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HN JEAP 1
OPAL
SERPENT
BY FERGUS HUME


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Popular Detective Stories
by Fergus Hume
-
Claude Duval of '95
Coin of Edward VII, A
Disappearing Eye, The
Green Mummy, The
Lady Jim of Curzon Street
Mandarin's Fan, The
Mystery of a Hansom Cab, The
Mystery Queen, The
Opal Serpent, The
Pagan's Cup, The
Rainbow Feather, The
Red Money
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Sacred Herb, The
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NI
ON
LOA DON
“LOOK! LOOK !” CRIED SYLVIA, GASPING—“THE MOUTH!” – Page 80.
The Opal Serpent.
Frontispiece.


重​。
。


The Opal Serpent
By
Fergus Hume
U
W
.it Places
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER,"
" A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP,"
“THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE RED WINDOW,"
"THE MANDARIN'S FAN," ETC.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK


KD12600
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
COLLEGE
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.
Issued July, 1905.
THE OPAL SERPENT


CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON
.
II. DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA .
.
.
.
III. DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET
.
IV. THE UNFORESEEN
.
V. TROUBLE
.
.
.
.
.
.
·
VI. A NOISE IN THE NIGHT
·
·
68
VII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT
.
VIII. THE VERDICT OF THE JURY
•
.
91
IX. CASTLES IN THE AIR .
.
.
.
.
X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE .
.
.
.
.
. 115
. 126
XI. A CUCKOO IN THE NEST .
.
.
XII. THE NEW LIFE .
.
.
.
XIII. THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS ..
.
XIV. MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER
.
. 172
XV. A NEW CLUE .
XVI. SYLVIA'S THEORY
.
.
. .
...
.
.
...


Contents
CHAP.
PAGE
XVII. H
XVII. AURD'S INFORMATION
INFORMATION
.
.
.
.
XVIII. AT CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS
.
208
XIX. CAPTAIN JESSOP .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
XX. PART OF THE TRUTH
.
• 219
. 228
. 241
XXI. MISS QIAN'S PARTY.
.
·
.
241
XXII. FURTHER EVIDENCE ,
·
.
• 254
. 266
XXIII. WHAT PASH SAID
·
.
XXIV. MRS. KRILL AT BAY ..
·
.
XXV. A CRUEL WOMAN
·
.
• 278
• 291
. 306
XXVI. A FINAL EXPLANATION
.
.
.
.


The Opal Serpent
CHAPTER I
DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON
Simon Beecot was a country gentleman with a
small income, a small estate and a mind considerably
smaller than either. He dwelt at Wargrove in Essex
and spent his idle hours—of which he possessed a
daily and nightly twenty-four—in snarling at his faded
wife and in snapping between whiles at his son. Mrs.
Beecot, having been bullied into old age long before
her time, accepted sour looks and hard words as
necessary to God's providence, but Paul, a fiery youth,
resented useless nagging. He owned more brain-
power than his progenitor, and to this favoring of
Nature paterfamilias naturally objected. Paul also
desired fame, which was likewise a crime in the fire-
side tyrant's eyes.
As there were no other children Paul was heir
to the Beecot acres, therefore their present pro-
prietor suggested that his son should wait with
idle hands for the falling in of the heritage. In plain
words, Mr. Beecot, coming of a long line of middle-
class loafers, wished his son to be a loafer also.
Again, when Mrs. Beecot retired to a tearful rest, her
bully found Paul a useful person on whom to expend
his spleen. Should this whipping-boy leave, Mr.
Beecot would have to forego this enjoyment, as ser-
vants object to being sworn at without cause. For


The Opal Serpent
years Mr. Beecot indulged in bouts of bad temper,
till Paul, finding twenty-five too dignified an age to
tolerate abuse, announced his intention of storming
London as a scribbler.
The parents objected in detail, Mrs. Beecot, after
her kind, dissolved in tears, and made reference to
young birds leaving the nest, while her husband,
puffed out like a frog, and redder than the wattles
of a turkey-cock, exhausted himself in well-chosen
expressions. Paul increased the use of these by fix-
ing a day for his departure. The female Beecot re-
tired to bed with the assistance of a maid, burnt
feathers and sal volatile, and the male, as a last and
clinching argument, figuratively buttoned up his
pockets.
"Not one shilling will you get from me," said
Beecot senior, with the graceful addition of vigorous
adjectives.
"I don't ask for money," said Paul, keeping his
temper, for after all the turkey-cock was his father.
"I have saved fifty pounds. Not out of my pocket-
money," he added hastily, seeing furthur objections
on the way. "I earned it by writing short stories."
“ The confounded mercantile instinct," snorted pater-
familias, only he used stronger words. "Your mother's
uncle was in trade. Thank Heaven none of my peo-
ple ever used hands or brains. The Beecots lived like
gentlemen."
"I should say like cabbages from your description,
father."
"No insolence, sir. How dare you disgrace your
family? Writing tales indeed! Rubbish I expect "
(here several adjectives). "And you took money I'll
be bound, eh! eh!"
"I have just informed you that I took all I could
get," said Beecot junior, quietly. “ I'll live in Town
on my savings. When I make a name and a fortune
I'll return."


Don Quixote in London
“Never! never!" gobbled the turkey-cock. "If
you descend to the gutter you can wallow there.
I'll cut you out of my will."
“ Very good, sir, that's settled. Let us change the
subject."
But the old gentleman was too high-spirited to
leave well alone. He demanded to know if Paul
knew to whom he was talking, inquired if he had
read the Bible touching the duties of children to
their parents, instanced the fact that Paul's dear
mother would probably pine away and die, and ended
with a pathetic reference to losing the prop of his
old age. Paul listened respectfully and held to his
own opinion. In defence of the same he replied in
detail,
"I am aware that I talk to my father, sir," said he,
with spirit; “ you never allow me to forget that fact.
If another man spoke to me as you do I should prob-
ably break his head. I have read the Bible, and find
therein that parents owe a duty to their children,
which certainly does not include being abused like
a pick-pocket. My mother will not pine away if you
will leave her alone for at least three hours a day.
And as to my being the prop of your old age, your
vigor of language assures me that you are strong
enough to stand alone."
Paterfamilias, never bearded before, hastily drank
a glass of port—the two were enjoying the usual
pleasant family meal when the conversation took
place and said—but it is useless to detail his
remarks. They were all sound and no sense. In
justice to himself, and out of pity for his father, Paul
cut short the scene by leaving the room with his
determination unchanged. Mr. Beecot thereupon re-
tired to bed, and lectured his wife on the enormity
of having brought a parricide into the world. Hav-
ing been countered for once in his life with common-
sense, he felt that he could not put the matter too


The Opal Serpent
strongly to a woman, who was too weak to resent his
bullying.
Early next day the cause of the commotion, not
having swerved a hair's-breadth from the path he had
marked out, took leave of his mother, and a formal
farewell of the gentleman who described himself as
the best of fathers. Beecot senior, turkey-cock and
tyrant, was more subdued now that he found bluster
would not carry his point. But the wave of common-
sense came too late. Paul departed bag and baggage,
and his sire swore to the empty air. Even Mrs. Beecot
was not available, as she had fainted.
Once Paul was fairly out of the house pater-
familias announced that the glory of Israel had
departed, removed his son's photograph from the
drawing-room, and considered which of the relatives
he had quarrelled with he should adopt. Privately,
he thought he had been a trifle hard on the lad, and
but for his obstinacy—which he called firmness—he
would have recalled the prodigal. But that enter-
prising adventurer was beyond hearing, and had
left no address behind him. Beecot, the bully, was
not a bad old boy if only he had been firmly dealt
with, so he acknowledged that Paul had a fine spirit
of his own, inherited from himself, and prophesied
incorrectly. "He'll come back when the fifty pounds
is exhausted," said he in a kind of dejected rage,
"and when he does—" A clenched fist shaken at
nothing terminated the speech and showed that the
leopard could not change his spots.
So Paul Beecot repaired to London, and after the
orthodox fashion began to cultivate the Muses on a
little oatmeal by renting a Bloomsbury garret.
There he wrote reams on all subjects and in all
styles, and for six months assiduously haunted
publishers' doors with varying fortunes. Sometimes
he came away with a cheque, but more often with a
bulky manuscript bulging his pocket. When tired
10


Don Quixote in London
of setting down imaginary woes he had time to
think of his own; but being a cheerful youth, with
an indomitable spirit, he banished trouble by in-
teresting himself in the cheap world. By this is
meant the world which costs no money to view—the
world of the street. Here he witnessed the drama of
humanity from morning till night, and from sunset
till dawn, and on the whole witnessed very good
acting. The poorer parts in the human comedy
were particularly well played, and starving folks
were quite dramatic in their demands for food.
Notebook in hand, Paul witnessed spectacular
shows in the West End, grotesque farces in the
Strand, melodrama in Whitechapel and tragedy on
Waterloo Bridge at midnight. Indeed, he quite
spoiled the effect of a sensation scene by tugging at
the skirts of a starving heroine who wished to take
a river journey into the next world. But for the
most part, he remained a spectator and plagiarised
from real life.
Shortly, the great manager of the Universal
Theatre enlisted Paul as an actor, and he assumed
the double role of an unappreciated author and a
sighing lover. In the first capacity he had in his
desk ten short stories, a couple of novels, three
dramas and a sheaf of doubtful verses. These failed
to appeal to editor, manager or publisher, and their
author found himself reduced to his last five-pound
note. Then the foolish, ardent lad must needs fall
in love. Who his divinity was, what she was, and
why she should be divinised, can be gathered from a
conversation her worshipper held with an old school-
fellow.
It was in Oxford Street at five o'clock on a June
afternoon that Paul met Grexon Hay. Turning the
corner of the street leading to his Bloomsbury attic,
the author was tapped on the shoulder by a
resplendent Bond Street being. That is, the said
II


The Opal Serpent
being wore a perfectly-fitting frock-coat, a silk hat,
trousers with the regulation fold back and front, an
orchid buttonhole, grey gloves, boots that glittered,
and carried a gold-topped cane. The fact that Paul
wheeled without wincing showed that he was not
yet in debt. Your Grub Street old-time author
would have leaped his own length at the touch.
But Paul, with a clean conscience, turned slowly, and
gazed without recognition into the clean-shaven,
calm, cold face that confronted his inquiring eyes.
“ Beecot!" said the newcomer, taking rapid stock
of Paul's shabby serge suit and worn looks. "I
thought I was right."
The voice, if not the face, awoke old memories.
"Hay—Grexon Hay!" cried the struggling genius.
“ Well, I am glad to see you," and he shook hands
with the frank grip of an honest man.
"And I you." Hay drew his friend up the side
street and out of the human tide which deluged the
pavement. "But you seem—"
"It's a long story," interrupted Paul flushing.
“ Come to my castle and I'll tell you all about it, old
boy. You'll stay to supper, won't you? See here”-
Paul displayed a parcel—“a pound of sausages. You
loved 'em at school, and I'm a superfine cook."
Grexon Hay always used expression and word to
hide his feelings. But with Paul—whom he had
always considered a generous ass at Torrington
school—a trifle of self-betrayal didn't matter much.
Beecot was too dense, and, it may be added, too
honest to turn any opportunity to advantage. "It's
a most surprising thing," said Hay, in his calm way,
"really a most surprising thing, that a Torrington
public school boy, my friend, and the son of wealthy
parents, should be buying sausages."
"Come now," said Paul, with great spirit and tow-
ing Hay homeward, "I haven't asked you for
money."
12


Don Quixote in London
“ If you do you shall have it," said Hay, but the
offer was not so generous a one as would appear.
That was Hay all over. He always said what he
did not mean, and knew well that Beecot's uneasy
pride shied at loans however small.
* Paul, the unsophisticated, took the shadow of
generosity for its substance, and his dark face lighted
up. "You're a brick, Hay," he declared, “but I don't
want money. No!"—this in reply to an eloquent
glance from the well-to-do—"I have sufficient for
my needs, and besides," with a look at the resplendent
dress of the fashion-plate dandy, "I don't glitter in
the West End."
"Which hints that those who do, are rich," said
Grexon, with an arctic smile. "Wrong, Beecot. I'm
poor. Only paupers can afford to dress well."
"In that case I must be a millionaire," laughed
Beecot, glancing downward at his well-worn garb.
"But mount these stairs; we have much to say to one
another."
"Much that is pleasant," said the courtly
Grexon.
Paul shrugged his square shoulders and stepped
heavenward. "On your part, I hope," he sang back;
“ certainly not on mine. Come to Poverty Castle,"
and the fashionable visitor found his host lighting
the fire in an apartment such as he had read about
but had never seen.
It was quite the proper garret for starving genius—
small, bleak, bare, but scrupulously clean. The floor
was partially covered with scraps of old carpet,
faded and worn; the walls were entirely papered
with pictures from illustrated journals. One window,
revealing endless rows of dingy chimney-pots, was
draped with shabby rep curtains of a dull red. In
one corner, behind an Indian screen, stood a narrow
camp bedstead, covered with a gaudy Eastern shawl,
and also a large tin bath, with a can of water beside
13


The Opal Serpent
it. Against the wall leaned a clumsy deal bookcase
filled with volumes well-thumbed and in old
bindings. On one side of the tiny fireplace was a
horse-hair sofa, rendered less slippery by an
expensive fur rug thrown over its bareness; on the
other was a cupboard, whence Beecot rapidly
produced crockery, knives, forks, a cruet, napkins
and other table accessories, all of the cheapest
description. A deal table in the centre of the room,
an antique mahogany desk, heaped high with papers,
under the window, completed the furnishing of Pov-
erty Castle. And it was up four flights of stairs like
that celebrated attic in Thackeray's poem.
"As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on
Beecot, deftly frying the sausages, after placing his
visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soon be ready.
I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. House-
maid too. Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly
round the ill-furnished room. "I'd dismiss myself if
it wasn't."
"But—but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and
surveying things through an eye-glass. "What are
you doing here?"
“ Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's
ladder."
"But I don't quite see—"
"Read Balzac's life and you will. His people
gave him an attic and a starvation allowance in the
hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance, my
pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and
here's my starvation"— Paul gaily popped the
frizzling sausages on a chipped hot plate—“and
here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist,
dramatist, and what not—to say nothing of why
not? Mustard, there you are. Wait a bit. I'll brew
you tea or cocoa."
"I never take those things with meals, Beecot.”
“ Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more
14
:


Don Quixote in London
usage.
in your line. I say, Grexon, what are you doing
now?"
"What other West-End men do," said Grexon,
attacking a sausage.
"That means nothing. Well, you never did work
at Torrington, so how can I expect the leopard to
change his saucy spots."
Hay laughed, and, during the meal, explained his
position. "On leaving school I was adopted by
a rich uncle," he said. "When he went the way
of all flesh he left me a thousand a year, which is
enough to live on with strict economy. I have
rooms in Alexander Street, Camden Hill, a circle
of friends, and a good appetite, as you will per-
ceive. With these I get through life very comfort-
ably."
"Ha!" said Paul, darting a keen glance at his
visitor, "you have the strong digestion necessary
to happiness. Have you the hard heart also ? If I
remember at school"
"Oh, hang school!" said Grexon, flushing all over
his cold face. "I never think of school. I was
glad when I got away from it. But we were great
friends at school, Paul."
“ Something after the style of Steerforth and David
Copperfield," was Paul's reply as he pushed back his
plate; “ you were my hero, and I was your slave.
But the other boys—" He looked again.
"They hated me, because they did not understand
me, as you did."
"If that is so, Grexon, why did you let me slip
out of your life? It is ten years since we parted. I
was fifteen and you twenty."
"Which now makes us twenty-five and thirty respect-
ively," said Hay, dryly; " you left school before I did."
"Yes; I had scarlet fever, and was taken home to
be nursed. I never went back, and since then I have
never met an old Torrington boy—"
15


The Opal Serpent
“Have you not?" asked Hay, eagerly.
“ No. My parents took me abroad, and I sampled
a German university. I returned to idle about my
father's place, till I grew sick of doing nothing,
and, having ambitions, I came to try my luck in
town." He looked round and laughed. "You see my
luck."
"Well," said Hay, lighting a dainty cigarette
produced from a gold case, "my uncle, who died,
sent me to Oxford and then I travelled. I am now
on my own, as I told you, and haven't a relative in
the world."
"Why don't you marry?" asked Paul, with a
flush.
Hay, wary man-about-town as he was, noted the
flush, and guessed its cause. He could put two and
two together as well as most people.
"I might ask you the same question," said he.
The two friends looked at one another, and each
thought of the difference in his companion since the
old school-days. Hay was clean-shaven, fair-haired,
and calm, almost icy, in manner. His eyes were blue
and cold. No one could tell what was passing in his
mind from the expression of his face. As a matter
of fact he usually wore a mask, but at the present
moment, better feelings having the upper hand, the
mask had slipped a trifle. But as a rule he kept
command of expression, and words, and actions.
An admirable example of self-control was Grexon
Hay.
On the other hand, Beecot was slight, tall and
dark, with an eager manner and a face which revealed
his thoughts. His complexion was swart; he had
large black eyes, a sensitive mouth, and a small
moustache smartly twisted upward. He carried his
head well, and looked rather military in appearance,
probably because many of his forebears had been
Army men. While Hay was smartly dressed in a
dark, with an. His compositive mouth, le carried
16


Don Quixote in London
" and yet do youyes open, the flush only. You
Bond Street kit, Paul wore a well-cut, shabby blue
serge. He looked perfectly well-bred, but his clothes
were woefully threadbare.
From these and the garret and the lean meal of
sausages Hay drew his conclusions and put them into
words.
"Your father has cut you off," said he, calmly,
"and yet you propose to marry."
"How do you know both things?"
"I keep my eyes open, Paul. I see this attic and
your clothes. I saw also the flush on your face when
you asked me why I did not marry. You are in
love?"
"I am," said Beecot, becoming scarlet, and throw-
ing back his head. "It is clever of you to guess it.
Prophesy more."
Hay smiled in a cold way. "I prophesy that if
you marry on nothing you will be miserable. But
of course," he looked sharply at his open-faced friend,
"the lady may be rich."
“ She is the daughter of a second-hand bookseller
called Norman, and I believe he combines selling books
with pawnbroking."
"Hum," said Hay, "he might make money out
of the last occupation. Is he a Jew by any
chance?"
"No. He is a miserable-looking, one-eyed Christian,
with the manner of a frightened rabbit."
"One-eyed and frightened," repeated Hay, mus-
ingly, but without change of expression; " desirable
father-in-law. And the daughter?"
“ Sylvia. She is an angel, a white lily, a—".
“Of course," said Grexon, cutting short these
rhapsodies. "And what do you intend to marry
on?"
Beecot fished a shabby blue velvet case out of his
pocket. "On my last five pounds and this," he said,
opening the case.


The Opal Serpent
Hay looked at the contents of the case, and
saw a rather large brooch made in the form of a
jewelled serpent. "Opals, diamonds and gold,"
he said slowly, then looked up eagerly. "Sell it
to me."


CHAPTER II
DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA
Number forty-five Gwynne Street was a second-
hand bookshop, and much of the stock was almost as
old as the building itself. A weather-stained board
of faded blue bore in tarnished gold lettering the
name of its owner, and under this were two broad
windows divided by a squat door, open on week-days
from eight in the morning until eight at night.
Within the shop was dark and had a musty
odor.
On either side of the quaint old house was a
butcher's and a baker's, flaunting places of business,
raw in their newness. Between the first-named
establishment and the bookshop a low, narrow
passage led to a small backyard and to a flight of
slimy steps, down which clients who did not wish to
be seen could arrive at a kind of cellar to transact
business with Mr. Norman.
This individual combined two distinct trades. On
the ground floor he sold second-hand books; in the
cellar he bought jewels and gave money on the same
to needy people. In the shop, pale youths, untidy,
abstracted old men, spectacled girls, and all varieties
of the pundit caste were to be seen poring over
ancient volumes or exchanging words with the pro-
prietor. But to the cellar came fast young men, aged
spendthrifts, women of no reputation and some who
were very respectable indeed. These usually came
at night, and in the cellar transactions would take


The Opal Serpent
place which involved much money exchanging hands.
In the daytime Mr. Norman was an innocent book-
seller, but after seven he retired to the cellar and
became as genuine a pawnbroker as could be found
in London. Touching books he was easy enough to
deal with, but a Shylock as regards jewels and money
lent. With his bookish clients he passed for a dull
shopkeeper who knew little about literature; but in
the underground establishment he was spoken of,
by those who came to pawn, as a usurer of the
worst. In an underhand way he did a deal of
business.
Aaron Norman—such was the name over the shop
—looked like a man with a pasta miserable past,
for in his one melancholy eye and twitching, nervous
mouth could be read sorrow and apprehension.
His face was pale, and he had an odd habit of glanc-
ing over his left shoulder, as though he expected to
be tapped thereon by a police officer. Sixty years
had rounded his shoulders and weakened his back,
so that his one eye was almost constantly on the
ground. Suffering had scored marks on his forehead
and weary lines round his thin-lipped mouth. When
he spoke he did so in a low, hesitating voice, and
when he looked up, which was seldom, his eye re-
vealed a hunted look like that of a wearied beast fear-
ful lest it should be dragged from its lair.
It was this strange-looking man that Paul Beecot
encountered in the doorway of the Gwynne Street
shop the day after his meeting with Hay. Many a
visit had Paul paid to that shop, and not always to
buy books. Norman knew him very well, and,
recognizing him in a fleeting look as he passed
through the doorway, smiled weakly. Behind
the counter stood Bart Tawsey, the lean under-
ling, who was much sharper with buyers than
was his master, but after a disappointed glance in
his direction Paul addressed himself to the book-
20


Deborah Junk, Duenna
seller. "I wish to see you particularly," he said, with
his eager air.
"I am going out on important business," said Nor-
man, “but if you will not be very long"
"It's about a brooch I wish to pawn."
The old man's mouth became hard and his eyes
sharper. "I can't attend to that now, Mr. Beecot,"
he said, and his voice rang out louder than usual.
“ After seven."
"It's only six now," said Paul, looking over his
shoulder at a church clock which could be seen clearly
in the pale summer twilight. "I can't wait."
"Well, then, as you are an old customer—of books,"
said Aaron, with emphasis, “I'll stretch a point. You
can go below at a quarter to seven, and I'll come round
through the outside passage to see you. Meantime, I
must go about my business," and he went away with
his head hanging and his solitary eye searching the
ground as usual.
Paul, in spite of his supposed hurry, was not ill-
pleased that Aaron had gone out and that there was
an idle hour before him. He stepped lightly into
the shop, and, under the flaring gas—which was
lighted, so dark was the interior of the shop in spite
of the luminous gloaming—he encountered the
smile of Barty. Paul, who was sensitive and proudly
reticent, grew red. He knew well enough that his
apparent admiration of Sylvia Norman had attracted
the notice of Bart and of the red-armed wench,
Deborah Junk, who was the factotum of the house-
hold. Not that he minded, for both these servants
were devoted to Sylvia, and knowing that she returned
the feelings of Paul said nothing about the position
to Aaron. Beecot could not afford to make enemies
of the pair, and had no wish to do so. They were
coarse-grained and common, but loyal and kindly of
heart.
“ Got any new books, Bart?" asked Beecot, coming
21


Deborah Junk, Duenna
would have replied, but at this moment a large, red-
faced, ponderous woman dashed into the shop from
a side door. “ There," said she, clapping her hands
in a childish way, "I know'd his vice, an' I ses to
Miss Sylvia, as is sittin' doing needlework, which
she do do lovely, I ses 'That's him,' and she ses, with
a lovely color, 'Oh, Deborah, jus' see, fur m'eart's
abeating too loud for me t’ear 'is vice.' So I
ses
"
Here she became breathless and clapped her
hands again, so as to prevent interruption. But
Paul did interrupt her, knowing from experience
that when once set going Deborah would go on
until pulled up. "Can't I go up to Miss Norman?"
he asked.
"You may murder me, and slay me, and trample
on my corp," said Deborah, solemnly, "but go up
you can't. Master would send me to walk the
streets if I dared to let you, innocent as you are, go
up them stairs."
Paul knew long ago how prejudiced the old man
was in this respect. During all the six months he
had known Sylvia he had never been permitted to
mount the stairs in question. It was strange that
Aaron should be so particular on this point, but con-
necting it with his downcast eye and frightened air,
Paul concluded, though without much reason, that the
old man had something to conceal. More, that he was
frightened of someone. However, he did not argue
the point, but suggested a meeting-place. "Can't I
see her in the cellar?" he asked. "Mr. Norman said
I could go down to wait for him."
"Sir," said Deborah, plunging forward a step, like
a stumbling 'bus horse,“ don't tell me as you want
to pawn."
"Well, I do," replied Paul, softly, “but you needn't
tell everyone."
“ It's only Bart," cried Deborah, casting a fierce
23


The Opal Serpent
look in the direction of the slim, sharp-faced young
man, "and if he was to talk I'd take his tongue out.
That I would. I'm a-training him to be my husband,
as I don't hold with the ready-made article, and mar-
ried he shall be, by parsing and clark if he's a good
boy and don't talk of what don't matter to him."
"I ain't goin' to chatter," said Bart, with a
wink. “ Lor' bless you, sir, I've seen gentlemen as
noble as yourself pawning things down there "—he
nodded again towards the floor-“ah, and ladies too,
but—"
"Hold your tongue," cried Deborah, pitching her-
self across the floor like a ship in distress. "Your
a-talking now of what you ain't a right to be a-
talkin' of, drat you. Come this way, Mr. Beecot, to
the place where old Nick have his home, for that he
is when seven strikes."
"You shouldn't speak of your master in that way,"
protested Paul.
"Oh, shouldn't I," snorted the maid, with a snort
surprisingly loud. "And who have a better right,
sir? I've been here twenty year as servant and nuss
and friend and 'umble well-wisher to Miss Sylvia,
coming a slip of a girl at ten, which makes me thirty,
I don't deny; not that it's too old to marry Bart,
though he's but twenty, and makes up in wickedness
for twice that age. I know master, and when the sun's
up there ain't a better man living, but turn on the
gas and he's an old Nick. Bart, attend to your busi-
ness and don't open them long ears of yours too wide.
I won't have a listening husband, I can tell you. This
way, sir. Mind the steps." .
By this time Deborah had convoyed Paul to a
dark corner behind the counter and jerked back a trap
door. Here he saw a flight of wooden steps which led
downwards into darkness. But Miss Junk snatched
up a lantern on the top step, and having lighted it
dropped down, holding it above her red and touzelled
downwardre he saw the counted convoyed ,
24


Deborah Junk, Duenna
head. Far below her voice was heard crying to Bee-
cot to “ Come on”; therefore he followed as quickly
as he could, and soon found himself in the cellar. All
around was dark, but Deborah lighted a couple of flar-
ing gas-jets, and then turned, with her arms akimbo,
on the visitor.
"Now then, sir, you and me must have a talk,
confidential like," said she in her breathless way.
" It's pawning is it? By which I knows that you
ain't brought that overbearing pa of yours to his
knees."
Paul sat down in a clumsy mahogany chair, which
stood near a plain deal table, and stared at the hand-
maiden. "I never told you about my father," he said,
exhibiting surprise.
"Oh, no, of course not ”-Miss Junk tossed her
head—“me being a babe an' a suckling, not fit to be
told anything. But you told Miss Sylvia and she
told me, as she tells everything to her Debby, God
bless her for a pretty flower!" She pointed a coarse,
red finger at Paul. "If you were a gay deceiver, Mr.
Beecot, I'd trample on your corp this very minute if
I was to die at Old Bailey for the doing of it."
Seeing Deborah was breathless again, Paul seized
his chance." There is no reason you shouldn't know
all about me, and"
"No, indeed, I should think not, begging your
pardon, sir. But when you comes here six months
back, I ses to Miss Sylvia, I ses, 'He's making eyes
at you, my lily,' and she ses to me, she says, 'Oh,
Debby, I love him, that I do. And then I ses, ses
I, 'My pretty, he looks a gent born and bred, but
that's the wust kind, so we'll find out if he's a liar
before you loses your dear heart to him.'"
"But I'm not a liar—" began Paul, only to be cut
short again.
"As well I knows," burst out Miss Junk, her
arms akimbo again. "Do you think, sir, as I'd ha'
25


The Opal Serpent
let you come loving my pretty one and me not
knowing if you was Judas or Jezebel? Not me, if I
never drank my nightly drop of beer again. What
you told Miss Sylvia of your frantic pa and your
loving ma she told me. Pumping you may call it,"
shouted Deborah, emphasising again with the red
finger, "but everything you told in your lover way
she told her old silly Debby. I ses to Bart, if you
loves me, Bart, go down to Wargrove, wherever it
may be—if in England, which I doubt—and if he—
meaning you—don't tell the truth, out he goes if I
have the chucking of him myself and a police-court
summings over it. So Bart goes to Wargrove, and
he find out that you speaks true, which means that
you're a gent, sir, if ever there was one, in spite of
your frantic pa, so I hopes as you'll marry my
flower, and make her happy—bless you," and De-
borah spread a large pair of mottled arms over Paul's
head.
" It's all true," said he, good-naturedly; " my father
and I don't get on well together, and I came to make
a name in London. But for all you know, Deborah,
I may be a scamp."
"That you are not," she burst out. “ Why, Bart's
been follerin' you everywhere, and he and me, which
is to be his lawful wife and master, knows all about
you and that there place in Bloomsbury, and where
you go and where you don't go. And let me tell you,
sir," again she lifted her finger threateningly, "if you
wasn't what you oughter be, never would you see my
pretty one again. No, not if I had to wash the floor
in your blue blood—for blue it is, if what Bart learned
was true of them stone figgers in the church," and she
gasped.
Paul was silent for a few minutes, looking at the
floor. He wondered that he had not guessed all this.
Often it had seemed strange to him that so faithful
and devoted a couple of retainers as Bart and
26


Deborah Junk, Duenna
Deborah Junk should favor his wooing of Sylvia
and keep it from their master, seeing that they knew
nothing about him. But from the woman's story—
which he saw no reason to disbelieve the two had
not rested until they had been convinced of his
respectability and of the truth of his story. Thus
they had permitted the wooing to continue, and Paul
privately applauded them for their tact in so making
sure of him without committing themselves to open
speech. “ All the same," he said aloud, and following
his own thoughts, "it's strange that you should wish
her to marry me."
Miss Junk made a queer answer. "I'm glad
enough to see her marry anyone respectable, let alone
a gent, as you truly are, with stone figgers in churches
and a handsome face, though rather dark for my
liking. Mr. Beecot, twenty year ago, a slip of ten,
I come to nuss the baby as was my loving angel
upstairs, and her ma had just passed away to jine
them as lives overhead playing harps. All these
years I've never heard a young step on them stairs,
save Miss Sylvia's and Bart's, him having come
five years ago, and a brat he was. And would you
believe it, Mr. Beecot, I know no more of the old
man than you do. He's queer, and he's wrong
altogether, and that frightened of being alone in the
dark as you could make him a corp with a turnip
lantern."
"What is he afraid of?"
"Ah," said Deborah, significantly, "what indeed?
It may be police and it may be ghosts, but, ghosts or
police, he never ses what he oughter say if he's a
respectable man, which I sadly fear he ain't."
"He may have his reasons to—"
Miss Junk tossed her head and snorted again
loudly. "Oh, yes—he has his reasons," she admitted,
"and Old Bailey ones they are, I dessay. But
there's somethin' 'anging over his head. Don't ask
27


The Opal Serpent
me what it is, fur never shall you know, by reason of
my being ignorant. But whatever it is, Mr. Beecot,
it's something wicked, and shall I see my own pretty
in trouble?"
"How do you know there will be trouble? ” inter-
rupted Paul, anxiously.
" I've heard him pray," said Miss Junk, mysteriously
—"yes, you may look, for there ain't no prayer in the
crafty eye of him—but pray he do, and asks to be
kept from danger—"
"Danger?"
"Danger's the word, for I won't deceive you, no,
not if you paid me better wages than the old man do
give and he's as near as the paring of an inion. So
I ses to Bart, if there's danger and trouble and Old
Baileys about, the sooner Miss Sylvia have some dear
man to give her a decent name and pertect her the
more happy old Deborah will be. So I looked and
looked for what you might call a fairy prince as I've
heard tell of in pantomimes, and when you comes she
loses her heart to you. So I ses, find out, Bart, what
he is, and—"
“ Yes, yes, I see. Well, Deborah, you can depend
upon my looking after your pretty mistress. If I were
only reconciled with my father I would speak to Mr.
Norman."
"Don't, sir—don't!" cried the woman, fiercely, and
making a clutch at Paul's arm; “ he'll turn you out,
he will, not being anxious fur anyone to have my
flower, though love her as he oughter do, he don't,
no," cried Deborah, "nor her ma before her, who
died with a starvin' 'eart. But you run away with
my sweetest and make her your own, though her pa
swears thunderbolts as you may say. Take her from
this place of wickedness and police-courts." And
Deborah looked round the cellar with a shudder.
Suddenly she started and held up her finger, nodding
towards a narrow door at the side of the cellar.
28


Deborah Junk, Duenna
“ Master's footstep," she said in a harsh whisper.
"I'd know it in a thousand- just like a thief's, ain't
it?—stealing as you might say. Don't tell him you've
seen me."
"But Sylvia," cried Paul, catching her dress as she
passed him.
"Her you'll see, if I die for it," said Deborah, and
whirled up the wooden steps in a silent manner sur-
prising in so noisy a woman. Paul heard the trap-door
drop with a stealthy creak.
As a key grated in the lock of the outside door
he glanced round the place to which he had pene-
trated for the first time. It was of the same size
as the shop overhead, but the walls were of stone,
green with slime and feathery with a kind of ghastly
white fungus. Overhead, from the wooden roof, which
formed the floor of the shop, hung innumerable spi-
der's webs thick with dust. The floor was of large
flags cracked in many places, and between the chinks
in moist corners sprouted sparse, colorless grass.
In the centre was a deal table, scored with queer
marks and splotched with ink. Over this flared
two gas-jets, which whistled shrilly. Against the
wall, which was below the street, were three green
painted safes fast locked: but the opposite wall had
in it the narrow door aforesaid, and a wide grated
window, the bars of which were rusty, though strong.
The atmosphere of the place was cold and musty and
suggestive of a charnel house. Certainly a strange
place in which to transact business, but everything
about Aaron Norman was strange.
And he looked strange himself as he stepped in at
the open door. Beyond, Paul could see the shallow
flight of damp steps leading to the yard and the
passage which gave admission from the street.
Norman locked the door and came forward. He
was as white as a sheet, and his face was thickly
beaded with perspiration. His mouth twitched more
29


Deborah Junk, Duenna
his downcast looks, "I shall do what I can. Let me
see it."
He stretched out his hand and took the case.
Slowly opening it under the gas, he inspected its
contents. Suddenly he gave a cry of alarm, and the
case fell to the floor. "The Opal Serpent!—The Opal
Serpent!" he cried, growing purple in the face,“ keep
off !—keep off !" He beat the air with his lean hands.
"Oh—the Opal!" and he fell face downward on the
slimy floor in a fit or a faint, but certainly uncon-
scious.


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
It was strange that the sight of the brooch should
have produced such an effect on Aaron, and his faint-
ing confirmed Paul's suspicions that the old man had
not a clean conscience. But what the serpent brooch
had to do with the matter Beecot could not con-
jecture. It was certainly an odd piece of jewellery,
and not particularly pretty, but that the merest
glimpse of it should make Norman faint was puzzling
in the extreme.
" Apparently it is associated with something dis-
agreeable in the man's mind," soliloquised Paul, pac-
ing the pavement and keeping a sharp lookout for
Sylvia, “ perhaps with death, else the effect would
scarcely have been so powerful as to produce a faint-
ing fit. Yet Aaron can't know my mother. Hum!
I wonder what it means."
While he was trying to solve the mystery a light
touch on his arm made him wheel round, and he
beheld Sylvia smiling at him. While he was looking
along the Embankment for her coming she had
slipped down Norfolk Street and through the gar-
dens, to where the wrestlers clutched at empty air.
In her low voice, which was the sweetest of all sounds
to Paul, she explained this, looking into his dark eyes
meanwhile. "But I can't stay long," finished Sylvia.
"My father is still ill, and he wants me to return and
nurse him."
"Has he explained why he fainted?" asked. Paul,
anxiously.
"No; he refuses to speak on the matter. Why did
he faint, Paul?"
The young man looked puzzled. "Upon my word
I don't know," he said. “ Just as I was showing him
a brooch I wished to pawn he went off."
"What kind of a brooch?" asked the girl, also
perplexed.
Paul took the case out of his breast pocket, where
it had been since the previous day. "My mother
33


The Opal Serpent
sent it to me," he explained; " you see she guesses
that I am hard up, and, thanks to my father, she
can't send me money. This piece of jewellery she
has had for many years, but as it is rather old-
fashioned she never wears it. So she sent it to me,
hoping that I might get ten pounds or so on it. A
friend of mine wished to buy it, but I was anxious to
get it back again, so that I might return it to my
mother. Therefore I thought your father might lend
me money on it."
Sylvia examined the brooch with great attention.
It was evidently of Indian workmanship, delicately
chased, and thickly set with jewels. The serpent,
which was apparently wriggling across the stout gold
pin of the brooch, had its broad back studded with
opals, large in the centre of the body and small at head
and tail. These were set round with tiny diamonds,
and the head was of chased gold with a ruby tongue.
Sylvia admired the workmanship and the jewels, and
turned the brooch over. On the flat smooth gold
underneath she found the initial "R" scratched with
a pin. This she showed to Paul. "I expect your
mother made this mark to identify the brooch," she
said.
"My mother's name is Anne," replied Paul, look-
ing more puzzled than ever, “ Anne Beecot. Why
should she mark this with an initial which has nothing
to do with her name?"
“ Perhaps it is a present," suggested Sylvia.
Paul snapped the case to, and replaced it in his
pocket. "Perhaps it is," he said. "However, when I
next write to my mother I'll ask her where she got
the brooch. She has had it for many years," he added
musingly, "for I remember playing with it when a
small boy."
"Don't tell your mother that my father fainted.”
“ Why not? Does it matter?"
Sylvia folded her slender hands and looked straight
- 34


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
in front of her. For some time they had been seated
on a bench in a retired part of the gardens, and the
laughter of playing children, the music of the band
playing the merriest airs from the last musical com-
edy, came faintly to their ears. "I think it does mat-
ter," said the girl, seriously; "for some reason my
father wants to keep himself as quiet as possible. He
talks of going away."
"Going away. Oh, Sylvia, and you never told
me."
and wish z an event the It seemed store
“He only spoke of going away when I came to
see how he was this morning," she replied. "I
wonder if his fainting has anything to do with this
determination. He never talked of going away be-
fore."
Paul wondered also. It seemed strange that after
so unusual an event the old man should turn restless
and wish to leave a place where he had lived for over
twenty years. "I'll come and have an explanation,"
said Paul, after a pause.
"I think that will be best, dear. Father said that
he would like to see you again, and told Bart to bring
you in if he saw you."
" I'll call to-day—this afternoon, and perhaps your
father will explain. And now, Sylvia, that is enough
about other people and other things. Let us talk of
ourselves."
Sylvia turned her face with a fond smile. She was
a delicate and dainty little lady, with large grey eyes
and soft brown hair. Her complexion was trans-
parent, and she had little color in her cheeks.
With her oval face, her thin nose and charming
mouth she looked very pretty and sweet. But it
was her expression that Paul loved. That was a
trifle sad, but when she smiled her looks changed as
an overcast sky changes when the sun bursts through
the clouds. Her figure was perfect, her hands and
feet showed marks of breeding, and although her
Her Change e smi auto
35


The Opal Serpent
peris odd name in fatto publiealising delight of
auty withovery tantalitin indulge
grey dress was as demure as any worn by a
Quakeress, she looked bright and merry in the
sunshine of her lover's presence. Everything about
Sylvia was dainty and neat and exquisitely clean:
but she was hopelessly out of the fashion. It was
this odd independence in her dress which constituted
another charm in Paul's eyes.
The place was too public to indulge in love-
making, and it was very tantalising to sit near this
vision of beauty without gaining the delight of a kiss.
Paul feasted his eyes, and held Sylvia's grey-gloved
hand under cover of her dress. Further he could
not go.
"But if you put up your sunshade," he suggested
artfully.
“ Paul!" That was all Sylvia said, but it suggested
a whole volume of rebuke. Brought up in seclusion,
like the princess in an enchanted castle, the girl was
exceedingly shy. Paul's ardent looks and eager woo-
ing startled her at times, and he thought disconso-
lately that his chivalrous love-making was coarse and
common when he gazed on the delicate, dainty, shrink-
ing maid he adored.
"You should not have stepped out of your missal,
Sylvia," he said sadly.
“ Whatever do you mean, dearest?"
"I mean that you are a saint—an angel—a thing
to be adored and worshipped. You are exactly like
one of those lovely creations one sees in mass-books
of the Middle Ages. I fear, Sylvia," Paul sighed,
“ that you are too dainty and holy for this work-a-
day world."
"What nonsense, Paul! I'm a poor girl with-
out position or friends, living in a poor street.
You are the first person who ever thought me
pretty."
"You are not pretty," said the ardent Beecot," you
are divine—you are Beatrice--you are Elizabeth of
36


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
Thuringia—you are everything that is lovely and
adorable."
"And you are a silly boy," replied Sylvia, blush-
ing, but loving this poetic talk all the same. "Do
you want to put me in a glass case when we marry?
If you do, I sha'n't become Mrs. Beecot. I want to
see the world and to enjoy myself."
"Then other men will admire you and I shall grow.
jealous."
“ Can you be jealous—Paul?"
"Horribly! You don't know half my bad quali-
ties. I am poor and needy, and ambitious and jealous,
and—"
"There—there. I won't hear you run yourself
down. You are the best boy in the world."
“ Poor world, if I am that," he laughed, and
squeezed the little hand. "Oh, my love, do you
really think of me?"
" Always! Always! You know I do. Why, ever
since I saw you enter the shop six months ago I have
always loved you. I told Debby, and Debby said that
I could."
"Supposing Debby had said that you couldn't."
"Oh, she would never have said that. Why, Paul,
she saw you."
The young man laughed and colored. "Do I carry
my character in my face?" he asked. "Sylvia, don't
think too well of me."
"That is impossible," she declared. "You are my
fairy prince."
"Well, I certainly have found an enchanted princess
sleeping in a jealously-guarded castle. What would
your father say did he know?"
Sylvia looked startled. "I am afraid of my
father," she replied, indirectly. "Yes he is so
strange. Sometimes he seems to love me, and at
other times to hate me. We have nothing in
common. I love books and art, and gaiety and
37


The Opal Serpent
dresses. But father only cares for jewels. He has
a lot down in the cellar. I have never seen them,
you know," added Sylvia, looking at her lover, "nor
have Deborah or Bart. But they are there. Bart and
Deborah say so."
“ Has your father ever said so?"
"No. He won't speak of his business in the
cellar. When the shop is closed at seven he sends
Bart away home and locks Deborah and I in the
house. That is," she explained anxiously, lest Paul
should think her father a tyrant, "he locks the
door which leads to the shop. We can walk over all
the house. But there we stop till next morning,
when father unlocks the door at seven and Bart
takes down the shutters. We have lived like that
for years. On Sunday evenings, however, father
does not go to the cellar, but takes me to church.
He has supper with me upstairs, and then locks the
door at ten."
“ But he sleeps upstairs?"
"No. He sleeps in the cellar."
“ Impossible. There is no accommodation for sleep-
ing there."
Sylvia explained. "There is another cellar—a
smaller one—off the large place he has the safes in.
The door is in a dark corner almost under the street
line. This smaller cellar is fitted up as a bedroom,
and my father has slept there all his life. I suppose
he is afraid of his jewels being stolen. I don't think
it is good for his health," added the girl, wisely, " for
often in the morning he looks ill and his hands
shake."
"Sylvia, does your father drink alcohol?"
"Oh, no, Paul! He is a teetotaller, and is very
angry at those who drink to excess. Why, once Bart
came to the shop a little drunk, and father would
have discharged him but for Deborah."
Paul said nothing, but thought the more. Often
it isis afraid of has slept these fitted up under the street
38


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
it had struck him that Norman was a drunkard,
though his face showed no signs of indulgence, for
it always preserved its paleness. But the man's
hands shook, and his skin often was drawn and
tight, with that shiny look suggestive of indulgence.
"He either drinks or smokes opium," thought Paul
on hearing Sylvia's denial. But he said nothing to
her of this.
"I must go home now," she said, rising.
"Oh, no, not yet," he implored.
"Well, then, I'll stay for a few minutes longer,
because I have something to say," she remarked, and
sat down again. “ Paul, do you think it is quite hon-
orable for you and I to be engaged without the consent
of my father?"
"Well," hesitated Beecot, "I don't think it is as it
should be. Were I well off I should not fear to tell
your father everything; but as I am a pauper he
would forbid my seeing you did he learn that I had
raised my eyes to you. But if you like I'll speak,
though it may mean our parting for ever."
"Paul," she laid a firm, small hand on his arm,
"not all the fathers in the world will keep me from
you. Often I have intended to tell all, but my father
is so strange. Sometimes he goes whole days without
speaking to me, and at times he speaks harshly, though
I do nothing to deserve rebuke. I am afraid of my
father," said the girl, with a shiver. "I said so be-
fore, and I say so again. He is a strange man, and I
don't understand him at all. I wish I could marry
you and go away altogether."
"Well, let us marry if you like, though we will be
poor."
"No," said Sylvia, sorrowfully; "after all, strange
and harsh though my father is, he is still my father,
and at times he is kind. I must stay with him to
the end."
“ What end?”


