CHAPTER I.
3 A.M. IN MAYNARD STREET POLICE STATION.

IT was one bitter December night that for some few hours I did duty for the night-inspector at the Maynard Street Police Station, under exceptional circumstances which, even had the temporary substitution of officers come to the ears of the chiefs would have condoned the irregularity — for I was not attached to this station at all, nor was I even a uniform officer. I was a detective inspector attached to Scotland Yard, and it was a kind of chance as one calls it, that brought me that particular night about twelve to Maynard Street Station.

      Six months before a very daring and clever bill forgery had been committed by a man whom I happened to know by sight and I was set the job of finding him, and a job it proved, and no mistake, for the man had got a clear month's start with the money; the forged bills were at three months, but by a mere accident the counterfeit was discovered at a month, just thirty days after he had quietly walked off. However, at last I traced him to America, then to Brazil, from there to France, and lastly — the fool was too secure — back to London. I had reason to believe that to-night or next he would be at a certain not very reputable house, which I watched myself from half-past ten, relieving my man. Cold work too, that hour's watch, but my six months' patience was rewarded, for presently out came my chase, admirably disguised as an old man. As he walked off towards where Maynard Street turned off, I quietly followed him, and not a stone's throw from the station arrested him.

      "I want you, please, Mr. Nettleship," I said.

      He was taken as flat aback as ever a vessel in a white squall could be. I hadn't a bit of trouble then to get him to the station hard by and safe locked up, against being charged in the morning at Bow Street.

      So you see that is how I came to be in there.

      "Going home now, I suppose, Overbury," said the inspector as we stood by the fire in the charge-room. "Wish I was instead of four hours more on duty."

      Something in his manner made me ask quickly:

      "Nothing wrong at home I hope, Carey — no one ill?"

      "Yes," he said, huskily; "my little Nell is down with croup, doctor said this evening he'd stop; it's touch-and-go, but if —"

      We both swung round as the door flew back, and his lad Tom rushed in, crying bitterly, his clothes whitened with snow.

      "Father, father, come quick! Mother sent me! Nell — doctor say she's worse —"

      "Lord help me! I can't stop here and my child dying, if I'm sacked for it!" poor Carey said desperately.

      "Go on, old fellow," I said, gripping his hand for a moment "I'll take your place — it's all right! Get home, and don't come back till —"

      I turned away, but I heard a hoarse "God bless you!" and the door shut behind the two — man and boy.

      A minute after I just stepped to the large room opposite, and said a few words of explanation to the men there — not many — on night station duty. They said "Very well, sir," and "They were so sorry," which I believed fully, for Carey was a right good fellow.

      This police station is built in an old stable yard, the rooms or offices I have mentioned opening from the wide arched passage way that led from Maynard Street into the yard itself; the Inspector's office was the first door on the left as you turned under the archway, the other door was on the right a few feet further down. An inner door of the first office led to the entrance passage and other rooms of the building.

      I went to the arch for a minute and looked up and down Maynard Street, just, I believe, from that kind of restlessness which so often follows the relaxation of long mental strain.

      What a bitter night it was, pitilessly dreary and dark; the ghost-like snowflakes falling fast and silent, whitening housetops and window ledges and roofs alike, and glistening into dazzling whiteness where the gaslight shone upon it. Sounds were muffled as only snow can muffle, and there was not a soul in sight. Who would be out such a night and at nearly one o'clock unless compelled? — yet the next moment some one did come along, plodding his way, a gentleman in a furred ulster, a rather handsome but forbidding looking man, I thought. He said as he passed, "Detestable night, isn't it? — no cabs for love or money. Good- night."

      "Good night, sir," I answered, and watched the retreating form, wondering vaguely who he was, whence he came, and if he were homeward bound. I noticed that as he walked each footstep was instantly obliterated by the falling snow.

