 Chapter 1 of the Sacred Herb This is a Levervox Recording. All Levervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Levervox.org Recording by Sharon Kilmer, San Antonio, Texas. The Sacred Herb by Fergus Hume The Latest Sensation Lord Prilis felt desperately bored, like Heterus. He longed for some new pleasure, yet knew not where to look for one. This was the result of being surfited with the sweets of extraordinary good fortune. Born to a title endowed with passable good looks, gifted with abilities above the average, and possessed of admirable health, he should have been the happiest of men. The more especially as his income ran well into five figures. And he had the whole wide world to play with, certainly he had played with it, and with life, up to his present age of 35 years. Perhaps this was the reason of his acute boredom. If all work and no play makes Jack dull, all play and no work must necessarily make him blasé. Therefore, in spite of the excellent breakfast spread before him on this bright summer morning, when London was looking at its best, the young man was ungratefully wondering what he could do to render life endurable. He ate from habit and not because he enjoyed his food. He read the morning papers, since it was necessary to be abreast of the times. For conversational purposes, although very little was new therein and still less was true, by the time he arrived at the normal age stage of the meal, he was again considering the possibilities of the next four and twenty hours. In this contented frame of mind he was discovered by his aunt. Lady Sophia Haken bustled into the pleasant room, exasperatingly cheerful and very pleased with life in general and with herself in particular. She was an elderly woman of a somewhat masculine type who lived a simple out-of-door existence and who proclaimed loudly that it was necessary for humanity to return to the stone age for true enjoyment. Having been riding in the row for the last two hours, she entered in her habit, filled with the egotism of the early riser. As a near relative, she could not do less than scold, preless for lingering over a late breakfast, and told him, also as a near relative, that she scolded him for his good. She had done so very often before, without result. And but that she loved to lay down the law would have long since given over the attempt to improve her nephew. Nevertheless, anxious to achieve the impossible, she attacked him with pristine vigor as though aware for the first time of his bad habits. Nine o'clock and still at breakfast, said Lady Sophia significantly, and slapped her skirts with a whip which she would have dearly liked to lay across her lazy nephew's broad shoulders. Preless looked indolently at the clock, then at the table, and finally at his fuming aunt. I cannot deny it, he said with a yawn. Is that all you have to say? she asked, much disgusted. Preless heaved a sigh. It was necessary to say something, if only to stem the coming tide of verbose speech. How well you are looking. Because I have been up since six o'clock. How unwise, you will probably sleep all the afternoon. Lady Sophia snapped tartly. I shall do nothing of the sort. Oh, very well, he ascended. You will do nothing of the sort. Anything for a quiet life, even agreement with the improbable. His aunt grasped her whip dangerously. How exasperating you are. I was just thinking the same about you, confessed Preless, good-humoredly. It is so disagreeable for a late riser to be reminded of the time. And having folded his napkin, he lighted a cigarette. How long is this going on? demanded Lady Sophia fiercely. His imperturbability made her long to shake him thoroughly. How long is what going on? asked Preless, provokingly. This idle, idiotic, insane, sensual, foolish, wicked, dilatory existence. Seven adjectives murmured the young man, opening his eyes. Waste, waste, oh, what waste! How long is this going on? inquired his relative again, and whipped her skirts instead of Preless's back with renewed vigor. He was forced to answer. As long as I do, no doubt. What else is to be done? I should like to know. You shall know, serve your country. What, and be abused in the penny press? No, thank you. You can surely help your brother man. Surely only to learn how much ingratitude exists in the world. Lady Sophia stamped, bit her lip, and looked like a ruffled cockatoo in a bad temper. She wanted to quarrel, and it annoyed her that Preless would not meet her halfway by supplying a reason. She had to invent the quarrel, and bring about the quarrel, and finish the quarrel without assistance. Mary was the one word which suggested itself, and she hoped that it would be like a red rag to a bull. Oh, Jerusalem! Preless shook his closely cropped, fair head. I would much rather serve brother man than Mary's sister woman. You offer me a choice of unoriginal evils. You never will face the truth, declared Lady Sophia irreverently. And forthwith, according to an old established custom, she proceeded to recount the family history. That is, she picked out the worst traits of Preless's ancestors, and debited them to his account. He smoked through two cigarettes, and nodded at intervals, not very much interested, since he had heard the same oration at least a dozen times. Lady Sophia, having worked her way from the reign of Elizabeth, down to that of Edward VII, ended with a lurid, any-sensational picture of what would befall her listener in the near future, unless he worked like a nigger. Such a bad illustration, in her posed Preless, placidly. Niggers don't work. As I have just returned from the West Indies, I ought to know. Lady Sophia snorted down the interruption, and seeing that he was still unimpressed, tried to goad him into industry by mentioning several of his school fellows who had attained to comparable fame and fortune, while Preless, as she scathingly put it, had been groveling in the mud. Even young Shepworth ended Lady Sophia, somewhat out of breath, and he was never clever. Even he is counsel for the defense this very day in an important murder case. I'm ducid sorry for his client, murmured Preless, indolently. Why should you be, demanded his aunt, aggressively? You said that he wasn't clever. He must be. Lady Sophia contradicted herself with feminine calmness. If he wasn't, he certainly would not be talking this very day at the New Bailey. Go and hear him, Preless, and be ashamed that a fool, yes, a superlative fool, should succeed where you fail. What do you mean, inquired her nephew? With great curiosity, first you say that Ned isn't clever. Ned, Ned, I never mentioned Ned. Who is Ned? Shepworth, Edward Shepworth. Ned for short. We were great chums at Eaton, you know, but you say that he isn't clever, then you insist that he is, and wind up by calling him a fool. You know quite well what I mean, said Lady Sophia, with dignity. I really don't, confessed her nephew artlessly. You describe such a complex character. However, as I have nothing to do today, and never have anything to do, idler, I shall go to the New Bailey and listen to Ned hanging his client. So brilliant a barrister as Mr. Shepworth will certainly get her off, said Lady Sophia decisively. Preless passed over this new contradiction. It's a woman? Yes, Mona Chet, you know her. I'm sure I don't. The criminal classes don't attract me. She is not a criminal, but a lady, said his aunt, as though the two things were incompatible, and you do know her. Mona Chet, the niece of old Sir Oliver Lanwin. Preless reflected with bent brows. I never heard the name before. I assure you, Aunt Sophia, he said at length. Remember that I have been traveling around the world for the last seven years and know very little of the latest London sensation. You ought to stay at home and make yourself acquainted with people. Preless, including this murderous? She is not a murderous, cried Lady Sophia, energetically. I always did think that she was a sweet girl, and if she did kill her, Uncle, it was no more than he deserved. I never liked him. Therefore he ought to be murdered, said Preless, rising and stretching himself before the empty grate. So Sir Oliver was the victim. I have heard of him. He used to send Ned shells and barbaric things from the South Seas. And now Ned is repaying him by defending his murderous? I tell you, Mona did not murder the man. I know her. I have received her. Would I receive a murderous? It might be a draw to some of your parties, said Preless politely, and with a recollection of several dull entertainments. But I cannot quite gather from your clear explanation if she is guilty or not. Half London thinks that she is, and half asserts her innocence. What does Shepworth think? He naturally believes her to be innocent. Because he defends her? Because she is his future wife. Preless looks startled. Oh, Jerusalem. And if he proves her innocence, he'll marry her. I suppose. As she is her uncle's heiress, and Mr. Shepworth is poor, I presume he will. Ten thousand a year is not to be despised. But a wife with such a pass, protested the young men. Ugg, did Miss Chint murder her uncle to get the money? She didn't murder him at all. Look at the facts of the case. I shall be delighted to, if you will place them before me. You ought to know all about them, said Lady Sophia, rising impatiently. Everyone has been talking about the case for the last month. Ever since Mona Chint was arrested, in fact. Ah, but you see, I have only just arrived in London. I shall go to my club and get posted up in the latest scandal. The latest sensation, corrected his aunt. Go to the new Bailey instead, and hear Mr. Shepworth place the case before the judge and jury. His eloquence will make you sorry for your lazy, useless life. He will be a K.C. Cried Lady Sophia, becoming prophetic. And Attorney General, and Lord Chancellor, and King of Thumbuck too, no doubt. Loud cheers. Lady Sophia looked indignantly at the scoffer, who beamed on her benignly with laughing blue eyes. You have deteriorated since you left the army. No doubt, the standard of morality in the army being so high. Oh, his aunt stamped, and flung open the door with a tragic error. I have done with you. Your flippancy is disgusting. I repeat, preless. I have done with you. And she departed hastily. Lest a reply from the scoffer should spoil her impressive exit. Preless laughed, knowing that Lady Sophia would never be done with him while she had a tongue to wag. Also, he believed that she was truly fond of him, and knew that she had only too much reason to accuse him of wasting his life. He resolved to mend his ways, more as an experiment in self-denial than because he wanted to, and cast about for a model