The Opal Serpent
Sylvia shook her head still more sorrowfully.
"Who knows? Paul, my father is afraid of dying
suddenly."
"By violence?" asked Beecot, thinking of Deborah's
talk.
"I can't say. But every day after six he goes to
church and prays all alone. Deborah told me, as
often she has seen him leave the church. Then
he is afraid of every stranger who enters the shop.
I don't understand it," cried the girl, passionately.
"I don't like it. I wish you would marry me and
take me away, Paul; but, oh, how selfish I am!"
"My own, I wish I could. But the money"
“ Oh, never mind the money. I must get away
from that house. If it was not for Deborah I would
be still more afraid. I often think my father is mad.
But there," Sylvia rose and shook out her skirts, "I
have no right to talk so, and only do so to you, that
you may know what I feel. I'll speak to my father
myself and say we are engaged. If he forbids our
marriage I shall run away with you, Paul," said poor
Sylvia, the tears in her eyes. "I am a bad girl to
talk in this way. After all, he is my father."
Beecot had an ardent desire to take her in his
arms and kiss away those tears, but the publicity of
the meeting place denied him the power to console
her in that efficacious fashion. All he could do was
to assure her of his love, and then they walked out of
the gardens towards the Strand. "I'll speak to your
father myself," said Paul; “ we must end this neces-
sary silence. After all, I am a gentleman, and I see
no reason why your father should object."
"I know you are everything that is good and true,"
said Sylvia, drying her eyes. "If you were not Debby
would not have let me become engaged to you," she
finished childishly.
"Debby made inquiries about me," said Paul,
laughing, to cheer her. “ Yes! she sent Bart to
50


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
Wargrove and found out all about me and my family
and my respected father. She wished to be certain
that I was a proper lover for her darling."
"I am your darling now," whispered Sylvia, squeez-
ing his arm, "and you are the most charming lover in
the world."
Paul was so enchanted with this speech that he
would have defied public opinion by embracing her
there and then, but Sylvia walked away rapidly down
Gwynne Street and shook her head with a pursed-up
mouth when Paul took a few steps after her. Recog-
nizing that it would be wise not to follow her to the
shop lest the suspicious old man should be looking out,
Beecot went on his homeward way.
When he drew near his Bloomsbury garret he met
Grexon Hay, who was sauntering along swinging his
cane. "I was just looking for you," he said, greeting
Paul in his usual self-contained manner; "it worries
me to think you are so hard-up, though I'm not a
fellow given to sentiment as a rule. Let me lend you
a fiver."
Paul shook his head. "Thank you all the same."
"Well, then, sell me the brooch."
Beecot suddenly looked squarely at Hay, who met
his gaze calmly. "Do you know anything of that
brooch?" he asked.
"What do you mean? It is a brooch of Indian
workmanship. That is all I know. I want to give
a lady a present, and if you will sell it to me I'll
take it, to help you, thus killing two birds at one
shot."
"I don't want to sell it," said Paul, looking round.
His eyes fell on a respectable man across the road,
who appeared to be a workman, as he had a bag of
tools on his shoulder. He was looking into a shop
window, but also—as Paul suddenly thought-
seemed to be observing him and Hay. However,
the incident was not worth noticing, so he con-
41


The Opal Serpent
tinued his speech to Grexon. "I tried to pawn it with
Aaron Norman," he said.
"Well, what did you get on it? ” asked Hay, with
a yawn.
“ Nothing. The old man fainted when I showed
him the brooch. That is why I asked you if you
know anything strange about the article."
Hay shook his head, but looked curiously at Bee-
cot. "Do you know anything yourself?" he asked ;
"you seem to have something on your mind about that
brooch."
“ There is something queer about it," said Paul.
"Why should Aaron Norman faint when he saw it?"
Hay yawned again. "You had better ask your one-
eyed friend I think you said he was one-eyed."
“ He is, and a frightened sort of man. But there's
nothing about that opal serpent to make him faint."
"Perhaps he did so because it is in the shape of a
serpent," suggested Grexon; "a constitutional failing,
perhaps. Some people hate cats and other fluttering
birds. Your one-eyed friend may have a loathing
of snakes and can't bear to see the representation of
one."
"It might be that," said Beecot, after a pause.
“ Aaron is a strange sort of chap. A man with a
past, I should say."
"You make me curious," said Grexon, laughing in
a bored manner. "I think I'll go to the shop myself
and have a look at him."
"Come with me when I next go," said Paul. "I
had intended to call this afternoon; but I won't, until
I hear from my mother."
"What about?"
"I want to learn how she came into possession of
the brooch."
“ Pooh, nonsense," said Hay, contemptuously, "you
think too much about the thing. Who cares if a
pawnbroker faints? Why I wish to go to the shop,


Dulcinea of Gwynne Street
is, because I am anxious to see your lady-love. Well,
when you do want me to go, send for me; you have
my address. 'Day, old man," and the gorgeous being
sauntered away, with apparently not a care in the world
to render him anxious.
Paul was anxious, however. The more he thought
of the episode of the brooch the stranger it seemed,
and Sylvia's talk of her father's queer habits did not
make Paul wonder the less. However, he resolved
to write to his mother, and was just mounting his
stairs to do so when he heard a "Beg pardon, sir,"
and beheld the working man, bag of tools, pipe and
all.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, civilly, "but that
gentleman you was a-talking to. Know his name,
sir?"
"What the devil's that to you?" asked Paul,
angrily.
"Nothing, sir, only he owes me a little bill."
"Go and ask him for it then."
"I don't know his address, sir."
"Oh, be hanged !" Paul went on, when the man
spoke again.
"He's what I call a man on the market, sir. Have
a care," and he departed quickly.
Paul stared. What did the working man mean, and
was he a working man?


CHAPTER IV
THE UNFORESEEN
Paul did not go near the Gwynne Street shop for the
next few days, much as he wanted to do so. Being
deeply in love he could hardly bear to be away from
Sylvia even for a few hours: but in spite of this
he remained away for two reasons. The first of
these was that he awaited a reply to his letter
written to Mrs. Beecot, as he wished to be able
to tell Aaron Norman where the brooch had been
obtained. He thought by doing this to ingratiate him-
self with the old man, and perhaps, if thus confiden-
tial, might learn, for the satisfaction of his curiosity,
why the sight of the brooch had produced such an
effect on the pawnbroker.
The other reason was that, not having been
able to sell the brooch, or rather pawn it since he
did not wish to lose it altogether, funds were
running low, and now he had but a few shillings
left. A call at the office of a penny weekly
had resulted in the return of three stories as
being too long and not the sort required. But
the editor, in a hasty interview, admitted that
he liked Paul's work and would give him three
pounds for a tale written on certain lines likely
to be popular with the public. Paul did not care
to set forth another person's ideas, especially
as these were old and very sensational; but as he
required money he set to work and labored
to produce what would bring him in the cash.
44


The Unforeseen
He made several attempts before he reached the
editor's level, which was low rather than high,
and succeeded in getting the tale accepted. With
three golden pounds in his pocket and exultation
in his heart—for every success seemed to bring
him nearer to Sylvia—Paul returned to his aerial
castle and found waiting for him the expected
letter.
It was written in a low-spirited sort of way, char-
acteristic of Mrs. Beecot, but with a true motherly
heart. After two pages of lamentation over his ab-
sence, and a description of how the head of the house-
hold managed to bear up against the affliction of his
son's absence, Mrs. Beecot proceeded to explain about
the brooch.
"Why do you ask me about the opal brooch,
my dear boy?" wrote Mrs. Beecot in her scratchy
handwriting. "All I know is that your father bought
it out of a pawnbroker's shop in Stowley, which is
some town in the Midlands. Your father was
travelling there and saw the brooch by chance. As
I always thought opals unlucky he was anxious to
make me see the folly of such a superstition, so he
bought the brooch and took it away with him.
Afterwards, I believe, he received a letter from the
pawnbroker, saying that his assistant had sold the
brooch by mistake, that the time for redeeming it
had not run out when your father bought it. The
pawnbroker asked that the brooch might be returned,
and wanted to pay back the money. But you know
what your father is. He refused at once to give back
the brooch, and insisted on my wearing it. I had a
bad fall while wearing it, and then was thrown out
of that high dog-cart your father would insist on
driving. I am sure the brooch or the stones is
unlucky, and, as after a time your father forgot all
about it, I let it lie in my jewel-case. For years I
had not worn it, and as I think it is unlucky, and as
45


The Opal Serpent
be, what other's positiwith the trucue she becamerob-
you need money, my darling boy, I hope you will
sell it. There is no need to pawn it as you say. I
never want to see the brooch again. But regarding
your health, etc., etc."
So Mrs. Beecot wrote in her verbose style, and
with some errors of grammar. Paul saw in her simple
tale fresh evidence of his father's tyranny, since he
made his wife wear gems she detested and was
superstitiously set against possessing them. The
dog-cart episode Paul remembered very well. Mr.
Beecot, in his amiable way, had no patience with his
wife's nerves, and never lost an opportunity of plac-
ing her in unpleasant positions, whereby she might
be, what he called, hardened. Paul sighed to think
of his mother's position as he folded up the letter.
She had a bad time with the truculent husband she
had married. "And I can't believe she became his
wife of her own free will," thought Paul; "prob-
ably the governor bullied her into it in his own sweet
way."
However, there was nothing in the letter to ex-
plain Norman's faint. It was certainly strange that
the pawnbroker, from whom the brooch had been or-
iginally purchased, should have demanded it back;
and the excuse given seems rather a weak one. How-
ever, Paul did not waste time in thinking over this,
but resolved to tell Aaron what his mother had
said.
He had received two letters from Sylvia, men-
tioning, amongst other things, that her father, now
quite well, was asking after Paul, and urging him
to come and see him. "My father appears to have a
fancy for you," wrote Sylvia, " so if you are very nice
—as nice as you can be—perhaps he won't be very
angry if you tell him we are engaged." There was
much more to the same effect, which Paul thought
good advice, and he intended to adopt the same. It
was necessary that he should tell Aaron of his love


The Unforeseen
if things were to be conducted in a straightforward
and honorable manner. And Paul had no desire to
conduct them otherwise.
Having made up his mind to see Aaron again,
Paul bethought himself of Grexon Hay. That gen-
tleman had never appeared again at the Bloomsbury
garret, and had never even written. But Paul was
anxious that Hay—whom he regarded as a clever
man-of-the-world—should see the old man, and, as
our trans-Atlantic cousins say, "size him up."
Norman's manner and queer life puzzled Paul not
a little, and not being very worldly himself he was
anxious to have the advice of his old school friend,
who seemed desirous of doing him a good turn,
witness his desire to buy the brooch so that Paul
might be supplied with money. So Beecot wrote
to Grexon Hay at his Camden Hill chamber and told
him he intended to go to Gwynne Street on a certain
day at a certain time. To this Grexon responded by
saying that he was at Paul's service and would come
especially as he wanted to see Dulcinea of Gwynne
Street.
Paul laughed at the phrase. "I suppose Grexon
thinks I am very Quixotic," he thought, "coming to
London to tilt with the windmills of the Press. But
Don Quixote was wise in spite of his apparent mad-
ness, and Grexon will recognize my wisdom when he
sees my Dulcinea, bless her! Humph! I wonder if
Hay could pacify my father and make him look more
kindly on my ambitions. Grexon is a clever fellow,
a thoroughly good chap, so—"
Here Paul paused to think. The incident of the
working man and the warning he had given about
Hay recurred to his mind. Also the phrase " Man
on the Market" stuck in his memory. Why should
Grexon Hay be called so, and what did the phrase
mean? Paul had never heard it before. Moreover,
from certain indications Beecot did not think that
47


The Opal Serpent
the individual with the bag of tools was a working
man. He rather appeared to be a person got up to
play the part. The fellow watching them both and
accosting Paul alone certainly seemed a doubtful
character. Beecot regretted that he had been so
short with the man, else he might have learned why
he had acted in this way. The story of the little
bill was absurd, for if Grexon owed the man money
the man himself would certainly have known the
name and address of his creditor. Altogether, the
incident puzzled Paul almost as much as that of
Aaron's fainting, and he resolved to question
Grexon. But it never crossed his mind that Hay
was anything else but what he appeared to be—a
man-about-town with a sufficient income to live
upon comfortably. Had Paul doubted he would
never have asked Grexon to go with him to Gwynne
Street. However, he had done so, and the ap-
pointment was made, so there was no more to be
said.
The man-about-town duly made his appearance to
the very minute. "I always keep appointments," he
explained when Paul congratulated him on his
punctuality; "there's nothing annoys me so much as
to be kept waiting, so I invariably practise what I
preach. Well, Paul, and how is Dulcinea of Gwynne
Street?"
"She is very well," replied Paul, who was still a
young enough lover to blush, "but I have not seen
her since we last met. I waited for a letter from my
mother about the brooch, so that I might explain to
Aaron how she got it. The old man has been asking
after me."
"Oh, confound the brooch!" said Grexon in his
cool manner. "I don't want to hear about it. Let
us talk of Dulcinea."
"Rather let us talk of yourself," said Paul. .
“Not an interesting subject," replied Hay, rising as


The Untoreseen
Paul opened his garret door for departure," you know
all about me."
"No! I don't know why you are called a man-on-
the-market."
Hay flushed and turned sharply. "What do you
mean?" he asked in a particularly quiet tone.
"I don't know what I do mean," said Paul. “ Do
you remember that working man with the bag of
tools who was across the road when we last con-
versed ?"
"No," said Hay, staring, "I never notice creatures
of that class. Why?”.
"Because he asked me who you were and where
you lived. It seems you owe him some money."
"That is very probable," said Hay, equably. "I
owe most people money, and if this man has a debt
against me he would certainly know all about me as
to address and name."
"So I thought," replied Paul, "but the queer thing
is that he told me to take care, and called you a man-
on-the-market. What does it mean? I never heard
the phrase before."
"I have," said Hay, proceeding calmly down the
somewhat steep stairs; "a man-on-the-market means
one who wants to marry and is eligible for any
heiress who comes along with a sufficient rent-roll.
But why should a fellow like that talk the shibboleth
of Society ? "
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. Per-
haps the man guessed I intended to take you to see
Sylvia, and warned me against you, as it seems from
his phrase that you wish to marry."
"Ah! Then your Dulcinea is an heiress?" said
Hay, fixing his eyeglass carefully; " if so, you needn't
fear me. I am almost engaged and won't be on the
market any longer. What confounded cheek this
fellow addressing you in that way and talking
of me as he did. I suppose," he added with a
49


The Opal Serpent
and wholding of ticker se bottom he saw the lives Horeca
cold laugh, "it is not necessary for me to defend
myself."
"What rubbish," replied Beecot, good-naturedly.
“ All the same, it is strange the man should have
spoken to me as he did. I told him to go to the
devil."
"And go to the devil he assuredly will if I meet
him," was the dry reply. "I'll break his head for not
minding his own business. I think I can explain,
and will do so as soon as you take that telegram the
lad is holding out for you."
Grexon was quicker-sighted than Paul, for the mo-
ment they arrived at the bottom of the stairs and were
about to emerge into the street he saw the messenger.
"Do you know if any gent of that name lives here,
guvnor?" asked the boy, holding out the buff-colored
envelope.
Beecot, to his surprise, saw his own name. "Who
can be wiring to me?" he said, taking the telegram.
"Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and he
skimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch,
but send it back," read Paul, puzzled, "your father
angry.—Mother." He paused, and looked at the
boy. "Got a form?" he asked.
The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With
these materials Beecot wrote a reply saying the brooch
would be returned on the morrow. When the boy
went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast
pocket and took out the old blue case. "I've a good
mind to send it now," he said aloud.
“ What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at
the door. "No bad news I hope?".
"It's about that brooch again."
Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you
what the Monster was to Frankenstein," said he.
“ Send it back—to Mrs. Beecot, I presume--and have
done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see
you have it with you," he ended, lightly.
50


The Unforeseen
“Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his
pocket went down the street with his friend. Then
he determined to ask his opinion, and related the
gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater
wires to have it back," he said. "I expect my
father has found out that she has sent it to me, and
is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said
Hay, impatiently; "you are in danger of becoming a
bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you money
if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned.
However, we'll speak no more of the brooch. I'll
send it back this very day. Tell me," he linked
his arm within that of his friend, " tell me of that
man."
"That man—of the working creature," said Hay,
absently. “ Pooh, the man was no more a working
man than I am."
"Well, I thought myself he was a bit of a fraud."
“ Detectives never do make up well," said Grexon,
calmly.
Paul stopped as they turned into Oxford Street.
"What? Was the man a detective?”.
"I think so, from your description of his conversa-
tion. The fact is I'm in love with a lady who is
married. We have behaved quite well, and no one
can say a word against us. But her husband is
a beast and wants a divorce. I have suspected
for some time that he is having me watched.
Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps
you will understand why the man warned you
against me and talked of my being a man-on-the-
market."
"I see," said Paul, hesitating ; " but don't get into
trouble, Hay."
"Oh, I'm all right. And I don't intend to do any-
thing dishonorable, if that is what you mean. It's
51


The Opal Serpent
the husband's fault, not mine. By the way, can you
describe the fellow ?"
"Yes. He had red hair and a red beard—rather a
ruddy face, and walked with a limp."
"All put on," said Hay, contemptuously; " probably
the limp was affected, the beard false, the hair a wig,
and the face rouged—very clumsy indeed. I dare-
say he'll appear pale and gentlemanly the next time
he watches me. I know the tricks of these fellows."
The two friends talked for some time about this
episode, and then branched off into other subjects.
Hay described the married lady he adored, and Paul
rebuked him for entertaining such a passion. "It's
not right, Hay," said he, positively; "you can't respect
a woman who runs away from her husband."
"She hasn't run away yet, Sir Galahad," laughed
Grexon. "By Jove, you are an innocent!"
"If that means respecting the institution of mar-
riage and adoring women as angels I hope I'll remain
an innocent."
"Oh, women are angels, of course," said Hay as
they walked down Gwynne Street; "it's a stock
phrase in love-making. But there are angels of two
sorts. Dulcinea is
"Here we are," interrupted Paul, quickly. Some-
how it irritated him to hear this hardened sinner
speak of Sylvia, and he began to think that Grexon
Hay had deteriorated. Not that he was considered
to be particularly good at Torrington school. In
fact, Paul remembered that he had been thoroughly
disliked. However, he had no time to go into the
matter, for at this moment Aaron appeared at the
door of the shop. He stepped out on to the pave-
ment as Paul approached. “ Come in," he said, "I
want to see you—privately," he added, casting a
frightened look at Hay.
* In that case I'll leave you," said Grexon, dis-
engaging his arm from Paul. "Dulcinea must wait
*" Oh, ked down Gw But there are


The Unforeseen
for another occasion. Go in and do your business.
I'll wait without."
Paul thanked his friend by a look and went into
the shop with the old man. "That brooch," said
Aaron, in a timid whisper, "have you got it? Give it
to me—quick—quick."
There was no one in the shop as Bart had
apparently gone out on an errand. The door lead-
ing to the stairs, down which Sylvia had so often
descended, was closed, and no one was about to
overhear their conversation. "I have the brooch,"
said Paul, "but”
"Give it to me—give it," panted Aaron. "I'll buy
it—at a large price. Ask what you want."
"Why are you so eager to get it?" demanded Bee-
cot, astonished.
"That's my business," said Norman, in a suddenly
imperious manner. "I want it. The stones take my
fancy," he ended weakly.
“ Was that why you fainted?" asked Paul, sus-
piciously.
"No." The man grew white and leaned against
the counter, breathing heavily. "Where did you get
the brooch?" he asked, trying to keep himself calm,
but with a visible effort.
“ I got it from my mother, and she received it from
my father"
"Beecot—Beecot," said the old man, fingering his
lips, much agitated. "I know no one of that name
save yourself, and you are not a spy—a scoundrel—a
—a—" He caught the eyes of Paul fixed on him in
amazement, and suddenly changed his tone. "Excuse
me, but the brooch reminds me of trouble."
“ You have seen it before?"
“ Yes that is nodon't ask me." He clutched at
his throat as though he felt choked. "I can't talk of
it. I daren't. How did your father get it?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron


The Opal Serpent
listened with his one eye very bright, and made an-
easy motions with his lean hands as the young man
spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. “ Yes,
yes," he murmured to himself, "it would be asked
for back. But it sha'n't go back. I want it. Sell it
Man
to me, Mr. But it sha'n't umself, "it wo nails.
" I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly.
"But my mother wired that it was to be returned.
My father has discovered that she sent it to me and
is not pleased."
"Did you tell your mother you had shown it to
me?"
“ No. There was no need."
"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a
crimson handkerchief. "Of course there was no
need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do to talk
of pawning things—not respectable, eh—eh." He
wiped his face and passed his tongue over his white
lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?” .
"I can't. But I'll ask my mother if she will."
"No, no! Don't do that—say nothing—say noth-
ing. I don't want the brooch. I never saw the brooch
—what brooch—pooh—pooh, don't talk to me of the
brooch," and so he babbled on.
"Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the
story connected with the brooch?"
Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the
counter. "No, no. Don't ask me. What do you
mean? I know no story of a brooch—what brooch
—I never saw one—I never—ah”-he broke off in
relief as two pale-faced, spectacled girls entered the
shop“customers. What is it, ladies? How can I
serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter,
giving all his attention to the customers, yet not with-
out a.sidelong look in the direction of the perplexed
Paul.
That young gentleman, finding it impossible to
get further speech with Aaron, and suspecting from
54


The Unforeseen
his manner that all was not right, left the shop. He
determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself,
and to ask his mother about it. Then he could learn
why she wanted it back—if not from her, then from
his father. This knowledge might explain the mys-
tery.
"Did you sell the brooch?" asked Grexon as they
walked up Gwynne Street.
"No. I have to send it back to my mother,
and—"
"Hold on!" cried Hay, stumbling. "Orange-peel
—ah—"
His stumble knocked Paul into the middle of the
road. A motor car was coming down swiftly. Be-
fore Hay could realize what had taken place Paul
was under the wheels of the machine.


CHAPTER V.
TROUBLE
ready'd thatose.
Foring of eing-roomment, contended
“OH, Debby," wept Sylvia, "he will die—he will
die."
“ Not he, my precious pet," said the handmaiden,
fondling the girl's soft hands within her own hard
ones. “ Them sort of young men have as many lives
as tom cats. Bless you, my flower, he'll be up and
ready, waiting at the altar, before the fashions change
—and that's quick enough," added Deborah, rubbing
her snub nose. "For they're allays an-altering and a-
turning and a-changing of 'em."
The two were in the sitting-room over the book-
shop. It was a low-ceilinged apartment, long and
narrow, with windows back and front, as it extended
the whole depth of the house. The back windows
looked out on the dingy little yard, but these Norman
had filled in with stained glass of a dark color, so
that no one could see clearly out of them. Why he
had done so was a mystery to Sylvia, though Deborah
suspected the old man did not want anyone to see
the many people who came to the back steps after
seven. From the front windows could be seen the
street and the opposite houses, and on the sills of
the windows Sylvia cultivated a few cheap flowers,
which were her delight. The room was furnished
with all manner of odds and ends, flotsam and jetsam
of innumerable sales attended by Aaron. There
were Japanese screens, Empire sofas, mahogany
chairs, Persian praying mats, Louis Quatorz tables,
56


The Opal Serpent
look as cheerful as possible, and schemed how to see
the lover who had thus been laid low. Deborah
boldly announced that she was taking Sylvia to buy
her a new dress—that is, to choose it, for the cost
was to be paid out of the servant's wages—and went
with her one afternoon to the hospital. They heard
that Paul's arm was broken, and that he had been
slightly hurt about the head. But there was no
danger of his dying, and although they were not
allowed to see him the two women returned greatly
cheered. But Sylvia frequently gave way to low
spirits, thinking that at any moment the good symp-
toms might give way to bad ones. Deborah always
cheered her, and went daily to get news. Always she
returned to say, " He's a-goin' on nicely, and has that
color as he might be a sunset." So Sylvia was bright
until her next fit of low spirits came.
Meanwhile, their attention was taken up by the odd
behavior of Aaron. The old man suddenly an-
nounced that he was about to sell the shop and
retire, and displayed a feverish haste in getting rid
of his stock, even at a low price. Whether he sold
the jewels so cheap as the books no one ever knew;
but certainly the pundit caste did well out of the
sale. Within the week the shop below was denuded,
and there were nothing but bare shelves, much to the
disgust of Bart, who, like Othello, found his occupa-
tion gone. The next day the furniture was to be sold,
and when Deborah was comforting Sylvia at the
week's end the fiat had already gone forth. Whither
he intended to transfer his household the old man did
not say, and this, in particular, was the cause of Syl-
via's grief. She dreaded lest she should see her lover
no more. This she said to Deborah.
"See him you shall, and this very day," cried the
maiden, cheerfully. "Why, there's that dress. I can't
make up my mind whether to have magenter or liliac,
both being suited to my complexion. Not that it's
58


Trouble
cream of the valley smother in rosebuds as yours is,
my angel, but a dress I must have, and your pa can't
deny my taking you to choose."
"But, Debby, it seems wrong to deceive father in
this way."
“ It do," admitted Debby, "and it is. We'll speak
this very night—you and me in duets, as you might
say, my pretty. He sha'n't say as we've gone to hide
behind a hedge."
“ But we have, Debby, for six months," said Sylvia.
“ Because I'm a hardened and bold creature," said
Deborah, fiercely, “ so don't say it's you as held your
tongue, for that you didn't, my honeycomb. Many
and many a time have you said to me, ses you, 'Oh,
do tell my par,' and many a time have I said to you,
ses I, 'No, my precious, not for Joseph,' whoever he
may be, drat him!"
"Now, Debby, you're taking all the blame on your-
self!"
"And who have the broader shoulders, you or me,
my flower?" asked Debby, fondly. "I'm as wicked
as Bart, and that's saying much, for the way he bolts
his food is dreadful to think of. Never will I have a
corkidile for a husband. But here," cried Deborah,
beginning to bustle, "it's the dress I'm thinking of.
Magenter or lilacs in full boom. What do you think,
my honey-pot?"
So the end of Deborah's shameless diplomacy was,
that the two went, not to the inferior draper's where
Debby bought her extraordinary garments—though
they went there later in a Jesuitical manner—but to
the hospital, where to her joy Sylvia was allowed to
see Paul. He looked thin and pale, but was quite
himself and very cheerful. "My darling," he said,
kissing Sylvia's hand, while Debby sat bolt upright
near the bed, with a large hand-bag, and played pro-
priety by glaring. "Now I shall get well quickly.
The sight of you is better than all medicine.”
59


Trouble
question. "Do you remember that opal brooch I
showed you?"
"The serpent. Yes?"
"Well, it's lost."
"Lost, Paul? ”
The young man nodded mournfully. “ I'm very
vexed about it," he said in a low tone; "my mother
wanted it back. I was going to send it that very
day, but when I met with the accident it got lost
somehow. It wasn't in my pocket when my clothes
were examined, though I asked for it as soon as I
became conscious. My friend also couldn't tell me."
“ Him as caused the smashes," said Deborah, with
several sniffs. "A nice pretty friend, I do say, sir."
"It wasn't his fault, Deborah. Mr. Hay stumbled
on a piece of orange peel and jostled against me. I
was taken by surprise, and fell into the middle of the
road just as the motor came along. Mr. Hay was
more than sorry and has come to see me every day
with books and fruit and all manner of things."
"The least he could do," snapped the servant,
“ knocking folks into orspitals with his fine gent airs.
I sawr him out of the winder while you was in the
shop, and there he spoke law-de-daw to a brat of a
boy as ought to be in gaol, seeing he smoked a cigar
stump an' him but a ten-year-old guttersnipe. Ses I,
oh, a painted maypole you is, I ses, with a face as hard
as bath bricks. A bad un you are, ses I."
"No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my
friend."
"Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared
Debby, obstinately, “ for if all the wickedness in him
'ud come out in his face, pimples would be as thick
as smuts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him
not what you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas
and Julius Cezar ain't in it with his Belzebubness."
Beecot saw it was vain to stop this chatterer, so
he turned to talk in whispers to Sylvia, while Debby
61


The Opal Serpent
murmured on like a brook, only she spoke loud
enough at times to drown the whispering of the
lovers.
“ Sylvia," said Paul, softly, "I want you to send
your father to me."
"Yes, Paul. Why do you wish to see him?"
"Because he must be told of our love. I don't
think he will be so hard as you think, and I am
ashamed of not having told him before. I like to
act honorably, and I fear, Sylvia darling, we have
not been quite fair to your father."
"I think so, too, Paul, and I intended to speak when
we went home. But give me your address, so that
if we go away unexpectedly I'll be able to write to
you."
Beecot gave her his Bloomsbury address, and also
that of his old home at Wargrove in Essex. "Write
care of my mother," he said, "and then my father
won't get the letter."
"Would he be angry if he knew?" asked the girl,
timidly.
Paul laughed to himself at the thought of the turkey-
cock's rage. "I think he would, dearest," said he,
"but that does not matter. Be true to me and I'll be
true to you."
Here the nurse came to turn the visitors away on
the plea that Paul had talked quite enough. Debby
flared up, but became meek when Sylvia lifted a
reproving finger. Then Paul asked Debby to seek
his Bloomsbury lodgings and bring to him any letters
that might be waiting for him. "I expect to hear
from my mother, and must write and tell her of my
accident," said he. "I don't want to trouble Mr. Hay,
but you, Debby—"
"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, it ain't no trouble," said
the servant, cheerfully, "and better me nor that
'aughty peacock, as ain't to be trusted, say what you
will, seeing criminals is a-looking out of his eyes, hide


Trouble
ses
”
one though he may with a piece of glarse, and I
"You must go now, please," interposed the nurse.
"Oh, thank you, ma'am, but my own mistress, as is
a lady, do I obey only."
"Debby, Debby," murmured Sylvia, and after kiss-
ing Paul, a farewell which Debby strove to hide from
the nurse by getting in front of her and blocking the
view, the two departed. The nurse laughed as she
arranged Paul's pillows.
"What a strange woman, Mr. Beecot."
"Very," assented Paul, “ quite a character, and as
true as the needle of the compass."
Meanwhile, Debby, ignorant of this flattering
description, conducted Sylvia to the draper's shop,
and finally fixed on a hideous magenta gown, which
she ordered to be made quite plain. “ With none of
your fal-de-lals," commanded Miss Junk, snorting.
“ Plain sewing and good stuff is all I arsk for. And
if there's any left over you can send home a 'at of
the same, which I can brighten with a cockes feather
as my mar wore at her wedding. There, my own,"
added Debby, as they emerged from the shop and
took a 'bus to Gwynne Street, "that's as you'll
allways see me dressed—plain and 'omely, with
no more trimmings than you'll see on a washing-
day jint, as I know to my cost from my mar's
ecomicals."
"Economy, Debby."
"It ain't fur me to be using fine words, Miss
Sylvia; cockatoos' feathers on a goose they'd be in
my mouth. The 'ole dixionary kin do for you my
flower, but pothooks and 'angers never was my loves,
me having been at the wash-tub when rising eight,
and stout at that."
In this way Debby discoursed all the way home.
On arriving in the room over the shop they found
themselves confronted by Aaron, who looked less
63


The Opal Serpent
timid than usual, and glowered at the pair angrily.
"Where have you been, Sylvia ?" he asked.
The girl could not tell a direct lie, and looked at
Debby. That handmaiden, less scrupulous, was about
to blurt forth a garbled account, when Sylvia stopped
her with a resolute expression on her pretty face.
"No, Debby," she commanded, "let me speak.
Father, I have been to see Mr. Beecot at the Charing
Cross Hospital."
“ And you couldn't have my flower do less as a
good Smart 'un," put in Debby, anxiously, so as to
avert the storm. “ Girls is girls whatever you may
think, sir, of them being dolls and dummies and—"
"Hold your tongue, woman," cried Norman,
fiercely, “ let me talk. Why is Mr. Beecot in the
hospital?"
"He was knocked down," said Sylvia, quietly, “and
his arm is broken. A motor car ran over him in
Gwynne Street. He wants to see you, to tell you that
he lost something."
Norman turned even whiter than he was by nature,
and the perspiration suddenly beaded his bald fore-
head. “ The opal serpent!" he cried.
“ Yes—the brooch he showed me."
"He showed you!" cried Aaron, with a groan.
“ And what did he tell you about it?—what—what-
what—the truth or—" He became passionate.
Debby grasped Aaron's arm and whirled him into
the middle of the room like a feather. Then she
planted herself before Sylvia, with her arms akimbo,
and glared like a lioness. "You can pinch me, sir,
or gives me black eyes and red noses if you like,
but no finger on my precious, if I die for it."
Aaron was staggered by this defiance, and looked
fierce for the moment. Then he became timid again
and cast the odd, anxious look over his shoulder.
" Leave the room, Deborah," he said in a mild voice.
The faithful maid replied by sitting down and


Trouble
folding her arms.“ Get your wild horses, sir," she
said, breathing heavily, “ for only by them will I be
tugged away." And she snorted so loudly that the
room shook.
"Pshaw," said Norman, crossly, “ Sylvia, don't be
afraid of me." He wiped his face nervously. "I only
want to know of the brooch. I like the opals—
I wanted to buy it from Mr. Beecot. He is poor—he
wants money. I can give it to him, for—the—the
brooch."
He brought out the last word with a gasp, and
again glanced over his shoulder. Sylvia, not at all
afraid, approached and took the old man's hand.
The watchful Deborah moved her chair an inch
nearer, so as to be ready for any emergency. "Dear
father," said the girl, " Mr. Beecot doesn't know where
the brooch is. It was stolen from him when the
accident happened. If you will see him he can tell
you—"
"Not where the brooch is," interrupted Aaron, try-
ing to appear calm. "Well, well, it doesn't matter."
He glanced anxiously at Sylvia. "You believe me,
child, when I say it doesn't matter."
A snort from Deborah plainly said that she had
her doubts. Sylvia cast a reproving glance in her
direction, whereupon she rose and committed per-
jury. "Of course it don't matter, sir," she said in
a loud, hearty voice which made Aaron wince. "My
precious believes you, though lie it might be. But folk
so good as you, sir, who go to church when there
ain't anyone to see, wouldn't tell lies without them
a-choking of them in their blessed throats."
"How do you know I go to church?" asked Nor-
man, with the snarl of a trapped animal.
"Bless you, sir, I don't need glarses at my age,
though not so young as I might be. Church you
enjiy, say what you may, you being as regular as the
taxes, which is saying much. Lor' save us all!”


The Opal Serpent
Deborah might well exclaim this. Her master
flung himself forward with outstretched hands
clawing the air, and with his lips lifted like those of
an enraged dog. "You she-cat," he said in a pain-
fully hissing voice, "you're a spy, are you? They've
set you to watch—to drag me to the gallows—" he
broke off with a shiver. His rage cooled as suddenly
as it had heated, and staggering to the sofa he sat
down with his face hidden. “ Not that—not that-
oh, the years of pain and terror! To come to this—
to this—Deborah—don't sell me. Don't. I'll give
you money—I am rich. But if the opal serpent—if
the opal” He rose and began to beat the air with
his hands.
Sylvia, who had never seen her father like this,
shrank back in terror, but Deborah, with all her
wits about her, though she was wildly astonished,
seized a carafe of water from the table and dashed
the contents in his face. The old man gasped,
shuddered, and, dripping wet, sank again on the
sofa. But the approaching fit was past, and when
he looked up after a moment or so, his voice was
as calm as his face. "What's all this?" he asked,
feebly.
"Nothing, father," said Sylvia, kneeling beside
him; "you must not doubt Debby, who is as true as
steel."
"Are you, Deborah?" asked Aaron, weakly.
"I should think so," she declared, putting her
arms round Sylvia, "so long, sir, as you don't hurt
my flower."
"I don't want to hurt her . . ."
"There's feelings as well as bones," said Deborah,
hugging Sylvia so as to keep her from speaking,
"and love you can't squash, try as you may, though,
bless you, I'm not given to keeping company my-
self."
“ Love," said Aaron, vacantly.
He seemed to


CHAPTER VI
A NOISE IN THE NIGHT
Both Deborah and Sylvia were astonished that
Aaron should be so indifferent about their long con-
cealment. They had expected and dreaded a storm,
yet when the secret was told Mr. Norman appeared
to take it as calmly as though he had known about
the matter from the first. Indeed, he seemed per-
fectly indifferent, and when he raised Sylvia and
made her sit beside him on the sofa he reverted to
the brooch.
"I shall certainly see Mr. Beecot," he said in a
dreamy way. “ Charing Cross Hospital of course.
I'll go to-morrow. I had intended to see about
selling the furniture then, but I'll wait till the next
day. I want the brooch first—yes—yes," and he
opened and shut his hand in a strangely restless
manner.
The girl and the servant looked at one another in
a perplexed way, for it was odd Norman should take
the secret wooing of his daughter so quietly. He
had never evinced much interest in Sylvia, who had
been left mainly to the rough attentions of Miss
Junk, but sometimes he had mentioned that Sylvia
would be an heiress and fit to marry a poor peer.
The love of Paul Beecot overthrew this scheme, if
the man intended to carry it out, yet he did not
seem to mind. Sylvia, thinking entirely of Paul,
was glad, and the tense expression of her face re-
laxed; but Deborah sniffed, which was always an


The Opal Serpent
"seeing you take no interest in my pretty's liv-
ings."
Norman placed his fingers under Sylvia's chin, and
tipped it up so that he could gaze into her eyes.
“ Child, do you love him?" he asked gravely.
"Oh, father!" whispered Sylvia, and said no more.
The expression of her eyes was enough for Aaron,
and he turned away with a sigh.
"You know nothing about him," he said at
length.
“Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said
Deborah, witheringly, "but know what he is we
do—a fine young gent with long descents and stone
figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his
par's name, as is fighting with Mr. Paul by reason
of contrariness and 'igh living, him being as stout as
stout."
"Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron,
turning impatiently from the handmaiden.
"I should have explained before," said the girl,
quietly and very distinctly. "I loved Paul from the
moment I saw him enter the shop six months ago.
He came again and again, and we often talked.
Then he told me of his love, and I confessed mine.
Deborah wanted to know who he was, and if he was
a good man. From what I learned of Paul's people
he seemed to be all that was good and generous and
high-minded and loving. Deborah sent Bart one
holiday to Wargrove in Essex, where Paul's parents
live, and Bart found that Paul had left home
because he wanted to be an author. Paul is very
popular in Wargrove, and everyone speaks well
of him. So Deborah thought we might be engaged,
and"
"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" de-
manded Deborah, bristling.
“ No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should
have told me."
70


A Noise in the Night
“We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul
and I feared lest you should say 'No.'"
"My child," said the old man, gravely, “ so long as
you wed a kind and good man I have nothing to
say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many years
and have made much money, which, by will, I have
left to you. When I die you will be rich. He is
poor."
“ Paul—yes, he is poor. But what of that?"
"Many fathers might think that an objection,"
went on Aaron without noticing her remark. "But
I do not. You shall marry Paul before I go to
America."
"Lor'!" cried Deborah, "whatever are you agoin'
there for, sir?"
“ That's my business," said Aaron, dryly, "but I
go as soon as I can. I have sold the books; and the
furniture of these rooms shall be disposed of before
the end of the week. My gems I take to Amsterdam
for sale, and I go abroad next week. When I return
in a fortnight you can marry Mr. Beecot. He is a
good young man. I quite approve of him."
Deborah snorted. “ Seems to me as though you was
glad to get quit of my pretty," she murmured, but
too low to be overheard.
"Oh, father," cried Sylvia, putting her arms round
Norman's neck, "how good you are! I do love him
so."
"I hope the love will continue," said her father,
cynically, and removing the girl's arms, to the secret
indignation of Deborah. "I shall call on Mr. Beecot
to-morrow and speak to him myself about the matter.
It we come to an arrangement, for I have a condi-
tion to make before I give my entire consent, I shall
allow you a certain sum to live on. Then I shall go to
America, and when I die you will inherit all my money
—when I die," he added, casting the usual look over
his shoulders. "But I won't die for many a long day,"


The Opal Serpent
he said, with a determined air. "At least, I hope
not."
"You are healthy enough, father."
"Yes! Yes—but healthy people die in queer
ways."
Deborah intervened impatiently. “ I'm glad you
wish to make my lily-queen happy, sir," said she,
nodding, "but change your mind you may if Mr.
Beecot don't fall in."
“ Fall in ? ” queried Aaron.
“ With this arrangements—what is they?"
Aaron looked undecided, then spoke impulsively,
walking towards the door as he did so. "Let Mr.
Beecot give me that opal serpent," he said, "and he
shall have Sylvia and enough to live on."
“ But, father, it is lost," cried Sylvia, in dismay.
She spoke to the empty air. Norman had hastily
passed through the door and was descending the
stairs quicker than usual. Sylvia, in her eagerness
to explain, would have followed, but Deborah drew
her back with rough gentleness. "Let him go, lily-
queen," she said; “let sleeping dogs lie if you love
me."
"Deborah, what do you mean?" asked Sylvia,
breathlessly.
"I don't mean anything that have a meaning,"
said Miss Junk, enigmatically, "but your par's
willing to sell you for that dratted brooch, whatever
he wants it for. And you to be put against a brooch
my honey-pot. I'm biling—yes, biling hard," and
Deborah snorted in proof of the extremity of her
rage.
"Never mind, Debby. Father consents that I
shall marry Paul, and will give us enough to live
on. Then Paul will write great books, and his fathe.
will ask him home again. Oh—oh!" Sylvia danced
round the room gaily, "how happy I am."
"And happy you shall be if I die for it," shouted