      I went back to the charge-room and the fire, and as I was totally unprovided for my volunteer duty, I helped myself to some of the food which Carey had brought. About half-past one two of the usual kind of night charges were brought in — a bedizened woman as drunk as could be and a ruffian caught with burgling tools on him, hiding by a jeweller's shop; both were locked up. After that all was quiet again, even, towards three o'clock, I may say, terribly still, and O how bitterly cold. So deadly still as to be awesome in the sense of that silent white world outside — so intensely, strangely cold, that even as I sat reading by the fire I felt as if an icy chill were striking into my very flesh and blood — and then that curious, indescribable sensation crept slowly over ine which some of us have felt, of not being alone, of being watched by eyes that followed every movement, every breath drawn. With a shiver, I rose up and forced myself to turn towards the door, and look over the high railed desk table which rose like a counter half-way between fireplace and entrance. I turned, then, and was so startled that for a moment I stood absolutely still as if frozen.

      I was not alone. I had heard neither opening nor closing of that door, but I was not alone and — the door was still shut. On the other side of the official desk stood a young and handsome woman, wrapped in a costly fur cloak, with the hood partially drawn over her head; she stood motionless, her white hands clenched on her breast, looking at me — through me — I felt as if piercing to my inmost soul, with such unutterable horror in her burning eyes and ghastly face as God send I may never see again. Who was she? What was she? There was a wedding-ring on her finger, but that was nothing; there was not a flake of white. on her sables either. Had it ceased snowing, then, or had she come in a carriage or cab? She must, such a night. She did not look insane either. And how had she entered so silently? All this flashed through my mind in a second, and then I said kindly, for I pitied her:

      "Will you take that seat, madam, and tell me what you want I am the Inspector in charge."

      It seemed as if my speaking broke some spell; perhaps it gave her courage.

      She moved a step forward but neither sat down nor for one second dropped that weirdly horror-struck gaze; whether I lowered mine or looked at her I felt her gaze all the same watching me — as mad people do sometimes.

      "I want," she said, "to make a confession of blackest guilt and give myself up to justice."

      It was not the mere statement or words that went through me with an absolute shock — we often hear such "statements," especially after any great crime — it was the manner and voice. I saw the bloodless lips moving and every line on the quiver, yet the voice sounded as if it came from a distance, strangely muffled and afar off — low, deliberate, painfully level in intonation, as if under intense suppression, and for all its level tone, instinct with a passion and terror that vibrated in each word. Outwardly I did not start or move a muscle, but internally I felt a slow horror creeping over my whole being; there was something inexpressibly awful about this woman and her grim errand, here in such an hour and night.

      Instead of opening the proper book I took a large sheet of paper upon which to take down her statement — why I never could quite have told.

      "Yes," I said quietly, in a matter-of-course, official manner, as if nothing in the world could startle the coolness of an experienced police officer — I am sure nothing ought, all things considered, if any experience can quite make a stock out of a man. "I am all attention, Madam. What is your crime?"

      She answered in exactly the same strange voice and way:

      "Murder. I killed him six hours ago and then went back home before I was missed by the servants, and my husband was out at his club I knew." She paused as if waiting to be questioned, or too torn with horror and remorse to go on without some aid.

      "Who is it you have murdered, then?" I asked, fully expecting the reply I got.

      "My lover. He grew tired of a secret intrigue, madly jealous of my husband, and swore at last that unless I fled with him he would betray my guilt. I knew he would do it, too, and as I loved the wealth and worldly position for which I had married a thousandfold more than any human being, it was only a question of which of us should fall — which strike the blow. I would not perish, so he must. And he has," she said, her hands clutching at the fur. But my pity was gone; the woman was a heartless devil. There was little of shame or remorse in this coming to give herself up — she was acting under the frightful, half-mad excitement of horror following the deed. She went on herself:

      "I bought a long knife — pistols make a noise. Then I planned to lure him. I wrote to him. I feigned to yield, and bade him meet me one evening at nine in the old place of rendezvous."

      "Where was that?" I said as she paused again.

