CHAPTER I.
THE WOMAN IN MOURNING.

"ALL tickets ready, please."

      The guard of the 9.20 p.m. from Paddington came along the line of coaches with that monotonous cry, pausing at each window to look at the passengers' tickets, and give each person that quick, sharp scan which, from being part of the man's duty to notice everything under his charge, soon becomes, as a matter of course habit. Careless, almost unnoticeable, though that glance is, or seems, it is a matter of wonder to the uninitiated how much and how invariably the guard and other officials notice persons or "unconsidered trifles." The habit of alertness and observation makes a man notice mechanically, unconsciously almost at the time, and if anything afterwards calls up the particular thing so noted, there it is; if not, it remains perdu in Memory's cells, as old Dr. Abercrombie says of those oddly-suspended memories we all know so well.

      Just in this way, the guard, coming to a well-filled second-class compartment, noticed that one of the passengers near the door was a lady in very deep mourning — widow's mourning it might have been — wearing a thick crape veil with a broad hem reaching just below the eyes, forming the most effectual though simple concealment of the face even in full daylight. The guard, as usual, glanced at each ticket handed over; the lady's was single to Maidenhead; he said "Thank you," as he gave it back and passed on, forgetting all about the lady, for the time being.

      Five minutes later the second bell rang, and the train swept out of the terminus. It stopped at several stations, but at Maidenhead that passenger in deep mourning was recalled, en passant, to the guard's recollection by seeing her crossing from the train to the exit-gate, where the ticket-collector stood. Then again the guard thought no more about her — naturally. She, one might say almost certainly, had no idea that even such passing notice of her had been taken.

      She did not lift her veil at all as she descended the stairs to the paved covered way below, which leads to the High Street, though both stairs and passage were very gloomy — railway companies are never over generous with their gaslight. Neither did this passenger go on at once into the street, but stopped short of the archway and re-arranged — or seemed to do so — something wrong with her dress. Whatsoever the derangement was, it was not rectified until all the other passengers — a very few at this hour — had passed on and vanished.

      It was now well over half-past ten, and Maidenhead was, for the most part, asleep. When the lady in mourning walked out into the High Street there was not a sound of life, and not a creature but herself to be seen.

      She turned down the street in the direction of the bridge, and walked quietly on on the left-hand side till she had passed the turning to St. Mark's Church; then she paused, slackened, looked about in all directions, and up at the rows of darkened windows, drew a long breath of relief, it seemed, and went up the few steps to one of the houses. At this door she knocked gently, but perhaps had not expected it to be opened so quickly as it was, or by the person who appeared, and who had evidently been in the passage on her way up to bed, for she — it was a respectable middle-aged woman — held a flat candlestick, and had a long clean night-dress over her arm.

      "Who do you want, please?" she said rather sharply, peering at the black figure on the door-step. "I was just going to bed; I'm dead tired."

      If the stranger were, for a second, disconcerted, this moment's respite gave her time to recover. She said politely:

      "I am sorry to trouble you so late, but it is Mr. Mordaunt I wish to see on very important business; I am an old friend; is he still up?"

      "Yes, ma'am; oh, yes — just come in — but — well, I'll tell him. Step inside, please."

      "Thank you; say I won't detain him long."

      The landlady closed the front door and opened the door of a back room, and went in; the visitor heard the woman's voice answered by a man's deep tones in evident surprise, and then the landlady came out, said curtly, "Step in, please," and went straight upstairs herself — up to the top room, where she slept. She heard the parlour door close below, but was too sleepy to even try to listen for voices, and in six minutes was in bed and fast asleep; a park of artillery would not have awoken her in a hurry; her husband ditto, and he had been in bed an hour at least, being tired with his day's work. He owned boats up near the lock, and as this was September the boating-season was not yet over. Mrs. Hughes' back parlour and a bedroom had been occupied for weeks past by a gentleman who was engaged to a young lady staying with mutual friends, living near the river, and therefore Mr. Mordaunt only breakfasted at his lodging; the whole of the day he was absent, of course.

