Kitabı oku: «The Opal Serpent», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XIV
MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER

The detective was as good as his word. In a few days Paul was introduced to the editor of a weekly publication and obtained a commission for a story to be written in collaboration with Mr. Hurd. It seemed that the editor was an old acquaintance of Hurd's and had been extricated by him from some trouble connected with cards. The editor, to show his gratitude, and because that Hurd's experiences, thrown into the form of a story, could not fail to interest the public, was only too willing to make a liberal arrangement. Also Paul was permanently engaged to supply short stories, to read those that were submitted to the editor, and, in fact, he permanently became that gentleman's right hand. He was a kind, beery Bohemian of an editor, Scott by name, and took quite a fancy to Paul.

"I'll give you three pounds a week," said Scott, beaming through his large spectacles and raking his long gray beard with tobacco-stained fingers, "you can live on that, and to earn it you can give me your opinion on the stories. Then between whiles you can talk to Hurd and write this yarn which I am sure will be interesting. Hurd has had some queer experiences."

This was quite true. Hurd had ventured on strange waters, but the strangest he ever sailed on were those connected with the Gwynne Street case. These latter experiences he did not tell to Scott, who was incapable of holding his tongue, and secrecy, as the detective impressed on Paul, was absolutely necessary to the conduct of the case. "If we keep matters quiet," argued Hurd, "and let those concerned in the matter fancy the case has been dropped, we'll be able to throw them off their guard, and then they may betray themselves."

"I wish you would say if you think there is one person or two," said Paul, irritably, for his nerves were wearing thin under the strain. "You first talk of the assassin and then of the assassins."

"Well," drawled Hurd, smiling, "I'm in the dark, you see, and being only a flesh and blood human being, instead of a creation of one of you authors, I can only grope in the dark and look in every direction for the light. One person, two persons, three, even four may be engaged in this affair for all I know. Don't you be in a hurry, Mr. Beecot. I believe in that foreign chap's saying, 'Without haste without rest.'"

"Goethe said that."

"Then Goethe is a sensible man, and must have read his Bible. 'Make no haste in time of trouble,' says the Scriptures."

"Very good," assented Beecot; "take your own time."

"I intend to," said Hurd, coolly. "Bless you, slow and sure is my motto. There's no hurry. You are fixed up with enough to live on, and a prospect of making more. Your young lady is happy enough with that grenadier of a woman in spite of the humbleness of the home. Mrs. Krill and her daughter are enjoying the five thousand a year, and Mr. Grexon Hay is fleecing that young ass, Lord George Sandal, as easily as possible. I stand by and watch everything. When the time comes I'll pounce down on – "

"Ah," said Paul, "that's the question. On whom?"

"On one or two or a baker's dozen," rejoined Hurd, calmly. "My chickens ain't hatched yet, so I don't count 'em. By the way, is your old school-fellow as friendly as ever?"

"Yes. Why, I can't understand; as he certainly will make no money out of me. He's giving a small dinner to-morrow night at his rooms and has asked me."

"You go," said the detective, emphatically; "and don't let on you have anything to do with me."

"See here, Hurd, I won't play the spy, if you mean that."

"I don't mean anything of the sort," replied Hurd, earnestly, "but if you do chance to meet Mrs. Krill at this dinner, and if she does chance to drop a few words about her past, you might let me know."

"Oh, I don't mind doing that," said Beecot, with relief. "I am as anxious to find out the truth about this murder as you are, if not more so. The truth, I take it, is to be found in Krill's past, before he took the name of Norman. Mrs. Krill will know of that past, and I'll try and learn all I can from her. But Hay has nothing to do with the crime, and I won't spy on him."

"Very good. Do what you like. But as to Hay, having nothing to do with the matter, I still think Hay stole that opal brooch from you when you were knocked down."

"In that case Hay must know who killed Norman," cried Paul, excited.

"He just does," rejoined Hurd, calmly; "and now you can understand another reason why I take such an interest in that gentleman."

"But you can't be certain?"

"Quite so. I am in the dark, as I said before. But Hay is a dangerous man and would do anything to rake in the dollars. He has something to do with the disappearance of that brooch I am sure, and if so, he knows more than he says. Besides" – here Hurd hesitated – "No! I'll tell you that later."

"Tell me what?"

"Something about Hay that will astonish you and make you think he has something to do with the crime. Meanwhile, learn all you can from Mrs. Krill."

