard within a 
 few hours of his conversation with Hilda. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Heathcote, — My husband and I have 
 both been wondering at your desertion of us. For 
 my own part I want much to see you, and to talk to 
 you upon a very painful subject. Will you call at 
 Penmorval after your ride to-morrow afternoon, and 
 let me have a few words with you alone ? 
 " Always faithfully yours, 
 
 " Dorothea Wyllard." 
 
 He kissed the little note before he laid it carefully 
 in a drawer of his writing-table. It was a foolish 
 thing to do, but the act was quite involuntary and 
 half unconscious. The sight of that handwriting 
 brought back the feeling of that old time when a 
 letter from Dora meant so much for him. He had
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 185 
 
 trained himself to think of her as another man's 
 wife— to consider himself her friend, and her friend 
 only. He felt himself bound in honour so to think ; 
 all *the more because he was admitted to her home, 
 because she was not afraid to call him friend. Yet 
 there were moments when the old feeling came over 
 him with irresistible force. 
 
 He did not ride that afternoon, but walked 
 across the fields, and presented himself at Penmor- 
 val between four and five o'clock. Mrs. Wyllard was 
 alone in her morning-room, a room in which every- 
 thing seemed part of herself — her favourite books, 
 her piano, her easel — all the signs of those pursuits 
 which he remembered as the delight of her girlhood. 
 
 " You paint still, I see," he said, glancing at the 
 easel, on which there was an unfinished picture of 
 a beloved Blenheim spaniel; "you 'have not for- 
 gotten your old taste for animals." 
 
 "I have so much leisure," she answered some- 
 what sadly ; and then he remembered her childless 
 home. 
 
 She was very pale, and he thought she had a 
 careworn look, as of one who had spent anxious
 
 186 wyllard's weird. • 
 
 days and sleepless nights. He took the chair to 
 which she motioned him, and the}' sat opposite 
 each other for some moments in silence, she look- 
 ing down and playing nervously with 'a massive 
 ivory paper-knife which was lying on the table at 
 which she had been writing when he entered. Sud- 
 denly she lifted her eyes to his face — pathetic eyes 
 which had looked at him once before in his life with 
 just that appealing look. 
 
 "It is very cruel of you to believe my cousin 
 guilty of murder," she said, coming straight to the 
 point. "You knew my mother. Surely .you must 
 know our race well enough to know that it does not 
 produce murderers." 
 
 " Who told you that I believed such a thing ?" 
 
 "Your own actions have told me. 1 Bothwell has 
 been cut by the people about here ; and you, who 
 should have been his staunch friend and champion, 
 you have kept away from Penmorval as if this house 
 were infected, in order to avoid meeting my 
 cousin." 
 
 "I cannot tell you a lie, Mrs. Wyllard, even 
 to spare your feelings," replied Heathcote, deeply
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 187 
 
 moved, " and yet I think .you must know that I 
 would do much to save you pain. Yes, I must 
 admit that it has seemed to me that circumstances 
 pointed 'to your cousin, as having been directly or 
 indirectly concerned in that girl's death. His con- 
 duct became so strange at that date — so difficult to 
 account for upon any other hypothesis." 
 
 " Has your experience of life never made you 
 acquainted with strange coincidences ?" asked Dora. 
 "Is it impossible, or even improbable, that Both- 
 well should have some trouble upon his mind — a 
 trouble which arose just about the time of that girl's 
 death? Everything must have a date ; and his 
 anxieties happen to date from that time. I know 
 his frank open nature, and how heavily any secret 
 would weigh upon him." 
 
 " You believe, then, that he has a secret ?" 
 
 " Yes — there is something — some entanglement 
 which prevented his answering Mr. Distin's very 
 impertinent questions." 
 
 "Has he confided his trouble to you? Has he 
 convinced you of his innocence?" 
 
 " He had no occasion to do that. I never
 
 188 wyllard's weird. 
 
 believed him guilty — I never could believe him 
 guilty of such a diabolical crime." 
 
 Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, but she 
 dried them hastily. 
 
 " Mr. Heathcote, you are a lawyer, a man of the 
 world, a man of talent and leisure. You have been 
 one of the first to do my kinsman a cruel wrong. 
 Cannot you do something towards righting him ? I 
 am making this appeal on my own account — without 
 Bothwell's knowledge. I come to you as the oldest 
 friend I have — the one friend outside my own home 
 in whom I can fully confide," 
 
 " You know that I would give my life in your 
 service," he answered, with suppressed fervour. He 
 dared not trust himself to say much. " Yes, you 
 have but to command me. I will do all that human 
 intelligence can do. But this is a difficult case. 
 The only evidence against your cousin is of so vague 
 a nature that it could not condemn him before a 
 jury; and yet that evidence is strong enough to 
 brand him as a possible murderer in the opinion of 
 those who saw him under Distin's examination. He 
 can never be thoroughly rehabilitated until the
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 189 
 
 mystery of that girl's death has been fathomed, and 
 I doubt if that will ever be. Where Joseph Distin 
 has failed, with all the detective-police of London at 
 his command, how can any amateur investigator 
 hope to succeed ?" 
 
 " Friendship may succeed where mere profes- 
 sional cleverness has been baffled," argued Dora. 
 " I do not think that Mr. Distin's heart was in this 
 case. At least that is the impression I derived from 
 a few words which I heard him say to my husband 
 just before he left us." 
 
 " Indeed ! Can you recall those words ?" 
 
 "Very nearly. He said he had done his best 
 in the matter, and should not attempt to go further. 
 And then with his cynical air he added, ' Let sleep- 
 ing dogs lie, Wyllard. That is a good old saying.'" 
 
 " Don't you think that sounds rather as if he 
 suspected your kinsman, and feared to bring trouble 
 on your family by any further investigation ?" 
 
 " It never struck me in that light," exclaimed 
 Dora, with a distressed look. "Good heavens! is 
 all the world so keen to suspect an innocent man ? 
 If you only knew Bothwell as I know him, you
 
 190 wyllard's weird. 
 
 would be the first to laugh this cruel slander to 
 scorn." 
 
 "For your sake I will try and believe in him as 
 firmly as you do," answered Heathcote, " and as 
 Wyllard does, no doubt." 
 
 Her countenance fell, and she was silent. 
 
 " Your husband knows of this cloud upon your 
 cousin's name, I suppose ?" interrogated Heathcote, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Yes, I told him how Bothwell had been treated 
 by his Bodmin acquaintance." 
 
 " And he was as indignant as. you were, I con- 
 clude ?" 
 
 "He said very little," answered Dora, with a 
 pained expression. " My regard for Bothwell is the 
 only subject upon which Julian and I have ever dif- 
 fered. He has been somewhat harsh in his judg- 
 ment of my cousin ever since his return from India. 
 He disapproved of his leaving the army, and he has 
 been inclined to take a gloomy view of his prospects 
 from the very first." 
 
 "I see. He has not a high opinion of Both-- 
 well's moral character ?"
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 191 
 
 "I would hardly say that. But he is inclined 
 to judge my cousin's errors harshly, and ihe does 
 not understand his noble qualities as I do. I 
 should not have been constrained to ask for your 
 help, if Julian had been as heartily with me in this 
 matter as he has been in all other things." 
 
 Edward Heathcote's bronzed cheek blanched 
 ever so little at this speech. It moved him deeply 
 to think that in this one anxiety of her loving heart 
 he could be more to Dora Wyllard than her hus- 
 band, that she could turn to him in this trouble, 
 with boundless confidence in his friendship. What 
 would he not do to merit such confidence, to show 
 himself worthy of such trust ? Already he was 
 prepared to be Bothwell's champion ; he was angry 
 with himself for ever having suspected him. 
 
 "I had another motive for appealing to you," 
 continued Dora shyly. " I have reason to think 
 that Both well is very fond of Hilda, and the dearest 
 wish of my life is to see those two united." 
 
 "A wish which is in a fair way of being gra- 
 tified," answered Heathcote. "My sister announced 
 to me only yesterday that there is some kind of con-
 
 192 wyllard's weird. 
 
 tingent engagement between her and Mr. Grahame ; 
 and that, he being free to wed her, she means to 
 marry him when she comes of age, with or without 
 my consent." 
 
 " My noble Hilda !" exclaimed Dora ; "yes, it is 
 just like her to accept him now when all the world 
 is against him." 
 
 " Say that it is just like a woman," said Heath- 
 cote. " There is a leaven of Quixotism in all your 
 sex, from the Queen to the wife-beater's victim in 
 Seven Dials. Well, dear Mrs. Wyllard, for your sake 
 and for Hilda's, I will be Quixotic. I will make it 
 the business of my life to discover the mystery of 
 that unknown girl's fate. I will pledge myself to 
 think of nothing else, to undertake no other work 
 or duty until I have exhausted all possible means 
 of discovery." 
 
 "God bless you for the promise," she answered 
 fervently. " I knew tljat I had one friend in the 
 world." 
 
 A sob almost choked her utterance of those last 
 words. She was deeply wounded by her husband's 
 coldness in this matter of Both well's position. She
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 193 
 
 had expected Lira to be as indignant as she was, to 
 be ready to take up arms against #11 the world for 
 her cousin ; and he had been cold, silent, and 
 gloomy when she tried to discuss the burning ques- 
 tion with him. His manner had implied that he, 
 too, suspected Bothwell, though he would not go so 
 far as to give utterance to his suspicion. 
 
 And now to have won over this strong advocate, 
 this brave, true-hearted champion, was a relief to 
 her mind that almost overcame her feelings ; . here, 
 where she had ever sought to preserve the calm 
 dignity of manner which became her as Julian Wyl- 
 lard's wife. 
 
 "I thank you with all my heart," she faltered, 
 " and I am sure that my husband will be as rejoiced 
 as I shall, if you can clear Bothwell's name from this 
 stigma." 
 
 Heathcote rose to take leave. He felt that the 
 business of his visit was accomplished, that he had 
 no right to linger in Dora Wy Hard's sanctum. It 
 was the first time he had ever been admitted to her 
 own particular nest, the one room in which she was 
 secure from the possibility of interruption. 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Tell Hilda to come and see me," she said, as 
 they shook hands. " She has deserted me most 
 cruelly of late." 
 
 " Perhaps it is better for her not to be here 
 •until her engagement to your cousin is on a more 
 definite footing." 
 
 " Ah, there is the secret in Bothwell's life — some 
 entanglement which he half admitted to me the 
 other day. He said that he was - bound to one 
 woman while he loved another. I guessed that 
 Hilda was the one he loved. But who can the other 
 be ? I know of no one." 
 
 " Some lady whom he met in India, no doubt. 
 The very air of the East is charged with complica- 
 tions of that kind. If your cousin 'is a man of 
 honour, and if we can unriddle the railway mystery, 
 all may yet come right. Pray do not be too anxious. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 And so they parted, they two, who once were 
 to have spent their lives together. Edward Heath- 
 cote walked away from Penmorval loving his old 
 love as dearly as ever he had loved her in his pas- 
 sionate youth. He was young enough to love with
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 195 
 
 youthful fervour even yet, although he had schooled 
 himself to helieve that youth was past for him. He 
 was only thirty-six; Julian Wyllard's junior by 
 nearly ten years. 
 
 Half an hour later Dora was presiding at after- 
 noon tea in the yew-tree arbour, where her husband 
 joined her after two hours' business talk with his 
 land-steward. The weather was still warm enough 
 for drinking tea out of doors, and this yew-tree 
 arbour was Mrs. Wyllard's favourite retreat. 
 
 "How pale and tired you are looking, Julian!'* 
 she said, scrutinising her husband's face as he sank 
 somewhat wearily into the comfortable basket- shair 
 she had placed ready for him ; " you must want 
 some tea very badly." 
 
 " I always enjoy my afternoon cup ; and you are 
 the queen of tea-makers," answered Wyllard ; " yes, 
 I have had a tiresome talk with Gretton, who is 
 getting old and prosy, and repeats himself in- 
 fernally when he is describing the tenants' wants 
 and grievances. He cannot tell me of the smallest 
 repair required for a barn or pig-sty without repeat- 
 ing every syllable of his conversation with some
 
 196 wyllarb's weird. 
 
 garrulous old farmer, and even explaining the nature 
 of the barn or the sty in dumb-show, ' as it might 
 be this,' and ' as it might be that.' He maddens 
 me with his ' as it might be.' " 
 
 " I am afraid you are growing nervous, Julian," 
 said Dora tenderly. 
 
 She laid her cool white hand upon his forehead, 
 and looked concerned at the touch. 
 
 " You are actually feverish. You have been 
 irritated into a fever by that prosy old man. Why 
 do you not superannuate poor old Gretton, and let 
 Bothwell be your steward ? He is much cleverer 
 and more business-like than you think, and at the 
 worst he would not prose." 
 
 " I never thought Bothwell a fit person to look 
 after my estate, and I think him less so now," 
 answered her husband coldly. "He is the most 
 unpopular man in Bodmin. Do not let us talk 
 about it any more. By the way, you have had a 
 visitor this afternoon," he continued, as his wife 
 handed him his tea. " I saw Heathcote go past the 
 library-window while I was at work with Gretton. 
 What brought him to Penmorval ?"
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 197 
 
 "I asked him to corue," answered Dora, very 
 pale, but with a steadfast look in her eyes, and 
 about the firmly-moulded lips. 
 
 She had never had a secret from her husband in 
 her life, and although she had made her appeal to 
 Heathcote without his advice or knowledge, she had 
 no intention of leaving him uninformed now that 
 the thing was done. 
 
 " You asked him to come to you — Edward Heath- 
 cote !" exclaimed "Wyllard, with a surprised look. 
 " And may I know what important business neces- 
 sitated this interview ?" 
 
 " You have a right to know all about it, Julian," 
 she answered quietly. " I have asked Mr. Heath- 
 cote to give me his aid in a matter in which you 
 have seemed unwilling to help me. You were con- 
 tent that my cousin should remain under a hideous 
 stigma — shunned by those who were once his 
 friends. I am not so content ; and I have asked 
 the son of my mother's oldest and staunchest friend 
 to help me." 
 
 And then she told him, as briefly as pos- 
 sible, what kind of request she had made to
 
 198 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Edward Heathcote, and how lie had promised to 
 help her. 
 
 Julian Wyllard was livid with anger." He set 
 down his cup with a hand that trembled like an 
 aspen-leaf; he rose from his chair, and paced the 
 grassy space in front of the arbour, backwards and 
 forwards half a dozen times, before he uttered a 
 word. And then, coming back to his wife, he looked 
 at her with eyes dilated with jealous frenzy. 
 
 "Why call him the son of your mother's old 
 friend ?" he exclaimed. " What need of so awkward 
 and ambiguous a phrase ? Why not call him your 
 old lover ? It is in that character you have thrown 
 yourself upon him ; it is as your old lover that you 
 try to arouse his chivalry, that you urge him to do 
 that which your husband's common sense revolted 
 from. A husband is a reasoning animal, you know. 
 He will only attempt the practical, the possible. 
 But throw your glove to the lions, and your lover 
 will leap into the arena and fight for it ! And you 
 take advantage of an unquenchable passion, of a 
 despairing love, to attempt the solution of a problem
 
 A RAPID CONVERSION. 199 
 
 to which the answer may be a rope round your 
 cousin's neck." 
 
 " You have no right to insult me as you have 
 done," said Dora, pale as marble, but calm in her 
 just indignation. " You know that I am your true 
 wife, and that my friendship for Edward Heathcote 
 and his for me is above suspicion. As for my 
 cousin Bothwell, I know that he has been most 
 ' unjustly suspected of a foul crime ; and I will not 
 rest till the true history of that crime has been 
 discovered. Nothing but the discovery of the real 
 murderer can ever set Bothwell right with his 
 feilow-men." 
 
 " Then he will have to remain in the wrong," 
 answered Wyllard savagely. " The mystery which 
 Distin's training and experience failed to fathom 
 will never be brought to light by your knight-errant 
 of The Spaniards."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 
 
 Edward Heathcote devoted liis every thought to 
 the task which he had taken upon himself. His 
 first business must he to discover the name and 
 history of the murdered girl. The clue in his pos- 
 session was of the slightest ; hut he was not without 
 a clue. 
 
 First, there was the name and address of the 
 baker on the biscuit-bag. This gave him an indica- 
 tion of the part of Paris in which the girl must have 
 been living before she started for England ; it also 
 indicated that she had left Paris within a few days 
 of her journey westward. 
 
 But he had a second clue, and a much better 
 one. Within a week after the adjourned inquest, a 
 farm-labourer had brought him a large oval silver 
 locket, which he had picked up in the gorge where 
 the girl fell. The spot lay a little way off the direct 
 path to the man's work, and morbid curiosity had
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 201 
 
 impelled him to go and examine the place in the 
 early morning, hefore his daily labour began. 
 