      The next morning Mrs. Hughes, as usual, went down about seven, lighted the kitchen fire, set on the kettle, and got her and her Jim's breakfast a little before eight. But whilst the fire burned up she would unbolt the front door, sweep the steps and the passage, right to the back door, which gave on to a bit of garden ending in a gate, opening into a lane. This back door of the house Hughes always locked before he went to bed, regularly as clockwork; so that Mrs. Hughes was utterly surprised this morning to find the door unlocked. Jim to forget! why, good gracious, he must have been "off his chunk," she told him merrily at breakfast. Jim stared; he had locked it as usual, he said positively.

      "Sure, Jim?"

      "I'd swear to it; of course I did. P'raps Mr. Mordaunt's gone out early that way to take the short cut by the lane to the river. I'll go and see if the gate's unbolted."

      He went out, and returned with the information that "it was unbolted, so that must be it, and Mr. Mordaunt would be in presently, no doubt."

      So the couple finished breakfast at their leisure, Mrs. Hughes now telling her husband about the nocturnal visitor, at which he whistled and laughed significantly.

      "What would his young lady say, I wonder?" he said. "It might be the sort of 'old friend' one wouldn't quite like, eh, Bessie? Don't say a word of it to anyone, for goodness' sake, dear, looks queer and might make mischief, although, you say, he didn't seem to make it out."

      Mrs. Hughes said "I am dark," and went out to get the parlour ready, as usual.

      A minute after, Jim Hughes was startled by a wild shriek from that other room, that made him spring to his feet, and rush after his wife, as her cry rang out:

      "My God! he's murdered! — Jim — Jim — the doctor! the police! Mr. Mordaunt's been murdered by that woman!"

      There, on the floor, lay the tall form, stark and lifeless, the fine-featured face upturned, the dark eyes wide and staring in death, and the carpet near the left shoulder was saturated with blood.

      Whatsoever lay behind the awful tragedy, it was beyond all doubt that Maurice Mordaunt lay there, a murdered man.

---

CHAPTER II.
THE INQUEST.

THE first editions of two or three especially alert-for-startling-news evening papers had a "headed par," "Mysterious Death of a Gentleman at Maidenhead," followed by a few lines to the effect that a gentleman had been found that morning dead in his lodging; that he was engaged to be married very shortly; and, that, at present, the affair was shrouded in mystery, as the police and the people of the house were very reticent. It was, however, said that a Scotland Yard officer had been telegraphed for.

      The latest editions had improved on the above, the headline had come of age, and stood alone and grown, with "Murder," instead of "Death," whilst the paragraph underneath was enriched by certain flights of the compiler's exuberant imagination, known technically as "cooking," but more euphemistically (especially as to telegrams), for the behoof of the uninitiated, "expanding."

      The next morning, of course, the leading dailies — one especially came out with big sensational headlines:

"HORRIBLE TRAGEDY AT MAIDENHEAD."

      This account of the mystery was nearer the real outlines; the names of those concerned were given, and certain outside details, if one might so put it. The inquest was to be opened on the morrow; and now, too, for the first time, was mentioned the nut of the mystery, which up to this time the authorities had been careful not to crack:

      That morning the chief at Scotland Yard received a letter signed, "John Renard, guard, G.W.R."

      The inquest was opened early on the 27th, and so great was the excitement at Maidenhead and in the surrounding neighbourhood, that crowds of people gathered at a very early hour outside the Coroner's Court, those who failed to obtain an entrance waiting patiently throughout the day, getting what scraps of news they could from the lucky few within. As to the fortunate twenty-four drawn for the jury, they were the envy of all their fellows not drawn.

