Psychomech

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Psychomech

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 Psychomech

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.
"It is the clever women who generally make fools of themselves in
this particular way," said Miss Toat, enigmatically. "However, I don't
think Eddy Vail--he is usually called Eddy, which to my mind stamps
his character--I don't think he is the accomplice, owing to the alibi,
unless--" The little woman paused suggestively.

"Unless what?"

"Unless the three assistants have been bribed or threatened into

providing the alibi. For her own sake, of course, Madame would say
she was in the still-room; but Zobeide, Badoura and Parizade may
have been bullied or cajoled into supporting a false statement."

"It is possible," said Shawe, musingly; "and if Madame or her

husband is guilty, it is easy to see how they could have learnt
beforehand about the diamonds. How can you get at the truth?"

"By working on Badoura's jealousy. She is in love with Eddy, and as

she is a pretty girl, the unscrupulous scamp has encouraged her, in
spite of the fact that he is a married man. I intend to go back to the
shop and to get her to state what she knows."

"If she knows anything."

"Quite so; but if she does, her jealousy of Eddy Vail will make her
speak. I don't know exactly how to unloosen her tongue, but I shall
try to."

"But it seems ridiculous that Eddy Vail should be in love with a dumb
or blind girl."

"I didn't say that he was in love with her," said Miss Toat, drily, "but
that she was in love with him, which is quite a different way of
looking at the matter. Moreover, Badoura, as the forewoman, is in
possession of all her senses, Mr. Shawe. Zobeide is deaf, Parizade is
blind, and Peri Banou is dumb. Badoura is all right, and is simply a
pretty, commonplace girl who has been attracted by Eddy Vail's good
looks."

"Well," said the barrister, after a long pause, "I hope you will be
successful, although I am bound to say that you have no evidence
that I can see to support your wild theories."

"They may not be so very wild after all. Wait until I can make
Badoura speak. Yes," added Miss Toat, with an after-thought, "and
Peri Banou also."

"The dumb girl, who was in the shop when the crime was
committed. Humph! I suppose she may know something."

"She may. I am going to ask her. Meanwhile I must have more

money--say, another twenty pounds."

Ralph looked rueful. "I can get it for you to-morrow," he said
doubtfully, "for to tell you the truth, Miss Toat, I am not very well off
just now. Can't you do without it?"

"No, Mr. Shawe," she replied plainly. "I would if I could. But it is
necessary that I should go back to the Pink Shop and spend money,
as that is the only way in which I can come into contact with
Badoura and Peri Banou in order to question them. Of course, if you
wish me to give up the case--"

"No, no--certainly not!" he exclaimed hastily. "I shall send you the
twenty pounds to your office to-morrow before twelve o'clock. The
solution of this mystery means a lot to me, and I am willing to spend
my last farthing on it."

"I don't think you will have to do that," said Miss Toat, getting ready
to go. "I expect to get some tangible clue from those two girls;" and
with this piece of comfort she departed, leaving Ralph rather
disconsolate.
While the case was being examined into, Shawe had seen very little
of Audrey. Sir Joseph had returned unexpectedly from Brighton, for
he had grown weary of the seaside and wished to get back to
business. Mrs. Mellop still remained at the house on Camden Hill, as
the millionaire, finding her an amusing woman to have at his dinner-
table, asked her to chaperon his daughter for a longer period. The
widow augured from this that Branwin was really in love with her,
and did all she could to fascinate him still further. She was glad that
he had come back to be under her spell.

But Ralph was far from pleased by this unexpected return, as he

could not visit the house so freely as formerly. Twice or thrice he did
call, but Sir Joseph was so grim and glacial in his welcome that the
young man thought it was best to remain away. Also, Mrs. Mellop,
taking her cue from the millionaire, behaved disagreeably, and kept
a closer watch on Audrey. Ralph was very unhappy, and could only
see his sweetheart at odd times and in odd ways. The course of true
love was not running smoothly by any means.

Shawe, however, busied himself with searching into the case with
the assistance of Perry Toat. That wily person came to him again
and again, and related various details which she had learnt from
Badoura, Parizade and Peri Banou, which more or less helped on the
matter. But so busy was the barrister in fixing the pieces of the
puzzle together--for by this time he had learnt some tangible scraps
of evidence from Perry Toat's investigations--that he quite neglected
Audrey. He was not, therefore, surprised to receive a note from her
asking him to come to the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens the
next morning at seven o'clock. At that hour neither Sir Joseph nor
Mrs. Mellop was likely to be up, and Audrey would be free from their
watchful eyes. Ralph promptly decided to go, but sent no answer to
the note, since it might fall into the hands of his enemies--for so he
regarded the millionaire and the widow who wished to marry the
millionaire.
Early as he was at the rendezvous Audrey was still earlier, and came
towards him hurriedly, a pathetic figure in her black dress. She
kissed him hastily, then at once announced the reason why she had
sent for him.

"I have received an anonymous letter," said Audrey, unexpectedly.

"An anonymous letter," repeated Ralph, curiously. "What about?"

"You can read it for yourself." She produced it from her pocket. "It
advises me to refrain from investigating the murder of my mother. If
I do, it declares that I shall suffer the greatest grief of my life."