      "Where we lived. We shut up the house in the winter and the gardens are let to run wild. I knew about the old unused ice-house hidden by evergreens; it is deep in the side of a dell. I found it out, but no one else knows of it — no one; so the body will never be found. I took care of that."

      "And you made your lover meet you near this place, then?" I said, looking steadily at her, and she shuddered.

      "Yes," came those far-off repressed tones that were getting almost unbearably terrible to hear. "I made him kneel as in jest to kiss my left hand, and then, as he bent his head, I stabbed him downwards — downwards, to the heart. I dragged the body into the ice-house when I had made sure he was quite dead, and threw in the knife, shut the door, re-arranged the bushes, and went back home, getting in with my secret latch-key. I felt only the relief from danger at first, but when it grew later — later — and I was alone in my room, it came upon me — seized me in its throes the horror of the bloody deed I had done. My God! The hideous guilt and terror," she said, wringing her hands. "But he forced me to do it! He drove me to it! The fool, to think I cared for him more than gold, and position, and the world's praises."

      "Complete your statement, madam," I said abruptly. "Who was the murdered man?"

      The woman answered in the oddest way, as if suddenly oblivious of her own horrible confession, and the fact that I should of course on that detain her for enquiries.

      "Only an obscure gentleman, with no friends, who even knew where he was; he will never be missed or asked after and never be found. I am safe from even suspicion."

      Was she, after all, some half-mad creature under a fearful hallucination? Somehow that idea would not hold me — the grim reality of her confession did — despite the strange, even weird, unreality about her appearance here and characteristics. I said, quietly, keeping a suspicious eye to her movements, though escape from pursuit was impossible:

      "Answer me three questions, please madam. Where is the scene of the murder? what was the victim's name? and what is your name and address?"

      She gave such a violent start that she quite staggered back a step, and flung out her hands.

      "My God!" she said in a hoarse whisper, "what an awful dream!"

      With that last word I strode round the desk to prevent her leaving, and in that second, reeled back against the wall with a smothered cry — there was nothing there! The woman, the form, was gone as suddenly, as mysteriously as it had come. I wrenched open the door and sprang to the arch giving on the street so swiftly that nothing of flesh and blood could possibly have been many paces in either direction, but nothing was in sight; it had left off snowing, but there was not a footprint anywhere in the snow, nor track of a wheel in the roadway.

      I turned back to the room, and sat down. I was staggered and thoroughly shaken, I confess, and it was some minutes before I could pull myself together. Then I read again the confession I had taken down, word for word, and folded it carefully away in my pocket-book, thankful I had not written it in the usual book. For I resolved at once to fathom the mystery, if possible, and unearth the crime so strangely revealed to me, by, I had not the least doubt, the murderess herself, not in the body, but whether spirit from beyond the grave, or "similitude" I cared little just now to think, though I had read much and with deep interest about these subjects, and many others too, I may say, for my father had been well-to-do in my youth and had given me a superior education. That a frightful murder had been this night committed by the real self of the un-real visitant I had spoken with, I felt as certain as of my own existence, but how to find that actual personality, that handsome woman who, false to her husband, assassin of her paramour, lived in the world yet, and passed, doubtless, as one honoured, admired, praised of men. I felt I must discover and unmask her, but where was the clue to find her? Nothing was possible save the hope of seeing her somewhere. I would haunt all thoroughfares and public resorts, when off duty, I thought at length.

      Carey came back near four; the little lassie was better, he said, the doctor thought she would pull through.

      And she did too, I heard next day when I called to enquire.

---

CHAPTER II.
"ON THE TRAIL."

WE "tecs," like other folks in their lines, often get our blood up over a difficult piece of work that puts a fellow on his mettle, and I did in my, at present, self-imposed task. My only confidante was my wife, for Rose could keep her pretty mouth as close as the grave, and besides I wouldn't for the world have had her feel neglected by my constant absence off duty, after six months' absence too. So I told her all.

