next day at twelve o'clock durham went back to hurseton to see mrs. gilroy. she alone could relate the true story of the night. but before he left bernard he related an incident about which he had forgotten to tell him on the previous night.

"did you ever see your uncle guiseppe tolomeo?" he asked.

"several times," replied bernard, with no very pleased expression. "i assisted him with money."

"he is the kind of person who will always have to be assisted," was the lawyer's reply. "i fear he is a scamp, old fellow."

"so my grandfather said. i don't think he is a good man myself. all the same he was my mother's brother, and i must assist him."

"he'll give you every opportunity to do so," said durham, dryly. "i had a visit from him the other day?"

"what did he want?"

"his errand was similar to that of mrs. gilroy's. he wished to know if sir simon had made any provision for him in the will. i don't know on what grounds he based his claim, as your grandfather hated him. but he evidently expected to be remembered. i told him he would get nothing, and then with true italian excitability he began to lament that you had not lived, saying you would have helped him."

"i shall certainly do that. he is my uncle when all is said and done. what is he doing?"

"playing the violin in some orchestra. the fellow is a gentleman, bernard, but a thorough scamp. since he can earn his own bread i don't think it is wise for you to let him live on your money."

"there's no chance at present of my letting him believe i will allow that," said gore, rather dolefully. "what else did he say?"

"rather a strange thing. he said that he told sir simon that the red lamp would not bring you."

"the red window, you mean. my uncle knew about that one at the hall. when my mother was alive, and staying—as she did for a time— with sir simon, she used to put a light in the red window so as to tell tolomeo that she would meet him in the garden on that evening. the window is visible through a long avenue, and can easily be seen from the road which runs past the grounds. my poor mother used it as a signal to her brother, as lucy used it as a signal to me. and i believe that in days gone by—in charles the first's days—it was used in a like manner to warn loyal cavaliers."

"tolomeo did not say the red window," replied durham, wrinkling his brows, "but the red lamp, which makes me think he must have been with sir simon on that fatal evening."

bernard looked up alertly, and his brow grew dark. "how do you make that out?"

"well," said durham, after a pause, "i questioned jane riordan again about the possibility of there having been a red light visible!"

"there was," interrupted gore, decisively. "i saw it myself."

"and mrs. webber saw it, although afterwards it disappeared. well, jane told me that there was a lamp on the table in front of the window. she saw it when she went up with the cook and miss randolph."

"i remember. i was in the grip of the policeman then," said gore.

"well, it is strange, seeing that the apartment was lighted by electricity, that a lamp should have stood in front of the window."

"what do you infer?" asked bernard, doubtfully and uneasily.

"this much. your cousin told sir simon about the use she made of the red window—your cousin miss randolph, i mean—and when she was at the curtain theatre with beryl, i believe he put the lamp in the window to attract you."

"had the lamp a red glass?"

"no. but a red bandana handkerchief such as sir simon used might have been stretched across the window. i daresay he did it."

"but he didn't know that i knew the house," objected gore.

"true enough, unless"—here durham hesitated—"unless it was your grandfather who sent jerry moon to lure you to the square."

"no! judas—as conniston calls him—is beryl's tool. i would rather believe that beryl placed the red handkerchief across the window."

"there was no handkerchief found," said durham. "mrs. webber saw the red light, yet when beryl went out to look for it he could see none, neither could she. what do you infer from that, bernard?"

"that the handkerchief must have been removed in [pg 186]the meanwhile by beryl. no," bernard recollected, "not by beryl; mrs. gilroy prevented him going up the stairs. but lucy, the cook and jane riordan went up;—one of them must have removed the handkerchief. i tell you what, mark," added bernard, thoughtfully, "it was lucy who placed the lamp by the window and stretched the handkerchief across it."

"we don't know that a handkerchief was so stretched," said durham.

"it must have been to cause the red light," insisted gore. "lucy always had the idea of the red window. she was then friendly with beryl, and she might have made use of jerry moon to bring me to the square in the hope that, seeing the red light, i might venture into the house and interview my grandfather."

"well," said durham, rising, "we will ask miss randolph. also we can question this young judas, who is now with miss plantagenet."

bernard did not answer. with his head on his hand he was pondering deeply. "one thing i can't understand," he said, after a pause: "why do you connect my uncle guiseppe with the red window?"

"i don't, but with the red lamp. in this especial instance, for lack of red glass a lamp was used. it was not the ordinary lighting of the room, remember. now, tolomeo must have been in the room, and he must have seen the lamp to make use of such an expression."

"so you believe he was with sir simon when lucy and beryl were at the theatre?"

"yes," said durham, looking directly at gore, "and tolomeo is italian."

bernard jumped up nervously. "do you mean to hint that tolomeo may have strangled my grandfather?"