 Prowling about among the ferns and crags, he 
 had struck his foot against a glistening object, 
 which proved to be an old silver locket, a good deal 
 worn and battered ; a double locket, containing a 
 waxen Agnus Dei, and a little lace-bordered picture 
 of the Virgin Mary, the paper worn thin by much 
 handling. 
 
 The man carried the locket to the Coroner, who 
 rewarded him with half a sovereign, and laid the 
 relic aside in his desk, after a minute examination. 
 It had been attached to a black ribbon, which was 
 worn and old,* and had snapped with the jerk of the 
 girl's fall. 
 
 Upon the locket itself there was not the faintest 
 sign which could lead to the identification of the 
 wearer; but upon the little lace-edged engraving 
 there were these words neatly written in a fine 
 French penmanship : 
 
 " Souvenir from Sister Gudule de la Misericorcle 
 to Leonie. Dinan, October 1879. Child of Jesus, 
 pray for us."
 
 202 wyllard's weird. 
 
 To Heathcote's mind this brief legend indicated 
 three facts. 
 
 First, that the Christian name of the wearer of' 
 the locket was Leonie. Secondly, that she had been 
 educated at a convent at Dinan. Thirdly, that she 
 left the convent in October 1879, and that the little 
 paper had been placed in her locket at parting. 
 The nuns have no valuable gifts to offer their pro- 
 tegees. An engraving of Saint or Blessed Virgin 
 would be the most precious token holy-poverty could 
 bestow. This indication of the locket was the clue 
 which Heathcote decided to follow in the first 
 instance. He made his arrangements for leaving 
 England without an hour's delay ; but before turn- 
 ing his back upon The Spaniards, he exacted Hilda's 
 promise that she would not see Bothwell Grahame 
 during his absence. 
 
 " Mr. Grahame's entanglement with another 
 woman is an all-sufficient reason for your holding 
 yourself aloof from him," said her brother. " When 
 he is free to ask you to be his wife, let him come 
 to me and submit his pretensions to me, as your 
 natural guardian. Perhaps, by that time, I may
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 203 
 
 have succeeded in setting him right with those who 
 now look askance upon him !" 
 
 Mr. Heathcote determined to call upon Joseph 
 Distin before he crossed the Channel. He had 
 thought the question out thoroughly during a sleep- 
 less night ; and it seemed to him that it would be 
 folly to enter upon his difficult task of investigation 
 without having first armed himself with such advice 
 as the criminal lawyer was able to give. Before 
 acting upon his own opinion it would be well to 
 know the opinion of a disinterested expert. 
 
 He called at Distin's offices the morning after 
 his arrival in London. The offices were in Furni- 
 val's Inn, a quiet and convenient spot, not too far 
 from the Old Bailey, and within a ten minutes' walk 
 of the stuffy old law-courts, still extant in Chancery 
 Lane. Mr. Heathcote sent in his card ; and although 
 at least half a dozen clients were waiting for Mr. 
 Distin, he was admitted immediately, and received 
 with marked cordiality. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Heathcote, charmed to see you. 
 How good of you to look me up !" exclaimed Distin, 
 as he pushed forward a morocco-covered armchair.
 
 204 
 
 There was nothing aesthetic, picturesque, or new- 
 fangled in Mr. Distin's office, where the prevailing 
 tone was a sober, substantial comfort. Most of the 
 furniture looked at least fifty years old ; but the 
 Turkey carpet was the richest that the looms of 
 Orient can produce ; the spacious armchairs invited 
 to repose, and to that ease of body which favours 
 expansion of mind and friendly candour. 
 
 " Are you in town on business or pleasure ?" 
 inquired the lawyer, in his airy manner. " Going 
 through to the north, perhaps ; grouse-moor, eh ?" 
 
 " Nothing is further from my thoughts than 
 shooting grouse," replied Heathcote. "I am in 
 London on my way to the Continent. I am going 
 to hunt up the antecedents of that poor girl who 
 was killed on our line ; I want to find out who she 
 was and how she came to be in the way of meeting 
 her death in our locality." 
 
 The lawyer's airy manner was dropped in a 
 moment, and he became intensely grave. 
 
 " 0, you are going into that business, are you, 
 and so late in the day ? But why ?" 
 
 "I would rather not discuss my motive, if you
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 205 
 
 will kindly excuse me." Mr. Distin bowed. " I 
 want to avail myself of your talent and experience 
 to the uttermost before I begin to work on my own 
 account." 
 
 " The most my talent can do for you in this 
 matter is very little ; to tell you the truth, I made 
 a dismal failure of the business," returned Distin, 
 with agreeable frankness. He was too successful 
 a man to be ashamed to confess a failure. "But 
 really now, Mr. Heathcote, by far the wisest counsel 
 I can give you is to forget all about this sad story, 
 and to let the world go on just as if that poor girl's 
 death had never come within your ken. You did 
 your duty as Coroner, you know. Nothing more 
 could be asked or expected of you. Why, then, 
 should you do more ? You are very friendly with 
 the family at Penmorval. Take my advice. ' Let 
 sleeping dogs lie.' " 
 
 "That is what you said to Mr. Wyllard the 
 morning you were leaving." 
 
 " I may have used that adage. It is a very good 
 one." 
 
 "And you recommend me to drop this investiga-
 
 206 wyllard's weird. 
 
 • 
 
 tion, for the sake of my friends at Penruorval," said 
 Heathcote. " I infer from that advice that you 
 suspect Mr. Grahame of being concerned in the 
 French girl's death." 
 
 "I confess to you that his whole manner and 
 conduct were to my mind suggestive of guilt. Of 
 course, manner and conduct are not evidence. At 
 this present time there is not a shred of evidence 
 to connect Mr. Grahame with the crime, except the 
 one fact that he was in the train when the girl was 
 killed ; but that point would apply equally to every- 
 body else in the train, or rather to any one who 
 happened to be alone in a carriage as Mr. Grahame 
 was. At present Mrs. Wyllard's cousin is safe. If 
 his was the arm that thrust that girl off the footboard, 
 there is nothing to bring the crime home to him. 
 But go a few steps further, follow up any -clue which 
 you may happen to possess — you would not start 
 upon such an investigation without some kind of 
 clue," speculated Joseph Distin shrewdly — "pursue 
 your trail a few yards further, and you may come 
 upon evidence that will put a rope round your 
 friend's neck, and bring lasting disgrace upon the
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 207 
 
 family at Penmorval. I advised my old friend 
 Wyllard to let this matter drop. I advise you to 
 do the same." 
 
 " I cannot act upon your advice. There has been 
 too much mischief done already. Mr. Grahame's 
 refusal to answer your questions about his where- 
 abouts on the day of the murder has condemned him 
 in the minds of his fellow-townsmen. His name is 
 blackened by a terrible suspicion, and I have sworn 
 to clear it, if it can be cleared. If he is guilty — 
 well, he can hardly be worse off with a rope round 
 his neck than he is now, with all his old friends 
 estranged from him. For my own part, in such a 
 case I should infinitely prefer the rope. It would be 
 a short way out of a difficulty." 
 
 "My experience of criminals is that when the 
 crisis comes they would rather endure the ignominy 
 than the halter," replied Distin. "Perhaps you 
 have never seen a man within an hour of his being 
 hanged ?" 
 
 " Thank. God I have not been obliged to do that, 
 though I have had to look upon one an hour after." 
 
 " Ah, then you do not know to what manhood
 
 208 wyllard's weird. 
 
 can descend — how it can grovel before the spectre of 
 instant, certain death. Come now, cannot I persuade 
 you to think better of your idea of investigating this 
 mysterious business ?" 
 
 " No. I have promised to do it. I must lieep 
 my promise." 
 
 " So be it." 
 
 And then Joseph Distin discussed the matter 
 freely, with perfect frankness. He told Heathcote 
 what means he had used to discover the girl's 
 identity on this side of the Channel. 
 
 "I should have gone further and crossed the 
 water, if I had not seen good reason to desist," he 
 said, when he had explained his plan of inquiry at 
 every likely lodging-house, and how that plan had 
 totally failed. 
 
 " But what would you have done on the other 
 side of the water, without any clue ?" 
 
 " I should have gone across myself and put the 
 case into the hands of Felix Drubarde, one of the 
 cleverest police-officers in Paris. He would have 
 been instantly on the alert to hear of any application 
 made to the police by the relatives and friends of
 
 A VALUABLE ALLY. 209 
 
 the missing girl. She could hardly disappear for 
 any length of time without some one being con- 
 cerned by her disappearance. The application to 
 the police might not occur perhaps until months 
 after her death ; but it would be likely to occur 
 sooner or later. And, again, Felix Drubarde has 
 his allies in every quarter of Paris. He hears 
 of events so quickly that it might be supposed he 
 had a network of speaking-tubes all over the city. 
 With his help I should have been almost certain to 
 arrive at the identification of the dead girl." 
 
 " But I sent three advertisements to each of the 
 best known Paris newspapers," said Heathcote. 
 " How do you account for those advertisements 
 not having been. seen by the girl's friends ?" 
 
 " Because French people of the lower classes are 
 sometimes very illiterate, and live in a very narrow 
 circle. Your papers may not have come within the 
 range of the girl's friends. They would be likely 
 to apply to the police when time passed and they 
 received no tidings of her. But they would not be 
 likely to see your best known papers — the papers 
 of the upper classes, no doubt. And then your 
 
 VOL. i. p •
 
 210 WYLLARD's WEIRD. 
 
 advertisements appeared immediately after the girl's 
 death ; at a time when the parents or friends had no 
 reason for feeling alarmed as to her safety." 
 
 " That may be so," replied Heathcote thought- 
 fully. " I think you can help me very much in my 
 undertaking, Mr. Distin, if you are willing to do so." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 " Give me a letter of introduction to this Parisian 
 detective, and let me engage his aid by and by, when 
 I go to Paris. I shall be happy to pay him liberally 
 for his services." 
 
 " Drubarde is no extortioner. He will not fleece 
 you," said Distin. "In fact the man is a gentleman, 
 in his own particular line. He has made an inde- 
 pendence, and he only works now «ts an amateur. 
 Yes, I will give you a letter of introduction to •him 
 with pleasure, since you are bent on pursuing this 
 business to the bitter end. I suppose you will go 
 straight to Paris ?" 
 
 "No. I want first to follow up the only valuable 
 clue I have. I shall go first to Dinan, in Brittany, 
 to find the convent, where I have feason to believe 
 this poor girl was educated."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FEVEB DREAMS. 
 
 Edward Heathcote left Waterloo Station for South- 
 ampton within an hour of leaving Mr. Distin's office, 
 dined hastily at the Dolphin Hotel, and started for 
 St. Malo in the South-Western steamer at seven 
 o'clock in the evening. It was still early on the 
 following morning when he landed on the long stone 
 quay at St. Malo, and the picturesque old granite 
 walls were still flushed with the rosy light of a 
 newly-risen sun. The quaint island-citadel, with 
 its exquisite bay and golden sands, had been familiar 
 to Edward Heathcote in the past. He had lingered 
 here to rest after a long ramble in Brittany, and he 
 had an affection for the steep narrow streets and 
 quaint old houses, with their all-pervading aspect 
 of the seventeenth century, the days of Bourbons 
 and Condes, kings and warriors, princely priests 
 and priestly politicians.
 
 212 wvllard's weird. 
 
 Much as lie loved the old-world town, Heathcote 
 had no intention of loitering there on this September 
 morning, lovely as the bay and the rocks and the 
 smiling colony of white-walled villas yonder at 
 Parame looked in the early sunlight. He only 
 waited to get his portmanteau through the Custom 
 Plouse in order to carry it to the little office attached 
 to the Dinan steamer, where he ascertained the hour 
 for the boat's departure. 
 
 Chance and tide favoured him. The steamer was 
 to leave at eleven o'clock. This^afforded time for a 
 leisurely breakfast at the Franklin, and would enable 
 him to reach Dinan early in the afternoon. He 
 breakfasted briefly and temperately, as became a 
 man whose mind was full of anxious thought, and 
 then went for a stroll in the old streets, and looked 
 in at the Cathedral. 
 
 He had reflected seriously upon his interview 
 with the criminal lawyer. The fact that he had 
 found his own original opinion about Bothwell Gra- 
 hame shared by this man, so deeply versed in the 
 ways of criminals, in the science of circumstantial 
 evidence, was to the last degree startling and dis-
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 213 
 
 concerting. He felt that he was setting out upon a 
 task which he could but perform in a half-hearted 
 manner, struggle as he might against that first con- 
 viction of his. He had undertaken this task for 
 Hilda's sake, for Dora's sake. What misery must 
 result if Joseph Distin were right after all, and in 
 an ill-judged attempt to gratify these two trusting 
 women he should bring about the discovery of Both- 
 well's guilt ! That guilt was at present but a dark 
 suspicion which men hardly dared hint to each other; 
 but if Distin's judgment was correct, any unlucky 
 discovery might make the suspicion a fact. 
 
 But he had promised, and the pledge must be 
 kept. He must follow up the clue which he held 
 till it led him to other links in the chain of the 
 victim's history ; and the chances were that in the 
 victim's history he would find a clue to the mur- 
 derer's identity. 
 
 It was a lovely autumnal noontide, and the gay 
 little town of Dinard, with its gardens rising stage 
 above stage on the slope of the hill, its queer little 
 bays and recesses of golden sand, was smiling in 
 sunlight as the " Isle et Ranee " steamed across the
 
 214 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 broad bay of St. Malo to the mouth of the Ranee/ 
 There are few prettier rivers than this little Rhine 
 of Brittany, and Edward Heathcote had loved it well 
 in days gone by. But to-day he sat upon the bridge 
 smoking his cigar, and gazing at the green hills and 
 hanging woods, the villas and villages, and craggy 
 cliffs and ever-varying shore, without seeing the 
 objects upon which his eyes seemed to rest. The 
 nearer he came to the task of investigation, the more 
 irksome became his duty. His heart failed him as 
 he took out the silver locket, and read the name 
 upon the paper inside. It was the name of the 
 woman who was to enlighten him about the dead 
 girl, who was perhaps to put in his hand the 
 clue which would lead him straight to the mur- 
 derer. 
 
 And yet who could say that he would find Sister 
 Gudule de la Misericorde at Dinan? He did not 
 even know the name of the convent in which she 
 lived. She might be dead. And yet the date of the 
 inscription was but two years old. There was every 
 chance that the Sister still lived : and he must be 
 dull if he failed to find her.
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 215 
 
 He stopped at the first church to which he came 
 after leaving the boat — an old church in the lower 
 part of the town. Here he asked his way to the 
 presbytery, and called upon the priest, who told him 
 that there was only one educational convent in 
 Dinan, the Convent of St. Elizabeth of. Hungary, 
 an Ursuline convent situated in a quiet quarter of 
 the town. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote left his portmanteau at one of the 
 hotels in the market-place, and drove at once to the 
 convent. It was a large white building, with plas- 
 tered walls, far from beautiful in itself, and showing 
 every sign of poverty ; but the gardens were neatly 
 kept, the rooms were exquisitely clean, and * the 
 clumsy old Breton furniture was polished to the 
 highest degree. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote was received in the convent par- 
 lour by the Reverend Mother, a homely little tub- 
 shaped personage, in a black serge habit and a pic- 
 turesque white cap, which concealed every vestige of 
 hair upon her broad intelligent forehead. She had 
 kindly black eyes, and a frank benevolent smile, and 
 Heathcote felt at once at his ease with her. She
 
 216 wyllard's weird. 
 
 looked a little disappointed when, in answer to her 
 preliminary question, he told her that he had not 
 come to offer a new pupil. The pupils were the 
 chief source of revenue for the convent, albeit the 
 pension was of the smallest. 
 
 "Have you ever seen that locket before, madame?" 
 he asked, laying the silver medallion before the Eeve- 
 rend Mother. 
 
 " I have seen many such," she answered. " The 
 Holy Father allows us to dispose of them for the 
 benefit of the convent." 
 
 " There is a little paper inside with some writing. 
 Will you look at it, please ?" 
 
 She opened the lotfket and unfolded the paper. 
 "Yes, this is Sister Gudule's writing. I know 
 it very well indeed," said the nun, looking at her 
 visitor with a puzzled air, as if wondering whether 
 the gentleman had not gone a little astray, his* real 
 destination being the great monastic madhouse yonder 
 on the crest of a wooded hill. 
 
 " Sister Gudule is still living — still with you, 
 perhaps ?" 
 
 " Yes ?" interrogatively.'
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 217 
 
 "And you remember Leonie, to whom that little 
 picture was given ?" 
 
 The Keverend Mother smiled her modest smile. 
 
 " Leonie is not an uncommon name," she replied. 
 " We have had many pupils so called from time to 
 time. Our school numbers over a hundred and fifty 
 pupils, you must remember." 
 