Shawe was evidently startled. "Show me the letter," he said abruptly.

CHAPTER IX.

THE QUESTION OF THE CLOCK

Audrey handed over a dingy envelope, bearing the London

postmark, and addressed to her at the Camden Hill house. Out of
this Shawe took an equally dingy piece of paper--a single sheet of
very cheap stationery. On it a few lines in vile caligraphy were
scrawled. He read them at once, while Audrey sat down on a near
chair and watched him silently.
 "Dear Miss"--ran the anonymous letter,--"This is to warn you
from invistigiting your poor ma's deth, as I know you are doing. Keip
off the gras and don't be silly, or you will sueffer the gratest grief of
your life. This is from one who sines as you see--A Frend."

"What do you think of it?" asked the girl, when her lover silently
replaced the paper in its envelope and sat down beside her.

"I think there may be something in it," said Shawe, slowly. "I
wonder--"

"You wonder what?"

"If it would not be as well to take the advice of this," and he tapped
the envelope as he handed it back to her.

"No!" cried Audrey, her worn face flushing.

"A thousand times no. I shall learn the truth at all costs."

"But if it leads to more sorrow, dear?"

"I don't care what it leads to. To know the worst--whatever the
worst may be--is better than this terrible suspense." She looked at
the dingy communication dubiously. "I wonder who wrote this?"

"An uneducated person, apparently."

"I don't believe it," declared the girl, quickly. "All that bad spelling
and bad writing is intended to mislead."

Shawe shook his head. "How can you be sure of that?"

"I am sure of nothing. I am only assuming that such is the case. But,
at all events, the person who wrote this letter knows that the matter
of the death is being looked into."

"I don't see who can possibly know, save you and myself and Perry
Toat."

"Who is Perry Toat?"

"The detective whom I am employing to search."

"What has he found out?"

"She, dear. Miss Toat's name is Peronella Toat, and she calls herself
Perry on her card for business reasons. She has found out nothing
very tangible, and confines herself to theorising a lot." Ralph paused,
and shook his head once more. "I fancy she is growing tired of the
case." And he related Perry Toat's discoveries--such as they were--
and also detailed her theories. When he ended Audrey was almost
as despairing as he appeared to be.

"There doesn't seem to be a single ray of light," lamented the girl,

putting the envelope into her pocket. "Madame Coralie, her
assistants, and her husband seem to be all innocent; unless," she
added, with a quick look, "there is something in this idea of a
prepared alibi."

"Well, Miss Toat has learnt nothing likely to show that her surmise is
right in that way, Audrey. Badoura apparently knows nothing, or,
infatuated with Eddy Vail, refuses to say what she may know. As to
Peri Banou, who is dumb, no information can be got from her,
although she was in the shop when the crime was committed. She
says that she was asleep on a divan, and Zobeide certainly admits
that she left her there when she went up to the still-room."

"Badoura, Peri Banou, Zobeide," said Miss Branwin, ticking off the
quaint and musical names on her fingers. "You have mentioned only
three of the assistants. What about the fourth?"
"Parizade? Oh! being blind, of course she can see nothing at all. She
was behind the curtain in the still-room preparing some wash when
Madame Coralie came to speak to her husband. That was about
eight o'clock, just before Madame came down to tell you that your
mother would remain for the night."

"It was about half-past eight that Madame came to the door."

"Oh! my dear girl, you must be mistaken. Madame herself and her
husband both say it was five or ten minutes after eight o'clock when
she came to you."

Audrey shook her head vehemently. "Mrs. Mellop will tell you that we
did not leave the house until a quarter past eight."

"The Pink Shop? That, of course, would make it right."

"No, our own house. There was a first piece at the theatre which
Mrs. Mellop and I did not care about seeing. We only left in time to
get to the theatre by nine, when the chief drama of the evening
began. It was nearly half-past eight when we reached the Pink Shop,
as it took us ten minutes, more or less, to get to Walpole Lane."

"There must be some mistake," said Shawe, rather puzzled by this

clear and positive explanation. "Why, Badoura says that Eddy Vail
drew her attention to the clock in the still-room, and then it was five
minutes to eight. Almost immediately afterwards Madame came up
from seeing your mother tucked in for the night, and very shortly
went to the shop door to speak to you."

"Then the clock in the still-room must be wrong," said Audrey. "Tell
Miss Toat what I say, and she may be able to learn if it is so."

"Well, and supposing you prove that the still-room clock is wrong?"

"Can't you see? In that case Madame Coralie could not have come
up from seeing my mother safely to bed, for she must have come up
to the still-room at about fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour.
And the medical evidence says that my poor mother was murdered
at eight o'clock."

"It does seem strange," said Shawe, reflectively. "Humph! I wonder

if Perry Toat is right after all, and if this alibi--a very convincing one,
I must say--is a faked affair. Audrey"--he turned earnestly towards
the girl--"say nothing of this to anyone."

"Will you tell Miss Toat?"

"Yes, I shall certainly do that. But, after all, both you and the still-
room clock may be right. It only means that Madame waited twenty
minutes or so talking to her husband instead of coming down at
once."