      A week passed without any result from my peregrinations after the unknown murderess, but then she might not even live in London. I wondered if we ever met — both in bodily form, whether her spirit that had seen me would recall my face, whether she would then fear that her "awful dream" — if sleeping her real self had been — was more than a dream, and that she had in the perturbed spirit actually betrayed the hideous secret of her double guilt to, of all people, a detective. I thought she would, if occult students were right.

      One evening I was passing along Portman Square when ahead of me a carriage and pair pulled up, perhaps to take its owners to a dinner party or theatre. It was still a bitter frost, but, rather curious to see who came out, I paused. In a few moments the hall door opened emitting a flood of gaslight across the dry white pavement, and a gentleman and lady came out and crossed to the carriage. I saw both plainly and caught my breath. The man was the very gentleman who had passed by at the Police Station a week ago and exchanged a word. I knew him at once, and the lady too, even to the rich sables she wore — my strange visitant, but her real self — here in all the glow of life and beauty. I saw her face plainly under the garish light, no horror in it now, no passion of terror about its lines, or smiling lips, and yet — great Heavens how false they were! how blood-red the hand that clasped the arm of the husband she had so basely, callously betrayed with scarcely it seemed even the excuse of passion, for in the dark story told me the most painful element perhaps had been the absence of all heart as motive power and the presence only in it all of cold-blooded calculation and mere vitiated pleasure in an intrigue. I felt a positive thrill of almost triumphant gladness that I had found her, and with her the clue to bring her to justice. I could have pitied her, wished to spare her if she had sinned from the oft-told less heinous motive — but this! — it was devilish, and I was merciless. I had not even the most passing temptation to swerve from my plain path of duty, and spare her. Why her husband might be her next victim if he should chance to thwart her.

      I carelessly asked a postman who came by as the carriage swept off, "who that handsome couple from 99 were?"

      "Oh, that's Gascoignes," he said, "he's a banker I b'lieve; and aint the missus just good, always gives us a sov. for Christmas box. I've heerd she's wonderful charitable."

      He hurried on, and I went my way. So that was her game, was it, one of her vanities; the world's praises she had meant to keep with her gold, or as a better mask to the vice of her real self. She posed as a dame charitable then, as well as woman of social status, fond help-meet, friend to the friendless! — this heartlessly guilty wife, this cold-blooded murderess!

      Now indeed, I set myself quietly to work to find out all about the Gascoignes — Mrs. Gascoigne primarily, the husband incidentally. With well off, prominent people half the difficulties of my starting work were obviated, and the banker at least had nothing to conceal from the world of all such things as are generally known about honest folks. I need not weary with details of my cautious enquiries and movements; the result of information obtained stood in a few days thus:

      Mr. Claude Gascoigne, sleeping partner in certain large banking house, had been married five years. His wife's maiden name was Ward — Olivia Ward — a beauty, but poor; and he had met her at Scarborough. He was much attached to her, and indulged her every wish that gold could gratify. She was fond of him (I knew better than that!) and bore exactly the repute the postman had said. She was held in highest esteem and liking by everyone, rich and poor, — always attended her parish church regularly, and so on. She forgot no part of the mask, clearly — this hideous hypocrite, whose moral deformity was so repulsive, whose outward self was so beautiful and innocent looking. Nature has sometimes lent herself like this to some of the greatest criminals on our rolls.

      They had a cottage ornée at Highgate, in a lovely hilly spot. somewhat apart, the garden large and — to please madame — left rather wild and rural. In the summer they often went there (ha, how many the stolen meetings in those gardens, I thought!) but in the winter it was shut up with only an old care-taker. You may imagine my next steps. I visited the place one day, outside, took the bearings and part of the paling where I could best effect entrance to the deserted grounds before dawn, lie perdu till daylight enough to see, and then search for the ice-house — the tomb of the murdered man.

