"No, I don't believe you did it, my boy," he said slowly. "But I do believe you know a lot more about it than you owned up to at the time. Have you forgotten that Sunday night--the last time I saw you?

Because if you have, I haven't! I taxed you then with knowing--or suspecting--that Anne Pendennis was mixed up with the affair in some way or other. It was your own manner that roused my suspicions then, as well as her flight; for it was flight, as we both know now. If I had done my duty I should have set the police on her; but I didn't, chiefly for Mary's sake,--she's fretting herself to fiddle-strings about the jade already, and it would half kill her if she knew what the girl really was."

"Stop," I said, very quietly. "If you were any other man, I would call you a liar, Jim Cayley. But you're Mary's husband and my old friend, so I'll only say you don't know what you're talking about."

"I do," he persisted. "It is you who don't or pretend you don't. I've learned something even since you've been away. I told you I believed both she and her father were mixed up with political intrigues; I spoke then on mere suspicion. But I was right. She belongs to the same secret society that Ca.s.savetti was connected with; there was an understanding between them that night, though it's quite possible they hadn't met each other before. Do you remember she gave him a red geranium? That's their precious symbol."

"Did you say all this to Southbourne when he showed you the portrait that was found on Carson?" I interrupted.

"What, you know about the portrait, too?"

"Yes; he showed it me that same night, when I went to him after the dinner. It's not Anne Pendennis at all."

"But it is, man; I recognized it the moment I saw it, before he told me anything about it."

"You recognized it!" I echoed scornfully. "We all know you can never recognize a portrait unless you see the name underneath. There was a kind of likeness. I saw it myself; but it wasn't Anne's portrait! Now just you tell me, right now, what you said to Southbourne. Any of this nonsense about her and Ca.s.savetti and the red symbol?"

"No," he answered impatiently. "I put two and two together and made that out for myself, and I've never mentioned it to a soul but you."

I breathed more freely when I heard that.

"I just said when I looked at the thing: 'h.e.l.lo, that's Anne Pendennis,'

and at that he began to question me about her, and I guessed he had some motive, so I was cautious. I only told him she was my wife's old school friend, who had been staying with us, but that I didn't know very much about her; she lived on the Continent with her father, and had gone back to him. You see I reckoned it was none of my business, or his, and I meant to screen the girl, for Mary's sake, and yours. But now, this has come up; and you're arrested for murdering Ca.s.savetti. Upon my soul, Maurice, I believe I ought to have spoken out! And if you stand in danger."

"Listen to me, Jim Cayley," I said determinedly. "You will give me your word of honor that, whatever happens, you'll never so much as mention Anne's name, either in connection with that portrait or Ca.s.savetti; that you'd never give any one even a hint that she might have been concerned--however innocently--in this murder."

"But if things go against you?"

"That's my lookout. Will you give your word--and keep it?"

"No."

"Very well. If you don't, I swear I'll plead 'Guilty' to-morrow!"

CHAPTER XXVII

AT THE POLICE COURT

The threat was sufficient and Jim capitulated.

"Though you are a quixotic fool, Maurice, and no mistake," he a.s.serted vehemently.

"Tell me something I don't know," I suggested. "Something pleasant, for a change. How's Mary?"

"Not at all well; that's why we went down to Cornwall last week; we've taken a cottage there for the summer. The town is frightfully stuffy, and the poor little woman is quite done up. She's been worrying about Anne, too, as I said; and now she'd be worrying about you! She wanted to come up with me yesterday, when I got the wire,--it was forwarded from Chelsea,--but I wouldn't let her; and she'll be awfully upset when she sees the papers to-day. We don't get 'em till the afternoon down there."

"Well, let her have a wire beforehand," I counselled. "Tell her I'm all right, and send her my love. You'll turn up at the court to-morrow to see me through, I suppose? Tell Mary I'll probably come down to Morwen with you on Friday. That'll cheer her up no end."

"I hope you may! But suppose it goes against you, and you're committed for trial?" Jim demanded gloomily. His customary cheeriness seemed to have deserted him altogether at this juncture.

"I'm not going to suppose anything so unpleasant till I have to," I a.s.serted. "Be off with you, and send that wire to Mary!"