"But if she came at once--"

"Then the matter will have to be looked into. I shall ask Miss Toat to
question Badoura and Eddy Vail, who noticed the time. They may be
able to say how long Madame Coralie remained in the still-room.
But, my dear, it is all a mere theory--"

"And one that may prove to be true. Really, Ralph"--Audrey spoke

with a flush on her face--"you don't seem anxious to learn the
truth."

"I am in one way, and not in another. I remember that anonymous

letter."

"I don't care what the letter says. The person who wrote it is
evidently concerned in the death of my poor mother, and is afraid
lest he or she should be caught."

"There may be some truth in that," admitted Shawe. "However, you

had better leave the matter in my hands. I shall tell Perry Toat what
you say about the difference in time, always supposing that Madame
Coralie did not linger in the still-room. When I hear of anything
definite likely to supply a clue I shall let you know."

"You have let me know very little hitherto," said Audrey, bitterly.

"My darling"--he took her hands and looked into her eyes--"surely
you are not dissatisfied with me?"

"I am in a way," she admitted, blushing guiltily. "I am so anxious to

learn the truth and revenge my mother. If you won't search, I shall
search myself."

Shawe could do nothing in the face of this determination but agree.

He scribbled Perry Toat's address on his card and gave it to the girl.
Audrey slipped it into the dingy envelope which held the anonymous
letter, with the intention of calling on the detective whenever she
could.

"If you go on with the matter I shall help you to the best of my
ability," he said earnestly, as she turned away. "Don't think that I do
not desire your wish to be gratified. I only want you to be happy."

"I won't be happy until I learn who murdered my dear mother," said
the girl, obstinately; then she took his arm, and they walked across
to the gate near the Palace. "But I am glad that you will help me. All
I ask is that you will let me assist you."

"You shall go to Perry Tat yourself and take an immediate hand in

the game we are playing," said the barrister, decidedly, "as I see that
in no other way will you be satisfied. And now let me see you
home."

"Don't come too far with me, dear. My father may have risen by this
time, and if he meets you there will be trouble."

"I don't mind that," said Shawe, throwing back his well-shaped
head. "I am not afraid of Sir Joseph. By the way, talking about the
possibility of that clock being wrong, was your father with you in the
car?"

"No. He went out at six o'clock for one of his prowls."

"What do you mean by one of his prowls?" asked Shawe, surprised.

"Well, papa, for all our talking, is really kind when he chooses. He is
sorry for poor people--for the really ragged, unwashed poor, that is--
and sometimes he goes out quietly and wanders round the streets,
giving money to beggars and helping those who need help."

"You throw quite a light on your father's character," said Ralph,

grimly. "I should have thought that Sir Joseph was the last person in
the world to help anyone or to act the secret philanthropist."

"Mrs. Mellop told me that he did so. She saw him once or twice in a
tweed suit in the evening helping people--giving money, that is. And
papa must go out for some such purpose, for he usually puts on
evening dress for dinner."

"And changes it afterwards?"

"No; on the nights he goes out he doesn't change his clothes, and
very often doesn't come to dinner. On that night Mrs. Mellop and I
had the meal to ourselves, and went alone to the theatre. Papa had
gone out at six in his usual clothes for a prowl. Perhaps," ended
Audrey, wistfully, "I have misjudged my father, and he may not be so
hard as I think. I never knew that he helped the poor until Mrs.
Mellop told me; and she only saw him by chance when her taxi-cab
broke down one evening on the Embankment."

"Well, I am glad to hear that Sir Joseph has some redeeming

qualities," said Shawe, somewhat cynically; for the whole story
sounded improbable, seeing what he knew of the man.
Neither of the young people noticed at the time that they were near
the gates of Branwin's mansion, and were therefore astonished
when Sir Joseph himself stepped out. He was dressed in a rough
tweed suit, and looked more bulky and aggressive than ever. With a
scowl he fairly snatched his daughter from the barrister's arm. "I
expected something of this sort, Audrey, when you went out so
early," he said, in his domineering tones. "I was just coming to
Kensington Gardens. Mrs. Mellop kindly told me how you met this
rascal in--"

"I am no rascal, sir," said Shawe, spiritedly.

"Yes, you are. You know that I don't wish my daughter to marry you,
and yet you arrange secret meetings in the Gardens."

"I am to blame, if anyone," said Audrey, hotly, "for I arranged the

meeting."

"A pretty confession for a young lady," said her father, grimly; "but I
shall take care that you arrange no more. As for you, sir"--he turned
on Ralph--"I forbid you to think of Miss Branwin. She is to marry
Lord Anvers."

"I shall not," cried Audrey, growing white, but perfectly determined.

"You shall. I have spoken to Lord Anvers, and he is willing to make

you his wife. You understand, Mr. Shawe?"

"I understand that I intend to marry Audrey," said the barrister,

coolly, "so it matters little what arrangements you have made with
Anvers, who is indeed the rascal you called me."

"Go inside, Audrey," said Branwin, and pushed his daughter within
the gates hurriedly. "Mr. Shawe, good-day!" and he also stalked in,
without commenting on the young man's speech.

Ralph thus Was left outside, like the Peri at the Gates of Paradise.
 CHAPTER X.