 " Do you recall any pupil of that name who left 
 you two years ago ?" asked Heathcote. 
 
 " We have from thirty to forty pupils leaving us 
 every year. Will you permit me to ask the object 
 of your inquiry ?" 
 
 " It is a very serious one, or I should be desolated 
 to give you so much trouble," answered Heathcote 
 courteously, in that polite language which he spoke 
 almost as fluently as his native English. " The 
 poor girl to whom that locket belonged met her 
 death in my neighbourhood less than two months 
 ago. She fell from a railway-carriage as the train 
 was crossing a viaduct. Whether that death was 
 accidental or the result of a crime remains as yet 
 unknown. But there are those in my country to 
 whom it is vital that the whole truth should be
 
 218 wyllard's weird. 
 
 known. If you can help me to discover the truth, 
 you will be helping the cause of justice." 
 
 " Sister Gudule will remember," said the Reve- 
 rend Mother, ringing a bell. " She is one of our 
 lay-sisters, a great favourite with all the children. 
 She nurses them when they are ill, and takes care 
 of them when they go out for a holiday, and plays 
 with them as if she were a child herself." 
 
 A lay-sister, the portress, answered the bell, and 
 went in quest of Sister Gudule. 
 
 " She has a very unprepossessing appearance," 
 said the Reverend Mother. " I fear you may be a 
 little shocked at first seeing her, but she is so 
 amiable that we all adore her. She has been the 
 victim of misfortune from her cradle. Her defor- 
 mity is the consequence of a nurse's carelessness. 
 It turned the heart of her mother against her, and 
 she was a neglected and unloved child. Her family 
 was noble, but the husband speculated in railways, 
 and the wife was silly and extravagant. By the 
 time Gudule was a young woman poverty had over- 
 taken her father, and he was only too glad to 
 acquiesce in the girl's resolution to enter a convent.
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 219 
 
 She came to us penniless thirty years ago, and has 
 worked for her bread ever since. I do not think I 
 exaggerate when I say that she is the most valuable 
 member of our community." 
 
 The door was opened softly and Sister Gudule 
 appeared. This little preface from the Eeverend 
 Mother had not been unnecessary to lessen the shock 
 of her personal appearance, which was startling in 
 its unqualified ugliness. 
 
 Sister Gudule de la Misericorde was the very type 
 of the wicked fairy in the dear old child stories. 
 She was short and squat, with broad shoulders and 
 a decided hump. She had a, nose like a potato, and 
 a lower lip like that of the lady who moistened the 
 spinster's yarn ; she had an undeniable moustache 
 and beard ; yet in spite of all, 'there was something 
 pleasant, conciliating, reassuring in her face. The 
 low broad forehead suggested intellectual power; 
 there was a humorous twinkle in the small gray 
 eyes, as of one who could revel in a joke ; the thick 
 under-lip and prominent under-jaw were the indi- 
 cations of a boundless benevolence.
 
 220 wyllard's weird. 
 
 The Keverend Mother handed the locket and its 
 enclosure to Sister Gudule. 
 
 " I must tell you that the Sister has a most 
 miraculous memory," she said confidentially to 
 Heathcote. " I have never known her forget the 
 most trivial event in the history of our lives. She 
 is our unwritten calendar." 
 
 " It is Leonie Lemarque's locket," said Sister 
 Gudule. " How comes it here ? Is my little Leonie 
 in Dinan ?" 
 
 " Leonie Lemarque !" 
 
 How glibly she pronounced the name ; and how 
 strange it seemed to Edward Heathcote to hear it! 
 Like a name out of a tomb. 
 
 " The owner of that locket is dead," he answered 
 gently. 
 
 " Dead ! Leonie Lemarque ! Dead at twenty 
 years old ! Dead ! Why, there was not a healthier 
 child in the convent, after we had once built up her 
 constitution. She was in a sad way when she came 
 to us." 
 
 "Leonie Lemarque!" repeated the Keverend 
 Mother. " I never thought of her when Monsieur
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 221 
 
 showed me the locket. Leonie Lemarque ! Yes, 
 she left us in 1879 to go to her old grandmother in 
 Paris. And now she has met with a violent death 
 in England. Monsieur will tell you." 
 
 Monsieur repeated his story, this time with fur- 
 ther details, for Sister Gudule questioned him 
 closely. She would have every particular. The 
 tears streamed down her cheeks, hung upon her 
 bristly moustache. She was deeply distressed. 
 
 " You don't know how I loved that child," she 
 said, excusing herself to the Superior ; and then to 
 Heathcote, " Ah, Monsieur, you could never under- 
 stand how I loved her. I saved her life. From 
 the weakest frailest creature, I made her a sound 
 and healthy child. Indeed, I may say that I did 
 much more than this. With the help of God 
 and the intercession of His Saints I saved her 
 mind." 
 
 "It is quite true," said the Eeverend Mother. 
 " The child came to us under most peculiar circum- 
 stances. Sister Gudule took entire charge of her 
 for the first year." 
 
 " And she rewarded me tenfold for my trouble,"
 
 222 wyllard's weird. 
 
 added Gudule ; " she gave me love for love, measure 
 for measure." 
 
 " Will you tell me all about her — every detail ? 
 The knowledge may help me to avenge her death," 
 said Heathcote eagerly. " It is my belief, and the 
 belief of others, that she was foully murdered." 
 
 He was intensely agitated. He felt as if he had 
 taken into his hand the lever which worked some 
 formidable machine — an instrument of death and 
 doom, and that every movement of his hand might 
 bring destruction. Yet the process once begun must 
 go on. He was no longer an individual, working of 
 his own free will ; he was only an agent in* the hands 
 of Fate. 
 
 " Willingly, we will tell you all we can," said the 
 Keverend Mother. " But you must allow us to offer 
 you a little coffee. You have travelled, and you look 
 white and weary." 
 
 The convent was proud of its coffee, almost the 
 only refreshment ever offered to visitors. The por- 
 tress brought a little oval tray covered with a snow- 
 white napkin, a little brown crockery pot, a white cup 
 and saucer, all of the humblest, but spotlessly clean.
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 223 
 
 "Leonie was with us eight years," said the 
 Reverend Mother, while Sister Gudule dried her 
 eyes and tried to regain her composure, " She was 
 just ten years old when she was brought to us by 
 her grandmother, a person who had been at one time 
 a dressmaker in one of the most fashionable quarters 
 of Paris, but who had fallen upon evil days, and 
 lived in a very humble way in a small lodging on 
 the left bank of the Seine. Leonie was an orphan, 
 the daughter of Madame Lemarque's only son, who 
 had died young, broken-hearted at the death of his 
 young wife. The child was brought to us by a 
 priest, who came all the way from Paris with his 
 little charge. She had but just recovered from a 
 long illness, which was said to be brain-fever, caused 
 by a very terrible mental shock which she had en- 
 dured two months before." 
 
 " Were you told the nature of that shock ?" 
 "No; the priest did not offer any information 
 upon that point, and I did not presume to question 
 him. He assured me that the case was one which 
 merited the most benevolent consideration. Madame 
 Lemarque had no means of educating the child her-
 
 224 wyllard's weird. 
 
 self, nor could she afford the pension demanded by 
 a Parisian convent. The cure thought that our fine 
 air would do much to restore the child to health and 
 strength, and he knew that our system of education 
 was calculated to develop her mind and character in 
 the right direction. He guaranteed the regular 
 payment of the child's pension, and we never had 
 occasion to apply for it a second time." 
 
 "Did Madame Lemarque ever come to see her 
 granddaughter ?" 
 
 " Never. Leonie remained with us from year's 
 end to year's end till after her eighteenth birthday, 
 when, at Madame Lemarque' s desire, we made 
 arrangements for her travelling to Paris with other 
 pupils who were returning to the great city." 
 
 " Then you never saw Madame Lemarque ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Nor ever heard from her directly ?" 
 
 "0 yes, we had letters — very nicely -written 
 letters— full of gratitude for what Madame Le- 
 marque was pleased to call our kindness to Leonie. 
 The child used to write to her grandmother monthly, 
 while she was with us, and her letters were
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 225 
 
 the best evidence that she was fairly used and 
 happy." 
 
 " She was a sweet child," said Gudule, " and 
 deserved every indulgence." 
 
 " Did she ever tell you anything about the shock 
 which caused her illness ?" asked Heathcote of the 
 lay-sister. 
 
 " In her right senses never one syllable," answered 
 Gudule. "I would not have questioned her upon 
 that subject for worlds, for I believed that she had 
 narrowly escaped madness. But during the six 
 months in which I nursed her — for her health was 
 completely broken, and it required all that time to 
 build up her strength and calm her nerves — she 
 used to sleep in a little bed close to mine, and in 
 her troubled dreams I used to hear very strange 
 things. How far the dreams were inspired by the 
 recollections of real events, I cannot venture to say ; 
 but there were phrases that recurred so often — a 
 horrible vision which so continually repeated itself, 
 like a scene in a play — that I can but suppose it to 
 have been the representation of some event which 
 had really happened before the child's waking eyes." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 " Can you recall the nature of that vision ?" in- 
 quired Heathcote breathlessly. 
 
 It seemed to him that he was on the threshold 
 of a new mystery — as terrible as the old one, and 
 even darker : a tragedy hidden in the past, reflected 
 only in a child's fever-dream. 
 
 "You should ask me if I can forget it, Mon- 
 sieur," said Sister Gudule. "I wish with all my 
 heart that I could. I have prayed many a prayer 
 for oblivion. The poor child used to be feverish 
 every night — a low fever, which only came on in the 
 evening, but some nights were worse than others — 
 and in her most feverish nights this dream seemed 
 almost inevitable. I used to lie awake expecting it, 
 dreading it." 
 
 " She used to talk in her sleep, then ?" 
 
 " To talk, yes ; and to scream — a terrible shriek 
 sometimes, which would disturb every sleeper in the 
 great dormitory adjoining my little room. She would 
 start up on her pillow, and stare straight before her 
 with wide-open eyes, being fast asleep all the time, 
 you understand. * Don't kill her, don't kill her !' 
 she would cry ; ' don't shoot her !' And then she.
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 227 
 
 would rock herself backwards and forwards, and 
 moan in a low voice, ' The forest — the dark, dark 
 forest ; she is there, always there, with the blood 
 running down her dress ! Take her away, take away 
 the dark forest — take away the blood !' Her words 
 varied sometimes, but those words never : ' Take 
 away the dark forest — take away the blood !' ' 
 
 " And did she never tell you what the dream 
 meant — you, her nurse and comforter, with whom 
 she must have been on such confidential terms?" 
 
 " No, dear child. She loved me and trusted me 
 with all the strength of her innocent heart, I believe; 
 but she never told me the cause of that awful dream. 
 And I never dared to question her. I was only 
 anxious that she should forget the past — that if her 
 nights were fevered and restless, her days should 
 be peaceful and bright. I did everything I could to 
 amuse and interest her, in studies, needlework, and 
 play, and to help her to forget the past." 
 
 "And you succeeded, Sister," said the head of 
 the convent approvingly. "I never saw a more 
 wonderful cure. From a nervous hysterical child 
 Leonie Lemarque grew into a bright merry girl."
 
 228 wyllard's weird. 
 
 "Yes, with God's help she was cured; but the 
 cure was very slow. The shock which shattered her 
 health, and for a time impaired her mind, must have 
 been an awful one. Never before had I seen gray 
 hairs upon the head of a child, but the thickly curl- 
 ing hair upon Leonie's temples when she came to 
 us was patched with white ; and it was years before 
 the hair resumed its natural colour. For the first 
 year her memory was almost a blank. It would 
 have been useless for any one to attempt to teach 
 her in class with the other children. She would 
 have been despised as an idiot, laughed at perhaps, 
 and her heart broken. I obtained the Reverend 
 Mother's permission to keep her in my room, and 
 to teach her in my own way, and little by little I 
 awakened her memory and her mind. Both had 
 been, as it were, benumbed, frozen, paralysed, by 
 that awful shock of which we know so little." 
 
 "But you would guess that she had witnessed 
 some dreadful scene, perhaps the death of some one 
 she loved," speculated Heathcote. " Did she never 
 talk to you of her childhood in Paris, her relatives?" 
 
 " Rarely of any one except her grandmother,"
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 229 
 
 answered Sister Gudule, "and of her she told]me 
 very little. Whether her illness had blotted out the 
 memory of her childhood, • or whether she shrank 
 from any allusion to the past, I cannot tell. One 
 day I asked her who had given her a blue satin 
 neckerchief which I found in her trunk — a costly 
 neckerchief, and much too fine for a child to wear. 
 She told me that it was a New Year's gift from her 
 aunt, but at the mention of the name she turned 
 deadly pale, her eyes filled with tears, and her whole 
 body shook like an aspen-leaf. I changed the con- 
 versation that moment, and I never again heard her 
 speak of her aunt." 
 
 " You would infer from her agitation that the 
 aunt was connected with the tragedy of the child's 
 life ?" ' 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "Was perhaps the person whom she saw assailed 
 when she cried out, ' Don't kill her ; don't shoot 
 her !' " 
 
 "I have thought that it must have been so. 
 That dreadful cry of hers, ' Take away the blood ! 
 take away the dark forest !' No one who did not
 
 230 wyllard's weird. 
 
 hear tho.se cries of hers, no one who did not see the 
 awful expression of her eyes, staring, dilated, full of 
 horror ; no one who had not seen and heard her as 
 I did could ever understand how dreadful, how real 
 that vision was to me as well as to the sleeper. I 
 used to feel as if I had seen murder done, and had 
 stood by without the power to prevent it." 
 
 "In a word, you felt, by pure sympathy, almost 
 exactly what the child felt," said Heathcote. 
 
 Already he had begun to adore Sister Gudule, 
 just as the children of the convent adored her. He 
 forgot her hump, he forgave her the potato-shaped 
 nose, he accepted her beard as a detail that gave 
 piquancy to her countenance. He was subdued, 
 subjugated by that intensely sympathetic nature 
 which revealed itself in every word and look of the 
 lay- sister. 
 
 But he had a task to perform, and it was neces- 
 sary that he should proceed with his inquiries in a 
 business-like manner. He had already taken certain 
 notes in his pocket-book. 
 
 "Leonie Lemarque left you in 1879, and she 
 had been with you eight years," he said, with
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 231 
 
 pencil in hand. " She must have come to you 
 in 1871." 
 
 " Yes, it was in 1871, not long after the troubles 
 in Paris. It was early in November she was brought 
 to us." 
 
 " And you were told that she had been ill two 
 months in consequence of a mental shock ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then one may fairly conclude that the event 
 which caused her illness occurred early in the Sep- 
 tember of 1871." 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 " Good. I thank you most heartily, Madame," 
 with a courteous bow to the Eeverend Mother, " for 
 the help you and Sister Gudule have so graciously 
 bestowed upon me. But I would venture to ask one 
 more favour, namely, that you would honour me 
 with a line by way of introduction to the worthy 
 priest who brought Leonie Lemarque from Paris." 
 
 "Alas, Monsieur, that is impossible! Father 
 Sorbier died three years ago, just a year before 
 Leonie left us." 
 
 " That is unfortunate. He doubtless knew the
 
 232 yvTllard's weird. 
 
 mystery of the girl's childhood, and perhaps might 
 have helped me to unravel the secret of her strange 
 death." 
 
 " Do you really believe that the two events have 
 any bearing upon each other, Monsieur ?" de- 
 manded Sister Gudule thoughtfully. 
 
 "I know not, Madame," replied Heathcote ; 
 " but it is only by working backwards that I can 
 hope to arrive at any clue to the mystery which 
 has puzzled us all in Cornwall. That poor girl 
 must have had some purpose in going to England, 
 in travelling to so remote a neighbourhood as ours. 
 Even if her death were an accident, or an unpre- 
 meditated crime, her presence in that place cannot 
 have been accidental." 
 
 Mr. Heathcote asked to see the class-rooms and 
 the chapel before he left the convent, a request 
 which was graciously accepted, as a compliment to 
 the Reverend Mother. He was paraded along wide 
 and airy passages, was shown an empty refectory, 
 where plates and mugs and huge piles of bread and 
 butter were arranged on long deal tables, covered 
 with snow-white linen, in readiness for. the afternoon
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 233 
 
 goiiter. He saw the chapel with its humble decora- 
 tions, its somewhat crude copy of a well-known 
 Guido, its altar, rich in gilded paper, home-made 
 lace, and cheap china vases. All here spoke of small 
 means ; but the flowers on the altar were freshly 
 gathered, and the neatness and cleanliness of all 
 things in chapel and convent charmed the stranger's 
 eye. He slipped a couple of sovereigns into the box 
 by the door, praised the airy corridors, the spacious 
 whitewashed rooms, and left the principal and the 
 lay-sister alike charmed with his good French and 
 his friendly manners. 
 