"yes, i do. tolomeo may have come to see him—indeed, he must have done so to make use of such an expression as the 'red lamp.' the two quarrelled, and perhaps your uncle, losing his temper——"

"no, no! i can't believe that," said gore, walking anxiously to and fro. "tolomeo is wild but not wicked."

"that depends on what you call wicked," said durham, dryly, and preparing to take his leave. "however, we can leave this clue, if clue it is, alone at present. what i have to do is to question mrs. gilroy about her son. also i may see miss randolph and jerry moon. but of one thing i am certain, bernard: your grandfather had several visitors during that evening. your half-brother michael came, also your uncle. one of the two——"

"no! i would rather believe mrs. gilroy strangled the old man herself."

"she is quite capable of doing so," said durham, coolly, "but i do not think she did. his death was unfortunate for her schemes; he was of more value to her alive than dead. but it might be that michael killed sir simon, and that mrs. gilroy is using you as a scapegoat. however, i learn the truth from her to-day."

"if that theory is correct, tolomeo——"

"is innocent, quite so. we'll give him the benefit of the doubt. but i want to know what he was doing with sir simon on that evening. he may be able to tell us something if he is innocent himself."

gore shuddered. "it is a most involved case," he said hopelessly.

"i quite agree with you. we have a long dark road to travel before we come to the light. however"—durham clapped bernard on the back—"keep up your spirits. if time, and money, and friendship can put you right, conniston and i will see the thing through. meantime, as miss malleson is coming here this day, make yourself happy and don't worry."

"you might as well put the kettle on the fire and say don't boil."

durham shrugged his shoulders and said no more. what with his isolation and anxiety, bernard was growing morbid, and his only cure lay in the truth being discovered. therefore durham set out to discover it from mrs. gilroy, and left the young man to his by no means pleasant meditations.

the day was fine and cold, with much sunshine and no mist. bernard went out for a walk on the small spot of dry ground on which the castle is built. victoria privately complained to him that she had all the work to do. since mrs. moon had learned "kings" she would do nothing but play the game. bernard laughed, and saw the housekeeper, telling her again of the expected arrival of the two ladies.

"you had better get a good luncheon ready," he said.

"i'll try," sighed the giantess; "but that game lies heavy on my conscience. i'm bound to do it at least once, mr. grant." she gave gore his false name in all innocence. "i do wish, sir, you hadn't taught me the game."

"never mind, you'll do it some day," said bernard, kindly.

mrs. moon moaned and groaned and went to prepare luncheon, her head full of the fatal game, which had seized on her rather sluggish imagination so strongly as to exclude all other thoughts. bernard went outside and walked along the causeway which connected the castle with the main road. he wished to welcome miss plantagenet and alice before the two women could see them, as it was necessary to inform them that his name for the time being was grant. certainly conniston might have informed them of this fact; but the young lord was so feather-headed that bernard did not always trust to his discretion.

presently an open carriage came in sight driven by miss berengaria's fat coachman. gore heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that they had not brought the dangerous jerry with them. evidently conniston had remembered that part of his instructions.

"dear alice," he said, hurrying forward to meet the carriage as it turned down the causeway. and he waved his hat, in return for which token of greeting alice waved her hand.

but when the lovers met, their hearts were too full to speak. they simply took one another's hands and looked into one another's eyes. miss berengaria, alighting at the same time, ordered the carriage to drive to the castle door, and turned to salute the exile. "well, young man," she said in her bluff way, "a nice mess you have got yourself into."

"oh no, aunt," protested alice; "it is not bernard's fault."

miss berengaria rubbed her nose. "well, i don't know," she observed tartly. "bernard gore always had a talent for getting himself into scrapes."

"i hope mr. grant is more cautious," said gore, leading the way to the door with a smile.

"and who is mr. grant?" asked alice, puzzled.

"i am. i have to take a false name because of the servant, victoria. she is so sharp that she might write and tell judas i am here."

"judas!" echoed miss berengaria, who, with her dress kilted up, was picking her way amidst the puddles. "oh, that brat who says he loves fowls and harries mine beyond endurance. i assure you, bernard, the wretch has spoilt the nerves of the whole poultry yard. i'd give him his walking-ticket if it were not for you. but i'm bound to keep an eye on him, according to durham. and a nice lawyer he is, with his finiking ways," finished the old lady grimly.

"there is no danger of jerry getting any letter," said alice, as they entered the castle. "aunt looks over all the correspondence. jerry is behaving himself nicely."

"except that he's always in places he shouldn't be," said miss berengaria. "deuce take the boy, i don't know what he is after."

"he is on the watch for the arrival of bernard," said alice, quietly. "it is for that reason, i am sure, that julius asked you to take him."

"bah! beryl!" miss berengaria never was respectful to anyone, much less to julius, whom she hated. "beryl doesn't know gore is alive."