A Noise in the Night
Deborah, screwing up her face, for she was not alto-
gether satisfied, “ though mysteries I don't hold with,
are about. America—what's he going to America for?
and with that brooch, and him locking us up every
night to sleep in cellars. Police-courts and Old Bai-
leys," said Miss Junk, frowning. "I don't like it,
Sunbeam, and when you're married to Mr. Beecot
I'll be that happy as never was."
Sylvia opened her grey eyes in wide surprise and
a little alarm. "Oh, Debby, you don't think there's
anything wrong with father?"
Miss Junk privately thought there was a good deal
wrong, but she folded Sylvia in her stout arms and
dismissed the question with a snort. "No, lovey, my
own, there ain't. It's just my silly way of going on.
Orange buds and brides the sun shines on, is your
fortunes, Miss Sylvia, though how I'm going to call
you Mrs. Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her
nose.
"I shall always be Sylvia to you."
"Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with
Mr. Beecot's frantic par, else there'll be scratch-
ings if he don't do proper what he should do and
don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a
windmill. "My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for,
love or no love, eat you must, to keep your insides'
clockwork."
When Bart heard the joyful news he was glad,
but expressed regret that Norman should go to
America. He did not wish to lose his situation, and
never thought the old man would take him to the
States also. Deborah vowed that if Aaron did want
to transport Bart—so she put it—she would object.
Then she unfolded a scheme by which, with Bart's
savings and her own, they could start a laundry.
"And I knows a drying ground," said Deborah,
while talking at supper to her proposed husband, "as
is lovely and cheap. One of them suburbs on the
73


The Opal Serpent
line to Essex, where my pretty will live when her
husband's frantic par makes it up. Jubileetown's the
place, and Victoria Avenue the street. The sweetest
cottage at twenty pun' a year as I ever set eyes on.
And m'sister as is married to a bricklayer is near to
help with the family."
“ The family ? " echoed Bart, looking scared.
"In course—they will come, though it's early to
be thinking of names for 'em. I'll do the washing,
Bart, and you'll take round the cart, so don't you think
things 'ull be otherwise."
"I don't want 'em to," said Bart, affectionately. "I
always loved you, Debby darling."
"Ah," said Miss Junk, luxuriously, "I've taught
you to, in quite a genteel way. What a scrubby little
brat you were, Bart!”.
"Yuss," said Mr. Tawsey, eating rapidly. "I saw
myself to-day."
"In a looking-glarse?"
"Lor', Debby—no. But there wos a brat all rags
and dirty face and sauce as I was when you saw me
fust. He come into the shop as bold as brass and
arsked fur a book. I ses, 'What do you want with a
book?' and he ses, looking at the shelves so empty,
'I sees your sellin' off,' he ses, so I jumped up to clip
him over the 'ead, when he cut. Tray's his name,
Debby, and he's the kid as talked to that cold gent
Mr. Beecot brought along with him when he got
smashed."
“ Tray—that's a dog's name," said Deborah, "old
dog Tray, and quite good enough for guttersnipes.
As to Mr. Hay, don't arsk me to say he's good, for
that he ain't. What's he want talking with gutter
Trays ? "
"And what do gutter Trays want with books ? "
asked Bart, "though to be sure 'twas impertinence
maybe."
Deborah nodded. "That it was, and what you'd
74


A Noise in the Night
have done when you was a scrubby thing. Don't
bolt your food, but make every bit 'elp you to 'ealth
and long living. You won't 'ave gormandising when
we've got the laundry, I can tell you."
Next day Aaron went off in the afternoon to
Charing Cross Hospital, after holding a conversation
with a broker who had agreed to buy the derelict
furniture. The shop, being empty, was supposed to
be closed, but from force of habit Bart took down
the shutters and lurked disconsolately behind the
bare counter. Several old customers who had not
heard of the sale entered, and were disappointed
when they learned that Aaron was leaving. Their
lamentations made Bart quite low-spirited. How-
ever, he was polite to all, but his manners broke
down when a Hindoo entered to sell boot-laces. "I
ain't got nothing to sell, and don't want to buy no-
how," said Bart, violently.
The man did not move, but stood impassively in
the doorway like a bronze statue. He wore a dirty
red turban carelessly wound round his small head,
an unclean blouse which had once been white,
circled by a yellow handkerchief of some coarse
stuff, dark blue trousers and slippers with curled-up
toes on naked feet. His eyes were black and
sparkling and he had a well-trimmed moustache
which contrasted oddly with his shabby attire.
“ Hokar is poor: Hokar need money," he whined in
a monotone, but with his eyes glancing restlessly
round the shop. "Give Hokar—give," and he held
out the laces.
"Don't want any, I tell you," shouted Bart, tartly.
" I'll call a peeler if you don't git."
"Ho! ho! who stole the donkey ? ” cried a shrill
voice at the door, and from behind the hawker was
poked a touzelled curly head, and a grinning face
which sadly needed washing. "You leave this cove
alone, won't y? He's a pal o' mine. D'y see?”
75


A Noise in the Night
dlin' that brat, jus' as he wos when Mr. Beecot was
smashed."
"You saw that accident? ” asked his master, fixing
his one eye on him.
"Yuss," said Bart, slowly, “I did, but Deborah she
told me to say nothink. Mr. Beecot was smashed, and
his friend, the cold eye-glarsed gent, pulled him from
under the wheels of that there machine with Tray to
help him, and between 'em they carried him to the
pavement."
"Humph!" said Aaron, resting his chin on his hand
and speaking more to himself than to his assistant,
"so Tray was on the spot. Humph!" Bart, having
brushed himself, moved behind the counter and took
up what Hokar had left. "Why, it's brown sugar!"
he exclaimed, touching it with his tongue, "coarse
brown sugar—a handful." He stretched out his palm
heaped with the sugar to his master. "What do that
furrein pusson mean by leaving dirt about? ”
"I don't know, nor do I care," snapped Aaron, who
appeared to be out of temper. "Throw it away!"
which Bart did, after grumbling again at the impu-
dence of the street hawker.
Norman did not go upstairs, but descended to the
cellar, where he busied himself in looking over the
contents of the three safes. In these, were many
small boxes filled with gems of all kind, cut and un-
cut: also articles of jewellery consisting of necklaces,
bracelets, stars for the hair, brooches, and tiaras.
The jewels glittered in the flaring gaslight, and Aaron
fondled them as though they were living things.
“ You beauties," he whispered to himself, with his
one eye gloating over his hoard. "I'll sell you,
though it goes to my heart to part with lovely things.
But I must—I must—and then I'll gor not to Amer-
ica—oh, dear no! but to the South Seas. They won't
find me there—nono! I'll be rich, and happy, and
free. Sylvia can marry and live happy. But the ser-
77


The Opal Serpent
pent," he said in a harsh tone, "oh, the opal serpent!
The pawnbroker's shop. Stowley—yes—I know it. I
know it. Stowley. They want it back; but they
sha'n't. I'll buy it from Beecot by giving him Sylvia.
It's lost—lost." He looked over his shoulder as he
spoke in a terrified whisper. "Perhaps they have it,
and then—then," he leaped up and flung the armful
of baubles he held on to the deal table," and then—I
must get away—away."
He pulled out three or four coarse sacks of a small
size and filled these with the jewellery. Then he
tied a cord round the neck of each sack and sealed
it. Afterwards, with a sigh, he closed the safe and
turned down the gas. He did not leave by the trap,
which led through the shop, but opened and locked
the back door of the cellar, ascended the steps and
went out into the street through the side passage.
"If they come," he thought as he walked into the
gathering night, "they won't find these. No! no!"
and he hugged the bags closely.
Sylvia upstairs waited anxiously for the return of
her father from the hospital, as she both wanted to
hear how her lover was progressing and what he
said about the permission to marry being given.
But Aaron did not come to supper, as was his usual
custom. Bart said, when inquiries were made, that
the master had gone down into the cellar and was
probably there. Meanwhile, according to his usual
habit, he put up the shutters and departed. Sylvia
and Deborah ate their frugal meal and retired to
bed, the girl much disturbed at the absence of her
father. Outside, in the street, the passers-by dim-
inished in number, and as the night grew darker
and the lamps were lighted hardly a person re-
mained in Gwynne Street. It was not a fashion-
able thoroughfare, and after nightfall few people
came that way. By eleven o'clock there was not a
soul about. Even the one policeman who usually
78


A Noise in the Night
perambulated the street was conspicuous by his ab-
sence.
Sylvia, in her bed, had fallen into a troubled sleep,
and was dreaming of Paul, but not happily. She
seemed to see him in trouble. Then she woke
suddenly, with all her senses alert, and sat up.
Faintly she heard a wild cry, and then came the
twelve strokes of the church bells announcing mid-
night. Breathlessly she waited, but the cry was not
repeated. In the darkness she sat up listening until
the quarter chimed. Then the measured footsteps of
a policeman were heard passing down the street and
dying away. Sylvia was terrified. Why, she hardly
knew : but she sprang from her bed and hurried into
Deborah's room. "Wake up," she said, "there's
something wrong."
Deborah was awake in a moment and lighted the
lamp. On hearing Sylvia's story she went down the
stairs followed by the girl. The door at the bottom,
strange to say, was not locked. Deborah opened
this, and peering into the shop gave a cry of alarm
and horror.
Lying on the floor was Aaron, bound hand and
foot.


CHAPTER VII
A TERRIBLE NIGHT
"Go back!—go back, my precious!" cried Deborah,
her first thought being how to spare Sylvia the
sight.
But the girl, remembering that agonized cry which
had awakened her, faint and far away as it sounded,
pushed past the servant and ran into the middle of
the shop. The lamp, held high by Deborah over her
head, cast a bright circle of light on the floor, and in
the middle of this Sylvia saw her father breathing
heavily. His hands were bound behind his back in
a painful way, his feet were tightly fastened, and his
head seemed to be attached to the floor. At least,
when the body (as it seemed from its stillness)
suddenly writhed, it rolled to one side, but the head
remained almost motionless. The two women hung
back, clutching each other's hands, and were almost
too horrified to move at the sight. "Look! Look!"
cried Sylvia, gasping, " the mouth!" Deborah looked
and gave a moan. Aaron's mouth was rigidly closed
under a glittering jewel. Deborah bent down, still
moaning, so great did the horror of the thing para-
lyse her speech, and saw the lights flash back from
many diamonds: she saw bluish gleams and then a
red sparkle like the ray of the setting sun. It was
the opal serpent brooch, and Aaron's lips were fast-
ened together with the stout pin. On his mouth and
across his agonised face in which the one eye gleamed
80


A Terrible Night
with terrific meaning the jewelled serpent seemed to
writhe.
"Oh, poor soul!" cried Deborah, falling on her
knees with the lamp still held above her head.“ Sylvia
see"
The girl gasped again, and impulsively knelt also,
trying with nerveless fingers to unfasten the cruel
pin which sealed the man's lips. He still lived, for
they heard him breathing and saw the gleaming eye:
but even as they looked the face grew black: the
eye opened and closed convulsively. Deborah set
down the lamp and tried to raise the head. She
could not lift it from the floor. Then the bound
feet swung in the air and fell again with a dull thud.
The eye remained wide open, staring in a glassy
manner: the breathing had stopped: and the body
was motionless. "He's dead," said Deborah, leap-
ing to her feet and catching away the girl. “ Help!
Help!"
Her loud voice rang fiercely through the empty shop
and echoed round and round. But there came no
answering cry. Not a sound could be heard in the
street. On the bare floor was the lamp shining on that
dreadful sight: the body with sealed lips, and the glit-
tering jewel, and leaning against the wall were the
two women, Deborah staring at her dead master, but
with Sylvia's eyes pressed against her bosom so that
she might not witness the horror. And the stillness
deepened weirdly every moment.
Sylvia tried to move her head, but Deborah pressed
it closer to her breast. "Don't, my pretty—don't,"
she whispered harshly.
"I must—I—ah!" the girl freed her head from
those kind arms with a wrench, and looked at the
gruesome sight. She staggered forward a few steps,
and then fell back. Deborah received her in her
arms, and, thankful that Sylvia had fainted, carried
her up the stairs to lay the unconscious girl on her
81


The Opal Serpent
own bed. Then she descended rapidly, locked the
door leading from the shop to the stairs, and again
looked at the body. The time she had been away
was about seven or eight minutes, and the body still
remained with the one open eye staring meaninglessly
at the ceiling. Deborah, drawn by fascination like
a bird by a serpent, crept forward and touched the
head. It moved, and she again tried to lift it. This
time she found she could do so. The head she
lifted against her breast, and then laid it down with
horror when she found the bosom of her nightgown
was stained with blood. Pulling her wits together,
for she felt that she needed them every one, she
examined the head and neck. To her horror she
found round the throat a strong thin copper wire,
which disappeared through a hole in the floor.
Apparently this had been pulled so tightly as to
keep the head down and to choke the old man, and
so cruelly as to cut deeply into the flesh. With a
moan of horror Deborah dropped the head and ran
to the trap-door in the corner. If anywhere, those
who had murdered Aaron Norman were lurking in
the cellar. But the trap-door would not open, and
then she remembered that it was closed by a bolt
underneath. She could not reach the midnight assas-
sin that way.
“ The front door," she gasped, and ran to unbolt
it. The bolts were easily removed, but the door was
also locked, and Aaron usually had the key de-
posited nightly in the cellar by Bart. Repugnant
as it was for her to approach the dead body,
Deborah again went forward and felt in the pockets
and loose clothing. The man was completely
dressed, even to an overcoat which he wore. But
she could not find the key and wondered what she
was to do. Probably the key had been hung up in
the cellar as usual. Necessity being the mother of
invention, she remembered that the window-glass


A Terrible Night
was fragile, and ran up in the hope of breaking
through. But the stout shutters were up, so
Deborah found that she was sealed in the house.
Almost in a state of distraction, for by this time her
nerve had given way, she unlocked the door to the
stairs and ran up three steps at a time to the sitting-
room. Here she opened the window and scrambled
out on to the ledge among Sylvia's flower-pots.
Just as she was wondering how she could get down,
the measured tread of a policeman was heard, and
by craning her neck Deborah saw him coming
leisurely along the street, swinging his dark lantern
on the windows and doors. It was a moonlight
night and the street was extraordinarily well lighted
as the moon shone straightly between the houses.
Gathering her strength for a last effort, Deborah
yelled as only she could yell, and saw the startled
officer spinning round, looking up and down and
sideways to see where the shrieks came from. "Up
—up—oh, look up, you fool!" screamed Deborah.
"Murder—oh, murder! Burst in the door, call the
police, drat you! Help!—help!"
By this time she was the centre of a circle of bright
light, for the policeman had located her, and his lan-
tern was flashing on her white nightgown as she clung
to the window-sill.
"What are you making that noise for?" called up
the officer, gruffly.
..“ Murder, you fool!" screamed Deborah. "Mas-
ter's murdered. Number forty-five—the door's locked
—break it open. Police !—police!”.
Before she finished the sentence the officer blew
his whistle shrilly and ran to the door of the shop,
against which he placed his shoulder. Deborah
climbed in again by the window, and ran down
again, but even then, in her excitement and horror,
she did not forget to lock the door leading to the
stairs, so that Sylvia might not be disturbed. As
83


The Opal Serpent
she descended she flung a thick shawl over her
shoulders, which she had caught up when leaving her
room, though for the rest she had nothing on but a
nightgown. But the poor woman was too terrified to
be troubled by any scruples at the moment, and
reached the shop to hear heavy blows on the door.
Between the thuds Deborah could hear footsteps run-
ning inward from every quarter. "I ain't got the
key!" she shrieked through the keyhole; “ break in
the door, drat you! Murder !—murder!"
From the noise she made those without concluded
that some terrible crime was taking place within, and
redoubled their efforts. Deborah had just time to
leap back after a final scream when the door fell flat
on the floor, and three policemen sprang into the
room with drawn batons and their lights flashing
like stars. The lamp was still on the floor shedding
its heavy yellow light on the corpse. "Master!"
gasped Deborah, pointing a shaking finger. "Dead
—the—the cellar—the—" and here she made as to
drop. A policeman caught her in his arms, but the
woman shook herself free. "I sha'n't faint—no—I
sha'n't faint," she gasped," the cellar—look—look-
She ran forward and raised the head of the dead man.
When the officers saw the dangling slack wire dis-
appearing through a hole in the floor they grasped
the situation. “ The passage outside!" cried Deborah,
directing operations; “ the trap-door," she ran to it,
“ fast bolted below, and them murdering people are
there."
"How many are there?" asked a policeman, while
several officers ran round the back through the side
passage.
"Oh, you dratted fool, how should I know!" cried
Deborah, fiercely; “ there may be one and there may
be twenty. Go and catch them—you're paid for it.
Send to number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury, for
Bart."


A Terrible Night
“Who is Bart?"
"Go and fetch him," cried Deborah, furious at this
delay; “number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury. Oh,
what a night this is ! I'm agoin' to see Miss Sylvia,
who has fainted, and small blame," and she made for
the locked door. An officer came after her. “ Go
away," shrieked Deborah, pushing him back. “ I've
got next to nothink on, and my pretty is ill. Go
away and do your business."
Seeing she was distracted and hardly knew what
she was saying, the man drew back, and Deborah ran
up the stairs to Sylvia's room, where she found the
poor girl still unconscious.
Meanwhile, an Inspector had arrived, and one of
the policemen was detailing all that had occurred
from the time Deborah had given the alarm at the
window. The Inspector listened quietly to every-
thing, and then examined the body. "Strangled
with a copper wire," he said, looking up. "Go for a.
doctor one of you. It goes through the floor," he
added, touching the wire which still circled the
throat, "and must have been pulled from below.
Examine the cellar."
Even as he spoke, and while one zealous officer ran
off for a medical man, there was a grating sound and
the trap-door was thrown open. A policeman leaped
into the shop and saluted when he saw his superior.
By this time the gas had been lighted. "We've broken
down the back door, sir," said he, "the cellar door-
it was locked but not bolted. Nothing in the cellar,
everything in order, but that wire," he pointed to the
means used for strangling, “ dangled from the ceiling
and a cross piece of wood is bound to the lower
end."
"Who does the shop belong to?"
"Aaron Norman," said the policeman whose beat
it was; " he's a second-hand bookseller, a quiet, harm-
less, timid sort of man."
85


The Opal Serpent
maar
“Anyone about?"
"No, sir. I passed down Gwynne Street at about
a quarter past twelve and all seemed safe. When I
come back later—it might have been twenty minutes
and more—say twenty-five—I saw the woman who
was down here clinging to a window on the first floor,
and shouting murder. I gave the summons, sir, and
we broke open the door."
Inspector Prince laid down the dead man's head
and rose to his feet with a nod. "I'll go upstairs
and see the woman," he said;" tell me when the doc-
tor comes."
Upstairs he examined the sitting-room, and lighted
the gas therein; then he mounted another storey after
looking through the kitchen and dining-room. In a
bedroom he found an empty bed, but heard someone
talking in a room near at hand. Flinging open the
door he heard a shriek, and found himself confronted
by Deborah, who had hastily flung on some clothes.
"Don't come in," she cried, extending her arm," for
I'm just getting Miss Sylvia round."
"Nonsense," said the Inspector, and pushing her
roughly aside he stepped into the room. On the bed
lay Sylvia, apparently still unconscious, but as the
man looked at her she opened her eyes with a long
sigh. Deborah put her arms round the girl and
began to talk to her in an endearing way. Shortly
Sylvia sat up, bewildered. "What is it?" she asked.
Then her eyes fell on the policeman. "Oh, where is
my father?"
"" He's dead, pretty," said Deborah, fondling her.
“ Don't take on so."
"Yes I remember—the body on the floor—the
serpent across the mouth—oh—oh!" and she fainted
again.
"There!" cried Deborah, with bitter triumph,“ see
what you've done.”
“ Come—come," said Inspector Prince, though as
86


A
Terrible Night
gently as possible. "I am in charge of this case.
Tell me what has happened."
"If you'd use your blessed eyes you'd see murder
has happened," said Miss Junk, savagely. "Let me
attend to my pretty."
Just at this moment a tall young man entered the
room. It was the doctor. “ The policemen said you
were up here," he said in a pleasant voice. “ I've
examined the body, Inspector. The man is quite
dead—he has been strangled—and in a cruel manner
with that copper wire, which has cut into the throat,
to say nothing of this," and the doctor held out the
brooch.
"That, drat it !" cried Deborah, vigorously, "it's the
cause of it all, I do believe, if I died in saying so,"
and she began to rub Sylvia's hands vigorously.
"Who is this young lady? " asked the doctor; "an-
other patient?"
"And well she may be," said Miss Junk. "Call
yourself a doctor, and don't help me to bring her to."
"Do what you can," said Prince, "and you," he
added to Deborah, “ come down with me. I wish to
ask you a few questions."
Deborah was no fool and saw that the Inspector
was determined to make her do what he wanted.
Besides, Sylvia was in the hands of the doctor, and
Deborah felt that he could do more than she, to bring
the poor girl to her senses. After a few parting
injunctions she left the room and went downstairs
with the Inspector. The police had made no further
discovery.
Prince questioned not only the Gwynne Street
policeman, who had given his report, but all others
who had been in the vicinity. But they could tell
him nothing. No one suspicious had been seen leav-
ing Gwynne Street north or south, so, finding he
could learn nothing in this direction, Prince turned
his attention to the servant. “ Now, then, what do
87


The Opal Serpent
you know?" he asked. "Don't say anything likely to
incriminate yourself."
"Me!" shouted Deborah, bouncing up with a fiery
face.“ Don't you be taking away my character. Why,
I know no more who have done it than a babe un-
born, and that's stupid enough, I 'opes, Mr. Policeman.
Ho! indeed, and we pays our taxes to be insulted by
you, Mr. Policeman." She was very aggravating, and
many a man would have lost his temper. But In-
spector Prince was a quiet and self-controlled officer,
and knew how to deal with this violent class of women.
He simply waited till Deborah had exhausted herself,
and then gently asked her a few questions. Finding
he was reasonable, Deborah became reasonable on her
part, and replied with great intelligence. In a few
minutes the Inspector, by handling her deftly, learned
all that had taken place on that terrible night,
from the time Sylvia had started up in bed at the
sound of that far-distant cry of a soul in agony.
“ And that, from what Miss Sylvia says," ended
Deborah, "was just before the church clock struck
the hour of twelve."
“ You came down a quarter of an hour later?"
"I did, when Miss Sylvia woke me," said Deborah;
"she was frightened out of her seven senses, and
couldn't get up at once. Yes—it was about twenty
minutes after the hour we come down to see—It,"
and the woman, strong nerved as she was, shuddered.
"Humph," said the Inspector, "the assassin had
time to escape."
“ Begging your pardon, sir, them, or him, or her,
or it as murdered master was below in the cellar
when we saw the corp—not that it was what you'd
call a corp then."
"Will you say precisely what you mean?"
Deborah did so, and with such wealth of detail that
even the hardened Inspector felt the creeps down his
official back. There was something terribly merciless


A Terrible Night
about this crime. The man had been bound like a
sheep for the slaughter; his mouth had been sealed
with the brooch so that he could not cry out, and
then in the sight of his child and servant he had
been slowly strangled by means of the copper wire
which communicated with the cellar. One of the
policemen brought up an auger which evidently had
been used to bore the hole for the wire to pass
through, for the fresh sawdust was still in its
whorls. "Who does this belong to?" Prince asked
Deborah.
"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using
it along with other tools to make some deal boxes for
master, who was going away. I expect it was found
in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart always brought
it in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard,
weather being fine, of course," ended Deborah,
sniffing.
"Where is this Bart?"
“ In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband,
which he is," said Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of
them idle bobbies to go and fetch him from Blooms-
bury."
"One has gone," said another policeman. “ Bart
Tawsey isn't he?"
"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the
servant, grandly. "I only hope he'll be here soon to
protect me."
"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat
there was a smile on the faces of his underlings, for
Deborah in her disordered dress and with her
swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But
what about this brooch you say is the cause of it
all?"
Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you
kill me I can't talk of it now," she protested. "The
brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."
"And where is he?”


The Opal Serpent
“In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to
know, and as he's engaged to my pretty you needn't
think he done it—so there."
"I am accusing no one," said the Inspector, grimly,
“ but we must get to the bottom of this horrible
crime."
"Ah, well you may call it that," wailed Deborah,
“ with that serping on his poor mouth and him
wriggling like an eel to get free. But 'ark, there's
my pretty a-calling," and Miss Junk dashed head-
long from the shop shouting comfort to Sylvia as
she went.
Prince looked at the dead man and at the opal
serpent which he held in his hand. "This at one
end of the matter, and that at the other. What is
the connecting link between this brooch and that
corpse?”
90


CHAPTER VIII
THE VERDICT OF THE JURY
As may be guessed, the murder of Aaron Norman
caused a tremendous sensation. One day the name
was unknown, the next and it was in the mouths of
the millions. The strange circumstances of the
crime, the mystery which shrouded it, the abomi-
nable cruelty of the serpent brooch having been used
to seal the man's lips while he was being slowly
strangled, deepened the interest immensely. Here,
at last was a murder worthy of Wilkie Collins's or
Gaboriau's handling; such a crime as one expected
to read of in a novel, but never could hope to hear of
in real life. Fact had for once poached on the domains
of fiction.
But notwithstanding all the inquiries which were
made, and all the vigilance of the police, and all the
newspaper articles, and all the theories sent by
people who knew nothing whatever of the matter,
nothing tangible was discovered likely to lead to a
discovery of the assassins or assassin. It was con-
jectured that two people at least had been concerned
in the committal of the crime, as, weak physically
though he was, the deceased would surely not have
allowed himself to be bound by one person, however
strong that person might be. In such a case there
would certainly have been a scuffle, and as the
daughter of the murdered man heard his cry for help
—which was what Sylvia did hear—she would cer-
tainly have heard the noise of a rough-and-tumble


The Opal Serpent
struggle such as Norman would have made when
fighting for his life. But that single muffled cry was
all that had been heard, and then probably the brooch
had been pinned on the mouth to seal it for ever.
Later the man had been slowly strangled, and in the
sight of his horrified daughter.
Poor Sylvia received a severe shock after witness-
ing that awful sight, and was ill for some days. The
faithful Deborah attended to her like a slave, and
would allow no one, save the doctor, to enter the
sick-room. Bart Tawsey, who had been summoned
to Gwynne Street from his bed, remained in the
empty shop and attended to any domestic duties
which Miss Junk required to be performed. She
made him cook viands for Sylvia and for herself, and,
as he had been trained by her before, to act as an
emergency cook, he did credit to her tuition. Also
Bart ran messages, saw that the house was well
locked and bolted at night, and slept on a hastily-
improvised bed under the counter. Even Deborah's
strong nerves were shaken by the horrors she had
witnessed, and she insisted that Bart should remain
to protect her and Sylvia. Bart was not over-strong,
but he was wiry, and, moreover, had the courage of a
cock sparrow, so while he was guarding the house
Deborah had no fears, and could attend altogether
to her sick mistress.
One of the first people to call on Miss Norman
was a dry, wizen monkey of a man, who announced
himself as Jabez Pash, the solicitor of the deceased.
He had, so he said, executed Aaron's legal business
for years, and knew all his secrets. Yet, when ques-
tioned by the police, he could throw no light on the
murder. But he knew of something strange connected
with the matter, and this he related to the detective
who was now in charge of the case.
This officer was a chatty, agreeable, pleasant-faced
man, with brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin.
92


The Verdict of the Jury
Also, to match his face, no doubt, he wore brown
clothes, brown boots, a brown hat and a brown tie-
in fact, in body, face and hands and dress he was all
brown, and this prevalent color produced rather a
strange effect. "He must ha' bin dyed," said Miss
Junk when she set eyes on him. "But brown is bet-
ter nor black, Miss Sylvia, though black you'll have
to wear for your poor par, as is gone to a better land,
let us hope, though there's no knowing."
The brown man, who answered to the name of
Hurd, or, as he genially described himself, “ Billy"
Hurd, saw Mr. Pash, the lawyer, after he had ex-
amined everyone he could lay hold of in the hopes
of learning something likely to elucidate the mystery.
"What do you know of this matter, sir?" asked the
brown man, pleasantly.
Pash screwed up his face in a manner worthy of
his monkey looks. He would have been an absolute
image of one with a few nuts in his cheek, and as he
talked in a chattering sort of way, very fast and a
trifle incoherent, the resemblance was complete.
"I know nothing why my esteemed client should
meet with such a death," he said, "but I may
mention that on the evening of his death he called
round to see me and deposited in my charge four
bags of jewels. At least he said they were jewels,
for the bags are sealed, and of course I never opened
them."
“ Can I see those bags?" asked Hurd, amiably.
The legal monkey hopped into the next room and
beckoned Hurd to follow. Shortly the two were
looking into the interior of a safe wherein reposed
four bags of coarse white canvas sealed and tied
with stout cords. "The odd thing is," said Mr. Pash,
chewing his words, and looking so absurdly like a
monkey that the detective felt inclined to call him
“ Jacko," "that on the morning of the murder, and
before I heard anything about it, a stranger came
93


The Verdict of the Jury
anan will only to go on from Barto Hurd, deur
he left within five minutes of my departure, saying,
he could not wait."
“ Have you seen him since?"
"I have not seen him since. But I am glad that I
saved the property of my client."
“ Was Norman rich? ”
“ Very well off indeed, but he did not make his
money out of his book-selling business. In fact," said
Pash, putting the tips of his fingers delicately together,
“ he was rather a good judge of jewels."
"And a pawnbroker," interrupted Hurd, dryly. "I
have heard all about that from Bart Tawsey, his shop-
man. Skip it and go on."
"I can only go on so far as to say that Miss Nor-
man will probably inherit a fortune of five thousand
a year, beside the jewels contained in those bags.
That is," said Mr. Pash, wisely, "if the jewels be not
redeemed by those who pawned them."
"Is there a will ? ” asked Hurd, rising to take his
leave.
Pash screwed up his eyes and inflated his cheeks,
and wriggled so much that the detective expected an
acrobatic performance, and was disappointed when
it did not come off. "I really can't be sure on that
point," he said softly. "I have not yet examined the
papers contained in the safe of my deceased and
esteemed client. He would never allow me to make
his will. Leases—yes—he has some house-property-
mortgages—yes—investments—yes—he entrusted me
with all his business save the important one of mak-
ing a will. But a great many other people act in the
same strange way, though you might not think so,
Mr. Hurd. They would never make a lease, or let a
house, or buy property, without consulting their legal
adviser, yet in the case of wills (most important docu-
ments) many prefer to draw them up themselves. Con-
sequently, there is much litigation over wrongly-drawn
documents of that nature.”


The Opal Serpent
"All the better for you lawyers. Well, I'm off to
look for your nautical gentleman."
"Do you think he is guilty ? ”
"I can't say," said Hurd, smiling, "and I never
speak unless I am quite sure of the truth."
“ It will be hard to come at, in this case," said th%
lawyer.
Billy the detective smiled pleasantly and shrugged
his brown shoulders. "So hard that it may never be
discovered," he said. "You know many mysteries are
never solved. I suspect this Gwynne Street crime will
be one of them."
Hurd had learned a great deal about the opal
brooch from Sylvia and Deborah, and what they told
him resulted in his visiting the Charing Cross
Hospital to see Paul Beecot. The young man was
much worried. His arm was getting better, and the
doctors assured him he would be able to leave the
hospital in a few days. But he had received a letter
from his mother, whom he had informed of his
accident. She bewailed his danger, and wrote with
many tears—as Paul saw from the blotted state of
the letter—that her domestic tyrant would not allow
her to come to London to see her wounded darling.
This in itself was annoying enough, but Paul was
still more irritated and excited by the report of
Aaron's terrible death, which he saw in a newspaper.
So much had this moved him that he was thrown
into a high state of fever, and the doctor refused to
allow him to read the papers. Luckily, Paul, for his
own sake, had somewhat calmed down when Hurd
arrived, so the detective was permitted to see him.
He sat by the bedside and told the patient who he was.
Beecot looked at him sharply, and then recognized him.
"You are the workman," he said astonished.
"Yes, Mr. Beecot, I am. I hear that you have not
taken my warning regarding your friend, Mr. Grexon
Hay."
96


The Verdict of the Jury
“Ah! Then you knew his name all the time!"
"Of course I did. I merely spoke to you to set
you on your guard against him. He'll do you no
good."
"But he was at school with me," said Beecot,
angrily.
* That doesn't make him any the better companion,"
replied Hurd; "see here, Mr. Beecot, we can talk of
this matter another time. At present, as I am allowed
to converse with you only for a short time, I wish to
ask you about the opal serpent."
Paul sat up, although Hurd tried to keep him down.
"What do you know of that?—why do you come to
me? ”
"I know very little and want to know more. As
I told you, my name is Billy Hurd, and, as I did not
tell you, I am the detective whom the Treasury has
placed in charge of this case."
"Norman's murder?"
"Yes! Have you read the papers ?"
"A few, but not enough. The doctors took them
from me and"
"Gently, Mr. Beecot. Let us talk as little as pos-
sible. Where did you get that brooch?"
"Why do you want to know? You don't suspect
me, I hope?"
Hurd laughed. “ No. You have been in this ward
all the time. But as the brooch was used cruelly
to seal the dead man's mouth, it seems to me, and to
Inspector Prince, that the whole secret of the murder
lies in tracing it to its original possessor. Now tell
me all about it," said Billy, and spread out his note-
book.
"I will if you'll tell me about Miss Norman. I'm
engaged to marry her and I hear she is ill."
"Oh, she is much better," said Hurd, pausing pencil
in hand,“ don't distress yourself. That young lady
is all right; and when you marry her you'll marry an
in hand, she is much it and I ha
97


The Opal Serpent
detailed allottom of 14 say, and", yes
heiress, as I learn from the lawyer who does the busi-
ness of the deceased."
"I don't care about her being the heiress. Will
you take a message to her from me?"
“ Certainly. What is it?" Hurd spoke quite sym-
pathetically, for even though he was a detective he
was a human being with a kindly heart.
"Tell her how sorry I am, and that I'll come and
see her as soon as I can leave this confounded
hospital. Thanks for your kindness, Mr. Hurd. Now,
what do you wish to know? Oh, yes—about the opal
serpent, which, as you say, and as I think, seems to
be at the bottom of all the trouble. Listen," and Paul
detailed all he knew, taking the story up to the time
of his accident.
Hurd listened attentively. "Oh," said he, with a
world of meaning, "so Mr. Grexon Hay was with
you? Hum! Do you suppose he pushed you into
the road on purpose?"
"No," said Paul, staring, "I'm sure he didn't.
What had he to gain by acting in such a way?"
"Money, you may be sure," said Hurd.“ That
gentleman never does anything without the hope of
a substantial reward. Hush! We'll talk of this when
you're better, Mr. Beecot. You say the brooch was
lost."
"Yes. It must have slipped out of my pocket
when I fell under the wheels of that machine. I
believe there were a number of loafers and ragged
creatures about, so it is just possible I may hear it
has been picked up. I've sent an advertisement to the
papers."
Hurd shook his head. "You won't hear," he said.
"How can you expect to when you know the brooch
was used to seal the dead man's lips?"
"I forgot that," said Paul, faintly. "My memory”
"Is not so good as it was." Hurd rose. “ I'll go,
as I see you are exhausted. Good-bye.”
98


The Verdict of the Jury
“Wait! You'll keep me advised of how the case
goes?"
“ Certainly, if the doctors will allow me to. Good-
bye," and Hurd went away very well satisfied with
the information he had obtained.
The clue, as he thought it was, led him to War-
grove, where he obtained useful information from Mr.
Beecot, who gave it with a very bad grace, and offered
remarks about his son's being mixed up in the case,
which made Hurd, who had taken a fancy to the
young fellow, protest. From Wargrove, Hurd went
to Stowley, in Buckinghamshire, and interviewed the
pawnbroker whose assistant had wrongfully sold the
brooch to Beecot many years before. There he
learned a fact which sent him back to Mr. Jabez Pash
in London.
"I says, sir," said Hurd, when again in the lawyer's
private room," that nautical gentleman of yours
pawned that opal serpent twenty years ago more or
less."
"Never," said the monkey, screwing up his face and
chewing.
“ Yes, indeed. The pawnbroker is an old man, but
he remembers the customer quite well, and his
description, allowing for the time that has elapsed,
answers to the man who tried to get the jewels from
you."
Mr. Pash chewed meditatively, and then inflated
his cheeks. “ Pooh," he said, "twenty years is a long
time. A man then, and a man now, would be quite
different."
"Some people never change," said Hurd, quietly.
"You have not changed much, I suspect."
"No," cackled the lawyer, rather amused. "I grew.
old young, and have never altered my looks."
"Well, this nautical gentleman may be the same.
He pawned the article under the name of David
Green—a feigned one, I suspect."
99


The Opal Serpent
“ Then you think he is guilty?"
"I have to prove that the brooch came into his
possession again before I can do that," said Hurd,
grimly. "And, as the brooch was lost in the street
by Mr. Beecot, I don't see what I can do. However,
it is strange that a man connected with the pawning
of the brooch so many years ago should suddenly
start up again when the brooch is used in connection
with a terrible crime."
“ It is strange. I congratulate you on having this
case, Mr. Hurd. It is an interesting one to look
into."
“ And a mighty difficult one," said Hurd, rather
depressed. "I really don't see my way. I have got
together all the evidence I can, but I fear the verdict
at the inquest will be wilful murder against some per-
son or persons unknown."
Hurd, who was not blind to his own limitations
like some detectives, proved to be a true prophet.
The inquest was attended by a crowd of people, who
might as well have stayed away for all they learned
concerning the identity of the assassin. It was proved
by the evidence of Sylvia and Deborah how the
murder had taken place, but it was impossible to
show who had strangled the man. It was presumed
that the assassin or assassins had escaped when
Deborah went upstairs to shout murder out of the
first-floor window. By that time the policeman on
the Gwynne Street beat was not in sight, and it
would have been easy for those concerned in the
crime—if more than one—to escape by the cellar
door, through the passage and up the street to mingle
with the people in the Strand, which, even at that
late hour, would not be deserted. Or else the assassin
or assassins might have got into Drury Lane and have
proceeded towards Oxford Street. But in whatever
direction they went, none of the numerous policemen
around the neighborhood on that fatal night had
e ough the than on for the hot in
100


The Verdict of the Jury
“spotted ” any suspicious persons. It was generally
assumed, from the peculiar circumstances of the
crime, that more than one person was inculpated,
and these had come out of the night, had committed
the cruel deed, and then had vanished into the night,
leaving no trace behind. The appearance of the
fellow whom Mr. Pash called the nautical gentleman
certainly was strange, and led many people to believe
that robbery was the motive for the commission of
the crime. "This man, who was powerful and could
easily have overpowered a little creature like Norman,
came to rob," said these wiseacres. "Finding that
the jewels were gone, and probably from a memor-
andum finding that they were in the possession of the
lawyer, he attempted the next morning to get them—"
and so on. But against this was placed by other
people the cruel circumstances of the crime. No
mere robbery would justify the brooch being used to
pin the dead man's lips together. Then, again, the
man being strangled before his daughter's eyes was
a refinement of cruelty which removed the case from
a mere desire on the part of the murdered to get
money. Finally, one man, as the police thought,
could not have carried out the abominable details
alone.
So after questions had been asked and evidence
obtained, and details shifted, and theories raised, and
pros and cons discussed, the jury was obliged to bring
in the verdict predicted by Mr. Hurd.“ Wilful murder
against some person or persons unknown," said the
jury, and everyone agreed that this was the only con-
clusion that could be arrived at.
Of course the papers took up the matter and
asked what the police were doing to permit so brutal
a murder to take place in a crowded neighborhood
and in the metropolis of the world. "What was
civilisation coming to and—" etc., etc. All the same
the public was satisfied that the police and jury
IOI


The Opal Serpent
had done their duty. So the inquest was held, the
verdict was given, and then the remains of Aaron
Norman were committed to the grave; and from the
journals everyone knew that the daughter left behind
was a great heiress. "A million of money," said the
Press, and lied as usual.
102


CHAPTER IX
CASTLES IN THE AIR
So Aaron Norman, the second-hand bookseller of
Gwynne Street, was dead and buried, and, it may be
said, forgotten. Sylvia and those connected with
her remembered the old man and his unhappy end,
but the public managed to forget all about the
matter in a wonderfully short space of time. Other
events took place, which interested the readers of
the newspapers more, and few recalled the strange
Gwynne Street crime. Many people, when they did
think, said that the assassins would never be discov-
ered, but in this they were wrong. If money could
hunt down the person or persons who had so cruelly
murdered Aaron Norman, his daughter and heiress
was determined that money could not be better spent.
And Billy Hurd, knowing all about the case and tak-
ing a profound interest in it by reason of the mystery
which environed it, was selected to follow up what
clues there were.
But while London was still seething with the
tragedy and strangeness of the crime, Mr. Jabez Pash
came to the heterogeneously-furnished sitting-room
in Gwynne Street to read the will. For there was
a will after all. Deborah, and Bart, who had
witnessed it at the request of their master, told Mr.
Pash of its existence, and he found it in one of the
three safes in the cellar. It proved to be a short,
curt document, such as no man in his senses would
think of making when disposing of five thousand a
Yof the finishedSe there had
103


The Opal Serpent
year. Aaron was a clever business man, and Pash
was professionally disgusted that he had left behind
him such a loose testament.
"Why didn't he come to me and have it properly
drawn up?" he asked as he stood in the cellar
before the open safe with the scrap of paper in his
hand.
Deborah, standing near, with her hands on her
haunches, laughed heartily. "I think master believed
he's spent enough money with you, sir. Lor' bless
you, Mr. Pash, so long as the will's tight and fair
what do it matter? Don't tell me as there's anything
wrong and that my pretty won't come into her
forting?"
"Oh, the will's right enough," said Pash, screwing
up his cheeks; “ let us go up to the sitting-room. Is
Miss Sylvia there?"
"That she are, sir, and a-getting back her pretty
color with Mr. Paul."
Pash looked suspiciously at the handmaiden.“ Who
is he?"
"Nobody to be spoke of in that lump of dirt way,"
retorted Deborah. "He's a gentleman who's going
to marry my pretty."
"Oh, the one who had the accident! I met him,
but forgot his name."
Miss Junk nodded vigorously. "And a mercy it
was that he wasn't smashed to splinters, with spiled
looks and half his limbses orf," she said. "Why, bless
you, Mr. Pash, could I let my sunbeam marry a man
as wasn't all there, 'eart of gold though he may have?
But the blessing of Providence kept him together,"
shouted Deborah in a burst of gratitude, "and there
he sits upstairs with arms to put about my lily-queen
for the drying of her dear eyes."
Mr. Pash was not at all pleased at this news and
rubbed his nose hard. "If a proper will had only
been made," he said aggressively, “a proper guardian
104