      After the usual formalities and viewing of the body, the first witness called was the medical gentleman, Mr. Manners, who had been fetched by James Hughes. He described the position of the deceased as he lay. On examination he found a small bullet wound just below the left shoulder blade; the bullet had penetrated straight to the vital organs, producing almost immediate death; Mr. Mordaunt had been dead certainly many hours, say eight or nine, when he (witness) was called in. He had been shot in the back, he (witness) should say, from the position of the body and disturbed state of the carpet, which was not nailed down; that when shot, he swung sharply round, reeled, and fell backwards, throwing out his arms to save himself. The bullet was extracted now, and was in the hands of the police; it was small — would fit a small pistol. Did not think deceased could have uttered any cry loud enough — if any at all — to be heard outside. Here witness gave scientific reasons, demonstrated from the nature of the wound.

      "I suppose then," said the Coroner, "that it is impossible — other evidence apart — that the wound could have been self-inflicted, even by accident?"

      "Quite impossible. Indeed, the person who fired must, in my opinion, not only have taken very deliberate aim for a vital part, but must have known where to hit in order that the bullet should reach the lungs with fatal effect."

      "Do you mean that the person possessed some medical knowledge?"

      "I should say so — in my opinion. The deceased must have been facing the room door, probably going towards it, when the shot was fired, as he had already twisted round facing the fireplace before he fell back dead."

      A juryman observed that the shot, then, was fired from the fireplace, he supposed.

      "Exactly so."

      The next person called was Elizabeth Hughes. In answer to questions she stated that she had last seen Mr. Mordaunt alive on the night of the 25th, about 10.30 to 10.45. Her husband had gone to bed an hour before, and she usually went at ten, but she had some work to finish — her ironing — and so was late. Mr. Mordaunt rented her back parlour and a bedroom upstairs. He was away all day after breakfast, and at night let himself in and bolted the door. He really only slept at her house, as he was engaged to a lady, Miss Ferrars, and was all day with her and her friends. The witness then detailed the curious event of the night of the 25th, when, as she reached the passage on her way to bed, a knock came at the door.

      "And there stood a lady in deep mourning, with a deep hemmed crape veil that you couldn't see her face through one bit, except that I don't think she was very fair. She was rather tall — close about my height — and rather slight."

      "Yes? Can you describe anything else about her voice, general manner, dress? You seem such an intelligent woman that, even tired though you were, you doubtless noticed such things," added the Coroner.

      Mrs. Hughes said the lady had a nice voice and polite manner; she rather thought she might recognize the voice again, and the lady might be anywhere under thirty. She had a fine figure and bearing; she wore no jacket, but a black fur cape. The gown was of soft material, like black cashmere, with a broad crape band round the skirt, and crape ruffs. She at once asked to see Mr. Mordaunt "on particular business"; she was an old friend; thought she (witness) saw a black bag in the lady's left hand as she passed in.

      "Now, Mrs. Hughes — you women are sharp in such matters — what sort of impression had you of this person, apart from her coming so late to call on a gentleman? Was she, think you, an actual lady, or only a well-dressed, well-spoken woman, whom one ordinarily calls a 'lady'?"

      "Well, sir, if you come to it — no; I should say she wasn't exactly a lady born. Not — well — not like Miss Ferrars is, you know."

      "I understand. Now, when you took the visitor's message to Mr. Mordaunt, how did he receive it? Try to give us details."

      "Well, sir, he seemed just as surprised and vexed as could be. 'An old friend — a lady — at this hour?' he says, quite puzzled like. 'I don't know what the deuce it means,' he says. 'Well, show her in, and chance it.' So I did, and then went straight up to bed."

      Here a question was put by Mr. Gransden, the detective officer from Scotland Yard, who had charge of the case; he asked quietly:

      "Was there anything in Mr. Mordaunt's manner, or anything else, to make you think that he had some suspicion who the visitor might be?"

      Mrs. Hughes turned towards the official.

      "No, sir, I couldn't say much either way. I shut the door at once behind the lady, and I only heard the murmur of Mr. Mordaunt's voice, which was always low and soft, as I went upstairs. It was then close on eleven."

