bernard, alias mr. grant, had made free with conniston's clothes, as mrs. moon had stated. but, being much taller than his friend, he looked rather uncomfortable, and indeed had hidden the shortcomings of the garments under a gorgeous dressing-gown, a relic of dick's 'varsity days. but conniston had procured through durham several suits of gore's clothes which had been left behind at the hall when he was turned away by his grandfather. these he had brought with him, and bernard was glad enough to get into comfortably-fitting garments. these, and the society of conniston, a good dinner and the super-excellent port made him feel a new man.

after dinner the two friends piled the fire with great logs as it was freezing hard without. mrs. moon brought up coffee hot and strong, and when she left the room the young men produced their pipes. then conniston sat on one side of the fire and bernard on the other, and both of them prepared to go into the case and to see exactly how matters stood.

"in the first place," said dick, filling his pipe carefully, "let us consider what actually happened. sir simon was alone that evening."

"he was when i found him dead, unless you call mrs. gilroy anyone."

"i call her a very important person," said dick, dryly. "i tell you what, gore, you evidently don't know everything. just tell me what you do know."

"i have told you," said bernard, impatiently. "i left durham's house at ten o'clock; you mentioned the time yourself."

"i did," responded conniston, gravely, "and i mentioned also the day of the month. it was the——"

"the twenty-third of october. shall i ever forget a date so ominous to me? i left the house, and a small boy stopped me. he said that a lady—he did not mention her name—had told him to inform me to follow him to the red window."

"your cousin lucy knew of that?"

"yes. and i thought the lady in question was lucy, but the boy did not mention any name. he simply said that he had been spoken to by the lady down kensington way. now i knew from durham that lucy was living with sir simon, who was in crimea square, kensington, and that knowledge, coupled with the mention of the red window, made me follow the boy."

"can you describe the lad?"

"not very well. i caught a glimpse of him under a lamp-post, but the fog was so thick that i obtained only a vague impression. he seemed to be a fair, innocent-looking boy with fair hair—the kind of pure angelic creature depicted by painters as a chorister."

"by jove!" conniston dashed down his pipe excitedly. "you describe judas to the life. the plot thickens."

"the plot——"

"the plot which was to involve you in the crime, and, by jove! those who contrived it must have hired judas to be your guide."

"are you sure that this is the lad—mrs. moon's grandson?"

"as sure as i can be from your word-painting. jerry—judas suits him much better—is just what you say: an innocent, butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth sort of brat who looks like an angel and acts like a denizen of the infernal regions. and now i remember," went on dick, "the little brute spoke to me after you left me when we talked in the park. he was then bare-footed and selling matches."

"this boy must be the same," said bernard, thoughtfully. "he also had bare feet and carried boxes of matches in his hand."

"it's judas sure enough!" muttered conniston, pulling his mustache and staring gloomily into the fire. "i wonder what he was doing in that galley? you followed him?"

"yes, because he mentioned the red window. but for that i should have suspected something wrong. i don't care about following strange urchins. but only lucy knew about the red window."

"she might have told beryl."

"what do you mean?"

"never mind. go on with your tale."

"well, i followed the boy. he kept a little ahead of me, and several times when i got lost in the fog he reappeared."

"judas is as clever as his father, the accuser of the brethren. how long were you getting to crimea square?"

"allowing for stoppages, three-quarters of an hour. all the trouble took place about a quarter to eleven."

"did you see the red window?"

"i saw a red glare in a window on the first floor. i don't suppose the glass was red, but think some red material must have been placed over a lamp and that placed close to the window."

"might have been a blind," mused dick, "and yet when beryl looked and his friend mrs. webber they saw no red window. are you sure?"

"i am certain," responded gore, emphatically. "when i saw the red window i was convinced that lucy had sent for me, and, thinking that she had persuaded my grandfather to relent, i would have entered the house for a personal interview but that mrs. gilroy came out."

"could you be seen from the house?"

"i don't think so, the fog was very thick remember."

"was any signal given?"

bernard looked hard at his friend. "you think it was a trap?"

"i am certain. was there any signal?"

"a peculiar kind of whistle. something like this!"

gore whistled in a kind of ascending scale shrilly and in a particularly high key. the effect on conniston was strange. he jumped up from his seat and walked hurriedly to and fro.

"judas," he said. "i remember when i was down here that the little scamp had a kind of whistle like that—something like it. listen!" conniston whistled also, and bernard nodded.

"that's it," he declared; "the whistle was given twice."

"then the boy was judas. he used to signal to victoria in that way when the pair were up to their pranks. wait!" conniston opened the door and whistled loudly in the same way. twice he did this. shortly after the second time the pattering of steps was heard and victoria came running up the stairs with a lighted candle in her hand. she looked white and scared.

"did you expect to see jerry?" asked her master, blandly.

the girl stared and turned even whiter than she was. "i thought it was jerry, sir," she murmured, leaning against the balustrade. "he used to whistle like that when he came home!"