Castles in the Air
makinenind my
looks is not a pretty's fingerlin of iting
might have been appointed, and this young lady
would not have been permitted to throw herself
away."
"Beggin' your parding, Mr. Pash," said Deborah,
in an offended tone, "but this marriage is of my
making, to say nothing of Heaven, which brought
him and my pretty together. Mr. Beecot ain't got
money, but his looks is takin', and his 'eart is all that
an angel can want. My pretty's chice," added the
maiden, shaking an admonitory finger, "and my
pretty's happiness, so don't you go a-spilin' of it."
"I have nothing to say, save to regret that a young
lady in possession of five thousand a year should make
a hasty contract like this," said Mr. Pash, dryly, and
hopping up the cellar stairs.
"It wasn't hasty," cried Deborah, following and
talking all the time; "six months have them dears
billed and cooed lovely, and if my queen wants to
buy a husband, why not? Just you go up and read
the will proper and without castin' cold water on my
beauty's warm 'eart, or trouble will come of your
talkin'. I'm mild," said Deborah, chasing the little
lawyer up the stairs leading to the first floor, "mild
as flat beer if not roused: but if you make me red, my
'and flies like a windmill, and—"
Mr. Jabez Pash heard no more. He stopped his
legal ears and fled into the sitting-room, where he
found the lovers seated on a sofa near the window.
Sylvia was in Paul's embrace, and her head was on
his shoulder. Beecot had his arm in a sling, and
looked pale, but his eyes were as bright as ever, and
his face shone with happiness. Sylvia also looked
happy. To know that she was rich, that Paul was to
be her husband, filled the cup of her desires to the
brim. Moreover, she was beginning to recover from
the shock of her father's death, and was feverishly
anxious to escape from Gwynne Street, and from the
house where the tragedy had taken place.
105


The Opal Serpent
“Well," said Mr. Pash, drawing a long breath and
sucking in his cheeks, "you lose no time, young gen-
tleman."
Paul laughed, but did not change his position.
Sylvia indeed blushed and raised her head, but Paul
still held her with his uninjured arm, defying Mr.
Pash and all the world. "I am gathering rosebuds
while I may, Mr. Pash," said he, misquoting Herrick's
charming line.
"You have plucked a very pretty one," grinned the
monkey;“ but may I request the rosebud's attention ? "
Sylvia extricated herself from her lover's arm with
a heightened color, and nodded gravely. Seeing it
was business, she had to descend from heaven to
earth, but she secretly hoped that this dull little
lawyer, who was a bachelor and had never loved in
his dry little life, would soon go away and leave her
alone with Prince Charming. Deborah guessed these
thoughts with the instinct of fidelity, and swooped
down on her young mistress.
"It's the will, poppet," she whispered loudly, "but
if it do make your dear head ache Mr. Beecot will
listen."
"I wish Mr. Beecot to listen in any case," said Pash,
dryly, "if he is to marry my young and esteemed
client."
"We are engaged with the consent of my poor
father," said Sylvia, taking Paul's hand. “ I shall
marry no one but Paul."
"And Paul will marry an angel," said that young
man, with a tender squeeze, "although he can't keep
her in bread-and-butter."
"Oh, I think there will be plenty of bread-and-
butter," said the lawyer. “ Miss Norman, we have
found the will if," added Mr. Pash, disdainfully,
" this," he held out the document with a look of con-
tempt, " can be called a will."
" It's all right, isn't it?" asked Sylvia, anxiously.
106


Castles in the Air
“I mean the form and the writing and the paper,
young lady. It is a good will in law, and duly signed
and witnessed."
"Me and Bart having written our names, lovey,"
put in Deborah.
Pash frowned her into silence. "The will," he
said, looking at the writing, "consists of a few lines.
It leaves all the property of the testator to my
daughter.'"
"Your daughter!" screamed Deborah. "Why, you
ain't married."
"I am reading from the will," snapped Pash, col-
oring, and read again: "I leave all the real and per-
sonal property of which I may die possessed of to my
daughter."
“ Sylvia Norman!" cried Deborah, hugging her
darling.
"There you are wrong," corrected Pash, folding
up the so-called 'will, "the name of Sylvia isn't men-
tioned."
"Does that make any difference?" asked Paul,
quietly.
"No. Miss Norman is an only daughter, I be-
lieve."
"And an only child," said Deborah," so that's all
right. My pretty, you will have them jewels and
five thousand a year."
"Oh, Paul, what a lot of money!" cried Sylvia,
appalled. "Whatever will we do with it all?”
rejoicing not so much on account of the money, al-
though that was acceptable, but because this delightful
girl was all his very—very own.
"The question is," said Mr. Pash, who had been
reflecting, and now reproduced the will from his
pocket, "as to the name?"
"What name?" asked Sylvia, and Deborah echoed
the question.
107


The Opal Serpent
“ Your name." Pash addressed the girl direct.
“ Your father's real name was Krill—Lemuel
Krill."
Sylvia looked amazed, Deborah uttered her usual
ejaculation, “ Lor'!" but Paul's expression did not
change. He considered that this was all of a piece
with the murder and the mystery of the opal brooch.
Undoubtedly Mr. Lemuel Krill, alias Aaron Norman,
must have had good reason to change his name and
to exhibit terror at the sight of the brooch. And
the reason he dreaded, whatever it might be, had
been the cause of his mysterious and tragic death.
But Paul said nothing of these thoughts and there
was silence for a few minutes.
“ Lor,'" said Deborah again, "and I never knew.
Do he put that name to that, mister? ” she asked,
pointing to the will.
"Yes! It is signed Lemuel Krill," said Pash. "I
wonder you didn't notice it at the moment."
"Why, bless you, Mr. Pash, there weren't no mo-
ment," said Deborah, her hands on her hips as usual.
“ Master made that there will only a short time be-
fore he was killed."
Pash nodded. "I note the date," said he, "all in
order—quite."
"Master," went on Deborah, , looking at Paul,
"never got over that there fainting fit you gave him
with the serping brooch. And he writes out that
will, and tells Bart and me to put our names to it.
But he covered up his own name with a bit of red
blotting-paper. I never thought but that he hadn't
put Aaron Norman, which was his name."
"It was not his name," said Pash. “ His real
name I have told you, and for years I have known
the truth."
"Do you know why he changed his name?" asked
Beecot, quickly.
"No, sir, I don't. And if I did, I don't know if it
108


Castles in the Air
would be legal etiquette to reveal the reason to a
stranger."
“ He's not a stranger," cried Sylvia, annoyed.
"Well, then, to a young gentleman whom I have
only seen twice. Why do you ask, Mr. Beecot?"
"I was wondering if the change of name had any-
thing to do with the murder," said Paul, hesitating.
"How could it," said Pash, testily, "when the man
never expected to be murdered ? "
"Beggin' your parding, Mr. Pash, but you're all out,"
said Deborah. "Master did expect to have his throat
cut, or his 'ead knocked orf, or his inside removed—"
"Deborrah," cried Paul, hastily, "you are making
Sylvia nervous."
"Don't you worrit, pretty," said the maiden, "it's
only silly old Debby's way. But master, your par as
was, my pretty, went to church and prayed awful
against folk as he never named, to say nothin' of
lookin' over the left shoulder blade and sleepin' in
the cellar bolted and barred, and always with his
eye on the ground sad like. Old Baileys and police-
courts was in his mind, say what you like."
" I say nothing," rejoined Pash, putting on his hat
and hopping to the door. "Mr. Lemuel Krill did
not honor me with his confidence so far. He came
here, over twenty years ago and began business. I
was then younger than I am, and he gave me his
business because my charges were moderate. I know
all about him as Aaron Norman," added Pash, with
emphasis," but as Lemuel Krill I, knowing nothing
but the name, can say nothing. Nor do I want to.
Young people," ended the lawyer, impressively, "let
sleeping dogs lie."
"What do you mean?" asked Sylvia, looking
startled.
"Nothing—he means nothing," interposed Paul
hastily, for the girl had undergone quite enough tor-
ments. "What about the change of name?”
109


The Opal Serpent
“Ah yes !" said the lawyer, inquiringly. "Will you
call yourself Krill or Norman, Miss Sylvia ?"
"Seein' her name's to be changed to Beecot in a
jiffy," cried Deborah, “ it don't matter, and it sha'n't
matter. You leave Krill and its old Baileys, if old
Baileys there are in it, alone, my lovey, and be Miss
Norman till the passon and the clark, and the bells
and the ringers, and the lawr and the prophets turn
you into the loveliest bride as ever was," and Deborah
nodded vigorously.
"I wish father had mentioned my name in his will,"
said Sylvia, in a low voice, "and then I should know
what to call myself."
Paul addressed the lawyer. "I know little about
the legal aspect of this will”-
“ This amateur will," said Pash, slightingly.
"But I should like to know if there will be any
difficulty in proving it?"
"I don't think so. I have not gone through all
the safes below, and may come across the marriage
certificate of Miss Brill's—I beg pardon, Miss Nor-
man's—mother and father. Then there's the birth
certificate. We must prove that Miss Sylvia is the
daughter of my late esteemed client."
"What's that?" shouted Deborah. "Why, I knowed
her mother as died. She's the daughter right enough,
and _"
“ There's no need to shout," chattered Pash, angrily.
"I know that as well as you do; I must act, however,
as reason dictates. I'll prove the will and see that all
is right." Then, dreading Deborah's tongue he hastily
added "Good-day," and left the room. But he was
not to escape so easily. Deborah plunged after him
and made scathing remarks about legal manners all
the way down to the door.
Paul and Sylvia left alone looked and smiled and
fell into one another's arms. The will had been read
and the money left to the girl, thereby the future was
110


Castles in the Air
ught that Pas that is to be a dog
all right, so they thought that Pash's visit demanded
no further attention. "He'll do all that is to be done,"
said Paul. "I don't see the use of keeping a dog
and having to bark yourself."
"And I'm really a rich woman, Paul," said Sylvia,
gladly.
"Really and truly, as I am a pauper. I think per-
haps," said Beecot, sadly, "that you might make a
better match than—"
Sylvia put her pretty hand over his moustache. "I
won't hear it, Paul," she cried vehemently, with a
stamp of her foot. How dare you? As if you weren't
all I have to love in the world now poor father—is-
is de-a-d," and she began to weep. "I did not love
him as I ought to have done, Paul."
"My own, he would not let you love him very
much."
"N-o-o," said Sylvia, drying her eyes on Paul's
handkerchief, which he produced. "I don't know
why. Sometimes he was nice, and sometimes he
wasn't. I never could understand him, and you
know, Paul, we didn't treat him nicely."
"No," admitted Beecot, frankly, "but he forgave us."
"Oh, yes, poor dear, he did! He was quite nice
when he said we could marry and he would allow us
money. You saw him?"
"I did. He came to the hospital. Didn't he tell
you when he returned, Sylvia ?"
"I never saw him," she wept. "He never came up-
stairs, but went out, and I went to bed. He left the
door leading to the stairs open, too, on that night, a
thing he never did before. And then the key of the
shop. Bart used to hang it on a nail in the cellar
and father would put it into his pocket after supper.
Deborah couldn't find it in his clothes, and when she
went afterwards to the cellar it was on the nail. On
that night, Paul, father did everything different to
what he usually did.”
III


The Opal Serpent
“ He seems to have had some mental trouble," said
Paul, gently, "and I believe it was connected with
that brooch. When he spoke to me at the hospital
he said he would let you marry me, and would allow
us an income, if I gave him the serpent brooch to
take to America."
"But why did he want the brooch?" asked Sylvia,
puzzled.
"Ah!" said Beecot, with great significance,“ if we
could find out his reason we would learn who killed
him and why he was killed."
Sylvia wept afresh on this reference to the tragedy
which was yet fresh in her memory: but as weeping
would not bring back the dead, and Paul was much
distressed at the sight of her tears, she dried her eyes
for the hundredth time within the last few days and
sat again on the sofa by her lover. There they built
castles in the air.
"I tell you what, Sylvia," said Paul, reflectively;
"after this will business is settled and a few weeks
have elapsed, we can marry."
"Oh, Paul, not for a year! Think of poor father's
memory."
"I do think of it, my darling, and I believe I am
saying what your father himself would have said.
The circumstances of the case are strange, as you are
left with a lot of money and without a protector. You
know I love you for yourself, and would take you
without a penny, but unless we marry soon, and you
give me a husband's right, you will be pestered by
people wanting to marry you." Paul thought of
Grexon Hay when he made this last remark.
"But I wouldn't listen to them," cried Sylvia, with
a flush, "and Debby would soon send them away. I
love you dearest, dear."
“ Then marry me next month," said Paul, promptly.
“ You can't stop here in this dull house, and it will be
awkward for you to go about with Deborah, faithful
sive me a Penny, but unourself, and a protecto.ou are
h, amouldn't he may you", will soon, take you
112


Castles in the Air
the help. Thes And ?
though she is. No, darling, let us marry, and then we
shall go abroad for a year or two until all this sad
business is forgotten. Then I hope by that time to
become reconciled to my father, and we can visit
Wargrove."
Sylvia reflected. She saw that Paul was right, as
her position was really very difficult. She knew of no
lady who would chaperon her, and she had no relative
to act as such. Certainly Deborah could be a chap-
eron, but she was not a lady, and Pash could be a
guardian, but he was not a relative. Paul as her hus-
band would be able to protect her, and to look after
the property which Sylvia did not think she could do
herself. These thoughts made her consent to an early
marriage. "And I really don't think father would
have minded."
"I am quite sure we are acting as he would wish,"
said Beecot, decisively. "I am so thankful, Sylvia
sweetest, that I met you and loved you before pou
became an heiress. No one can say that I marry you
for anything save your own sweet self. And I am
doubly glad that I am to marry you and save you
from all the disagreeable things which might have
occurred had you not been engaged to me."
"I know, Paul. I am so young and inexperi-
enced."
"You are an angel," said he, embracing her. "But
there's one thing we must do "--and his voice became
graver—“we must see Pash and offer a reward for the
discovery of the person who killed your father."
"But Mr. Pash said let sleeping dogs lie," objected
Sylvia.
"I know he did, but out of natural affection, little
as your poor father loved you, we must stir up this
particular dog. I suggest that we offer a reward of
five hundred pounds."
"To whom?" asked Sylvia, thoroughly agreeing.
“ To anyone who can find the murderer. I think
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The Opal Serpent
myself, that Hurd will be the man to gain the money.
Apart from any reward he has to act on behalf of
the Treasury, and besides, he is keen to discover the
mystery. You leave the matter to me, Sylvia. We
will offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer
of_”
“ Aaron Norman," said Sylvia, quickly.
"No," replied her lover, gravely,“ of Lemuel Krill.”
114


CHAPTER X
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
Paul's reason for advertising the name of Lemuel
Krill was a very natural one. He believed that in
the past of the dead man was to be found his reason
for changing his name and living in Gwynne Street.
And in that past before he became a second-hand
bookseller and a secret pawnbroker might be found
the motive for the crime. Therefore, if a reward was
offered for the discovery of the murderer of Lemuel
Krill, alias Aaron Norman, something might come to
light relative to the man's early life. Once that was
known, the clue might be obtained. Then the truth
would surely be discovered. He explained this to
Hurd.
"I think you're right, Mr. Beecot," said the detect-
ive, in his genial way, and looking as brown as a
coffee bean. "I have made inquiries from the two
servants, and from the neighbors, and from what cus-
tomers I could find. Aaron Norman certainly lived a
very quiet and respectable life here. But Lemuel Krill
may have lived a very different one, and the mere
fact that he changed his name shows that he had
something to conceal. When we learn that something
we may arrive at the motive for the murder, and,
given that, the assassin may be caught."
"The assassin!" echoed Paul. "Then you think
there was only one."
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he
said. "I speak generally. From the strange circum-
115


The Opal Serpent
reward. ppointed offer thing tonce
Mr. Komeone ma will do also the fin
stances of the crime I am inclined to think that
there is more than one person concerned in this mat-
ter. However, the best thing to be done is to have
hand-bills printed offering the five hundred pounds
reward. People will do a lot to earn so much money,
and someone may come forward with details about
Mr. Krill which will solve the mystery of Norman's
death."
"I hope you will gain the reward yourself, Hurd."
The detective nodded. "I hope so too. I have
lately married the sweetest little wife in the world,
and I want to keep her in the way she has been ac-
customed to be kept. She married beneath her, as
I'm only a thief-catcher, and no very famous one
either."
"But if you solve this mystery it will do you a lot
of good."
"That it will," agreed Billy, heartily, "and it will
mean advancement and extra screw: besides the re-
ward if I can get it. You may be very sure, Mr. Bee-
cot, that I'll do my best. Oh, by the way," he added,
“ have you heard that Mr. Pash is being asked for
many of those jewels?"
“ No. Who are asking for them? Not that
nautical man?"
Hurd shook his head. "He's not such a fool,”'
said he. "No! But the people who pledged the
jewels are getting them back—redeeming them, in
fact. Pash is doing all the business thoroughly well,
and will keep what jewels remain for the time al-
lowed by law, so that all those who wish to redeem
them can do so. If not, they can be sold, and that
will mean more money to Miss Norman—by the way,
I presume she intends to remain Miss Norman."
"Until I make her Mrs. Beecot," said Paul, smil-
ing.
"Well," replied Hurd, very heartily, "I trust you
will both be happy. I think Miss Norman will get a
116


A Bolt From
the Blue
good husband in you, and you will gain the sweetest
wife in the world bar one."
“ Everyone thinks his own crow the whitest,"
laughed Beecot. "But now that business is ended
and you know what you are to do, will you tell me
plainly why you warned me against Grexon Hay?"
"Hum," said the detective, looking at Paul with
keen eyes, "what do you know about him, sir?"
Beecot detailed his early friendship with Hay at
Torrington, and then related the meeting in Oxford
Street. "And so far as I have seen," added Paul,
justly, "there's nothing about the man to make me
think he is a bad lot."
“ It is natural you should think well of him as you
know no wrong, Mr. Beecot. All the same, Grexon
Hay is a man on the market."
"You made use of that expression before. What
does it mean?"
"Ask Mr. Hay. He can explain best."
"I did ask him, and he said it meant a man who
was on the marriage market."
Hurd laughed. “ Very ingenious and untrue."
"Untrue!"
“ Certainly. Mr. Hay knows better than that. If
that were all he wouldn't think a working man
would warn anyone against him."
"He guessed you were not a working man," said
Paul, "and intimated that he had a liaison with a
married woman, and that the husband had set you
to watch."
"Wrong again. My interest in Mr. Hay doesn't
spring from divorce proceedings. He paints himself
blacker than he is in that respect, Mr. Beecot. My
gentleman is too selfish to love, and too cautious to
commit himself to a divorce case where there would
be a chance of damages. No! He's simply a man
on the market, and what that is no one knows better
than he does.”
III7


The Opal Serpent
“Well, I am ignorant."
"You shall be enlightened, sir, and I hope what I
tell you will lead you to drop this gentleman's ac-
quaintance, especially now that you will be a rich man
through your promised wife."
"Miss Norman's money is her own," said Paul,
with a quick flush. "I don't propose to live on what
she inherits."
"Of course not, because you are an honorable
man. But I'll lay anything you like that Mr. Hay
won't have your scruples, and as soon as he finds
your wife is rich he'll try and get money from her
through you."
"He'll fail then," rejoined Beecot, calmly. "I am
not up to your London ways, perhaps, but I am not
quite such a fool. Perhaps you will enlighten me as
you say."
Hurd nodded and caught his smooth chin with his
finger and thumb. "A man on the market," he ex-
plained slowly, " is a social highwayman."
"I am still in the dark, Hurd."
"Well, to be more particular, Hay is one of those
well-dressed blackguards who live on mugs. He has.
no money—"
"I beg your pardon, he told me himself that his
uncle had left him a thousand a year."
“ Pooh, he might as well have doubled the sum
and increased the value of the lie. He hasn't a
penny. What he did have, he got through pretty
quickly in order to buy his experience. Now that
he is hard up he practises on others what was
practised on himself. Hay is well-bred, good-looking,
well-dressed and plausible. He has well-furnished
rooms and keeps a valet. He goes into rather shady
society, as decent people, having found him out,
won't have anything to do with him. But he is a
card-sharper and a fraudulent company-promoter.
He'll borrow money from any juggins who is ass
118


A Bolt From the Blue
enough to lend it to him. He haunts Piccadilly,
Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade, and is
always smart, and bland, and fascinating. If he sees
a likely victim he makes his acquaintance in a
hundred ways, and then proceeds to fleece him. In
a word, Mr. Beecot, you may put it that Mr. Hay
is Captain Hawk, and those he swindles are
pigeons."
Paul was quite startled by this revelation, and it
was painful to hear it of an old school friend. "He
does not look like a man of that sort," he remon-
strated.
"It's not his business to look like a man of that
sort," rejoined the detective. "He masks his batteries.
All the same he is one of the most dangerous men
on the market at the present in town. A young
peer whom he plucked two years ago lost everything
to him, and got into trouble over some woman. It
was a nasty case and Hay was mixed up in it. The
relatives of the victim—I needn't give his title-
asked me to put things right. I got the young
nobleman away, and he is now travelling to acquire
the sense he so sadly needed. I have given Mr. Hay
a warning once or twice, and he knows that he is being
watched by us. When he slips, as he is bound to do,
sooner or later, then he'll have to deal with me. Oh
I know how he hunts for clients in fashionable hotels,
smart restaurants, theatres and such-like places. He
is clever, and although he has fleeced several lambs
since he plucked the pigeon I saved, he has, as yet,
been too clever to be caught. When I saw you with
him, Mr. Beecot, I thought it just as well to put you
on your guard."
"I fear he'll get little out of me," said Paul. "I
am too poor."
"You are rich now through your promised wife,
and Hay will find it out."
"I repeat that Miss Norman's money has nothing
since her and ants the
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The Opal Serpent
to do with me. And I may mention that as soon as
the case is in your hands, Mr. Hurd—”.
“ Which it is now," interpolated the detective.
"I intend to marry Miss Norman and then we will
travel for a time."
"That's very wise of you. Give Hay a wide berth.
Of course, if you meet him, you needn't tell him what
I have told you. But when he tries to come Captain
Hawk over you, be on your guard."
"I shall, and thanks for the warning."
So the two parted. Hurd went away to have the
bills printed, and Paul returned to Gwynne Street to
arrange with Sylvia about their early marriage.
Deborah was in the seventh heaven of delight that
her young mistress would soon be in a safe haven
and enjoy the protection of an honorable man.
Knowing that she would soon be relieved from care,
she told Bart Tawsey that they would be married at
the same time as the young couple, and that the
laundry would be started as soon as Mr. and Mrs.
Beecot left for the Continent. Bart, of course, agreed
—he always did agree with Deborah—and so every-
thing was nicely arranged.
Meanwhile Pash worked to prove the will, pay
the death-duties, and to place Sylvia in full pos-
session of her property. He found in one of the
safes the certificate of the girl's birth, and also the
marriage certificate of Aaron Norman in the name of
Lemuel Krill. The man evidently had his doubts of
the marriage being a legal one if contracted under
his alias. He had married Lillian Garner, who was
described as a spinster. But who she was and where
she came from, and what her position in life might
be could not be discovered. Krill was married in a
quiet city church, and Pash, having searched, found
everything in order. Mrs. Krill—or Norman as she
was known—lived only a year or two after her mar-
riage, and then died, leaving Sylvia to the care of
120


A Bolt From the Blue
her husband. There were several nurses in succes-
sion, until Deborah grew old enough to attend alone
on her young mistress. Then Norman dismissed the
nurse, and Deborah had been Sylvia's slave and
Aaron's servant until the tragic hour of his death.
So, everything being in order, there was no difficulty
in placing Sylvia in possession of her property.
Pash was engaged in this congenial work for
several weeks, and during that time all went
smoothly. Paul paid daily visits to the Gwynne
Street house, which was to be vacated as soon as he
made Sylvia his wife. Deborah searched for her
laundry and obtained the premises she wanted at a
moderate rental. Sylvia basked in the sunshine of
her future husband's love, and Hurd hunted for the
assassin of the late Mr. Norman without success.
The hand-bills with his portrait and real name, and a
description of the circumstances of his death, were
scattered broadcast over the country from Land's
End to John-0'Groats, but hitherto no one had
applied for the reward. The name of Krill seemed
to be a rare one, and the dead man apparently had
no relatives, for no one took the slightest interest in
the bills beyond envying the lucky person who would
gain the large reward offered for the conviction of the
murderer.
Then, one day Deborah, while cleaning out the
cellar, found a piece of paper which had slipped
down behind one of the safes. These had not been
removed for many years, and the paper, apparently
placed carelessly on top, had accidentally dropped
behind. Deborah, always thinking something might
reveal the past to Sylvia and afford a clue to the
assassin, brought the paper to her mistress. It
proved to be a few lines of a letter, commenced but
never finished. But the few lines were of deep
interest.
"My dear daughter," these ran, "when I die you
I21


The Opal Serpent
will find that I married your mother under the name
of Lemuel Krill. That is my real name, but I wish
you to continue to call yourself Norman for neces-
sary reasons. If the name of Krill gets into the
papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from the
public. I can tell you where to find the reasons for
this as I have written—" Here the letter ended
abruptly without any signature. Norman apparently
was writing it when interrupted, and had placed it
unfinished on the top of the safe, whence it had fallen
behind to be discovered by Deborah. And now it had
strangely come to light, but too late for the request
to be carried out.
"Oh, Paul," said Sylvia, in dismay, when they read
this together, "and the bills are already published
with the real name of my father."
"It is unfortunate," admitted Paul, frowning.
"But, after all, your father may have been troubled
unnecessarily. For over the fortnight the bills have
been out and no one seems to take an interest in the
matter."
"But I think we ought to call the bills in," said
Sylvia, uneasily.
"That's not such an easy matter. They are
scattered broadcast, and it will be next to impossible
to collect them. Besides, the mischief is done.
Everyone knows by this time that Aaron Norman is
Lemuel Krill, so the trouble whatever it may be,
must come."
“ What can it be?" asked the girl anxiously.
Paul shook his head. "Heaven only knows," said
he, with a heavy heart. "There is certainly some-
thing in your father's past life which he did not wish
known and which led to his death. But since the
blow has fallen and he is gone, I do not see how the
matter can affect you, my darling. I'll show this to
Pash and see what he says. I expect he knows more
about your father's past than he will admit.”
-
-
-
--
-
------ -
122


A Bolt From the Blue
“But if there should be trouble, Paul—"
“ You will have me to take it off your shoulders,"
he replied, kissing her. "My dearest, do not look so
pale. Whatever may happen you will always have
me to stand by you. And Deborah also. She is worth
a regiment in her fidelity."
So Sylvia was comforted, and Paul, putting the
unfinished letter in his pocket, went round to see
Pash in his Chancery Lane office. He was stopped
in the outer room by a saucy urchin with an im-
pudent face and a bold manner. "Mr. Pash is en-
gaged," said this official, “ so you'll 'ave to wait, Mr.
Beecot."
Paul looked down at the brat, who was curly-headed
and as sharp as a needle. "How do you know my
name?" he asked. "I never saw you before."
" I'm the new office-boy," said the urchin, "wishin'
to be respectable and leave street-'awking, which
ain't what it was. M'name's Tray, an' I've seen you
afore, mister. I 'elped to pull you out from them
wheels with the 'aughty gent as guv me a bob fur
doin' it."
"Oh, so you helped," said Paul, smiling. "Well,
here is another shilling. I am much obliged to you,
Master Tray. But from what Deborah Junk says
you were a guttersnipe. How did you get this post ? "
"I talked m'self int' it," said Tray, importantly.
“ Newspapers ain't good enough, and you gets pains
in wet weather. So I turns a good boy "—he grinned
evilly—“and goes to a ragged kids' school to do the
'oly. The superintendent ses I'm a promising case,
and he arsked Mr. Pash, as is also Sunday inclined, to
'elp me. The orfice-boy 'ere went, and I come."
Tray tossed the shilling and spat on it for luck as he
slipped it into the pocket of quite a respectable pair
of trousers. “ So I'm on m'waiy to bein' Lord
Mayor turn agin Wittington, as they ses in the
panymine.”
123


The Opal Serpent
“Well," said Beecot, amused, "I hope you will
prove yourself worthy."
Tray winked. "Ho! I'm straight es long es it's
wuth m'while. I takes m'sal'ry 'ome to gran, and
don't plaiy pitch an' torse n'more." He winked again,
and looked as wicked a brat as ever walked.
Paul had his doubts as to what the outcome of Mr.
Pash's charity would be, and, being amused, was
about to pursue the conversation, when the inner
door opened and Pash, looking troubled, appeared.
When he saw Paul he started and came forward.
"I was just about to send Tray for you," said he,
looking anxious. “ Something unpleasant has come
to light in connection with Krill."
Beecot started and brought out the scrap of paper.
“ Look at that," he said, "and you will see that the
man warned Sylvia."
Pash glanced hurriedly over the paper. “ Most
unfortunate," he said, folding it up and puffing out
his cheeks; "but it's too late. The name of Krill
was in those printed bills—a portrait also, and
now "
"Well, what?" asked Paul, seeing the lawyer hesi-
tated.
"Come inside and you'll see," said Pash, and con-
ducted Beecot into the inner room.
Here sat two ladies. The elder was a woman of
over fifty, but who looked younger, owing to her fresh
complexion and plump figure. She had a firm face,
with hard blue eyes and a rather full-lipped mouth.
Her hair was white, and there was a great deal of it.
Under a widow's cap it was dressed d la Marie
Antoinette, and she looked very handsome in a full-
blown, flowery way. She had firm, white hands,
rather large, and, as she had removed her black
gloves, these, Paul saw, were covered with cheap
rings. Altogether a respectable, well-dressed widow,
but evidently not a lady.
124


A Bolt From the Blue
Nor was the girl beside her, who revealed sufficient
similarity of features to announce herself the daughter
of the widow. There was the same fresh complexion,
full red lips and hard blue eyes. But the hair was of
a golden color, and fashionably dressed. The young
woman—she likewise was not a lady—was also in
black.
“ This," said Pash, indicating the elder woman, who
smiled, "is Mrs. Lemuel Krill."
"The wife of the man who called himself Aaron
Norman," went on the widow; "and this," she in-
dicated her daughter, "is his heiress.”
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A Cuckoo in the Nest
Shakeme is the is engravelled again
Aaron Norman had been murdered. I never thought
he was the man who had left me more than twenty
years ago with an only child to bring up. But the
bills offering the reward assured me that Norman
and Krill are one and the same man. Therefore,"
she drew herself up and looked piercingly at the
young man, "I have come to see after the property.
I understand from the papers that my daughter is an
heiress to millions."
"Not millions," said Pash, hastily. "The news-
papers have exaggerated the amount. Five thousand
a year, madam, and it is left to Sylvia."
"Who is Sylvia ?” asked Mrs. Krill, in the words of
Shakespeare's song.
"She is the daughter of Mr. Norman," said Paul,
quickly, "and is engaged to marry me."
Mrs. Brill's eyes travelled over his shabby suit from
head to foot, and then back again from foot to head.
She glanced sideways at her companion, and the girl
laughed in a hard, contemptuous manner. "I fear
you will be disappointed in losing a rich wife, sir,"
said the elder woman, sweetly.
"I have not lost the money yet," replied Paul, hotly.
“ Not that I care for the money."
"Of course not," put in Mrs. Krill, ironically, with
another look at his dress.
“ But I do care for Sylvia Norman—"
“ With whom I have nothing to do."
"She is your husband's daughter."
"But not mine. This is my daughter, Maud—the
legal daughter of Lemuel and myself," she added
meaningly.
"Good heavens, madam," cried Beecot, his face
turning white,“ what do you mean?"
Mrs. Krill raised her thick white eyebrows, and
shrugged her plump shoulders, and made a graceful
motion with her white, be-ringed hand. "Is there
any need for me to explain?" she said calmly.
127


The Opai Serpent
"I think there is every need," cried Beecot, sharply.
"I shall not allow Miss Norman to lose her fortune
or—"
"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nev-
ertheless, I am assured that the law of the land will
protect, through me, my daughter's rights. She leaves
it in my hands."
"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and
soft as her smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her
hands."
Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan.
He was thinking not so much of the loss of the
money, although that was a consideration, as of the
shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a
gleam of hope darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman
was married to Sylvia's mother under his own name.
You can't prove the marriage void."
"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take
place?"
Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-
two years ago," and he gave the date.
Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she car-
ried and brought out a shabby blue envelope. "I
thought this might be needed," she said, passing it to
Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate.
I became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago.
And, as I am still living, I fear the later marriage”
She smiled blandly and shrugged her shoulders again.
“ Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.
"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot,
stung by the insinuation.
"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the
look of a treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity
of all right-thinking people. Many would speak
harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my troubles
have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for
the girl."
" And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul,
.
128


A Cuckoo in the Nest
throwing back his head; "and you forget, madam,
there is a will."
Mrs. Brill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and
her hard eyes shot fire. "A will," she said slowly.
"I shall dispute the will if it is not in my favor. I
am the widow of this man and I claim full justice.
Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her
tongue, "I understood from the newspapers that the
money was left to Mr. Krill's daughter."
“ Certainly. To Sylvia Krill."
"Norman, sir. She has no right to any other
name. But I really do not see why I should explain
myself to you, sir. If you choose to give this girl
your name you will be doing a good act. At present
the poor creature is—nobody." She let the last word
drop from her lips slowly, so as to give Paul its full
sting.
Beecot said nothing. He could not dispute what
she said. If this woman could prove the marriage of
thirty years ago, then Krill, or Norman as he called
himself, had committed bigamy, and, in the hard
eyes of the law, Sylvia was nobody's child. And
that the marriage could be proved Paul saw well
enough from the looks of the lawyer, who was study-
ing the certificate which he had drawn from the shabby
blue envelope. "Then the will—the money is left to
Sylvia," he said with obstinacy. "I shall defend her
rights."
"Of course," said Mrs. Krill, significantly. "I un-
derstand that a wife with five thousand"
"I would marry Sylvia without a penny."
“ Indeed, sir, that is the only way in which you can
marry her. If you like I shall allow her twenty
pounds for a trousseau."
Paul rose and flung back his head again. "You
have not got the money yet, madam," he said de-
fiantly.
Not at all disturbed, Mrs. Krill smiled her eternal
129


The Opal Serpent
smile. "I am here to get it. There is a will, you
say," she added, turning to Pash. "And I understand
from this gentleman," she indicated Beecot slightly,
" that the money is left to Mr. Krill's daughter. Does
he name Maud or Sylvia ? ”
Pash slapped down the certificate irritably. "He
names no one. The will is a hasty document badly
worded, and simply leaves all the testator died pos-
sessed of to—my daughter."
"Which of course means Maud here. I congratu-
late you, dear," she said, turning to the girl, who
looked happy and flushed. "Your father has made up
to us both for his cruelty and desertion."
Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went
to the door. But there his common sense left him
and he made a valedictory speech. "I know that Mr.
Krill left the money to Sylvia.” .
"Oh, no," said the widow, “ to his daughter, as I
understand the wording of the will runs. In that case
this nameless girl has nothing."
"Pash!" cried Beecot, turning despairingly to the
little solicitor.
The old man shook his head and sucked in his
cheeks. "I am sorry, Mr. Beecot," said he, in a pity-
ing tone, "but as the will stands the money must cer-
tainly go to the child born in wedlock. I have the
certificate here," he laid his monkey paw on it, "but
of course I shall make inquiries."
" By all means," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. "My
daughter and myself have lived for many years in
Christchurch, Hants. We keep the inn there—not
the principal inn, but a small public-house on the
outskirts of the village. It will be a change for us
both to come into five thousand a year after such
penury. Of course, Mr. Pash, you will act for my
daughter and myself."
"Mr. Pash acts for Sylvia," cried Paul, still linger-
ing at the door. The lawyer was on the horns of a
Stone, cams shook
130


A Cuckoo in the Nest
dilemma. "If what Mrs. Krill says is true I can't
dispute the facts," he said irritably, "and I am un-
willing to give up the business. Prove to me, ma'am,
that you are the lawful widow of my late client, and
that this is my late esteemed client's lawful daughter,
and I will act for you."
Mrs. Brill's ample bosom rose and fell and her eyes
glittered triumphantly. She cast a victorious glance
at Beecot. But that young man was looking at the
solicitor. "Rats leave the sinking ship," said he, bit-
terly; "you will not prosper, Pash."
"Everyone prospers who protects the widow and
the orphan," said Pash, in a pious tone, and so dis-
gusted Paul that he closed the door with a bang and
went out. Tray was playing chuck-farthing at the
door and keeping Mr. Grexon Hay from coming
in.
"You there, Beecot?" said this gentleman, coldly,
"I.wish you would tell this brat to let me enter."
"Brat yourself y' toff," cried Tray, pocketing his
money. "Ain't I a-doin' as my master tells me? He's
engaged with two pretty women ”he leered in a way
which made Paul long to box his ears—“so I don't
spile sport. You've got tired of them, Mr. Beecot?"
"How do you know Mr. Beecot's name?" asked
Hay, calmly.
"Lor', sir. Didn't you and me pull him from under
the wheels ?"
"Oh," said Grexon, suddenly enlightened, “ were
you the boy? Since you have washed your face I
didn't recognize you. Well, Beecot, you look dis-
turbed."
"I have reason to. And since you and this boy
pulled me from under the wheels of the motor," said
Paul, glancing from one to the other, "I should like
to know what became of the brooch."
" I'm sure I don't know," said Grexon, quietly*
"We talked of this before. I gave it as my opinion,
131


The Opal Serpent
if you remember, that is was picked up in the street
by the late Aaron Norman and was used to seal his
mouth. At least that is the only way in which I
can conjecture you lost it."
“ You never saw it drop from my pocket?”.
"I should have picked it up and returned it had I
seen it," said Hay, fixing his eye-glass. "Perhaps
this boy saw it."
"Saw what?" asked Tray, who was listening with
both his large ears.
“ An old blue-velvet case with a brooch inside," said
Beecot, quickly.
Tray shook his head vigorously. "If I'd seen it I'
ha' nicked it," he said impudently; "catch me givin'
it back t' y', Mr. Beecot. There's a cove I knows—a
fence that is—as 'ud give me lots fur it. Lor'," said
Tray, with deep disappointment, “ to think as that
dropped out of your pocket and I never grabbed it.
Wot crewel luck—ho!" and he spat.
Paul looked hard at the boy, who met his gaze inno-
cently enough. Apparently he spoke in all serious-
ness, and really lamented the lost chance of gaining a
piece of jewellery to make money out of. Moreover,
had he stolen the brooch, he would hardly have talked
so openly of the fence he alluded to. Hay the young
man could not suspect, as there was positively no
reason why he should steal so comparatively trifling
an article. Sharper as he was, Hay flew at higher
game, and certainly would not waste his time, or risk
his liberty, in stealing what would bring him in only a
few shillings.
"Why don't you ask the detectives to search for the
brooch," said Hay, smiling.
" It is in the detective's possession," said Paul, sul-
lenly; "but we want to know how it came to pin
Norman's lips together."
"I can't imagine, unless he picked it up. If lost
at all it must have been lost in the street the old
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A Cuckoo in the Nest
man lived in, and you told me he wanted the brooch
badly."
"But he wasn't on the spot?"
"Wot," cried Tray, suddenly, “ the one-eyed cove?
Ho, yuss, but warn't he? Why, when they was a-gitin'
the ambulance, an' the peelers wos a-crowdin' round,
he come dancing like billeo out of his shorp."
Beecot thought this was strange, as he understood
from Deborah and Bart and Sylvia that Norman
had known nothing of the accident at the time.
Then again Norman himself had not mentioned it
when he paid that visit to the hospital within a few
hours of his death. "I don't think that's true," he
said to Tray sharply.
"Oh, cuss it," said that young gentleman, “wot d'I
care. Th' ole cove come an' danced in the mud, and
then he gits in his shorp again. Trew is trew, saiy
wot y' like, mister—ho."
Beecot turned his back on the boy. After all, he
was not worth arguing with, and a liar by instinct.
Still, in this case he might have spoken the truth.
Norman might have appeared on the scene of the acci-
dent and have picked up the brooch. Paul thought
he would tell Hurd this, and, meantime, held out his
hand to Hay. In spite of the bad character he had
heard of that young man, he saw no reason why he
should not be civil to him, until he found him out.
Meantime, he was on his guard.
"One moment," said Grexon, grasping the out-
stretched hand. "I have something to say to you,"
and he walked a little way with Paul. "I am going
in to see Pash on business which means a little money
to me. I was the unfortunate cause of your accident,
Beecot, so I think you might accept twenty pounds
or so from me."
"No, thank you all the same," said Paul gratefully,
yet with a certain amount of caution. "I can strug-
gle along. After all, it was an accident."
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The Opal Serpent
“A very unfortunate one," said Hay, more heartily
than usual. "I shall never forgive myself. Is your
arm all right?"
"Oh, much better. I'll be quite cured in a week
or so."
“ And meantime how do you live?"
"I manage to get along," replied Paul, reservedly.
He did not wish to reveal the nakedness of the land
to such a doubtful acquaintance.
“ You are a hard-hearted sort of chap," said Hay
coldly, but rather annoyed at his friendly advances
being flouted. "Well, then, if you won't accept a
loan, let me help you in another way. Come and
dine at my rooms. I have a young publisher com-
ing also, and if you meet him he will be able to do
something for you. He's under obligations to me,
and you may be certain I'll use all my influence in
your favor. Come now—next Tuesday—that's a week
off—you can't have any engagement at such a long
notice."
Paul smiled. "I never do have any engagements,"
he said with his boyish smile, "thank you. I'll look
in if I can. But I am in trouble, Grexon—very great
trouble."
“ You shouldn't be," said Hay, smiling. "I know
well enough why you will not accept my loan. The
papers say Sylvia, your Dulcinea, has inherited a
million. You are to marry her. Unless," said Hay,
suddenly, "this access of wealth has turned her head
and she has thrown you over. Is she that sort of
girl?"
"No," said Paul quietly," she is as true to me as I
am to her. But you are mistaken as to the million.
It is five thousand a year, and she may not even in-
herit that."
"What do you mean?"
"I am not at liberty to say. But with regard to
your dinner," added Paul, hastily changing the
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A Cuckoo in the Nest
conversation, "I'll come if I can get my dress-suit
out of pawn."
"Then I count on you," said Hay, blandly, " though
you will not let me help you to obtain the suit. How-
ever, this publisher will do a lot for you. By Jove,
what a good-looking girl."
He said this under his breath. Miss Maud Krill
appeared on the doorstep where the two young men
stood and stumbled against Grexon in passing. His
hat was off at once, and he apologized profusely.
Miss Krill, who seemed a young woman of few
words, as Paul thought from her silence in the
office, smiled and bowed, but passed on, without
saying a "thank you." Mrs. Krill followed, escorted
by the treacherous Pash who was all smiles and
hand-washings and bows. Apparently he was quite
convinced that the widow's story was true, and Paul
felt sick at the news he would have to tell Sylvia.
Pash saw the young man, and meeting his indignant
burrow. The widow sailed out in her calm, serene
way, without a look at either Paul or his companion.
Yet the young man had an instinct that she saw them
both.
“ That's the mother I expect," said Hay, putting
his glass firmly into his eye; " a handsome pair. Gad,
Paul, that young woman—eh?"
"Perhaps you'd like to marry her," said Paul, bit-
terly.
Hay drew himself up stiffly. "I don't marry stray
young women I see on the street, however attractive,"
he said in his cold voice. "I don't know either of
these ladies."
"Pash will introduce you if you make it worth his
while."
"Why the deuce should I," retorted Hay, staring.
“ Well," said Beecot, impulsively telling the whole
of the misfortune that had befallen him, that is the
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The Opal Serpent
wife and that is the daughter of Aaron Norman, alias
Krill. The daughter inherits five thousand a year, so
marry her and be happy."
"But your Dulcinea ?" asked Grexon, dropping his
eye-glass in amazement.
"She has me and poverty," said Paul, turning away.
Nor could the quiet call of Hay make him stop. But
at the end of the street he looked back, and saw
Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay
was the man Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he
would inquire about the heiress and marry her too,
if her banking account was large and safe.
136