A SURPRISE

Between her father and Mrs. Mellop Audrey had a most unpleasant
time for the next two weeks. Sir Joseph was more bent than ever
upon her marriage with Lord Anvers, and asked him to dinner, so
that he might prosecute his suit. The proposed suitor was a pale-
faced, sandy-haired, insignificant little man, with a pair of wicked-
looking black eyes. At the first sight people never took Anvers to be
the strong man he really was, as they were deceived by his
uninteresting looks. But his eyes, and subsequently his acts, soon
showed him in his true light as a capable little scoundrel, who
extracted all he could from anyone and anything in order to benefit
himself. Just now Anvers, being desperately hard up, decided that it
was necessary for him to marry Audrey and Audrey's dowry. He
wanted the money more than the maid, but, seeing that she was
pretty, he was not unwilling to take the two together, even though
this meant the loss of his freedom.

Audrey took a violent dislike to him. Even before he had been

suggested to her as a possible husband she had never liked him, as
there was an atmosphere of impurity about him which repelled her.
But that he should seek to be her husband made her more active in
her dislike, and when he pressed his suit she told him plainly that
she would never marry him. Lord Anvers, not being troubled with
delicacy, simply laughed.
"Oh, but you must marry me," he said brutally to the quivering girl;
"your father wishes it."

"My father can wish it, but he won't get it," retorted Miss Branwin,
all her outraged soul flashing with sapphire lights in her eyes. "I
don't love you, and I never shall love you."

"Oh, I know there's another man," said Anvers, coolly. "Your father
told me to be prepared for the objection, that your affections were
engaged."

"My affections have nothing to do with the matter, Lord Anvers. If

there wasn't another man in the world, I wouldn't marry you."

"Why not?"

"Oh! we won't go into particulars," she said sharply. "I have heard--"

"A lot of lies, I assure you. I'm not a bad chap, as chaps go, and,
upon my soul, I'll try and make you happy."

"I want a better husband than one who is not bad as chaps go," said
Audrey, coldly. "I want a man I can respect--a Galahad."

"Never heard of him," confessed Anvers, candidly, "unless it's

another name for a fellow called Shawe."

"Perhaps it is," replied Miss Branwin, holding herself very straight,

"and you can tell my father that I shall marry no one else but Mr.
Shawe."

"Oh, come, give me a chance," pleaded the aristocratic black sheep.

"I have given you a chance to propose to me and I refuse you."

Anvers looked bewildered. He was unaccustomed to this very plain

speaking on the part of a spinster. "You don't let a chap down easy;
and I shan't lose heart, anyhow. Your 'No' means 'Yes.' A woman
sometimes doesn't accept a chap straight away."

"This woman will never accept you, Lord Anvers. So if you are a
gentleman you will refrain from troubling me."

"'Fraid I can't, Miss Branwin. I love you."

"You love my money," she retorted scornfully, and exasperated by

this obstinacy. "You know it is only the money."

"Oh, money's a good thing," said the truthful Anvers, easily; "but,
really, upon my word, you know, you're so pretty that I'd marry you
without a penny."

Audrey burst out laughing. "Such candour on your part deserves

candour on mine," she said quietly. "I say 'No' to your proposal, and
I mean it."

For the time being Anvers saw that he was beaten, so took his leave.
"But I shall come back again," he warned his lady-love. "I'll bring
you up to the scratch somehow, see if I don't." And he reported the
conversation to Sir Joseph, with the remark that he would never
stop proposing until Audrey accepted his soiled title and his brutal
self.

Of course, Branwin scolded the girl. She made no protest during the
storm of words, and let Sir Joseph talk himself into exhaustion.
When the millionaire could say no more she faced him calmly. "I
shall never marry Lord Anvers, papa, and I shall marry Ralph
whenever I can."

"Oh, you will, and when--when, confound you?" roared Branwin.

"When he learns who killed my mother," said Audrey, and passed out
of the room without noticing the sudden greyness which replaced
the purple hues of her father's large face.
What with anxiety to learn who had murdered her mother, and with
the insistent troubles around her, Audrey felt angry with everyone
and everything. Even Ralph seemed to be against her since he had
waxed lukewarm in prosecuting his search for the assassin. Audrey
had not seen him since he had advised her to heed the warning of
the anonymous letter, and she had received no communication likely
to show that he was looking into the matter of the murder. Under
these circumstances, she resolved to take up the rôle of an amateur
detective herself. Since there was no one else who loved the dead
sufficiently to avenge the crime, Audrey at least made up her mind
to hunt down the murderer.

She began one afternoon by driving to Perry Toat's office, for Ralph
had written down its whereabouts. Sir Joseph, sullen and angry with
his daughter, had gone to his club, and Mrs. Mellop in her bedroom
was fretting over the destruction of her hopes. Therefore, there was
no one to spy on the girl, and, having dressed herself plainly, she
took a taxi-cab in Kensington High Street and drove to the Strand.
Perry Toat's office was in Buckingham Street, and the detective
herself was disengaged. She admitted Audrey into her private
sanctum the moment she read the name on the card.

"I thought you would come, Miss Branwin," said Perry Toat, cordially,
"as Mr. Shawe told me that you were different from most girls. Few
would wish to undertake the search you propose to make."