"i learned it from jerry," said conniston, mendaciously, "and i tried to see if it would bring you. go downstairs, girl. there's nothing wrong."

victoria stared at conniston with a suspicious look in her hard eyes, and then with a toss of her head ran down the stairs. dick returned to the room and shut the door. "what do you think now?"

"it was judas sure enough," said bernard.

"of course. and the signal was given to someone in the house to intimate that you were outside. who came out?"

"mrs. gilroy?"

"ah! then she must have been waiting for the signal. by the way, you always seemed mixed over mrs. gilroy. when we first met you said that she didn't like you. then you said she was your friend. now which do you think she is?"

"i can hardly say. she always pretended to be my friend. i was never sure of her."

"then you can be sure of her now. she is your bitter enemy."

"i am afraid so," sighed gore, remembering the accusation.

"well," said dick, resuming his seat, "what next?"

"mrs. gilroy came out screeching 'murder!' she dragged me upstairs and into the sitting-room——"

"did you notice if there was a red lamp in the window?"

"no. i was too horrified by the sight of my dead grandfather. i loosened the handkerchief round the throat——"

"that was a bandana, sir simon's own, and was produced at the inquest. what about the one over the mouth?"

"the one steeped in chloroform? i don't know. i had it in my hand when mrs. gilroy accused me. then i lost my head. i must have dropped it."

conniston looked disappointed. "that's a pity," said he. "i fancied you might have unconsciously taken it with you. you see, it was a white handkerchief and sir simon never used one of that color. if there happened to be a name on the corner——"

"it would be that of the assassin. is that what you mean?"

"yes, that is what i mean. the assassin must have used his own handkerchief."

"why do you think that?"

dick made an impatient gesture. "why, it's the most natural thing he would do," was his reply. "he enters the room, and talks with sir simon. in his pocket he has the handkerchief steeped in chloroform and uses it unexpectedly. it's as clear as day."

"why do you think the assassin is a man?"

"i'll tell you that later. go on."

"there's nothing more to say. mrs. gilroy said that i was the assassin and tried to hold me. the [pg 135]policeman came and arrested me. seeing what a fix i was in i bolted."

"you should have stood your ground," insisted dick.

bernard rose and in his turn paced the room. "man alive, how could i do that?" he said irritably. "the position was dangerous enough to appal the bravest man. mrs. gilroy accused me, saying that i had been in the kitchen and had left there about six; that i had returned after ten and killed my grandfather. also the housemaid jane recognized me as the soldier who had been courting her. not only that, but she addressed me as bernard. can't you see how strong the circumstantial evidence was and is? i did not get to durham's before seven, and i was by myself before that. i can't prove an alibi then, and i left at ten, after which hour mrs. gilroy said i had come into the house. in three-quarters of an hour there was ample time for me to kill my grandfather. it is barely a quarter of an hour's walk from durham's house on camden hill to crimea square. i could not prove an alibi, nor could you or durham have helped me. i was at durham's in the evening, but where was i before six and after ten? dick, had i stayed i should have been hanged. these thoughts flashed through my mind and i made a dash for liberty, so that i might have time to think out my position. how i gained this refuge you know. and here i have been thinking ever since how to extricate myself from the dilemma and prove my innocence. i can't see how to do it, dick. i can't see how to act."

"steady, old boy. come and sit down and we'll thresh out the matter."

he led bernard back to the chair, into which the poor fellow threw himself with a weary sigh. conniston could not but acknowledge that the case against his friend was very strong. as he could not prove an alibi, the evidence of mrs. gilroy, of the cook, and page, and housemaid, would probably hang him. and also a sufficient motive for the crime might be found—by the jury—in the fact that bernard had quarrelled with his grandfather and had been disinherited. then, to perplex affairs still more, judas had disappeared, and the red window, on the evidence of beryl and mrs. webber, was non-existent. certainly the lady declared she saw it, but afterwards she thought she had been mistaken. in the interval someone must have removed the red light. but that was a detail which could be argued later. in the meantime it was necessary to fix, if possible, the identity of the soldier who had haunted the kitchen and who apparently so strongly resembled bernard as to be mistaken for him by jane.

"it's a plot," said conniston, at length, while bernard gazed despairingly into the burning logs. "this fellow who resembled you and who took your name is the assassin."

"how do you make that out?"

"why! he was in the kitchen before six and was sent for by your grandfather. he at once left. then he came back after ten and was admitted by mrs. gilroy, who might have made a mistake."

"she could not mistake another man for me."

"i don't know. this fellow evidently was your double, or at least was made up to resemble you. but that would not be easy," added conniston, staring at his friend, "for you have no beard or mustache, and it is difficult to make up like another chap without such aids. at least i should think so. and remember the lamp in the hall did not give a very good light—so durham told me. the housemaid saw you only in that light, and therefore might have mistaken you for the fellow who courted her. mrs. gilroy——"

"she saw me in the full glare of the light in the sitting-room. she recognized me."