person to imitate. After Lady Sophia's conversation, the name of Edward Shepworth naturally suggested itself. So, Preless arrayed himself in purple and fine linen, and ordered round his motor car. Within two hours he was driving out of Half Moon Street, and was soon dodging the traffic of Piccadilly. It was so delightful manipulating the machine in the sunshine, and acting as a chauffeur so appealed to him that he was minded to turn the Mercedes in the direction of Richmond. But the hints about the murder being an unusual one kept to his earlier determination. Also a copy of The Daily Mirror assured him that the accused girl was exceedingly pretty. Finally, he had always been friendly with the council for the defense, and thought that he would renew the tie of old school days. These things brought his smart Mercedes to the brand new portals of the criminal court, and when he had handed over the steering wheel to his chauffeur, he sought out the arena where Ian Shepworth was fighting for the life of his promised wife. Naturally the first person at whom the young man looked was the prisoner in the dock, and he minimally confessed that The Daily Mirror photograph had not done her justice. It could scarcely do so in mere black and white, as Miss Chint needed vivid tense to convey her peculiar charm. She was one of those rare blondes who embody sunshine in hair and eyes, a dragonfly of humanity, all radiance and glow. Since she was on trial for her life, Preilis quite expected to see a white-faced, terrified creature worn out with shame and suffering. But Miss Chint might have been in an opera box for all the emotion she just played. Preilis had more experience of women than was good for him, but he never beheld so perfectly dressed or so perfectly serene a girl. It would be absurd to say that so level-headed a young man fell in love with his attractive criminal at first sight, but he certainly felt drawn to her. She looked like a captive angel, and without knowing the rights or wrongs of the case, Preilis mentally pronounced her to be entirely innocent. Her calmness, if not her beauty, acquitted her, as his susceptible heart decided, for no woman with an unclean conscience could have faced judge and jury with such manifest confidence. Preilis thought of Joan of Arc on trial for sorcery. Of Mary Stuart before a prejudiced tribunal. Of Marie Antoinette. And of the Vestal who proved her innocence by drawing Tiber water in a sieve. He might also have recalled the Marquis de Brinvillers. Likewise calm, beautiful and guilty, but he did not. The court was filled with more or less fashionable people who came to make a Roman holiday of Sir Oliver Landwin's violent death and Miss Chintz's position. Doubtless she had been well-known in society, and those who had been her friends were here to watch her in the new role of an accused criminal. Preilis was disgusted at the heartless conduct of some ladies who whispered and tittered and used opera glasses to stare at the unfortunate girl. He internally commended his aunt for having had the good taste to remain absent, and then turned his eyes on the array of barristers to search for Ned Shepworth. If the prisoner was serene in the consciousness of innocence, her counsel certainly was less composed. A strong will and the second nature of custom kept Shepworth sufficiently self-controlled to deceive those who had but a passing acquaintance with his personality. But Preilis, who had known the young barrister for years, noted that his usual ruddy complexion was wider than usual and that his eyes seemed to be sunken in his head by reason of the dark shadows beneath him. Shepworth was a slim, handsome man, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a clean, shaven face and a resolute mouth. In his wig and gown he looked very presentable, son of Themis, if somewhat less composed than the traditionally unemotional lawyer should be. He was seated at the long table with two older men, who apparently were his co-agitors, and near the defense trio, the counsel for the prosecution appointed by the public prosecutor on behalf of the crown was chatting amiably with his colleague. A keen-faced young barrister behind sat many other lawyers, wigged and gowned, who were taking the deepest interest in the proceedings. For the moment the court was so still that the rustling of the briefs as the barristers turned their pages could be plainly heard. Are those two fellows assisting Mr. Shepworth in the defense? Preilis whispered to a legal-looking bystander at his elbow. No, replied the man in a low voice. The big fellow is Cudworth, K. C., and the other is young Arkers, who acts as junior counsel. Shepworth is not defending, as he was in the house when the crime was committed, and will be called as a witness. So Lady Sophia was inaccurate as usual, and Preilis felt somewhat disappointed that he would not have an opportunity of hearing his old school chum or rating. However, he had little time to think, for at this moment the prosecuting counsel got on his legs to open the case. Preilis felt that the curtain had risen on a tragedy. He wondered what would be the scene when the curtain fell. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Sacred Herb by Fergus Hume. This Levervox recording is in the public domain. The trial. The counsel, in a clear and deliberate voice, opened his speech with an unvarnished statement of the case, and a very remarkable story he unfolded. Preilis, as an experienced traveler, had always believed in the impossible. But it seemed to him that he had returned to Prozac, England, to hear a veritable fairy tale. There was something extremely fantastic about the way in which the crime was said to have been committed. As set forth by the speaker, the event happened in this wise. Sir Oliver Landwin, the last male heir of an ancient Kentish family, whose seat was situated near Hyde, had found himself, some forty years previous to the trial, a pauper with a newly inherited title. Seeing no chance in England of rehabilitating his fortunes, he had taken what little money he possessed to New Zealand, leaving his only sister well provided for, as the wife of an army officer named Chint. After making some money in various ways at Hokitaka, Sir Oliver had purchased a fruit schooner to trade amongst the South Sea islands. Being successful he had bought other ships, and for more than thirty years he had been a kind of Polynesian merchant prince, owing to his wealth and enterprise and keen business capacity. He had never married because of an early disappointment, and ten years before he had returned to England with a capital representing ten thousand a year. With this he had retired to his ancestral seat near Hyde, and there proposed to end his days in comfort after the fashion of Symbad, the famous sailor of the Arabian Nights. He brought with him an old shell-backed mariner, Steve Agstone, by name, who was an important witness for the prosecution. Unfortunately, said the council, the man had disappeared immediately before the inquest after hinting to the housekeeper, Mrs. Blexi, that he had actually witnessed the committal of the crime, for which the prisoner was being tried. In spite of all efforts made by the police, this witness could not be discovered, and it was impossible to say why he had disappeared. But council hoped to produce other witnesses who would prove beyond all shadow of a doubt that the prisoner was guilty. After proceeding thus far, council sipped a glass of water, hitched his gown more comfortably on to his shoulders, and continued his speech amidst the breathless silence of the listeners. Being a bachelor, Sir Oliver felt somewhat lonely since he was of a sociable disposition. For a few months he kept open house, but as his nature proved to be exacting and imperious, he did not get on well with his neighbors. Finally he proclaimed that they were all idiots, and closing his doors he became more or less of a recluse. It was then that Sir Oliver's widowed sister, Mrs. Chint, died suddenly, leaving her daughter, Mona, the prisoner, to the care of her uncle. Sir Oliver became extremely fond of the young lady, who was of a lively and amiable disposition. Indeed, his attachment was so great that he made a will in her favor, by which she was to inherit ten thousand a year and the family seat. And here, proceeded council impressively, I may mention a circumstance which, in the light of after-events, has some bearing on the case. Mr. Oliver, while bathing at Samoa, had his leg taken off from the knee by a shark. He thus was unable to indulge in field sports, in games, or indeed in any kind of out-of-door life. He therefore took to reading, and of a somewhat unusual kind. Jacob Baima, Paracelsus, and Ellipas Levi were his favorite authors, from which it can be judged that the dead man took a deep interest in psychic questions. He also consulted palmists, fortune-tellers, astrologers, and crystal-gazers, frequently asking them down to Lanwen Grange. In fact, at the very time when the crime was committed, Madame Marie Eppengrave, a well-known Bond Street interpreter of the future, was staying in the house. She will be called as a witness, but you can see, gentlemen of the jury, that the late Baronet was an exceedingly superstitious man, although clear-headed in business and perfectly capable of managing his affairs. It was at this point that Shepworth caught sight of Prilis, and he nodded in a friendly manner. Then he scribbled a note and sent it by an usher to the young man. It proved to be a request that Prilis would wait for him at the door when the court adjourned for luncheon. Prilis slipped the missile into his pocket and nodded a reply. Shepworth seemed to be pleased with this prompt acceptance, and immediately resumed his attitude of attention, while counsel continued to boom out facts with the drone of a bumblebee. As the narrative proceeded, it appeared that, a few months before his death, Sir Oliver had received a South Sea visitor in the person of a young sailor called Captain Felix Jadby, whose father he had known at Tahiti. The Baronet was extremely intimate with the visitor and practically gave him the run of the house. Captain Jadby came and went at will, and Sir Oliver talked to him a great deal in connection with matters dealing with Polynesian trade. This was not to be wondered at, since the Baronet having been a traitor himself, it was pleasant for him to converse with one who knew about such things. Unfortunately, Captain Jadby fell in love with the prisoner and wished to marry her. She refused to become his wife, on the plea that she loved Mr. Edward Shepworth, and was engaged to him. Sir Oliver