CHAPTER XII
THE NEW LIFE
For obvious reasons Beecot did not return to Gwynne
Street. It was difficult to swallow this bitter pill
which Providence had administered. In place of
an assured future with Sylvia, he found himself
confronted with his former poverty, with no chance
of marrying the girl, and with the obligation of tell-
ing her that she had no right to any name. Paul
was by no means a coward, and his first impulse was
to go at once and inform Sylvia of her reverse of
fortune. But it was already late, and he thought it
would be only kind to withhold the bad news till
the morrow, and thus avoid giving the disinherited
girl a tearful and wakeful night. Therefore, after
walking the Embankment till late, Paul went to his
garret.
To the young man's credit it must be said that he
cared very little for the loss of the money, although
he grieved on Sylvia's account. Had he been able
to earn a small income, he would have married the
girl and given her the protection of his name without
the smallest hesitation. But he was yet unknown to
fame; he was at variance with his father, and he could
scarcely bring Sylvia to share his bitter poverty-
which might grow still more bitter in that cold and
cheerless garret.
Then there was another thing to consider. Paul
had written to his father explaining the circum-
stances of his engagement to Sylvia, and asking for
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The New Life
ich pior readed time. Part of
Beecot senior nobly forgave the past and Paul's
many delinquences (mentioned in detail) and would
be glad to welcome his daughter-in-law. Then
Beecot, becoming the tyrant again, insisted that the
marriage should take place in Wargrove, and that
the fact of Sylvia's father being murdered should be
suppressed. In fact, the old gentleman left nothing
to the young couple, but arranged everything in his
own selfish way, even to choosing, in Wargrove, the
house they would inhabit. The house, he mentioned,
was one of his own which could not be let on account
of some trivial tale of a ghost, and Mr. Beecot would
give this as a marriage gift to Paul, thus getting rid of
an unprofitable property and playing the part of a
generous father at one and the same time. In spite
of his bucolic ways and pig-headed obstinacy and
narrow views, Beecot senior possessed a certain
amount of cunning which Paul read in every line of
the selfish letter before him.
However, the main point was, that the old gentle-
man seemed ready to overlook the past and to re-
ceive Sylvia. Paul wanted to return to his home,
not so much on account of his father, as because he
wished to smooth the remaining years of his mother,
and he knew well that Sylvia with her gentle ways
and heart of gold would make Mrs. Beecot happy.
So long as Paul loved the girl he wished to marry,
the mother was happy; but Beecot senior had an eye
to the money, and thus was ready to be bribed into
forgiveness and decent behavior. Now all this
was altered. From the tone of the letter, Paul knew
his father would never consent to his marrying a girl
not only without a name, but lacking the fortune
which alone rendered her desirable in his eyes. Still,
the truth would have to be told, and if Beecot senior
refused to approve of the marriage, the young couple
would have to do without his sanction. The position,
thought Paul, would only make him work the harder,
much on a the remaining with herBeecot happy;
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The Opal Serpent
so that within a reasonable time he might be able to
provide a home for Sylvia.
So, the young man facing the situation, bravely
wrote to his father and explained how the fortune
had passed from Sylvia, but declared, with all the
romance of youth, that he intended to marry the girl
all the same. If Beecot senior, said Paul, would
permit the marriage, and allow the couple a small
income until the husband could earn enough to keep
the pot boiling, the writer would be grateful. If not,
Paul declared firmly that he would work like a slave
to make a home for his darling. But nothing in the
world would make him give up Sylvia. This was
the letter to his father, and then Paul wrote one to
his mother, detailing the circumstances and implor-
ing her to stand by him, although in his own sinking
heart he felt that Mrs. Beecot was but a frail reed on
which to lean. He finished these letters and posted
them before mid-night. Then he went to bed and
dreamed that the bad news was all moonshine, and
that Sylvia and he were a happy rich married pair.
But the cold grey searching light of dawn brought
the actual state of things again to his mind and so
worried him that he could hardly eat any breakfast.
He spent the morning in writing a short tale, for
which he had been promised a couple of sovereigns,
and took it to the office of the weekly paper which
had accepted it, on his way to Gwynne Street. Paul's
heart was heavy, thinking of what he had to tell, but
he did not intend to let Sylvia see that he was de-
spondent. On turning down the street he raised his
head, assumed a smile and walked with a confident
step into the shop.
As he entered he heard a heavy woman plunge down
the stairs, and found his arm grasped by Deborah, very
red-faced and very furious, the moment he crossed
the threshold. Bart could be heard knocking boxes
together in the cellar, as he was getting Deborah's
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The New Life
belongings ready for removal to Jubileetown, where
the cottage, and the drying ground for the laundry,
had already been secured through Pash. But Paul
had no time to ask what was going on. A glance at
the hand-maiden's tearful face revealed that she knew
the worst, in which case Sylvia must also have heard
the news.
"Yes," cried Deborah, seeing the sudden whiteness
of Paul's cheeks, and shaking him so much as to hurt
his injured arm," she knows, she do—oh, lor', bless us
that things should come to this—and there she's
settin' a-crying out her beautiful eyes for you, Mr.
Beecot. Thinking of your throwin' her over, and if
you do," shouted Deborah, with another shake,
"you'd better ha' bin smashed to a jelly than face
me in my presingt state. Seein' you from the winder
I made bold to come down and arsk your intentings;
for if them do mean no marriage and the breaking
of my pretty's 'eart, never shall she set eyes agin on a
double-faced Jonah, and—and—" Here Deborah
gasped for breath and again shook Paul.
"Deborah," he said, in a quiet voice, releasing
himself, "I love Sylvia for herself and not for her
money."
Deborah threw her brawny arms in the air and her
apron over her red head. "I knowed it—oh, yuss,
indeed," she sobbed in muffled tones. "Ses I, I ses,
Mr. Paul's a gentleman whatever his frantic par may
be and marry you, my own lovey, he will, though not
able to afford the marriage fees, the same as will
come out of Debby's pocket, though the laundry go
by the board. 'Eaven knows what we'll live on all
the same, pore wurkhus ijets as me an' Bart are, not
bein' able to make you an' Miss Sylvia 'appy. Miss
Sylvia Krill an' Norman both," ended Deborah with
emphasis, "whatever that smooth cat with the grin
and the clawses may say, drat her fur a slimy tabby
—yah!”
141


The Opal Serpent
to him earlier. Your father committed bigamy, and
you, poor child, have to pay the penalty."
"Well, even if the marriage is wrong, the money
was left to us."
"To you, dear," said Beecot, leading her to the
sofa, "that is, the money was left in that loosely-
worded will to 'my daughter. We all thought it
was you, but now this legal wife has come on the
scene, the money must go to her daughter. Oh,
Sylvia," cried Paul, straining her to his breast,“ how
foolish your father was not to say the money was left
to my daughter Sylvia.' Then everything would
have been right. But the absence of the name is
fatal. The law will assume that the testator meant
his true daughter."
"And am I not his true daughter?" she asked, her
lips quivering.
“ You are my own darling, Sylvia," murmured
Paul, kissing her hair; “ don't let us talk of the
matter. I'll speak to my lawyer friend, but I fear
from the attitude of Pash that Mrs. Krill will make
good her claim. Were there a chance of keeping you
in possession of the money, Pash would never have
left you so easily."
"I am so sorry about the money on your account,
Paul."
"My own," he said cheerily, "money is a good
thing, and I wish we could have kept the five
thousand a year. But I have you, and you have me,
and although we cannot marry for a long time
yet—"
"Not marry, Paul! Oh, why not?"
"Dearest, I am poor. I cannot drag you down to
poverty."
Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed. "I am poor
already." She looked round the room. "Nothing
here is mine. I have only a few clothes. Mr. Pash
said that Mrs. Krill would take everything. Let me
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The New Life
marry you, darling," she whispered coaxingly, "and
we can live in your garret. I will cook and mend,
and be your own little wife."
Beecot groaned. "Don't tempt me, Sylvia," he
said, putting her away, " I dare not marry you. Why,
I have hardly enough to pay the fees. No, dear, you
must go with Debby to her laundry, and I'll work
night and day to make enough for us to live on. Then
we'll marry, and—"
"But your father, Paul?"
"He won't do anything. He consented to our
engagement, but solely, I believe, because he thought
you were rich. Now, when he knows you are poor
and I wrote to tell him last night—he will forbid the
match."
“ Paul!" She clung to him in sick terror.
“ My sweetest"—he caught her in his arms—" do
you think a dozen fathers would make me give you
up? No, my love of loves—my soul, my heart of
hearts—come good, come ill, we will be together.
You can stay with Debby at Jubileetown until I
make enough to welcome you to a home, however
humble. Dear, be hopeful, and trust in the God who
brought us together. He is watching over us, and,
knowing that, why need we fear? Don't cry, darling
heart."
“ I'm not crying for crying," sobbed Sylvia, hiding
her face on his breast and speaking incoherently; " but
I'm so happy—"
"In spite of the bad news?" asked Paul, laughing
gently.
"Yes—yes—to think that you should still wish
to marry me. I am poor—I—I—have—no name,
and—"
“ Dearest, you will soon have my name."
"But Mrs. Krill said—”.
"I don't want to hear what she said," cried Paul,
impetuously; "she is a bad woman. I can see bad-
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The Opal Serpent
ness written all over her smiling face. We won't
think of her. When you leave here you won't see her
again. My own dear little sweetheart," whispered
Paul, tenderly, "when you leave this unhappy housey
let the bad past go. You and I will begin a new life.
Come, don't cry, my pet. Here's Debby."
Sylvia looked up, and threw herself into the faithful
servant's arms. "Oh, Debby, he loves me still; he's
going to marry me whenever he can."
Deborah laughed and wiped Sylvia's tears away
with her coarse apron, tenderly. "You silly flower,"
she cried caressingly; "you foolish queen of 'oney
bees, of course he have you in his 'eart. You'll be
bride and I'll be bridesmaid, though not a pretty one,
and all will be 'oney and sunshine and gates of pearl,
my beauty."
“ Debby—I'm—I'm—so happy!"
Deborah placed her young mistress in Paul's arms.
“ Then let 'im make you 'appier, pretty lily of the
valley. Lor', as if anything bad 'ud ever come to
you two while silly old Debby have a leg to stan' on
an' arms to wash. Though the laundry—oh, lor'!"
and she rubbed her nose till it grew scarlet, “ what
of it, Mr. Beecot, I do ask?"
"Have you enough money to pay a year's rent?"
"Yes, me and Bart have saved one 'undred between
us. Rent and furniture and taxes can come out of
it, sure. And my washin's what I call washin'," said
Deborah, emphatically; "no lost buttings and tored
sheets and ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen
'erself, tho' I ses it as shouldn't. Give me a tub, and
you'll see if the money don't come in."
"Well, then, Deborah, as I am too poor to marry
Sylvia now, I want her to stop with you till I can
make a home for her."
“ An' where else should she stop but with her own
silly, foolish Debby, I'd like to know ? My flower,
you come an' be queen of the laundry.”
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The New Life
" I'll keep the accounts, Debby," said Sylvia, now
all smiling
"You'll keep nothin' but your color an' your dear
'eart up," retorted Debby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull
do all. An' this blessed day we'll go to Jubileetown
with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"
"I'll come and see you settled, Deborah, and then
I return to earn an income for Sylvia. I won't let
you keep her long."
"She'll stop as long as she have the will," shouted
Debby, hugging Sylvia; “ as to that Krill cat-”
“ She can take possession as soon as she likes. And,
Deborah," added Paul, significantly, “ for all that has
happened, I don't intend to drop the search for your
late master's murderer."
" It's the Krill cat as done it," said Debby, “ though
I ain't got no reason for a-sayin' of such a think.”
147


CHAPTER XIII
THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS
As Paul expected, the next letter from his father
contained a revocation of all that had pleased him in
the former one. Beecot senior wrote many pages
of abuse—he always did babble like a complaining
woman when angered. He declined to sanction the
marriage and ordered his son at once—underlined
—to give up all thought of making Sylvia Norman
his wife. It would have been hard enough, wrote
Beecot, to have received her as a daughter-in-law
even with money, seeing that she had no position
and was the daughter of a murdered tradesman, but
seeing also that she was a pauper, and worse, a girl
without a cognomen, he forbade Paul to bestow on
her the worthy name of Beecot, so nobly worn by
himself. There was much more to the same effect,
which Paul did not read, and the letter ended grandi-
loquently in a command that Paul was to repair at
once to the Manor and there grovel at the feet of
his injured father.
To this despotic epistle the young man answered
in a few lines. He said that he intended to marry
Sylvia, and that nothing would make him give her
up, and that he would not meet his father again
until that father remembered that his son was an
Englishman and not a slave. Paul signed his letter
without the usual “ your affectionate son," for he felt
that he had small love for this imperious old man
who declined to control his passions. So he now
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The Detectives Views
knew the worst. The breach between himself and
his father was wider than ever, and he had only his
youth and his brains to depend upon, in making a
living for himself and a home for Sylvia. Strange to
say, Paul's spirits rose, and he braced himself bravely
to do battle with fortune for his beloved.
Sylvia, under the charge of Deborah, and escorted
by Bart Tawsey, had duly left Gwynne Street, bag
and baggage, and she was now established in Rose
Cottage, Jubileetown. The house was a small one,
and there was not a single rose in the garden around
it. Indeed, as the cottage had been newly erected,
there was not even a garden, and it stood amidst a
bare acre with a large drying-ground at the back.
But the cottage, on the outskirts of the new suburb,
was, to all intents and purposes, in the country, and
Sylvia's weary eyes were so gladdened by green
fields and glorious trees that she forgot the naked-
ness of her immediate surroundings. She was as-
signed the best room in the small abode, and one of
the first things she did was to write a letter to Paul
asking him to repair to Rose Cottage to witness the
marriage of Deborah and Bart. The handmaiden
thought this was necessary, so that she could make
full use of her intended husband.
"If he wasn't here always," said the bride-elect,
"he'd be gadding about idling. I know him. An'
me getting a business together won't be easy unless
I've got him at 'and, as you may say, to take round
the bills, let alone that he ought to sleep in the 'ouse
in case burgulars gits in. And sleep in the 'ouse with-
out the blessin' of matrimony he can't, my pretty, so
that's all about it."
Deborah, as an American would say, was a
"hustler," and having made up her mind, she did
not let grass grow under her feet. She called
on the vicar of the parish and explained herself at
great length, but suppressed the fact that she had
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The Opal Serpent
formerly lived in Gwynne Street. She did not want
the shadow of the murder to cast a gloom over her
new home, and therefore said nothing about the
matter. All the vicar, good, easy soul, knew, was
that Deborah had been a servant in a respectable
family (whereabouts not mentioned); that the father
and mother had died, and that she had brought the
only daughter of the house to live with her and be
treated like a lady. Then Deborah demanded that
the banns should be put up, and arranged that Bart
should take up his abode in the parish for the neces-
sary time. This was done, and for three Sundays
Deborah had the pleasure of hearing the banns an-
nounced which foretold that Bart Tawsey and her-
self would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage
took place.
The future Mrs. Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart
produced a snuffy old grandmother from some London
slum who drank gin during the wedding-feast, much
to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best man
to Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was
bridesmaid. Mrs. Purr, the grandmother, objected
to the presence of black at a wedding, saying it was
unlucky, and told of many fearful incidents which
had afterwards occurred to those who had tolerated
such a funeral garb. But Deborah swept away all
opposition.
** What!" she shouted in her usual style, "not 'ave
my own sweet pretty to arsk a blessing on my mar-
riage, and she not able to git out of 'er blacks? I'm
astonished at you, Mrs. Purr, and you an old woman
as oughter know better. I doubt if you're Bart's
granny. I've married into an ijit race. Don't talk to
me, Mrs. Purr, if you please. Live clean an' work
'ard, and there's no trouble with them 'usbands. As
'as to love, honor and obey you."—And she sniffed.
“ Them words you 'ave ť saiy," mumbled Mrs.
Purr.
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The Detective's Views
“Ho," said Deborah, scornfully, " I'd like to see me
say 'em to sich a scrub as Bart."
But say them she did at the altar, being compelled
to do so by the vicar. But when the ceremony was
over, the newly-made Mrs. Tawsey took Bart by the
arm and shook him. He was small and lean and of
a nervous nature, so he quivered like a jelly in his
wife's tremendous grip. Deborah was really ignorant
of her own strength.
"You 'ark to me, Bart," said she, while the best
man and bridesmaid walked on ahead talking lovingly.
"I said them words, which you oughter 'ave said,
'cause you ain't got no memory ť speak of. But
they ain't my beliefs, but yours, or I'll know the
reason why. Jes' you say them now. Swear, with-
out Billingsgate, as you'll always love, honor an' obey
your lovin' wife."
Bart, still being shaken, gasped out the words, and
then gave his arm to the lady who was to rule his
life. Deborah kissed him in a loud, hearty way, and
led him in triumph to the cottage. Here Mrs. Purr
had prepared a simple meal, and the health of the
happy pair was proposed by Paul. Mrs. Purr toasted
them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal,
tearful old woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about
to open her mouth, in order to explain what she
thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs.
Tawsey stopped her.
"None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor.
"I won't have my weddings made funerals. 'Old
your tongue, Mrs. Purr, and you, Bart, jes' swear to
love, honor an' obey my pretty as you would your
own lawful wife, and the ceremonies is hoff."
Bart performed the request, and then Paul, laughing
at the oddity of it all, took his leave. On walking
to the gate, he was overtaken by Mrs. Purr, who
winked mysteriously. "Whatever you do, sir," said
the lean old creature, with many contortions of her
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The Detective's Views
poor though was the home he had left her in, he was
thankful that she was there in the safe shelter of Mrs.
Deborah Tawsey's arms.
It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door
of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was
touched on the shoulder by no less a person than
Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul
recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who
stood before him was not the brown individual he
knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening
dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the
tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-
polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane.
Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with
a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was
the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a dif-
ferent person. His hair was dark and worn rather
long, his moustache black and large, and brushed
out a la Kaiser, and he affected an eye-glass as im-
movable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully
changed individual.
"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.
"It's my voice told you. But now " he spoke a
tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign
accent—" vould you me discover, mon ami?" he in-
quired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.
"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman,
Hurd?"
"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la
Tour, a votre service," and he presented a thin glazed
card with a coronet engraved on it.
"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can
I do for you?"
"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count,
mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked
over between us."
"No bad news, I hope ?"
"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his
to cotone the thing I hope" said
153


The Opal Serpent
usual genial voice, “ you have had enough bad news,
I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune
at once. Eh, what a pity!"
"I have lost the money, certainly," said Beecot,
lighting his lamp, "but the wife will be mine as soon
as I can save sufficient to give her a better home than
this."
Monsieur le Comte de la Tour sat down and grace-
fully flung open his overcoat, so as to expose a spot-
less shirt front. "What?" he asked, lifting his
darkened eyebrows, "so you mean to marry that
girl?"
"Of course," said Paul, angrily; " do you think I'm
a brute?"
"But the money?"
"What does that matter. I love her, not the
money."
" And the name. Her birth—"
"I'll give her my own name and then we'll see
who will dare to say a word against my wife.".
Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that
of Beecot's, shook it warmly. "Upon my word you
are a man, and that's almost better than being a gen-
tleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything
from Mr. Pash, and I honor you Mr. Beecot—I honor
you."
Paul stared. "You must have been brought up in
a queer way, Hurd," he said drily, “ to express this
surprise because a man acts as a man and not as a
blackguard."
"Ah, but you see in my profession I have mixed
with blackguards, and that has lowered my moral
tone. It's refreshing to meet a straight, honorable
man such as you are, Mr. Beecot. I liked you when
first I set eyes on you, and determined to help you
to discover the assassin of Aaron Norman—".
"Lemuel Krill you mean." .
"I prefer to call him by the name we both know
154


The Detective's Views
best," said Hurd, "but as I was saying, I promised
to help you to find out who killed the man; now I'll
help you to get back the money."
Paul sat down and stared. "What do you
mean?" he asked. "The money can't be got back.
I asked a legal friend of mine, and put the case to
him, since that monkey of a Pash has thrown us
over. My friend said that as no name was mentioned
in the will, Maud Krill would undoubtedly inherit
the money. Besides, I learn that the certificate of
marriage is all right. Mrs. Krill undoubtedly mar-
ried Aaron Norman under his rightful name thirty
years ago."
"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Hurd, producing a
dainty silver cigarette case, which was part of his
"get-up." "Mrs. Krill is the widow of the murdered
man, and the silly way in which the will has been
made gives the five thousand a year to her daughter,
whom Mrs. Krill has under her thumb. It's all right
as I say. But I shouldn't be surprised to learn that
there were circumstances in Aaron Norman's past
life which led him to leave his wife, and which may
lead Mrs. Krill into buying silence by giving Miss
Norman half the income. You could live on two
thousand odd a year, eh?"
“ Not obtained in that way," said Beecot, filling
his pipe and passing a match to Hurd. "If the money
comes legally to Sylvia, well and good; otherwise she
will have nothing to do with it."
Hurd looked round the bleak garret expressively
and shrugged his shoulders again. "I think you are
wrong, Mr. Beecot. You can't bring her here."
"No. But I may make enough money to give her
a better home."
"Can I help you?"
"I don't see how you can. I want to be an
author."
"Well," said Hurd, whose British speech was in
155


The Opal Serpent
strange contrast to his foreign appearance, "it's not
a bad game to be an author if you get a good serial
connection. Oh, don't look surprised. I know about
newspapers and publishers as I know about most
things. See here, Mr. Beecot, have you ever tried
your hand at a detective story?"
"No. I write on a higher level."
“ You won't write on a more paying level," replied
Hurd, coolly. "I know a newspaper which will give
you—if I recommend you, mind—one hundred
pounds for a good detective yarn. You apply
for it."
"But I couldn't make up one of those plots—so
intricate."
"Pooh. It's a trick. You set your puppets in such
and such a way and then mix them up. I'll give you
the benefit of my experience as a 'tec, and with my
plot and your own writing we'll be able to knock up
a story for the paper I talk of. Then, with one
hundred pounds you'll have a nest-egg to start with."
"I accept with gratitude," said Beecot, moved, “but
I really don't know why you should trouble about
me.”
"Because you're a white man and an honorable
gentleman," said the detective, emphatically. “ I've
got a dear little wife of my own, and she's something
like this poor Miss Norman. Then again, though
you mightn't think so, I'm something of a Christian,
and believe we should help others. I had a hard life,
Mr. Beecot, before I became a detective, and many
a time have I learned that prayers can be answered.
But this is all beside the question," went on Hurd
quickly, and with that nervous shame with which an
Englishman masks the better part of himself. "I'll
see about the story for you. Meanwhile, I am going
to a card-party to meet, incidentally, Mr. Grexon
Hay."
"Ah! You still suspect him?"
156


The Detective's Views
waling tow. with good te
"I do, and with good reason. He's got another
mug in tow. Lord George Sandal, the son of Lord
—well I needn't mention names, but Hay's trying to
clear the young ass out, and I'm on the watch. Hay
will never know me as the Count de la Tour. Not
he, smart as he is. I'm fly!"
"Do you speak French well?"
“ Moderately. But I play a silent part and say
little. I shut my mouth and open my eyes. But what
I came here to say is, that I intend to find out the
assassin of Aaron Norman."
"I can't offer you a reward, Hurd," said Paul, with
a sigh.
"Oh, that's all right. The widow, by the advice
of Pash, has doubled the reward. One thousand
pounds it is now—worth winning, eh?"
"Humph!" said Paul, moodily, "I shouldn't think
she loved her husband so much as that."
Hurd's brown eyes shot a red flame which showed
that he was excited, though he was cool enough
externally. “ Yes," he admitted in a careless manner,
"she certainly does act the weeping widow in rather
an exaggerated fashion. However, she's got the
cash now—or at least her daughter has, which is the
same thing. The two have taken up their quarters
in a fashionable hotel in the West End, and are
looking for a house. The old woman manages
everything, and she will be one too many for Mr.
Hay."
"What? Does he know Mrs. Krill? He said he
didn't.”
. “Quite right. He didn't when the ladies went
first to Pash's office. But Hay, on the look-out for
a rich wife, got Pash to introduce him to the ladies,
who were charmed with him. He's making up to
the daughter, even in the few weeks that have
elapsed, and now is assisting them to find a house.
The daughter loves him I fancy, but whether the
an emast or at le two have the West Enan manager
157


The Opal Serpent
mother will allow the marriage to take place I can't
say."
" Surely not on such a short acquaintance."
Hurd bent forward as about to say something, then
changed his mind. "Really, I don't know—Hay is
fascinating and handsome. Have you been to see him
yet?"
"No. He asked me, but all these troubles have put
him out of my head. Why do you ask?"
“ Because next time he invites you, go."
"You warned me against him."
“ And I warn you again," said the detective, dryly.
"Don't ask me to explain, for I can't. But you go
to see Hay when he invites you, and make yourself
agreeable, especially to Mrs. Krill."
“ Am I likely to meet her?" asked Paul, with re-
pugnance.
"Yes, I fancy so. After all, you are engaged to
the daughter of the dead man, and Mrs. Krill—I
don't count Maud, who is a tool—is a deucedly
clever woman. She will keep her eye on you and
Miss Norman."
"Why? She has the money and need take no
further notice."
Hurd closed one eye in a suggestive manner. "Mrs.
Krill may not be so sure of the money, even though
possession is nine points of the law. You remember
that scrap of paper found by the maid?"
"In which Norman warned Sylvia against allowing
his real name to become known? Yes."
"Well, the letter wasn't finished. The old man
was interrupted, I suppose. But in the few lines of
writing Norman says," here Hurd took a scrap of
paper—a copy—out of his book and read, “If the
name of Krill gets into the papers there will be
great trouble. Keep it from the public, I can tell
you where to find the reasons for this as I have
written '—and then," said Hurd, refolding the paper,
158


The Detective's Views
of the wrote out 21or MT
Buite for believe, hirs. KF
" the writing ends. But you can see that Aaron Nor-
man wrote out an account of his reasons, which could
not be pleasant for Mrs. Krill to hear."
"I still don't understand," said Paul, hopelessly
puzzled.
"Well," said the detective, rising and putting on
his smart hat, "it's rather a muddle, I confess. I
have no reason to suspect Mrs. Krill—"
"Good heavens, Hurd, you don't think she killed
her husband?"
"No. I said that I have no reason to suspect her.
But I don't like the woman at all. Norman left his
wife for some unpleasant reason, and that reason, as
I verily believe, has something to do with his death.
I don't say that Mrs. Krill killed him, but I do believe
that she knows of circumstances which may lead to the
detection of the criminal."
"In that case she would save her thousand
pounds."
“ That's just where it is. If she does know, why
does she double the reward? A straightforward
woman would speak out, but she's a crooked sort
of creature; I shouldn't like to have her for my
enemy."
“ It seems to me that you do suspect her," said Paul
dryly, but puzzled.
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "No, but I'm in a
fix, that's a truth," said he, and sauntered towards
the door. "I can't see my way. There's the clue of
Mrs. Krill's past to be followed up, and the hint con-
tained in this scrap of paper. The old man may have
left a document behind likely to solve the whole busi-
ness. He hints as much here."
"True enough, but nothing was found."
"Then again," went on Hurd, "the request for the
jewels to be delivered to that sailor chap was in Nor-
man's handwriting and signed with his name."
"A forgery.”
159


The Opal Serpent
“No. Pash, who knows his writing better than
any other man, says the document is genuine. Now
then, Mr. Beecot, what made Aaron Norman write
and sign those lines giving up his property—or a part
of it, just before his death?"
“ It may have been done in good faith."
"No. If so, the messenger would not have cleared
out when Pash started for Gwynne Street. That nau-
tical gent knew what the lawyer would find at the
house, and so made himself scarce after trying to get
the jewels. This scrap of paper," Hurd touched his
breast, "and that request for the jewels in Pash's
possession. Those are my clues."
"And the opal serpent?" asked Paul.
Hurd shook his head gloomily. "It's connection
with the matter is beyond me," he confessed.
160


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 per-
manently 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,
161


Mr. Hay's Little Dinner
“ 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 schoolfellow 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
163


The Opal Serpent
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 Hom-
eric 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
164


Mr. Hay's Little Dinner
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 prim-
rose, and there were many Persian praying mats
and Eastern draperies about the place. Water-color
pictures decked the walls, and numerous mirrors re-
flected 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 wonder-
fully 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
smiling wema of her down
165


Mr. Hay's Little Dinner
bright. And again Maud Krill may be mentioned as
an exception. She ate well and held her tongue,
merely smiling heavily when addressed. Paul, glanc-
ing at her serene face across the rosy-hued table, won-
dered 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
thingman, but being an
“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 john-
nies 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 mur-
dered 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 gen-
tlemen?"
167


The Opal Serpent
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 sub-
ject," 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 Calen-
dar," 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.
168


Mr. Hay's Little Dinner
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 fascina-
tion of the green cloth."
"I would rather talk to you," replied Paul, bow-
ing.
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 re-
filling 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 Brill?"
“ 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 Brill'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."
169


The Opa! Serpent
“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, untruth-
fully 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 York-
shire 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
150


Mr. Hay's Little Dinner
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 mar-
riage?"
"Certainly. Now, perhaps, you will live like Fal-
staff 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.”
Mrs. Krill swing-room time to
71


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 in-
clined 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 dis-
cuss 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."
172


A New Clue
“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 non-plussed 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 en-
grossing 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 sim-
ple 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 state-
ment."
Beecot found the conversation rather embarrassing.
In place of his pumping Mrs. Krill, she was trying
173


The Opal Serpent
to pump him, which reversal of his design he by no
means approved of. He changed the subject of con-
versation 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 an-
swered 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
174


A New Clue
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 char-
acter-
"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 philan-
thropic 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
175


The Opal Serpent
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 dis-
cussion. 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 re-
sponsibility 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," re-
joined Mrs. Krill, quite as swiftly.
"To-night?" asked Beecot, remembering that
176


A New Clue
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 re-
mained in my memory, from its oddity."
Paul might have been mistaken, but Mrs. Krill
certainly seemed relieved. Yet if she had anything
177


The Opal Serpent
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 cer-
tainly 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 con-
versation 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, curi-
ously.
"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 in-
temperance. 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.”
178


A New Clue
“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 Buckingham-
shire."
"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 hus-
band'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 shud-
dered.
"No. My father bought the brooch from the Stow-
ley 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
179


The Opal Serpent
1. Your husband fainted when I first showed him
the brooch, but I don't know why. He said noth-
ing."
Again Mrs. Krill's face in spite of her care showed
a sense of relief at his ignorance. "But I must get
back to my story," she said, in a hard tone, "we have
to leave soon. I ran away with Lemuel who was then
travelling with jewellery. He knew a good deal about
jewellery, you know, which he turned to account in
his pawnbroking."
"Yes, and amassed a fortune thereby."
"I should never have credited him with so much
sense," said Mrs. Krill, contemptuously. “ While at
Christchurch he was nothing but a drunkard, whining
when sober, and a furious beast when drunk. I
managed all the house, and looked after my little
daughter. Lemuel led me a dog's life, and we
quarrelled incessantly. At length, when Maud was
old enough to be my companion, Lemuel ran away.
I kept on ‘The Red Pig,' and waited for him to return.
But he never came back, and for over twenty years I
heard nothing of him till I saw the handbills and his
portrait, and heard of his death. Then I came to see
Mr. Pash, and the rest you know."
"But why did he run away?" asked Paul.
"I suppose he grew weary of the life and the way
I detested him," was her reply. "I don't wonder he
ran away. But there, I have told you all, so make
what you can of it. Tell Miss Norman of my offer,
and make her see the wisdom of accepting it. And
now "—she rose, and held out her hand—“I must run
away. You will call and see us? Mr. Hay will give
you the address."
"What's that," said Hay, leaving the card-table,
“ does Beecot want your address ? Certainly." He
went to a table and scribbled on a card. “ There you
are. Hunter Street, Kensington, No. 32A. Do come,
Beecot. I hope soon to call on your services to be
180


A New Clue
my best man," and he cast a coldly loving look on
Maud, who simply smiled as usual.
By this time the card-party had broken up. Maud
had lost a few pounds, and Lord George a great deal.
But Miss Qian and Hay had won.
“ What luck," groaned the young lord. "Every-
thing seems to go wrong with me."
"Stop and we'll try another game when the ladies
have gone," suggested Hay, his impassive face light-
ing up," then Beecot—"
"I must go," said the young gentleman, who did
not wish to be called upon as a witness in a possible
card scandal.
"And I'll go too," said Lord George. "Whenever
I play with you, Hay, I always seem to lose."
“ What do you mean by that?" asked Grexon,
fiercely.
"Oh, he doesn't mean anything," said Miss Qian,
sweetly, and putting her cloak round her. "Mr. Bee-
cot, just take me to my cab."
"I'll take you to your carriage," said Hay,
offering an arm to Mrs. Krill, which she accepted
graciously.
Lord George followed, grumbling, with the ever-
smiling Maud. Miss Qian skipped into a hansom,
and offered Paul a drive back to town which he re-
fused. As the cab was driving off she bent down and
whispered, “ Be careful," with a side-glance at Hay.
Paul laughed. Everyone seemed to doubt Hay.
But that gentleman handed Mrs. Krill and her
daughter into their carriage, and looked towards
Lord George. "You don't want your revenge to-
night?" he asked.
"No, confound you!" said the young man,
sulkily.
"In that case I'll drive into Kensington with Mrs.
Krill, and borrow her carriage for a trip to Piccadilly.
Good-night, Sandal. Good-night, Beecot.”
181


The Opal Serpent
He waved his hand, and the ladies waved theirs,
and then the three drove away. Lord George lighted
a cigar, and putting his arm within that of Beecot,
strolled down the road. "Come to my club," he
said.
"No, thank you," answered Paul, politely, “I must
get home."
"But I wish you'd come. I hate being by myself
and you seem such a good sort of chap."
"Well," said Beecot, thinking he might say a word
in season to this young fool, “ I don't gamble.”
: “Oh, you cry down that, do you?"
"Well, I think it's foolish."
"It is," assented Lord George, frankly, "internally
foolish. And Hay has all the luck. I wonder if he
plays square."
This was dangerous ground, and Paul shied.
"I really can't say," he said coldly, "I don't play
cards."
"But what do you know of Hay?" asked
Sandal.
“ Only that he was at school with me at Torrington.
We met by accident the other day, and he asked me to
dinner."
“ Torrington. Yes. I had a brother at that school
once," said Lord George, "but you and Hay wouldn't
get on well together, I should think. You're straight,
and he's”
"You forget, we have been dining with him," said
Paul, quickly.
"What of that. I've dined often and have paid
pretty dearly for the privilege. I must have lost at
least five thousand to him within the last few
months."
"In that case I should advise you to play cards no
more. The remedy is easy," said Paul, dryly.
"It isn't so easy to leave off cards," rejoined San-
dal, gloomily. “ I'm that fond of gambling that I only
182


A New Clue
seem to live when I've got the cards or dice in my
hand. I suppose it's like dram-drinking."
"If you take my advice, Lord George, you'll give
up card-playing."
"With Hay, do you mean?" asked the other,
shrewdly.
"With anyone. I know nothing about Hay beyond
what I have told you."
“ Humph," said Sandal, "I don't think you're a
chap like him at all. I may look a fool, but I ain't,
and can see through a brick wall same as most John-
nies."
“ Who can't see at all," interpolated Paul, dryly.
"Ha! ha! that's good. But I say about this Hay.
What a queer lot he had there to-night."
"I can't discuss that," said Paul, stiffly. He was
not one to eat a man's bread and salt and then be-
tray him.
Sandal went on as though he hadn't heard him.
"That actress is a jolly little woman," said he. “ I've
seen her at the Frivolity—a ripping fine singer and
dancer she is. But those other ladies ? ”
“ Mrs. and Miss Krill."
The young lord stopped short in the High Street.
“ Where have I heard that name?" he said, looking
up to the stars; “ somewhere—in the country maybe.
I go down sometimes to the Hall—my father's place.
I don't suppose you'd know it. It's three miles from
Christchurppose yourses to them in the the said, "1.street.
“In Hants," said Paul, feeling he was on the verge
of a discovery.
"Yes. Have you been there?"
"No. But I have heard of the place. There's an
hotel there called 'The Red Pig,' which I thought—"
"Ha!" cried young Sandal, stopping again, and
with such a shout that passers-by thought he was
drunk. "I remember the name. The Red Pig'; a
woman called Krill kept that."
183


The Opal Serpent
“She can hardly be the same," said Paul, not wish-
ing to betray the lady.
"No I guess not. She'd hardly have the cheek
to sit down with me if she did. But Krill. Yes, I
remember—my aunt, you know."
"Your aunt?"
"Yes," said Sandal, impatiently, "she was mur.
dered, or committed suicide in that 'Red Pig' place.
Rachel Sandal—with her unlucky opals."
"Her unlucky opals! What do you mean?"
“ Why, she had a serpent set with opals she wore
as a brooch, and it brought her bad luck."
184


Sylvia's Theory
sight for sore eyes. Won't my pretty be 'appy this
day, say what you may. She's a-makin' out bills fur
them as 'ad washin' done, bless her 'eart for a clever
beauty."
"How is business?" asked Paul, entering the gate,
which Deborah opened.
"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, I'll be a lady of forting
soon," answered the proprietress of the laundry, "the
way washing 'ave come in is jest amazin'. One 'ud
think folk never 'ad no linen done up afore, and that
they never did 'ave," said Deborah, rubbing her nose
hard, "in my way, which is a way. If you'd only
send along your shirts, Mr. Beecot, I'd be proud to
show you what can be done with fronts, an' no thumb-
nails down them to spile their loveliness."
Paul did not reply to this, but laughed absently.
He was wondering if Deborah had ever heard her
master drop any hint as to his having come from the
place where Mrs. Krill resided, and asked the question
on the spur of the moment.
"Do you know Christchurch in Hants ?"
Deborah rubbed her nose harder and looked at him
doubtfully.
“ Me as said as I'd no relatives must tell the truth
now, as I 'ave," said she rather incoherently, " for my
sister, Tilly Junk, worked for someone in that there
place for years. But we never got on well, she being
upsettin' and masterful, so arsk her to my weddin' I
didn't, and denied relatives existing, which they do,
she bein' alive ten years ago when she larst wrote."
“ You have not heard from her since ? ” asked Paul,
inquisitively.
"Sir, you may burn me or prison me or put me in
pillaries," said Mrs. Tawsey, “but deceive you I won't.
Me an' Tilly not bein' of 'appy matchin' don't corre-
spond. We're Londing both," exclaimed Deborah,
“ father 'avin' bin a 'awker, but why she went to the
country, or why I stopped in Gwynne Street, no one
187
atry, or whyin a 'awker, th,” exclaime don't com


The Opal Serpent
knows. And may I arsk, Mr. Beecot, why you arsk
of that place? ”
"Your late master came from Christchurch, Mrs.
Tawsey. Did you never hear him mention it?"
"That I never did, for close he was, Mr. Beecot,
say what you like. I never knowed but what he'd
pawned and sold them bookses all his blessed life, for
all the talkin' he did. If I'd ha' knowd," added
Deborah, lifting her red finger, "as he'd bin maried
afore and intended to cast out my lovely queen, I'd
ha' strangled him myself."
"He had no intention of casting out Sylvia," said
Paul, musingly; "he certainly left the money to her."
“ Then why 'ave that other got it?"
"Sylvia's name wasn't mentioned, and Miss Krill
is legally entitled as the legitimate daughter."
“ Call her what you like, she's a cat as her mother
is afore her," said Mrs. Tawsey, indignantly, “and not
young at that. Thirty and over, as I'm a livin'
woman."
"Oh, I don't think Miss Krill is as old as that."
"Being a man you wouldn't, sir, men bein' blind to
wrinklings and paint. But paint she do, the hussey,
and young she ain't. Over thirty—if I die for the
sayin' of it."
"But Mrs. Krill was married to your master only
thirty years ago."
"Then more shame to 'er," snapped Deborah, mas-
terfully; " for she ain't an honest woman if the signs
of age is beliving. Will I write to my sister Tilly, as
I don't love Mr. Beecot, and arsk if she knowed mas-
ter when he wos in that there place, which she can't
'ave, seeing she's bin there but ten year, and he away
twenty ? ”
"No, Deborah, you'd better say nothing. The case
is in Hurd's hands. I'll tell him what you say, and
leave the matter to him. But you must be deceived
about Miss Brill's age.”
188


Sylvia's Theory
“ I've got two eyes an' a nose," retorted Mrs.
Tawsey, “ so don't talk of deceivin's. Thirty and
more she is, the hussey, let her Jezebel of a mar lie as
she like, an' can say what you will, Mr. Beecot. But
there's my pretty smilin' from the winder and the
tub's a-waitin'; so you go in and smooth 'er to affec-
tions, while I see that Mrs. Purr irons the shirts,
which she do lovely there's no denyin'. Hoh!" and
Deborah plunged round the corner of the house, ram-
pant and full of corn.
Paul walked through the newly-created garden, in
which he saw many proofs of Sylvia's love for flowers,
and reached the door in time to take the girl in his
arms. She was flushed and joyful, and her eyes were
as bright as stars. "Paul, darling," she said, as they
entered the sitting-room, where she was struggling
with the accounts, " I'm so glad you are here. What's
nine times nine?"
"Eighty-one," said Paul, looking at the long list
of figures Sylvia had been trying to add up. "Why
do you make your head ache with these accounts,
darling?"
"I must help Debby, Paul, and I get on very well
with the aid of an arithmetic." And she pointed to
a small school book which she had evidently been
studying.
"Let me take the burden from your shoulders,"
said her lover, smiling, and sat down at the table
which was strewn with bills. In about an hour he
had arranged all these, and had made them out
neatly to Deborah's various customers. Then he
directed the envelopes, and Sylvia sealed them up.
All the time they laughed and chatted, and despite
the dull toil thoroughly enjoyed themselves. "But
I am glad to see, Sylvia," said Beecot, pointing to
three library volumes lying on the sofa," that you
enjoy yourself occasionally.”
Oh!" said Sylvia, pouncing on these, “ I'm so
189