I wanted to get rid of him. He wasn't exactly an inspiriting companion just now; besides, I thought it possible that Southbourne might come to see me again; and I had determined to tackle him about that portrait, and try to exact the same pledge from him that I had from Jim. He might, of course, have shown it to a dozen people, as he had to Jim; and on the other hand he might not.

He came right enough, and I opened on him at once. He looked at me in his lazy way, through half-closed lids,--I don't think I've ever seen that man open his eyes full,--and smiled.

"So you do know the lady, after all," he remarked.

"I'm not talking of the original of the portrait, but of Miss Pendennis," I retorted calmly. "I've seen Cayley, and he's quite ready to acknowledge that he was misled by the likeness; but so may other people be if you've been showing it around."

"Well, no; as it happens, I haven't done that. Only you and he have seen it, besides myself. I showed it him because I knew you and he were intimate, and I wanted to see if he would recognize her, as you did,--or thought you did,--when I showed it you, though you wouldn't own up to it. I'm really curious to know who the original is."

"So am I, to a certain extent; but anyhow, she's not Miss Pendennis!" I said decisively; though whether he believed me or not I can't say. "And I won't have her name even mentioned in connection with that portrait!"

"And therefore with,--but no matter," he said slowly. "I wish, for your own sake, and not merely to satisfy my curiosity, that you would be frank with me, or, if not with me, at least with Sir George. However, I'll do what you ask. I'll make no further attempts, at present, to discover the original of that portrait."

That was not precisely what I had asked him, but I let it pa.s.s. I knew by his way of saying it that he shared my conviction--and Jim's--that it was Anne's portrait right enough; but I had gained my point, and that was the main thing.

The hearing at the police court next day was more of an ordeal than I had antic.i.p.ated, chiefly because of my physical condition. I had seemed astonishingly fit when I started,--in a cab, accompanied by a couple of policemen,--considering the extent of my injuries, and the sixty hours'

journey I had just come through; and I was anxious to get the thing over. But when I got into the crowded court, where I saw numbers of familiar faces, including Mary's little white one,--she had come up from Cornwall after all, bless her!--I suddenly felt myself as weak as a cat.

I was allowed a seat in the dock, and I leaned back in it with what was afterwards described by the reporters as "an apathetic air," though I was really trying my hardest to avoid making an a.s.s of myself by fainting outright. That effort occupied all the energy I had, and I only heard sc.r.a.ps of the evidence, which seemed, to my dulled brain, to refer to some one else and not to me at all.

At last there came a confused noise, shouting and clapping, and above it a stentorian voice.

"Silence! Silence in the court!"

Some one grasped my right arm--just where the bandage was, though he didn't know that--and hurt me so badly that I started up involuntarily, to find Sir George and Southbourne just in front of the dock holding out their hands to me, and I heard a voice somewhere near.

"Come along, sir, this way; you can follow to the ante-room, gentlemen; can't have a demonstration in Court."

I felt myself guided along by the grip on my arm that was like a red-hot vice; there were people pressing about me, all talking at once, and shaking hands with me.

I heard Southbourne say, sharper and quicker than I'd ever heard him speak before:

"Here, look out! Stand back, some of you!"

The next I knew I was lying on a leather sofa with my head resting on something soft. My collar and tie lay on the floor beside me, and my face was wet, and something warm splashed down on it, just as I began to try and recollect what had happened. Then I found that I was resting on Mary's shoulder, and she was crying softly; it was one of her tears that was trickling down my nose at this instant. She wiped it off with her damp little handkerchief.

"You poor boy; you gave us a real fright this time," she exclaimed, smiling through her tears,--a wan little ghost of a smile. "But we'll soon have you all right again when we get you home."

"I'm all right now, dear; I'm sorry I've upset you so," I said, and Jim bustled forward with some brandy in a flask, and helped me sit up.

I saw then that Sir George and Southbourne were still in the room; the lawyer was sitting on a table close by, watching me through his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and Southbourne was standing with his back to us, staring out of the window.

"What's happened, anyhow?" I asked, and Sir George got off the table and came up to me.