was annoyed at the engagement, as he desired the marriage with Captain Jadby to take place. On the day of his death he quarreled seriously with the prisoner, and according to Madame Marie Eppinggrave's evidence, since she was present during the quarrel, Sir Oliver stated that if the prisoner did not marry Captain Jadby, he would disinherit her. Prisoners still refused and retired to her room, saying that she would not reappear until Captain Jadby was out of the house. For the sake of peace, Jadby went up to London that same day, with the intention of returning by the 10 o'clock train. Then, if prisoners still remained obdurant, he intended to say goodbye to his hosts and leave for the colonies within the week. And now, gentlemen of the jury, continued counsel with another hitch of his gown, we come to the most important part of the story. Previous to going to London, Captain Jadby had a wordy quarrel with Mr. Shepworth, and from words the quarrel came to blows. Mr. Shepworth's foot slipped and he slightly sprained his ankle, so that he was not able to leave Lennwin Grange, as he desired. His position was an unpleasant one, since Sir Oliver was not well disposed towards him on account of the engagement which existed with the prisoner. As Captain Jadby had left the Grange, Mr. Shepworth wished to go also, and would have gone, but that his sprained ankle prevented his removal and he therefore remained in his room. Now, gentlemen, you can see the position of the several people connected with this matter at the time when the crime was committed. Captain Jadby was in London, intending to return at ten o'clock. Mr. Shepworth was in his room with a sprained ankle which prevented his leaving it. The prisoner was also in her room, and even though Captain Jadby had departed, for the time being, she declined to come down to dinner. Madame Marie Eppengrave and Sir Oliver dined alone, and then the baronet retired to his library, where until nine o'clock, according to Madame Marie's evidence, he chatted with her on occult subjects. Also, as Madame Marie will state, Sir Oliver expressed himself strongly on the subject of the prisoner's refusal of Jadby. As Sir Oliver was in the habit of retiring early to bed on account of his health, his fact to totem, Steve Agstone entered the library at nine o'clock to bolt and bar the windows. There were no shutters, and this please remember, gentlemen, as it is an important point. The servants had already retired, and after making the library safe, Steve Agstone left the room with the intention of waiting up for Captain Jadby, who was expected back by the ten o'clock train and who intended to walk to the Grange. Madame Marie lingered for a few minutes to say goodnight and then retired to her bedroom. She declares that it was five minutes after nine o'clock that she left the library. Sir Oliver, so she says, was seated at the table near the window, reading and smoking. Here, gentlemen, pursued counsel, taking up a plan, is a drawing of the library. He passed it by an usher to the foreman of the jury. You will see that there is only one door to the library, which leads out into the hall and which is opposite to the fireplace. The inner walls of the room on three sides are covered with books, but the fourth wall, the outer wall, gentlemen, has in it three tall French windows which lead onto a terrace over a lawn. The lawn extends for some distance, ending in flower beds, these in their turn being encircled by shrubs, and farther back by the park trees. When Madame Marie left the room, Sir Oliver was seated at his writing table, marked X, immediately before the middle window. As the night was chilly, there was a fire burning in the grate. You understand, gentlemen? Good. Now we come to the discovery of the crime. Counsel then went on to state that Captain Jadby returned, according to his promise at ten o'clock. That is, his train arrived at the station, which was about a half a mile from the Grange. He walked to Sir Oliver's house, as he had no luggage to carry, and the night was fine, if somewhat cold. On emerging from the avenue onto the lawn, he saw that there was a light in the library. And it was here that Counsel again drew the jury's attention to the fact that the windows had no shutters. Captain Jadby therefore thought that, as Sir Oliver had not retired to bed, he would knock at one of the windows and enter the house that way, so as to avoid rousing the other inmates by ringing the bell. He advanced to the lighted windows and looked through the middle one, which was veiled, as were the others, with curtains of Indian beadwork. To his surprise he saw that Sir Oliver, seated at his desk, was lying forward on the writing table. I am precise to a fault here, gentlemen, said Counsel, jocularly, but it is absolutely to be even pedantic, so that you will understand. Sir Oliver, he continued, was lying with his face on his outstretched hands and in an armchair near the fireplace sat the prisoner in a white dressing gown with her hands on her lap. Captain Jadby could not see very distinctly, owing to the beadwork curtains, but he saw sufficient to guess that something was wrong, especially as his knocking produced no effect either on Sir Oliver or on the prisoner. He unconsciously pushed at the middle window and, to his surprise, discovered that it was not locked. He therefore entered and what he saw made him ring the bell at once to summon the household. And what did he see, gentlemen of the jury? He saw that Sir Oliver was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart, under the left shoulder blade, apparently while seated at his desk. The body had naturally fallen forward. The prisoner seated in the armchair with her hands on her lap was in an unconscious state, but her hands and the white dressing gown were stained with blood. With the blood, gentlemen, said Counsel impressively, of her uncle. But before anyone could enter the room she revived and on seeing the body of her uncle displayed great terror and horror. Steve Agstone, who had been waiting up for Captain Jadby, was the first person to enter and on discovering the dead body of his master, to whom he was sincerely attached. He at once rushed out of the house for a doctor. By this time the servants were aroused by the noise and with them came Madame Marie Eppinggrave. Even Mr. Shepworth, lame as he was, managed to crawl down the stairs, so loud had been the clamor which had awakened him. And what did the prisoners say to all this? Gentlemen, she told a most ridiculous story to account for her presence in the library. According to her statement, which the Inspector from Hyde took down in the presence of witnesses, prisoners said that she could not sleep on account of her quarrel with her uncle. She came down the stairs at a quarter to ten o'clock and entered the library with the intention of making friends with her uncle. When she entered, so she declares, the room was filled with pungent white smoke through which she could dimly see Sir Oliver seated at the writing table. The smoke made her senses real, but by holding her handkerchief to her mouth she managed to stagger to the middle window. She had just managed to unfasten the catch when she fell unconscious. The next thing she remembers, according to her prosperous story, is the presence of Captain Jadby. She declares that she did not know when Sir Oliver was stabbed and when she entered the library did not know why it should be filled with smoke. When Captain Jadby entered, as he will tell you, there was no smoke and the fire had burned down to red cinders. Again Council had to drink a sip of water as he had been talking for some time, and there was a low murmur of conversation heard before he again began to speak. The story which he alleged that Miss Chint had told seemed ridiculous and even preless, prejudiced as he was in her favor, thought that the defense was absurd, but Miss Chint never moved a muscle. She did not even change color. Quiet, and without a word, she sat in the dock, waiting patiently for her innocence to be made manifest. And yet, as everyone thought, her tale was too ridiculous for words. And finally, gentlemen, said Council, taking up his brief, I would draw your attention to the medical evidence. The doctor called in stated that Sir Oliver was murdered about ten o'clock. Mark that, gentlemen, about the very time the prisoner confesses she was in the library in a state of unconsciousness. Captain Jadby did not arrive until thirty minutes after ten as he did not walk very quickly. And again, gentlemen, no weapon was found wherewith the wound, a wide, clean wound, could have been inflicted. But an Indian dagger with a jade handle used by Sir Oliver as a paper knife is missing. With that, I verily believe the deceased was stabbed. And remember, gentlemen, that the window was unfastened. And if we are to believe this foolish tale of a pungent smoke, prisoner unfastened it when she entered and immediately before she fainted. Gentlemen, she did faint, but not then. No. Can you guess what took place? The prisoner came down the stairs to see her uncle, perhaps as she declares to make up with him, since we may as well give her the benefit of the doubt. Because of reconciliation, the quarrel grows more bitter. Impulsive and furious, the prisoner snatches the paper knife, a dangerous weapon, remember, gentlemen. And while Sir Oliver turns again to his book, stabs him in the back. She then opens the window and buried the paper knife, all bloody in the garden. On re-entering, the sight of the dead body shows her what a terrible crime she has committed. Instead of re-fastening the window, she staggers forward with the intention of regaining her bedroom and of playing the part of an innocent woman. But her nerves, which maintained her strength and consciousness so far, fail at the critical moment. She manages to reach the armchair and falls into it unconscious, sometime after ten o'clock. There she lies with blood-stained hands and dress until Captain Jadby arrives when she recovers her senses to tell a wild and improbable story. Sir Oliver, as the medical evidence proves, was alive when she entered the library at a quarter to ten. He is dead and his blood is smearing the prisoner's dressing gown at half past ten when Captain Jadby arrives. And all that time prisoner says that she was unconscious. Quite so. She was, up to the moment of Captain Jadby's arrival, and from the moment when she staggered into the room after bearing the knife in the garden. And now, gentlemen, here counsel went on to state that in spite of all efforts the knife could not be found. He also detailed more explicitly the medical evidence and gave the name of the witness whom he proposed to call and ended with a damning indictment of the reasons which had led the prisoner to commit the crime. Amongst these was the fact that by Sir Oliver's death prisoner would inherit ten thousand a year at once and would thus have been enabled to marry Edward Shepworth. When his speech was finished, counsel sat down, wiping his brow, and a hum of conversation rose in the crowded court. Mona's eyes wandered here and there and rested finally on the pitying face of Lord Prilis. For a moment she remained calm and then flushed deeply the first sign of emotion she had given. A moment later and she was led away in charge of a warder while the court adjourned for luncheon. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Sacred Herb by Fergus Hume. This leverbox recording is in the public domain. The paper cutter. I am delighted to see you, Dory, said Shepworth, addressing Prilis by his eaten nickname when the young man had been called Dormouse, shortened as above on account of his lethargic habits. I want you very badly. Come and grub somewhere and we can talk. Prilis responded very cordially, as the two had been very close friends at the old school, and submitted to be led round the corner to a small hidden restaurant much affected by the gentleman of the long robe. Here, when they were snugly ensconced in a corner, Shepworth ordered food for his friend, but continued himself with a cigarette and a cup of strong coffee. I can't eat a morsel, he protested when Prilis advised a meal. I am too much bothered over this case. How the deuce did you come to the court, Dory? Prilis, who possessed a hearty appetite, tackled a plate of cold beef and answered between mouthfuls. My Aunt Sophia bully ragged me this morning as an idler, and advised me to hear you spouting. She wanted to make me ashamed of myself. And are you? asked Shepworth aimlessly. Rats! said his lordship inelegantly. But I'm sorry, old man. This is a sinful, hard business for you. Why didn't you write me that you were engaged? I didn't know where to find you, Dory. Lady Sophia, whom I met once or twice, told me that you were scampering round the world. I have wanted you, Prilis, these last few months. Yes, and before that. Before the murder, do you mean? Yes. I have never had a chum since I left school. Lots of friends, no doubt. Good men, all, but a chum. He laid his hand on Prilis' shoulder with a burst of emotion. Oh, Dory, what a mercy you are here, and that I have some safe person in whom to confide. I should have had to tell someone in the long run. Tell someone what? Asked Prilis soberly. About that poor girl. Miss Chint? Yes. It is an awful position for her, and for me. No, don't look at me like that, Dory. I swear that I'm not thinking of myself. I'd give my right hand to save Mona. She is innocent, of course? Asked Prilis, pushing away his plate. Yes, I am certain that she is innocent, although... He hesitated for a moment, then flung away his cigarette, leaned his arms on the marble-top table, and looked earnestly at his friend. You heard Belmaine's speech. Prilis nodded. You mean the prosecuting council? Yes. He was fair enough in the beginning and in the middle, but he had no right to rub it into the jury about the knife and about Mona's guilt being so certain. That part should have been left to the time when he addressed the jury, and after the evidence on both sides had been heard. I thought it was rather prejudging the prisoner myself, Ned. Shepworth shuddered. Don't call Mona a prisoner, he expostulated. Every time that infernal Belmaine alluded to her so, I felt sick. It is rough on you undoubtedly, murmured Prilis, and not wanting any more food. For Shepworth's agitation had spoilt his appetite. He turned to the waiter and ordered coffee. Shepworth passed along his cigarette case. Very rough on you, Ned. Oh, don't talk about me, rejoined the barrister restlessly. Think of Mona, a young girl, gently born in bread, being accused of murder and being put into prison. It's horrible. She seemed to me to be the comest person in court, because she knows that she is innocent. She's a religious girl, too, and firmly believes that God will prove her innocence. Well, he will, said Prilis quietly. I'm not a saint myself, but I know that God looks after us all. Yet innocent people have been hanged before now, Dory. Prilis did not answer immediately. Lighting his cigarette, he, meanwhile, looked very straight at his friend. You don't seem to have a good defense, he remarked suddenly. Yes and no, replied Shepworth, fidgeting. Not only is there a very good reason why she should love her uncle, but a better one that she should wish him to have remained alive. What do you mean? That will, you know, Dory? The will made by Sir Oliver in favor of Mona? Prilis nodded. It has been destroyed, went on Shepworth. Bits of it were found in the grate. There was a fire burning in the library on that night, if you remember Belmaine's speech. Well, the will had been torn up and thrown into the fire. A few bits fell under the grate, and these proved beyond all doubt that it is the will which Sir Oliver made in favor of Mona. Now, if guilty, why should she destroy a document which gave her ten thousand a year? But I say, remarked Prilis thoughtfully, towards the end of his speech Belmaine distinctly stated that Miss Chint had killed her uncle so as to get the money. If he knows of the burning of the will, oh, the other side admit that a will was burnt, but deny that it was the one made in Mona's favor. They will try and prove that Sir Oliver was drawing up another will, disinheriting her, because she would stick to me, and that she burnt this will after killing the old man. We fight hard on that point, Dory. Has the will in favor of Miss Chint been found? No, the lawyers have not got it, as Sir Oliver kept it himself. It can't be found, and of course we say, that is, our side, Cudworth, Arkins, and myself, that the will was burnt. Presuming it is, who inherits? Captain Jadby. What, the South Sea chap? Shepworth nodded. It seems that Sir Oliver was a great friend of his father's at Tahiti, and made a will out there in favor of young Jadby. He brought it home with him, I believe. Of course, the will in Mona's favor invalidated the first document. So unless the second will had been destroyed, the first would not hold good. Which points to the fact, said preless quickly, that Jadby had a reason to murder Sir Oliver. I say, Shepworth glanced around in alarm, don't talk too loud. There isn't a shadow of evidence to connect Jadby with the crime. He was in London on that day, and only returned by the tin train. However, he claims the property, but until this trial is ended nothing can be done about that. Hmm, said preless, reflectively, I expect it was on account of the earlier will that Sir Oliver wished Miss Chint to marry Jadby. Shepworth nodded. He thought to kill two birds with one stone, to let them both have the money, and, so to speak, blend the two wills into one. Jadby loves Mona, too, but she hates him. And, moreover, is engaged to you, mused preless tipping the ash off his cigarette. It's a queer case. Much queerer than you think, Dory. Now what do you mean by that? Asked preless. Shepworth glanced around again, and cautiously brought his lips to his friend's left ear. I swear that Mona is innocent. She is a good, kind, religious girl who would not hurt a fly. Much less Sir Oliver, whom she loved, in spite of that ridiculous quarrel. All the same. Well, well, go on, said preless, impatiently. That knife breathed Shepworth nervously. The jade-handled paper-cutter? Well, she had it in her hand. When? Where? Preless could not grasp the true significance of this very serious statement. In the library, when she was unconscious in the chair, how on earth do you know, Ned? Shepworth looked round again and wiped his face. See here, he whispered. I was in bed with that sprained ankle, as Belmaine said. In our row I gave Jadby the worst of it, including a black eye, although he fought like a cat with nine lives. But I tripped and hurt my foot, as Belmaine said in his speech. It was swollen and painful. But not so much, but what I could have gotten away to town. Why didn't you? Because Mona asked me to stop and support her. She expected further trouble with her uncle. I lay awake trying to bear the pain as best I could, for my ankle got worse when I lay down. About a quarter to ten I heard Mona pass my door and go down the stairs. How do you know that it was Ms. Chint? I would know her footstep amongst a hundred, and she admitted afterwards that she had gone down to the library at that hour. I wondered where she was going, but lay quiet, listening for her return. At length, some fifteen minutes or so after ten o'clock, I could bear the suspense no longer and hobble downstairs in my dressing-gown. I thought that she might have gone to the library to see her uncle, and that further trouble might be brewing. As I promised to stand by her, ankle or no ankle, it seemed right that I should learn what was going on. Very reasonable of you, Ned. Continue. Prelis was deeply interested. I opened the library door and saw her seated in the armchair. Was there any sign of smoke? No, but there was a peculiar smell in the room. What kind of smell? Shepworth wringled his brows. I can scarcely describe it, he said, after some thought. A Swedish, heavy, sickly scent, like a tube rose. That's as near as I can get. Mona told me afterwards that she also thought it resembled the thick perfume of a tube rose. It came from the smoke, of course. It must have come from the smoke. You believe in the smoke, then? Oh, yes. Sir Oliver had evidently been trying some magical experiment. Prelis looked doubtful. Magic is all bosh, he remarked. I'm not so certain of that, Dory. There are queer things done, even in this 20th century. Hmm. Then you believe Ms. Chint's improbable story? I do, because I saw her insensible in the chair. His listener reflected. Was Sir Oliver dead, then? Yes, sitting in his chair and lying half on the desk. He had been stabbed in the back. Was the window or one of the windows open? I never noticed. And remember, Jadby did not say that the middle window was ajar, but only that the latch had been unfastened. I remember that. What happened next? Shepworth explained. I found Sir Oliver dead, and Mona unconscious. One moment, please. Prelis became quite like a cross-examining barrister himself. Had she fainted? It was more than a faint, Dory. She was in a kind of trance. Quite like a person seized with catalepsy. I know, I am sure, because I shook her and pinched her and tried my best to