"If I meet her," said Paul, with a shrug.

Undoubtedly Hurd knew more than he was prepared to admit, and not even to Paul, staunch as he knew him to be, would he speak confidentially. When the time came the detective would speak out. At present he held his tongue and moved in clouds like a Homeric deity. But his eyes were on all those connected with the late Aaron Norman, indirectly or directly, although each and every one of them were unaware of the scrutiny.

Paul had no scruples in learning all he could from Mrs. Krill. He did not think that she had killed her husband, and probably might be ignorant of the person or persons who had slain the poor wretch in so cruel a manner. But the motive of the crime was to be found in Norman's past, and Mrs. Krill knew all about this. Therefore, Paul was very pleased when he found that Mrs. Krill and her daughter were the guests at the little dinner.

Hay's rooms were large and luxuriously furnished. In effect, he occupied a small flat in the house of an ex-butler, and had furnished the place himself in a Sybarite fashion. The ex-butler and his wife and servants looked after Hay, and in addition, that languid gentleman possessed a slim valet, with a sly face, who looked as though he knew more than was good for him. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of the rooms was shady and fast, and Paul, simple young fellow as he was, felt the bad influence the moment he stepped into the tiny drawing-room.

This was furnished daintily and with great taste in color and furnishing. It was more like a woman's room, and Mr. Hay had spared no cost in making it pleasing to the eye and comfortable to the body. The prevailing tone was pale yellow, and the electric light suffused itself through lemon-shaded globes. The Louis Quinze furniture was upholstered in primrose, and there were many Persian praying mats and Eastern draperies about the place. Water-color pictures decked the walls, and numerous mirrors reflected the dainty, pretty apartment. A brisk fire was burning, although the evening was not cold, and everything looked delightfully pleasant. Paul could not help contrasting all this luxury and taste with his bare garret. But with Sylvia's love to warm his heart, he would not have changed places with Grexon Hay for all his splendor.

Two ladies were seated by the fire. Mrs. Krill in black, majestic and calm as usual. She wore diamonds on her breast and jewelled stars in her gray hair. Although not young, she was a wonderfully well-preserved woman, and her arms and neck were white, gleaming and beautifully shaped. From the top of her head to the sole of her rather large but well-shod foot, she was dressed to perfection, and waved a languid fan as she welcomed Paul, who was presented to her by the host. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Beecot," she said in her deep voice; "we had rather an unhappy interview when last we met. How is Miss Norman?"

"She is quite well," replied Paul, in as cordial a tone as he could command. For the sake of learning what he could, he wished to be amiable, but it was difficult when he reflected that this large, suave, smiling woman had robbed Sylvia of a fortune and had spoken of her in a contemptuous way. But Beecot, swallowing down his pride, held his little candle to the devil without revealing his repugnance too openly. And apparently Mrs. Krill believed that his composure was genuine enough, for she was quite at her ease in his presence.

The daughter was dressed like the mother, save that she wore pearls in place of diamonds. She talked but little, as usual, and sat smiling, the young image of the older woman. Hay also introduced Paul to a handsome young fellow of twenty-one with rather a feeble face. This was Lord George Sandal, the pigeon Hay was plucking, and although he had charming manners and an assumption of worldly wisdom, he was evidently one of those who had come into the world saddled and bridled for other folk's riding.

A third lady was also present, who called herself Aurora Qian, and Hay informed his friend in a whisper that she was an actress. Paul then remembered that he had seen her name in the papers as famous in light comedy. She was pretty and kittenish, with fluffy hair and an eternal smile. It was impossible to imagine a greater contrast to the massive firmness of Mrs. Krill than the lively, girlish demeanor of the little woman, yet Paul had an instinct that Miss Qian, in spite of her profession and odd name and childish giggle, was a more shrewd person than she looked. Everyone was bright and merry and chatty: all save Maud Krill who smiled and fanned herself in a statuesque way. Hay paid her great attention, and Paul knew very well that he intended to marry the silent woman for her money. It would be hardly earned he thought, with such a firm-looking mother-in-law as Mrs. Krill would certainly prove to be.

The dinner was delightful, well cooked, daintily served, and leisurely eaten. A red-shaded lamp threw a rosy light on the white cloth, the glittering crystal and bright silver. The number of diners was less than the Muses, and more than the Graces, and everyone laid himself or herself out to make things bright. And again Maud Krill may be mentioned as an exception. She ate well and held her tongue, merely smiling heavily when addressed. Paul, glancing at her serene face across the rosy-hued table, wondered if she really was as calm as she looked, and if she really lacked the brain power her mother seemed to possess.