"yes. but according to her evidence she only admitted your double just after ten and introduced him into the sitting-room. she did not see him save under the hall lamp."

"that is true. but my grandfather would soon detect the imposition."

"quite right," rejoined dick, smoothly, "he did, and then the assassin murdered him after stifling him with the chloroform."

"but you forget my grandfather was a passionate man. he might and probably would have made a scene. mrs. gilroy below would have heard the row and would have come up."

"she may be lying when she declares she heard nothing," admitted dick. "on the other hand, the assassin may have crossed directly over to your grandfather and have stifled his cries by placing the handkerchief at once over his mouth. then he could strangle him at his leisure and clear out, as he did."

"and then mrs. gilroy runs up, finds the dead, and rushes out to accuse me. i must have been brought in the nick of time," said bernard, ironically. "no, dick, there's more in it than that. mrs. gilroy is in the plot whomsoever contrived it."

"why, beryl contrived it. he wanted the money."

"was he in the house at the time?"

"no. he didn't commit the crime himself, if that is what you mean. he with miss randolph was at the curtain theatre, which is near crimea square. he drove up in his friend's mrs. webber's carriage just when the row was on."

"yes." bernard passed his hand across his forehead. "i should have remembered that. i was in the hall at the time with the hand of the policeman on my shoulder. but i have grown so confused, dick, that it's all like a dream."

"a nightmare rather. but why do you think mrs. gilroy is——"

"is in the plot. because, before she accused me, she said to herself, but loud enough for me to hear, 'it's the only way!'"

"ha, ho!" said conniston, excited, "you can swear to that."

"of course i can. but i can't swear in the dock, and that is the only place i'm likely to occupy should i be caught."

"is mrs. gilroy a friend of beryl's?"

"i can't say that she was ever anyone's friend. she even seemed to hate my grandfather, although he was so good to her. she and lucy were always quarrelling, and though she behaved civilly to me, i was—as i said before—never sure of her."

"you can certainly be sure of her now. but i can't help thinking beryl had something to do with this plot. he had a lot at stake. i have heard tales about his gambling that would open your eyes. durham made it his business to find out when he heard that sir simon intended to disinherit you in favor of beryl."

"durham has always been my friend," said bernard, wearily. "but as beryl was out of the house he can't have anything to do with the crime."

"i'm not so certain of that. he might have set things in train, and then have arranged the theatre business so as to provide himself with an alibi."

"you think he hired someone to represent me?"

"i do, though, as i say, it would be hard for anyone to disguise himself like you. you haven't a double, have you?"

"not that i ever heard of," said gore, unable to restrain a smile; "but they say everyone has a double."

"well, we must hunt out yours. if we find the soldier who resembled you, and who called himself by your name, we will be able to prove that he committed the crime."

"but how can you go to work?"

"i hardly know, bernard. i must ask durham. meantime you can stay here. and there's judas. i'll make it my business to hunt him out. i daresay he was employed by beryl also."

"how you harp on beryl."

"because i am sure he has everything to do with the matter. it was a carefully-arranged trap, and you have fallen into it. what mrs. gilroy expects to gain i can't think. however, beryl has found himself mistaken over the money. the new will—so durham told me to tell you—was burnt by the old man, and so the old one, giving you all, stands. both mrs. gilroy and mr. beryl are left out in the cold. and that is all the better for your safety."

"why?" asked bernard, looking puzzled.

"because the person they hired to do the business—your double—will expect to be paid a large sum. if not, he will round on them."

"you forget. if he confesses he puts a rope round his own throat according to your theory."

"true enough. but there's judas. he'll have his pound of flesh, or make an unholy row."

"dick," said bernard, seriously, "it's impossible that a lad of thirteen can be such a villain as you make him out to be."

"i tell you that lad is a born criminal, and if he goes on as he is doing he'll come to the gallows, where, according to his grandmother, his forefathers suffered before him. judas is as cunning as a fox, and very strong as to his will. also, he is greedy of money——"

"you describe a man of experience."

"i don't know where judas got his experience," said conniston, coolly, "but as mrs. gamp said of bailly, junior, 'all the wickedness of the world is print to him.'"

"i can't believe it of such a lad."

"you'll have an opportunity of testing it some day," retorted the young lord. "i only hope victoria doesn't correspond with judas. if she does, she'll tell him about a stranger at cove castle, and judas, having seen you with me in the park, will be quite sharp enough to put two and two together. then there will be trouble."

"but why should he connect me with the crime unless——"

"unless he knows all. he does. you are a marked man, bernard. however, it's getting late. we'll talk of this to-morrow. i must go and see durham, and bring him down ostensibly for shooting."

"i wish you would bring alice over," said bernard. "my heart aches for a sight of her sweet face."

"and dearly her face has cost you," said conniston. "however, i'll ask my dear aunt to come over, and bring alice. as miss berengaria is a relative, it will be thought nothing out of the way. we'll save you yet, bernard; only i wish we had that one piece of evidence—the handkerchief you lost. when that is found we shall know who is guilty."