rouse her. You should have opened the window to admit the fresh air. I never thought of doing so. I was too agitated. Natural enough, natural enough, murmured the other absently and cast his eyes round the restaurant idly while thinking of what next to say. His gaze fell on a slim, boyish-looking young man of medium height who had just entered and who was looking at the unconscious Shepworth with an undeniable scowl. Who is that? asked Prelis in a whisper. He seems to know you. Shepworth looked up and across the crowded room. We're at the man. He was dark and clean-shaven and somewhat Italian in his looks. Scowled more than ever. Jadby, said the barrister under his breath, Captain Jadby, and he stared hard at his enemy. On his part the captain returned to stare with scowling interest and dropped into a seat near the door, no great distance away. Looks like a half-caste, breathed Prelis, glancing furtively at the young man. Good-looking too, but with a bad temper, I should say. If expression went for anything, Jadby certainly did not possess a superlatively even temper. His mouth was hard, his eyes were filled with somber fire, and he seemed to be an alert, wiry, impetuous man who could hold his own excellently in a fight. Dressed in a well-cut frock coat with dark striped trousers, a white waistcoat, a highly polished silk hat, and patent leather boots with spotless spats, he looked a great dandy, quite of the Bond Street Piccadilly Pal-Mell type. All the same there was a suggestion of the sea and the way he rolled in his gait and held his slim brown hands. A dangerous man to have for an enemy, thought Prelis, looking furtively at the smooth feline face and sullen eyes. However, as Jadby busied himself in selecting a luncheon from the menu-card, Prelis, after taking in his picturesque personality, paid no further attention to him, nor did Shepworth. He and the captain scowled, grudging recognition of one another, and then ostentatiously looked in other directions. Lord Prelis lighted another cigarette and resumed the conversation, which the episode of Jadby's entrance had interrupted. You say that Miss Chint was holding the papercutter when you found her? Yes. It was a dangerous Indian dagger, and the blade in the hilt were stained with blood. Mona's hands and dress were also stained. I really believed for the moment that she had killed Sir Oliver, and my only thought was how to save her. A terrible situation murmured Prelis, looking round again for Jadby, and then saw to his surprise that the man had disappeared. It was apparent that the captain, not liking to be in the same room with the barrister, who had thrashed him, had gone out again. However, this was just as well as Jadby could not listen. So you removed the knife, said Prelis, eyeing his friend. Yes, it seemed the most reasonable thing to do. I took it away at once, seeing that I could not rouse her for an explanation. It was my intention to hide the knife in my bedroom, and then return to take Mona away. I ran upstairs with the knife and concealed it in my mattress, and then cautiously came back to the library. When I reached the door, however, I heard someone moving in the room, so I thought it best to go back. Don't think me a coward, Dory. You must see that I was in as dangerous a position as Mona herself, after I hid the knife. I quite understand, replied Prelis swiftly. I expect Captain Jadby was in the library. He was. I am certain he was, for just as I reached the first lending I heard the library bell ring. Remember that he said he rang it as soon as he found Mona insensible, and Sir Oliver did? What have you done with the knife? It is concealed in my desk in my study in my flat. I dare not produce it lest I should get into trouble. Besides, its production would do Mona harm, as would my evidence of finding it in her hand. I must hold my tongue, Dory, and lie as best I am able. But now you can see how needful it was for me to hold my tongue, and have you beside me. You must be silent and stand by me. Prelis shook hands and they rose to return to the court. The action brought them round to face the door, and there, at the marble-top table, they saw Jadby sipping coffee, as though he had never moved. Hmm! said Prelis, rather puzzled. The fellow comes and goes like a ghost, just like a half-caste cat, and he stealthily glanced at the captain, who was ostentatiously reading a newspaper, and took no notice, even when the young men brushed past him to leave the restaurant. I say, Ned, remarked Prelis thoughtfully, when they were outside. Do you think that Miss Chint will be proved guilty? No. I suppress my evidence about the knife, remember, and then the destroyed will is in her favor. The sole chance for the prosecution to prove Mona's guilt is to find Steve Agstone. He declares that he was looking through the window and saw Mona kill Sir Oliver. To whom did he say this? To Mrs. Blexley, the housekeeper. She is a witness for the prosecution, and is nearly broken-hearted. She loves Mona, like everyone else. Hmm! Do you believe Agstone's story? No! The old man hated Mona for some reason or another. And besides, he was drunk when he confessed to Mrs. Blexley. I expect, when sober again, he found that he would be forced to prove his words, and knowing that he could not made himself scarce. I hope that he won't be found, Dory. What does it matter if he is telling lies? I believe it is a lie, Dory, and so do you, but will the judge and jury believe as we do? If Agstone appears and sticks to what he told Mrs. Blexley, no, hang him. I hope he'll not turn up. Who do you think murdered Sir Oliver? I can't say, but remember that the middle window was unfastened. Anyone could have entered from the outside and stabbed him. You forget, said Preilis quickly. Miss Chant herself confesses to having unfastened the window. Quite so, but recollect also that she did not know when she entered the library if her uncle was dead or alive. A quarter to ten that was. But he surely would have made some sign if no interrupted Shepworth decisively. What of the thick white smoke at which everyone jeers? It probably rendered Sir Oliver insensible as it did Mona. Can you explain the smoke? I cannot, unless Sir Oliver was trying one of his infernal experiments in connection with the next world. What book was he reading when found dead? There were several books open on the desk, explained Shepworth. When was the first volume of Captain Cook's Voyages? Another, Pierre Lotus Reflectus Sir La Somber Route. And the third, Polly in Polynesia. Some silly book with a silly title by a silly feminine globetrotter. I expect Sir Oliver had been refreshing his South Sea memory. Were the books open at pages dealing with any particular subject, demanded preless after a pause? Shepworth considered. When examining Sir Oliver's body I glanced down at the open pages and saw something about Easter Island. I didn't take much notice, as you may guess, but an illustration of the Easter Island statues were displayed in Cook's Voyages. But I'll tell you a queer thing, Dory. Afterwards, when the murder was discovered, the three books were all closed. That is natural. I don't agree with you, rejoined Shepworth emphatically. The desk should have been left in its original untidiness until the police came to take possession. But someone closed the books. What do you make of it? Demanded preless abruptly. Well, my theory is that someone, I can't say who, wished to prevent the police seeing that Sir Oliver had been reading about Easter Island. Why, I don't know. And perhaps I may be making a mountain out of a mold hill. Mold hills are important on occasions, said preless, dryly. Witness the death of William III, Easter Island. Easter Island. He went on an amusing way. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Now what the dickens do I know about Easter Island in connection with this case? To ask this question in vain, his memory refused to supply information. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of The Sacred Herb by Fergus Hume. This Levervox recording is in the public domain. Evidence for the prosecution. The court had reassembled rather late in the afternoon, so there was little chance of much evidence being taken. Preless went back to his seat, still wondering what thought hovered at the back of his brain about Easter Island. He had visited that lonely and little-known spot during his travels in the company of a friend given to occult studies who insisted that the dismal spot of land was one of the remaining portions of the great continent of Lemura, which was said to have stretched from New Zealand to Africa. He had seen the famous statues and had fraternized with the somewhat dirty natives who had welcomed them warmly, as might be expected, seeing how few visitors ever came to the desolate land. For one week, Preless and his friend Dr. Horace, by name, had dwelt with the savages and during that time had seen much of their manners and customs, and even had witnessed religious rites in front of the gigantic statues. Preless had an idea that there he had seen something suggested anew by this murder case, but vainly attempted to recall what it was. His memory would not help him in the least. Meanwhile, Shepworth, looking much more cheerful now that he had umboosomed himself to his chum, was again beside Cudworth, Casey, and young Archer. Bellmane called his first witness as soon as the judge took his seat in the person of the medical man who had examined the body of the murdered baronet. The medical evidence was very scanty. Dr. Quick stated that to the best of his belief the dead man had been stabbed somewhere about ten o'clock. The blow had been delivered straight and strong, and the blade of the weapon used had penetrated right to the heart. Death must have taken place instantaneously, and while Sir Oliver, suspecting no treachery, had been reading. Bellmane, in cross-examination, deduced from this that the prisoner was guilty since Sir Oliver would scarcely have turned to his reading again had a stranger been in the room. Also had the person who committed the crime been one whom the dead man suspected of such design he would assuredly not have presented a defenseless back to such an assailant. No, it was evident that the prisoner, after quarreling with her uncle, had waited until he again was buried in his books and then stabbed him with a paper knife. The doctor stated that the wound had been caused by a broad thin blade which exactly described the jade-handle paper knife which was missing. Several of the Grange servants were called to prove that Sir Oliver had been hurt quarreling violently with his niece. He was, as the