"I am glad to see you here, Beecot," said Hay, smiling.

"I am very glad to be here," said Paul, adapting himself to circumstances, "especially in such pleasant company."

"You don't go out much," said Lord George.

"No, I am a poor author who has yet to win his spurs."

"I thought of being an author myself," said the young man, "but it was such a fag to think about things."

"You want your material supplied to you perhaps," put in Mrs. Krill in a calm, contemptuous way.

"Oh, no! If I wrote stories like the author johnnies I'd rake up my family history. There's lots of fun there."

"Your family mightn't like it," giggled Miss Qian. "I know lots of things about my own people which would read delightfully if Mr. Beecot set them down, but then – " she shrugged her dainty shoulders, "oh, dear me, what a row there would be!"

"I suppose there is a skeleton in every cupboard," said Hay, suavely, and quite ignoring the shady tenant in his own.

"There's a whole dozen cupboards with skeletons to match in my family," said the young lord. "Why, I had an aunt, Lady Rachel Sandal, who was murdered over twenty years ago. Now," he said, looking triumphantly round the table, "which of you can say there's a murder in your family – eh, ladies and gentlemen?"

Paul glanced sideways at Mrs. Krill, wondering what she would say, and wondering also how it was that Lord George did not know she was the widow of the murdered Lemuel Krill, whose name had been so widely advertised. But Hay spoke before anyone could make a remark. "What an unpleasant subject," he said, with a pretended shudder, "let us talk of less melodramatic things."

"Oh, why," said Mrs. Krill, using her fan. "I rather like to hear about murders."

Lord George looked oddly at her, and seemed about to speak. Paul thought for the moment that he did know about the Gwynne Street crime and intended to remark thereon. But if so his good taste told him that he would be ill-advised to speak and he turned to ask for another glass of wine. Miss Aurora Qian looked in her pretty shrewd way from one to the other. "I just love the Newgate Calendar," she said, clasping her hands. "There's lovely plots for dramas to be found there. Don't you think so, Mr. Beecot?"

"I don't read that sort of literature, Miss Qian."

"Ah, then you don't know what people are capable of in the way of cruelty, Mr. Beecot."

"I don't want to know," retorted Paul, finding the subject distasteful and wondering why the actress pressed it, as she undoubtedly did. "I prefer to write stories to elevate the mind."

Miss Qian made a grimace and shot a meaning look at him. "It doesn't pay," she said, tittering, "and money is what we all want."

"I fear I don't care for money overmuch."

"No," said Mrs. Krill to him in an undertone, "I know that from the way you spoke in Mr. Pash's office."

"I was standing up for the rights of another."

"You will be rewarded," she replied meaningly, but what she did mean Paul could not understand.

The rest of the dinner passed off well enough, as the subject was changed. Lord George began to talk of racing, and Hay responded. Mrs. Krill alone seemed shocked. "I don't believe in gambling," she said icily.

"I hope you are not very down on it," said Hay. "Lord George and I propose to play bridge with you ladies in the next room."

"Maud can play and Miss Qian," said the widow. "I'll talk to Mr. Beecot, unless he prefers the fascination of the green cloth."

"I would rather talk to you," replied Paul, bowing.

Mrs. Krill nodded, and then went out of the room with the younger ladies. The three gentlemen filled their glasses with port, and Hay passed round a box of cigars. Soon they were smoking and chatting, in a most amicable fashion. Lord George talked a great deal about racing and cards, and his bad luck with both. Hay said very little and every now and then cast a glance at Paul, to see how he was taking the conversation. At length, when Sandal became a trifle vehement on the subject of his losses, Hay abruptly changed the subject, by refilling his glass and those of his companions. "I want you to drink to the health of my future bride," he said.

"What," cried Paul, staring, "Miss Krill?"

"The same," responded Hay, coldly. "You see I have taken your advice and intend to settle. Pash presented me to the ladies when next they came to his office, and since then I have been almost constantly with them. Miss Krill's affections were disengaged, and she, therefore, with her mother's consent, became my promised wife."

"I wish you joy," said Lord George, draining his glass and filling another, "and, by Jove! for your sake, I hope she's got money."