 The clock of the monastery on the opposite hill 
 was striking five as he drove away from the convent, 
 a silvery chime that could be heard all over Dinan. 
 
 He dined at the table d'hote at the Hotel de la 
 Poste, and walked on the terrace on the town walls 
 after dinner. There is no fairer view in Brittany 
 than the panorama of wooded hills from that walk 
 above the town walls. The cool night air, the sil 
 very moonlight, soothed Edward Heathcote's nerves 
 He was able to meditate upon his afternoon's work 
 to think over the' story he had heard from Sister
 
 234 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Gudule, and to speculate upon the chances of his 
 being able to follow up this thread of a life-history 
 until it led him to some point which would throw a 
 light upon the mystery of Leonie Lemarque's death. 
 
 Reflecting upon Sister Gudule's story, he could 
 but conclude that the child Leonie had been the 
 witness of some scene of violence in which a woman 
 had been the victim — a murder possibly, or it might 
 be only an attempted murder. Blood had been 
 spilt. Hence that awful cry, " Take away the blood, 
 take away the dark forest !" — a child's appeal to 
 some unknown power to remove an object of terror. 
 
 One and one only clue had he obtained from 
 Sister Gudule as to the person of the victim, and 
 even that indication might be a false light leading 
 him astray. 
 
 The girl's painful emotion at the utterance of 
 her aunt's name suggested that the victim had been 
 that aunt. The mere mention of the name would 
 conjure up all the horror of that scene which had so 
 nearly wrecked the child's reason. 
 
 It therefore seemed plain to Heathcote's mind 
 that a murder, or an attempt at .murder, had been
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 235 
 
 committed in a dark wood, and that the victim had 
 been Leonie Lemarque's aunt. So deeply interested 
 was he in this mystery of ten years back, so power- 
 fully moved by this strange story of a child's suffer- 
 ing, that he almost forgot that the business which 
 had brought him across the Channel was to find out 
 the true story of the French girl's death, and not to. 
 unravel the mystery of this old and perhaps forgotten 
 crime in the unknown wood. So interested was he 
 that he resolved at any cost of trouble to himself to 
 discover the details of the scene reproduced so often 
 in the child's fevered dreams. 
 
 " Who knows whether that may not be the surest 
 way of arriving at the truth about the girl's death?" 
 he argued with himself. "At any rate it is the 
 only way that offers itself at present." 
 
 He walked late upon the walls of Dinan, enjoying 
 the quiet of the moonlit scene, hearing the bells 
 chime again and again, silver-clear across the vale, 
 from the monastery where the madmen were dream- 
 ing their disjointed^ dreams, or wandering sane and 
 healed in the spirit-land of the past, amid the faces 
 of friends long dead. He walked late, thinking of a
 
 236 wyllard's weird. 
 
 face that had looked at him with trusting eyes in the 
 moment of parting, lovely eyes whose every expres- 
 sion he knew, but most of all that tender pathetic 
 look which had once tried to soothe the agony of loss. 
 
 "To serve her and work for her, surely that is 
 enough for a man's bliss," he thought, with a sad, 
 half-satirical smile. " In the good old days of 
 chivalry her knight would have deemed it happiness 
 to bleed and perish for her sake far away in Palestine 
 — glory and honour enough to have worn her colours 
 in his helmet. Are we a meaner race, we men of 
 the present, that we cannot love without hope of 
 reward ? Well, I have pledged myself to my. cru- 
 sade. I have put on my lady's colours, and I will 
 work for her as faithfully as if my love were not hope- 
 less. I will prove to her that there is some chivalry 
 still left in this degenerate world, under the modern 
 guise of disinterested friendship." 
 
 He started for Paris by the first train next morn- 
 ing, a fourteen hours' journey, a journey of dust 
 and weariness, though the road lay through a fair 
 country, with glimpses of the blue sea, and then by 
 the widening river, till the tall houses and the many
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 237 
 
 church-towers of the great city glimmered whitely 
 before him, under the September moon. He put 
 up at his old resting-place, the Hotel de Bade, 
 amidst the roar and bustle of the Boulevard ; and 
 he set out the next morning after an early breakfast 
 in quest of Monsieur Drubarde's apartment, which 
 was situated in that older and shabbier Paris of the 
 left bank. 
 
 Monsieur Drubarde's apartment was on the Quai 
 des Grands Augustins, au cinquieme, a rather 
 alarming indication to infirm or elderly legs, but 
 which did not appal Edward Heathcote. He ran 
 up the five flights of a dark wooden staircase, and 
 found himself upon an airy landing, lighted and 
 ventilated by a skylight. 
 
 The skylight was half open, and through it 
 Heathcote saw flowers and greenery upon the roof. 
 He also caught the odour of a very respectable cigar, 
 which the soft west wind blew towards him through 
 the same opening. 
 
 On a door opposite the top of the steep fifth 
 flight appeared a brass plate, with the name, Felix 
 Drubarde.
 
 238 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Heatkcote rang, and his summons was answered 
 almost instantly from an unexpected direction. 
 
 A large, round, rubicund face peered through the 
 skylight, and a voice asked if Monsieur desired an 
 interview with Felix Drubarde. 
 
 "I have come here in that hope, Monsieur," 
 answered Heathcote, " and I venture to infer that 
 I have the honour of addressing Monsieur Dru- 
 barde." 
 
 "I am that individual, Monsieur," replied the 
 rubicund gentleman, opening the skylight to its 
 widest extent. "Would it be too much to ask you 
 to ascend to my summer salon upon the leads ? It 
 is pleasanter even for a business interview than the 
 confinement of four walls." 
 
 There was a steep straight ladder against the 
 wall immediately under the skylight. Heathcote 
 mounted this and emerged upon the roof, face to 
 face with Felix Drubarde. 
 
 The retired police-officer's appearance was essen- 
 tially rustic. His attire resembled the holiday cos- 
 tume of the station cle bains rather than the normal 
 garb of a great busy metropolis. He was clothed
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 239 
 
 from head to foot in white linen ; his garments 
 were all of the loosest, and he wor,e a pair of ancient 
 buff slippers, which had doubtless trodden the bitter 
 biting foam on the beach of Dieppe or the sands of 
 Trouyille. Altogether, Monsieur Drubarde looked 
 the very picture of comfort and coolness on this 
 warm September morning. He had made for him- 
 self a garden upon an open space of flat leaded roof, 
 which was belted round with ancient chimney-stacks 
 of all shapes and sizes, just as a lawn is girdled with 
 good old oaks and beeches. On one side of his gar- 
 den he had rigged up a light lattice-work from chim- 
 ney to chimney, and his nasturtiums and Virginia 
 creepers had clothed the lattice with green and gold. 
 This he called his allee verte, and he declared that 
 it reminded him of Fontainebleau in the days of the 
 famous Diana. 
 
 His garden was gorgeous with geraniums and 
 roses, and perfumed with mignonette and honey- 
 suckle. He had his morning coffee on a little iron 
 table ; he had a wicker-work easy-chair for himself, 
 and another for a friend ; and a smart rug, of the 
 usual gaudy pattern to be seen in French lodging-
 
 240 wyllard's weird. 
 
 houses, was spread under his slippered feet. He 
 had his cigars and his newspaper, and, above all, 
 he had a large and ancient black poodle of uncanny- 
 appearance, which looked as if he were the very dog 
 under whose semblance the arch-fiend visited Dr. 
 Faustus. 
 
 Before seating himself in the basket-chair which 
 Monsieur Drubarde offered him, Heathcote took 
 Joseph Distin's letter out of his pocket-book, and 
 handed it to the ex-police-officer, who became con- 
 vulsive with rapture when he saw the signature. 
 
 " Monsieur was welcome on his own account as 
 a doubtless distinguished Englishman; as the friend 
 of Monsieur Distin he is more than welcome. His 
 visit is an honour, a privilege which an old member 
 of the Paris police cannot too highly value," said 
 Drubarde, with enthusiasm. " Ah, Monsieur, what 
 a man is that Joseph Distin ! what a commanding 
 genius ! I have had the honour to assist him in 
 cases where that mighty intellect revealed itself with 
 startling force, and where, I am proud to say, he 
 must inevitably have failed, but for my humble 
 assistance. Yes, Monsieur, old Drubarde has a
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 241 
 
 flair, which even your great English lawyer envies. 
 AVhat a man, all the same !" Monsieur Drubarde 
 paused for breath, and also to offer Mr. Heathcote 
 a cigar, which was frankly accepted. And then the 
 police-officer continued his eulogy of the English 
 lawyer, with which he contrived to interweave a little 
 gentle egotism. 
 
 "Had he been a Frenchman and lived under the 
 first Emperor, he would have been greater than the 
 Duke of Otranto, whom my father had the privilege 
 to serve, and whom I remember seeing when I was a 
 child. My father took me into the great chiefs office 
 one day, a little toddling creature, chubby, and, I 
 am told, beautiful, in my little uniform of the Old 
 Guard, a mother's fond fancy, Monsieur ; the mothers 
 of France love to make gracious pictures of their 
 children. The Duke laid his hand upon my golden 
 curls. 'What a lovely boy!' he exclaimed, deeply 
 moved by my infantine beauty ; ' I prophesy a brilliant 
 future for him. This child will go far.' I hope, 
 Monsieur, that my after-life has not belied the great 
 man's prophecy." 
 
 "Mr. Distin assures me that you have won dis- 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 wyllard's weird. 
 
 tinction in your calling," replied Heathcote, wonder- 
 ing how long the old gentleman's recollections of 
 childhood were going to last. "Your narrative 
 takes me back to a period that is classical. It 
 assures me also that you who so vividly remember 
 the events of sixty years ago — " 
 
 " More than sixty, Monsieur. I am past seventy 
 years of age, I who speak to you." 
 
 Mr. Heathcote put on an appropriate expression 
 of wonder. 
 
 "With such a memory for the remote past, it 
 will hardly trouble you to recall the events of ten 
 years ago," he continued, very eager to come to the 
 point. "Now, exactly ten years ago, in this very 
 month of September, there was a brutal murder, 
 or attempted murder, of a woman, in a wood near" 
 Paris—" 
 
 "Do you mean the murder of Marie Prevol the 
 actress, in the forest of Saint-Germain?" inquired 
 the police-officer. "I was engaged in that case. A 
 very strange story." 
 
 "And the woman was really murdered?" asked' 
 Heathcote, pale with agitation.
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 243 
 
 He was confounded by the ease with which the 
 man fixed upon a notorious crime, upon a given date. 
 It would have surprised him less to find that the 
 child's vision of murder was a mere fever-dream — 
 the repetition of some morbid hallucination — than 
 to hear of the reality off-hand, in the broad light of 
 day. 
 
 " Really murdered ! yes, and her lover too, as 
 dead as the Pharaohs. There never was a more 
 genuine crime, a more determined murder. The 
 actress and her lover, had gone to Saint-Germain 
 for a holiday jaunt. They went by rail, dined at 
 the Henri Quatre, hired a carriage in the cool of 
 the evening, drove on the terrace, and then into the 
 forest. They left the carriage at a point where 
 there were cross-roads, and pursued their ramble 
 on foot." 
 
 "There was a child with them?" interrogated 
 Heathcote breathlessly. 
 
 " Yes, a little girl, the actress's niece. She was 
 the only witness of the crime. It was from her lips 
 that the Juge cV Instruction took down the history 
 of the scene. They were walking quietly in the
 
 244 wyllard's weird. 
 
 twilight, it was nearly dark, the child' said, and she 
 was beginning to feel frightened. The lovers were 
 walking arm in arm, the child by her aunt's side. 
 Suddenly a man sprang out upon them from the 
 darkness of the wood, and confronted them with a 
 pistol in his hand. He wore no hat, and he looked 
 wild and furious. He aimed first at the man, who 
 fell without a groan. The girl had just time to call 
 out to him not to shoot her aunt, when he fired a 
 second time, and then a third and a fourth, and 
 again, quicker than the child could count. It was 
 evidently a six-chambered revolver. Marie Prevol 
 was found with her breast riddled with bullets. 
 The driver heard the shots from his post at the 
 cross-roads." 
 
 "And was the murderer never found?" 
 "Never. In spite of his wild appearance and 
 his bare head, he got clean off, and all the police of 
 Paris failed in tracing him." 
 
 " But was there no one suspected of the crime ?" 
 
 "Yes. There was a former lover of Marie's, her 
 
 first lover ; and, as it was said, the only man she 
 
 had ever really cared for. They had been a devoted
 
 FEVER DREAMS. 245 
 
 couple — were supposed by some to be married — 
 "and until a short time before the murder Marie's 
 character had been considered almost stainless. 
 Then a younger admirer appeared on the scene. 
 There were violent quarrels. The actress seemed 
 to have lost her head, to be infatuated by this 
 aristocratic lover, one of the handsomest men in 
 Paris. She had known him only a few months 
 when they went for this jaunt to Saint-Germain — 
 a stolen adventure. They were supposed to have 
 been followed by the other man, and that the 
 murder was an act of jealous madness." 
 
 "And the crime was never brought home to 
 
 him r 
 
 " Never. Beyond the fact of his relations with 
 Mademoiselle Prevol, and of his disappearance imme- 
 'diately after the murder, there was nothing to. con- 
 nect him with the crime." 
 
 " I thought it was difficult, indeed almost im- 
 possible, for any man to leave France without the 
 knowledge of the police." 
 
 " It is difficult ; and at that time it was particu- 
 larly difficult, as the crimes of the Commune were
 
 246 wyllard's weird. 
 
 still of recent date, and the police were more than 
 usually alert. But this man did it. All the great 
 railway-stations and sea- ports were closely watched 
 for the appearance of such a man among the de- 
 partures ; but he was never identified." 
 
 " And you have no doubt in your own mind that 
 this man was the murderer ?" 
 
 "Not the shadow of doubt. There was no one 
 else who had any motive for assailing Marie and 
 her admirer. Except in her relations with these 
 two she had been propriety itself. Unless you can 
 imagine a motiveless maniac dashing through a 
 wood and shooting the first comer, you can hardly 
 conceive any other cause than jealousy for such a 
 crime as this." 
 
 " Do you remember the name of the man who 
 was suspected?" 
 
 "Not at this moment; but I have the whole 
 history of the case in my workshop below, and if 
 you would like to read it, there are details that might 
 interest you." 
 
 " I should like much to read it."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS." 
 
 While 'Edward Heathcote was on the other side 
 of the Channel trying to find a solution for the 
 problem of Leonie Lernarque's death, which should 
 also be a complete acquittal of Hilda's suitor, Both- 
 Well himself was bent upon solving his own par- 
 ticular problem, that great perplexity of his social 
 life, which had weighed upon him more or less 
 heavily for the last three years. He had been to 
 Plymouth twice since his decisive interview with 
 Hilda ; but on each occasion it had been impossible 
 for him to obtain so much as five minutes' tete-a- 
 tete with the lady he went to see ; and that which 
 he had to say to her could not be said in five 
 minutes, or in five times five minutes. And now, 
 while his champion was faithfully toiling in his 
 interest, and while Hilda was giving him all her 
 thoughts, and most of her prayers, Bothwell set
 
 243 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 out on his familiar Plymouth journey for the third 
 time within ten days, and with a letter in his pocket 
 which held out the hope of an opportunity for 
 confidential talk. 
 
 " You looked miserable the last time you were 
 here," wrote the lady, "and you looked as if you had 
 something very serious to say to me. I am bored 
 to death by the General's hangers-on — he is much 
 too kind to the nobodies who besiege us here — and I 
 hardly ever know what it is to be alone. But if you 
 will come to-morrow, I will take care to keep other 
 people out. I shall pretend a headache, and deny 
 myself to everybody. You must walk boldly in by 
 the garden, contrive not to meet any of the servants, 
 and you will find me sitting in the colonnade. It 
 will all seem accidental. When the General comes 
 to his afternoon tea, he will find you there, and we 
 shall tell him how you wandered in, and forced the 
 consigne. You are such a favourite that he will 
 smile at a liberty from you which he would be the 
 first to resent in any one else." 
 
 Bothwell sat in his corner of the railway-carriage, 
 meditating upon this letter in his breast - pocket.
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 249 
 
 How hard and cruel and false and mean the whole 
 tone of the lady's correspondence seemed to him, 
 now that the glamour of a fatal infatuation had 
 passed from his brain and his senses ; now that he 
 was able to estimate the enchantress at her real 
 value ; now that his newly-awakened conscience had 
 shown him the true colour of his own conduct 
 during the last three years ! 
 
