 CHAPTER XII. THE WOMEN IN THE CASE. The distance between the door of chain court and the end of the lane whence the sounds appeared to issue was by no means a short one, but at the first sound of dollops's voice the four men sped down the centre of the dark drive and round the corner, the bullseye lantern of Constable Roberts, sending a brilliant path of light before them. Close to the identical spot where earlier in the evening Constable Roberts had had his helmet pushed down over his eyes by an unseen assailant, two figures struggled together. One was vainly endeavouring to free herself from the clutches of her captor, the other was intent on bringing her to the ground. Scattered all about were the drawings and paraphernalia with which dollops had evidently been carrying out his usual proceedings. The light of the lantern and Cleeke's electric torch revealed his prisoner to be a slim, bare-haired girl, of about three and twenty, clad in a soft white gown now sadly soiled and torn by the rough usage she had undergone, while over her shoulders was hanging a crumpled but unmistakable gold scarf. It hardly needed the doctor's startled exclamation, Jennifer, to tell the detective that this was indeed the girl of whom he had spoken, for even from that distance there emanated the sweet fragrance of jasmine. There before him was the girl the host of the Hampton Arms had gossiped about, and who was a bitter rival of Lady Margaret Jane for the love of Sir Edgar Brenton. Why, doctor? she said bravely. This is a lucky meeting. Who and what is this disgusting individual? I was just taking a little stroll when I was seized hold of, and dragged along like a sack of coals or a criminal on the way to the police station. Cleeke noted her voice and tone and stood watching her. He said nothing, however, merely removed the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch, slipped that useful article into his pocket, and visit himself with picking up dollop's papers, on which he had obviously been taking measurements of footprints. Here, you, whoever you are, just keep your hands off my papers! snapped dollops with a wink at the superintendent, which past unnoticed by that irate individual. I say, Mr. Narcom, sir, don't let that new man take off my papers. And don't you be took in neither, sir, he added earnestly. I didn't do the young person no harm, but she wasn't up to no good at creeping and watching in the dark. Well, you can take it from me, sir, interposed Dr. Veryl heatedly. This lady is a personal friend of mine, and had a perfect right to be strolling down the lane. She was probably on her way home from Lady Brenton's, were you not, Miss Winn? Yes, yes, that's just where I had been. The girl answered, her dark eyes flashing gratefully at the doctor. But I refuse to say another word till you send away this enterprising youth who has bruised my arms nearly black and blue. Certainly, Miss Winn, said Mr. Narcom, dollop, sir, get along back to the station. But, sir, Mr. Narcom, not another word, do as I say. Dollops gave a swift glance at Cleak's impassive face, then sullenly picked up his papers, the bundle of famous tickled tootsies without which he never budged when on a case, and lounged away into the shadows of the trees. We are anxious to get on with a very important task, Miss Jennifer, said the superintendent. A very horrible deed has been committed within the last few hours, and I and my friend and ally, Mr. George Headland, interjected that gentleman blandly. While appearing to have been absorbed in dispatching dollops, Cleak had been quietly taking in every detail relative to the girl's appearance, and had decided offhand that he liked the look of her, despite her suspicious behaviour. She was just the type of womanhood that to connect with such a thing as murder was simply impossible. Surely, Mr. Narcom, it is hardly necessary to explain if the details are already known. Perhaps Miss Jennifer had come down to learn any fresh news. That is just what I have done," she said gratefully, a note of agitation sounding in her rich voice despite an effort to keep it calm. I was just going for a stroll. I had a splitting headache, and only a good walk in the open air ever does it any good. All at once I met Constable Robert. I stopped him, and he told me dear Miss Jane had been murdered. Of course I did not want to be caught, and I was just trying to get back home when that young beggar set on me, mistaking me, I suppose, for an accomplice. Well, it's very deplorable. Put in Cleak mildly, but you see, Miss, he'd been told to arrest anybody who came along, and under the circumstances his voice trailed off into silence, and the rest of the sentence went by default. Miss Winn nodded her head vigorously. Yes, yes, I suppose so. Still, it has all been a mistake, and now I think I had better be going home. You will be suspecting me of the actual murder next. Nonsense, Miss Jennifer! We might as well suspect Lady Brenton, or Sir Edgar, for that matter. Quite yes indeed, said the girl, quickly. But as Lady Brenton was confined to her room, also with a head-egg, and Sir Edgar is not expected back till the morning, I think we are all quite safe. The curious one-sided smile moved up Cleak's left cheek, then vanished as quickly as it had come. Quite so, Miss Jennifer, he said, blandly. Besides, it is not with women we are concerned, but the owner of this revolver that we found on the spot. She saw the revolver, and whirled upon him like a madwoman. My God! He did, Lee! Edgar, he said, had been stolen. Realising the effects of her words, she then turned fiercely on them. If you dare to suspect Edgar, you are wrong. He was never within miles of the place. You shan't drag him into this wretched mess. You shan't, I say, you shan't! Calm yourself, my dear young lady. There is every proof of its being a woman as much as a man. Put in Cleak gently. You are absolutely sure you have no knowledge of the murder. No suspicion. For the briefest second she seemed to hesitate. Then she spoke hysterically. Why should I? I shouldn't have come if Roberts had not told me it was Miss Jane. There is no more to be said, then. Returned Cleak. We will all say good night, and perhaps you will let one of us see you home. I will take Miss Jennifer back myself, responded the doctor, with a pathetic alacrity which Cleak noted, and with a last good night the two turned and set off down the lane. Hmm! said Cleak, rubbing his chin. And so a fresh element of mystery enters. She knew all that had been done this night, I'll swear. There was no surprise, was there, Roberts, when you told her? Come to think of it, sir. She never turned a hair. Might have been a dead cat, I was talking about. What do you make of it, Cleak? Mr. Narcom asked in a mystified manner. Nothing as yet. Roberts, get a guard round the house and then turn in. We'll wait here till relief comes. Good night. But after the burly policeman had tramped thankfully away, Cleak turned to his companion. For a liar commended me to a woman every time, he said. Miss Jennifer does know who it was. She knew that it had already been committed, and every blessed thing of hers smelt of wield a jasma strong. Did you notice the gold lace scarf also? Good Lord! Surely you do not believe. Mr. Narcom's voice was full of anxiety. I never believe anything till I get proof. I may have my doubts, and I do think at the moment that the young lady is either in the possession of dangerous knowledge or else she is bent on throwing the blame onto Sir Edgar. Good heavens, Cleak! How, why, what makes you think that? First, because she was so evidently on the spot to be caught. Secondly, her remark about the revolver was not so unstudied as it looked. No, my friend, you will find that Miss Jennifer knows a little more than you imagine, and means to turn that little to a count in winning the man she has set her heart upon, much to our good doctor's dismay. I wonder now what poor young dollops has got to say. A shrill whistle speedily brought the boy along, and his face, when he saw that they were alone, was a veritable picture of disgust. You're lummy, sir, he exclaimed. You never went and let yourself be taken in by that young woman's soft soap. Taking a stroll, indeed, not she. Why, she climbed right out of one of those windows there, and dropped to earth like a first-class burglar born. In the house itself, did you say? Yes, I did, Mr. Narcombe, and I would have told you if you hadn't pitched in to me. In the room over the porch she was, and she slid down the ivy right in front of my blessed eyes, and then made out what it was me that had torn all her things. I was running full tilt after another female when I seized her, so there. Another woman. Narcombe looked at Cleek significantly. I used sure it wasn't the same woman in the dark dollops, asked Cleek suddenly. You might have made a mistake, you know. Dollops gave vent to a little snort of disgust. Certain sure, sir, but the other lady wasn't near the house she wasn't, sort of floating about under the trees in a kind of red dressing gown. What's that? Red? Do you mean scarlet? Was it scarlet satin dollops? Do you think you know? That I do, sir. Shining stuff it were, and when I got near she smelt something evingly, like a garden full of flowers. What's that? Wrapped out Cleek suddenly. Wield a jasma, of course. It must be the same woman I myself saw a month ago. And yet how does Miss Jennifer come to be there? If she is innocent, what was she doing in that room? And she was wearing a gold scarf, a piece of which I have here, and which was clenched in the dead man's hand. Heaven's above man, snapped Narcum. It's as clear as crystal. I should apply for a warrant for her arrest immediately. And yet it was a revolver that had also been used, and one belonging to Sir Edgar. Miss Jennifer would hardly go so far as to murder the only obstacle that stood between the man she loved and his marriage to her rival. What to has become of that poor girl? Don't ask me, Cleek. Returned the puzzled superintendent dolefully. It's the most infernal little I ever came across. My head's aching with it. I am off to get additional help, if you don't mind, or else we shall have crowds surging into that room before we know where we are. Right, Mr. Narcum, and as I still have a few threads to collect, Dollups and I will be off, too. We'll meet at the Hampton Arms. Come on, Dollups, we'll take a few impressions of those footprints before their trodden art of existence to-morrow. Ah, oh, Governor! Cleek took out his electric torch, and the two set