"Oh, yes, she's well off," said Hay, calmly, "and you, Paul?"

"I congratulate you, of course," stammered Beecot, dazed; "but it's so sudden. You haven't known her above a month."

"Five weeks or so," said Hay, smiling, and sinking his voice lower, he added, "I can't afford to let grass grow under my feet. This young ass here might snap her up, and Mrs. Krill would only be too glad to secure a title for Maud."

"I say," said Lord George suddenly, and waking from a brown study, "who is Mrs. Krill? I've heard the name."

"It's not an uncommon name," said Hay, untruthfully and quickly. "She is a rich widow who has lately come to London."

"Where did she come from?"

"I can't tell you that. From the wilds of Yorkshire I believe. You had better ask her."

"Oh, by Jove, no, I wouldn't be so rude. But I seem to know the name." Paul privately thought that if he read the papers, he ought certainly to know the name, and he was on the point of making, perhaps an injudicious remark, but Hay pointedly looked at him in such a meaning way, that he held his tongue. More, when they left their wine for the society of the ladies, Hay squeezed his friend's arm in the passage.

"Don't mention the death," he said, using a politer word by preference. "Sandal doesn't connect Mrs. Krill with the dead man. She wants to live the matter down."

"In that case she ought to leave London for a time."

"She intends to. When I make Maud my wife, we will travel with her mother for a year or two, until the scandal of the murder blows over. Luckily the name of Lemuel Krill was not mentioned often in the papers, and Sandal hasn't seen a hand-bill that I know of. I suppose you agree with me that silence is judicious?"

"Yes," assented Paul, "I think it is."

"And you congratulate me on my approaching marriage?"

"Certainly. Now, perhaps, you will live like Falstaff when he was made a knight."

Hay did not understand the allusion and looked puzzled. However, he had no time to say more, as they entered the drawing-room. Almost as soon as they did, Mrs. Krill summoned Paul to her side.

"And now," she said, "let us talk of Miss Norman."

CHAPTER XV
A NEW CLUE

"I don't wish to talk of Miss Norman," said Paul, bluntly.

"Then you can be no true lover," retorted the widow.

"I disagree with you. A true lover does not talk to all and sundry concerning the most sacred feelings of his heart. Moreover, your remarks at our last meeting were not to my taste."

"I apologize," said Mrs. Krill, promptly, "and will not offend in that way again. I did not know you then, but since Mr. Hay has spoken about you to me, I know and appreciate you, Mr. Beecot."

But Paul was not to be cajoled in this manner. The more suave the woman was, the more he felt inclined to be on his guard, and he very wisely obeyed the prompting of his instinct. "I fear you do not know me, Mrs. Krill," said he as coldly as Hay could have spoken, "else you would hardly ask me to discuss with you, of all people, the lady whom I intend to make my wife."

"You are rather a difficult man to deal with," she replied, drawing her thick white eyebrows together. "But I like difficult men. That is why I admire Mr. Hay: he is not a silly, useless butterfly like that young lord there."

"Silly he is not, but I doubt his being useful. So far as I can see Hay looks after himself and nobody else."

"He proposes to look after my daughter."

"So I understand," replied Beecot, politely, "but that is a matter entirely for your own consideration."

Mrs. Krill still continued to smile in her placid way, but she was rather nonplussed all the same. From the appearance of Beecot, she had argued that he was one of those many men she could twist round her finger. But he seemed to be less easily guided than she expected, and for the moment she was silent, letting her hard eyes wander towards the card-table, round which sat the four playing an eager and engrossing game of bridge. "You don't approve of that perhaps?"

"No," said Paul, calmly, "I certainly do not."

"Are you a Puritan may I ask?"

Beecot shook his head and laughed. "I am a simple man, who tries to do his duty in this world," said he, "and who very often finds it difficult to do that same duty."

"How do you define duty, Mr. Beecot?"

"We are becoming ethical," said Paul, with a smile. "I don't know that I am prepared with an answer at present."

"Then the next time we meet. For I hope," said Mrs. Krill, smoothing her face to a smile – it had grown rather sombre – "that we shall often meet again. You must come and see us. We have taken a house in Kensington."

"Chosen by Mr. Hay?"

"Yes! He is our mentor in London Society. I don't think," added Mrs. Krill, studying his face, "that you like Mr. Hay."

"As I am Mr. Hay's guest," said Paul, dryly, "that is rather an unkind question to ask."