The Opal Serpent
glad you spoke, Paul; I wanted to say something to
you. The Confessions of a Thug," she read out, and
looked at Paul.“ Have you read it?"
Beecot nodded. "By Colonel Meadows Taylor.
A very interesting book, but rather a bloodthirsty one
very in deatee it. Oks from is we hold
for you, dezesting book, Wu Colonel Meade
“Debby got it," confessed Miss Norman, "along
with some other books from a literary customer who
could not pay his bill. It is very strange, Paul, that
The Confessions of a Thug should be amongst the
books."
"Really I don't see why," smiled Beecot, fingering
the old-fashioned volumes.
" It's the finger of Fate, Paul," said Sylvia, sol-
emnly. Then seeing her lover look puzzled, “I mean,
that I should find out what goor is?"
“ Goor?" Paul looked more puzzled than ever.
"It's an Indian word," explained Sylvia, "and
means coarse sugar. The Thugs eat it before they
strangle anyone."
"Oh," laughed Beecot, "and you think your father
was strangled by a Thug? My dear child, the Thugs
were stamped out years ago. You'll read all about it
in the preface of that book, if I remeniber. But it's
long since I read the work. Besides, darling," he
added, drawing her to him caressingly, "the Thugs
never came to England."
"Paul," said Sylvia, still more solemnly and re-
senting the laugh,“ do you remember the Thug that
came into the shop"
"Oh, you mean the street-hawker that Bart spoke
of. Yes, I remember that such an Indian entered,
according to Bart's tale, and wanted to sell boot-
laces, while that young imp, Tray, was dancing on
poor Bart's body. But the Indian wasn't a Thug,
Sylvia."
"Yes, he was," she exclaimed excitedly. "Hokar,
he said he was, and Hokar was a Thug. Remember
190


Sylvia’s Theory
the handful of coarse brown sugar he left on the
counter? Didn't Bart tell you of that?"
Paul started. "Yes, by Jove! he did," was his
reply.
"Well, then," said Sylvia, triumphantly, "that
sugar was goor, and the Thugs eat it before strang-
ling anyone, and father was strangled."
Beecot could not but be impressed. "It is
certainly very strange," he said, looking at the book.
“ And it was queer your father should have been
strangled on the very night when this Indian Hokar
left the sugar on the counter. A coincidence, Sylvia
darling."
"No. Why should Hokar leave the sugar at
all?"
"Well, he didn't eat it, and therefore, if he was a
Thug, he would have done so, had he intended to
strangle your father."
"I don't know," said Sylvia, with a look of ob-
stinacy on her pretty face.“ But remember the cruel
way in which my father was killed, Paul. It's just
what an Indian would do, and then the sugar—oh,
I'm quite sure this hawker committed the crime."
Beecot shook his head and strove to dissuade her
from entertaining this idea. But Sylvia, usually so
amenable to reason, refused to discard her theory,
and indeed Paul himself thought that the incident of
the sugar was queer. He determined to tell Hurd
about the matter, and then the hawker might be found
and made to explain why he had left the goor on the
counter. "But the sect of the Thugs is extinct,"
argued Paul, quickly; "it can't be, Sylvia."
"But it is," she insisted, " I'm sure." And from this
firm opinion he could not move her. Finally, when
he departed, he took the books with him, and prom-
ised to read the novel again. Perhaps something
might come of Sylvia's fancy.
The lovers spent the rest of the time in talking
191


The Opal Serpent
“ What did happen, Paul?" asked Sylvia, anxiously.
"Nothing," he replied with an assumption of care-
lessness, for he did not want to tell the girl about the
fate of Lady Rachel Sandal,“ but we may find in your
father's past life what led to his murder."
"Do you think Mrs. Krill had anything to do with
it?"
"My own, you asked that question before. No, I
don't. Still, one never knows. I should think Mrs.
Krill is a dangerous woman, although I fancy, too
clever to risk being hanged. However, Hurd can
find out if she was in town on the night your father
was killed."
"That was on the sixth of July," said Sylvia.
"Yes. And he was murdered at twelve."
“ After twelve," said Sylvia. "I heard the police-
man on his beat at a quarter-past, and then I came
down. Poor father was strangled before our very
eyes," she said, shuddering.
“ Hush, dear. Don't speak of it," said Paul, rising.
"Let us talk of more interesting subjects."
"Paul, I can think of nothing till I learn who
killed my poor father, and why he was killed so
cruelly."
“ Then we must wait patiently, Sylvia. Hurd is
looking after the matter, and I have every confidence
in Hurd. And, by Jove !" added Beecot, with an after-
thought, "Mrs. Krill doubled the reward. Were she
concerned in the matter she would not risk sharpen-
ing the wits of so clever a man as Hurd. No, Sylvia,
whosoever strangled your father it was not Mrs.
Krill."
" It was this Indian," insisted Sylvia," and he's a
Thug."
Paul laughed although he was far from thinking
she might be wrong. Of course it seemed ridiculous
that a Thug should strangle the old man. In the
first place, the Thugs have been blotted out; in the
eyes lush, dear. more interesothing
194


Sylvia's Theory
second, if any survived, they certainly would not
exercise their devilish religion in England, and in
the third, Hokar, putting aside his offering strangled
victims to Bhowanee, the goddess of the sect,
had no reason for slaying an unoffending man.
Finally, there was the sailor to be accounted for-
the sailor who had tried to get the jewels from Pash.
Paul wondered if Hurd had found out anything about
this individual. "It's all very difficult," sighed Bee-
cot," and the more we go into the matter the more
difficult does it get. But we'll see light some day.
Hurd, if anyone, will unravel the mystery," and Sylvia
agreed with him.
195


Hurd's Information
Paul nodded. "Very glad," he answered, " that is,
if you have done anything about Mrs. Krill?"
"Well," drawled the detective, smiling, "I have
been investigating that murder case."
"Lady Rachel Sandal's?" said Beecot, eagerly.
“ Is it really murder?"
"I think so, though some folks think it suicide.
Curious you should have stumbled across that young
lord," went on Hurd, musingly, "and more curious
still that he should have been in the room with Mrs.
Krill without recollecting the name. There was a
great fuss made about it at the time."
"Oh, I can understand Lord George," said Beecot,
promptly. "The murder, if it is one, took place
before he was born, and as there seems to have
been some scandal in the matter, the family hushed
it up. This young fellow probably gathered scraps
of information from old servants, but from what
he said to me in the cab, I think he knows very
little."
" Quite enough to put me on the track of Lemuel.
Krill's reason for leaving Christchurch."
"Is that the reason?"
"Yes. Twenty-three years ago he left Christchurch
at the very time Lady Rachel was murdered in his
public-house. Then he disappeared for a time, and
turned up a year later in Gwynne Street with a young
wife whom he had married in the meantime."
“ Sylvia's mother?"
"Exactly. And Miss Norman was born a year
later. She's nearly twenty-one, isn't she?"
“ Yes. She will be twenty-one in three months."
Hurd nodded gravely. "The time corresponds,"
.said he. "As the crime was committed twenty-three
years back and Lord George is only twenty, I can
understand how he knows so little about it. But didn't
he connect Mrs. Krill with the man who died in
Gwynne Street?”
197


The Opal Serpent
“No. She explained that. The name of Krill ap-
peared only a few times in the papers, and was prin-
cipally set forth with the portrait, in the hand-bills.
I shouldn't think Lord George was the kind of young
man to bother about hand-bills."
“ All the same, he might have heard talk at his club.
Everyone isn't so stupid."
“ No. But, at all events, he did not seem to con-
nect Mrs. Krill with the dead man. And even with
regard to the death of his aunt, he fancied she might
not be the same woman."
"What an ass he must be," said Hurd, contemptu-
ously.
"I don't think he has much brain," confessed Paul,
shrugging his shoulders; "but he asked me if I
thought Mrs. Krill was the same as the landlady of
'The Red Pig,' and I denied that she was. I don't like
telling lies, but in this case I hope the departure from
truth will be pardoned."
"You did very right," said the detective. "The
fewer people know about these matters the better-
especially a chatterbox like this young fool."
"Do you know him?”.
"Yes, under the name of the Count de la Tour.
But I know of him in another way, which I'll reveal
later. Hay is still fleecing him?"
"He is. But Lord George seems to be growing sus-
picious of Hay," and Paul related the conversation he
had with the young man.
Hurd grunted. “ I'm sorry," he said. "I want to
catch Hay red-handed, and if Lord George grows too
clever I may not be able to do so."
"Well," said Paul, rather impatiently, "never mind
about that fellow just now, but tell me what you have
discovered fellow hul rather do so..?!
“Oh, a lot of interesting things. When I got your
letter, of course I at once connected the opal serpent
with Aaron Norman, and his change of name with the
198


The Opal Serpent
“ I'll tell you in a few minutes." Hurd rose and
began to pace the narrow limits of the attic. "By
the way, do you know that Norman was a secret
drinker of brandy?"
Paul nodded, and told the detective what he had
learned from Mrs. Krill. Hurd was much struck
with the intelligence. "I see," said he; "what Mrs.
Krill says is quite true. Drink does change the or-
dinary nature into the opposite. Krill sober was a
timid rabbit; Krill drunk was a murderer and a thief.
Good lord, and how he drank!"
"How do you know?”.
"Well," confessed Hurd, nursing his chin, "Pash
and I went to search the Gwynne Street house to
find, if possible, the story alluded to in the scrap of
paper Deborah Junk found. We couldn't drop across
anything of that sort, but in Norman's bedroom, which
nobody ever entered, we found brandy bottles by the
score. Under the bed, ranged along the walls, filling
cupboards, stowed away in boxes. I had the curiosity
to count them. Those we found, ran up to five hun-
dred, and Lord knows how many more he must have
got rid of when he found the bottles crowding him
inconveniently."
"I expect he got drunk every night," said Paul,
thinking. "When he locked up Sylvia and Deborah
in the upper room—I can understand now why he
did som he could go to the cellar and take possession
of the shop key left on the nail by Bart. Then, free
from all intrusion, he could drink till reeling. Not
that I think he ever did reel," went on Beecot, mind-
ful of what Mrs. Krill had said ; "he could stand a
lot, and I expect the brandy only converted him into
a demon."
"And a clever business man," said Hurd. "You
know Aaron Norman was not clever over the books.
Bart sold those, but from all accounts he was a
Shylock when dealing, after seven o'clock, in the
200


Hurd's Information
pawnbroking way. I understand now. Sober, he
was a timid fool; drunk, he was a bold, clever
villain."
"My poor Sylvia, what a father," sighed Paul;
“ but this crime”
"I'll tell you about it. Lemuel Krill and his wife
kept 'The Red Pig' at Christchurch, a little public
house it is, on the outskirts of the 'town, frequented
by farm-laborers and such-like. The business was
pretty good, but the couple didn't look to making
their fortune. Mrs. Krill was a farmer's daughter."
“ A Buckinghamshire farmer," said Paul.
"How do you know? oh!"—on receiving informa-
tion—“Mrs. Krill told you so? Well, considering the
murder of Lady Rachel, she would have done better
to hold her tongue and have commenced life with her
dead husband's money under a new name. She's a
clever woman, too," mused Hurd, “I can't understand
her being so unnecessarily frank."
"Never mind, go on," said Paul, impatiently.
Hurd returned to his seat and re-filled his pipe.
"Well, then," he continued, “ Krill got drunk and
gave his wife great trouble. Sometimes he thrashed
her and blacked her eyes, and he treated their daughter
badly too."
"How old was the daughter?"
"I can't say. Why do you ask?”.
“ I'll tell you later. Go on, please."
"Well, then, Mrs. Krill always revenged herself on
her husband when he was sober and timid, so the
couple were evenly matched. Krill was master
when drunk, and his wife mistress when he was
sober. A kind of see-saw sort of life they must have
led."
"Where does Lady Rachel come in?"
"What an impatient chap you are," remonstrated
Hurd, in a friendly tone. "I'm coming to that now.
Lady Rachel quarrelled with her father over some
201


The Opal Serpent
young artist she wanted to marry. He would not
allow the lover to come to the Hall, so Lady Rachel
said she would kill herself rather than give him
up."
"And she did," said Paul, thinking of the suicide
theory.
"There you go again. How am I to tell you all
when you interrupt."
"I beg your pardon. I won't do so again."
Hurd nodded smilingly and continued. “ One
night—it was dark and stormy—Lady Rachel had a
row royal with her father. Then she ran out of the
Hall saying her father would never see her alive
again. She may have intended to commit suicide
certainly, or she may have intended to join her lover
in London. But whatever she intended to do, the
rain cooled her. She staggered into Christchurch and
fell down insensible at the door of 'The Red Pig.'
Mrs. Krill brought her indoors and laid her on a
bed."
"Did she know who the lady was?"
Hurd shook his head. "She said in her evidence
that she did not, but living in the neighborhood, she
certainly must have seen Lady Rachel sometimes.
Krill was drunk as usual. He had been boozing all
the day with a skipper of some craft at Southampton.
He was good for nothing, so Mrs. Krill did everything.
She declares that she went to bed at eleven leaving
Lady Rachel sleeping."
"Did Lady Rachel recover her senses?"
“ Yes—according to Mrs. Krill—but she refused to
say who she was, and merely stated that she would
sleep at 'The Red Pig' that night and would go on to
London next morning. Mrs. Krill swore that Lady
Rachel had no idea of committing suicide. Well,
about midnight, Mrs. Krill, who slept in one room
with her daughter, was awakened by loud shouts.
She sprang to her feet and hurried out, her daughter
202


Hurd's Information
came also, as she had been awakened and was terri-
fied. Mrs. Krill found that her husband was raving
mad with drink and smashing the furniture in the
room below. The skipper-”
“ What was the skipper's name?"
" Jessop—Jarvey Jessop. Well, he also, rather
drunk, was retiring to bed and stumbled by chance
into Lady Rachel's room. He found her quite dead
and shouted for assistance. The poor lady had a
silk handkerchief she wore tied tightly round her
throat and fastened to the bed-post. When
Jessop saw this, he ran out of the inn in dismay.
Mrs. Krill descended to give the alarm to her
neighbors, but Krill struck her down, and struck his
daughter also, making her mouth bleed. An opal
brooch that Lady Rachel wore was missing, but Mrs.
Krill only knew of that the next day. She was
insensible from the blow given by Krill, and the
daughter ran out to get assistance. When the
neighbors entered, Krill was gone, and notwithstand-
ing all the search made for him he could not be
found."
"And Jessop?"
"He turned up and explained that he had been
frightened on finding the woman dead. But the
police found him on his craft at Southampton, and
he gave evidence. He said that Krill when drunk,
and like a demon, as Mrs. Krill told you, had left
the room several times. The last time he came
back, he and the skipper had a final drink, and then
Jessop retired to find the body. It was supposed
by the police that Krill had killed Lady Rachel for
the sake of the brooch, which could not be discov-
ered—"
"But the brooch—"
"Hold on. I know what you are about to say.
We'll come to that shortly. Let me finish this yarn
first. It was also argued that, from Lady Rachel's
203


The Opal Serpent
last words to her father, and from the position of the
body—tied by the neck to the bed-post—that she had
committed suicide. Mrs. Krill, as I said, declared
the deceased lady never mentioned the idea of
making away with herself. However, Krill's flight
and the chance that, being drunk, he might have
strangled the lady for the sake of the brooch
while out of the room, made many think he was
the culprit, especially as Jessop said that Krill
had noticed the brooch and commented on the
opals."
"He was a traveller in jewels once, according to
his wife."
"Yes, and left that to turn innkeeper. Afterwards
he vanished, as I say, and became a pawnbroker in
Gwynne Street. Well, the jury at the inquest could
not agree. Some thought Lady Rachel had com-
mitted suicide, and others that Krill had murdered
her. Then the family didn't want a scandal, so in
one way and another the matter was hushed up.
The jury brought in a verdict of suicide by a
majority of one, so you can see how equally they
were divided. Lady Rachel's body was laid in the
family vault, and nothing more was heard of Lemuel
Krill."
"What did Mrs. Krill do ?"
"She stopped on at the inn, as she told you.
People were sorry for her and helped her, so she
did very well. Mother and daughter have lived
at 'The Red Pig' all these years, highly respected,
until they saw the hand-bills about Krill. Then
the money was claimed, but as the circum-
stance of Lady Rachel's fate was so old, nobody
thought of mentioning it till this young lord did so
to you, and I—as you see—have hunted out the de-
tails."
"What is your opinion, Hurd?" asked Paul, deeply
interested.
204


Hurd's Information
“Oh, I think Krill murdered the woman and then
cut to London. That accounts for his looking over
his shoulder, etc., about which we talked."
"But how did he get money to start as a book-
seller? Premises are not leased in Gwynne Street
for nothing."
“ Well, he might have got money on the brooch."
"No. The brooch was pawned by a nautical gen-
tleman." Paul started up. “ Captain Jessop, perhaps.
You remember?" he said excitedly.
" Ah," said Hurd, puffing his pipe with satisfaction,
"I see you understand. I mentioned that about the
brooch to hear what you would say. Yes, Jessop must
have pawned the brooch at Stowley, and it must have
been Jessop who came with the note for the jewels
to Pash."
"Ha," said Paul, walking excitedly about the room.
“ Then it would seem that Jessop and Krill were in
league?"
"I think so," said Hurd, staring at the fire. “ And
yet I am not sure. Jessop may have found that Krill
had killed the woman, and then have made him give
up the brooch, which he afterwards pawned at Stow-
ley. Though why he should go near Mrs. Krill's old
home, I can't understand."
"Is Stowley near her old home?"
"Yes—in Buckinghamshire. However, after pawn-
ing the brooch I expect Jessop lost sight of Krill till
he must have come across him a few days before the
crime. Then he must have made Krill sign the paper
ordering the jewels to be given up by Pash, so that
he might get money."
"A kind of blackmail in fact."
"Well," said Hurd, doubtfully, "after all, Jessop
might have killed Krill himself."
"But how did Jessop get the brooch?"
"Ah, that I can't tell you, unless Norman himself
picked it up in the street. We must find these
205


The Opal Serpent
things out. I'm going to Christchurch to make in-
quiries. I'll let you know what I discover," and Hurd
rose.
"One minute," said Paul, hastily. "Do you think
Miss Krill is the dead man's child?"
"Of course. She's as like her mother as two peas.
Why do you ask?"
Paul detailed what Sylvia and Deborah had said.
“ So if she is over thirty," said Beecot,“ she can't be
Krill's child, or else she must have been born before
Krill married his wife. In either case, she has no
right to the money."
* It's strange," said Hurd, musingly. "I'll have
to look into that. Meanwhile, I've got plenty to
do."
"There's another thing I have to say.”
“ You'll confuse me, Beecot. What is it?”.
“ The sugar and that hawker," and Paul related
what Sylvia had said about Thuggism. Hurd sat
down and stared. “ That must be bosh," he said,
looking at the novel, "and yet it's mighty queer. I
say," he took the three volumes,“ will you lend me
these?"
"Yes. Be careful. They are not mine."
"I'll be careful. But I can't dip into them just
yet, nor can I go into the Hindoo business, let alone
this age of Miss Brill. The first thing I have to do
is to go to Christchurch and see "
"And see if Mrs. Krill was at home on the night
of the sixth of July."
Hurd started. "Oh," said he, dryly, “ the night
the crime was committed, you mean? Well, I didn't
intend to look up that point, as I do not see how
Mrs. Krill can be implicated. However, I'll take a
note of that," and this he did, and then continued.
“ But I'm anxious to find Jessop. I shouldn't be at
all surprised to learn that he committed the double
crime."
206


Hurd's Information
“ The double crime?"
"Yes. He might have strangled Lady Rachel, and
twenty years later have killed Krill. I can't be sure,
but I think he is the guilty person.”
207


At Christchurch, Hai ts
hoe Jesso judgi: hel's te
pawned the brooch at Stowley, Hurd fancied he might
be Jessop. He resolved to look for him in Southamp-
ton, as, judging from the evidence given at the inquest
on Lady Rachel's remains, that was the port of call
for the mariner.
At the station immediately before that of Christ-
church, Hurd glanced at a telegram which he pro-
duced out of his pocket-book, and then leaned out of
the carriage window. A pretty, daintily-dressed little
woman saw him and at once entered the carriage with
a gay laugh. She was Miss Aurora Qian, and Paul
would have been considerably astonished had he over-
heard her conversation with Mr. Hurd. But the de-
tective and the actress had the compartment to them-
selves, and talked freely.
" It's the safest place to talk in," explained Miss
Qian, producing a bag of chocolate and eating during
the conversation. "Of course, I told the landlady at
* The Red Pig' that my brother was coming down,
so we can go there right enough. But walls have
ears. I don't think railway carriages have, though,
and we have much to say, Billy."
"Have you found out anything, Aurora ?" asked
Hurd.
Miss Qian nodded. "A great deal considering I
have been in the place only twenty-four hours. It's
a good thing I'm out of an engagement, Billy, or I
shouldn't have time to leave London or to look after
that man Hay. I am a good sister."
“ Well, you are. But there's money in the business
also. If I can get that thousand pounds, you'll have
your share."
"I know you'll treat me straight, Billy," said the
actress, with much satisfaction. "I always say that
my brother is as square a man as I know."
· "The deuce you do," said Hurd, rather vexed. "I
hope you don't go telling everyone that I am your
brother, Aurora ?"
209


The Opal Serpent
“Only one or two special friends—not Hay, you
may be sure. Nor does that nice Mr. Beecot know
that we are brother and sister."
"You'd best keep it dark, and say nothing,
Aurora. It's just as well you left the private de-
tective business and went on the stage. You talk too
much."
"Oh, no, I don't," retorted Miss Qian, eating a
sweet. "Don't be nasty, Billy, or I'll tell you nothing."
Her brother shrugged his shoulders. He was
very fond of Aurora, but he saw her many faults,
and she certainly had too long a tongue for one en-
gaged in private matters. "What about Hay?" he
asked.
Aurora raised her eyes. "I thought you wanted
to know of my discoveries at Christchurch," she said,
pouting.
"Well, I do. But Hay?_”.
"Oh, he's all right. He's going to marry Miss
Krill and her money, and is getting cash together
by fleecing young Sandal. That fool will play,
and keeps losing his money, although I've warned
him."
“ Then don't warn him. I wish to catch Hay red-
handed."
"Ah," Miss Qian nodded, “ you may catch him
red-handed in a worse matter than gambling."
“ Aurora, you don't mean to say he has anything
to do with the murder of Aaron Norman?"
"Well, I don't go so far as to say that, Billy. But
when I got settled in the private sitting-room of 'The
Red Pig' on the plea that I had come down for a
change of air, and expected my brother—"
“ Which you do without any lies."
“ Yes, that's all right, Billy," she said impatiently.
"Well, the first thing I clapped eyes on was a portrait
of Grexon Hay in a silver frame on the mantelpiece."
"Hum," said Hurd, nursing his chin in his hand,
210


At Christchurch, Hants
" he may have given that to Miss Krill during the
engagement."
"I daresay," rejoined the actress, tartly, “ for he
has been engaged for many a long day—say two
years."
"I thought so," said Hurd, triumphantly. "I al-
ways fancied the meeting at Pash's office was a got-up
thing what made hen disguisemiss Krill the
“ What made you think so?"
"Because, when disguised as the Count de la Tour,
I overheard Hay address Miss Krill as Maud, and it
was the first time she and her mother came to his
rooms. Sandal was there, and gambling went on as
usual. I lost money myself," said Hurd, with a
grimace,“ in order to make Hay think I was
another pigeon to pluck. But the mention of the
Christian name on so short an acquaintance showed
me that Hay and Miss Krill had met before. I
expect the meeting at Pash's office was a got-up
game."
"You said that before, Billy. How you repeat your-
self! Yes. There's an inscription on the portrait-
— From Grexon to Maud with much love”-sweet,
isn't it? when you think what an icicle the man is.
There is also a date—two years ago the photograph
was given. I admired the photograph and asked the
landlady who was the swell."
“ What's the landlady's name?”
“ Matilda Junk."
Hurd almost jumped from his seat. "That's queer,"
he said, "the woman who is devoted to Miss Norman
and who nursed her since she was a baby is called
Deborah Junk."
"I know that," said Aurora, “ I'm not quite a fool,
Billy. I mentioned Deborah Junk, whom I saw at
the inquest on Norman's body. The landlady said
she was her sister, but she had not heard of her for
ages. And this Matilda is just like Deborah in looks
211


At Christchurch, Hants
the newspapers and the Scotland Yard papers relative
to the Sandal affair. Aurora nodded.
"But Matilda Junk said nothing of that. She merely
stated that Mr. Lemuel Krill had gone to London over
twenty years ago, and that his wife knew nothing of
him until she saw the hand-bills."
"Hum," said Hurd again, as the train slowed down
to the Christchurch station, "it seems all fair and
above board. What about Jessop?"
"Knowing so little of the Lady Rachel case, I didn't
inquire about him," said Aurora. “ I've told you
everything."
“ Anyone else stopping at the inn?”
“ No. And it's not a bad little place after all.
The rooms are clean and the food good and the
charges low. I'd rather stop at 'The Red Pig,' small
as it is, than at the big hotel. The curries—oh, they
are delightfully hot!" Miss Qian screwed her small
face into a smile of ecstasy.“ But, then, a native
makes them."
Hurd started. “ Curries—a native?”
“ Yes—a man called Hokar."
“ Aurora, that's the man who left the sugar on
the counter of Norman's shop. I forgot you don't
know about that," and Hurd rapidly told her of the
episode.
"It's strange," said Miss Qian, nodding with a far-
away look. "It would seem that Mrs. Krill knew
of the whereabouts of her husband before she saw
the hand-bills."
“ And possibly about the murder also," said Hurd.
Brother and sister looked at one another; the case
was becoming more and more interesting. Mrs.
Krill evidently knew more than she chose to admit.
But at this moment the train stopped, and they got
out. Hurd took his handbag and walked into the
town with his pretty sister tripping beside him. She
gave him an additional piece of information before
213


At Christchurch, Hants
But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a
passing glance. He was staring at a woman who
stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the palm
of her hand from the setting sun. In her the
detective saw the image of Deborah Junk, now
Tawsey. She was of the same gigantic build, with
the same ruddy face, sharp, black eyes and boisterous
manner. But she had not the kindly look of Deborah,
and of the two sisters Hurd preferred the one he
already knew.
“ This is my brother, Miss Junk," said Aurora,
marching up to the door; "he will only stay until
to-morrow."
"You're welcome, sir," said Matilda in a loud and
hearty voice, which reminded the detective more than
ever of her sister. "Will you please walk in and 'ave
some tea?"
Hurd nodded and repaired to the tiny sitting-room,
where he saw the photograph of Hay on the mantel-
piece. Aurora, at a hint from her brother, went to
her bedroom to change her dress, and Hurd spoke
to Matilda, when she brought in the tray. "I know
your sister," said he.
Miss Junk nearly dropped the tray. "Lor', now,
only think! Why, we ain't wrote to one another for
ten years. And I left London eleven years back. And
how is she, sir? and where is she?"
"She is well; she has a laundry in Jubileetown near
London, and she is married to a fellow called Bart
Tawsey."
"Married ! ” cried Matilda, setting down the tray
and putting her arms akimbo, just like Deborah,“ lor',
and me still single. But now I've got this 'ouse, and
a bit put by, I'll think of gittin' a 'usband. · I ain't
a-goin' to let Debby crow over me."
"Your sister was in the service of Mr. Norman
before she took up the laundry," observed Hurd, pour-
ing out a cup of tea.
215


The Opal Serpent
“Was she, now? And why did she leave?"
The name of Norman apparently was unknown to
Matilda, so Hurd tried the effect of another bomb-
shell. "Her master was murdered under the name
of Lemuel Krill."
"Mercy," Matilda dropped into a chair, with a thud
which shook the room; "why, that's my ladies' hus-
band and father."
"What ladies?" asked Hurd, pretending ignor-
ance.
"My ladies, Mrs. Krill and Miss Maud. They had
this 'ouse, and kep' it for years respectable. I
worked for 'em ten, and when my ladies comes in
for a forting, for a forting there is, they gave me
the goodwill of 'The Red Pig.' To think of Debby
being the servant of poor Mr. Krill as was killed.
Who killed 'im?”.
"Doesn't your mistress know?"
" She," cried Matilda, indignantly, and bouncing up.
"Why, she was always a-lookin' for him, not as she
loved him over much. And as he is dead, sir, it's no
more as what he oughter be, seeing as he killed a poor
lady in this very 'ouse. You'll sleep in 'er room to-
night," added Matilda, as if that was a pleasure.
"Strangled, she was."
"I think I heard of that. But Lady Rachel Sandal
committed suicide."
Matilda rubbed her nose, after the Deborah
fashion. "Well, sir, my ladies were never sure
which it was, and, of course, it was before my time
considerable, being more nor twenty year back.
But the man as did it is dead, and lef' my ladies his
money, as he oughter. An' Miss Maud's a-goin' to
marry a real gent"—Matilda glanced at the photo-
graph—“I always said he wos a gent, bein' so
'aughty like, and wearing evening dress at meals,
late."
"Was he ever down here, this gentleman ? "
· 216


At Christchurch, Hants
“He's been comin' and goin' fur months, and Miss
Maud loves 'im somethin' cruel. But they'll marry
now an' be 'appy."
"I suppose your ladies sometimes went to see this
gent in town?”.
"Meanin' Mr. Hay," said Matilda, artlessly. "Well,
sir, they did, one at a time and then together. Missis
would go and miss would foller, an' miss an' missus
together would take their joy of the Towers an' shops
and Madame Tusord's and sich like, Mr. Hay allays
lookin' after 'em."
"Did they ever visit Mr. Hay in July?"
"No, they didn't," snapped Matilda, with a change
of tone which did not escape Hurd; "and I don't
know, sir, why you arsk them questions."
"My good woman, I ask no questions. If I do,
you need not reply. Let us change the subject. My
sister tells me you make good curries in this hotel."
“ Hokar do, me bein' but a plain cook."
"Oh! He's an Indian?"
“ Yes, he is, sir. A pore Indian castaway as missus
took up with when he come here drenched with rain
and weary. Ah, missus was always good and kind
and Christian-like."
Privately Hurd thought this description did not
apply very well to the lady in question, but he was
careful not to arouse Matilda's suspicions again by
contradicting her. He pretended to joke. "I wonder
you don't marry this Indian, and keep him here always
to make the curries I have heard of."
"Me marry a black!" cried Matilda, tossing her
rough head. "Well, sir, I never," her breath failed
her, "an' him goin' about the country."
“ What do you mean by that?"
"What I say," said Miss Junk; "he'll stop here,
Christian-like, for days, and then go orf to sell things
as a 'awker. My par was a 'awker, sir, but a white,
white man of the finest.”
217


The Opal Serpent
Hurd was about to ask another question when a
husky voice was heard singing somewhat out of tune.
"What's that?" asked Hurd, irritably.
“ Lor', sir, wot nervses you 'ave. "'Tis only Cap'n
Jessop makin' hisself 'appy-like."
“ Captain Jessop," Hurd laughed. He had run
down his man at last.
218


CHAPTER XIX
CAPTAIN JESSOP
Apparently Matilda Junk was quite ignorant of
anything being wrong about her ladies, although she
did shirk the question regarding their possible visit
to London in July. However, Hurd had learned that
Grexon Hay not only was an old friend, but had
been engaged to Maud for many months. This in-
formation made him the more certain that Hay had
robbed Beecot of the opal brooch at the time of the
accident, and that it had passed from Mr. Hay's hands
into those of the assassin.
"I wonder if Mrs. Krill murdered her husband in
that cruel way," thought the detective, sitting over
his tea; "but what could have been her object? She
could have gone upon learning from Hay that
Aaron Norman was her husband—as I believe she
did—and could then have made him give her the
money, by threatening him with the murder of Lady
Rachel. I daresay Aaron Norman in his Krill days
did strangle that lady to get the opal brooch and
his wife could have used what she knew to govern
him. There was no need of murder. Hum! I'll
see about getting the truth out of Hay. Aurora,"
he cried. "Oh, there you are," he added, as she en-
tered the room. "I want you to go back to town this
night."
"What for, Billy?”
“ Can you get Hay into trouble?”.
Aurora nodded. "I have proofs of his cheating
219


The Opal Serpent
Lord George and others, if that's what you mean,"
she said; "but you didn't want them used."
“ Nor do I. He's such an eel, he may wriggle out
of our clutches. But can't you give a party and in-
vite Lord George and Hay, and then get them to play
cards. Should Hay cheat, denounce him to George
Sandal."
"What good would that do?" asked Miss Qian,
with widely open eyes.
" It will make Hay confess about the brooch to
save himself from public shame. His reputation is
his life, remember, and if he is caught red-handed
cheating, he'll have to clear out of town."
"Pooh, as if that mattered. He's going to marry
Miss Krill."
"If Miss Krill keeps the money, and I doubt if she
will. But, Billyind. DThis can have ting him him so Hay
en
Pa serpent and get their business let hitte
“Never mind. Don't ask me any more questions,
but go and pack. This Captain Jessop is in the bar
drinking. I may probably have to arrest him. I got
a warrant on the chance of finding him here. I can
arrest him on suspicion, and won't let him go until
I get at the truth. Your business is to bring Hay
to his knees and get the truth out of him about the
opal serpent. You know the case?"
“ Yes," grumbled Aurora, "I know the case. But
I don't like this long journey to-night."
"Every moment is precious. If I arrest Jessop,
Matilda Junk will tell her ladies, who will speak to
Hay, and then he may slip away. As the brooch
evidence is so particular, and, as I believe he can
give it, if forced, you can see the importance of losing
no time."
Miss Qian nodded and went away to pack. She
wanted money and knew Billy would give her a
goodly share of the reward. In a few minutes Miss
Junk, of " The Red Pig," learned that Miss Qian was
220


Captain Jessop
suddenly summoned to town and would leave in an
hour. Quite unsuspectingly she assisted her to pack,
and shortly Aurora was driving in a hired vehicle to
the railway station on her way to trap Grexon Hay.
. When she was safely off the premises, Hurd
walked to the telegraph office, and sent a cipher
message to the Yard, asking for a couple of plain
clothes policemen to be sent down. He wanted
to have Hokar and Miss Matilda Junk watched,
also the house, in case Mrs. Krill and her daughter
should return. Captain Jessop he proposed to look
after himself. But he was in no hurry to make that
gentleman's acquaintance, as he intended to arrest
him quietly in the sitting-room after dinner. Al-
ready he had informed Matilda that he would ask a
gentleman to join him at the meal and taste Hokar's
curry.
The thought of the curry brought the Indian to his
mind, and when he got back to the Red Pig, he
strolled round the house, inspecting the place, but in
reality keeping eyes and ears open to talk to the
Hindoo. Thinking he might meet the man some
time, Hurd had carefully learned a few phrases
relating to Thuggism—in English of course, since
he knew nothing of the Indian tongues. These he
proposed to use in the course of conversation with
Hokar and watch the effect. Soon he found the man
sitting cross-legged under a tree in the yard, smoking.
Evidently his work for the day was over, and he was
enjoying himself. Remembering the description given
by Bart, the detective saw that this was the very man
who had entered the shop of Aaron Norman. He
wore the same dress and looked dirty and disreputable
—quite a waif and a stray.
"Hullo," said Hurd, casually, “what are you doing.
Talk English, eh?"
“ Yes, sir," said Hokar, calmly. "I spike good
Englis. Missionary teach Hokar Englis.”
221


The Opal Serpent
“ I'm glad of that; we can have a chat," said Hurd,
producing his pipe. He also produced something
else with which he had provided himself on the way
back from the post-office. In another minute Hokar
was staring at a small parcel of coarse brown sugar.
With all his Oriental phlegm the man could not keep
his countenance. His eyes rolled until they threat-
ened to drop out of his head, and he looked at Hurd
with a certain amount of fear. "Goor," said that
gentleman, pointing to the sugar with the stem of his
pipe, "goor!"
Hokar turned green under his dark skin, and half-
rose to go away, but his legs failed him, and he sat
still trying to recover himself. "So you worship
Bhowanee?" went on his tormentor.
The Indian's face expressed lively curiosity. "The
great goddess."
"Yes. Kalee, you know. Did you make Tupounee
after you used your roomal on Aaron Norman?"
Hokar gave a guttural cry and gasped. Tupounee
is the sacrifice made by the Thugs after a successful
crime, and roomal the handkerchief with which they
strangled their victims. All this was information
culled from Colonel Meadow Taylor's book by the
accomplished detective. “ Well," said Hurd, smoking
placidly, "what have you to say, Mr. Hokar?"
"I know nozzin'," said the man, sullenly, but in
deadly fear.
"Yes, you do. Sit still," said Hurd, with sudden
sternness. "If you try to run away, I'll have you
arrested. Eyes are on you, and you can't take a step
without my knowing."
Some of this was Greek to the Indian, owing to his
imperfect knowledge of English. But he understood
that the law would lay hold of him if he did not obey
this Sahib, and so sat still. "I know not anysing,"
he repeated, his teeth chattering.
"Yes, you do. You're a Thug."
222


Captain Jessop
“Zer no Thug."
"I agree with you," said Hurd; " you are the last
of the Mohicans. I want to know why you offered
Aaron Norman to Bhowanee?"
Hokar made a strange sign on his forehead at the
mention of the sacred name, and muttered something
—perhaps a prayer—in his native tongue. Then he
looked up. "I know nozzing."
"Don't repeat that rubbish," said Hurd, calmly;
“ you sold boot laces in the shop in Gwynne Street on
the day when its master was killed. And he was the
husband of the lady who helped you—Mrs. Krill."
"You say dat," said Hokar, stolidly.
“ Yes, and I can prove it. The boy Tray—and I
can lay my hands on him—saw you, also Bart
Tawsey, the shopman. You left a handful of sugar,
though why you did so instead of eating it, I can't
understand."
Hokar's face lighted up, and he showed his teeth
disdainfully. "Oh, you Sahibs know nozzin'!" said
he, spreading out his lean brown hands. “ Ze shops
ah, yis. I there, yis. But I use no roomal."
“ Not then, but you did later."
Hokar shook his head. "I use no roomal. Zat
Sahib one eye—bad, ver bad. Bhowanee, no have
one eye. No Bhungees, no Bhats, no—"
"What are you talking about?” said Hurd, angrily.
His reading had not told him that no maimed persons
could be offered to the goddess of the Thugs. Bhun-
gees meant sweepers, and Bhats bards, both of which
classes were spared by the stranglers. "You killed
that man. Now, who told you to kill him?"
"I know nozzin', I no kill. Bhowanee no take one-
eye mans."
For want of an interpreter Hurd found it difficult
to carry on the conversation. He rose and deter-
mined to postpone further examination till he would
get someone who understood the Hindoo tongue.
223


The Opal Serpent
abom
the wards “Theroduced hidividual
But in the meantime Hokar might run away, and
Hurd rather regretted that he had been so precipitate.
However, he nodded to the man and went off, pretty
sure he would not fly at once.
Then Hurd went to the village police-office, and
told a bucolic constable to keep his eye on Miss
Junk's "fureiner," as he learned Hokar was called.
The policeman, a smooth-faced individual, promised
to do so, after Hurd produced his credentials, and
sauntered towards “ The Red Pig," at some distance
from the detective's heels. A timely question
about the curry revealed, by the mouth of Miss
Junk, that Hokar was still in the kitchen. “ But
he do seem alarmed-like," said Matilda, laying the
cloth.
"Let's hope he won't spoil the curry," remarked
Hurd. Then, knowing Hokar was safe, he went
into the bar to make the acquaintance of his other
victim.
Captain Jarvey Jessop quite answered to the descrip-
tion given by Pash. He was large and sailor-like,
with red hair mixed with grey and a red beard that
scarcely concealed the scar running from temple to
mouth. He had drunk enough to make him cheerful
and was quite willing to fall into conversation with
Hurd, who explained himself unnecessarily. "I'm a
commercial gent," said the detective, calling for two
rums, plain, "and I like talking."
"Me, too," growled the sailor, grasping his glass.
“ I'm here on what you'd call a visit, but I go back to
my home to-morrow. Then it's ho for Callao," he
shouted in a sing-song voice.
Hurd knew the fierce old chanty and sized Captain
Jarvey up at once. He was of the buccaneer type,
and there was little he would not do to make
money and have a roaring time. Failing Hokar,
with his deadly handkerchief, here was the man
who might have killed Aaron Norman. “ Drink
224


CHAPTER XX
PART OF THE TRUTH
Captain Jessop ate as greedily as he drank strong
waters, and did full justice to the curry, which was
really excellent. Hurd did not broach any unpleasant
topic immediately, as he wished the man to enjoy his
meal. If Jessop was guilty, this dainty dinner would
be the last of its kind he would have for many a long
day. Moreover, Hurd wished to learn more of the
mariner's character, and plied him with questions,
which the unsuspecting sailor answered amiably
enough.
"Me an' you might become mates, as it were," said
Jessop, extending his large hand again and again.
“ Put it there."
"Well, we'd want to know something more about
one another to become real mates," laughed Hurd.
"Oh, you're a commercial traveller, as you say, and
I'm the captain of as fine a barkey as ever sailed under
Capricorn. Leastways I was, afore I gave up deep-
sea voyages."
"You must miss the ocean, living at Stowley."
“ Inland it is," admitted the mariner, pulling out a
dirty clay pipe, at the conclusion of the meal, "and
ocean there ain't round about fur miles. But I've got
a shanty there, and live respectable."
“ You are able to, with the stand-by," hinted Hurd.
Jessop nodded and crammed black tobacco, very
strong and rank, into the bowl of his pipe with a
shaking hand. “ It ain't much," he admitted; “ folks
228


Part of the Truth
being stingy. But if I wants more," he struck the
table hard, "I can get it. D'ye see, Mister Com-
mercial?"
"Yes, I see," replied Hurd, coolly. Jessop was
again growing cross, and the detective had to be
careful. He knew well enough that next morning,
when sober, Jessop would not be so disposed to talk,
but being muzzy, he opened his heart freely. Still,
it was evident that a trifle more liquor would
make him quarrelsome, so Hurd proposed coffee,
a proposition to which the sailor graciously as-
sented.
“ Cawfee," he observed, lighting his pipe, and filling
the room with evil-smelling smoke, "clears the 'ead,
not as mine wants clearing, mind you. But cawfee
ain't bad, when rum ain't t be 'ad."
"You'll have more rum later," hinted Hurd.
"Put it there," said Jessop, and again the detective
was forced to wince at the strong grip of a horny
hand.
Miss Junk appeared in answer to the tinkle of the
bell and removed the food. Afterwards she brought
in coffee, hot and strong and black, and Jessop drank
two cups, with the result that he became quieter.
Then the two men settled down for a pleasant
conversation. At least, Jessop thought so, for he
frequently expressed the friendliest sentiments
towards his host. Then Matilda appeared with a
bottle of rum, a kettle and two glasses. When she
departed, Hurd intimated that he would not require
her services again that night. This he whispered to
her at the door, while Jessop was placing the kettle
on the fire, and before returning to his seat, he
quietly turned the key. So he had the mariner
entirely to himself and got to business at once while
the kettle boiled.
"You have known this place for years I believe,"
said Hurd, taking a chair opposite to that of Jessop.
229