"Few girls, if any, have had a mother murdered in so barbarous a

fashion," was Audrey's reply, and she eyed with some disapproval
the garish complexion and burnished hair and general renovation of
Miss Toat.

The detective smiled, guessing the thought of her visitor. "This and
this"--she touched her hair and skin--"are a concession to business
demands. I had to submit to this sort of thing in order to gain
permission to remain for searching purposes at the Pink Shop."
"Oh!" Audrey understood. "And did you find out anything?"

"I told Mr. Shawe all I had discovered, and what theories I formed
on the discoveries," said Miss Toat, glancing at her watch. "He
explained to me that he had reported everything to you over a week
ago."

"Yes," admitted Miss Branwin, "but he did not give me any hope that
anything would come of what you have learnt."

"I fear not. The clues are so slight, Miss Branwin. By the way"--Perry
Toat looked again at her watch--"I can only give you ten minutes or
so, as I am expecting another client--Colonel Ilse. Ah! poor man, he
comes to me to be helped in finding his stolen daughter."

"His stolen daughter?" echoed Audrey.

"Yes. His wife died in child-birth some twenty years ago, and the
child was stolen by an hospital nurse who attended her. There was
some grudge, I believe. But why should I bother you with the
troubles of other people when you have so many of your own?" said
Miss Toat, in a lively way. "Come, time is short. What do you wish
me to tell you?"

"What is your opinion of the case as it now stands?" asked Audrey,

abruptly.

"It's a difficult and mysterious case," said the detective, slowly, "and
it is my opinion that Madame Coralie can tell the truth."

"Do you think that she is guilty?"

"No. That is, if she is guilty, it is because she employed someone

else to murder your mother. I don't believe she strangled Lady
Branwin herself."

"Why not?"
"Because Madame Coralie proved an alibi."

"Ah!" Audrey nodded. "Then Mr. Shawe did not tell you about my
idea as to the clock in the still-room being wrong?"

Miss Toat looked at her quickly. "No. What is your idea?"

Audrey related what she knew of the discrepancy between the

statement of Madame Coralie, her husband, and Badoura, and her
own. "It was nearly half-past eight when Madame came to see me at
the door," said Audrey, positively.

Miss Toat looked steadily at the girl. "Strange," she said, in a musing
tone. "Now, I wonder why Mr. Shawe did not tell me this?"

"It is important, is it not?" asked Audrey, eagerly.

"Very important. If we can prove what you say, it will show that it
was possible for Madame Coralie to have been with Lady Branwin at
eight."

"Then she must be guilty," said Audrey, triumphantly.

"No. I suspect Eddy Vail, her husband. He, as well as his wife, was in
dire need of money, and he may have committed the deed, although
his wife may have suggested its commission. If I could only trace the
diamonds"--and Miss Toat, thinking hard, began to trace figures on
her blotting-paper.

"I have seen that man Vail," said Miss Branwin, after a pause. "Mr.
Shawe described him to me, and I recognised the description at
once. He was hanging about Walpole Lane when my mother came
back for the red bag which contained the diamonds."

"Oh!"--Miss Toat looked up--"that's a strong point. Did your mother

happen to mention, when in the lane, that the diamonds were in the
bag?"
"No," said Audrey, after some thought; "she simply asked for the
bag. But I am sure that Madame Coralie must have known about the
diamonds, as my poor mother would be sure to tell her."

"Have you ever seen Madame Coralie?" asked Miss Toat, sharply.

"Only in the half-darkness, when she came to the door at half-past

eight to tell me that my mother would remain for the night."

"Then," said Perry Toat, rising, "go to the Pink Shop and see her
now. You are so straightforward and earnest that you may succeed
where I fail. Ask all the questions you can think of, and see what
Madame Coralie looks like."

"Hear what she says, you mean."

"No, I do not. Hear what she says, of course; but you may be sure
that if she has anything to hide she will be most guarded in her
answers. But look into her face, and watch the change of colour,
and--oh!" Miss Toat stopped in dismay. "I forgot, Madame Coralie
wears a yashmak constantly."

"In that case I shall get her to remove it," said Audrey, quickly. "I
see what you mean, and I shall manage in some way to see her
face. If she is guilty I shall know somehow."

"I wish I could come with you myself," said Miss Toat, hastily
following Audrey to the door, which opened into a small outer office;
"but I fear that Colonel Ilse--ah! here he is."

Miss Branwin saw before her a slender and very straight man, with a
grey moustache and grey hair, with a tanned face and a general
military look. He had kind blue eyes, and when he saw so pretty a
girl emerge from the dingy office of Perry Toat these same eyes
lighted up with admiration. With a bow to the detective he stood on
one side to let the girl pass. Audrey gave a swift glance at his
clearly-cut face as she went out. There seemed to be something
familiar about Colonel Ilse's countenance; but she could not say
precisely what it was. Besides, her mind was too much taken up with
the late conversation with Miss Toat to concern itself with so trifling
a matter. The detective accompanied her to the outer door.

"See me to-morrow at three o'clock," she said, in a low voice, "and

tell me if you have succeeded in getting Madame Coralie to remove
her yashmak."