"I asked no question. I simply make a statement."

Beecot found the conversation rather embarrassing. In place of his pumping Mrs. Krill, she was trying to pump him, which reversal of his design he by no means approved of. He changed the subject of conversation by drawing a powerfully attractive red herring across the trail. "You wish to speak to me about Miss Norman," he remarked.

"I do," answered Mrs. Krill, who saw through his design, "but apparently that subject is as distasteful as a discussion about Mr. Hay."

"Both subjects are rather personal, I admit, Mrs. Krill. However, if you have anything to tell me, which you would like Miss Norman to hear, I am willing to listen."

"Ah! Now you are more reasonable," she answered in a pleased tone. "It is simply this, Mr. Beecot: I am very sorry for the girl. Through no fault of her own, she is placed in a difficult position. I cannot give her a name, since her father sinned against her as he sinned in another way against me, but I can – through my daughter, who is guided by me – give her an income. It does not seem right that I should have all this money – "

"That your daughter should have all this money," interpolated Beecot.

"My daughter and I are one," replied Mrs. Krill, calmly; "when I speak for myself, I speak for her. But, as I say, it doesn't seem right we should be in affluence and Miss Norman in poverty. So I propose to allow her five hundred a year – on conditions. Will she accept, do you think, Mr. Beecot?"

"I should think her acceptance would depend upon the conditions."

"They are very simple," said Mrs. Krill in her deep tones, and looking very straightly at Paul. "She is to marry you and go to America."

Beecot's face did not change, since her hard eyes were on it. But he was puzzled under his mask of indifference. Why did this woman want Sylvia to marry him, and go into exile? He temporized. "With regard to your wish that Miss Norman should marry me," said he, quietly, "it is of course very good of you to interest yourself in the matter. I fail to understand your reason, however."

"Yet the reason is patent," rejoined Mrs. Krill, just as quietly and quite as watchful as before. "Sylvia Norman is a young girl without much character – "

"In that I disagree with you."

"Well, let us admit she has character, but she certainly has no experience. In the world, she is exposed to much trouble and, perhaps, may be, to temptation. Since her position is the fault of her father, and she is entirely innocent, I want her to have a happy life. For that reason I wish her to marry you."

Paul bowed, not believing a word of this philanthropic speech. "Again, I say it is good of you," said he with some irony; "but even were I out of the way, her nurse, Deborah Tawsey, would look after her. As matters stand, however, she will certainly become my wife as soon as we can afford a home."

"You can afford it to-morrow," said Mrs. Krill, eagerly, "if you will accept my offer."

"A home in America," said Paul, "and why?"

"I should think both of you would like to be away from a place where you have seen such a tragedy."

"Indeed." Paul committed himself to no opinion. "And, supposing we accept your offer, which I admit is a generous one, you suggest we should go to the States."

"Or to Canada, or Australia, or – in fact – you can go anywhere, so long as you leave England. I tell you, Mr. Beecot, even at the risk of hurting your feelings, that I want that girl away from London. My husband treated me very badly – he was a brute always – and I hate to have that girl before my eyes."

"Yet she is innocent."

"Have I not said that a dozen times," rejoined Mrs. Krill, impatiently. "What is the use of further discussion. Do you accept my offer?"

"I will convey it to Miss Norman. It is for her to decide."

"But you have the right since you are to be her husband."

"Pardon me, no. I would never take such a responsibility on me. I shall tell Miss Norman what you say, and convey her answer to you."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. But she was annoyed that her golden bait had not been taken immediately, and, in spite of her suavity, Paul could see that she was annoyed, the more so when she began to explain. "Of course you understand my feelings."

"I confess I don't quite. Naturally, the fact that you are connected with the murder in the public eyes – "

"Pardon me," said the woman, swiftly, "but I am not. The name of Krill has hardly been noticed. The public know that Aaron Norman was murdered. No one talks of Lemuel Krill, or thinks that I am the widow of the murdered man. Possibly I may come across some people who will connect the two names, and look askance at me, but the majority of people – such as Lord George there," she pointed with her fan, "do not think of me in the way you say. As he did, they will think they remember the name – "

"Lord George did not say that to you," said Paul, swiftly.

"No. But he did to Mr. Hay, who told me," rejoined Mrs. Krill, quite as swiftly.

"To-night?" asked Beecot, remembering that Hay had not spoken privately to Mrs. Krill since they came in from the dining-room.