      A grim enough search it was too, I tell you, in the cold grey of the first streaks of the winter dawn, but I found the "dell" — you see I had the clue — for there were not two "dells" where any such place could be — and after careful search I found the right bushes amongst the many that grew, found the hidden door which was bolted as the murderess had left it, and I feared might make a noise — being rusted in by the ten days' damp — so I did not attempt to open it. Indeed, from this point both duty and caution required a responsible witness. Besides, in truth I was trespassing; we should strictly speaking require a warrant to search the premises. I returned therefore to Scotland Yard, went to my superintendent as soon as I could and told him the whole extraordinary story.

      As I had expected he absolutely stared and demanded — "Were you dreaming, Overbury? — ghosts — similitude — what bosh! it's absurd. And Mrs. Gascoigne too!"

      But I stood unmoved steadily persistent in my story and facts which were posing. I had never I said known the lady's existence before, or of such a place as Laurel Cottage, Highgate. He was staggered, I stood so high as a man of probity, capability and superior education. I clinched his wavering by my common sense — "Let us quietly get the warrant, sir, take the surgeon, and go to-night to search that ice-house. If a murdered corpse is not there I'll admit that Charles Overbury is a dreaming fool — and leave the force. If it is there — well we get a warrant to arrest the woman on suspicion. You can hold me to my words, sir."

      "By Jove, you've beaten me Overbury!" he exclaimed changing countenance," your earnestness forces itself on me, strange though your belief seems, you shall do as you wish — we'll go, but I don't know how such a queer story will sound in a matter-of-fact law court."

      "I think it need not come out sir," said I, smiling at the idea presented, "from information received, will cover all won't it?"

      "Yes. It must. Well you have taken my breath away man."

      "It will take hers away, I fancy, sir, when I arrest her," I answered grimly.

*       *       *       *       *       *      *

      Well, that night we three went, the superintendent, the surgeon, and myself, absolute secrecy being necessary at present lest the least whisper should reach Mrs. Gascoigne. She was I thought the very woman to take poison if she could not escape. I got that door of the old ice-house open and stepped in first, holding high the lantern.

      There it lay at our feet — with the loathsome creeping things of the horrible vault above, below, on the walls — the rigid half-frozen body of a murdered man!

      "God help us! you were right!" said the superintendent in an awed manner.

*       *       *       *       *       *      *

      "Is Mrs. Gascoigne at home?"

      At three o'clock the next day I asked that question of the footman who answered my ring at 99 Portman Square.

      He looked curiously at me and my companion — then across to my cab. I was well dressed, like any ordinary gentleman, a character I could well assume; my subordinate wore a rougher cloth and had no pretence to pass for gentility. "Y-es sir, she is at home, but she and Mr. Gascoigne are still at the luncheon table."

      I stepped into the hall, however, my man following at once.

      "Give your mistress this card," I said quietly, "and say I wish to see her on business."

      The servant took it with a dubious look and went into the dining room, a door on the left. My constable sat down on the hall chair with a nod.

      I heard her voice — could I ever forget it? though now it sounded natural, near, not level or full of repressed horror — only in easy surprise, so secure was the woman of her safety.

      "Mr. Charles Overbury" the silvery voice repeated from the card. "I don't know such a name; what is he like Josephs?"

      "Very gentlemanlike ma'am, tall, fine looking, I should say ma'am, and may be about forty."

      "Does he look like an impostor" said the master's voice — I knew that again of course — with an amused tone, "my dear Olivia, your charities draw such folk."

      "No sir, he is nothing of that sort I'm sure," returned Josephs respectfully.

      "Well, show him in here. Come to the fireside, Olivia."

      I was shown into a handsome dining room, but as I entered I saw Mrs. Gascoigne, who was seated by the hearth, change colour and, I am certain she held her breath; but in the look she gave me there was puzzlement, as well as a flash of apprehension — or fear.

      I merely bowed, and then turned to Mr. Gascoigne, who looked hard at me, evidently not quite sure of recognition, as I said:

      "May I ask sir to speak to Mrs. Gascoigne a few words alone — first."