Miss Branwin readily promised this, as she felt that she needed Miss
Toat's professional assistance in the quest which she was now
undertaking. She felt eager to reach the Pink Shop and to question
Madame Coralie, and her heart beat quickly as she climbed into a
'bus which would take her to Kensington. Sir Joseph would have
been furious had he seen his daughter travelling on so humble a
vehicle; but Audrey enjoyed the novelty of the sensation. Indeed,
she was beginning to find out, for the first time since her mother's
death, that life was worth living. And, although she did not know it,
she was suffering from a severe attack of detective fever.

The progress of the 'bus seemed slow to the impatient girl; but in
due time she came to Kensington High Street. Here she alighted,
and turned into Walpole Lane without delay. Shortly she found
herself before the mysterious door of the Pink Shop, and entered
with a beating heart and a general sense that there was a crisis at
hand.

"Is Madame Coralie to be seen?" she asked Badoura, who came

forward in her quaint Turkish dress to receive her.

"I will inquire, miss," said Badoura, looking at her closely. "Oh! it is
Miss Branwin, is it not?"

"Yes, and I wish particularly to see Madame Coralie."

"Will you please wait here, miss?" said Badoura, and, leaving Audrey
near the door of the empty shop--it was too early for the usual
customers--she walked towards an alcove on the left.

Audrey saw the girl pass through the pink silk curtains into the
alcove, and heard a faint murmur of voices. Deeming that all was
fair in the dangerous and anxious search which she was undertaking
she drew near, and distinctly heard Madame Coralie gasp with
dismay.

"Tell Miss Branwin that I cannot see her," said Madame Coralie,
sharply.

Audrey at once stepped forward and swept aside the pink curtain.
"But you must, Madame," she said quietly.

The woman waved Badoura to leave the alcove, and beckoned Miss
Branwin to enter, making some remark in muffled tones as she did
so. Suddenly, as she rose quickly to her feet, a tack caught the
yashmak, and it was ripped off. Audrey saw Madame Coralie's side
face, and gave a cry of surprise and terror.

"Mother!" she cried, then sank her voice with fear. "Mother! Oh,
mother!"

CHAPTER XI.

A STORY OF THE PAST

So there had been no need for Audrey to plot for the removal of
Madame Coralie's yashmak. With the trifling aid of a tack, which had
caught the veil when the woman rose suddenly from the divan, the
truth immediately became known to the horrified and astonished
girl. But was it the truth? At the first glance Audrey recognised the
side face turned towards her as that of her mother. But when
Madame Coralie looked round fairly, and the light, filtering through
the curtains of the shop window, fell on her full countenance, then
Audrey became doubtful. The wine-dark birthmark which disfigured
mouth and chin and cheek had been absent from Lady Branwin's
face.

"But--but you are my mother!" gasped the girl, still struck by the
marvellous resemblance to the supposed dead.

"I am not your mother," replied the other, coldly, and evading the
outstretched arms of her visitor. "But since you have seen my face, I
had better confess the truth. I am your aunt, Flora."

"Oh!" Audrey recollected what her father had said about the two
sisters of Bleakleigh. "Flora Arkwright?"

"Yes. I see your mother told you about me."

"No, she did not."

Madame Coralie raised her hand imperatively. "This alcove is too

public a place in which to discuss family matters. We must go
upstairs. Indeed, I fancy your exclamation of 'Mother!' must have
aroused Badoura's suspicions."

Apparently this was true, for when Madame Coralie drew her visitor
through the pink silk curtains into the deserted shop, Badoura was
standing before them with an astonished look on her face. Her
employer at once sent her off on a false scent.

"Miss Branwin has called to see me about her mother's death," said
Madame Coralie, quietly. "She is slightly hysterical, and you have, no
doubt, heard what she cried out. I trust"--the speaker looked
anxiously round the shop--"that no one else heard?"

"I am alone here," replied Badoura, evidently accepting this

explanation as a reasonable one. "Can I get Miss Branwin a glass of
water?"

"No, my dear," said the owner of the shop, who had replaced her
yashmak. "I am taking up Miss Branwin to the still-room for a little
quiet conversation. See that we are not disturbed."

"Peri Banou, Zobeide and Parizade are there, Madame."

"I shall send them down. Give them something to do here. Come,
Miss Branwin, if you don't mind climbing the stairs."

Although Audrey felt considerably annoyed at being described as

hysterical, she nevertheless saw the necessity of some such
explanation to satisfy the curiosity of the forewoman. Therefore she
wisely said nothing, and followed Madame into the narrow back
passage and up the stairs. On arriving in the still-room, the elder
woman dismissed her assistants, and having looked behind the
curtain to see that no one was hidden there likely to overhear the
conversation, she closed the door. Audrey watched her as she sat
down with her back to the window, and tried to steady her nerves,
which naturally had sustained a shock.

"Now, Miss Branwin," said Madame Coralie, in a quiet voice, "we can
talk. But first, so that you may be certain of my identity, I shall lay
this aside," and she flung the long veil of the yashmak over her
shoulder.

The girl examined that face carefully. Madame Coralie was certainly
extremely like Lady Branwin. She had the same muddy complexion
and large black eyes, and the same stout, shapeless figure. But the
aggressive birthmark made all the difference, and after a single
glimpse of it, much less this cautious and lengthy survey, there could
be no question that the woman before her was not Lady Branwin.