"Oh, no – on another occasion. Lord George has several times said that he has a faint recollection of my name. Possibly the connection between me and the murder may occur to his mind, but he is really so very stupid that I hope he will forget all about the matter."

"I wonder you don't change your name," said Paul, looking at her.

"Certainly not, unless public opinion forces me to change it," she said defiantly. "My life has always been perfectly open and above board, not like that of my husband."

"Why did he change his name?" asked Beecot, eagerly – too eagerly, in fact, for she drew back.

"Why do you ask?" she inquired coldly.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "An idle question, Mrs. Krill. I have no wish to force your confidence."

"There is no forcing in the matter," responded the woman. "I have taken quite a fancy to you, Mr. Beecot, and you shall know what I do."

"Pray do not tell me if you would rather not."

"But I would rather," said Mrs. Krill, bluntly; "it will prevent your misconception of anything you may hear about us. My husband's real name was Lemuel Krill, and he married me thirty years ago. I will be frank with you and admit that neither of us were gentlefolks. We kept a public-house on the outskirts of Christchurch in Hants, called 'The Red Pig.'" She looked anxiously at him as she spoke.

"A strange name."

"Have you never heard of it before?"

"No. Had I heard the name it would have remained in my memory, from its oddity."

Paul might have been mistaken, but Mrs. Krill certainly seemed relieved. Yet if she had anything to conceal in connection with "The Red Pig," why should she have mentioned the name.

"It is not a first-class hotel," she went on smoothly, and again with her false smile. "We had only farm laborers and such like as customers. But the custom was good, and we did very well. Then my husband took to drink."

"In that respect he must have changed," said Paul, quickly, "for all the time I knew him – six months it was – I never saw him the worse for drink, and I certainly never heard from those who would be likely to know that he indulged in alcohol to excess. All the same," added Paul, with an after-thought of his conversation with Sylvia in the Embankment garden, "I fancied, from his pale face and shaking hands, and a tightness of the skin, that he might drink."

"Exactly. He did. He drank brandy in large quantities, and, strange to say, he never got drunk."

"What do you mean exactly?" asked Beecot, curiously.

"Well," said Mrs. Krill, biting the top of her fan and looking over it, "Lemuel – I'll call him by the old name – never grew red in the face, and even after years of drinking he never showed any signs of intemperance. Certainly his hands would shake at times, but I never noticed particularly the tightness of the skin you talk of."

"A certain shiny look," explained Paul.

"Quite so. I never noticed it. But he never got drunk so as to lose his head or his balance," went on Mrs. Krill; "but he became a demon."

"A demon?"

"Yes," said the woman, emphatically, "as a rule he was a timid, nervous, little man, like a frightened rabbit, and would not harm a fly. But drink, as you know, changes a nature to the contrary of what it actually is."

"I have heard that."

"You would have seen an example in Lemuel," she retorted. "When he drank brandy, he became a king, a sultan. From being timid he became bold; from not harming anyone he was capable of murder. Often in his fits did he lay violent hands on me. But I managed to escape. When sober, he would moan and apologize in a provokingly tearful manner. I hated and despised him," she went on, with flashing eyes, but careful to keep her voice from reaching the gamblers. "I was a fool to marry him. My father was a farmer, and I had a good education. I was attracted by the good looks of Lemuel, and ran away with him from my father's farm in Buckinghamshire."

"That's where Stowley is," murmured Paul.

"Stowley?" echoed Mrs. Krill, whose ears were very sharp. "Yes, I know that town. Why do you mention it?"

"The opal serpent brooch with which your husband's lips were fastened was pawned there."

"I remember," said Mrs. Krill, calmly. "Mr. Pash told me. It has never been found out how the brooch came to fasten the lips – so horrible it was," she shuddered.

"No. My father bought the brooch from the Stowley pawnbroker, and gave it to my mother, who sent it to me. When I had an accident, I lost it, but who picked it up I can't say."

"The assassin must have picked it up," declared Mrs. Krill, decisively, "else it would not have been used in that cruel way; though why such a brooch should have been used at all I can't understand. I suppose my husband did not tell you why he wanted to buy the brooch?"

"Who told you that he did?" asked Paul, quickly.

"Mr. Pash. He told me all about the matter, but not the reason why my husband wanted the brooch."

"Pash doesn't know," said Beecot, "nor do I. Your husband fainted when I first showed him the brooch, but I don't know why. He said nothing."