The Opal Serpent
“ Did you ever drop across a man, who used to live
here, called Lemuel Krill?"
The other man started. "Whatever makes you arsk
that?" he inquired in a husky voice.
"Well, you see, as a commercial I trade in books,
and had to do with a second-hand bookseller in
Gwynne Street, Drury Lane. It seems that he was
murdered," and he eyed Jessop attentively.
The sailor nodded and composed himself with a
violent effort. "Yes," said he in his husky voice, " so
I heard. But what's he got to do with Lemuel
Krill?"
"Oh," said Hurd, carelessly," it is said Aaron Nor-
man was Krill."
"Might ha' bin. I don't know myself," was the
gruff reply.
"Ah! Then you did not know Lemuel Krill?"
"Well," admitted the captain, reluctantly, "I did.
He wos the landlord of this here pub, and a cuss to
drink. Lor', 'ow he could drink, and did too. But
he run away from his wife as used to keep this shanty,
and she never heard no more of him."
“ Until she found he was rich and could leave her
five thousand a year," said Hurd, absently; "so like a
woman."
“ You seem to know all about it, mister?" said the
sailor, uneasily.
"Yes, I read the papers. A queer case that of
Norman's death. I expect it was only right he
should be strangled seeing he killed Lady Rachel
Sandal in the same way."
Jessop, resting his hands on the arms of his chair,
pushed it back and stared with a white face. “ You
know of that ? ” he gasped.
"Why not? It was public talk in this place over
twenty years ago. I understand you have been here-
abouts for thirty years," went on Hurd, carelessly,
"possibly you may recollect the case.”
230


Part of the Truth
E they say, bumitted suicide something
Jessop wiped his forehead. "I heard something
about it. That there lady committed suicide they say."
"I know what they say, but I want to know what
you say?"
"I won't be arsked questions," shouted the captain,
angrily.
* Don't raise your voice," said the detective,
smoothly; "we may as well conduct this conversation
pleasantly."
"I don't converse no more," said Jessop in a shaky
voice, and staggered to his feet, rapidly growing sober
under the influence of a deadly fear. Hurd did not
move as the man crossed the room, but felt if the key
was safe in his pocket. The sailor tried to open the
door, and then realized that it was locked. He turned
on his host with a volley of bad language, and found
himself facing a levelled revolver.
"Sit down," said Hurd, quietly; "go back to your
chair."
Jessop, with staring eyes and outspread hands,
backed to the wall. "Who are you anyhow?" he
demanded, hardly able to speak.
"Perhaps that will tell you," said Hurd, and threw
the warrant on the table. Jessop staggered forward
and looked at it. One glance was sufficient to inform
him what it was, and he sank back into his chair with
a groan, leaving the warrant on the table. Hurd
picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. He thought
Jessop might destroy it; but there was no fight in the
mariner.
"And now that we understand one another," said
Hurd, putting away his weapon, “I want to talk."
"Sha'n't talk," said Jessop, savagely.
"Oh, yes, I think so; otherwise I can make things
unpleasant for you."
“ You can't arrest me. I've done nothing."
"That may be so, but arrest you I can and I have
done so now. To-morrow morning you will go to
231


The Opal Serpent
now quite S. jourselash
London in charge of a plain-clothes policeman, while
I go to Stowley."
“ To my crib. No, I'm blest if you do."
"I sha'n't go immediately to your crib," rejoined
Hurd, dryly, "though I may do so later. My first
visit will be to that old pawnbroker. I think if I
describe you—and you are rather a noticeable man,
Captain Jessop—he will recognize the individual who
pawned an opal serpent brooch with him shortly after
the death of Lady Rachel Sandal, to whom the said
brooch belonged."
“ It's a lie," said Jessop hoarsely, and sober enough
now.
"Quite so, and perhaps it is also a lie that a man
resembling yourself tried to get certain jewellery from
a lawyer called Pash—"
Jessop lost his self-control, which he was trying
desperately to preserve, and rose to his feet, white-
faced and haggard. "Who are you?" he shouted,
“ who are you?"
"Doesn't the warrant tell you," replied his com-
panion, not at all upset. "My name is Billy Hurd. I
am the detective in charge of the Norman murder
case. And I've been looking for you for a long time,
Mr. Jessop."
"I know nothing about it."
"Yes, you do; so sit down and talk away."
" I'll break your head," cried the captain, swinging
his huge fists.
“ Try," Hurd whipped out his revolver, but did not
rise, "at the risk of getting a bullet through you.
Pshaw, man, don't be a fool. I'm making things as
easy for you as possible. Create a disturbance, and I'll
hand you over to the police. A night in the village
lock-up may cool your blood. Sit down I tell you."
The sailor showed his teeth like those of a snarling
dog and made as to strike the seated detective; but
suddenly changing his mind, for he saw well enough
232


Part of the Truth
deal with the police. Therefore, he took a stiff peg
and became quieter. In fact, when once started on
his confession, he appeared to be rather relieved.
"It's been a nightmare," said he, wiping his fore-
head. “ I'm glad it's come to the lawr, that I am. I
met Krill, as he wos then, some twenty-five year
back by chance, as you may say "—he cast a strange
look at the detective, which the latter noted—“yes, by
chance, Mr. Hurd. I found he kep' the pub here, and
this bein' no distance from Southampton I took to
runnin' down here when the barkey was at anchor.
Me an' Krill became great mates, and I'd what you
might call free quarters here—yes, sir—it's a frozen
fact."
“ Very generous of Mr. Krill," remarked Hurd,
dryly, and wondering what the man was keeping
back.
"Oh, he was right enough as a mate when not
drunk; but the liquor made a howling dorg of him.
I've seen many drunk in many places," said Jessop,
"but anyone who held his liquor wuss nor Krill I
never did see. He'd knife you as soon as look at
you when drunk."
"But he evidently preferred strangling."
“ Hold on, mate," said Jessop, with another deep
pull at the rum. “ I'm comin' to that night. We
wos both on the bust, as y'may say, and Mrs. Krill
she didn't like it, so got to bed with the child."
“ Mawold was the child bed with the chilfs; Krill
“ Maud ? Oh, you might say she was thirteen or
fifteen. I can't be sure of her age. What's up?"
For Hurd, seeing in this admission a confirmation
that Maud was either not Krill's child or was ille-
gitimate, and could not inherit the money, had showed
his feelings. However, he made some trivial excuse,
not wishing to be too confidential, and begged Jessop
to proceed.
"Well, mate," said the captain, filling another
235


The Opal Serpent
glass of rum, "y'see the lady had come earlier and
had been put to bed by the missus. I never saw her
myself, being drinking in this very room along o'
Krill. But he saw her," added Jessop, emphatically,
"and said as she'd a fine opal brooch, which he wish
he'd had, as he wanted money and the missus kept
him tight."
"Krill was a judge of jewels ? "
"Travelled in jewels once," said the captain. "Bless
you, he could size up a precious stone in no time. But
he sat drinking with me, and every now and then got
out of the room, when he'd stop away for perhaps a
quarter of an hour at the time."
"Did he mention the opal brooch again?"
"No," said Jessop, after reflection," he didn't. But
he got so drunk that he began to show fight, as he
always did when boozy, though a timid chap when
sober. I concluded, wishing no row, to git to my
hammock, and cut up stairs. Then I went by
mistake into the room of that pore lady, carrying a
candle, and saw her tied to the bedpost stone dead,
with a silk handkerchief round her neck. I shouted
out blue murder, and Mrs. Krill with the kid came
tumbling down. I was so feared," added Jessop, wip-
ing his forehead at the recollection, “ that I ran out
of doors."
"What good would that do?"
" Lor', I dunno," confessed the man, shivering,
"but I wos skeered out of my life. It wos rainin'
pitchforks, as y'might say, and I raced on through the
rain for an hour or so. Then I thought, as I wos
innocent, I'd make tracks back, and I did. I found
Krill had cut."
"Did his wife tell you ?"
"Oh, she wos lying on the floor insensible where
he'd knocked her down. And the kid—lor'," Jessop
spat, "she was lying in the corner with her lips fast-
ened together with the brooch."
236


Part of the Truth
“What? ” cried Hurd, starting to his feet. . The
same as her—the same as Norman's was?"
Jessop nodded and drank some rum. "Made me
sick it did. I took th' brooch away and slipped it
into my pocket. Then the kid said her father had
fastened her lips together and had knocked her mother
flat when she interfered. I brought Mrs. Krill round
and then left her with the kid, and walked off to
Southampton. The police found me there, and I told
them what I tell you."
“ Did you tell about the brooch?”.
"Well, no, I didn't," confessed Jessop, coolly,
"an' as the kid and the mother said nothing, I didn't
see why I shouldn't keep it, wantin' money. So I
went to Stowley and pawned it, then took a deep sea
voyage for a year. When I come back, all was
over."
"Do you think Krill murdered the woman?" asked
Hurd, passing over for the moment the fact that Jes-
sop had stolen the brooch.
"He said he didn't," rejoined the man with em-
phasis, "but I truly believe, mister, as he did, one
of them times, when mad with drink and out of the
room. He wanted the brooch, d'ye see, though why
he should have lost the loot by sealin' the kid's mouth
with it I can't say."
"When did you come across Krill again?"
"Ho," said Jessop, drawing his hand across his
mouth, " 'twas this way, d'ye see. I come round here
lots, and a swell come too, a cold—”.
"Grexon Hay," said Hurd, pointing to the photo-
graph.
"Yes. That's him," said Jessop, staring, "and I
hated him just, with his eye-glass and his sneerin'
ways. He loved the kid, now a growed, fine gal, as
you know, and come here often. In June—at the
end of it anyhow—he comes and I hears him tells Mrs.
Krill, who was always looking for her husband, that


The Opal Serpent
a one-eyed bookseller in Gwynne Street, Drury Lane,
had fainted when he saw the very identical brooch
showed him by another cove."
"Beecot. I know. Didn't you wonder how the
brooch had left the pawnshop?" asked Hurd, very
attentive.
"No, I didn't," snarled Jessop, who was growing
cross. "I knew old Tinker's assistant had sold the
brooch and he didn't oughter t have done it, as I
wanted it back. Mrs. Krill asked me about the
brooch, and wanted it, so I said I'd get it back.
Tinker said it was gone, but wrote to the gent as
bought it."
"Mr. Simon Beecot, of Wargrove, in Essex."
"That wos him; but the gent wouldn't give it back,
so I 'spose he'd given it to his son. Well, then, when
Mrs. Krill heard of the one-eyed man fainting at
sight of the brooch, she knew 'twas her husband, as
he'd one eye, she having knocked the other out when
he was sober."
"Did she go up and see him?"
"Well," said Jessop, slowly, "I don't rightly know
what she did do, but she went up. I don't think she
saw Krill at his shop, but she might have seen that
Pash, who was Mr. Hay's lawyer, and a dirty little
ape o sorts he is."
"Ha," said Hurd, to himself, "I thought Pash
knew about the women beforehand. No wonder he
stuck to them and gave poor Miss Norman the go-
bye," he rubbed his hands and chuckled. "Well,
we'll see what will come of the matter. Go on,
Jessop."
"There ain't much more to tell," grumbled the cap-
tain. "I heard of this, and I wasn't meant to hear.
But I thought I'd go up and see if I could get money
out of Krill by saying I'd tell about the murder of
Lady Rachel."
"You are a scoundrel," said Hurd, coolly.
238


Part of the Truth
beene in, thinliness in a wabout thd
“I wos 'ard up," apologized the captain, "or I
wouldn't, not me. I'm straight enough when in cash.
So I went up in July."
“ On the sixth of July ?"
“ If that was the day of the murder—yes. I went
up and loafed round until it wos dark, and then
slipped through that side passage at eight o'clock to
see Krill."
"How did you know where to find him?"
"Why, that Hay knew about the chap, and said
as he did business in a cellar after eight. So Krill
let me in, thinking, I 'spose, I wos a customer. He'd
been drinking a little and was bold enough. But when
I said, as I'd say, he'd killed Lady Rachel, he swore he
was an innercent babe, and cried, the drink dyin' out
of him."
“ The same as it died out of you lately," said Hurd,
smiling.
"Go slow," grunted the captain, in a surly tone.
"I ain't afraid now, as I ain't done nothing. I said
to Krill I'd say nothin' if he'd give me money. He
wouldn't, but said he'd placed a lot of pawned things
with Pash, and I could have them. He then gave me
a paper saying I was to have the things, and I went
to Pash the next morning and had trouble. But I
heard by chance," again Jessop cast a strange look
at Hurd, “ that Krill had been murdered, so I didn't
wait for the lawyer to come back, but cut down to
Southampton and went on a short voyage. Then I
come here and you nabbed me," and Jessop finished
his rum. "That's all I know."
"Do you swear you left Aaron Norman alive?"
“ Meaning Krill? I do. He wasn't no use to me
dead, and I made him give me the jewels Pash had,
d'ye see."
" But who warned you of the death when you were
waiting?"
Jessop seemed unwilling to speak, but when
with Pash, and I was to have the had trouble
239


CHAPTER XXI
MISS QIAN'S PARTY
Hurd's sister was a clever young woman who in
her time had played many parts. She began her
career along with Hurd as a private detective, but
when her brother joined the official service, Miss
Hurd thought she would better her position by
appearing on the stage, and, therefore, took the
rather queer name of Aurora Qian. In her detective
capacity she had often disguised herself when
employed in obtaining evidence, and was remarkably
talented in changing her face and figure. This art
she used with great success in her new profession,
and speedily made her mark as an impersonator of
various characters out of novels. As Becky Sharp,
as Little Dorrit, she was said to be inimitable, and
after playing under several managements, she started,
in the phrase of the profession, "a show of her own,"
and rapidly made money.
But her great faults amongst others were vanity
and extravagance, so she was always in need of
money, and when chance offered, through her
brother, to make any, she was not averse to returning
to the spy business. Thus it came about that she
watched Mr. Grexon Hay for many a long day
and night, and he never suspected the pretty, fluffy,
kittenish Miss Qian was in reality an emissary of
the law. Consequently, when Aurora asked him to
a card-party at her rooms, Hay accepted readily
241


The Opal Serpent
enough, although he was not in need of money at the
time.
Miss Qian occupied a tiny flat on the top of a
huge pile of buildings in Kensington, and it was
furnished in a gimcrack way, with more show than
real value, and with more color than taste. Every
room was of a different hue, with furniture and hang-
ings to match. The drawing-room was pink, the
dining-room green, her bedroom blue, the entrance
hall yellow, and the extra sleeping apartment used by
her companion, Miss Stably, was draped in purple.
Some wit called the flat "the paint-box," and indeed
so varied were its hues that it was not a bad title to
give it.
Like the Becky Sharp whom she impersonated
with such success, Miss Qian possessed a sheep-dog,
not because she needed one, being very well able to
look after herself, but because it sounded and looked
respectable. Miss Stably, who filled this necessary
office, was a dull old lady who dressed excessively
badly, and devoted her life to knitting shawls.
What she did with these when completed no one
ever knew: but she was always to be found with two
large wooden pins rapidly weaving the fabric for
some unknown back. She talked very little, and
when she did speak, it was to agree with her sharp
little mistress. To make up for speaking little, she
ate a great deal, and after dinner with her eternal
knitting in her bony hands and a novel on her lap,
was entirely happy. She was one of those neutral-
tinted people, who seem not good enough for heaven
and not sufficiently bad for the other place. Aurora
often wondered what would become of Miss Stably
when she departed this life, and left her knitting
behind her. The old lady herself never gave the
matter a thought, but lived a respectable life of
knitting and eating and novel reading, with a
regular visit to church on Sunday where she
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Miss Qian's Party
and seizing the cards; “ we've been watching you.
Tempest—"
"I saw it all right," said the other. "You took up
that king—"
"And it's marked," said Aurora. "I believe Hay's
got cards up his sleeve. Examine the cards."
Hay, very pale, but still keeping his countenance,
tried to object, but the two young men seized and
held him, while Miss Qian, with a dexterity acquired
in detective circles, rapidly searched his pockets.
"Here's another pack," she cried, and shook an ace
and two kings out of the detected swindler's sleeve,
"and these cards”
Sandal took one and went to the lamp. "Marked,
by Jove!" he cried, but with a stronger oath; "here's
a pin-prick."
* You are mistaken," began Hay, quite pale.
"No," said Tempest, coolly,“ we're not. "Miss Qian
told us you cheated, and we laid a trap for you.
You've been trying this double card and marked card
dodge several times this very evening."
"And he's tried it lots of times before," said
Aurora, quickly. "I have been at several places
where Hay scooped the pool, and it was all
cheating."
"If it was," said Hay, with quivering lips, "why
didn't you denounce me then and there?"
“ Because I denounce you now," she said ; "you're
cooked, my man. These boys will see that the matter
is made public."
"By Jove, yes ! ” cried Sandal, with a look of abhor-
rence at Hay, "and I'll prosecute you to get back
those thousands you won off me."
"I never did—"
“ You've been rooking this boy for months," cried
Miss Qian. "Here, Tempest, get a constable. We'll
give him in charge for swindling."
"No! nol” cried Hay, his nerve giving way under
245


The Opal Serpent
the threatened exposure; “ you'll have your money
back, Sandal, I swear."
"Lord George to you now, you blackguard; and
how can you pay me the money when I know you
haven't got a cent?”.
"He intends to get it from the heiress," sniggered
Aurora.
"Oh, dear me!" rose the plaintive voice of the
sheep-dog, “ what is it, Aurora? Anything wrong?"
"We've caught Hay cheating, that's all, and the
police "
"Oh, Aurora, don't bring up the police."
"No, don't," said Hay, who was now trembling.
"I'll do whatever you like. Don't show me up I'm
- I'm going to be married soon."
"No, you sha'n't marry," cried Tempest, sharply;
“ I'll see this girl myself and save her from you.
"You can't prove that I cheated," said Hay, des-
perately.
"Yes, we can," said George. "I, and Miss Qian,
and Tempest all saw you cheat, and Miss Qian has
the marked cards."
"But don't expose me. I—I—" Hay broke down
and turned away with a look of despair on his face.
He cursed himself inwardly for having ventured to
cheat when things, by the marriage with Maud Krill,
would have soon been all right for him. "Miss
Qian," he cried in a tone of agony, “ give me another
chance."
Aurora, playing her own game, of which the two
young men were ignorant, appeared to repent. She
beckoned to Miss Stably. "Take Mr. Hay into the
dining-room," she said, "and I'll see what I can do.
But you try and bolt, Hay, and the news will be all
over the West End to-morrow."
"I'll stop," said Hay, whose face was colorless,
and, without another word, he followed the sheep-
dog into the dining-room in an agony of mind better
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Miss Qian's Party
imagined than described. Then Miss Qian turned
her attention to her guests.
"See here, boys," she said frankly, "this is a dirty
business, and I don't want to be mixed up with it."
"But Hay should be exposed," insisted Sandal;
“ he's been rooking me, I do believe, for months."
“ Serve you jolly well right," said Aurora, heart-
lessly. "I warned you again and again against him.
But if there's a row, where do I come in?"
" It won't hurt you," said Tempest, eagerly.
"Oh, won't it? Gambling in my flat, and all the
rest of it. You boys may think me free and easy
but I'm straight. No one can say a word against me.
I'm not going to be made out an adventuress and a
bad woman for the sake of that swindler, Hay. So
you boys will just hold your tongues."
"No," said Sandal,“ my money—”.
"Oh, bother your money. One would think you
were a Jew. I'll see that Hay pays it back. He's
going to marry this Krill girl, and she's able to supply
the cash."
"But the girl shouldn't be allowed to marry Hay,"
said Tempest.
"Don't you burn your fingers with other people's
fire," said Aurora, sharply. "This girl's in love with
him and will marry him in spite of everything. But
I don't care a cent for that. It's myself I'm thinking
of. If I get your money back, Sandal, will you hold
your tongue?”
· Lord George, thinking of what his noble father
would say were he involved in a card scandal con-
nected with an actress, thought it just as well to
agree. "Yes," said he, hesitatingly, "I'll not say a
word, if you get the money back. But don't you let
Hay speak to me again in public or I'll kick him."
"That's your affair and his," said Aurora, delighted
at having gained her point; "but you hold your
tongue, and you, Tempest?”
ton having your allagain in y backly,"I'IL as well on
247


The Opal Serpent
pressed burst out, “ 'Twas a measily little kid with
ragged clothes and a dirty face.”
"Tray," said Hurd. “Hum! I wonder how he
knew of the murder before it got into the
papers?”


CHAPTER XXI
MISS QIAN'S PARTY
HURD's sister was a clever young woman who in
her time had played many parts. She began her
career along with Hurd as a private detective, but
when her brother joined the official service, Miss
Hurd thought she would better her position by
appearing on the stage, and, therefore, took the
rather queer name of Aurora Qian. In her detective
capacity she had often disguised herself when
employed in obtaining evidence, and was remarkably
talented in changing her face and figure. This art
she used with great success in her new profession,
and speedily made her mark as an impersonator of
various characters out of novels. As Becky Sharp,
as Little Dorrit, she was said to be inimitable, and
after playing under several managements, she started,
in the phrase of the profession, “a show of her own,"
and rapidly made money.
But her great faults amongst others were vanity
and extravagance, so she was always in need of
money, and when chance offered, through her
brother, to make any, she was not averse to returning
to the spy business. Thus it came about that she
watched Mr. Grexon Hay for many a long day
and night, and he never suspected the pretty, fluffy,
kittenish Miss Qian was in reality an emissary of
the law. Consequently, when Aurora asked him to
a card-party at her rooms, Hay accepted readily
241


The Opal Serpent
“ I'll not say a word either," said the young man,
with a shrug, "though I don't see why you should
save this blackguard's reputation."
"It's my own I'm thinking of, so don't you make
any mistake. And now I have both your promises ?"
"Yes," said Sandal and Tempest, thinking it best
to hush the matter up; "but Hay—"
“ I'll see to him. You two boys clear out and go
home to bed."
"But we can't leave you alone with Hay," said
Tempest.
"I'll not be alone with him," cried the little woman,
imperiously; "my companion is with me. What do
you mean?"
"He might do you some harm."
"Oh! might he ? You take me for a considerable
idiot, I suppose. You get along, boys, and leave me
to fix up things."
Both young men protested again; but Aurora,
anxious for her conversation with Hay, bundled them
out of the flat and banged the door to, when she
heard them whistling below for a hansom. Then she
went to the dining-room.
“ You come along to the drawing-room," she said
to Hay. "Miss Stably, stop here."
“ I haven't got my shawl," bleated the old lady.
"Oh, bother," Aurora ran to the other room,
snatched up the shawl and saw Miss Stably
sitting down to knit, while she led Hay back into
the drawing-room. He looked round when he
entered.
"Where are they?" he asked, sitting down.
"Gone; but it's all right. I've made them promise
not to say—"
Grexon Hay didn't let her finish. He fell on his
knees and kissed her hand. His face was perfectly
white, but his eyes were full of gratitude as he babbled
his thanks. No one could have accused him of being
248


Miss Qian's Party
cold then. But Miss Qian did not approve of this
emotion, natural though it was.
"Here, get up," she said, snatching her hand away.
“ I've got to speak straight to you. I've done a heap
for you, now you've got to do a heap for me."
"Anything—anything," said Hay, whose face was
recovering its normal color. “ You have saved me-
you have."
“ And much of a thing you are to save. You'll be
cheating again in a week or so."
"No," cried Hay, emphatically, "I swear I'll not
touch a card again. I'll marry Maud and turn re-
spectable. Oh, what a lesson I've had! You are sure
those fellows won't speak?"
"No. That's all right. You can go on swindling
as before, only," Miss Qian raised a finger, "you'll
have to pay Sandal back some cash."
“ I'll do that. Maud will lend me the money. Does
he want all?"
"Oh, a couple of thousand will shut his mouth. I'll
not see you left. It's all right, so sit up and don't
shake there like a jelly."
"You're very kind to me," said Hay, faintly.
"Don't you make any mistake. So far as I am
concerned you might stick in the mud forever. I
helped you, because I want you to help me. I'm in
want of money—"
"I'll give you some."
"Picked from that girl's pockets," said Aurora,
dryly, "no, thank you. It might dirty my fingers*
Listen—there's a reward offered for the discovery of
the murderer of Aaron Norman. I want to get that
thousand pounds, and you can help me to."
Hay started to his feet with amazement. Of all
the requests she was likely to make he never thought
it would be such a one. "Aaron Norman's murder,"
he said, " what do you know of that?"
"Very little, but you know a lot.”
249


The Opal Serpent
“I don't, I swear I don't."
"Pish," said Miss Qian, imperiously, "remember
I've got the whip-hand, my boy. Just you tell me
how Mrs. Krill came to strangle the—"
“ Mrs. Krill?" Hay turned white again, and his
eye-glass fell. "She had nothing to do with the mat-
ter. I swear-”
“ Strikes me you swear too much, Mr. Hay. What
about that opal brooch you stole from Beecot when
he had the smash?"
"I didn't steal it. I never saw it at the time of the
accident."
"Then you got that boy Tray to steal it."
"I knew nothing about the boy. Besides, why
should I steal that opal serpent brooch?"
“ You wanted to buy it from Beecot, anyhow?"
Hay looked puzzled. “ Yes, for a lady."
"Mrs. Krill?"
"I admit that Mrs. Krill wanted it. She had asson
ciations connected with that brooch."
"I know," interrupted Aurora, glancing at the
clock,“ don't waste time in talking of Lady Rachel
Sandal's death—"
"How do you know about that?" stammered Hay,
completely nonplussed.
"I know a mighty lot of things. I may as well
tell you," added Miss Qian, coolly, " since you daren't
split, that I've got a lot to do with the secret de-
tective service business. I'm helping another to hunt
out evidence for this case, and I guess you know a
lot."
The man quailed. He knew that he did not
stand well with the police and dreaded what this
little fluffy woman should do. Aurora read his
thoughts. "Yes," she said, "we know a heap
about you at the Scotland Yard Office, and if
you don't tell me all you know, I'll make things
hot for you. This cheating to-night is only one
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Miss Qian's Party
thing. I know you are 'a man on the market,'
Mr. Hay."
"What do you wish to hear?" asked Hay, col-
lapsing.
"All about Mrs. Krill's connection with this mur-
der."
"She has nothing to do with it. Really, she
hasn't. Aaron Norman was her husband right
enough—"
"And he ran away from her over twenty years ago.
But who told Mrs. Krill about him?"
"I did," confessed Hay, volubly and seeing it was
best for him to make a clean breast of it. "I met
the Krills three years ago when I was at Bournemouth.
They lived in Christchurch, you know."
"Yes. Hotel-keepers. Well, what then?"
"I fell in love with Maud and went to Christchurch
to stop at 'The Red Pig.' She loved me, and in a
year we became engaged. But I had no money to
marry her, and she had none either. Then Mrs. Krill
told me of her husband and of the death of Lady
Rachel."
"Murder or suicide?"
"Suicide, Mrs. Krill said," replied Hay, frankly.
“ She told me also about the opal brooch and described
it. I met Beecot by chance and greeted him as an old
school-fellow. He took me to his attic and to my
surprise showed me the opal brooch. I wanted to buy
it for Mrs. Krill, but Beecot would not sell it. When
next I met him, he told me that Aaron Norman had
fainted when he saw the brooch. I thought this odd,
and informed Mrs. Krill. She described the man to
me, and especially said that he had but one eye. I
went with Beecot to the Gwynne Street shop, and a
single glance told me that Aaron Norman was
Lemuel Krill. I told his wife, and she wanted to
come up at once. But I knew that Aaron was
reported rich—which I had heard through Pash
251


The Opal Serpent
-and as he was my lawyer, I suggested that the
Krills should go and see him.”
.“ Which they did, before the murder?"
“ Yes. Pash was astonished, and when he heard
that Mrs. Krill was the real wife, he saw that Aaron
Norman, as he called himself, had committed bigamy,
and that Sylvia—"
"Yes, you needn't say it," said Miss Qian, angrily,
"she's worth a dozen of that girl you are going to
marry. But why did you pretend to meet Mrs. Krill
and her daughter for the first time at Pash's?"
“ To blind Beecot. We were standing at the door
when the two came out, and I pretended to see them
for the first time. Then I told Beecot that I had been
introduced to Maud at Pash's office. He's a clever
chap, Beecot, and, being engaged to Sylvia Norman,
I thought he might find out too much."
“ About the murder?"
Hay rose and looked solemn. "I swear I know
nothing of that," he said decidedly, "and the Krills
were as astonished as I, when they heard of the
death. They were going to see him by Pash's
advice, and Mrs. Krill was going to prosecute him
for bigamy unless he allowed her a good income.
Death put an end to all that, so she made up the
story of seeing the hand-bills, and then of course the
will gave the money to Maud, who was engaged to
me."
"The will or what was called a will, gave the
money to Sylvia," said Aurora, emphatically; " but
this brooch—you didn't take it?"
"No, I swear I didn't. Mrs. Krill wanted it, but
I never knew it was of any particular importance.
Certainly, I would never have risked robbing Beecot,
and I never told that boy Tray to rob either."
“ Then who took the brooch."
"I can't say. I have told you all I know.”
“ Hum," said Aurora, just like her brother, "thank
this brooch Sylvia,” said was called a .
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Miss Qian's Party
will do to-night; but if I ask any more questions you'll
have to answer, so now you can go. By the way, I
suppose the brooch made you stick to Beecot?"
"Yes," said Hay, frankly; "he was of no use to
me. But while he had the brooch I stuck to him to
get it for Mrs. Krill."
"Queer," said Aurora. "I wonder why she wanted
it so much!" but this question Hay was unable to
answer.
253


Further Evidence
Hokar had proved a difficult subject. Whether he
was too grateful to Mrs. Krill to speak out, or whether
he really did not understand what was asked of him,
he certainly showed a talent for holding his tongue.
However, Hurd saw well enough that the man was
afraid of the Sahib's law, and when matters came to
a crisis would try and prove his innocence even at
the cost of implicating others. Therefore, with an
easy mind the detective left these two witnesses being
watched at Christchurch and repaired to town, where
Aurora informed him of the interview with Hay.
Billy approved of the way in which his sister had
managed matters.
"I guessed that Hay was the man who put Mrs.
Krill on the track of her husband," he said, with satis-
faction; “ but I wasn't quite sure how he spotted the
man."
"Oh, the one eye identified him," said Aurora, who
was eating chocolate as usual, "and Norman's faint-
ing at the sight of the brooch confirmed Hay's belief
as to who he was. I wonder he didn't make a bargain
with Norman on his own."
Hurd shook his head. "It wouldn't have paid so
well," said he, wisely. "Norman would have parted
only with a small sum, whereas this murder will bring
in Hay a clear five thousand a year when he marries
the girl. Hay acted cleverly enough."
"But I tell you Hay has nothing to do with the
murder."
"That may be so, though I don't trust him. But
Mrs. Krill might have strangled her husband so as to
get the money."
"What makes you think she did?" asked Aurora,
doubtfully.
"Well, you see, from what Jessop says, Mrs. Krill
is devotedly attached to Maud, and she may have
been anxious to revenge her daughter on Krill. He
acted like a brute and fastened the child's lips
255


The Opal Serpent
could reply. "Mr. Hurd had better read this paper.
It was found by Deborah in an old box belonging
to my father, which was brought from Gwynne
Street."
She gave the detective several sheets of blue
foolscap pinned together and closely written in
the shaky handwriting of Aaron Norman. Hurd
looked at it rather dubiously. "What is it?" he
ask the paper, was discon evident forgot into a box of
“The paper referred to in that unfinished scrap of
writing which was discovered behind the safe," ex-
plained Paul. "Norman evidently wrote it out, and
placed it in his pocket, where he forgot it. Deborah
found it in an old coat, she discovered in a box of
clothes brought from Gwynne Street. They were
Norman's clothes and his box, and should have been
left behind."
"Debby won't hear of that," said Sylvia, laughing.
"She says Mrs. Krill has got quite enough, and she
took all she could."
"What's all this writing about?" asked Hurd,
turning over the closely-written sheets. "To save
time you had better give me a precis of the matter.
Is it important?"
"Very I should say," responded Paul, emphatically.
“ It contains an account of Norman's life from the
time he left Christchurch."
"Hum." Hurd's eyes brightened. "I'll read it at
my leisure, but at the present moment you might say
what you can."
"Well, you know a good deal of it," said Paul, who
did the talking at a sign from Sylvia. "It seems that
Norman—we'd better stick to the old name—left
Christchurch because he was afraid of being accused
of murdering Lady Rachel."
"Was she really murdered? ”.
". Norman doesn't say. He swears he knows
nothing about the matter. The first intimation he
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Further Evidence
had was when Jessop came down with the news after
blundering into the wrong bedroom. But he hints
that Mrs. Krill killed her.”
“ Can he prove that?"
"No. He can't give any proof, or, at all events,
he doesn't. He declares that when his wife and
daughter"
"Oh! does he call Maud his daughter?"
"Yes! We can talk of that later," said Paul, im-
patiently. "Well, then, Norman says he went fairly
mad. Jessop had bolted, but Norman knew he would
not give the alarm, since he might be accused himself
of killing Lady Rachel. Maud, who had seen the
body, wanted to run out and call the neighbors."
"How old does Norman say she was?"
"About fifteen; quite old enough to make things
unpleasant."
* Then she can't inherit the money," said Hurd,
decisively.
"No," cried Beecot, quickly, "both Sylvia and I
think so. But to go on with Norman's confession.
He would not let Maud go. She began to scream,
and he feared lest she should alarm the neighbors.
He tied a handkerchief across her lips, but she got
free, and again began to scream. Then he cruelly
fastened her lips together with the opal brooch."
"Where did he get that, if innocent ?"
"He declared that he spied it on the floor of the
sitting-room, near his wife's feet, and then hints that
she strangled Lady Rachel to get it and turn it into
money as she was desperately in need of cash for
Maud. Mrs. Krill idolized the child."
"I know that," snapped Hurd. "Go on."
“ When Norman fastened the child's lips together,
Mrs. Krill threw herself on him in a rage. He
knocked her insensible, and then ran away. He
walked through the night, until, at dawn, he came to
a distant railway station. There he took a ticket
that, if it
sheting-room, red that
259


The Opal Serpent
had learned from Tray's grandmother, a drunken old
thief, how the boy brought home the opal brooch,
and”
Here Mrs. Purr, who had entered and was drop-
ping curtseys to the majesty of the law, as represented
by Hurd, thought an undue advantage was being taken
of her position. She wished to talk herself, and in-
terrupted Paul, in a shrill voice.
“ Granny Clump, she is," said Mrs. Purr, folding
her hands under her apron. "Tray's gran'mother,
as 'is name is Tray Clump, I swear on my Bible
oath. A wicked old woman as is famous for
drink—"
"I've heard of her," said the detective, remember-
ing; "she's been up heaps of times."
“ And grows no better," wailed Mrs. Purr, bibu-
lously, for she had been strengthening herself for the
interview with frequent libations of gin. "Oh, what
a thing strong drink is, sir! But Granny Clump,
bein' ill with the lungses, and me bein' 'elpful in sich
cases, 'aving bin a nuss, when young, as I won't
deceive you by denying, called on me to be a good
Smart 'un. And I wos, though she swore awful,
saying she wanted gin an' jellies, an' could 'ave 'ad
them, if that limb—so did she name Tray, gentle-
men both—'ad only 'anded to 'er the rich brooch
he brought 'ome, just afore he went to earn a
decent livin' at the lawr orfice, which 'is name is
Pash "
"Ha," said Hurd, thoughtfully, "I'll see the boy."
"You can see him now," said Beecot, unexpectedly.
“ When I learned this from Mrs. Purr and knew you
were coming, I sent a message to Pash's office for
the boy. He came up quite unsuspectingly, but he
refused to speak. I shut him up in a back room, and
Deborah has been watching him—"
"An' the languige of that blessed limb!" exclaimed
Mrs. Purr, raising her hands.
262


Further Evidence
“Bring him in," said Hurd. "Miss Norman, if the
boy uses bad language, you needn't stay."
Sylvia, having heard what Tray could do in this
way, needed no further hint.' She left the room
gladly, and told Deborah to bring along her
prisoner. Shortly, the noise of kicking and strong
language was heard coming nearer, and Deborah,
with a red face and a firm mouth, appeared at the
door, holding aloft a small boy who was black in the
face with rage. "There," said Deborah, flinging Tray
in a heap at the detective's feet, “if me an' Bart 'ave
sich a brat, I 'ope he dies in his cradle, instead of
growing to a galler's thief in th' use of words which
make me shudder, let alone my pretty. Ugh!" she
shook her fist at Tray. "You Old Bailey viper,
though young at that."
"Here," said Tray, rising, much dishevelled, but
with a white face, “ let me go. I'll 'ave the lawr of
you."
" I'll attend to that, my lad," said Hurd, dryly.
"Now, then, where did you get that brooch? ”
“ Sha'n't tell," snapped the boy, and put his tongue
out.
Hurd gave him a smack with an open hand on
the side of his face, and Master Clump began to
blubber.
“ Assalting me—oh, won't you ketch it," he raged
in his puny wrath. "My master's a law-cove, and
he'll 'ave y' up before the beak."
“ You answer my questions," said Hurd, sternly,
" or you'll get another clout. You know who I am
well enough. Make a clean breast of it, you imp, or
I'll lock you up."
"If I make a clean breast will you let me cut? ”
asked Tray, beginning to whimper, but with a cun-
ning gleam in his eyes.
“ I'll see, when I know what you have to say."
Tray looked round the room to see if there was
263


Further Evidence
cut to Mr. Pash, as wos his lawyer, and said I'd sell
'im the brooch."
"What?" cried Hurd, rising. "You gave the
brooch to Mr. Pash?"
"Yuss. He said he'd 'ave me up for stealin', and
wouldn't guv me even a bob fur it. But he said I'd
be his noo orfice boy. I thought I'd be respectable,
so I went. And now," ended Master Clump in a
sullen manner, "you knows all, and I ain't done
nothin', so I'm orf."
Deborah caught him by the tail of his jacket as
he made a dart at the door and swung him into the
middle of the room. Hurd laid hands on him.
“ You come along with me," he said. "I'll confront
you with Pash."
Tray gave a howl of terror. "He'll kill me," he
shouted," as he killed the old cove. Yuss. He did
it. Pash did it," and he howled again.
265


CHAPTER XXIII
WHAT PASH SAID
In a smoking compartment, which the three had to
themselves, Hurd resumed his examination of Tray.
They were now on their way to Liverpool Street and
thence the detective intended to convey the boy to
Pash's office in Chancery Lane. Paul sat in one
corner much excited over the turn events had taken.
He began to think that the assassin of Aaron
Norman would be found after all. More, he believed
that Sylvia would yet inherit the five thousand a year
she was entitled to, morally, if not legally. Hurd, in
another corner, pulled Tray roughly towards him,
and shook his finger in the lad's face. The boy was
sulky and defiant, yet there was a trace of fear in his
eyes, and the reason of this Hurd wished to learn.
"You're a young liar," said Hurd, emphatically,
"and not a clever one either. Do you think to play
the fool with me?”.
"I've tole you all straight," grumbled Tray.
"No, you haven't. Anyone can see that you've
made a mistake. I leave it to Mr. Beecot yonder."
"I was about to draw your attention to the mis-
take," said Paul; "you mean the discrepancy in
time."
Master Clump started and became more sulky than
ever. He cast down his cunning eyes and shuffled
with his feet while Hurd lectured him. “ You know
well enough," said the detective, sharply, “ that the
brooch was boned by you on the very evening when
266


What Pash Said
the murder took place. It was then that Mr.
Beecot met with his accident. Therefore, you
could not have given the brooch to Mr. Pash the
next morning, as it had been used on the previous
night."
"Sha'n't say anythin' more," retorted Tray, de-
fiantly.
"Oh, won't you?" cried Hurd, ironically, "we'll
see about that. You told that lie about the time to
account for your knowing of the murder before any-
one else did."
"No," said Tray, decidedly, “I did go to the shorp
in th' mornin'."
"That you may have done, but not to sell the
brooch. Mr. Pash had taken it from you on the
previous night."
"He didn't," denied the boy.
"Then in that case you've told a lie. Pash never
had the brooch, and has nothing to do with the mur-
der."
"He did prig the brooch from me, and he did kill
the ole cove."
"Well, we'll see what Mr. Pash will say when you
accuse him," said Hurd; "but I don't believe one
word of it. It's my opinion that you gave that brooch
to a third party on the same evening as you stole it.
Now, then, who did you give it to?"
"Mr. Pash," persisted Tray.
"On the same evening ?"
There was no reply to this. Tray set his lips firmly
and refused to speak. Hurd shook an admonitory
finger again. "You can't play fast and loose with
me, my lad," he said grimly; " if you didn't part with
that brooch, you must be mixed up in the crime your-
self. Perhaps you pinned the poor wretch's mouth
together. It's just the sort of cruel thing a young
Cain like you would do."
"I didn't," said Master Clump, doggedly; "you
267


The Opal Serpent
take me to master, and I'll tell him what I tells you.
He's the one."
Hurd shook the boy to make him talk more, but
Tray simply threw himself on the floor of the carriage
and howled. The detective therefore picked him up
and flung him into a corner. "You stop there, you
little ruffian," he said, seriously annoyed at the boy's
recalcitrants; “ we'll speak again when we are in Mr.
Pash's office." So Tray curled up on the cushion,
looked savagely at the detective and held his tongue.
“ What do you think will be the end of all this?"
asked Paul, when Master Clump was thus dis-
posed of.
"Lord knows," replied Hurd, wiping his face. "I
never had a harder case to deal with. I thought
Hay had a hand in it, but it seems he hadn't, bad lot
as he is, asking your pardon, Mr. Beecot, since you're
his friend."
"That I am not," disclaimed Beecot, emphatically;
"there's a young lawyer I know, Ford is his name.
I went to see him as to what chances Sylvia had of
getting the money. He was at school with me, and
remembered Hay. He said that Hay was dismissed
from Torrington School for stealing."
“ Didn't you know that yourself."
"No, I had left the school—I was ill at home with
scarlet fever. But Hay apparently always has been
a bad lot. He and that Krill pair are well matched,
for I believe the mother is bad, even if the daughter
Maud isn't. By the way her age?"
Hurd nodded. "I believe she was fifteen at the
time of the death of Lady Rachel. If so, she can't
be legitimate or may not be the daughter of Aaron
Norman. However, I've asked my sister to look up
Mrs. Krill's past life in Stowley, where she comes
from."
"But she wasn't married to Krill at Stowley?"
“ No. But she lived there as Anne Tyler. From
268


What Pash Said
the certificate she was married to Krill at a small
parish church twenty miles from Stowley, so Aurora
will go there. But I want her to stop at Stowley
first and learn all she can about Anne Tyler."
“ Beechill's the name of the parish in which she
was married to Krill before she came to Christchurch,"
said Paul, musingly, "so I expect they lived there.
Miss Qian might search also for the certificate of
Maud Krill's birth."
"I told her to, and, failing that, she's to search in
Christchurch. We must get the certificate of birth
somehow."
“ Hurd," said Paul, rather diffidently, "I hope you
won't be annoyed, but I have already asked my
friend Ford to give notice to Pash to produce the
certificate.
"Well," replied the detective, “ you might have
told me; but no great harm is done. What does
Pash say?"
"I don't know. Ford has not let me know yet.
Here we are."
This remark was caused by the stopping of the
train at Liverpool Street Station. A number of
people were returning from their employment in the
city to the country, and the platforms were crowded.
Hurd grasped Master Clump by the arm and marched
him along. But in the confusion of finding his ticket
at the barrier, he happened to let go, almost with-
out thinking. In a moment Tray had darted through
the barrier and was lost in the crowd. Hurd sprang
after him, and left Paul to explain. He hurriedly did
so, and then went out to see if the detective had caught
the boy.
Hurd was nowhere to be seen, neither was Tray.
The crowd was increasing thick, and Beecot was at a
loss what to do. After waiting for an hour without
finding the pair, he thought he would go to Pash's
office. It might be that Hurd, having caught Tray,
269


The Opal Serpent
would take him there at once, leaving Beecot to
follow. So Paul got on to the metropolitan
railway and alighted at the Temple Station.
Thence he walked up to the office in Chancery
Lane.
"Where's Tray?" asked Paul, of the one clerk in
the outer room, who was writing for dear life.
"I don't know, sir," said the clerk; "he went out
this morning and hasn't been back all day. Mr. Pash
is very angry with him."
Apparently Hurd had not caught the boy yet, or if
he had, did not intend to bring him to the office.
“ Can I see Mr. Pash?" asked Paul, thinking he
might as well make some use of his time.
The clerk inquired if the solicitor would see Beecot,
and presently ushered him into the inner room,
where Pash sat looking more like a monkey than
ever. He did not appear at all pleased to see the
young man, and sucked in his cheek with a crabbed
air.
"Well, Mr. Beecot, what can I do for you?" he
snarled.
"You might be civil in the first place," said Paul
quietly, taking a chair. "You haven't behaved over
Well to Miss Norman and me."
"Oh," said Pash, coolly," have you come to re-
proach me with that?"
"I never waste time," rejoined Paul, equally coolly.
" I'll leave you to your conscience."
Pash shrugged his shoulders and put his feet on
the rungs of his chair. "I think my conscience can
stand that," he said; "it's business, Mr. Beecot,
business. By the way, I have received a request
from Mr. Ford of Cheapside to produce the certificate
of birth of Miss Brill. What is the meaning of
that?"
"I think you know very well, Mr. Pash."
"I profess my ignorance," said Pash, ironically,
270


What Pash Said
although he looked uneasy, and was apparently
lying.
“ In that case you had better wait till you hear
from Mr. Ford."
“ Are you employing Mr. Ford, may I ask?"
Paul nodded. "On behalf of Miss Norman," said
he, coldly.
"Ah," sneered the monkey, "you think you'll get
the money."
"Wait till you hear from Mr. Ford," retorted Paul
again, and enjoyed the baffled expression on Mr. Pash's
wrinkled face.“ By the way, sir, why did you not
tell Hurd that Tray gave you the opal brooch?"
Pash turned all the colors of the rainbow. "Does
that brat I took into my office out of charity dare to
say that he did."
“ He does, and what is more, Mr. Hurd is bringing
him here to make the statement, face to face with
you. I am determined to get to the bottom of this
case, sir, for Miss Norman's sake. And the possession
of the brooch forms an important link."
"How so?"
“ The person who had that brooch on the evening
of the sixth of July murdered Norman," said Paul,
calmly.
Pash jumped up and chattered like a baboon in a
rage. "Do you mean to accuse me?" he demanded.
“ Take care—take care."
"I don't accuse you. Tray does."
"It's a lie—a lie”
"Don't excite yourself, Mr. Pash. You'll need all
your wits to convince Hurd.' Tray accuses you, and
Hurd suspects you. I have nothing to do with the
matter."
"You put Hurd up to this," foamed Pash, hardly
able to speak.
“ Pardon me. Hurd is working for the reward
offered by your client. Don't you think it was
271


What Pash Said
tendestopy intern cartone bro
“Because I believed she was legally entitled to it,"
explained Pash, lamely; "but since—no," he broke
off, “ I'll say nothing just now. I alone can put the
matter right, and I refuse to do so unless I have Miss
Norman's promise that I shall keep the business."
Paul would have refused then and there, but Hurd,
more astute, interrupted his angry speech. "We'll see
about that later, Mr. Pash," he said, soothingly;
"meanwhile, what did you do with the brooch?"
"I laid it on the table there. The case was open,
as I had been looking at it. I sent Tray out of the
room and attended to my usual business. Several
clients came and went, and I forgot about the opal
serpent. Then I went to see my clerk outside about
a deed. I was with him for some minutes. When I
recollected the brooch before I went home for I in-
tended to take it with me—"
"Stop," interrupted Hurd, “ you were here till
Aaron Norman came along with the jewels, so you
must have missed the brooch before he came or he
would have taken it, seeing it was exposed on the
table."
"My esteemed client did not come till seven," said
Pash, annoyed at being detected in trickery. “ He
walked about with the bags of jewels for some time,
not being able to make up his mind to give them to
me, which he did for safe keeping."
"Then he expected a visit from his wife?"
"I can't say," said the solicitor, with an air of
fatigue. "He certainly hinted that he wanted the
jewels placed away safely in case someone connected
with the opal brooch should come."
"Perhaps Captain Jessop, who did come," said
Paul, suddenly.
"He didn't mention the name of Jessop," snapped
Pash. "Had he hinted at a sailor I would have known
who my nautical visitor was."
"We know all about that," said Hurd, waving his
275


The Opal Serpent
hand; " but if Norman came to you at seven, how did
you manage to prevent him meeting his wife in this
office?"
"Oh, she was— What do you mean?” asked Pash,
breaking off, and conscious that he was letting slip
something he had rather had not been known.
Hurd saw the slip and Pash's confusion and at
once made every use of the opportunity. In fact, he
played a game of bluff. Shaking his finger he ap-
proached the little lawyer. "Do you think I come
here unprepared ?" he asked, solemnly; “ do you
think I have not been to 'The Red Pig' at Christ-
church and learned that Mrs. Krill knew of her
husband's whereabouts, through Hay, long before the
day she came to you with the lying story about the
hand-bills? Hay has confessed his share in the
business of a false introduction to throw Mr. Beecot off
the scent, seeing that he was defending Miss Norman's
interests. Do you think I don't know that this
woman Krill came to see you, through Hay, whose
lawyer you are. She was here on that fatal evening,"
said Hurd, making a bold shot, “how did you prevent
her seeing Norman?”.
Pash was completely thrown off his balance by
this volley of language and presumption of know-
ledge. "Mrs. Krill left at six," he gasped, backing
to the wall.
“ And carried off the brooch?"
" I'm not sure I can't say—I did miss the
brooch—"
“ After Mrs. Krill left?"
"No, when Norman came. I intended to show him
the brooch and found it gone."
“ Mrs. Krill left at six. Between six and seven did
any other client come into the office? ”
"Yes--no—I can't say. Well," Pash broke down
in despair seeing that his lies were not believed, "I
think Mrs. Krill did steal the brooch.”
276


What Pash Said
“Quite so, and murdered her husband!" Hurd
went to the door and took Beecot's arm. "I only
hope you won't be brought up as an accessory before
the fact, Mr. Pash," and disregarding the lawyer's
exclamations he dragged Paul outside. In Chancery
Lane he spoke. “ I've bluffed him fine," he said,
"that boy is lost. Can't see him anywhere. But
we're getting at the truth at last."