evidence proved, a very hot-tempered and imperilous man and used language of the worst. In fact, the coachman, called to prove an outburst of temper when driving his master, said the late Baronet could out-swear any navvy. It was also clearly proved that Sir Oliver and his niece were on the worst possible terms when the crime was committed. Several times Sir Oliver declared that he would disinherit her unless she surrendered her will and married Captain Jadby. But prisoner, as her maid said, had as impetuous a temper as her uncle and was well able to hold her own. I don't mean, said the witness, that Miss Chint was ever unkind to me, for she always behaved with consideration. I only mean that Sir Oliver could not browbeat her as he did the rest of them. What do you mean by that, asked Belmaine? Who did he browbeat? Captain Jadby, for one, Sir, he was fond of Captain Jadby and used to walk arm in arm with him in the garden using him as a crutch for his lameness as it were, Sir, but he stormed a good deal and Captain Jadby didn't fight like Miss Chint. You imply then that Captain Jadby was frightened of Sir Oliver? Witness evasively. I don't know, Sir, I'm sure that my master was a terrible man and only like those who gave way to him. In cross-examination, Cudworth for the defense asked, do you believe that prisoner is capable of committing the alleged crime? No, Sir, no, declared the ladies maid fervently. Miss Chint is as good and kind a young lady as ever breathed. I don't think for one moment that she killed the master and no more does anyone else. The other servants gave similar evidence, all pointing to Sir Oliver's ungovernmentable temper and to Miss Chint's dexterous way of managing him by meeting like with like. With Sir Oliver she fought on every occasion, otherwise she would have been reduced to slavery. But with other people Miss Chint was always kind and even tempered. Although the witnesses called were for the prosecution, not one of them would confess to a belief in the prisoner's guilt. Belmaine was rather disconcerted by his unanimous approval of Miss Chint and tried his best to bully the witnesses into blaming her. But he failed on every occasion. And even when Mrs. Blexie was hoisted into the box he could not induce her to rend down the girl. This loyalty created a deep impression and prisoner for the first time showed emotion. Mrs. Blexie was very stout and very red faced and very tall and extremely frightened. She looked like an elephant and certainly possessed the timid nature of a rabbit. The contrast between her gigantic appearance and her timid speech amused those present so greatly that a continuous tittering was heard until the judge threatened to clear the court. Belmaine, you are Emma Blexie, the late Sir Oliver's housekeeper? Mrs. Blexie, yes, my lord, with a curtsy. Belmaine, facetiously, you need not give me a title before I have earned it, my good woman. Laughter. Mrs. Blexie, oh no, my lord, I mean my dear sir. Laughter. When the laughter over this second form of address had subsided, Mrs. Blexie stated that the prisoner was as attached to her uncle as he was to her. They had tiffs on occasions as Sir Oliver's temper was none of the best, but Miss Chint was never in the wrong, and usually contrived to pacify the irascible baronette. He was as fractuous as a child, said the housekeeper, and required similar management, but on the whole he and Miss Chint, Miss Blexie refused to call her young mistress, the prisoner, got on extremely well. As to the phrase about disinheriting, that was a favorite threat of Sir Oliver's, which meant practically nothing. He used it on every occasion, sometimes in earnest and often in fun. It meant nothing, she said again. Belmaine, he meant it when the prisoner refused to marry Captain Jadby, no doubt. Mrs. Blexie wiping her red face. The Lord knows what he meant, Sir, he was a queer gentleman. Then Belmaine proceeded to question the housekeeper, regarding the admission which Steve Agstone was said to have made to her. It would have been preferable to obtain the evidence of the old sailor firsthand, but since he could not be discovered, the counsel got what he could out of Mrs. Blexie, and what she knew he had to drag out of her by persistent questioning, for her sympathies were entirely with the prisoner. She stated that Agstone drank a great deal and was always in trouble with Sir Oliver on that account. But that he had been the baronet's factotum for many years, he would have been dismissed dozens of times. A drunken, grumpy, sullen savage was the description given by the housekeeper. But he was good-natured enough when sober, she confessed, and quite devoted to Sir Oliver. Belmaine. A kind of loyal henchman, in fact. Well, and what statement did he make to you, and when did he make it? Mrs. Blexie, on the morning after the murder, Agstone, or Steve as everyone called him, was drinking rum to drown his grief at the death of Sir Oliver. He sat for a long time in my room, weeping, and said that he knew Miss Mona would do for her uncle. Those were his very words, and I told him he was speaking rubbish. Belmaine. What happened then? Mrs. Blexie. He fired up and declared that while waiting up on the previous night for Captain Jadby, he had gone down the avenue to see if he was coming, not finding him and seeing the light still in the library, he wondered if Captain Jadby had arrived and had gone in to say good night to Sir Oliver. He therefore went to one of the windows, and saw Miss Chint stooping over the fire to burn something. Sir Oliver was leaning forward on the desk with his head on his outstretched arms. Miss Chint also had a knife in her hands. Steve said that he thought there had been a rowel, and that Sir Oliver was weeping, as he sometimes did, being old and feeble for much hardship. He said that, had he guessed that Miss Chint had just murdered his master, he would have given the alarm. As it was, afraid less Sir Oliver should be angry at his spying, he stole back into the house by the front door and went to his own room at the back of the house. There he waited for Captain Jadby, and rushed into the library when he heard the bell. Bell-Main. I understood that Agstone told you that he had actually seen the prisoner kill Sir Oliver. Preilis, in the body of the court, thought so too, as he remembered what Ned had said during the luncheon. But Mrs. Blexi emphatically denied such a story. I mentioned the matter to Mr. Shepworth, but I am sure that he said nothing. But Steve might have talked in his drunken way to others, and might have told a different story. I know that there is a prevailing impression that he saw the murder, but he did not say so to me. So spoke Mrs. Blexi, and Bell-Main looked worried. You are telling the truth? He demanded, in vexed tones. I am here to tell the truth, retorted Mrs. Blexi, and I am. So there. After this somewhat incoherent speech she was cross-examined by Cudworth, and expressed her belief that Agstone had scarcely measured his words. Being devoted to Sir Oliver himself, he had always been very jealous of the favor shown to Miss Chint, and fairly hated her. Undoubtedly his wild monderings were intended to hurt Miss Chint, and to get her into trouble. But Agstone had disappeared before the inquest, where he would have had to give evidence on oath. Mrs. Blexi firmly believed that had he been put on his oath he could not have substantiated what he had said to her. I never could bear that Steve, she cried. She was a sneaking dog, saving your presence, and had no love for anyone except Sir Oliver. Do you know where he is now? Asked Bill Main, returning to the attack. No, I don't, Sir, and I don't want to. I quite believe that, rejoined Council dryly, seeing that you are prejudiced in prisoner's favor. As Mrs. Blexi had surmised that Steve had told a story of actually seeing prisoner kill her uncle to the other servants, Bill Main recalled several witnesses, but not one of them could state that the current report was true. Steve had certainly hinted to several that he could bring home the crime to Miss Chint, but he had supplied no details, and as his hints were given when he was drunk no one paid much attention to them. On the afternoon of the day following the night of the murder, Steve had gone out for his usual stroll in the direction of Sandgate, and had not returned. The evidence of a detective proved that he had taken the train to London, and had been traced as far as Charring Cross station. There he had disappeared, and in spite of all search, his whereabouts could not be discovered. By this time it was growing late, and the judge, jury, lawyers, and listeners all exhibited symptoms of weariness. Therefore the court rose with the intention of sitting at eleven o'clock on the following morning. It was the general opinion that, unless Steve Agstone could be placed in the witness box, the prisoner would not be convicted. Also Miss Chint's calm demeanor and the loyalty of the Grange servants which had placed her character in so attractive a light went far to enlist public sympathy in her favor. Those who left the court had more belief in her innocence than when they had entered. Many insisted that she could not possibly be guilty, but others pointing to the fact, which had been forthcoming at the inquest, that she had burned a new will in disinheriting her, declared that, without doubt, she had murdered her uncle so as not to lose the money. All the same the majority favored the prisoner, and many well-wishers hoped for her acquittal. Shepworth was pleased and hopeful. The tide is quite in Mona's favor, Dory, he said to Prelis when the court rose, and unless Steve Agstone turns up, she must be set free for want of evidence. There is the question of the Burt will, you know, Ned. We can prove that it was the will made in Mona's favor, which was Burt, said Shepworth decisively. Sir Oliver made no new will as he had not left the house for quite a month, and could not have altered his will before then. His lawyer never came down to the Grange to draw up a will, and if Sir Oliver had drawn up a new one himself, he would have asked some of the servants to be witnesses. We know that no one was asked to witness any document. Captain Jadby and Steve Agstone might have witnessed. No, there is a chance certainly that Agstone might have done so, but one signature would have been of no use, and had Jadby witnessed a new will, he would not have benefited under it. Besides, since he had the will made in the South Seas, and Sir Oliver assuredly wished him to have the money along with Mona, all that had to be done was to destroy the will made in Mona's favor, and then Jadby, having