"I go every length with you, as Jac would say. He is good. I think I rejoiced over Elsa's innocence as much for his sake as for anything."

"Yes. He was splendid at the inquest. He and Percivale are a pair for never losing their tempers under any provocation. That woman contradicted him, insulted him, abused him, but he never let her get the better of him for a moment. What a curious thing human nature is! She had so nursed some sort of grudge against Miss Brabourne that it has grown into a blazing hatred, which is the ruling pa.s.sion of her life. I honestly believe that to have proved the girl guilty of murder would have afforded her the keenest satisfaction. She was furious at being baulked of her revenge."

"Oh! Such a thing is inhuman--incredible! If I put such a character into one of my books, people would call it unpardonably overdrawn," said Wyn, in horror.

"I daresay; but it is true. Remember she was in a desperate frame of mind altogether. They were literally without money, and they came down there to find that the boy, from whom came their sole chance of funds, was dead. It seemed only fair that somebody should be made to suffer for Mrs. Orton's exceeding discomfort. That was all. But I believe she would do Percivale a bad turn, if she could."

"Who _is_ Mr. Percivale?" asked Wyn.

"That's just what n.o.body quite knows," said Claud, with a puzzled laugh.

"All I know about him is that he is a gentleman in the word's truest sense. He is very reserved; never speaks of himself, and one can't exactly ask a man straight out who his father was. He is a good deal talked about in society, as you may guess, and the society journals manufacture a fresh lie about him, on an average, once a month. He evidently dislikes publicity, for he never races that beautiful yacht of his, or gives large donations to public inst.i.tutions, or opens bazaars, or lays foundation-stones, or in any other way attracts attention to himself. That made it all the more generous of him to espouse Miss Brabourne's cause so frankly. He knew what it would bring upon him. You can't think how much he had to suffer from the idiots sent down to interview him, the letters imploring him for his photograph, the journalists trying to bribe his crew to tell what their captain withheld. He could not prevent surrept.i.tious newspaper artists from making sketches of the _Swan_ as she lay at anchor; but his full anger blazed up when the _Pen and Pencil_ produced a page of heads--you saw it, of course--including portraits of him, Fowler, myself, the idiot Saul, poor G.o.dfrey, and Miss Brabourne. Where they got them from is to this day a mystery. We suppose most of them must have been done at the inquest. Ah! that was an exciting day. I can feel the enthusiasm of it now. It was splendid to see that fine fellow held up in the arms of the fisher-lads, with the sunshine blazing on him, and the bells clashing out from the tower!--the sort of thing one sees only once in a lifetime.

It sounded like a bit of an old romance. I often tell Percivale he is an anachronism."

"He has a wonderful face; but it does strike one as strange that he should be so mysterious," said Wynifred. "Has he no family--no relations--no home?"

"He has no near relations living--he told me that himself," answered Claud. "He also told me that his mother died when he was born, and his father two months before. He was brought up in a castle in Bavaria by an English clergyman who had known his parents. This man was a recluse, and a great scholar. He died some years ago. Percivale has had as little of ladies' society as if he had been a monk. Now you know exactly as much as I do of his antecedents, Miss Allonby."

"I am afraid I seem very inquisitive; but to a writer of fiction there is a certain attraction about such an unusual history."

"And such an unusual personality. He is unlike anyone else I ever knew.

I wonder," said Claud, feeling in his pockets, "if I have a note from him that I could show you. Yes. Here, read that. It is not like most people's notes."

Wynifred unfolded the stiff sheet of paper, and read. The hand was rather small and very peculiar. It seemed as though the writer were accustomed to write Greek. It was particularly clear.

"DEAR CRANMER,

"Please help me. The German Opera Company is in London, and Miss Brabourne has often expressed a wish to hear some Wagner. If I take a box, could you bring your sister, Lady Mabel Wynch-Frere, and Miss Brabourne to fill it? If you think they would care to come, let me know what night they are free. It is the "Meistersinger" on Tuesday, and "Lohengrin" on Thursday. I wish you would answer this personally, rather than in writing. Dinner this evening at 7.30, if you care for the theatre afterwards. It is a week since we met.

"Affectionately yours,

"LEON PERCIVALE.

"7, St James' Place, Thursday."

"Is there not something unique about that?" asked Claud, as she gave it back. "He always signs himself mine affectionately, in the most natural way possible. I am glad of it; I have a very sincere affection for him."

"I like his note very much," said Wyn, with a smile. "Thank you for letting me see it. You and he are great friends."

"I was with him seven or eight weeks on the _Swan_. He insisted on leaving England the moment he found that he had become a public character."

"Is he English? His note reads like it."

"I believe his father was English and his mother German; so I presume it was through her that he inherited his beautiful _Schloss_."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, I spent a week there. It is among the most northern spurs of the Tyrolese Alps. When there, you cease to wonder that Percivale is so unlike other people. It is like going back into a past age. The peasantry are Arcadian to a degree, the spot remote beyond the imagination of English people. The nearest railway station leaves you a day's journey from Schwannberg. Do you know Defregger's Tyrolese pictures? All the people are just like that. Over the door of every room in the castle is carved the swan, which is the family crest."

"But his father was English, I think you said?"

"Why--yes--I never thought of that. The arms must belong to the other side of the family, I suppose," said Claud, thoughtfully. "That is rather odd, certainly."

He turned with a start. Osmond Allonby was standing before them.

"Wyn, I'm sorry to interrupt you but we must really be going. We are almost the last."

The girl rose at once, and held out her hand to Claud.

"Good-night, Mr. Cranmer. I wish I had time to hear more about the inquest. I had been longing for news, and it is kind of you to have told me so much."

He rose too, and took the offered hand.

"Must you go?" he said, scarcely knowing that he said it.

In another moment she had released her hand and was walking calmly away.

Not a word had she said about hoping to see him again. He was conscious of an intense wish that she should not go; he was not strong enough, he found, to let her depart thus. He made a step forward.

"Miss Allonby."

She paused.

"I shall be in town for some weeks now, probably. May I come and see you at Mansfield Road?"

She turned to her brother.

"We shall be pleased to see Mr. Cranmer, if he cares to come, shall we not, Osmond?"

"Certainly," said Osmond, cordially.

"Which day is most convenient for you?"

"You will not find Osmond on Mondays or Thursdays, as he conducts a life-cla.s.s at the Woodstead Art School on those days; any other day.

Good-night."

She was gone. He felt half-angry that she had so easily led him on to waste time in talking of indifferent topics. Yet, had she left him to choose a subject, what would his choice have been?

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

She should never have looked at me if she meant I should not love her!

There are plenty ... men, you call such, I suppose ... she may discover All her soul too, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found them: But I'm not so, and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing round them.

_Cristina._

A variety of reasons kept the Allonbys very silent as they drove home that night.