CHAPTER XXIV
MRS. KRILL AT BAY
with
exed not beat, in sing for officers cealed 9.00k
Next day Hurd did not go to see Mrs. Krill as he
had intended, but spent his time in hunting for the
missing boy. Tray, however, was not to be found.
Being a guttersnipe and accustomed to dealing with
the police he was thoroughly well able to look after
himself, and doubtless had concealed himself in
some low den where the officers of the law would
not think of searching for him. However, the fact
remained that, in spite of the detective's search, he
could not be caught, and the authorities were much
vexed. To unravel the case completely Tray was a
necessary witness, especially as, even when examined
at Jubileetown, Hurd shrewdly suspected he had not
confessed all the truth. However, what could be done
was done, and several plain-clothes detectives were set
to search for the missing boy.
Pash remained quiet for, at all events, the next
four-and-twenty hours. Whether he saw Mrs. Krill
or not during that time Hurd did not know and,
truth to say, he cared very little. The lawyer had
undoubtedly acted dishonestly, and if the matter
were made public, there would be every chance that
he would be struck off the rolls. To prevent this
Pash was quite ready to sell Mrs. Krill and anyone
else connected with the mystery. Also, he wished
to keep the business of Miss Norman, supposing the
money—as he hinted might be the case through his
assistance—came back to her; and this might be
278


Mrs. Krill at Bay
used as a means to make him speak out. Hurd was
now pretty sure that Mrs. Krill was the guilty
. person.
"She knew Pash through Hay," argued the
detective, while thinking over the case, "and un-
doubtedly came to see him before Norman's death,
so that Pash might suggest ways and means of
getting the better of the old man by means of the
bigamy business. Mrs. Krill was in the Chancery
Lane office when the brooch left by Tray was on
the table, and Mrs. Krill, anxious to get it, no doubt
slipped it into her pocket when Pash was talking to
his clerk in the outer room. Then I expect she de-
cided to punish her husband by fastening his lips
together as he had done those of her daughter twenty
and more years ago: I can't exactly see why she
strangled him," mused Hurd, "as she could have got
the money without proceeding to such an extreme
measure. But the man's dead, and she killed him
sure enough. Now, I'll get a warrant out and arrest
her straight away. There's quite enough evidence
to justify her being taken in charge. Hum! I
wonder if she made use of that young devil of a
Tray in any way? Well," he rose and stretched
himself, “I may force her to speak now that she is in
a corner."
Having made up his mind Hurd went to work at
once, and the next day, late in the afternoon, he was
driving in a cab to No. 32A Hunter Street, Kensing-
ton, with the warrant in his pocket. He also had
with him a letter which he had received from Miss
Qian, and written from Beechill in Buckinghamshire.
Aurora had made good use of her time and had
learned a number of facts connected with Mrs. Krill's
early life which Hurd thought would prove of
interest to the woman. In one way and another the
case was becoming plain and clear, and the detective
made sure that he would gain the reward. The irony
279


Mrs. Krill at Bay
“Lor,” said Matilda, growing red. "And he's the
man as came to ask questions at the 'otel. I do call
it bold of you, Mister Policeman."
"Well," said Hurd, swinging his hat lazily, and
looking from one to the other, quite taking in the
situation, "you answered very few of my questions,
so that is all right."
"Why did you go down to Christchurch?" asked
Miss Brill.
"If I have to find out who killed your father," said
Hurd, with an accent on the word " father," " it was
necessary that I should learn about his past life as
Lemuel Krill."
"My mother could have informed you, sir."
"I guessed as much, and, as Miss Junk would not
speak, I have come to question Mrs. Krill. Ah, here
she is." Hurd rose and bowed. "I am glad to see
you, madam.".
Mrs. Krill, who was as plump and smiling and
smooth-faced and severe as ever, bowed and rubbed
her white hands together. At a sign from Maud,
Matilda gathered up the fancy work and went out
of the room with many backward glances. These
were mostly indignant, for she was angry at Hurd's
deception. "Do you wish my daughter to stay?"
asked Mrs. Krill, smoothly.
"That is as she pleases," said the detective.
. “No, thank you, mother," said Maud, shuddering,
"I have heard quite enough of my poor father's ter-
rible death," and she swept out of the drawing-room
with a gracious smile.
"The poor child is so sensitive," sighed Mrs. Krill,
taking a seat with her back to the window. Whether
this was done to conceal her age, or the expression
of her face during a conversation which could not
fail to prove trying, Hurd was unable to determine.
"I trust, Mr. Hurd, you have come with good news,"
said the widow.
281


The Opal Serpent
your daughter when the alarm was given. I also
know that Krill fastened your daughter's lips to-
gether with the opal brooch which was found in the
parlor."
"Who told you that?" asked Mrs. Krill, agitated.
“ Jessop—the boon companion you speak of."
“ Yes," she said, suppressing her agitation with a
powerful effort. "Matilda said you had him to dine
with you. What else did he say? ” she asked with
some hesitation.
"Much less than I should have liked to know," re-
torted Hurd, prepared to throw off the mask; "but
he told me a great deal which interested me very
much. Amongst other things that Grexon Hay had
been engaged to your daughter for two years."
"Well?" asked Mrs. Krill, coolly, “what of that?"
“ Nothing particular," rejoined Hurd, just as
coolly, "only I wonder you took the trouble to
pretend that you met Hay at Pash's office for the
first time."
"That was some romantic rubbish of my daughter's.
There was no reason why we should not have ac-
knowledged Mr. Hay as an old acquaintance."
"None in the world that I can see," said Hurd,
smoothly. "He told you that Aaron Norman was
your husband."
"No," said Mrs. Krill, decidedly, "I first heard of
my husband by seeing a chance hand-bill—".
"Not at all," answered Hurd, just as decidedly,
“ Hay has confessed."
"There was nothing to confess," cried Mrs. Krill,
loudly and with emphasis.
"Oh, I think so," said the detective, noting that
she was losing her temper. “ You didn't want it
known that you were aware of Norman's identity be-
fore his death. Do you deny that?"
"I deny everything," gasped Mrs. Krill, her hands
trembling.
284


The Opal Serpent
committed bigamy with Lemuel Krill in Beechill
Church—"
" It's a lie!" screamed Mrs. Krill, losing her self-
control. "How dare you come here with these false-
hoods?"
"They are not falsehoods, Anne Tyler, alias Anne
Jessop, alias Anne Krill, etc.," retorted Hurd, speak-
ing rapidly and emphasizing his remarks with his
finger in his usual fashion when in deadly earnest.
“ You were married to Jessop in Stowley Church;
you bore him a daughter who was christened Maud
Jessop in Stowley Church. The person I mentioned
sent me copies of the marriage and birth certificates.
So your marriage with Lemuel Krill was false, and
his second marriage with Lillian Garner is a good
one in law. Which means, Mrs. Jessop," Hurd
hurled the word at her and she shrank," that Sylvia
Norman or Sylvia Krill, as she rightfully is, owns
that money which you wrongfully withhold from
her. The will gave the five thousand a year to 'my
daughter,' and Sylvia is the only daughter and only
child—the legitimate child, mark you—of Lemuel
Krill."
“ Lies—lies—lies!" raged Mrs. Krill, as she may
still be called, though rightfully Jessop, “ I'll defend
the case on my daughter's behalf."
“ Your daughter, certainly," said Hurd, "but not
Krill's."
"I say yes."
"And I say no. She was fifteen when Lady
Rachel was murdered, as Jessop, her father, ad.
mitted. I knew the man was keeping something
back, but I was far from suspecting that it was this
early marriage. No wonder the man came to you
and had free quarters at 'The Red Pig. He could
have prosecuted you for bigamy, just as you would
have prosecuted Krill, had you not murdered
him."
286


The Opal Serpent
place. Maud came quietly down the steps and seized
the detective by the arm.
"You have ruined my mother," she said in a cold:
hard tone; " you have robbed me of my money and
of the chance of marrying the man I love. I can't
hurt you; but that girl, Sylvia—she shall never get
one penny--so, remember!”.
Hurd shook her off, and, stepping into the cab,
drove away. Mrs. Krill looked apprehensively at him.
"What did Maud say?" she asked. Hurd told her,
and Mrs. Krill closed her lips firmly. "Maud is quite
right," she said with a strange smile. “ Sylvia will
never get the money."


CHAPTER XXV
A CRUEL WOMAN
"Jus' say your meanin', my pretty queen," said Mrs.
Tawsey, as she stood at the sitting-room door, and
watched Sylvia reading an ill-written letter. "It's
twelve now, and I kin be back by five, arter a long,
and enjiable tork with Matilder."
"You certainly must go," replied Sylvia, handing
back the letter. "I am sure your sister will be glad
to see you, Debby."
Deborah sniffed and scratched her elbow.
"Relatives ain't friends in our family," she said,
shaking her head, "whatever you may say, my deary-
sweet. Father knocked mother int' lunatics arter
she'd nagged 'im to drunk an' police-cells. Three
brothers I 'ad, and all of 'em that 'andy with their
fistises as they couldn't a-bear to live in 'armony with-
out black eyes and swollen bumps all over them.
As to Matilder, she an' me never did, what you
might call, hit it orf, by reason of 'er not givin' way
to me, as she should ha' done, me bein' the youngest
and what you might call the baby of the lot. We
ain't seen each other fur years, and the meetin' will
be cold. She'll not have much forgiveness fur me
bein' a bride, when she's but a lone cross-patch, drat
her."
"Don't quarrel with her, Debby. She has written
you a very nice letter, asking you to go down to Mrs.
Krill's house in Kensington, and she really wants to
291


The Opal Serpent
see you before she goes back to Christchurch to-
night."
"Well, I'll go," said Deborah, suddenly; "but I
don't like leavin' you all by your own very self, my
sunflower."
"I'll be all right, Debby. Paul comes at four
o'clock, and you'll be back at five."
“ Sooner, if me an' Matilder don't hit if orf, or if
we hit each other, which, knowin' 'er 'abits, I do
expects. But Bart's out till six, and there won't be
anyone to look arter them as washes—four of 'em,"
added Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose, "and as idle
as porkpines.”
- " Mrs. Purr can look after them."
“ Look arter gin more like," said Deborah, con-
temptuously. "She's allays suckin', sly-like, tryin' to
purtend as it's water, as if the smell didn't give it
away, whatever the color may be. An' here she is,
idling as usual. An' may I arsk, Mrs. Purr ma'am,"
demanded Deborah with great politeness, “wot I pays
you fur in the way of ironin'?"
But Mrs. Purr was too excited to reply. She
brushed past her indignant mistress and faced Sylvia,
waving a dirty piece of paper. “ Lor', miss," she
almost screamed, "you do say as you want t'know:
where that limb Tray 'ave got to—
 Yes—yes," said Sylvia, rising," he escaped from
Mr. Hurd, and we want to find him very much."
“ It's a letter from 'im," said Mrs. Purr, thrusting
the paper into Sylvia's hand; "tho' 'ow he writes,
not 'avin' bin to a board school, I dunno. He's in a
ken at Lambith, and ill at that. Want's me t'go an'
see 'im. But I can't leave the ironin'."
"Yuss y can," said Deborah, suddenly; "this er-
ringd is ness'ary, Mrs. Purr ma'am, so jes' put on
your bunnet, an' go to Mr. Hurd as 'as 'is orfice at
Scotlan' Yard, and take 'im with you."
"Oh! but I couldn't—".
292


A Cruel Woman
“You go," advised Mrs. Tawsey. "There's five
pounds offered for the brat's bein' found."
"Five pun!" gasped Mrs. Purr, trembling. "Lor',
and me 'avin' a chanct of gittin' it. I'll go I'll go.
I knows the Yard, 'avin' 'ad summat to do with them
dirty perlice in my time. Miss Sylvia—"
"Yes, go, Mrs. Purr, and see Mr. Hurd. He'll give
you the five pounds if you take him to Tray."
Sylvia handed back the paper. “ Tray seems to be
ill."
"Ill or well, he sha'n't lose me five pun, if I 'ave to
drag'im to the lock-up m'self," said Mrs. Purr,
resolutely. "Where's my bunnet—my shawl—oh
lor'—five pun! Them is as good allays gits rewards,"
and she hurried out, hardly able to walk for excite.
ment.
"There's a nice ole party fur you, Miss Sylvia ?"
"Debby," said the girl, thoughtfully. "You take
her to the Yard to see Mr. Hurd, and then go to
Kensington to speak with your sister."
"Well, I'll go, as importance it is," said Mrs. Taw-
sey, rubbing her nose harder than ever. "But I 'opes
you won't be lone, my poppet-dovey."
"Oh, no," said Sylvia, kissing her, and pushing her
towards the door. "I'll look after those four women
in the wash-house, and read this new book I have.
Then I must get tea ready for Paul, who comes at
four. The afternoon will pass quite quickly."
“ I'll be back at five if I can, and earlier if Matilder
ain't what she oughter be," said Mrs. Tawsey, yield-
ing. "So make yourself 'appy, honey, till you sees
me smilin' again."
In another quarter of an hour Mrs. Tawsey, dressed
in her bridal gown and bonnet so as to crush Matilda
with the sight of her splendor, walked down the
garden path attended by Mrs. Purr in a snuffy black
shawl, and a kind of cobweb on her head which she
called a “bunnet." As Deborah was tall and in white
293


The Opal Serpent
restraining herself, she turned her calm, cold face to
the girl. "I have much to say to you," she repeated.
“ Indeed," replied Sylvia, politely, "I don't think
you have treated me so well that you should trouble
to converse with me. Will you please to be brief.
Mr. Beecot is coming at four, and he will not be at all
pleased to see you."
Maud glanced at the clock. "We have an hour,"
she said coldly; “it is just a few minutes after three.
My business will not take long," she added, with an
unpleasant smile.
* What is your business?" asked Sylvia, uneasily,
for she did not like the smile.
“ If you will sit down, I'll tell you."
Miss Norman took a chair near the wall, and as
far from her visitor as was possible in so small a
room. Maud took from her neck a black silk hand-
kerchief which she wore, evidently as a protection
against the cold, and folding it lengthways, laid it
across her lap. Then she looked at Sylvia, in a cold,
critical way. "You are very pretty, my dear," she
said insolently.
"Did you come to tell me that?" asked the girl,
firing up at the tone.
“ No. I came to tell you that my mother was
arrested last night for the murder of our father."
"Oh," Sylvia gasped and lay back on her chair,
"she killed him, that cruel woman."
"She did not," cried Maud, passionately, "my
mother is perfectly innocent. That blackguard Hurd
arrested her wrongfully. I overheard all the con-
versation he had with her, and know that he told a
pack of lies. My mother did not kill our father."
"My father, not yours," said Sylvia, firmly. .
“How dare you. Lemuel Krill was my father."
"No," insisted Sylvia. "I don't know who your
father was. But from your age, I know that you are
father was,nsisted Sylvia. uel Krill was mrmly.
not-"
296


A Cruel Woman
“ Leave my age alone," cried the other sharply, and
with an uneasy movement of her hands; “ we won't
discuss that, or the question of my father. We have
more interesting things to talk about."
"I won't talk to you at all," said Sylvia, rising.
"Sit down and listen. You shall hear me. I am
not going to let my mother suffer for a deed she
never committed, nor am I going to let you have the
money."
"It is mine."
"It is not, and you shall not get it."
"Paul—Mr. Beecot will assert my rights."
“ Will he indeed," said the other, with a glance at
the clock; “ we'll see about that. There's no time to
be lost. I have much to say—"
"Nothing that can interest me."
"Oh, yes. I think you will find our conversation
very interesting. I am going to be open with you,
for what I tell you will never be told by you to any
living soul."
"If I see fit it shall," cried Sylvia in a rage; “how
dare you dictate to me."
"Because I am driven into a corner. I wish to
save my mother—how it is to be done I don't know.
And I wish to stop you getting the five thousand a
year. I know how that is to be done," ended Miss
Krill, with a cruel smile and a flash of her white,
hungry-looking teeth; " you rat of a girl—"
"Leave the room."
“ When I please, not before. You listen to me.
I'm going to tell you about the murder—"
"Oh," said Sylvia, turning pale, "what do you
mean?"
“ Listen," said the other, with a taunting laugh,
"you'll be white enough before I've done with you.
Do you see this," and she laid her finger on her lips;
“ do you see this scar? Krill did that." Sylvia
noticed that she did not speak of Krill as her father
297


The Opal Serpent
this time; "he pinned my lips together when I was
a child with that opal serpent."
"I know," replied Sylvia, shuddering, “it was cruel.
I heard about it from the detective and—”.
"I don't wish for your sympathy. I was a girl of
fifteen when that was done, and I will carry the scar
to my grave. Child as I was then, I vowed re-
venge”
"On your father," said Sylvia, contemptuously.
"Krill is not my father," said Maud, changing front
all at once; "he is yours, but not mine. My father is
Captain Jessop. I have known this for years. Captain
Jessop told me I was his daughter. My mother
thought that my father was drowned at sea, and so
married Krill, who was a traveller in jewellery. He
and my mother rented 'The Red Pig’ at Christchurch,
and for years they led an unhappy life."
"Oh," gasped Sylvia, " you confess. I'll tell Paul."
"You'll tell no one," retorted the other woman
sharply. "Do you think I would speak so openly in
order that you might tell all the world with your
gabbling tongue? Yes, and I'll speak more openly
still before I leave. Lady Rachel Sandal did not com-
mit suicide as my mother said. She was strangled,
and by me."
Sylvia clapped her hands to her face with a scream.
"By you?"
"Yes. She had a beautiful brooch. I wanted it.
I was put to bed by my mother, and kept thinking
of the brooch. My mother was down the stairs
attending to your drunken father. I stole to Lady
Rachel's room and found her asleep. I tried to take
the brooch from her breast. She woke and caught
at my hand. But I tore away the brooch and before
Lady Rachel could scream, I twisted the silk hand-
kerchief she wore, which was already round her
throat, tighter. I am strong—I was always strong,
even as a girl of fifteen. She was weak from ex-
298


A Cruel Woman
haustion, so she soon died. My mother came into
the room and saw what I had done. She was
terrified, and made me go back to bed. Then she
tied Lady Rachel by the silk handkerchief to the
bedpost, so that it might be thought she had com-
mitted suicide. My mother then came back to me
and took the brooch, telling me I might be hanged,
if it was found on me. I was afraid, being only a
girl, and gave up the brooch. Then Captain Jessop
raised the alarm. I and my mother went downstairs,
and my mother dropped the brooch on the floor, so
that it might be supposed Lady Rachel had lost it
there. Captain Jessop ran out. I wanted to give the
alarm, and tell the neighbors that. Krill had done it
—for I knew then he was not my father, and I saw,
moreover, how unhappy he made my mother. He
caught me," said Maud, with a fierce look, "and
bound a handkerchief across my mouth. I got free
and screamed. Then he bound me hand and foot,
and pinned my lips together with the brooch which
he picked off the floor. My mother fought for me,
but he knocked her down. Then he fled, and after a
long time Jessop came in. He removed the brooch
from my mouth and unbound me. I was put to bed,
and Jessop revived my mother. Then came the
inquest, and it was thought that Lady Rachel had
committed suicide. But she did not," cried Maud,
exultingly, and with a cruel light in her eyes, “I killed
her—I—"
"Oh," moaned Sylvia, backing against the wall
with widely open eyes; "don't tell me more—what
horrors !"
"Bah, you kitten," sneered Maud, contemptuously,
"I have not half done yet. You have yet to hear
how I killed Krill."
Sylvia shrieked, and sank back in her chair, star-
ing with horrified eyes at the cruel face before
her.
299


The Opal Serpent
met withe boy, took it fuld not part puitis child. Blue
“Yes," cried Maud, exultingly, “I killed him. My
mother suspected me, but she never knew for certain.
Listen. When Hay told me that Krill was hiding
as Norman in Gwynne Street I determined to punish
him for his cruelty to me. I did not say this, but I
made Hay promise to get me the brooch from
Beecot—on no other condition would I marry him.
I wanted the brooch to pin Krill's lips together as he
had pinned mine, when I was a helpless child. But
your fool of a lover would not part with the brooch.
Tray, the boy, took it from Beecot's pocket when he
met with that accident”
"How do you know Tray?"
"Because I met him at Pash's office several times
when I was up. He ran errands for Pash before he
became regularly employed. I saw that Tray was a
devil, of whom I could make use. Oh, I know Tray,
and I know also Hokar the Indian, who placed the
sugar on the counter. He went to the shop to kill
your father at my request. I wanted revenge and
the money. Hokar was saved from starvation by my
good mother. He came of the race of Thugs, if you
know anything about them ".
"Oh," moaned Sylvia, covering her face again.
"Ah, you do. So much the better. It will save
my explaining, as there is not much time left before
your fool arrives. Hokar saw that I loved to hurt
living creatures, and he taught me how to strangle
cats and dogs and things. No one knew but Hokar
that I killed them, and it was thought he ate them.
But he didn't. I strangled them because I loved to
see them suffer, and because I wished to learn how
to strangle in the way the Thugs did."
Sylvia was sick with fear and disgust. "For
God's sake, don't tell me any more," she said implor-
ingly.
But she might as well have spoken to a granite
rock. “ You shall hear everything," said Maud, re-
catsI killed them stranecause I wanted
.
300


A Cruel Woman
lentlessly. "I asked Hokar to strangle Krill. He
went to the shop, but, when he saw that Krill had
only one eye, he could not offer him to the goddess
Bhowanee. He came to me at Judson's hotel, after
he left the sugar on the counter, and told me the
goddess would not accept the offering of a maimed
man. I did not know what to do. I went with my
mother to Pash's office, when she was arranging to
prosecute Krill for bigamy. I met Tray there. He
told me he had given the brooch to Pash, and that it
was in the inner office. My mother was talking to
Pash within and I chatted to Tray outside. I told
Tray I wanted to kill Krill, and that if he would help
me, I would give him a lot of money. He agreed,
for he was a boy such as I was when a girl, fond of
seeing things suffer. You can't wonder at it in me,"
went on Miss Krill, coolly; "my grandmother was
hanged for poisoning my grandfather, and I expect
I inherit the love of murder from her”
"I won't listen," cried Sylvia, shuddering.
"Oh, yes, you will. I'll soon be done," went on
her persecutor, cruelly. "Well, then, when I found
Tray was like myself I determined to get the brooch
and hurt Krill—hurt him as he hurt me," she cried
vehemently. "Tray told me of the cellar and of the
side passage. When my mother and Pash came out
of the inner office and went to the door, I ran in and
took the brooch. It was hidden under some papers
and had escaped my mother's eye. But I searched
till I got it. Then I made an appointment with
Tray for eleven o'clock at the corner of Gwynne
Street. I went back to Judson's hotel, and my
mother and I went to the theatre. We had supper
and retired to bed. That is, my mother did. We
had left the theatre early, as my mother had a head-
ache, and I had plenty of time. Mother fell asleep
almost immediately. I went downstairs veiled, and
in dark clothes. I slipped past the night porter and
301


The Opal Serpent
met Tray. We went by the side passage to the
cellar. Thinking we were customers Krill let us in.
Tray locked the door, and I threw myself on Krill.
He had not been drinking much or I might not have
mastered him. As it was, he was too terrified when
he recognized me to struggle. In fact he fainted.
With Tray's assistance I bound his hands behind his
back, and then we enjoyed ourselves," she rubbed her
hands together, looking more like a fiend than a
woman.
Sylvia rose and staggered to the door. "No more
—no more."
Maud pushed her back into her chair. “ Stop
where you are, you whimpering fool!" she snarled
exultingly, "I have you safe." Then she continued
quickly and with another glance at the clock, the
long hand of which now pointed to a quarter to four,
“ with Tray's assistance I carried Krill up to the shop.
Tray found an auger and bored a hole in the floor.
Then I picked up a coil of copper wire, which was
being used in packing things for Krill to make his
escape. I took it up. We laid Krill's neck over the
hole, and passed the wire round his neck and through
the hole. Tray went down and tied a cross stick on
the end of the wire, so that he could put his weight
on it when we strangled—”.
"Oh—great heaven," moaned Sylvia, stopping her
ears.
Maud bent over her and pulled her hands away.
“ You shall hear you little beast," she snarled. “ All
the time Krill was sensible. He recovered his senses
after he was bound. I prolonged his agony as much
as possible. When Tray went down to see after the
wire, I knelt beside Krill and told him that I knew I
was not his daughter, that I intended to strangle
him as I had strangled Lady Rachel. He shrieked
with horror. That was the cry you heard, you cat,
and which brought you downstairs. I never expected
302


A Cruel Woman
that," cried Maud, clapping her hands; " that was a
treat for Krill I never intended. I stopped his
crying any more for assistance by pining his mouth
together, as he had done mine over twenty years be-
fore. Then I sat beside him and taunted him. I heard
the policeman pass, and the church clock strike the
quarter. Then I heard footsteps, and guessed you
were coming. It occurred to me to give you a treat
by strangling the man before your eyes, and punish
him more severely, since the brooch stopped him call-
ing out—as it stopped me—me," she cried, striking
her breast.
"Oh, how could you—how could—"
“ You feeble thing," said Maud, contemptuously,
and patting the girl's cheek, "you would not have
done it I know. But I loved it, I loved it! That was
living indeed. I went down to the cellar and fastened
the door behind me. Tray was already pressing on
the cross stick at the end of the wire, and laughed as
he pressed. But I stopped him. I heard you and
that woman enter the shop, and heard what you said.
I prolonged Krill's agony, and then I pressed the
wire down myself for such a time as I thought it
would take to squeeze the life out of the beast. Then
with Tray I locked the cellar door and left by the
side passage. We dodged all the police and got into
the Strand. I did not return to the hotel, but walked
about with Tray all the night talking with joy,"
cried Maud, clapping her hands, "with joy, do you
hear. When it was eight I went to Judson's. The
porter thought I had been out for an early walk. My
mother”
Here Maud broke off, for Sylvia, who was staring:
over her shoulder out of the window saw a form she
knew well at the gate. “ Paul—Paul," she shrieked,
"come—come!"
Maud whipped the black silk handkerchief round
the girl's neck. "You shall never get that money,”
303


The Opal Serpent
Sylvia thre the sto their
she whispered cruelly, “ you shall never tell anyone
what I have told you. Now I'll show you how Hokar
taught me," she jerked the handkerchief tight. But
Sylvia got her hand under the cruel bandage and
shrieked aloud in despair. At once she heard an
answering shriek. It was the voice of Deborah.
Maud darted to the door and locked it. Then she
returned and, flinging Sylvia down, tried again to
tighten the handkerchief, her face white and fierce
and her eyes glittering like a demon's.
"Help—help!" cried Sylvia, and her voice grew
weaker. But she struggled and kept her hands
between the handkerchief and her throat. Maud
tried to drag them away fiercely. Deborah was
battering frantically at the door. Paul ran round to
the window. It was not locked, and Maud, struggling
with Sylvia had no time to close it. With a cry of
alarm Paul threw up the window and jumped into
the room. At the same moment Deborah, putting
her sturdy shoulder to the frail door, burst it open.
Beecot Aung himself on the woman and dragged her
back. But she clung like a leech to Sylvia with the
black handkerchief in her grip. Deborah, silent and
fierce, grabbed at the handkerchief, and tore it from
Maud's grasp. Sylvia, half-strangled, fell back in a
faint, white as a corpse, while Paul struggled with the
savage and baffled woman.
“ You've killed her," shouted Deborah, and laid her
strong hands on Maud, “ you devil!" She shook her
fiercely. "I'll kill you," and she shook her again.
Paul threw himself on his knees beside the insensible
form of Sylvia and left Deborah to deal with Maud.
That creature was gasping as Mrs. Tawsey swung her
to and fro. Then she began to fight, and the two
women crashed round the little room, upsetting the
furniture. Paul took Sylvia in his arms, and shrank
against the wall to protect her.
A new person suddenly appeared. No less a
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A Cruel Woman
woman than Matilda. When she saw Maud in
Deborah's grip she flew at her sister like a tigress
and dragged her off. Maud was free for a moment.
Seeing her chance she scrambled out of the window
and ran through the garden down the road towards
the station. Perhaps she had a vague idea of escape.
Deborah, exerting her great strength, threw Matilda
aside, and without a cry ran out of the house and
after the assassin who had tried to strangle Sylvia.
Matilda, true to her salt, ran also, to help Maud Krill,
and the two women sped in the wake of the insane
creature who was swiftly running in the direction of
the station. People began to look round, a crowd
gathered like magic, and in a few moments Maud
was being chased by quite a mob of people. She ran
like a hare. Heaven only knows if she hoped to
escape after her failure to kill Sylvia, but she ran on
blindly. Into the new street of Jubileetown she sped
with the roaring mob at her heels. She darted down
a side thoroughfare, but Deborah gained on her
silently and with a savage look in her eyes. Several
policemen joined in the chase, though no one knew
what the flying woman had done. Maud turned
suddenly up the slope that led to the station. She
gained the door, darted through it, upset the man at
the barrier and with clenched fists stood at bay, her
back to the rails. Deborah darted forward—Maud
gave a wild scream and sprang aside: then she reeled
and fell over the platform. The next moment a train
came slowing into the station, and immediately the
wretched woman was under the cruel wheels. When
she was picked up she was dead and almost cut to
pieces. Lady Rachel and Lemuel Krill were re-
venged.
305


CHAPTER XXVI
A FINAL EXPLANATION
Sylvia was ill for a long time after that terrible hour.
Although Maud had not succeeded in strangling her,
yet the black silk handkerchief left marks on her neck.
Then the struggle, the shock and the remembrance of
the horrors related by the miserable woman, threw
her into a nervous fever, and it was many weeks be-
fore she recovered sufficiently to enjoy life. Deborah
never forgave herself for having left Sylvia alone, and
nursed her with a fierce tenderness which was the
result of remorse.
"If that wretch 'ad killed my pretty," she said to
Paul, “ I'd ha' killed her, if I wos hanged fur it five
times over."
“ God has punished the woman," said Paul, sol-
emnly. "And a terrible death she met with, being
mutilated by the wheels of the train."
“ Serve 'er right," rejoined Deborah, heartlessly.
"What kin you expect fur good folk if wicked ones,
as go strangulating people, don't git the Lord down
on 'em. Oh, Mr. Beecot," Deborah broke down into
noisy tears," the 'orrors that my lovely one 'ave tole
me. I tried to stop her, but she would tork, and was
what you might call delirous-like. Sich murders and
gory assassins as wos never 'eard of."
"I gathered something of this from what Sylvia
let drop when we came back from the station," said
Beecot, anxiously. "Tell me exactly what she said,
Deborah.”
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A Final Explanation
I deserve, e master:ed."
“Why that thing as is dead, an' may she rest in a
peace, she don't deserve, tole 'ow she murdered Lady
Rachel Sandal an' my ole master."
"Deborah," cried Beecot, amazed. "You must be
mistaken."
"No, I ain't, sir. That thing guv my lily-queen the
'orrors. Jes you 'ear, Mr. Beecot, and creeps will go
up your back. Lor' 'ave mercy on us as don't know
the wickedness of the world."
"I think we have learned something of it lately,
Mrs. Tawsey," was Paul's grim reply. "But tell
me—
“ Wot my pore angel sunbeam said? I will, and
if it gives you nightmares don't blame me," and Mrs.
Tawsey, in her own vigorous, ungrammatical way,
related what she had heard from Sylvia. Paul was
struck with horror and wanted to see Sylvia. But
this Deborah would not allow. "She's sleepin' like
a pretty daisy," said Mrs. Tawsey," so don't you go
a-disturbin* of her nohow, though acrost my corp you
may make a try, say what you like."
But Paul thought better of it, thinking Sylvia had
best be left in the rough, kindly hands of her old
nurse. He went off to find Hurd, and related all that
had taken place. The detective was equally horrified
along with Beecot when he heard of Sylvia's danger,
and set to work to prove the truth of what Maud had
told the girl. He succeeded so well that within a
comparatively short space of time, the whole matter
was made clear. Mrs. Jessop, alias Mrs. Krill, was
examined, Tray was found and questioned, Matilda
was made to speak out, and both Jessop and Hokar
had to make clean breasts of it. The evidence
thus procured proved the truth of the terrible con-
fession made by Maud Jessop to the girl she
thought to strangle. Hurd was amazed at the revela-
tion.
"Never call me a detective again," he said to Paul.
307


The Opal Serpent
“For I am an ass. I thought Jessop might be guilty,
or that Hokar might have done it. I could have taken
my Bible oath that Mrs. Krill strangled the man; but
I never for one moment suspected that smiling young
woman."
"Oh," Paul shrugged his shoulders, "she was
mad."
"She must have been," ruminated the detective,
“ else she wouldn't have given herself away so com-
pletely. Whatever made her tell Miss Norman what
she had done?"
"Because she never thought that Sylvia would live
to tell anyone else. That was why she spoke, and
thought to torture Sylvia—as she did in the same
way as she tortured that wretched man Lemuel. If
I hadn't come earlier to Rose Cottage than usual, and
if Deborah had not met me unexpectedly at the sta-
tion, Sylvia would certainly have been killed. And
then Maud might have escaped. She laid her plans
well. It was she who induced Matilda to get her
sister to come to Kensington for a chat."
“ But Matilda didn't know what Maud was up
to?"
"No. Matilda never guessed that Maud was guilty
of two murders or designed to strangle Sylvia. But
Maud made use of her to get Deborah out of the
house, and it was Maud who made Tray send the
letter asking Mrs. Purr to come to him, so that she
also might be out of the way. In fact Maud arranged
so that everyone should be away and Sylvia alone.
If she hadn't wasted time in telling her fearful story,
she might have killed my poor love. Sylvia was quite
exhausted with the struggle."
"Well," said Hurd. "I went with the old woman
to the address given in that letter which Tray got
written for him. He wasn't there, however, so I
might have guessed it was a do."
But you have caught him?”
If sheat everyone of the way.come to Chinh ray send the
308


The Opal Serpent
enterprising young solicitor speedily placed the mone-
tary affairs on a proper basis and saw that Sylvia
was properly reinstated in her rights. Seeing that
she was the only child and legal heiress of Krill, this
was not difficult. The two women who had illegally
secured possession of the money had spent a great
deal in a very wasteful manner, but the dead man's
investments were so excellent and judicious that
Sylvia lost comparatively little, and became possessed
of nearly five thousand a year, with a prospect of her
income increasing. But she was too ill to appreciate
this good fortune. The case got into the papers, and
everyone was astonished at the strange sequel to the
Gwynne Street mystery. Beecot senior, reading the
papers, learned that Sylvia was once more an
heiress, and forthwith held out an olive branch to
Paul. Moreover, the frantic old gentleman, as
Deborah called him, really began to feel his years,
and to feel also that he had treated his only son
rather harshly. So he magnanimously offered to
forgive Paul on no conditions whatsoever. For the
sake of his mother, the young man buried the past
and went down to be received in a stately manner by
his father, and with joyful tears by his mother. Also
he was most anxious to hear details of the case which
had not been made public. Paul told him every-
thing, and Beecot senior snorted with rage. The
recital proved too much for Mrs. Beecot, who retired
as usual to bed and fortified herself with sal volatile;
but Paul and his respected parent sat up till late dis-
cussing the matter.
"And now, sir," said Beecot senior, grasping the
stem of his wine glass, as though he intended to hurl
it at his son, “ let us gather up the threads of this
infamous case. This atrocious woman who tried to
strangle your future wife?"
"She has been buried quietly. Her mother was at
the funeral and so was the father.”
s
And the matterespected
310


A Final Explanation
“ Allays purvidin' I don't 'ave to leave the laundry
in charge of Bart an' Mrs. Purr, both bein' infants of
silliness, one with gin and t'other with weakness of
brain. It's well I made Bart promise to love, honor
and obey me, Mr. Beecot, the same as you must do to
my own lily flower there."
"No, I am to love, honor and obey Paul," cried
Sylvia.
"" When?" he asked, taking her in his arms.
“ As soon as I can stand at the altar," she replied,
blushing, whereat Deborah clapped her hands.
"Weddin's an' weddin's an' weddin's agin," cried
Mrs. Tawsey, “which my sister Matilder being weary
of 'er spinstering 'ome 'ave made up 'er mind to marry
the fust as offers. An' won't she lead 'im a dance
neither—oh, no, not at all."
"Well, Deborah," said Beecot, “ we have much to
be thankful for, all of us. Let us try and show our
gratitude in our lives."
"Ah, well, you may say that," sighed Mrs. Tawsey,
in a devout manner. "Who'd ha' thought things
would have turned out so 'appy-like indeed. But you
go on with your billin', my lovely ones, and I'll git th'
mutting broth to put color int my pretty's cheeks,"
and she bustled out.
Sylvia's heart was too full to say anything. She
lay in Paul's strong arms, her cheek against his.
There she would remain for the rest of her life, pro-
tected from storm and tempest. And as they sat in
slience, the chimes of an ancient grandfather's clock,
Deborah's chief treasure, rang out twice, thrice and
again. Paul laughed softly.
"It's like wedding-bells," he whispered, and his
future wife sighed a sigh of heart-felt joy.
THE END
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