the cash, could leave her penniless unless she married him, which is just what has happened, ended Shepworth. Of course, said Pre-Less thoughtfully, Miss Chint might have been trying, when seen by Steve, to rescue the will from the fire into which it had been thrown by Sir Oliver. Shepworth wheeled round. Do you believe that she is guilty? Oh no, but we must look on all sides, and Agstone is a liar, interrupted the barrister quickly, I don't believe that he saw Mona bending over the fire, she was insensible by her own showing from the moment she entered the room until Jadby saw her, and remember that I found her insensible. It would help her if you said so. I don't agree with you, where I examined about my presence in the library I might let slip that the knife yes yes, said Pre-Less hastily. I see, it would be better for you to hold your tongue. I hope that Agstone will not appear. If he does not, Mona is safe rejoined Ned with a sigh of relief. Oh poor Mona, think of her in prison Dory. She will soon be out of it, answered Pre-Less soothingly. I am quite sure that she will be acquitted. Where are you going now? Home to my flat. I am quite worn out. Come and look me up this evening about 10 or 11 when I have had a sleep. I live at Alexander Mansions. Kensington Gore. Number 40 Alexander Mansions. Repeated Pre-Less. Surprised? Why here is the long arm of Coincidence Ned. Mrs. Dolly Rover has asked me to a masked ball, which she is giving in her flat. A most unsuitable place for a ball-mask, I think. Oh no, said Shepworth, with a flush of color. Though this emotion Pre-Less could not say. The flat occupied by Mrs. Rover is above mine. She has, in fact, two flats furnished on a most palatial scale. Her husband is a rich little beast, you know. Why a little beast? asked Pre-Less, rather perplexed. Shepworth's color grew deeper. He is not worthy of his wife. She was Miss Newton, you know, very clever and very beautiful. Dolly. Fancy a man being called Dolly. Short for Al-Dolphus. It is not an uncommon abbreviation. It is contemptible for a man, and he's a rat. Dolly Rover. Added Shepworth contemplulously. Foo! The Infeminate Monkey. Well, goodbye. I'll see you between Ned jumped into a cab. Pre-Less walked home wondering why he should run down the dapper little stockbroker who Miss Newton had married. Then he remembered that Shepworth had admired Miss Newton before she changed her name to Rover. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Sacred Herb by Fergus Hume This leverbox recording is in the public domain. Mrs. Rover's Mast Ball. It is a long lane that has no turning. Lord Pre-Less began to believe that there might be some truth in the proverb. For the lengthy lane of idleness down which he had sauntered for many years seemed to be rounding the corner to open out into the road of industry. The chance observation of Lady Sophia which had sent him to the church had become a signpost, as it were, showing him which way he was to go. In other words, he was now involved in Shepworth's troubles out of sheer friendship. Ned had confessed that he required assistance and had turned to his old school chum for the same. Pre-Less was naturally willing to do what he could towards aiding Ned in extricating Miss Chint from her perilous position, and so found work for his idle brain to do. Of course, as he tried to believe, he could resume his former life when the service was duly rendered. The wedding bells which rang for Mr. and Mrs. Shepworth would dismiss their best man once more to his sauntering. But this, as Pre-Less began to think, was easier said than done, mainly owing to the looks of Miss Chint. He had not spoken to the girl and knew her character solely through the evidence of the grange servants who had been placed in the witness box. Also Ned, as he remembered, had said very little about his affinanced wife, and Pre-Less knew none whom he could question as to the prisoner's qualities. Yet, for all his scanty knowledge, he felt strangely drawn towards the unhappy woman, and confessed inwardly that he would feel a pang on seeing her become Mrs. Shepworth. Without doubt Pre-Less was in love, although not head over ears, and he swore at himself for being so disloyal to his friend. Mona, the name slipped quite naturally into his mind. Mona would assuredly be acquitted unless the missing Agstone appeared, which was extremely unlikely, and then she would as assuredly marry Ned, who had so manfully stood by her in this grave trouble. Therefore it behooved Pre-Less as an honorable gentleman, and he was all that, to put her out of his mind if he wished to continue meeting Shepworth's gay squarely. And, after all, a peer worth twenty thousand a year could pick and choose almost any woman for his wife. It was hard on Ned that such a peer should play the part of David in the parable, and select the less fortunate commoners one ULAM. The struggle between more than a liking for Mona and a feeling of genuine friendship for Ned made Pre-Less waver in determining his future behavior. His first inclination, when aware of his feeling, was to cross the channel for a prolonged stay abroad, and leave Shepworth to his own devices. Then it occurred to him that this course would be cowardly, and he resolved to remain and help, nothing that the world could cavel at could ever take place. Since Pre-Less, with his high sense of honor, never dreamed of paying marked attentions to Miss Chint, all the same if he came often into Mona's company, that seemed inevitable should he remain. His life's happiness would certainly be at stake. He would have his feelings to smother, and therefore, as he plainly saw, would be most unhappy. Pre-Less at this early stage of infatuation termed his feelings toward the girl affection, but he knew very well that, given time and opportunity, affection of this sudden kind might easily increase to love. In that case, seeing how Miss Chint was engaged to be married, he would be vainly crying for the honeymoon. His lordship then felt less happy in the evening than he had done in the morning. Then he had been heart whole. Now the sight of a beautiful woman in peril had aroused the deepest and most chivalrous feelings of which his nature was capable. Placed thus between the devil and the deep sea, Pre-Less compromised dangerously with his conscience. He resolved to crush down his newly born desire for Mona, and to help Ned as best he could. In this way did the young man mix fire and snow in the vain hope that such hostile elements would blend. Common sense should have told him otherwise. Having so decided, although not over-pleased with his decision, and with good reason, Pre-Less dressed for dinner, he remembered that he had promised to partake of this agreeable meal at his aunt's. A solitary chop at his club would have been preferable, as he was disinclined for company. But aware from experience that Lady Sophia would strongly object to an excusing telegram, Pre-Less smothered his unwillingness and reached the abode of his relative shortly before eight o'clock. Lady Sophia lived magnificently in Bromble Square, the fourth daughter of a pauper Duke. She had married a wealthy city man. That is, she had entered into a social partnership, as there was little genuine social feeling about the union. Simon Haken was a dried-up active atom of humanity with a bald head, a pair of piercing dark eyes and an exasperating chuckle, which he used when getting the better of anyone. As he usually scored over less clever financiers, he chuckled very often and this sarcastic merriment imparted a somewhat cynical expression to his withered face. His wife, large and expansive and fresh-colored, looked like an elephant beside a grasshopper when the two went into society and they were generally known as the Mountain and the Mouse. But Haken cared as little for the zest as did Lady Sophia. As husband and wife, in its strictest sense, they were failures. Being two and not one, as partners they were admirably matched. Having no children and plenty of money and excellent health and no strong emotions, the two enjoyed life immensely. Possessed of a complacent husband, of a good position, ample cash, and absolute freedom, Lady Sophia even forgot to sigh for the delights of the stone age when she reflected upon the position in life to which it had pleased Providence to call her. On this occasion Mr. Haken, as usual, had wired detention in the city on business, so Lady Sophia received her nephew in a solitary drawing-room as handsomely furnished as she was dressed. You are just in time for dinner, said she with emphasis, implying thereby that preless was usually late. I always am in time, answered the guest, smiling but preoccupied. Dinner is a sacred feast which cannot be trifled with. I would as soon insult the king as the cook. Then he sat and stared at the points of his patent leather boots with the air of a misanthrope. You are out of spirits, declared Lady Sophia, wrapping his knuckles with her lawn yet. I have a round of pleasure. Tonight you shall escort me to two dances and four musical parties. But I haven't done anything to deserve such punishment. How absurdly you talk, these festivals! I agree with a man who said that life would be indurable were it not for its festivals. Nonsense! He could not have been in society. He just was, and so made a profoundly true play. I renounce society in all its play. Besides," added Prelis, inconsequently, I am going to a mass ball tonight at Mrs. Dolly Rovers. That woman, cried Lady Sophia with disdain, Prelis looked up surprised. I thought you liked her. As Constance Newton, not as Mrs. Rover, she informed him swiftly. They are one in the same, he urged. Not at all. Marriage changes a woman into something entirely different. Constance was a charming girl. Mrs. Rover is a flirting, fast-living, heartless, spin-thrift society doll. Society doll, Lee Rover, murmured Prelis, noting his aunt's usual waste of adjectives. Will you come to this ball? What? Lady Sophia almost screamed. A massed ball? And at my age? Oh, how can you be so ridiculous, Prelis? And at Mrs. Rovers, too. A woman who neglects her husband and squanders his money and whips him like a poodle, I believe. He is something of a poodle, isn't he? That is no reason why he should be whipped. She snapped, heatedly. And if you knew how she had treated your friend Mr. Shepworth, you would not go near her disreptable ball. Prelis pricked up his ears, remembering the unnecessary blush of the barrister at midday. How did she treat Shepworth? He asked. How? Can you ask? Of course, seeing that as a newly returned traveler, I know nothing. Then she was almost engaged to him and he