"yes, he does," began alice, then checked herself. "i'll tell you later, my dear," she added in a lower tone to bernard. "i have much to say i don't want my aunt to overhear."

but that lady was too much occupied with mrs. moon to listen.

"well, moon, how are you?" she said grimly, surveying the giantess. "no younger, i see, and not in good health, i should say."

"what can you expect from damp marshes, my lady?" whimpered mrs. moon, who, for some unexplained reason, gave miss berengaria this title.

"rheumatism and ague," said the old dame promptly. "and you look as though you were getting ready for a fever."

"oh, my lady!"

"oh, fiddlesticks!" said miss berengaria, stalking into the castle. "have you a good meal ready? if you have, send it up. i'm as hungry as a mosquito after my drive."

"victoria is laying the table, my lady."

"who is she? oh yes. the brat of a girl that urchin of mine talks about. he wants to come over and see her, but i won't let him."

"why not, my lady? i should like to see my own flesh and blood."

"well, then, you won't," snapped miss berengaria. "and don't you tell victoria the boy is with me, or i'll discharge him."

"so mr. grant said, my lady. he having told me as jerry was page to your ladyship."

"hum! it's none of mr. grant's business. i can manage my own affairs without his assistance. come along and show me to a room where i can put my hair tidy; it's blown about by the wind. and see that the coachman feeds the horses. he's a fool."

"i'll see to it, my lady. and victoria——?"

"hold your tongue about victoria."

"i will, my lady. come this way, my lady," and mrs. moon plunged along the corridor with little miss berengaria trotting briskly at her heels. she looked like a cock-boat following in the wake of a three-decker. and all the time she scolded the meek giantess.

while mrs. moon was thus suffering, the lovers were talking eagerly in the sitting-room, where the table was already laid for luncheon. victoria had departed, so they had the apartment to themselves, and for the moment, in spite of the depressing surrounding circumstances, they were absolutely happy.

"dearest," said bernard, taking the girl's hand, "i have hungered for this moment. alice, you are more beautiful than ever."

"darling! but, bernard, i have a confession to make. i really thought for a moment that you were guilty."

"alice, how could you?"

her eyes filled with tears. "i was mad to doubt you, dearest, but i did. i thought you might have lost your temper with——"

"ah!" groaned gore, "my terrible temper. but when did you come to think me innocent, alice?"

"almost immediately. my aunt laughed at the idea that you had killed sir simon. she always stood up for you, and scolded me."

"i think you deserved it," said gore, playfully. "however, i forgive you. the evidence against me is so strong that i don't wonder you believed i was——"

"no, bernard, no. you loved me, and in the face of everything i should never have credited you with the commission of this crime. but you forgive me, don't you, dear?" she added, nestling to his heart.

"of course i do," replied gore, and sealed his forgiveness with a kiss. "so long as you believe me to be innocent now."

"i do—i do. i wonder that i could have doubted you. lord conniston never doubted you, nor did mr. durham, nor my aunt. it was only i who—oh dear me! how wicked of me."

"alice"—he kissed away her tears—"say no more. the circumstances were enough to shake your faith in me, especially when you knew i had such a bad temper. and i have it still," sighed gore, sadly; "even now in spite of all my trouble i am impatient."

"wait, wait! all will be well."

"i can't see how i am to win free of the trouble, alice dear."

"none of us can see, bernard. but we are in god's hands. he will help us. see, he has given you a refuge here till your innocence is proved."

"and how long will i keep this refuge?" said gore, gloomily. "if that young imp judas learns from victoria that i am here——"

"then you can escape to another place. but, bernard, i have something to tell you." alice looked round and took a letter out of her pocket cautiously. "this is from julius. he says that he saw you in london."

"ah!" bernard read the letter hurriedly. "my double—my half-brother, michael."

"your half-brother! i never knew you had one."

"nor did i, till durham found it out from mrs. gilroy."

the next ten minutes was taken up by bernard in explaining what the lawyer had learned from mrs. gilroy. alice was extremely astonished and interested, and quite agreed that it was possible the half-brother might be the guilty person. "and it explains mrs. gilroy's accusation of you," said alice, thoughtfully.

"without doubt. mrs. gilroy never liked me. but do you believe michael is the real heir?"

"no," said alice, firmly. "mrs. gilroy would have claimed the money and the title for her son had there been a true marriage. there is something wrong, bernard. i don't know what it is, but i feel sure that mrs. gilroy is not so secure about her position as she pretends to be."

"well," said bernard, putting the letter into his pocket, "durham will tell us what she says."

then occurred one of those coincidences which occur in real life quite as often as they do in novels. durham suddenly entered the room, looking disturbed. he saluted alice, then turned to his client—"mrs. gilroy!" he exclaimed.

"what of her?" asked gore. "has she confessed?"

"she has left the hall, and no one knows where she is!"