forth on their appointed task, leaving Mr. Narcum to set a sufficient guard over the silent figure of a dead man, on whose face there rested an inscrutable smile. It was as if he were smiling over the secret he held, and which was to puzzle many minds, was one of the greatest riddles Cleek had ever attempted to solve. Meanwhile that gentleman and his zealous assistant worked silently and surely. Not a depressed blade of grass was left before it was subjected to the keenest scrutiny, while exact outlines were taken of the clearly defined footprints with which the lawn was fairly alive. To recognize the unmistakable imprint of the Government Regulation boot worn by Mr. Narcum and Constable Roberts was a simple matter. The footprints of Cleek and Dollups were also distinguishable, for both had early in their companionship decided to wear boots which would always enable them to tell their own footprints from any they might be tracking, a precaution that had stood them in good stead on more than one occasion. It did so now, but even after having eliminated all the known ones they yet remained a bewildering number of marks, and a disgusted grunt broke from Dollups. Lord Lummi, the place is alive with them, sir, and they're all about the same size. They're that young woman's or I'll eat my at. But Cleek was silent, and as Dollups cautiously flashed his torch at the light fell full upon his master's face, he gave a little start. Cleek was staring fixedly at the imprint of a newcomer, a man who had evidently come right up to a certain point, then stood still, as if waiting for something or someone to join him. Lord, sir! said Dollups, looking down now in the same direction. There's that girl's footmark too. They go down the lane side by side. An odd look flashed across Cleek's face. An odd smile dwelt for a moment about his mouth, for it looked as if the lad were right. The girl had been joined by a companion who had waited while she committed the deed. Once more, Cleek's mind went back to the principles in the grim drama. Which was it? Jennifer Wynne, whose deception was so obvious. Sir Edgar Brenton supposed to be in town, or the unknown stranger whose footprint they had found. It was a difficult problem, more difficult than he had at first imagined. Finally he threw up his chin and faced the earnest young cockney who was staring at him. Come, Dollups! he said with a little sigh. There's no more to be done here. But if we'd only had a crop of your tickled tootsies, we'd have caught those fine birds by their tail feathers and caged them. However, we haven't, so let's be off. There's plenty to do and not much time to do it in. And a walk back to the inn on this beautiful night will do us both a power of good. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 The Riddle of the Purple Emperor by Mary E. Henshaw and Thomas W. Henshaw Chapter 13 Tightening the Strands It is not often that it falls to the lot of any village to revel in such abysmal depths of excitement as did the village of Hampton when the news leaked out. And once the affair was known to the local police and their respective wives, the news of the tragedy spread with the velocity of a hurricane. By nine o'clock the next morning there wasn't an inhabitant within a radius of ten miles that had not heard of the murder of Miss Chain and the mysterious disappearance of Lady Margaret. An hour later the lanes and fields were thronged to overflowing with the chattering mob of sightseers which the police strongly reinforced by the reserves of several neighbouring hamlets found more than a difficult task to keep in order. The story grew with every telling. Miss Chain had been killed, oh yes, months ago, and this man who had taken her place had murdered Lady Margaret though it was not to be allowed to leak out. Oh, no, with many a wise shake of the head and knowing wink, the police knew their business. But what had they done with the girl's body? Ah, that remained to be seen. Meanwhile if human ingenuity and absolute disregard of time stood for anything they meant to see the body of the imposter for themselves. Tongues wagged and heads nodded but nevertheless none but the police themselves and such representatives of the press as were absolutely necessary had been permitted to cross the threshold of Chain Court or even obtain the nearest glimpse of the dead man. Notwithstanding Clique's reserve and Mr. Narcombe's own restrictions news had managed to leak out of the mysterious sign of the pentacle upon the murderer's arm and a Scotland Yard as represented by Clique and a superintendent refused to give forth any further knowledge that they might well be supposed to possess, and the imagination ran riot. The correspondent of the party Lantern therefore discovered that the murdered man was a famous member of a royal house condemned by his seniors to become dead to the world owing to his having offended the Masonic societies of his country. Further details the Lantern refused to give though hinting darkly at deeds of misconduct would have made Don Giovanni turn green with envy. As to the whereabouts of Lady Margaret they again contented themselves with wild hints as to what they might have been told had it not been for their honour. On the other hand the evening tatler discovered and declared the man to be nothing more exciting than a low-down anarchist who had tried to do his boon companions out of their share of the loot of the chain jewels. That they were any nearer to the truth, however, than their contemporary was equally open to query. Though when Mr. Narcombe pointed out the arguments of the reporter to his ally Clique gave a little approving nod. Best thing we can do is to shut that young man up. He said, tersely, get on to the evening tatler, Mr. Narcombe, and tell the news editor that we only want vague eventualities given to the public just now. No facts at all. Otherwise, you know, we shall put the pentacle club on guard. And if this is one of its crimes we want to scot the whole gang once and for all. That this man was a member of the club is certain for the markings of that pentacle were not branded on as in former cases where people were murdered from motives of revenge but finally tattooed, showing that our friend is decidedly an old hand at the game. Personally, I want to find out what Blake is doing. Mr. Narcombe mocked his face with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign of emotion upon his part. I don't think this can be James Blake, said he reflectively, for I looked up his record after what you said a little while back about his being the head of the gang, and learned that he left England a year or more ago, and nothing had been heard of him in his old haunts or by his boon companions since. Hmm! said Cleeke with a grim little laugh, lying low evidently after or in view of some big coup. But that doesn't prove anything about our murdered friend here. It's fingerprints we want. And we shall have them too, threw in the superintendent triumphantly, fumbling in his pocket-book with fingers that themselves shook with excitement. I had a copy made of Blake's. Good man! ejaculated Cleeke as he took the precious scrap of paper and went up to the room wherein had been placed the victim of a vengeance possibly as just as that of the law itself. By the time Mr. Narcombe had made his way more slowly and ponderously up to the same spot, he found Cleeke looking down with considerable disappointment. Parked up a wrong tree this time, he said, but the light of a great discovery shone in his eyes and his voice had an undercurrent of strong excitement. This is not James Blake, but I can tell you who it is. Justice has simply been forestalled. His face was grim and Mr. Narcombe looked up into it almost breathless. What is it, old chap? Tell me!" he gasped. What have you discovered? Cleeke smiled. This man is the murderer of Elsie McBride, the old wardrobe seller of Crown Court, so her murder will not have gone long unavenged. But how are you sure? said the startled superintendent. Quite sure, my friend, was the reply. Whatever other disguises a man may assume as we know there is no escape from the irrefutable proof of fingerprints. Here. He lifted up the dead hand, and with a magnifying glass in his own, brought the thumb before Mr. Narcombe's gaze. Now, compare these thumb and finger marks with these, which are a copy of those found on that dagger with which the poor woman was killed. You will see that they are identical. I'll nip off to town now, and see whether I can get the other old woman down here to identify this man. I think, too, when we have discovered the motive for this murder, we shall have gone far to have found out the reason why Lady Margaret was abducted. But that remains to be seen. And afterward, when the turn of events had crowded even more important matters from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narcombe remembered these words. Meanwhile, a search of the house had not revealed the hiding place of the famous Jules, and Mr. Shulkott, who was the first to come down and investigate after he had read the surprising facts in his morning paper, was full of remorse that they should have been lost. I shall never forgive myself, Mr. Headland. I might have known there was something wrong in the Jules being taken out like that, and if only I had persisted in seeing the poor child alone, all would have been well. Cleak laid a hand upon his arm and gave it a gentle pressure. You could not help yourself, Mr. Shulkott," replied he sympathetically, and neither legally nor morally can you be held responsible. She was the victim of a deep-laid plot to effect their theft. As to the murder I cannot say yet, we can only await the turn of events. Cleak himself felt unnatural if morbid remorse for having so innocently placed Lady Margaret in the hands of the Pentacle Club. Accordingly, on the following day, when he was immersed in collecting his facts at the Hampton Arms, preparatory to going down to meet Mr. Narcombe at the police station, he was greeted by the voice of Sir Edgar Brenton himself. He jumped up with pleasure and excitement in his voice. Ah! Sir Edgar, the very man I want," he said, looking into the lined, drawn face, no longer that of a boy, but of a man, and one in deepest trouble at that. What have you been doing with yourself since last night? I expected you to have joined us in watching Chain Court. As it is, you know what has happened, I have no doubt. Sir Edgar's apathetic eyes met his. Yes, said he, dullly. Miss Chain was murdered by those devils after all. I