was very much in love with her. She threw him over in a cold-blooded way because Dolly Rover came along with a better-filled purse. He's a horrid little cad, added Lady Sophia candidly, and his father was a chemist or a draper. I forget which. All the same, he is too good for a jilt who played blind hooky. Don't raise your eyebrows, Prelis. It's vulgar, but expressive and I shall use it. Who played blind hooky with poor Mr. Shepworth? But are you sure, Aunt? Ned is engaged to Miss Chint. Out of peak, out of peak, she assured him. Mona is a nice girl, poor darling, even though she did murder her uncle, not that I believe she did. But Constance is the one love of Mr. Shepworth's life and fifty monas won't make up for the loss. Mona, if ever she does become Mrs. Shepworth, which I very much doubt, will only be a makeshift. Oh! Prelis was almost too indignant to speak. That so peerless a girl should be talked of as a makeshift seemed positively wicked. You must be mistaken. Ned would not behave so badly. Ask him then. I shall do this very night. Then you will go to that woman's. Yes, I accept it as I always liked Constance. Besides, I have to see Ned who lives in these same mansions. I know he does, first out, Lady Sophia, quite indecent, I call it. Oh, hang it, Aunt, a man must live somewhere. Not next door to a woman who has jilted him. He doesn't live next door, but on the floor below. It would be more credible if he lived in Timbuktu. I believe that he loves her still and she's quite capable of loving him back in spite of the marriage service, which I don't believe she listened to. As for her husband, Lady Sophia was about to give her opinion of Mr. Dolly Rover when the butler threw open the door and announced dinner. At once, she took her nephew's arm and changed the conversation. Tell me about the case, she chattered as they passed to the dining room. Have they hanged that poor girl? Who, Miss Chint? No, and I don't believe they will. Ah, Lady Sophia pulled off her gloves. I always said that she was innocent. Of course if Agstone turns up she may be convicted. Agstone? Oh yes, the man who declares that he saw her kill Sir Oliver. Prilis corrected her while taking his soup. He only saw her bending over the fire with a knife in her hand. Burning the wheel after killing her uncle. What a horrid girl. Aunt Sophia, will you tell me plainly if you believe Miss Chint to be innocent or guilty? How can I judge when I haven't heard the evidence? You talk as though I were on the jury. I like Mona and I'm sure she didn't kill him, but if she did he deserved it as he was a nasty old bully. Prilis desisted in despair and helped himself to fish. Lady Sophia seemed to change her mind every half minute and never considered facts when she wanted to deliver an opinion. Besides, she preferred fiction as it was less trouble to invent than to remember. All the same her sympathies appeared to be with Mona and Prilis felt pleased that it should be so. Should the girl be acquitted, her position would be extremely difficult and she would require a staunch friend of her own sex. Why should not that friend be Lady Sophia, who support could do so much to face the stain of a criminal court? But until the case was decided, Prilis did not dare to hint that such an idea had crossed his mind. As the servants were hovering around the table, he could not talk confidentially to his aunt so drifted into general conversation about mutual friends. He thus became posted up in the latest Mayfair Gossip and so was brought up to date in necessary knowledge. And Lady Sophia knew as much about London as as Mondias did about Madrid and like that delightful demon she could unroof houses to some purpose. Luckily for the men and women about whom she talked, the presence of the butler and two footmen prevented entire candor. As the food was excellent and the conversation interesting, not to say necessary, for Prilis as a newly returned traveler required much posting up in recent scandals, nephew and aunt lingered for a considerable time at table. When the meal was ended, Prilis preferred to accompany Lady Sophia to the drawing room. Instead of remaining solitary over Haken's famous port, they had a half an hour left for coffee and then Lady Sophia would have to start out on her round tables. You ought to come with me, Prilis, she said later, as he helped her own with her cloak. Everyone thinks that you were dead. Well, Aunt, you would not have much pleasure in taking a corpse about with you. Besides, I promised to look up Ned this evening. No doubt, and he'll be at that woman's ball most indecent seeing that poor Mona is in jail. Ned isn't such a blighter, cried Prilis crossly. I never called him a blighter, whatever that may mean, retorted Lady Sophia with great dignity. Mr. Shepworth is an esteemable young man whom you would do well to imitate. I intend to. He and I are going to save Miss Chint. How horrid you'll be a kind of detective! Prilis nodded. It's something to do. As if you required anything to do with your rank and money. But I say, Aunt, you advised me this morning. Oh, I never remember anything I say in the morning, said Lady Sophia, aridly. You are so stupid, Prilis. You always take one at the foot of a letter. You won't come with me. Oh, very well. Help me into the brooom, you horrid boy. I believe you'll fall in love with Mona and give me a criminal for a niece. This was Lady Sophia's parting shot. And when her motor brooom spun towards the first turning out of the square, Prilis laughed long and loudly. His aunt was near the truth and she had been the whole evening, although she was far from suspecting it. It never entered her elderly head that a man of the world, such as her nephew certainly was, would fall in love on the spur of the moment. And I should not have suspected myself of such lunacy either, thought his lordship as he turned into the direction of Half Moon's street to procure domino and mask for the ball. The street before Alexander Manchin's was filled with carriages and motors and four-wheelers and handsome's, together with a crowd of onlookers who passed remarks, complimentary and otherwise on the many guests of Mrs. Rover. The Manchin's themselves were palatial and splendid with a royal flight of broad marble steps to the main entrance. Prilis, shuffling on his domino and assuming his mask, climbed these to find himself with other revelers in a vast hall with two staircase ascending on either side at the farther end and between them two lifts, the cages of which soared and sank with parties of pleasure-seekers. Prilis delivered his rainbow-yew ticket of invitation to a garglessly uniformed commissioner and took his time in climbing the long stairs. Many other people did the same instead of waiting for the lifts, but as all were masked and cloaked, the young man could recognize no one. As Shepworth had stated, Mr. and Mrs. Dolly Rover occupied the whole of the third floor, that is, they tended to two flats which faced each other and the outer doors of these opening onto the spacious landing had been removed from their hinges. Thus the guests could pass easily from one flat to the other, and the landing between was a nest of greenery and roses, like the hanging gardens of Babylon. The flats themselves had wide corridors, spacious rooms and lofty ceilings, so they were capable of receiving a large number of guests. On this occasion they were crowded and it would seem as though Mrs. Rover had invited everyone on her visiting list. And there had been others not set down on that list, since the masks and dominoes prevented recognition. Prilis looked about for his hostess, but found himself received by a tiny, pale-faced man with large, plaintive blue eyes set in a white expanse of absolutely colorless skin. He wore a domino over his smart evening dress, but no mask, and was so clipped and curled and brushed and washed that Prilis easily guessed him to be the poodle mentioned by Lady Sophia. Pushing out a small, tightly-gloved hand, he murmured a nervous greeting to each new arrival. But after this ceremony was ended, no one seemed to take any notice of him. All who came were masked. Prilis wondered how Mr. Rover could possibly know whom he was greeting. Of course there was the rainbow-yewed ticket, given to the commissioner below, which would guarantee the respectability of the presenter. But tickets of this sort could be stolen and forged, and as no further supervision was exercised to ensure the identity of the guest, Prilis considered that such a person was not rash. His thoughts were confirmed by a dried-up little man who appeared without a mask, and who was rebuked by Mr. Rover for his originality. You shouldn't, you know, expostulated the host in a penny-wistle kind of voice. No one is to know anyone to the clock strikes twelve when we all unmask for supper. Why, even my wife insisted that I should receive in her despotage, you know, if she stopped here to shake hands, and she doesn't want to be found out until midnight. The whole fun of a masquerade lies in secrecy, so obey the rules, Haken, and put on your mask. Prilis started when he heard the name, and twisted his neck to see if the newcomer really was his uncle by marriage. It was Simon Haken, sure enough, for no one could mistake his looks let alone a celebrated chuckle. The young man laughed, and wondered what Haken, by no means a society butterfly, was doing at the ball of a lady whom his wife openly disliked, and then he remembered that lying telegram from the city. Mr. Haken had his little secrets it would seem, and was more human under the rose than when posing as a money-making machine. His dutiful nephew determined, before the evening was out, to let his sly uncle know that his misdoings were discovered. Meanwhile, the little millionaire was chuckling and masking. It is a risk, you know, Rover, he observed dryly. You don't know who is here. Half the swell mobsmen of London may have come after diamonds. Oh, dear me, how can you talk so? Haken, said the host of the city, the man below examines the tickets. As if anyone could not forge or steal one, retorted Haken, voicing his nephew's thoughts, well, in tomorrow's papers I shall look for a criminal scandal, and with his odious chuckle Haken brushed past prelis toward the ballroom of the left-hand flat. His lordship, tired of watching new arrivals, thought that he also would go and view the city, and hardly moved half a dozen paces when he unexpectedly began to think of Easter Island. A sweet, heavy perfume as of tube roses was waved in his nostrils. But why should such a familiar fragrance recall that desolate land environed by leagues of ocean? End of Chapter 5