      Poor man! if he had only been out, to be spared the shock so suddenly.

      "Pardon me Mr. Overbury," he answered me stiffly, "my wife has no business she minds my hearing. By the bye, I think, yes, I am sure now that I have seen you before — the night of the snowstorm, ten or twelve days ago! you were standing outside the Maynard Street Police Station.

      I saw his wife start slightly, but I replied deliberately to him.

      "Yes, sir. I remember your passing, I was in charge there in those four first morning hours of the 5th. I am a detective inspector" — I paused; a very painful duty was made doubly hard by his presence. Why would he not be spared the revelation of her double guilt and his dishonour before the face of a stranger.

      "Well," he said impatiently, "and what is your business here then with my wife?"

      There was no help for it.

      "This sir," I said — and walking straight to his wife, lightly touched her shoulder. "You are my prisoner Mrs. Gascoigne, charged with the murder of Ambrose Hartland."

      With such a cry as might break from a stricken wild animal more than human lips, she fell back in the chair, and her husband gripped my left arm.

      "What the devil do you mean?" he said fiercely; "what monstrous mistake are you under in identity, man!"

      "For your sake, sir, I wish to Heaven I had made a mistake," I said, gently releasing my arm, and he fell back a step, gazing, poor fellow, almost wildly from me to his wife's deathly face as she now slowly lifted herself, recovering herself somewhat in very desperation perhaps — audacious after that first shock.

      "It is some absurd mistake, of course," she said, moistening her dry livid lips. "Show your warrant please?"

      I produced it, read it, and warned her to take care of what she said.

      "I have nothing to fear or say except that I know nothing."

      "I must know more of this though before my wife is touched," interposed Mr. Gascoigne sternly. "Who was this Hartland said to be murdered on the 5th of this month? my wife knows no such person, and if he she had why should she murd—" he stopped.

      "Because, unhappily, sir, on your wife's own confession to me made about three in the morning of the sixth, at Maynard Street Station, that man was her lover and threatened to tell you unless —"

      "By Heaven! you dare to face me with such a black lie as that!" he cried, lifting his clenched hand, but I caught it. I was a powerful man and held him easily.

      "Gently, sir, and read this. I don't want to call my man in."

      His hand dropped — he was ashen pale, but he never moved as he took the fatal confession, herself in the spirit surely had made. As he read, I coolly took the knives off the table and put them quite away from her reach. I had seen her look and read it.

      Then I came near her again.

      When Mr. Gascoigne gave me back the paper and turned to his wife, I think I never saw so terrible a change in any man, he might have grown years older in those minutes.

      "That was the very hour," he said slowly, "that you woke up with a start that aroused me too, and cried out those very words, 'My God! what an awful dream,' but would not tell me what you dreamed. Was it this, Olivia! speak in Heaven's name — I will know the truth, for your silence is terrible. Have you been faithless or true to me? Answer."

      She sprang to her feet like a tiger at bay.

      "It is all false!" she cried fiercely, "that paper is a forgery. I was sleeping at your side! How could I be at that man's police station? I was at home all that evening. I never knew any Ambrose Hartland —"

      "Stay, madam," I interposed. "The body was found in the ice-house last night, the knife by it. On the body, identified to-day by his late landlady, we found papers and letters of yours, and the last, arranging that fatal meeting —"

      She suddenly sprang at me and tried to grip my throat — maddened I verily believe, but I caught her hands and bore her back to the chair in almost convulsions.

*       *       *       *       *       *      *

      I scarcely remember a greater sensation than that trial of Olivia Gascoigne made in the world, the more that somehow a few whispers got about of something uncanny at the bottom of its discovery. Link by link the evidence was put together and she was condemned. That night she died. She had managed to choke the windpipe with her own fingers. Mr. Gascoigne went abroad.

      I have that paper still in my desk. I hope I may never have such another terrible confession, or such watch as that which I kept at the Maynard Street Police Station.