 Three years ago and a stroke of good fortune 
 had happened to Bothwell Grahame one day'in the 
 hill-country, when he and his brother-officers had 
 gone out after big game. It had been his chance to 
 save the life of one. of the most distinguished men in 
 the service, General Harborough, a man who at that 
 time occupied an important official position in the 
 Bengal Presidency.- Bothwell's presence of mind, 
 courage, and rapid use of a revolver had saved the 
 General from the jaws of a leopard, which had crept 
 upon the party while they were resting at luncheon, 
 after a long morning's bear-shooting. General Har- 
 borough was the last man to forget such a service. 
 He took Bothwell Grahame under his protection 
 from that hour, introduced him to his wife, Lord
 
 250 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Caiiavarock's daughter, and one of the most elegant 
 women in the Presidency. 
 
 Favoured by such friends, Bothwell Grahame's 
 life in India became a kind of triumph. He was 
 good-looking, well-mannered, a first-rate shot, and 
 an exceptional horseman. He could sing a part in 
 a glee or duet, and he waltzed to perfection. He 
 was supposed to have a genius for waltzing, and 
 to become master of every new step as if by a kind 
 of inspiration. " What is the last fashionable waltz 
 in London ?" people asked him ; and he showed 
 them the very latest glide, or swoop, or twist, as 
 the case might be. His friends told him all about 
 it in their letters, he said. He always knew what 
 was going on in the dancing world. 
 
 Such a man, not too young nor yet too old — 
 neither a stripling nor a fogey — chivalrous, amiable, 
 full of verve and enjoyment of life, was eminently 
 adapted to the holiday existence at Simla ; and it 
 was at Simla that Bothwell Grahame became in a 
 manner the fashion, looked up to by all the young 
 men of his acquaintance, petted by all the women. 
 Nor did it appear strange in the eyes of society that
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 251 
 
 Lady Valeria Harborougb. should be particularly 
 kind to biro., and should have him very often at her 
 bungalow, which was the centre of all that was gay, 
 and elegant, and spiritucl in the district. . All the 
 Simla jokes originated at the Harborougb bunga- 
 low. All the latest English fashions, the newest 
 refinements in the service of a dinner - table or 
 the arrangement of afternoon tea, came from the 
 same source. Lady Valeria led the fashion, gave 
 the note of taste throughout that particular section 
 of Indian society. 
 
 No, there was nothing exceptional in her kind- 
 ness to Captain Grahame. In the first place, he had 
 saved her husband from being clawed and mangled 
 to death by a wild beast, a service for which a 
 good wife would be naturally grateful ; and in the 
 second place, Bothwell was only oue of a court of 
 young men who surrounded Lady Valeria wherever 
 she happened to be living — but most of all up at 
 the hills. She always spoke of them as " boys," 
 and frankly admitted that she liked their admiration 
 on account of its naivete. 
 
 For some time she talked of Bothwell Grahame
 
 252 wyllard's weird. 
 
 as a "nice boy," in spite of his six-and-twenty years. 
 She herself owned pensively to seven-and-twenty. 
 Tergiversation would have been vain, since the 
 Peerage was open to all her friends, with its dryas- 
 dust record, " Valeria Hermione, born 1854." 
 
 She was twenty-seven years of age, strikingly 
 elegant and interesting, if not actually handsome, 
 and she had been two years married to a man who 
 had lately celebrated his sixty-eighth birthday. She 
 had accepted the General, and his splendid settle- 
 ments, meekly enough. There had been no undue 
 persuasion, no domestic tyranny. Her suitor was 
 a thorough gentleman, wealthy, distinguished, and 
 she was told that he could give her all good things 
 which a woman need care to possess. She would 
 spend two or three years with him in India, where 
 he had an important official appointment ; and then 
 she would return to England, where he had two 
 country seats — one a villa near Plymouth, the other 
 a castle in Scotland — and a house in Grosvenor 
 Square. As one of four sisters, it became her to 
 accept the fortune that had fallen into her lap. She 
 was, or she seemed to be, of a' temperament that
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 253 
 
 could be happy in an union with a man old enough 
 to be her grandfather. She seemed one of those 
 women born to shine and to rule rather than to love. 
 No one who knew her intimately feared any evil 
 consequences from her marriage with the elderly 
 soldier. 
 
 " Valeria will make General Harborough an 
 admirable wife," said the matrons and ancient 
 maidens of the house of Carlavarock, " and she will 
 be a splendid mistress for that fine old place in 
 Perthshire." 
 
 Valeria had never known what passionate feel- 
 ing meant till she gave her friendship to Bothwell 
 Grahame. She had never thrilled at a man's voice, 
 or listened for a man's footstep, till she began to 
 start at his voice and listen for his tread. The fatal 
 love came upon her like a fever, struck her down 
 in the strength of her proud womanhood, made her 
 oblivious of duty, blind to honour, mastered her 
 like a demoniac possession, and from a spotless 
 wife she became all at once a hypocrite and an 
 intriguer. 
 
 0, those fatal days at Simla, the long idle
 
 254 wyllard's weird. 
 
 .afternoons! The music and singing — the dances 
 late in the night when cool winds were blowing 
 over the hills — the garden lit with lamps, like 
 glowworms — the billiards and laughter, the light 
 jests, the heavy sighs. There came a time when 
 Bothwell Grahame found himself bound by an 
 iniquitous tie to the wife of his most generous 
 friend. 
 
 Their love was to be guiltless always — that is to 
 say, not the kind of love which would bring Lady 
 Valeria Harborough within the jurisdiction of the 
 Divorce Court : not the kind of love which would 
 make her name a scandal and a hissing in the ears 
 of all her English friends, a theme for scorn and 
 scoffing throughout the length and breadth of Ben- 
 gal. But, short of such guilt as this — short of 
 stolen meetings and base allies, the connivance of 
 servants, the venal blindness of hotel-keepers — short 
 of actual dishonour — they were to be lovers. He 
 was to be at her beck and call — to devote all the 
 leisure of his days to her society — to give not one 
 thought to any other woman — to wait patiently, 
 were it ten or twenty years, for the good old man's
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 255 
 
 death : and then, after her ceremonial year of widow- 
 hood, all deference to the world's opinion having 
 been paid, he was to claim Lady Valeria 'for his wife. 
 This was the scheme of existence to which Both well 
 Graham e had pledged himself. For' all the best 
 years of his manhood he was to be a hypocrite and 
 an ingrate — the slave of a woman whose ascendency 
 he dared not acknowledge, waiting for a good man's 
 death. That was the worst degradation of all to a 
 man of warm heart' and generous feeling. All that 
 was best and noblest in Bothwell Grahame's nature 
 revolted against the baseness of his position. To 
 grasp General Harborough's hand, and to remember 
 how deliberately he and Valeria had calculated the 
 years which the good old man had yet to live, had 
 speculated upon the end drawing near, coming sud- 
 denly perhaps ; to know that all their hopes of hap- 
 piness were based upon the husband's speedy death. 
 There were times, even in the first red dawn of 
 passion, while he was proudest of this woman's love, 
 when he almost hated her for her disloyalty as a 
 wife. Could there be happiness or peace in a bond 
 so made ? And then the woman's fascination, the
 
 256 wyllard's weird. 
 
 absolute power of a passionate, resolute character 
 over a weak and yielding one, vanquished all his 
 scruples, stifled the voice of conscience and honour. 
 Not Samson at the feet of Delilah was a more abject 
 slave than Both well in that luxurious idleness of 
 the Indian hills, when the only purpose life held 
 seemed to be the desire to get the maximum of 
 frivolous amusement out of every day. There was 
 no pastime too childish for Lady Valeria and her 
 admirers, no sport too inane. Yet the lady con- 
 trived to maintain her womanly dignity even in the 
 most infantine amusements, and was honoured as a 
 queen by all her little court of worshippers, from the 
 bearded major, or the portly lawyer, to the callow 
 subaltern. 
 
 Bothwell's conduct towards her, and the lady's 
 manner to him, were irreproachable. If there were 
 any difference, she was a shade colder and more 
 reserved in her treatment of him than of her other 
 slaves : but there were moments, briefest opportu- 
 nities — a tete-a-tete of five minutes in a moonlit 
 verandah, a little walk down to the fountain, a ride 
 in which they two were ahead of the rest just for
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 257 
 
 a few yards; moments when Valeria's impassioned 
 soul poured forth its treasures of love at this man's 
 feet, with the reckless unreserve of a woman who 
 risks all upon one cast of the die. She, who had 
 been deemed the coldest and proudest of women — 
 Diana not more chaste, an iceberg not more cold — 
 she, Valeria Harborough, had chosen to fall madly 
 in love with a man who was her social inferior, and 
 who had tried his uttermost to escape from the net 
 she had spread for him. Weak as he was, he had 
 not yielded willingly. He had fought the good fight, 
 had tried his hardest to be loyal and true. And 
 then, in one moment, the spell had been too strong 
 for his manhood. One never-to-be-forgotten night, 
 they two standing beside the fountain, steeped in 
 the golden light of the southern stars, he had yielded 
 himself up to the enchantment of the hour, to the 
 witchery of luminous violet eyes, brighter for a veil 
 of tears. He had drawn her suddenly to his heart, 
 asked her passionately why she had made him adore 
 her, in spite of himself, against reason and honour ; 
 and she, with tearful eyes looking up at him, had 
 answered softly, " Because it was my fate to love 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 wyllard's weird. 
 
 you ;" and then she told him, in short, disjointed 
 sentences, broken by sobs, that she was not a 
 wicked woman, that he must not scorn or loathe her, 
 even if he could not give her love for love. Never, 
 till she knew him, had she swerved by one hair's 
 breadth from the line of strictest duty ; never had 
 she known a thought which she need wish to hide 
 from her husband. And then, in an evil hour, he 
 had become almost domesticated in her house, and 
 his influence had gradually enfolded her, like a cloud 
 spread by a magician, and she had awakened to a 
 new life. She had learnt the meaning of that 
 mystic word love. 
 
 From that night Bothwell was her slave. 
 Touched, flattered, possessed by this fatal love — too 
 glad weakly to echo the woman's favourite excuse, 
 Fatality — he struggled no longer against this mutual 
 madness, which was half bliss and half pain. He 
 belonged henceforth to Lady Valeria — more com- 
 pletely enslaved than if she had been free to claim 
 him before the world as her affianced husband. Her 
 lightest word, her lightest look ruled him. He 
 went where she told him, spent his days as she
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 259 
 
 ordered. He had been one of the hardest working 
 officers in India up to this time, and his branch of 
 the service, the Engineers, was one which offered 
 splendid chances of promotion. 
 
 General Harborough had promised to do all that 
 his very considerable influence could do to push his 
 young friend to the front ; and it seemed to the 
 men who knew him best that Bothwell Grahame's 
 fortune was made. 
 
 " There are men whose heads are turned by the 
 first stroke of luck, and who never do anything 
 after," said a canny old Scotch major; "but Gra- 
 hame is thorough, and is not afraid of hard work. 
 Take my word for it, he'll get on just as young 
 Robert Napier did forty years ago." 
 
 But, with the ball at his feet, Bothwell Grahame 
 suddenly dropped out of the game. He left off 
 working altogether. He was the slave of a woman 
 who preferred her own pleasure in his society to his 
 chances of distinction : who said, " Why should you 
 work ? There will be enough for both of us by and 
 
 by-" 
 
 By and by meant when the good old General
 
 260 wyllard's weird. 
 
 should be lying in his grave. He was an old man : 
 it was not possible to ignore that fact, though he 
 was erect as a dart, active, full of dignity and in- 
 tellect — a man of men. He was nearing the scrip- 
 tural limit of threescore and ten, and the inevitable 
 end that comes to us all must come to him before 
 the world was many years older. 
 
 Nothing was further from Bothwell's thoughts 
 than the idea of being maintained by a wife ; but he 
 let Lady Valeria tempt him away from his books or 
 his laboratory, and suffered himself to become indif- 
 ferent to his profession, to care for .nothing but the 
 life he led in her boudoir or her drawing-room. 
 
 And then there came new difficulties. Lady 
 Valeria was at heart a gamester. The excitement 
 of cards or betting had become a necessity to her 
 in her Indian life. Soon after her arrival at Cal- 
 cutta she had won a thousand pounds in the Umballa 
 Sweep, and that one stroke of luck had been 'her 
 ruin. She became a professional gambler, played 
 high whenever there was a possibility of so doing, 
 and had her book for every great English race. She 
 awaited the telegrams that brought her the tidings
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 261 
 
 of victory or defeat with feverish impatience. The 
 natural result followed : she was often in money 
 difficulties. Generous as her husband was, she 
 feared to appeal to him on these occasions. She 
 knew that, of all types of womanhood, he most 
 hated a gambling woman. She had her pin-money, 
 which was ample for all the ordinary requirements 
 and even extravagances of a woman of fashion. She 
 dared not ask her husband for more money. But 
 she was not afraid to call upon her slave, Bothwell 
 Grahame ; and Bothwell had to help her somehow, 
 this wife of the future, who, in the days to come, 
 was to provide for him. 
 
 He helped her first by nominally lending — 
 actually giving her — every sixpence of his own 
 patrimony, disposing, bit by bit, of that little estate 
 in Perthshire of which his ancestors had been so 
 proud. When he had beggared himself thus, he 
 began to borrow of the Jews — always' for Lady 
 Valeria — and finally found himself in such a mess, 
 financially, that he had to leave the army. 
 
 General Harborough heard of his difficulties, and 
 supposed they were all self-induced, but made the
 
 262 wyllard's whird. 
 
 kindest excuses for the sinner.' He offered to pay 
 Bothwell's debts, and implored him not to throw 
 up his career, with all its brilliant chances. The 
 General was wounded to the quick when his offers 
 were steadfastly refused. 
 
 "A gentleman knows how to accept a service as 
 well as how to render one," he said. "You saved 
 my life, and I have never felt burdened by the 
 obligation." 
 
 Bothwell stood before him, grave, pale, silent, 
 humiliated by his kindness. 
 
 " Forgive me, sir," he faltered at last. " Believe 
 me, I am not ungrateful. There was a time when 
 I would rather have accepted a favour from you than 
 from any other man living. But I am tired of the 
 army. I feel that I shall never get on. I have 
 sent a statement of my affairs to my cousin's hus- 
 band, who has a genius for finance. He will settle 
 • with my creditors, and I shall begin the world again, 
 my own man." 
 
 Bothwell sighed involuntarily after those last 
 words. What freedom, or manhood, or independence 
 could there ever be for him, bound as he was bound ?
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 263 
 
 He left India soon after this interview with the 
 General, who was to return to England in the 
 following year. Lady Valeria deeply resented her 
 lover's conduct in leaving the East, while she was 
 obliged to remain there, It was desertion, infidelity. 
 He ought to have remained at any cost, at any loss 
 of his own self-respect. She could never be brought 
 to consider things from his standpoint. If he had 
 loved her, she argued, he would have stayed. Love 
 never counts the cost of anything. They parted in 
 anger, and Bothwell went home with a sore heart, 
 yet with a sense of relief in the idea of recovered 
 freedom. 
 
 Then came a period of comparative liberty for 
 Bothwell. He received an occasional letter from 
 Lady Valeria, full of upbraidings and regrets. He 
 answered as best he might — kindly, affectionately 
 even ; but he flattered himself that the fatal tie, the 
 dishonourable engagement, was a folly of the past. 
 He was all the more anxious to believe this, during 
 that peaceful winter at Penmorval, on account of his 
 growing esteem for another woman. 0, what a 
 different feeling it was, that winter love of his !
 
 264 wyllard's weird. 
 
 Those happy half-hours amidst the rimy hedgerows, 
 with the shrill north-easter swirling across the dark 
 brown of the ploughed fields, the yellow light of 
 a setting sun shining beneath a leaden sky. How 
 curiously different was the girl's light happy talk in 
 the English lane — talk which all the world might 
 have heard — from those impassioned whispers beside 
 the fountain, under the stars of Orient ! At first it 
 seemed to him that he was only soothed and cheered 
 by his acquaintance with Hilda Heathcote. He 
 affected to consider her a mere girl, hardly emerged 
 from the nursery. He was surprised to find how 
 rightly she thought upon the gravest subjects. Then 
 all at once he awoke to the knowledge that he loved 
 her : and while he was hesitating, doubting whether 
 he were free to indulge this new and purer, sweeter, 
 happier love, hardly daring to ask himself whether 
 that old tie was or was not cancelled, he received a 
 letter from Valeria, with the Paris postmark. 
 
 tl We have just arrived here from Brindisi," she 
 wrote. "We shall stay here for a few days while 
 I order some gowns, and we shall be in London 
 for a few weeks. After that we go to the General'3
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 265 
 
 place near Plymouth, where you must come and see 
 me every day, just as you used at Simla. Both- 
 well, I can hardly trust myself to write. I dare not 
 tell you half the joy I feel in the idea of our 
 meeting. If you cared for me you would come to 
 London. It would be so easy to pretend business, 
 and you would be warfnly welcomed in Grosvenor 
 Square. You might bring your portmanteau and 
 stop with us. There is a barrack of empty rooms 
 on the third floor. Ours is one of those huge cor- 
 ner houses, and the piggeries for the servants are 
 over the offices at the back. I hope you will con- 
 trive to come. Your last letter seemed to me so 
 cold and distant — as if you were beginning to for- 
 get, or as if you had not forgiven my anger at your 
 desertion. Ah, Both well, you should have pitied 
 me and sympathised with me in that cruel parting. 
 You ought to have known that my anger was des- 
 pair. But you thought only of your own dignity, 
 your own self-respect — not of my sorrow. Men are 
 so selfish." 
 