"But my mistake was natural," said Audrey, with a sigh.

"Very natural," answered Madame Coralie, who had evidently

followed her train of thought--no very difficult thing to do--
"especially as you first saw my side face. The mark does not show
when I look thus." She adapted her position to her words, and the
resemblance became even more apparent. "Dora and I were twins,"
ended Madame, with a nod.

"My father did not tell me that."

"Oh! so your father told you about me, my dear. I thought he had
long ago forgotten the existence of poor Flora Arkwright."

"Far from forgetting you," Audrey assured her aunt, "he said that he
wished he had married you instead of mother."

The information did not seem to please Madame Coralie, for her thin
lips tightened, and she gave vent to a short laugh. Then Audrey
noted, as a further difference between the sisters, that the woman
before her spoke in a hoarse and loud, domineering voice. Lady
Branwin, on the other hand, had always talked softly, and possessed
a musical utterance, which was one of the few poor charms she
owned.

"So Joseph remembers me in that way, does he, my dear?" said

Madame Coralie, clasping her hands. "Ha! if I hadn't been a fool I
should have married him."

"Why didn't you?" asked Audrey, bluntly.

"I have stated the reason," said Madame Coralie, drily. "I was a fool.
But I am bound to say in my own defence that I never believed
Joseph would become so wealthy. He never struck me as particularly
clever."

"Yet he must be, to have so much money."

"There I disagree with you, my dear--I can call you my dear in

private, as you are my niece--but Joseph was always hard and
grasping, and ever had an eye to the main chance. Well, he is rich,
and has now got rid of his wife, so he can marry into the Peerage if
he likes. I expect Dora is glad she is dead, now that she is on the
other side of the grave. Joseph killed her."

"Killed her?" Audrey, with a sudden fear, turned deadly white.

"Oh, I don't mean to say that he strangled her," said Madame

Coralie, hastily, "for he is too careful of his skin to risk hanging; but
his neglect killed her. She was always a good and faithful wife to
him, and he broke her heart."

"Papa was rather unkind," said Audrey, nervously, but relieved by

this explanation.

Madame again laughed shortly. "Unkind--rather unkind!" she

repeated. "Why, he treated her like a brute. She told me all about it.
Fancy the poor soul coming to me to be made young again, in the
hope that she could regain Joseph's affections. I told her that she
was a fool; but she would waste her money. And perhaps she
wanted to help me also," added Madame Coralie, in a softer tone.
"Dora was always fond of me."

"She knew that you kept this shop?"

"Yes. In fact, she helped me to set up the shop some years ago. I
made her promise that she would never tell Joseph of my existence,
and she kept her word. Yet Joseph remembered me. Strange."

"Papa said that you had the brains."

Madame Coralie looked round the room disdainfully. "And to what
have my brains brought me? I am simply a renovator of faded
women, and had to borrow money from Dora to set up the
establishment. Flora Arkwright is lost in Madame Coralie."

"Mrs. Edward Vail, you mean," said Audrey, quietly.

"Oh!"--the woman shrugged her heavy shoulders--"I married Eddy

so as to have a companion. He's a handsome fool, and goes about
making love to younger women, while he lives on my money.
However, he is always good-tempered, and suits me well enough.
But in Bleakleigh I believed that my destiny would have been a
better one. Dreams, my dear dreams."

"You were born at Bleakleigh?"

Madame Coralie nodded and folded her stout arms. Then, rocking to
and fro, she related her story and the story of her sister. It was
strange to Audrey, this history of her mother's early life. Lady
Branwin had always been too much afraid of her husband to tell
about her early struggles.

"Dora and I were the daughters of a labourer," said Madame Coralie.

"She was very pretty, and I--well, my dear, who could be pretty with
this?" and she touched the birthmark. "Although it was lighter when
I was a girl, I have tried so hard to remove it that I expect I made it
worse. If my customers saw it they would never believe that I could
remove blemishes from their silly faces. For that reason I always
wear the yashmak. My keeping what is called a Turkish shop gives
me a chance of doing so."

"I quite understand," said Audrey, gently. "But tell me about my

mother."

Madame Coralie looked at her swiftly. "You were fond of her?"

"Of course. Was she not my mother? Besides, she was all that was
good and kind to me. And," added Audrey, clenching her fist so
tightly that her glove split, "if no one else will revenge her by finding
out who killed her, I shall do so."

"I fear you have undertaken a search which will never be ended,"
said her aunt, in a pitying tone; "but the feeling does you credit. I
shall assist you by all the means in my power, my dear; for not only
was poor Dora my sister, but her death has harmed my business."

"We can talk of what we will do later," said Audrey, quickly.

"Meanwhile, go on with your story."

"A very dull story, I fear, my dear," said Madame Coralie, with a sigh.
"Joseph, like Dora and myself, was the child of a labourer. We lived
next door to one another. Then Joseph fell in love with Dora,
because she was pretty, and went away to make his fortune. The
papers will tell you how he did, so there is no need for me to talk
about that. But I will say that Joseph behaved well to Dora, for he
returned to marry her. Then the ways of my sister and myself
parted, and she went on a golden road, while I"--Madame Coralie
glanced round the room again with great scorn--"while I made for
this goal."

