"I have seldom seen a nicer hand," he went on. "Have you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not private."

The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not mistaken.

"Oh yes. She's just copying out the part of Ophelia in _Hamlet_. And she acts it beautiful."

Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal pa.s.sion has moved millions to tears.

He admired Miss Marie le Marchant's efforts in the matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her some explanation of her actions.

The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the coveted "part," and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a "professional" touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her skirt.

She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother's explanation that "this gentleman has just called to see you, dear."

"All right, mother," she cried. "I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes." This with a defiant look at the visitor.

When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper:

"What do you want with me, now?"

"I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles d.y.k.e in the name of your dead mistress."

The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its a.s.sumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant's a.s.surance failed her.

She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e:

"I--I--why do you ask me that question?"

"Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game."

That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart.

Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously:

"I will tell you nothing. Go away."

"You are obstinate, I know," said Bruce, "but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady d.y.k.e's death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law."

"You have no right to come here annoying me!" she retorted.

"I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities information which they ought to possess."

"What information?"

"The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles d.y.k.e's house so suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use your ability to imitate her ladyship's handwriting in order to spread the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and your wilful refusal to give it const.i.tutes a grave indictment."

"I don't care _that_ for you, Mr. Bruce," replied the girl, her face set now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize the words. "You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing."

"You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles d.y.k.e last Sat.u.r.day?"

"I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can't ask you to join me."

"Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself--your own production--written on paper of which you have a quant.i.ty in this very room."

The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in the house.

But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat a retreat.

"I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce," she said.

There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not fathom the ex-lady's maid not only knew of her mistress's death, but wished to conceal it.

This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady d.y.k.e was actually killed. What did it all mean?

From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.

He briefly told him his discovery.

The baronet at first was sceptical. "Do you mean to say, Claude," he cried, fretfully, "that I do not know my wife's writing when I see it?"

"You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly, of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal of excellence. Don't harbor any delusions in the matter, d.y.k.e. The letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out was her motive for the deceit."

"It is a queer business altogether," said Sir Charles wearily; "I wish it were ended."

CHAPTER XXV

MISS PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES

Bruce was quite positive in his belief that Jane Harding was the paid agent of some person who wished to conceal the facts concerning Lady d.y.k.e's death.

Her unexpected appearance in the field at this late hour, no less than the bold _role_ she adopted, proved this conclusively. But in England there was no torture-chamber to which she might be led and gradually dismembered until she confessed the truth.

So long as she adhered to the policy of pert denial she was quite safe.

The law could not touch her, for the chief witness against her, Sir Charles d.y.k.e, was obviously more than half-inclined to admit the genuineness of the letter, even in opposition to the superior judgment of his friend.

Yet it was a matter which Bruce considered ought to be made known to the police, so he sent for Mr. White and told him of the strange result of his interview with Miss Marie le Marchant.

"Dash everything!" cried the detective, when he heard the news. "I made a note sometime ago that that girl ought to be watched, but I clean forgot all about it."

"Remember," said Bruce, "that my discovery was the result of pure accident. My object in visiting her was to endeavor to induce her confidence with regard to Lady d.y.k.e's former life and habits. Indeed, I handled the business very badly."

"I don't see that, sir. You got hold of a very remarkable fact, and thus prevented the success of a bold move by some one which, in my case at any rate, nearly choked me off the inquiry."

"True. Thus far, chance favored me. But I ought to have been content with the a.s.sumption. There was no need to frighten her by pressing it home."