 Bothwell did not go to London. He' excused 
 himself upon various grounds, and remained
 
 266 wyllard's weird. 
 
 quietly at Penmorval. But from that hour his 
 manner to Hilda changed altogether. From an 
 unavowed lover he became an indifferent acquaint- 
 ance. He set a watch upon his tongue that it 
 sliould say no words of pleasantness. He vowed 
 that he would not again suffer himself to be enmeshed 
 in Lady Valeria's net : but until he had calmly and 
 deliberately broken with her he could not be the 
 lover of any other woman. He made up his mind 
 that so soon as the General and his wife were set- 
 tled at Fox Hill there should be a rupture— temper- 
 ate, gentle, firm, and irrevocable. 
 
 Lady Valeria came to Fox Hill, and summoned 
 her slave. He went, and there was no rupture — 
 only a renewal of the old bonds. The bird was in 
 the fowler's net again. Bothwell was often at Fox 
 Hill. He spent long afternoons there tete-a-tete 
 with Lady Valeria. She was less careful than she 
 had been in India. 
 
 " We are not surrounded with busybodies here," 
 she said. "I feel that I can do as I like in my 
 own house." 
 
 He went to London to borrow money for her
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 267 
 
 when she was iu difficulties about that horrible book 
 of hers : and Lady Valeria's normal state now was 
 financial difficulty. Almost everybody knew that she 
 was" a gambler, except her husband. He was so 
 thoroughly respected and beloved that no one had 
 the heart to make him unhappy by breathing a word 
 to his wife's discredit. He thought her faultless. 
 
 She had hardened in that false wicked life of 
 hers : but she was more fascinating than ever, 
 Bothwell thought, albeit he was far less under her 
 spell than he had been in the old days at Simla. 
 The very fever of her mind intensified her charm. 
 She seemed such an ethereal creature — all life, and 
 light, and sparkle. She was, to other women, as 
 the electric light is to gas. 
 
 And now, half buried in his corner of the railway- 
 carriage, Bothwel] smoked the pipe of meditation. 
 He looked back upon that fatal past, and cursed 
 himself for the weak folly that had put such a chain 
 round his neck. He looked back, and recalled the 
 old scenes, the old feelings, and he almost won- 
 dered if he could be the same man who had so felt 
 and so acted.
 
 268 wyllard's weird. 
 
 He drove to Fox Hill as fast as a cab -horse would 
 take him, alighted a little way from the chief gates, 
 and dismissed his conveyance, meaning to walk 
 back to Plymouth after his interview. Fox Hill 
 was four miles from the station, but Bothwell could 
 walk four miles in an hour with that free swinging 
 stride of his. A four-mile walk and a pipe might 
 just serve to quiet his nerves after the ordeal he had 
 to undergo. 
 
 The General's Devonshire home was an Italian 
 villa, built on the southern slope of an amphitheatre 
 of hills, and commanding the town, the dockyards, 
 the Hamoaze, and the Hoe in all their extent'. Dis- 
 tance lent enchantment to the view. Plymouth, 
 seen from this sunny hillside, looked as picturesque 
 as Naples. 
 
 The villa had been planned by an architect . of 
 taste and culture, and built regardless of expense. 
 The house was not large when measured by the 
 number of its rooms ; but all the rooms were spa- 
 cious, lightsome, and lofty. The decorations were 
 of the simplest. The glory of the place was its 
 conservatories, which were so arranged as to intro-
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 269 
 
 duce flowers and tropical foliage into every part of 
 the dwelling. A long marble colonnade, enclosed 
 by plate-glass shutters in winter or bad weather, 
 surrounded the house, and here bloomed and 
 flourished all that is rarest and loveliest in modern 
 horticulture. The central hall had a glass roof, 
 and was more a conservatory than a hall. ' The 
 corridors between drawing-room and dining-room, 
 between boudoir and study, were indoor gardens. 
 Flowers pervaded the house, and harmonised 
 admirably with the elegant simplicity of the fur- 
 niture, the draperies of delicate chintz and soft 
 India muslin. 
 
 The villa had been built sixty years ago, in the 
 days of the Georges, a period when Italian colon- ' 
 nades, Corinthian porticoes, and Pompeian conser- 
 vatories were the rage ; but the house suited Lady 
 Valeria just as a well-chosen frame suits a picture. 
 
 On this summery September morning Lady 
 Valeria was seated in the colonnade, half reclining 
 in one of those very low chairs which she always 
 affected, being one of the few women who can rise 
 gracefully from a seat about a foot from the ground.
 
 270 wyllard's weird. 
 
 She was half hidden by the foliage of oleanders and 
 magnolia, and it was only by a glimmer of white 
 amongst the glossy green that Bothwell descried her 
 in the distance as he crossed the lawn. There was 
 a fountain on the lawn here, just as at Simla ; but 
 the fountain was a late improvement, insisted upon 
 by Lady Valeria. 
 
 "It will recall Simla, where we were so happy," 
 she told her husband. 
 
 " And yet you were so impatient to leave India, 
 towards the last," he said, almost reproachfully. 
 
 "Yes, I was very tired of India at the last. 
 There is an end of all things." 
 
 Bothwell had obeyed Lady Valeria's instructions 
 to the letter. He had entered the grounds by a 
 side gate, so as to escape challenge at the lodge : 
 and now he made his way boldly to the colonnade in 
 front of her boudoir. The boudoir was not a par- 
 ticularly sacred apartment, as it formed one in the 
 suite of rooms and conservatories which communi- 
 cated along the whole length of the house. Italian 
 villas of the Georgian era were not planned for seclu- 
 sion.
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 271 
 
 Lady Valeria was sitting in her low chair, with 
 a low table at her side, scattered with books and 
 newspapers. The books were mostly new memoirs 
 and French novels of the most advanced school. 
 The papers were chiefly sporting. She looked up 
 languidly as Bothwell approached, and gave him 
 her hand, like an empress, without stirring from 
 her graceful repose amidst embroidered silken 
 cushions. She was not beautiful. Her charm lay 
 in an extreme refinement of feature and figure, a 
 delicacy of tint which verged upon sickliness. It 
 was the refinement of a vanishing race, and recalled 
 the delicacy of an over-trained racehorse. 
 
 Her complexion was almost colourless in repose, 
 but the lips were of the tint of pale-pink rose petals, 
 and every emotion flushed the waxen cheek with 
 loveliest bloom. Her nose was long and thin, too 
 long for perfect beauty. Her chin was a thought 
 too sharp, her brow too narrow. But her eyes were 
 exquisite. Herein lay her one grand charm, and 
 Lady Valeria well knew the power of those large 
 violet eyes, fringed with- darkest lashes, accentuated 
 by pencilled brows — eyes which seemed to fill with
 
 272 
 
 tears at will — eyes which could plead more elo- 
 quently than lips ever spoke since the days of Eve, 
 first tempted and then tempter. 
 
 "I hope you are not really ill," said Both well, 
 seating himself in the chair opposite Lady Valeria. 
 
 " Only worried to death," she answered, with an 
 irritated air. " I have troubles enough to send me 
 into an early grave." 
 
 "Money troubles?" 
 
 " Money troubles. Yes. I have other troubles, 
 too, but the money troubles are the most urgent. 
 They gnaw the sharpest." 
 
 "You have been losing again ?" 
 
 " Yes. I was so lucky with my Goodwood book 
 that I grew bold — determined upon a great coup at 
 York, put every farthing I could scrape together 
 upon Crofter, the second favourite for the Great Ebor. 
 I had been assured that it was the safest thing in 
 the world. I might back him with my wedding-ring, 
 Sir George Yarney said. And York has generally 
 been lucky to me, you know. It is my own county,- 
 and I love every inch of it. The Knavesmire was 
 the first racecourse I ever saw, the place where
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 273 
 
 first learned to love horses, and to understand them. 
 My father used to tell me everything about the races. 
 I was the only one of us who was really interested 
 in his talk." 
 
 "I thought the money from Davis, and the 
 money you won at Goodwood, cleared all your diffi- 
 culties." 
 
 " Yes, for the moment. But this York business 
 has made things worse than they were before. How- 
 ever, you need not disturb yourself about it. Var- 
 ney has offered to lend me the money." 
 
 She said this slowly, with drooping eyelids, and 
 a thoughtful air ; but she stole a little look at Both- 
 well from beneath the long dark lashes, to see how 
 he took her speech. 
 
 "You must not take a sixpence of his money — 
 not a sixpence," said Bothwell sternly. 
 
 "No? That is exactly my idea. It would be 
 very ba# form for a woman in my position to borrow 
 from Varney — who is — well, a man of the world. 
 But I must have the money somehow. The book- 
 makers won't wait. They only give credit in my 
 case because they know I dare not cheat them." 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Surely the bookmen do not know that you are 
 their creditor ?" 
 
 " They are not supposed to know. The bets are 
 made in my brother's name — Otho's — who has been 
 in Australia for the last two years. But I don't 
 believe • these men would trust Otho, even if he 
 were in London." 
 
 "It is dreadful!" exclaimed Bothwell, deeply 
 distressed. "You ought not to have entangled 
 yourself again. What makes you do this thing, 
 Valeria? It is worse than chloral, or any other 
 form of feminine madness." 
 
 "Yes, it is a kind of madness, I suppose. I 
 should not do it if I were happy. I shall have no 
 need to do it when I am happy — by and by." 
 
 Again she stole a look at him, a tender pathetic 
 look, which would have melted him a year ago. 
 But it left him unmoved now. He felt only anger 
 at her folly, her obstinate persistence in wrong-doing. 
 
 " You must not take Yarney's money," he re- 
 peated, " not for worlds. To think that you should 
 have secret dealings with such a man — a hardened 
 scamp and roue /"
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 275 
 
 "I am not going to accept Sir George's offer — 
 which was at least good-natured, so you need not 
 be uncivil about him," replied Valeria coolly ; 
 " but I must get the money somehow. I don't want 
 Otho's name to be posted at Tattersall's. There 
 are too many people who would guess that Otho 
 stands for Valeria in this case." 
 
 " It would be disgraceful, horrible." 
 
 " But it will happen, I'm afraid, unless I can get 
 the money." 
 
 " I can find no more, Valeria. That last loan 
 from Davis was most difficult to manage. I had 
 positively no security to offer. The money was 
 advanced on the strength of Wyllard's position, on 
 the speculation that he would not see me broke." 
 
 "I am not asking you to pay my debts," she 
 replied with her grand air : the air of a woman 
 accustomed to be admired for every attribute of her 
 character, good or bad, and to do wrong with im- 
 punity. " But the money must be found somehow, 
 and perhaps you can tell me where I am to get it." 
 
 "From your husband," he answered impetuously. 
 " Yes, Valeria, from your one true and loyal friend.
 
 27b' wyllabd's weird. 
 
 The one man 3*011 can ask in all honour to pay for 
 your follies." 
 
 " You advise me to go to him !" exclaimed 
 Valeria, livid with anger. " You !'' 
 
 "Yes, I — I, who have wronged him deeply by 
 
 a most fatal engagement which I have regretted 
 
 ever since it was made. Not because you are not 
 
 lovely, fascinating, all that is fairest and most 
 
 desirable in. womankind : but because I am hateful 
 
 to myself on account of that treachery. What ! 
 
 to be the affianced lover of a woman whose husband's 
 
 hand I grasped in seeming friendship : to smile 
 
 in his face, to accept his kindness, his friendship, 
 
 his confidence, while all my life was one long 
 
 waiting for his death, while you and I were saying 
 
 to each other every day, by and by we will do this, 
 
 by and by we will go here and there, sail our yacht 
 
 in the Mediterranean, build our cottage on the 
 
 Scotch moor, by and by, when that good man who 
 
 trusted us both is in his grave ! 0, it has been a 
 
 hateful position, Valeria, base, miserable, guilty, 
 
 accursed, for both of us : and, by the God who made 
 
 us, it must come to an end."
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 277 
 
 There had been tears in his voice almost from 
 the beginning of his speech, and at the end he broke 
 down altogether and sobbed aloud. 
 
 Valeria rose out of her low chair, and stood be- 
 fore him straight as a dart. The movement was 
 so quick, so instinct with an unholy grace, that 
 it recalled the image of a cobra he had once seen 
 rise up straight before him in the midst of his 
 path through the jungle. 
 
 "You are in love with another woman!" she 
 hissed, like the serpent. ' " That is the meaning 
 of this sudden outbreak of virtue !" 
 
 He could not deny it. 
 
 " You want to break with me, in order that you 
 may marry some one else," she said, whiter than 
 death, her eyes dilating, her lips quivering. 
 
 " Yes/' he answered quietly. " I could form a 
 happier tie if you set me free. But there is not 
 one word which I said just now about the feeling 
 of my own baseness which was not just as true 
 two years ago -as it is to-day. Such a bond as ours 
 never could bring happiness, Valeria, to man or to 
 woman."
 
 278 
 
 " It gave us hope," she said ; " a fair dream of 
 the future. Well, it is all over. Whatever it is 
 worth it is gone — like a tuft of thistledown hlown 
 into the air. Go, Both well Grahame, you are your 
 own man again ; go and marry your new love." 
 
 " It will not be a marriage of to-day or to- 
 morrow," answered Both well gravely. " My new 
 love and I will have to wait for better times. First, 
 I am a pauper; and, secondly, there is a taint 
 upon my name, inasmuch as the good people of 
 Bodmin and the neighbourhood have taken it into 
 their wise heads that I am a murderer, because I 
 refused to answer some very impertinent questions 
 at the inquest. Valeria, will you forgive me — 
 will you believe — " 
 
 " That you were heartily tired of me ages ago, 
 before you left India," she said, interrupting him 
 with a feverish rapidity. She had sunk into her 
 low chair again, and was seated with her hands 
 clasped upon the basket-work, bedizened with 
 trappings of Oriental embroidery, -like an Arab's 
 horse — her eyes gazing over the wide panorama 
 of land and sea, the dockyards, the river, the light-
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS. 279 
 
 house yonder, and the long line of surf dashing 
 against the breakwater. 
 
 " Yes, I know that you were weary of me long 
 before that bitter good-bye," she went on, breath- 
 less with passion, her sentences broken into short 
 gasps. "I think I knew even then that you were 
 false, though I pretended to myself that you were 
 true. I don't believe you ever loved me. You 
 just let me love you, that was all. If you had 
 really cared for me — as other men have cared for 
 other women — you would not have been so 
 obedient. You would have -flung prudence to the 
 winds — you would have made scenes — you would 
 have wanted to run away with me. No, you never 
 loved me." 
 
 It would have been vain now for Bothwell to 
 protest the reality of the old worn-out passion. It 
 had never been of the strongest stuff that love is 
 made of, and it had long been growing threadbare. 
 He had received his release, and that was the boon 
 he had come here to ask. But he could not leave 
 the woman he had once loved without one word of 
 peace.
 
 280 wyllard's weird. 
 
 "Valeria," lie said gently, tenderly even, "I 
 shall stay here till you forgive me." 
 
 " Would you stay until you have forced me to 
 tell a lie ? There can be no blacker lie than any 
 word of mine that offered forgiveness to you. You 
 have deceived me cruelly. You were my strong 
 rock, and I leant upon you for comfort. Both- 
 well, what is she like, this other woman for whom 
 you forsake me ? Is she so much more beautiful — 
 so much younger — fresher than I?" 
 
 " She is goofl, and pure, and true, and has been 
 brave and loyal when the world spoke evil of me ! 
 That is all I can tell you about her." 
 
 "But she is handsome, I suppose? You are 
 not going to marry a plain woman, out of grati- 
 tude!" 
 
 "She is lovely in my eyes; and I believe she 
 is generally considered a pretty girl." 
 
 " Who is she ?" 
 
 "A lady. I can tell you no more yet awhile. 
 Hark ! there is the General's voice. I had better 
 go. Stay, there is something you cnce gave me. 
 You told me to wear it till — "
 
 TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEAKS. 281 
 
 " Till you were tired of me. Yes, I remember," 
 she said impatiently. 
 
 "Till the tie was broken between us, in some- 
 wise," he answered, taking out his watch. 
 
 There was about three inches of slender Trichi- 
 nopoly chain on the swivel of the watch, and on the 
 chain hung an old-fashioned hoop-ring of old Bra- 
 zilian diamonds. The ring had belonged to Lord 
 Carlavarock's grandmother, and had been Valeria's 
 favourite jewel. 
 