thought they would. I was sure of it. But what I want to know is where Lady Margaret is, Mr. Headland. What has become of her? Surely there is some trace of her by this time? His haunted, anguished eyes watched Clique's inscrutable face, and notwithstanding the almost complete chain of evidence that was being slowly but surely welded about him, Clique felt the same instinctive liking for the young man as he had when they had first met. I should have thought you could have answered that question better yourself, Sir Edgar. He said quietly, Why did you rush up to town so unexpectedly? A wave of scarlet passed over the young man's pallid face. I was a fool, I suppose, but as I was passing the station I saw, or I fancied, I saw, the face of that girl whom Margaret called Aggie, and I thought it might be a clue. I wasn't certain I didn't pay much attention to the creature when I saw her with my girl in Trafalgar Square. And so, without stopping to think, I rushed up the steps, took a ticket, dashed on to the platform, and just had time to tell the porter to take a message up to my mother, who might have been anxious, and started off. Yes, said Clique quietly. But what about this Aggie you speak of? Did you see anything more of her? Unfortunately no. I lost sight of her at Waterloo, and knowing the futility of doing anything further, I came back. Clique made a little clicking sound indicative of mild despair. I wished a god you had stayed away all night, he said, under his breath. But that's just what I did do, returned Sir Edgar wearily. When I got back to Hampton Station, a little boy came running up and told me that this telegram had been waiting for me at the post office. I didn't stop to question, I can tell you, I simply tore it open, and when I read it I was over that platform and off again before you could say Jack Robinson. Clique's eyes narrowed. What was in it? You don't happen to have kept it, I suppose. As it happens I have, said Sir Edgar, fumbling in his pocket and producing a crumpled ball of paper, which Clique took from his outstretched fingers. Hotel Central, come quick, margarite, he read, and Sir Edgar's voice broke in upon his thoughts in a high pitch of excitement. You can be sure I just rushed up there as fast as trains would carry me, only to find it a hoax. I waited about all night and came back this morning, none the worse, but I'd like to lay hands on the man who sent me on that wild goose chase. Clique looked at him for a brief second in silence, his face set, his chin cupped in the palm of his left hand. If this thing were true it puts Sir Edgar out of the affair altogether, but was it true? Was it not rather an attempt to establish an alibi, and thus throw dust in the eyes of the police? The hotel? Oh yes, that part was easy, simplicity itself. He would go there and register, wait about, for a girl whom he knew couldn't possibly be there, and then, after going up to the room, it would be the easiest thing in the world to step down unnoticed, thus getting back in time to have committed the deed. He recalled Jennifer's words, Edgar, so he did leave. Leave may be, but what about the revolver? As for Constable Robert's hypothesis that the young man had just arrived, why he might well have been just leaving. And now this telegram. Clique looked at it again, then gave vent to a low cry of astonishment. Hello, he said. Here's a pretty kettle of fish. This is an old telegram. Look, here's the date last Friday by Jove. He held it before Sir Edgar's astonished gaze. All the original words have been rubbed out. He continued as the young man stared at it. You can see the roughened paper. Then he turned on him suddenly. Now, my friend, he said, considering that your revolver was found just near the body of the murdered man, I think you will agree that this will take some explanation. Don't you think so? Sir Edgar started as though someone had stabbed him. A wave of colour suffused his face for a moment, then left it wax and white. Good God, you don't attempt to suggest an eye! He began, then appeared to lose the power of speaking altogether as he gazed into Clique's stern eyes. I am not in the habit of suggesting, interrupted Clique. I am simply stating a fact which, as you know, is one that is in itself suspicious. It is useless also to blink the fact that the real miss-chain was murdered on that night when I found you wandering up and down the lane with that same revolver in your pocket. Perhaps you can explain that also. Heavens, man, but you don't think I committed still another murder? said Sir Edgar incredulously. I say that's going a bit too far, you know. I can understand a joke, but as to your thinking for one moment that I should do such a low-down dirty thing as to murder a woman and an old one at that? Clique laid a hand upon his shoulder. Not so fast, my friend, not so fast, said he with a little laugh. There's an old French proverb which says, Quise excuse s'accuse. Perhaps you know it, but the evidence is strong against you. What about that revolver with the B on it? Perhaps you'll deny that? I do. Most emphatically I do. responded Sir Edgar with a little snort of indignation. That belonged to the old woman herself. I snatched it from her, and chain does not, to my knowledge, begin with a B through in Clique quietly. The revolver bears your initial, and a jury is a difficult thing to convince when facts are strong. Stuff and nonsense! spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. You can have me arrested straight away if you like, but whatever happens I mean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night. You know where to find me when you want me. Turning angrily on his heel he walked out, leaving Clique smiling quietly to himself, and rather liking this young Spitfire for the way in which he had risen to his fly. So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver shot, does he? Now, did he administer that prusik acid, or did he not? was the next thought that passed through his mind. He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station where he hoped to meet Mr. Narcombe. It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he could see a little group of people advancing toward him in the first and foremost of whom he recognized Ailsa. She had been nearly heartbroken over the catastrophe which had overtaken the girl in whom she had hoped to have found a lifelong friend, and her first act had been to visit Lady Brenton. She had done her best to raise Edgar's mother in the fit of deep depression which seemed to have settled over her like a cloud. At that lady's request Ailsa had consented to stay at the towers and accordingly had seen but little of the man to whom she instinctively turned for help and guidance. Suddenly she caught sight of him and her little start and the rose-red color which suffused her face caused Lady Brenton, a woman still in the early forties, to look quickly in the same direction. My dear, is this another reporter? She inquired anxiously. She had an inveterate horror of the press at all times, and since she had seen the recent papers carrying such headlines as The Chain Court Affair Further Developments Murder in High Life and similar personalities she lived in perpetual dread of being pounced upon and interviewed. No, dear, responded Ailsa with a happy little laugh. This is not a reporter, but a dear old friend of mine, Mr. George Headland. He was an old friend, too, of my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before his second marriage. I think he will be the only man who can explain this mysterious catastrophe. I wonder if you would think it a liberty if I asked to be allowed to introduce him to you. Far from it, Ailsa," answered Lady Brenton impetuously, I wish I could persuade him to visit us. It might cheer us up. Not that I want to be cheered exactly, but the thought of that child and the sight of poor Edgar's face almost breaks my heart, and I am so tired this morning. I dare say you are," put in Ailsa quietly. You did not sleep well, did you?" Lady Brenton looked at her with a little angry flush. As it happens, I did, Ailsa. That's a strange thing, for you know what bad nights I have had lately. But what made you ask? Well, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the night, as well as the night before that. I thought of coming to see whether you were ill and fell asleep myself first. Indeed! Lady Brenton's face was a little pale, though her voice was quite calm and steady. It must have been imagination on your part, my dear child, for I slept splendidly. But don't let us talk over last night. She turned impulsively, her voice shaking with emotion. It's no use, I ought to be sorry for any human death, and to think of that poor old woman being murdered more than a month ago is too terrible. But I can't. I can only think that the obstacle to my boy's happiness is removed if we can only find Margaret. I know it is very wrong of me to say so. Ailsa pressed her arm in tender sympathy, but before she could reply, Cleak had advanced to within speaking distance and Ailsa was greeting him. Another minute, mutual introductions having been made, Cleak found himself looking into the eyes of a handsome woman, with hair but slightly gray, and with a purely cut patrician face faintly lined, now pale as though from a sleepless night. It did not take Cleak long to note that she was suffering from some intense anxiety, though her smile was nonetheless genuine, especially when a minute later she was joined by Sir Edgar, who was apparently by no means pleased to see the man who but a brief half hour ago had practically accused him of murder. Suddenly the sound of light footsteps fell on their ears, and turning Cleak saw Jennifer Wynne running after them. Dear Lady Brenton! She said rather effectively as soon as she had got within talking distance. I am so thankful I found it. See, you left your scarf behind. In her hand she held a long gold-laced scarf, totally different in texture to that which Miss Wynne had worn herself in preceding night, but alike in colour to the scrap which rested in Cleak's pocket-book. As he noted this fact, and saw the sudden unconcealed terror showing on Lady Brenton's delicate face, he sucked in his breath sharply, switched round on his heel, and grew silent. It was only for a brief second that her face showed any trace of that unconcealed terror. Then Lady Brenton was profuse in thanks, and begged the girl to come back with her to the towers. It is so sweet of you, dear Lady Brenton, purred Miss Jennifer softly, but I feel sure both you and Sir Edgar are too worried to need poor little me. I only thought you ought to have your scarf in the safekeeping. So much depends on it now, you know. And with this parting shot Miss Wynne turned and went back. Do come back to the house with us, Mr. Headland, Lady Brenton said impulsively. Cleak, only too willing to accept, soon found himself at Els's side, swinging down the long leafy lane. Lady Brenton was a tactful woman, and after having glanced once or twice in their direction, she smiled significantly at her son and dropped behind, on the plea of the narrowness of the lane, whispering a minute later in carefully lowered tones to Sir Edgar, a most distinguished man, Edgar, and if I know anything of love affairs we shall be parting with our pleasant little neighbour for good and all before the summer is over. Did you see the man's eyes? He was positively worshipping her. Ah, well, it is good to be young. And once this is over. But her own heart was like lead within her breast. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of the Riddle of the Purple Emperor This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Riddle of the Purple Emperor by Mary E. Hanshu and Thomas W. Hanshu. Chapter 14. The Plot Thiccans The stroll through the leafy lane was a very pleasant one to clique, though he strove to keep his thoughts fixed on the case which had called him to Hampton, and the mysterious events which had taken place there. A very fascinating woman, I should say. She said to Elsa, referring to Lady Brenton, who was just behind them. Very was the quick answer, and she is as good of heart as she is good to look at. It seems so sad that she should have such trouble, poor thing. Yes, I noticed that she was evidently in some deep distress, responded clique quietly. I should say she has spent some sleepless nights over it too. That is just what I thought, said Elsa impulsively. But she said she slept splendidly last night, and yet she broke off, evidently regretting the impulse under which the words had been uttered. Yet what prompted clique gently? Elsa gave vent to a deep sigh. Oh! I expect I must have been mistaken, she said. But I thought I heard her moving down the corridor last night. But I couldn't have, of course. The queer little one-sided smile travelled up clique's face. But he made no comment, and the conversation drifted to other things until they reached the gates of the towers. Here, however, his thoughts were recalled to the case of the purple emperor with a little jerk. For the butler, having ushered them into the hall, said, Begging pardon, your ladyship, but there is a gentleman awaiting. Lady Brenton turned with a frown puckering her smooth bras. If it is a reporter, I will not see him," she said with a decisive wave of her hand. You know that, graves, very well. I told you yesterday not to admit strangers under any pretext. Begging pardon, my lady, but it is not a stranger. It is the Indian gentleman, Gungadal, responded graves with a reproachful look at his mistress, for ever having doubted him. He was most anxious to see your ladyship and is waiting in the drawing-room. The exclamation that broke from his mistress's lips upon receipt of this statement was one of mingled relief and pleasure, but a deep frown gathered on her son's face. That nigger here again, Mater! I can't think how you can bear him about you," he said irritably. I should have thought you had had enough of the Martin India. Lady Brenton's face showed signs of evident displeasure. Gungadal is not a nigger, Edgar. How can you say such a wicked thing?" she expostulated angrily. He is the most charming man, and the only one who has ever cured my headaches for me. I haven't had such a night's rest for years as I had last night. Cleek's eyes were quick enough to note the expression on Sir Edgar's face as Lady Brenton turned to lead the way. It showed such open-mouthed, intense incredulity that he could not resist a little smile on its behalf. Nevertheless, as he followed his host and hostess into the room where awaited with Eastern patience, the Hindu whom Sir Edgar had so contemptuously designated nigger. If Cleek had expected to find the usual, obsequious, challenging half-breed so familiar to many travellers in India, he was destined to be agreeably disappointed. Gungadal was a Brahmin of high caste and ancient lineage, and his greeting to Lady Brenton was a model of grave reserve and courtesy. A splendid specimen of the East was Gungadal, for his face fairly radiated good nature and a general belief in humanity which was still more clearly displayed in his conversation. It was no wonder, therefore, that Constable Roberts had said, he wouldn't utter a fly. He truly looked that meek part to perfection. Cleek noted his very apparent admiration of Lady Brenton and wondered a good deal, as those familiar lines East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet came into his mind. The ball of conversation rolled leisurely until the topic that was uppermost in almost every mind found its way to them at last. But at the first mention of it, Gungadal's dark face turned a sort of dull ivory hue, and he threw up his hands. It is all so terrible! he ejaculated, and we of the East cannot view death as flagmatically as you English. Such things as murder we cannot so easily discuss. I must beg to be forgiven if I withdraw myself from your discussion. A short while afterward Cleek arose to depart, and Elsa went with him. Don't you think Lady Brenton is a dear woman? She said impulsively as they turned into the lane. And this awful business has completely upset her. She has simply longed for that poor child-blade in Margaret to come back from France, and says she has even tried herself to see Miss Chain, but it has always been in vain. Cleek rubbed his chin meditatively, and pondered a moment upon the import of these words. Was that what had taken her ladyship down to the lodge to see Miss Chain last night? If she was so fond of Lady Margaret, why had she not gone to the station to meet her? Why had Sir Edgar himself taken the foolish trouble of asking Miss Chain's permission when he knew it would be refused? These were but a few of the thoughts that passed through his mind. But chiefly he could not drive away remembrance of the gold embroidery which decorated the turban of Gangadal. The only outward sign as regards clothes that the Hindu gentleman wore to mark his eastern origin. Lady Brenton is a very sensitive woman, I should say. He said, finally, although she bears herself so well after the shock of Lady Margaret's disappearance, I see that you are very much attached to her. I am, dear," said Ailsa enthusiastically. She has been a very good friend to me in every way, and that was why I was so glad you happened to come along at that psychological moment. No, gladder than I," said Cleek reflectively. Minister George Headland does not perhaps fit in with my attire, but who's to know the difference? I was afraid you would make it Lieutenant de Land, and I meant to have written you a little note and sent it up by dollops. I do not want Sir Edgar to have any suspicions that he is being watched." Ailsa looked up at him with grave, sweet eyes. I am afraid I do not understand. Oh! with a sudden cry of fear. Do you mean that you suspect him, Sir Edgar, of being concerned? Why, his whole life is bound up in Lady Margaret. I can see that now, and it is hardly likely that he would harm her only living relative. And yet," said Cleek slowly, he certainly had a revolver in his pocket when I met him in the lane on the night I drove to Hampton. And you yourself heard his threat of murder the day before yesterday. Ailsa looked at him, her eyes wide, the colour draining slowly from her lips and cheeks. It was impossible not to grasp the truth as well as the significance of these two circumstances slight evidences of guilt though they might appear. Oh! my dear! she said faintly. You surely can't think a dear boy like Sir Edgar. You surely can't believe that he could have had a hand in such a frightful crime. I hope not, Ailsa, responded Cleek gravely, for I admit I like the boy. But one thing is certain, if he did not actually commit the crime himself he knows who did. Knows too that there is a woman likely to be implicated in the case. A woman? A woman? Possibly two. At least two women were in chain court last night. Are you hinting at Lady Brenton? That would be too absurd for words. I am hinting nothing. Returned Cleek with a smile into her anxious face. Now that I have seen her I would almost as soon suspect you yourself shall we say," he added smilingly. He saw that Ailsa was almost overcome by the power of her emotion and he stood still beneath the shadow of the trees. Who knows as well as I do the falsity of appearances? He went on in that same grave tone. And I am not likely to be swayed by circumstantial evidence black as it may appear. What is more I will prove this to you, for I know that you will help me to the utmost of your power. Here is one little clue that will tell heavily against someone. Ailsa, tell me, will you? Have you ever seen this before? While he was speaking his hand had gone to his pocket and he drew out his pocket-book. Opening it he took out a little scrap of gold lace and let her see it lying on his open palm. Her eyes dropped to the glittering fragment and a puzzled frown appeared on her face. Then suddenly she gave a little start and bent over it. I thought at first it was torn from my own dress. She said frankly, looking up at him with wide open, serious eyes. For, as it happens, I have a dress trimmed with embroidery exactly like it. Would you care to see it? Not in the least, Ailsa, mine, responded clique quickly. I am not going to suggest that you were at Chain Court last night. Anyway, this fragment smells too strongly of jasmine to belong to you. She laughed up into his face for a moment. Fancy remembering that, she said softly. It is a scented test, though strangely enough a favourite one with Lady Brenton. Sir Edgar gave her quite a big bottle of it on her birthday, I believe. It is very strong and the least drop is sufficient to scent the whole room. That's why I dislike it so, it seems somehow so suggestive. Hmm, said clique quietly. That's strange, rather. Weald a jasmine, eh? And it was Lady Brenton's favourite scent. He fell to musing again. If Lady Brenton had been so soundly asleep last night, how came her scarf to be caught in the dead man's hand, and the very scent she used to be permeating the whole place? I hope you're not