"Did you not see my mother occasionally?"

"Not for many years, my dear. I got married to a gamekeeper--the

gamekeeper of Squire Shawe, of Bleakleigh. He was killed by
poachers within a year of marriage, and left me with a few hundred
pounds in hand. There was no child, and there was nothing to keep
me in Bleakleigh, since my parents were dead, so I came to London.
Then--" Madame Coralie shivered.

"What happened then?" asked Audrey, sympathetically.

"Trouble. I was born to trouble, my dear. Everything that could go

wrong with me went wrong. I tried the stage, and failed. I became a
lecturer, and lost my voice--you hear how hoarse it is still. I went to
America as a lady's-maid, and was stranded there in San Francisco. I
worked as a typist; I laboured in a laundry; I took to reporting; I
edited a woman's paper, and did all I could to keep myself above
water. As a reporter I was sent to Paris in the interests of the paper.
It failed, and I went in for massaging people. Then--well, to make a
long story short, I learnt from a friend of mine in Paris all kinds of
secrets about the art of making women beautiful. It struck me that I
might start in London. I came back and wrote to Dora. There was no
difficulty in finding her, as she was by this time Lady Branwin, the
wife of a millionaire. I am bound to say that Dora behaved very well.
She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but managed in some
way to get enough to start me in this business. Then--" Madame
Coralie stopped abruptly, with a gesture. "That's all, my dear."

"And does the business pay?" asked Audrey, mindful of what Ralph
had said regarding the difficulties of the woman before her.

"Yes. That is, it would pay if I could only get in the money. But all
my clients, being women of fashion, are such bad payers--they ask
for years of credit. Then there's Eddy, who is extravagant. I was a
fool to marry him; but I did so for companionship. I bought him, so
to speak, so we understand one another perfectly. Of course, poor
Dora's death has done a lot of harm to me; but now that I have
money to fall back on, I hope to pull round. It is weary work,
though," said Madame Coralie, looking very old--"weary work."

"I am glad that you have saved money," said Audrey, who could not
but acknowledge that her aunt was marvellously candid.

"Saved money! My dear, have you not been listening to what I have
been saying? How could I save money with Eddy's extravagance and
these customers who never will pay their bills. It was Dora who
came to my rescue. She gave me her diamonds, poor dear."
Audrey jumped up amazed. "Gave you her diamonds?" she echoed.
"But you said at the inquest--"

"I know perfectly well what I said at the inquest and what I am
saying to you," interrupted Madame Coralie, sharply. "I denied that I
knew anything of the diamonds. For obvious reasons I did so. If I
had admitted possession of the diamonds, I would have been
suspected as the person who strangled your mother. No one knew
that Dora and I were sisters."

"You could have explained at--"

"No," said Madame Coralie, positively, "I could not have explained,
for my story would have appeared to be merely a made-up one to
account for the possession of the jewels. Of course, the
resemblance--for Dora and I were wonderfully alike, save for this
birthmark--would have hinted that I was speaking the truth. But in
that case I should have had to remove my yashmak, and then all the
world would have known of this disfigurement. It would have ruined
my business, my dear."

Audrey looked bewildered. "But if my mother was not strangled for

the sake of the diamonds, why was she killed?"

Her aunt shrugged her shoulders. "I have asked that again and
again; and yet I think that I can see a way. Dora brought me the
diamonds, pretending that she wished them to be reset. When we
were in the bedroom together she took them out of the bag and
gave them to me. Then she placed the empty bag under her pillow. I
came upstairs, after tucking her in for the night, in order to put away
the jewels. All I can think of is that someone got into the court by
means of that skeleton key, and, thinking that the jewels were still in
the bag, strangled poor Dora, and then escaped. If you remember,
the label was found near the court door."

All this explanation was very frank, and from the mere fact that
Madame Coralie admitted having the jewels Audrey was certain that
she was not the guilty person, nor had she employed anyone else to
commit the crime. Besides, as the two women were twin sisters--and
the likeness proved this beyond all doubt--the idea of one murdering
the other was out of the question. "I suppose," said Audrey, after a
pause, "that you know some people suspect you?"

"Oh, yes," said her aunt, indifferently; "and if they knew about the
diamonds they would be certain of my guilt. However, I got Eddy to
unset the stones and sell them separately. He has been over to
Antwerp selling them, so I am quite safe; that is"--she looked at
Audrey--"unless you tell the police what I have told you."

"I should not think of doing so," said the girl, anxiously, for she
really believed her aunt to be innocent, "and, more than that, I will
try and disabuse Ralph of your guilt."

"Ralph? Oh, yes. Squire Shawe's younger son. Poor Dora told me he
was engaged to you. Well, is there anything else you want to know?"

"No; but you must help me to find out who murdered my mother."

"Certainly. I shall do that for my own sake. Come and see me again,
and I may be able to give you a clue. Between us we may trace the
assassin."

"Oh! aunt, will you do this?" cried Audrey, with shining eyes.

Madame Coralie kissed her. "Yes, even if I ruin myself. You love your
poor mother's memory--I would do anything for Dora's daughter."

CHAPTER XII.