 She snatched it from Bothwell's hand the 
 moment he had taken it off the chain, and flung 
 it with all her force into the nearest thicket of 
 shrubs. 
 
 " So much for the token of worn-out love !" she 
 said. " If one of the gardeners finds it, he will pawn, 
 it at Devonport, and spend the money in drink. A 
 worthy end for such a souvenir. Grood-bye, Mr. 
 Grahame." 
 
 Bothwell bowed and left her; left her to crawl 
 up to her bedroom like a wounded hind creeping 
 to covert, and to fling herself face downwards pn the 
 floor, and lie there tearless, despairing, ready to in-
 
 282 wyllard's weird. 
 
 voke hell itself to help her in some kind of revenge, 
 had she but believed in the devil. But Lady Valeria 
 was an agnostic. She had not even Satan as a friend 
 in the hour of trouble.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 
 
 Monsieur Drubarde and- his visitor descended the 
 ladder, and entered the police-officer's apartment, 
 which consisted of two small rooms, the outer an 
 office and salon combined, the inner a bedchamber, 
 which Mr. Heathcote saw through the open door : a 
 neat little bachelor's nest, with a velvet -curtained 
 bedstead, and walls lined with portraits of every kind 
 — engravings, lithographs, photographs. 
 
 The salon was decorated with the same style of 
 art, diversified by engravings from newspapers, all 
 representing notorious crimes. " The Murder in the 
 Rue de la Paix," " Germinie Latouche stabbed in 
 the kitchen of the Red Cross Restaurant by her 
 lover, Gilles Perdie ;" " The Arrest of Victor 
 Larennes for the great forgeries on the Bank of 
 France;" "The Escape of Jean Bizat, the parri-
 
 284 wyllard's weird. 
 
 cide." Art had represented all these scenes with 
 due dramatic fervour. They were hardly pleasing 
 subjects in the abstract ; but to Felix Drubarde 
 they were all delightful ; for they recalled some of 
 the most interesting and most profitable hours 
 of his life. He was gratified to see his guest 
 looking at those stories of crime, in artistic short- 
 hand. 
 
 " Gilles Perdie would have got off, if it had not 
 been for me," he said, with excusable pride. " The 
 police had been hunting for him ten long days, 
 when I put them on the right scent. We knew 
 that he had not gone far from the scene of the crime 
 — for there had been no time for escape, you see. 
 The murder was found out an hour after the 
 woman's death. He was hunted for in every hole 
 and corner within a radius of a mile. No one had 
 seen him leave the premises. No one had set 
 eyes on him since the murder, which occurred in 
 the early morning in October, when it is not light 
 before six. ' How do you know that he ever did 
 leave that house ?' I asked one day, meaning the 
 Eed Cross, a workman's eating-house in the Rue
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 285 
 
 Galande. He was cellarman there, cellarinan and 
 terreur combined. My comrades laughed at me. 
 They had searched the Red Cross from cellar to 
 garret, they had not left an inch of the building 
 unexplored. ' Have you looked in the empty 
 casks?' I asked. Yes, they had looked in the empty 
 casks. The cellar was very neatly arranged, the 
 empty casks in a row on one side, the. full ones on 
 the other. My friends protested that they were 
 not such fools as to have -overlooked an empty cask. 
 ' Who knows ?' I said ; ' we will go there this after- 
 noon and overhaul those barrels.' Need I tell 
 you the result ? It is history. There was one 
 empty hogshead, artfully pushed in a corner, last 
 in the rank of unbroached hogsheads. The open 
 end had been turned towards the wall, and in that 
 empty hogshead, in that rat-haunted cellar, Gilles 
 Perdie had contrived to exist for ten days, by the 
 aid of his victim's daughter, a' child of seven years 
 old, who lived in the house, and whom he threatened 
 to kill as he had killed her mother, if she told any 
 one about him, or failed to carry him food and 
 drink twice a day. There, amidst vermin and ordure,
 
 286 wyllard's weird. 
 
 he had lived, coiled up in his hogshead, and per- 
 haps not much worse off than some among the poor 
 of Paris, whose only crime is poverty." 
 
 " You have a right to boast of your scent, Mon- 
 sieur, after such a triumph as that." 
 
 • "A bagatelle, Monsieur, one of the feeblest of 
 my cases : but it made a great hit at the time. My 
 portrait appeared in three different newspapers, side 
 by side with that of the murderer." 
 
 " A distinguished honour. And now, if you will 
 be kind enough to give me the further information 
 which you promised as to names and details ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Effcotte, you are Mr. Distin's friend, 
 and for you I will do what I would hardly do for 
 my own brother. I will trust you with one of my 
 books." 
 
 " You are extremely obliging." 
 
 " I know, sir, that there are some people who 
 think nothing of lending a book ; they can hand over 
 a treasured volume to a friend — to an indifferent 
 acquaintance even — without a pang; they can see 
 him turn the leaves and violate the stiffness of the 
 back. I, Monsieur, would almost as soon lend my
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 287 
 
 arm and hand as one of those books ; but for you I 
 will make an exception. You shall have the volume 
 which contains the report of the Prevol case, to read 
 and take notes from at your leisure." 
 
 " You are more than good." 
 
 Monsieur Drubarde's library consisted of four 
 rows of handsomely bound volumes, whose gilded 
 backs shone behind a barricade of plate glass, in a 
 locked bookcase. They were books which he had 
 collected at his leisure, and which bore for the most 
 part on his profession : the memoirs of Vidocq, 
 the memoirs of Canler, of Sanson the executioner, 
 and other biographies of equally thrilling interest. 
 For literature of so lofty a stamp, Felix Drubarde 
 had deemed no binding too luxurious ; and he had 
 clothed his favourites in all the pomp of purple, and 
 green, and crimson, and sumptuous gilding. He 
 had caused them to be enriched with the bookbinder's 
 whole gamut of ornament — his fleurs-de-lis and 
 roses, his foliage and acorns, and scrolls and em- 
 blems. Even the volume of printed reports which 
 Drubarde handed to Mr. Heathcote was gorgeous 
 in red morocco and gold.
 
 288 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " You will find the case fully reported in that 
 volume," he saicl. " When you have read it, and 
 made your own conclusions upon it, } 7 ou can 
 come back to me, and we will talk the matter over 
 together." 
 
 " I will call upon you again to-morrow at the 
 same hour, if you will allow me," replied Heath- 
 cote, laying a ten-pound note upon the table. " But 
 I must ask you in the mean time to accept this 
 trifle as an earnest of future remuneration. I do 
 not on any account desire to impose on your good- 
 nature." 
 
 Monsieur Drubarde shrugged his shoulders, 
 declared that as a matter of feeling he would rather 
 work gratuitously for any friend of Mr. Distin's, 
 but that from a business point of view his time 
 was valuable. He had a little place in the country, 
 fifteen miles out of Paris; he had nephews and 
 nieces dependent upon him ; in a word, he had to 
 work for others as well as for himself. 
 
 " Before you go, perhaps you will be so good as 
 to tell me your motive for hunting up the history of 
 this old murder," he said, with a keen look. He
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 289 
 
 had been intending to ask this question from the 
 beginning. 
 
 " I am searching out the details of an old murder 
 in order to fathom the mystery of a new murder, 
 or of a strange death, which I take to be a murder. 
 Can you read English, Monsieur Drubarde ?" 
 
 " I have a niece who can — a girl who was edu- 
 cated at a convent in Jersey. I am going to my 
 country home this afternoon, and my niece can read 
 anything you give me." 
 
 Mr. Heathcote took from his pocket-book the 
 report of the inquest, cut out of the* local papers, 
 and pasted on slips of foolscap. 
 
 " If your niece will translate that report for you, 
 I think you will understand the motive of my in- 
 vestigation," he said ; and then bade Monsieur 
 Drubarde good-morning. 
 
 He went down-stairs with the volume of reports 
 under his arm, hailed a fly, and drove to the Hotel 
 de Bade, stopping on his way to engage a stall for 
 that evening at the Comedie Francaise, the only 
 recreation which he cared for in his present frame 
 of mind. He had numerous acquaintances in Paris, 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 wyllard's weird. 
 
 but he did not care about seeing one of them just 
 now, nor did he linger in the bright gay streets to 
 mark the changes which a year had made in the 
 aspect of that ever-varying city, as he would have 
 done had his mind been free from care. 
 
 He had a sitting-room and bedroom on the 
 second floor of the. hotel, two nice little rooms 
 opening into each other, and both overlooking the 
 Boulevard ; an outlook which on former occasions 
 he had preferred to the monastic quiet of the court- # 
 yard, where there were no sounds but the splash- 
 ing of the water with which the man-of-all-work 
 sluiced the stone pavement at intervals of an hour 
 or two on sultry summer afternoons, or the scream 
 of a chambermaid arguing with a waiter, both talk- 
 ing as loud as if they had "been communicating from 
 the gate of Saint-Martin to the gate of Saint-Denis. 
 To-day, with the report of the Prevol case open 
 before him, Edward Heathcote could have found 
 it in his heart to curse the Boulevard, with its roar 
 and rattle, its incessant " ya-youp !" of coachmen 
 on the point of running over passengers, and .ever- 
 lasting clamour of the lively Gaul.' He would have
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 291 
 
 preferred a hermit's cave, with never a sound but 
 the sighing of the wind on the mountain-side. 
 
 Yes, here was the interrogation of the waiter at 
 the Pavilion Henri Quatre. 
 
 " Do you remember a lady and gentleman who 
 dined in a private room on the 6th of September?" 
 
 The waiter remembered perfectly. The lady 
 was very pretty, the gentleman remarkably hand- 
 some, and with a distinguished air. They had a 
 little girl with them. The gentleman ordered a 
 private room and a little dinner, bien soigne. He 
 was very particular about the champagne, and 
 about the dessert. The grapes* and peaches were 
 to be of the choicest. The gentleman and lady 
 dined early, between five and six. The lady had 
 a somewhat agitated air, seemed out of sorts, and 
 ate very little. The .'gentleman was very attentive 
 to her, and petted the little girl. At half-past six 
 they went for a- drive in the forest. The carriage 
 was ordered directly they sat down to dinner. 
 
 " Had you any reason to suppose that this lady 
 and gentleman had been followed or watched, by any 
 one when they arrived at the Henri Quatre ?"
 
 292 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " They arrived in a fly. No ; I observed no 
 one lurking about or watching when they arrived. 
 I went out to give an order to the coachman while 
 the carriage was standing before the door, waiting 
 .to take them for their drive in the forest ; and I 
 observed a man on the other side of the road. I 
 should not have noticed him, perhaps, if the collar 
 of his overcoat had not been turned up in a curious 
 manner. I thought it strange that any one should 
 wear an overcoat on such an evening." 
 
 "Did this man appear to be watching the 
 hotel?" 
 
 "He was standing in front of the hotel-railings 
 when I went out. I saw him look across at the 
 window in which the lady and gentleman were 
 dining. The window was at right angles with the 
 road,* opening into a garden. It was open, and 
 there were two candelabra upon the table. Any one 
 could see into the room from the road." 
 
 " There was no blind or curtain ?" 
 
 " No. The evening was particularly mild. All 
 the windows in the sitting-rooms were open." 
 
 "What became of this man ?"
 
 A FATAL. LOVE. 293 
 
 " He walked rapidly along the road, and turned 
 the corner on to the terrace." 
 
 " Should you recognise him if you were to see 
 him again ?" 
 
 "Impossible. It was twilight when I saw him, 
 and he was on the other side of the road. His coat- 
 collar was turned up, so as to hide the lower half 
 of his face." 
 
 " But you must at least have observed his 
 general appearance. Was he tall or short ? Had 
 he the air of a gentleman ?" 
 
 " He was tall. Yes, I should say he was a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Young or old ?" 
 
 " He walked like a young man. I thought he 
 had an agitated air. He walked very quickly, but 
 stopped suddenly two or three times between the 
 hotel and the corner of the terrace, as if he were 
 thinking deeply — hesitating whether to go this way 
 or that ; and then he walked on again, faster than 
 before." 
 
 " You saw no more of him that evening ?" 
 
 "No. * At half-past eight o'clock I heard that
 
 294 
 
 there had been a double murder in the forest, and 
 that the bodies were lying at the Town Hall. I 
 went to see the bodies, and recognised the lady and 
 gentleman who had dined at our hotel. I also saw 
 the little girl, who was in the charge of the police. 
 She was crying bitterly. The corpses were removed 
 to Paris on the following evening. " 
 
 The examination of the driver came next. He 
 had very little to tell. He had been told to wait 
 at the cross-roads until {he lady and gentleman 
 returned from their stroll. It Was a lovely night — 
 a night which might have tempted any one to alight 
 and walk in the forest glade. The moon was rising, 
 but it was dark amid the old trees. The man had 
 been waiting about a quarter of an hour, when he 
 heard a shot a little way off — and then another, and 
 another, and another, in rapid succession — and then 
 he heard a child screaming. He tied his horse to' 
 a tree, and he ran into the glade, guided by the 
 screams of the child. He found the lady and 
 gentleman lying on the ground, side by side, the 
 child kneeling 'by the lady) and screaming with grief 
 and terror. The gentleman groaned two or three
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 295 
 
 times, and then expired. The lady neither stirred 
 nor moaned. Her light-coloured gown and mantle 
 were covered with blood. 
 
 The driver was questioned as to whether any- 
 body had passed him while he waited at the cross- 
 roads. No, he had not observed any one, except an 
 old woman and a boy who had been gathering sticks 
 in the forest. The place at which he was waiting 
 was a well-known point. The glade in which the 
 murder occurred was considered one of the most 
 picturesque spots in the forest. He always drove 
 there with people who wanted to see the beauties of 
 Saint-Germain. But at that late hour there were 
 very few people driving. He had met no carriage 
 after leaving the terrace. 
 
 Then followed the examination of the child, and 
 of Marie Prevol's mother. They were both lengthy, 
 for the Juge cV Instruction had applied himself with 
 peculiar earnestness to the task of unravelling this 
 mystery, and it was only in the details of the dead 
 woman's surroundings that the clue to the secret 
 could be found. 
 
 The child had evidently answered the magisterial
 
 296 wyllard's weird. 
 
 questions with extreme intelligence. However she 
 might have broken down afterwards, she had "been 
 perfectly rational at the time of the interrogatory. 
 It seemed to Heathcote, influenced, perhaps, by his 
 knowledge of after events, that the child's replies 
 indicated a hyper-sensitiveness, and an intellect 
 intensified by feverish excitement. 
 
 " You remember going to Saint-Germain with 
 your aunt ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Tell me all you can recall about that day. 
 Tell me exactly when and how you started, and 
 what happened to you on the way. I want to hear 
 everything." 
 
 "It was three o'clock when we left my aunt's 
 house. Monsieur de Maucroix came a little before 
 that, and asked my aunt to go to dinner with him 
 somewhere in the country. The weather was too 
 lovely for Paris, he said. She did not want to go. 
 She said Georges would be angry." 
 
 " Who is Georges ?" 
 
 " Some one I never saw." 
 
 " Was he a friend of vour aunt's ?"
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 297 
 
 " Yes, I think so. She often talked of him. 
 Monsieur de Maucroix used to talk of him, and to 
 be angry about him." 
 
 "Why angry?" 
 
 " I don't know. He used to say Georges will 
 not let you do this; Georges will not let you do 
 that. What right has Georges that he should order 
 you here or there? And then my aunt used to cry." 
 
 " Were you often at your aunt's apartment ?" 
 
 "Very often." 
 
 " You lived there sometimes, did you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I used to stay there for a week sometimes. 
 It was very nice to be with my aunt, much nicer 
 than being with grandmother. She used to take 
 me out in a carriage sometimes. Her rooms were 
 prettier than grandmother's rooms, for there were 
 ■ flowers all about, and pretty things, and she was 
 prettier, and wore prettier clothes." 
 
 " But if you were there for a week at a time, how 
 was it that you never saw this Monsieur Georges, 
 who was such a close friend of your aunt's?" 
 
 "He never came till late at night. He used to 
 come to supper often. I heard the servant say so.
 
 298 wyllard's weird. 
 
 She said he was a dissipated man, a bad subject. 
 Grandmother said so too. 'Has that night-bird 
 been here again ?' she asked my aunt once ; and my 
 aunt was angry, and began to cry; and then grand- 
 mother got angry too, and said, • Who is he, and 
 what is he? I want to know that.' And then my 
 aunt said, ' He is a gentleman ; that is enough for 
 you to know f and then she showed my grand- 
 mother a pretty necklace that- George's had given 
 her the night before — a necklace of shining white 
 beads, like the water-drops from the fountain at the 
 Tuileries." 
 
 " They were diamonds, I suppose ?" 
 