going to think her capable of committing murder, Ailsa said with a smile, because she possesses a gold scarf and likes jasmine. As it happens, I know she was in her room all the night. It was not until the early hours that I fancied I heard a step, and even then I must have been mistaken. Nevertheless she certainly visited chain-court last night. Persisted clique calmly. I know that beyond all possible doubt, for Dollop saw two women with gold scarves, and as we caught Miss Jennifer— What? Ailsa turned sharply as she spoke, and clique told her of the little incident. I can't believe anything of her, said she, dryly, when he had finished, for I know how long she has sought to entrap Sir Edgar into an engagement, and woo him from his allegiance to Lady Margaret this past year. But that Lady Brinton was there at chain-court, I will not, cannot believe. I'm sure she never left the house. She paused abruptly, and grew very pale at the recollection of that swift step that had sounded on the polished floor of the corridor when all the house was still. In her innermost heart she knew that she had not been mistaken. And yet—and yet— Oh! but she has the soul of honour! she said, looking up at clique with frightened eyes. And she told me herself that she slept soundly all night. If she had gone out after I fell asleep. It could be proved, and very easily, put in clique gently. You know how moist the night was. The lane was wet and muddy. Her clothes, her skirt, her shoes. But I will not suggest that. Nor would I do it, replied Elsa. Even if she did go out, and I would not admit it even now unless she said so, that does not mean that she had any ulterior motive. As for the scarf, well, it might be a piece from Lady Margaret's own for that matter. Clique stopped short. Lady Margaret! he wrapped out in excitement. Did she possess a gold scarf then? Yes, one that was given her by her father on one of his few visits to the convent. She showed it to me during the crossing, and from what I can see this certainly looks like it had been torn from hers. Clique's eyes were narrowed down to mere slits. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the pattering of an animal's feet behind them, and he started as an old brown retriever flung himself on Elsa, greeting her boisterously. Jock, you dear! I am so glad. He didn't kill you after all. I am so glad. She stopped and patted the dog affectionately, then answered the inquiry in Clique's eyes. He is so old, she said softly, and Sir Edgar was going to get rid of him. He had even bought prusig acid or something, I believe, but evidently poor old Jock is to be allowed to live a little longer. So absorbed was Elsa in the animal that she failed to note the gleam of anxiety in Clique's eyes. Prusig acid, eh? he said to himself musingly, Presumably to kill an old dog. Not so old, either, by his running powers. And Sir Edgar had certainly been in chain court, for he himself had ascertained that by the footprints which Dollops had so conscientiously copied. Well, it was a puzzling case. If Lady Margaret herself, driven to desperation, had killed the woman, or man, as she might have discovered him to be, who kept her prisoner, did Sir Edgar know, and was he shielding her, concealing her in London? Or was it, after all, Lady Brenton? Struck with a sudden idea, he turned to Elsa. One moment, dear, he said quietly, Do you know anyone who has a scarlet cloak? Sat in, I think. Scarlet sat in coat, echoed Elsa. Why, what can that have to do with it? As it happens, I do know, for I possess one myself, and very fond of it I am, too, but why do you ask? Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all, replied Clique with apparent irrelevance. I thought perhaps Lady Brenton had one, but if she hasn't, unless she might have borrowed yours, you'd lend it to her, I know, did you? No, that I certainly did not. For one thing, why should Lady Brenton wish to wear my things? Anyhow, I know she did not borrow mine with my knowledge. Hmm, I see. You couldn't have left it lying around, anywhere? Elsa laughed gaily, unlike a man. As if I should leave sat in opera coats lying round, they're much too precious. But, of course, it is in one of the cupboards at the towers. I left it there once, and it has been there ever since. She was gazing down the lane which wound its way round the fields and distant houses, and now gave a little cry of dismay. Oh, here is that dreadful girl again, and her brother. I can't help it, dear," she added impulsively. But Miss Wynne and I do not get on well. I know her better than I care about. Cleak looked critically at the pair who were advancing round the bend of the lane, and his thoughts readjusted themselves. Perhaps you'll tell me about them," he said quietly. Who and what are they, this Miss Wynne and her brother? Elsa turned her soft eyes up into his face. Miss Wynne, Jennifer is her other name, is the only daughter of old Doctor Wynne. She keeps house for Mr. Bobby Wynne. What he does, and how he earns any money, is always a mystery to me, for he never appears to do anything. If I remember correctly, Doctor Ferrell appeared to be rather interested in the lady. Cleak struck in. Elsa nodded. That's perfectly true," she said quickly. Indeed, if it were not for the fact that she has set her heart upon becoming the future Lady Brenton, I believe she would marry him, for he adores her. That's patent to all. A slight pause followed this, as Cleak's eyes sought hers for a moment, with a look in their depths that brought the warm colour into her cheeks. He is not the only one who adores his lady. He put in gently. And what else is there about this interesting couple pray? I am anxious to hear. I know you are," she responded, and I can understand how every little detail in the chain of evidence counts. You can rely upon me to supply them to you as soon as they come my way. Cleak looked at her gratefully. Indeed I do," he said quietly. Believe me, Elsa, any little scraps of fact or gossip that you can give me I shall be grateful for. You may be sure no harm will be done, and it may possibly lead to some quicker discovery. It was then to Miss Winn's advantage, he reflected, to have Lady Margaret out of her path, if only for the time being. With Miss Chayne out of the reckoning as well, there would be an added danger, but it would be turned to an advantage if Sir Edgar were accused of the murder and Miss Jennifer alone could save him. His thoughts trailed away as this suddenly awakened thought took hold of him. Supposing Sir Edgar were accused of the murder as he had imagined, and it was in Miss Winn's hands to tighten the noose about his neck or shake it off altogether, he wondered idly if her woman's heart would act disinterestedly in such an event, and wondering, quite suddenly, he knew. It would be as Sir Edgar's wife that Jennifer Winn would free him, not otherwise. He turned to Elsa again. "'Shall we meet Dr. Winn as well?' he asked quickly. "'Oh, no, he died more than a year ago. That is why Master Bobby is able to waste his time and money, I expect.' "'Mmm, yes,' explains Dr. Verrell, too. His presence in the village, I mean.' He added, not wishing to voice his suspicions as yet. "'Yes,' said Elsa, and as he is desperately in love with her, it is to be hoped that she will not succeed in her endeavours to become the future Lady Brenton. Certainly if gifts could win her, Dr. Verrell would succeed. He has simply loaded her with presents. They are unique ones, too, mostly strange things from temples.' She broke off suddenly as Cleak's lips burst themselves into a low whistle of surprise. "'What is the matter, dear?' "'Nothing. Do you happen to know from where Dr. Verrell came to this place?' "'India, I believe. I know he has had a lot of Indian patients down here, and he is a perfect encyclopedia on the subject of precious stones.' Cleak glanced at her swiftly. Hmm! Here was another item of interest. Anglo-Indian, was he, and knew all about precious stones? What about the Eye of Shiva, then? It might well be that he was in league with the priests and had been heavily bribed to secure that stone. He could easily have obtained the prusic acid. Who better than a doctor with his own private dispensary? Yes, he must keep an eye on Dr. Verrell, and obtain an entry into his house. He puckered up his brows. Obviously the easiest way would be to become a patient, though it would be useless to expect that the doctor would not speedily see through his fraud and know that he was an object of curiosity. Cleak gave a little impatient toss of his shoulders as if to throw away these great ideas, and came back again to Miss Jennifer Winn and her brother, who were now within hailing distance of them. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of the Riddle of the Purple Emperor This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding The Riddle of the Purple Emperor by Mary E. Handshugh and Thomas W. Handshugh Chapter 15 Tangled Threads Cleak screwed round on his heel and watched the approach of this interesting pair with undisguised interest. Dollop's discovery had not been without its effect on him, although he proposed taking no active steps at present. He might reasonably have expected Miss Winn to make every effort to keep out of his way, but she was evidently bent on being seen as prominently as possible. By daylight she was even more attractive than she had appeared on the preceding night and made a decidedly charming picture. Cleak found himself wondering how Sir Edgar had withstood her allurement, even with the memory of Lady Margaret Chain in his heart. The frail, frightened child fresh from the convent, patrician though she was, could not hold a candle as the saying goes to this daughter of a country doctor. Again the thought flashed across his mind. Was it all a blind, this man's love for the girl endowed with such a precious dowry? Or did he but wish to obtain them in order that he might bring a bigger fortune to the hands of this country's siren? He dismissed the idea instantly as unworthy of the man to whom he had taken an instinctive liking, notwithstanding the fact that by his reticence he was helping to complicate this most difficult case. Good morning, Mr. Policeman," said Miss Winn gaily when the mutual introduction had been made. I hope you have come to the conclusion this morning that I am not a suspicious character. Last night he wanted to arrest me for murder, Miss Lawn, and she gave a little shiver so obviously artificial that Cleak glanced at her quickly through half-narrowed lids. I should hope so, Miss Winn," he said, with an air of elaborate carelessness which only Ailsa recognized at its true value. No one would think of connecting so gruesome a thing as murder with you. I think we shall probably find it a case of suicide after all, don't you know? Miss Winn eyed him in open-eyed astonishment, mingled with something that was closely akin to relief, and then gave another affected giggle. Miss Lawn had ignored her completely, knowing that Cleak was but posing for some purpose of his own. But now, in order to give him an opportunity to tackle Bobby Winn, she engaged Jennifer in conversation. Cleak did not take much liking to this exuberant young gentleman. About two and twenty, the evident idol of his sister, he was of a type who was to be found studying every sporting paper and anxiously awaiting the arrival of each edition of the evening news to discover his gains or losses. It was not long before Cleak had him sized up and a casual remark about waiting for a tip for tomorrow's Windsor 230 race and his promise to pass it on to the young gentleman directly it came made him his friend for life. It's all very well for silly girls like Jennifer to go on against racing. It's the finest sport in the world," said young Winn to Cleak as he edged him farther up the narrow lane and spoke in a confidential whisper lest his voice should reach the sharp ears of his sister, though she was apparently deep in conversation with Elsa. I can do with a good tip," went on this refreshing use, for I don't mind telling you that I got pretty badly hit at Newmarket last week. Newmarket always plays a deuce with me. Luckily Jenny sold some of her precious flowers and pulled me out of the hole, more than fifty pounds in her. Pretty bad little hole, eh what? He gave a fatuous little giggle that made Cleak feeling kind to shake him. But I don't mind, I'll win it all back next week and I'll make it up to her," he went on, hopefully, with a wink at his companion. But Cleak's mind was now working at lightning speed, though he was apparently deeply interested in Winds' conversation. Fifty pounds paid for flowers. What flowers could this girl raise in a riverside cottage that would produce such a sum? Somebody must have paid heavily for something other than flowers. That was certain. Talking of flowers, he said casually as young Winds stopped to light a fresh cigarette. I'm a bit of a ruralist at times and I'd like to see Miss Winds' collection, if I may. I'd go in for dailies myself, but I suppose Miss Winds' flowers are pretty valuable, orchids and such like. Good Lord, no, only those beastly, smelling, sickly, funeral flowers, hyacinths and tulip things was the reply in an offhand manner. Cheapest dirt they are, and how she gets the money beats me. But then Jenny always was a problem since the day she was born. Cleek felt he wanted to see more of this interesting pair before he had done with them. Already he had gained some valuable information, for Miss Jennifer Wynne had evidently been well paid for her flowers, hyacinths or tulips or whatever they might be, or she could never have given this young idiot fifty pounds to pay his racing debts. So well did he contrive to work his way into the good graces of both brother and sister, that when Ailsa insisted on taking the shortcuts through the fields to her own home alone, Cleek was easily persuaded to return for lunch to the house where the young couple had lived ever since the days before their father's death. Herein were pictures of every horse, jockey and trainer that had ever lived. See that horse there, beauty! said Wynne after they had been in the house a few minutes. Well, that old sport got me the finest gold watch I ever saw. That one over there is Baytree II, the best tip I ever had, hundred to one chance. Only I didn't have more than ten bob in my pockets, worse luck. I'll tell you about the rest after lunch, if you like. Cleek was frankly bored, but he kept his feeling in restraint, being on the watch to get what information he could. Delighted, my boy, he said cordially. Then, as the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel outside came to his alert ears, he stopped short. And Wynne looked down through the open window, and withdrew his head with a little muttered exclamation of disgust. Oh, hang it all! he grulled. Now we're in for a visitation from that doctor chap. I can't stand that fellow Verrill at any price. Dr. Verrill? Cleek turned as he heard the name and looked out of the window. He would have given anything to have overheard the meeting between him and Miss Jennifer downstairs. That there was some secret connection between them, he felt sure. And that Dr. Verrill would try to shield the girl he loved, even at the cost of his professional honour, was also an assured fact. He must get down as quickly and as quietly as possible. And he blamed himself and Bobby, whose offer to show him his pictures was the cause of his having been out of the room. Lord! he muttered, clapping his hand to his forehead and wheeling round blindly. But on his soul, I think he's just in time. Got one of these staggering attacks. Got it through the bar war, don't you know? Don't you trouble, old manner. I'll find my way down myself. He lurched across the room, and just as he passed the edge of the old-fashioned chest of drawers against the wall, his elbow caught the projecting edge of a book and with a crash it fell to his feet. From between its leaves there fell some sporting-prints and a photograph of a man. Cleek stooped to replace them when young wind sprang forward almost excitedly, snatching them from his hand, but not before Cleek had made a startling discovery. The picture was that of the man who lay murdered in the house of mystery, Chain Court. As if realising that his act needed apology, young wind put the photo hastily back. Sorry if I snapped at you, old chap," he said, a flush of mortification reddening his face. Don't think me an ill-bred pup, for fact is I was a bit excited and forgot for a moment. But that chap's a pal of mine, first-class tipster, he is too. Jenny can't bear him, and if she knew I still get tips from him she'd carry on like a wildcat, so mum's the word, old man. Of course," replied Cleek hastily, a trifle shaken it must be confessed by this astonishing discovery. It isn't likely I'm going to betray secrets, men of the world both of us. He winked broadly, and young wind, his fears allayed and highly flattered at this man of the world's appreciation of him, winked back. Besides, I shouldn't be surprised if that gentleman and I are not old acquaintances, if I remember rightly. Wind fell into the trap as neatly as a mouse after a piece of cheese. Oh, Blake!" he ejaculated involuntarily. Ah, yes, Cleek nodded. I thought as much. I knew I was right, he exclaimed, with well-simulated enthusiasm. That chap, Blake, did me a good turn once. Bit of a tipster myself, but not a patch on him, don't you know? And don't think anyone could beat that old sport, agreed wind complacently. Ah, he was the one who gave me the tip for Baytree, but I've had rotten luck lately. I don't know how I shall ever pay him. Hmm, pay him? So that was how the land lay, was it? The boy was heavily in debt to Blake. And if he had been at chain court that night... No, that was wrong too, for there had been no trace of Bobby Wind up to the present. Meanwhile, that young gentleman was obviously waiting to lead him downstairs, and Cleek hesitated trying to make up his mind what to do for the best. He would have liked to stay in this racing den, try to trace the connection between Blake the tipster and Blake the head of the pentacle club, and to find out whether Master Bobby Wind had had any suspicions as to the real identity of the mistress of chain court. But other things called. There was that veriled chap downstairs with Jennifer Wind herself, and the question of those utterly priceless flowers that could fetch as much as fifty pounds for their grower. Silently he followed his host downstairs, still looking a bit hang-dog about the mouth, for he was far too careful in his methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden attack of a moment before by pretending that it was already over. Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the subject of Bobby Wind's acquaintance with the murdered man. The mere fact that the young man feared discovery of his connection with this Blake proved conclusively that he knew his danger, and that at any moment inquiry might be made, even though there was no actual proof that he had been in the vicinity of chain court that night. Fifthly groggy, old chap, he said in answer to Wind's inquiry as to whether he felt any better. They were passing down a dark, narrow passage at the moment, and a little door stood ajar toward the end of it. A quick glance showed cliques that the room beyond this door was lined with shelves on which stood numerous rows of bottles. Bobby Wind's face seemed to whiten with unwonted anger. He gave a sharp exclamation, and ran back to close the door quickly. "'The old Governor's surgery,' he said in explanation. "'I wonder who's been in. Door's been kept locked ever since the old man died.' "'Oh, Hedlund, you're not going to have another attack, are you?' For clique had suddenly lurched against the banister at the head of the stairs and swung round until his back was resting against it. He lulled his head back, gave a sort of hollow groan, and then under cover of this began swiftly to count the doors in order to make sure of the location of that surgery.' "'No, it's certainly just a passing spasm. I was just wondering whether your old dad had anything in his surgery to pull me together. Clever chap, some of these doctors, don't you know?' Bobby Wind groaned. For once he was disposed to be cautious, and there was evidently some reason why he did not wish anyone to look into that surgery. And that was just why clique wanted to get into it. He felt tolerably sure that it would contain a quantity of prusic acid, and a stab of memory brought up the sight of long, slender finger marks. "'Get into that room, he must!' So, leaning heavily on young Wind, he said, "'I'm all right now. I'll get a pick-me-up presently.'" And descending the staircase, arm in arm, they entered the dining-room together. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of the Riddle of the Purple Emperor This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Riddle of the Purple Emperor by Mary E. Handshugh and Thomas W. Handshugh. Chapter 16 in the Doctor's Surgery The delay had only been a trifling one, but clique did not, after all, get downstairs in time to witness the first meeting between the worthy doctor and his adored one. By the time he did reach the old-fashioned, daintily kept dining-room, the couple were apparently engaged in the commonplace phrases of ordinary social life. But clique was too well versed in that most complex of all studies human nature to be deceived. The various child could have seen and understood every word or motion of his hostess, and a pitying smile crept up clique's face as he noted the bearing of the would-be lover. Clique's entry with young Wind drew their united attention. "'Hello, Doc!' was Wind's boisterous greeting. "'Lost your best patient, eh? Never mind. Saved you killing her yourself.'" The remark was decidedly in bad taste, but its effect on Dr. Verrill was almost startling. Every drop of colour fled from his face, and for a moment he looked as if he could have struck the youth. It was with an obvious effort that the doctor continued his talk with Miss Wind, but it was clique alone who noticed these signs of perturbation. Again his memory reverted to the night of the murder. He had sent Mr. Narcombe flying for the doctor, and it had been strange that Verrill should have been so conveniently on the spot, almost in fact as if he had expected a call, rather than at his own house nearly a mile away. He had been on foot, too, and not in a motor which he assuredly would have been had he been out on his ordinary rounds. There was something fishy about the whole affair, and clique decided to keep both his eyes open. His entry, however, with young Wind's announcement of his sudden attack of faintness, made him an object of extreme solicitude on the part of Miss Wind. Cracked up, poor beggar, and came near being a new patient for you to kill Doc, explained young Wind as he led clique into his place at the table. Came within an ace of rolling over, and I bet you a new hat, Jenny, is those beastly, strong-smelling flowers you stick about all over the place. The speaker laughed as though he were making the finest jokes ever made, and even his adoring sister could not but remonstrate. "'Bobby, darling, how can you be so rude to my poor flowers?' said she, colouring at his humour in front of this stranger. "'I'm sure you ought to be grateful to them,' then stopped short, as if regretting having spoken. "'Oh, that's right, rub it in,' responded her brother with a little sneering laugh. "'I'm always being pulled out for something, and just because you sold a few for once, I suppose I shall never hear the last of what those precious flowers of yours have done for me.' "'Wish to goodness I was on my own like other fellows.' "'Oh, Bobby,' Miss Wind said softly, "'You know I didn't mean no. But you let me know it, mean or no mean,' he retorted sullenly. "'Seems to me that the best thing I can do is to take myself off, and then everybody will be better. I'll lunch at the inn, thanks.' "'I say, headland, when you feel up to it you might meet me there, and perhaps we can have a bit of sporting jack together, and these two can spoon amongst the flowers.' "'With which final dig at his sister's pet hobby and the doctor's evident devotion, this engaging young gentleman lurched out of the room and down the little passage leading to the front door, without another word.' A strange silence fell on the party for a second, until Jennifer, recovering herself first, said in explanation, "'He's such a big overgrown schoolboy, Mr. Headland, and I'm afraid he's jealous of my beautiful hair since. Please don't give Bobby's rudeness another thought, or I shall feel horribly ashamed.'" Cleak shook his head, smilingly. "'Pray don't mention it,' he said in a smooth tone. "'Boys will be boys, you know, and I rather like a dash of sport myself.'" That seemed to set the girl at ease, and Cleak had an opportunity for a moment of watching and making notes in that wonderful mental diary of his. It was not until coffee, made by Jennifer's own capable and slender fingers, had been served, and the gentleman, given permission to smoke, that Cleak managed to secure the opportunity he so strongly desired of seeing inside that little surgery door. Diving his hand into his pocket, and having assured himself that the object he sought was reposing safely at the bottom, he gave vent to a little exclamation of well-simulated disgust. "'Nuisance, Miss Winn, I'm sorry, but I've left my cigarette case up in your brother's room. Would you mind if I ran up and got it?' "'Oh, I'll get it for you,' said the girl quickly. But that was the very thing Cleak was most anxious to avoid. "'No, my dear young lady, I know just exactly where it is, and I promise not to thieve anything.'" With a little asinine snigger at his own humour, Cleak had crossed the tiny room and was on his way up the staircase before Miss Winn could find time to remonstrate. It took him but a second to reach the landing, and swiftly, silently, he grasped the handle of the surgery door. It yielded to his touch, sprang open upon well-oiled hinges, and in another moment Cleak had achieved his object and stood in the little room. His eyes, trained to observe quickly, took in the shelves of drugs, once dispensed and used so freely by the dead doctor. The vast array of bottles stood dust-covered and dull, many with spider's webs over the stoppers. All but one, that is, and at that one Cleak's heart gave a leap, and his hand shot out, then stopped, poised over it. The label on the bottle bore the medicinal name for prusic acid, and the dust had been brushed from the neck and stopper. Around the centre lay the marks of long, slender fingers. Cleak's hand dropped again, and for a second he stood stock still, his brows knitted, the little nerve in his temple throbbing incessantly, and his chin pinched up between one finger and thumb. Suddenly he switched on his heel, a new train of thought aroused by the sight of some white, powdery atoms that lay at his feet. Cautiously he bent down and touched one of the crumbling balls. Magnesia! he muttered, by all the gods, and that remnant of pellet in the dead man's mouth. And the good doctor Verrill was a friend of the family, so of course he would have access to this long-forgotten surgery, which Cleak himself would never have known existed, had it not been for the providential opening of the door. What indeed was the connection between Miss Jennifer and the dead Miss Chame? Or was it Dr. Verrill, after all? Bobby Wynne. Cleak dismissed him from his mind altogether as utterly harmless, though again there was the reluctance of that use to allow him to enter this very room. There was the trail of Magnesia, too. Nah, if he could find any trace of that most childlike and bland of medicines in Master Bobby's own room. This thought caused a sudden recollection of the two below, and he moved away quickly. Swiftly and as noiselessly as he had entered, he passed out. The problem rendered still deeper by the knowledge he had obtained. Darting into young Wynne's room, he gave it a lightning scrutiny, but there was no trace of Magnesia to be found. But of course this room would be swept out every day, and so no remnants of dust and powder would be permitted to lie there. Down the staircase he went once more, stopping only to withdraw his silver cigarette case from the pocket it had never left, and his hand on the dining-room door to open it, he stood rigid. For through it came Miss Jennifer's metallic and artificial voice. "'Edgar dear, you are sure you're safe? I don't trust this man.' Perfectly safe, darling, came the deep-toned answer. Leave everything to me and fear nothing. You shall be safe, that I swear.' "'Oh-ho!' Cleek's lips puckered for a soundless whistle. "'Edgar, eh?' So Dr. Verrill's name was Edgar, too. For it was certainly that personage who had answered her question, and their relation to one another now was obvious. Had she meant Edgar Verrill then, and not Sir Edgar Brenton after all, yet the initial on the revolver was B. Last night he could have sworn that she was in love with the young Baronet, and was planning to marry him. But now he asked himself which Edgar was it. Without a sound he let go the handle, and after a swift glance round to see that his action was not likely to be observed by a servant, if one there were, he backed noiselessly half-way up the staircase, and then came down again heavy-footed and whistling. When he entered the room it was to find the lover's calm and collected. "'Please forgive me, Miss Winn,' said Cleek, genially flourishing the cigarette-case in his fingers. I've been the deuce of a time, but the dash-thing had fallen down behind the dressing-chest, and I had a regular hunt for it. I hope Mr. Winn won't mind my intruding on his sanctum. You must explain it to him for me.' "'Oh, no, not Bobby,' said that gentleman's sister a little absently. "'So long as you do not disturb his racing-calender, that's all that matters to him.'" Cleek forebore to comment upon this, other than in a general, "'Oh, boys, we'll sew their wall-oats, you know,' and then went forward and held out his hand. "'Well, good-bye, Miss Winn, and thank you for a pleasant luncheon. I'll look you up again some time, if I may. You've been awfully kind, putting up with me, and that young brother of yours is a real good sort." Then he smiled, took his departure, and went, presumably, to meet Mr. Narcombe. Yet had the occupants of the house he had left been watching his movements, they would have been surprised to see that his footsteps led him exactly in the opposite direction from that of the Village Police Station. He simply vanished round the angle of the house and stood on the graveled path, apparently absorbed in looking at the gnarled Old Wisteria plant which covered the entire wall. His memory for rooms had told him that that small, tightly closed window was that of the surgery in which he had made so momentous a discovery. The garden all round him, shut off from the main road by a fairly high wall, and shielded by tall elm trees, was a veritable paradise of flowers. Flowers had always been a passion with Cleak himself, and for a few moments he stood there drinking in the exquisite perfume of the hyacinths which hung round him like a cloud of sweetest scent. Blue, pink, and purest white, with tulips and all the various kinds of Narcissae grouped about them, they chance-formed the place into a fairy glen. Looking about him, Cleak recognized what constant care and attention had been expended upon the spot. It was a harmless hobby and possibly a paying one in a small way, but not sufficient to pay Master Bobby's racing debts. Cleak's brows drew together involuntarily. Again he saw the flush of pain and, if he were not mistaken, of remorse, too, in Jennifer Winn's face. His eyes wandered mechanically from bed to bed, coming to rest on the one just beneath the window. Yes, there was undoubtedly a footprint, long and narrow. A woman's footprint obviously clearly marked and only partially concealed by the tulip leaves. His eyes flashed up to the ivy which stretched green and unbroken to the surgery window. Unbroken? No, it certainly was not, for closer observation revealed the fact that many of the branches were torn and bruised. Someone, light and lithe, had evidently climbed up and thus obtained an entry to the surgery. But who? Cleak stood there, his brows pulled down, his chin pinched hard as he thought of the prusic acid and other things. It could not be Jennifer Winn herself, for obviously she would not have entered the room from the outside. Nor young Winn, either. Who was it? The breeze stirred the leaves of the ivy, and Cleak found himself gazing mechanically upon a little fragment of material caught in the sharp twigs. He looked at it for several minutes before he realised the clue which lay before him. Then his hand shot out, the stuff lay in the open palm, and with it something more. A man's life. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The Riddle of the Purple Emperor This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Riddle of the Purple Emperor by Mary E. Henshu and Thomas W. Henshu. Chapter 17 Miss Chain Again At the police station, Cleak found Mr. Narcum awaiting him. You look worried, he said, with a twitch of his head and a lift of the eyebrows in that gentleman's direction. I am worried, responded the superintendent excitedly. Cleak, I thought you were never coming. Either certs weren't here for Chain Court. Speaking, he drew Cleak in through the door of Constable Robert's private sanctum and shut it sharply behind him. If we don't find something to throw a little light on the matter, I will eat my head. And a very indigestible quantity you'll find it too, retorted Cleak with a laugh. We'd better be getting along at once, the sooner the better, and try to get to the bottom of this most distressing affair. For answer, Mr. Narcum grabbed his hat, clapped it upon his head, and together they went out to the Red Limousine. Petrie and Hammond, who had arrived and were in the anti-room, followed in their wake. Chain Court, Leonard, where new fellows get there I want you to search that dried-up moat while we do the husk," said the superintendent as he climbed in after Cleak and shut the door behind them. Like a shot the motor was off, taking a pace which would make the police of the neighbourhood wink with astonishment. In the space of a few minutes the car drew up outside of Chain Court, and armed with a bunch of skeleton keys which would lay every room and cupboard open to them, Cleak and Mr. Narcum jumped out. Having sent Petrie and Hammond to their respective tasks, they set to work to make a systematic search, from the top to the bottom of the big rambling house. From room to room and floor to floor they passed, but the broad daylight revealed no more than their torches had done at night. That there was some secret entry was obvious, but tap and prod as they might it was all in vain. The walls were solid, the cupboards stern realities, and at the end of an hour the question as to how the murderer had entered and escaped on that eventful night remained as great a mystery as ever. Finally they reached the upper landing, and at a small room at the back the door of which stood wide open, Cleak stopped short. This must be Lady Margaret's own room," he said, turning to Mr. Narcum excitedly, his eyes alight. Here is the coach she wore when I drove her over on that eventful night. He lifted a blue travelling cloak from the back of a chair beside the smooth untumbled bed. Let's poke about in here for a while and see if we can't get some clues as to what happened," he continued. Suiting the action to the word he dropped on his knees and commenced examining every inch of the floor which was covered with coconut matting. Suddenly Mr. Narcum saw him come to an abrupt halt, every nerve tense as he sniffed repeatedly at the air. Then he bent still farther over the matting. Hmm! he said ruminatively. That's sent again. We'll do jasmine, eh? There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. We'll do jasmine. No wonder it lingered. Look! Here is another spot. Creeping on all fours in the direction of the perfumed trail, he put his finger upon a tiny oily patch and smiled up into the astonished superintendent's face. Oh! I know this stuff well. At one time its real scent was only used in the harems of the great rajas, and they used to have a few drops put in receptacles attached to the back of their jewels. Sometimes a ring would bear its odor, sometimes a bracelet or earring. Later though it became more common and was used in the bazaars. Bazaars? said Mr. Narcum. Then it's Indian, you mean. Oh! my dear chap, do you remember that Lady Brunton was born in India? That is where Sir Edgar's father met and married her. Cleak nodded and went on as though Mr. Narcum had not interrupted him. What I said was, remember, he said, it is still just as generally used, but since the days when the favourites of the harem alone had permission to use it, I have no doubt some enterprising eurasian has manufactured it and sells the scent over here. Not, but what I am not going to keep an eye on all that little Hindu gang over the other side of the village. I have set dollops to work too. I had the pleasure of meeting one of them, a Mr. Gangadal, a few hours ago, and before I make up my mind there are still others. Lady Brunton herself uses the scent. Miss Jennifer too is mighty fond of it, I noticed at lunch. But don't forget Dr. Veral is also an Anglo-Indian. Yes, my friend, a good many roads lead to Rome. Still—his voice trailed off into silence, for his mind had gone back again to that first eventful journey to Chain Court, when, looking out in the March Mist, he had seen the figure of a woman across the lawn. But was it a woman, or simply a man in the flowing robes of the East? If it had been Miss Jennifer, what was she doing that other night when the man was murdered? His gaze was fixed almost unseeing in its intentness, but suddenly his eye caught a stray sun-beam which was reflected on something thrown down beside the white bed. He gave a sort of cry and pounced upon it. Mr. Narcombe fairly gasped in his excitement at this action. CLEAK! Mr. Narcombe said agitatedly, What is it? This he made answer. Something which looks as if there were at least two women in this room last night, and Lady Margaret herself was one of them. He held up the object as he spoke. It was a long, glittering gold scarf, from the end of which a fragment had been torn violently away. Taking out his pocket-book, CLEAK unfolded with trembling fingers the torn scrap of lace found clutched in the dead hand, and fitted it into the damaged place. By James! Mr. Narcombe gasped, letting the scarf drop like a golden snake to the ground. It fits! It fits! CLEAK! How could that child have perpetrated a deed like that and escape? Vanish without a sound! It is impossible, utterly and ridiculously impossible. CLEAK made no reply. His mind sped back over his last chat with Elsa. What was it that she had said? The scarf had been given, Lady Margaret, by her dead father. A valued possession, then, not likely to be given up lightly or even lent, much less left about like this. Perhaps someone stole it, suggested Mr. Narcombe. But who, and why leave it here? responded CLEAK grimly. It must be the identical scarf the fragment proves that, and yet Lady Brenton has one, Miss Jennifer has another. His words trailed away again as the complexities of the clue were borne in on him. Certainly there had been two women abroad in the neighbourhood of the house on the night of the murder. Two, possibly three. But even if one were Lady Margaret herself, this could not absolutely convict her of murder. It would take more than a young girl's strength to overpower an active man. And yet despair lends strength. Before, however, either of them could voice the thoughts that were racing through their minds. The sound of excited voices and heavy, trampling feet coming up the drive toward the house for the moment drove all other thoughts out of their minds. Come along down, CLEAK," said Mr. Narcombe, his voice shaking with excitement. It's Hammond and Petrie. I set them to search the grounds and the river. It seems as if they had discovered something startling from the noise. They found Petrie and Hammond surrounded by a little knot of villages and bearing a hidden burden upon a hastily contrived stretcher. Their faces were white and rather frightened. Sir broke out to Petrie as the procession came up with Mr. Narcombe. We searched the river by the landing-stage and we found his dead body. Almost naked it was, sir, but it's a woman and shot through the heart. If you would look for yourself. CLEAK and Narcombe did look for themselves. Here, undoubtedly, was the real Miss Chain. Robbed of her dress and rings to clothe the man who had so ably undertaken her part on that night when CLEAK and Roberts had been driven forth by him and his accomplices. Here, too, was the explanation of that ominous sound of a revolver-shot which CLEAK had heard while he and his innocent charge stood on the threshold of the ill-fated house. If only he had obeyed his first instinct and driven the girl back to Ailsa Lawn. The poor old lady had evidently been shot at that moment and her body thrown into the river directly CLEAK had left the room where his inopportune entry must have caused considerable dismay to the hidden assassin or assassins. Hidden, but where? That was still a deeper mystery. And through what secret egress had the body disappeared? And why had they not attacked him? Evidently it was the girl they wanted, the girl and possession of the chain jewels. But how and where had they escaped? And what had become of the girl now? These were questions for which there were no answers, save those which time would show. Bidding them take the body on its stretcher down to the village mortuary, CLEAK turned on his heel and with a few directions to Mr. Narcombe made his way back into the house, once more to wrestle with the problem of its secret entrance and exit. End of chapter 17