 ".Yes, that is what grandmother called them. 
 She wetted them with her tongue to find out if they 
 were real diamonds, and then she and my aunt 
 kissed each other, and made friends." 
 
 "You are sure you never saw this Monsieur 
 Georges ?" 
 
 " Never. My aunt used to send me to bed very 
 early, before she went to the theatre." 
 
 " Did she not take you with her to the theatre 
 sometimes ?"
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 299 
 
 " Never. She said that theatres were not good 
 for little girls." 
 
 " Now tell me .about your journey to Saint- 
 Germain. How did you go ?" 
 
 " First in a carriage, and then in a train." 
 
 " Had you to wait at the station ?" 
 
 " A long time. I was tired of waiting so long. 
 I thought it would have been nicer to be at home, 
 where I had story-books to read." 
 
 "What did your aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix 
 do while they were waiting ?" 
 
 " They sat in a corner of a big room, with great 
 windows through which we could see the trains. I 
 watched the trains through the window." 
 
 " Were there many other people in the room ?" 
 
 " Very few." 
 
 " Did you take notice of any one ?" 
 
 "I noticed a little girl. She was bigger than I 
 am, but not much. I thought I should like to play 
 with her. She had a blue balloon, and she let it 
 fly out of the window and broke it." 
 
 " Did you notice nobody else ?"
 
 300 wyllaed's weird. 
 
 "Only one other person — a gentleman who wore 
 dark spectacles." 
 
 "What made you observe him in particular?" 
 
 " His spectacles were so curious, and he looked 
 at my aunt." 
 
 " What do you mean when you say that he 
 looked at your aunt ? Did he look as if he knew her?" 
 
 " I don't know. He stood just inside the door- 
 way, as if he was hiding behind the door, looking at 
 my aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix." 
 
 " How long did he stand there ?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " For five minutes, do you think ? As long as 
 you could count a hundred ?" 
 
 " Longer than that." 
 
 " Was he young or old, tall or short?" 
 
 " He was tall. I think he must have been old, 
 because he wore dark spectacles." 
 
 " Did your aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix ob- 
 serve him ?" 
 
 "No. I asked my aunt when we were in the 
 train if she had seen the gentleman with the funny 
 spectacles, and she said no."
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 301 
 
 "Did you see him again after lie left the waiting- 
 room ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Now tell me all you can about your journey 
 to Saint-Germain." 
 
 " We went in the train, in a beautiful carriage 
 with soft cushions. I looked out of the window all 
 the time. My aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix sat 
 by the other window talking." 
 
 " Did you hear what they said?" 
 
 "Not much. I was not listening. It was so 
 nice to see the country, and the trees rushing by. 
 I heard Monsieur de Maucroix ask my aunt to go 
 aWay with him — he begged her to go — to Italy, I 
 think he said. Is there a place called Italy?" 
 
 " Yes. And how did your aunt answer ?" 
 
 " She said she could not go. She was bound 
 to Georges. Georges would kill her if she left him. 
 Monsieur de Maucroix laughed, and said that people 
 do not do such things nowadays. He laughed — 
 and soon afterwards my aunt and he were both dead. 
 I saw the blood — streams of blood." 
 
 At this point, said the report, the girl Lemarque
 
 302 wyllard's weird. 
 
 became hysterical, and the rest of her evidence had 
 to be postponed for another day. In the mean time 
 the grandmother, and Barbe Girot, Marie Prevol's 
 servant, were interrogated. 
 
 Madame Lemarque stated that her daughter was 
 an actress at the; Porte-Saint-Martin. She was 
 very beautiful, and was more renowned for her grace 
 and beauty than for her acting. She danced and 
 sang and acted in fairy scenes. She was only three- 
 and-twenty years of age at the time of her death. 
 
 Upon being asked by .the judge whether her 
 daughter led a strictly moral life, Madame Lemarque 
 replied that her conduct was purity itself as com- 
 pared with that of many ladies who acted in fairy 
 pieces. 
 
 "But there was some one, perhaps," insinuated 
 the judge, " there is always some one. So beautiful 
 a woman must have had many admirers. I have her 
 photograph here. It is an exquisite face, a beauty 
 quite out of the common, refined, spiritual. Surely 
 among her many admirers there must have been one 
 whom she favoured above all the rest ?" 
 
 " Yes, there was one, and it was that one who
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 303 
 
 murdered my daughter and Monsieur de Maucroix. 
 No one can doubt it." 
 
 " But you have no actual knowledge of the fact ? 
 You speak upon conjecture ?" 
 
 "Who. else should murder her? Whom did 
 she ever injure, poor child? She was amiability 
 itself — the kindest of comrades, charitable, good to 
 everybody." 
 
 "What do you know of this person whom you 
 suspect ?" 
 
 "Nothing except that which I heard from my 
 daughter." ' 
 
 " Did you never see him ?" 
 
 "Never. If he had been the Emperor he could 
 not have been more mysterious in his goings to and 
 fro. I was never allowed to see him." 
 
 "Was he often at your daughter's apartment?" 
 
 "Very often. He used to. go there after- the 
 theatre. He was devoted to her. There were some 
 who believed that he was her husband, that he loved 
 her too passionately to deny her anything she might 
 ask. When she was not acting he took her abroad, 
 to Italy — to Spain. If it were only for a holiday for
 
 304 wyllakd's weird. 
 
 a fortnight, lie would carry her off to some remote 
 village in the Italian Alps or the Pyrenees. I used to 
 tell her that he was ashamed of his love for her, or he 
 would not have hidden her in those distant places. 
 He would have taken her to Dieppe or Arcachon, 
 where she would have been seen and admired." 
 
 " Did you ever find out who this person is ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 "But you must know something about him and 
 his circumstances. Was he a nobleman^ or did he 
 belong to the mercantile class ?" 
 
 "I know nothing except that he was rich. He 
 showered gifts upon my daughter. He would have 
 taken her off the stage if she would have allowed 
 him. He would have given her a house and gardens 
 at Bougival instead of her little apartment on* a 
 third floor in the Eue Lafitte ; but she loved the 
 theatre, and she had a proud spirit, poor child — she 
 had not the temper of lafemme entretenue" 
 
 " What was the name of this person ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Georges. I never heard of him by 
 any other name." 
 
 "Did your daughter reciprocate his passion ?"
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 305 
 
 " For a long time she seemed to do so. They 
 were like lovers in a story. That lasted for years 
 — from the time of her first appearance at the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin, which was four years before her death. 
 And then there came a change. Monsieur de 
 Maucroix fell in love with her, followed her about 
 everywhere, worshipped her. And he was young 
 and handsome and fascinating, with the style and 
 manners of a prince. He had spent all his life in 
 palaces ; had been attached to the Emperor's house- 
 hold from his boyhood ; had fought bravely through 
 the war." 
 
 " Had you reason to know that Monsieur Georges 
 was jealous of Monsieur de Maucroix ?" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter told me that there had been 
 scenes." 
 
 " Had the two men met ?" 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 "How long had Monsieur de Maucroix been an 
 avowed admirer of your daughter ?" 
 
 " Only a few months— since Easter, I think. 
 My granddaughter used to see him when she was 
 staying with her aunt." 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 303 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " Could you reconcile it to your conscience to 
 allow your grandchild to live in the house of an aunt 
 who was leading — well, we will say a doubtful life ?" 
 
 " There was no harm in my daughter's life that 
 I knew of. Monsieur Georges may have been my 
 daughter's husband. There is no reason that he 
 should not have been. At her. lodgings she was 
 known as Madame Georges. It- was under that 
 name she travelled when' she went abroad." 
 
 "But you had never heard of any marriage — at 
 the Mairie or elsewhere ? And, again, your daughter 
 could not be married without your consent." 
 
 " I do not say that she had been married in 
 France. She may have been married abroad — in 
 England, perhaps. He took her to England soon 
 after they became acquainted. It was the first time 
 she left Paris with him ; and until then I know she 
 had been as distant to him as if she had been the 
 Empress. In England there are no obstacles to 
 marriage; there is no one's consent to be asked." 
 
 " We will admit that a marriage in a foreign 
 
 o o 
 
 country would have been possible. But this Maxime 
 de Maucroix, this second admirer — "
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 307 
 
 " Was only an admirer. My daughter's life was 
 not a disreputable life. I have nothing to reproach 
 myself with upon that score." 
 
 "Can you« help us to find this man Georges, 
 whom you suspect as the murderer ? Do you know 
 where he is to be found ?" 
 
 "If I did, the police would have known before 
 now. I tell you I know nothing about him — abso- 
 lutely nothing. I have seen and heard nothing of 
 him since the murder. . He has not been to my 
 daughter's apartment since her death — he was not 
 at her funeral. He who pretended to adore her did. 
 not follow her to her grave. All Paris was there; 
 but he who was supposed to be her husband was not^ 
 there." 
 
 " How can you tell that he was not there, since 
 you do not know his appearance ?" 
 
 "Barbe Girot knows him. It is on her autho- 
 rity that I say he was not there." 
 
 " I will trouble you with no further questions 
 to-day, madame. I will take Barbe Girot's evidence 
 next." 
 
 Barbe Girot's evidence was to the effect that for
 
 308 wyllard's weird. 
 
 nearly four years this Monsieur Georges had been 
 a constant visitor at her mistress's apartment. He 
 had come there after the theatre, and it had been 
 Barbe's duty to leave the supper-table laid, and the 
 candles ready on the chimney-piece and table, before 
 she went to bed. Madame Georges let herself in 
 with a latch-key, and Barbe rarely sat up for her. 
 Madame did not always return to the Bue Lafitte 
 for supper. There were occasions when she supped 
 on the Boulevard, or in the Bois, and returned to 
 her apartment at a very late hour. Barbe saw Mon- 
 sieur Georges occasionally, but not frequently. He 
 was a handsome man, but not in his first youth. 
 He might have been five or six and thirty. He 
 was generous, and appeared to be rich. Whatever 
 his fortune may have been, he would have given 
 Madame the whole of it if she had asked him. 
 There was never a man more passionately in love 
 with a woman. After the Baron de Maucroix's 
 appearance on the scene there were storms. Barbe 
 had seen Monsieur Georges cry like a child. She 
 had also seen him give way to violent passion. 
 There had been one night when she thought that he
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 309 
 
 would kill Madame. He bad his hands upon her 
 throat ; he seemed as if he were going to strangle 
 her. And then he fell on his knees, and grovelled 
 at her feet. He implored her to forgive him. It 
 was dreadful. 
 
 Did Barbe Girot think that Monsieur Georges 
 was Madame's husband ? 
 
 She. had never presumed to form an opinion 
 upon that subject. Her mistress wore a wedding- 
 ring, and was always known as Madame Georges 
 in the house where she lived. Madame's conduct 
 was altogether irreproachable. Until the Baron de 
 Maucroix began to visit her, no other man than 
 Monsieur Georges had crossed her threshold. And 
 the visits of Monsieur de Maucroix were such visits 
 as any gentleman in Paris might pay to any lady, 
 were she the highest in the land. 
 
 " Did your mistress ever go out with Monsieur 
 de Maucroix before that fatal visit to Saint-Ger- 
 main ?" 
 
 " Never. And on that occasion Madame took 
 the little girl with her. She refused to go alone 
 with the Baron."
 
 310 wyllard's weied. 
 
 "Is it your opinion that your mistress was in- 
 clined to favour Monsieur de Maucroix' suit?" 
 
 " Alas, yes ! He was so young, so fascinating, 
 so handsome, and he adored her. If she had not 
 been in love with him she would hardly have per- 
 mitted his visits, for they were the ' cause of such 
 agony of mind to Monsieur Georges." 
 
 "It is your belief, then, that she had trans- 
 ferred her affection from the older to the youuger 
 lover ?" 
 
 "I fear so." 
 
 " You have not seen Monsieur Georges since the 
 murder?"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Are you sure that he was not at the funeral ?" 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 "But there was a great crowd at the cemetery. 
 How can you be sure that he was not in the crowd?" 
 
 " I cannot be sure of that ; but I am sure that 
 he paid my mistress no honour. He was not among 
 those who stood around her grave, or who threw 
 flowers upon her coffin. I stayed by the grave after 
 all was over and the crowd had dispersed ; but
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 311 
 
 Monsieur Georges never came near to cast a look 
 upon the spot where my poor mistress was lying. 
 He has not been at her apartment since her death; 
 he never came to look upon her corpse when it was 
 lying there." 
 
 " And he has not . written — he has given no 
 orders as to the disposal of your mistress's pro- 
 perty ?" 
 
 " No. Madame Lemarque has taken possession 
 of everything. She is living in my mistress's apart- 
 ment until the furniture can be sold." 
 
 " Do you know of any photograph or portrait of 
 Monsieur Georges among your late mistress's pos- 
 sessions ?" 
 
 " I never saw any such portrait." 
 
 " You would know Monsieur Georges wherever 
 you might happen to see him ?" 
 
 " Yes. I do not. think I could fail to recognise 
 him." 
 
 " Even if he had disguised himself?" 
 • " Even then. I think I should know his voice 
 anywhere, even if I could not see his face." 
 
 " Will you describe him ?"
 
 312 wyllard's weird. 
 
 " He is a tall man, broad-shouldered, powerful- 
 looking. He has fine features, blue eyes, light- 
 auburn hair, thick and flowing, and worn much 
 longer than most people wear their hair. He is not 
 so handsome or so elegant as Monsieur de Maucroix, 
 but he has a more commanding look." 
 
 " That description would apply to hundreds of 
 men. Can you mention any peculiarity of feature, 
 expression, gait, manner ?" 
 
 " No, I can recall nothing peculiar." 
 
 " And in moments of confidence did your mis- 
 tress never tell you anything about this Monsieur 
 Georges, his profession, his belongings, his place of 
 residence ?" 
 . "Nothing." 
 
 " He did not live at your mistress's apartments, 
 I conclude ?" 
 
 " No, he did not live there." 
 
 " Did you never hear how he was occupied 
 during the day, since you say he was never at your 
 mistress's apartment in the daytime ?" 
 
 "Never. I was told nothing about him except 
 that he was rich and a gentleman. I asked no
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 313 
 
 questions. My place was comfortable, roy wages 
 were paid regularly, and Madame was kind to 
 me." . 
 
 " Where did Leonie Lemarque sleep when she 
 stayed in the Hue Lafitte ?" 
 
 " She occupied a little bed in my room, which is 
 inside the kitchen." 
 
 " Were you long 1 in Madame's service ?" 
 
 " Nearly four years. From the beginning of her 
 engagement at the Porte-Saint-Martin, when she took 
 the apartment in the Eue Lafitte. Her salary at 
 the theatre justified her in taking such an apart- 
 ment. Before that time she had been living with 
 her mother on the other side of the Seine." 
 
 "Is it your opinion that Monsieur Georges was 
 the murderer ?" 
 
 " That is my fixed opinion." 
 
 This concluded the examination of Barbe Girot. 
 
 The little girl's examination was not resumed 
 until ten days later. She had been very ill in the 
 mean time, and seemed altogether weak and broken 
 down when she was brought before the Juge 
 d' 'Instruction. She burst out crying in the midst
 
 314 wyllard's weird. 
 
 of her evidence, and the grandmother had great 
 difficulty in calming her. 
 
 "We had a nice dinner, and Monsieur de 
 Maucroix was very kind, and gave me grapes and a 
 big peach, and he' promised to buy me a doll next 
 day in the Passage Jouffroy. My aunt was sad, 
 and Monsieur de Maucroix begged her to be gay, 
 and he talked about taking her to Italy with him, 
 just as he had talked in the train. And then we 
 went out in a carriage and drove along a terrace, 
 where there was a beautiful view over a river and a 
 great green valley. My aunt seemed much gayer, 
 and she and Monsieur de Maucroix were talking aud 
 laughing all the time ; and afterwards, when we all 
 got out of the carriage and walked in the forest, 
 they both seemed very happy, and my aunt rested 
 her head on Monsieur de Maucroix's shoulder as 
 they walked along, and said it was like being in 
 heaven to be in that moonlit forest with him ; and 
 then, just at that moment, a man rushed out from 
 the darkness under the trees, like a wild beast out 
 of a cave, and shot, and shot, and shot, again and 
 again and again. And first Monsieur de Maucroix
 
 A FATAL LOVE. 315 
 
 fell, and then my aunt, and she was all over blood. 
 I could see it streaming over her light-blue gown, 
 first one stream and then another. I can see it 
 now. I am seeing it always. It wakes me out of 
 my sleep. 4 0, take it away; take away the dark 
 forest ; take away the blood !" 
 
 At this point, said the report, the child again 
 became hysterical, and had to be carried away. 
 After this she had an attack of brain-fever, and 
 could not again be interrogated formally. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDOH : 
 EOESOK AND SONS, PEINTER8, PANC2A3 EOAD, W.W.