      The witness then detailed the next morning's discovery. The front door was bolted as usual; the back door (which Hughes had locked) was unlocked — ditto the back gate into the lane. Until she discovered the body, she thought deceased had gone out early by that way. She knew nothing about him, except that he had come from London, was engaged to Miss Beatrice Ferrars, and was a very nice gentleman — every inch a gentleman. No; certainly no such person as the mysterious visitor had ever been before, to her knowledge. Had never heard of anyone making inquiries about the interior of her (witness's) house, but should say that certainly the lady must have known how to get out the back way. The police had all deceased's effects — no weapon had been found. Her husband had fetched the doctor and police inspector.

      The inspector, now called, deposed to the position of the body. Deceased had been certainly going to the door — perhaps to show the woman out. From the state of the carpet within arm's length of the door, deceased had been close to it when he was shot, had twisted round sharply on the spot, and nearly reached the hearthrug before he had reeled back and fallen with his head towards the door and his feet towards the fireplace as described. Witness had no doubt the murderer had stood on, or near, the hearthrug. Witness had closely searched the premises from top to bottom, but no trace of the weapon, had been found, though the search had been renewed when Mr. Gransden arrived; neither had any clue to the crime been, as yet, found on the deceased or amongst his effects.

      "Nothing to even suggest a motive or clue to the criminal?" asked a juryman.

      "Nothing. And nothing has been stolen. The deceased's watch, ring and purse were untouched. It wasn't done for robbery, sir," to the Coroner, "and the woman, whoever she is, must have been acquainted — we consider — with the premises and the neighbourhood — at least, where the lane leads out."

      Questioned further, the witness said that, at present, all search for any such person as the one described had been useless, nor had any such lady left Maidenhead Station or Taplow Station by any train, on, or since, the 26th. Neither from Cookham, nor Bourne End.

      The next person called was John Renard, the guard. He said that on the 25th he was in charge of the 9.20 p.m. train from Paddington. It was his duty to look at the tickets before starting. He took notice of the passengers from habit; had noticed, in a second-class, a lady in deep mourning, thickly veiled in crape. Her ticket was a single to Maidenhead; she sat by the window. Was certainly not fair — the gaslight was full on her. Though she had brownish hair, in a "fringe" — not black hair certainly, and not light. She was the only passenger in the train in such deep mourning. It had crossed his mind that he hadn't ever before seen even a widow's veil doubled up so high over the mouth. (A feminine smile went round at this description of a deep hem.) When the train stopped at Maidenhead, he saw the same lady crossing to the ticket barrier.

      "You can swear it was the same lady?"

      "Yes, sir — no mistake; it was the same."

      The ticket-collector corroborated Renard: a lady in black had passed out as stated, though he had not especially noticed more than the bare fact. Had not seen her again.

      "Miss Beatrice Ferrars, please."

      There was a sensation throughout the court as a young and very pretty woman came forward — deadly pale, poor thing, but calm, looking all the paler for the sombre black she wore for her murdered lover. She seemed scarcely conscious of the many eyes bent on her, as she took her place and the oath, and answered questions in a low, musical voice, steadied resolutely almost to monotony.

      Yes, she was engaged to Maurice Mordaunt, the deceased — was to have been married in three weeks, in London. She was stopping with friends at Maidenhead; and Mr. Mordaunt, as there was no room in the house, lodged near — at Mrs. Hughes'. He had left witness about a quarter past ten, as usual; had been, in all respects, his usual self.

      "Now, Miss Ferrars, I fear I must ask you some painful and intimate questions in the common interest we all — you, perhaps, most strongly have in elucidating the mystery of this sad tragedy."

      She interrupted him firmly, flushing a little.

      "Ask me what you will, Mr. Brooke. All personal feeling must be subservient to that elucidation."

      The woman's look, tone, whole manner, gave every one at once the impression that she would never rest till the assassin was discovered.

      "Thank you," the Coroner said. "Firstly, then, have you known Mr. Mordaunt long?"

      "No; only three months. He was introduced by some mutual acquaintance, who, I believe, met him abroad and had been fellow-travellers."

      "Was your engagement one of affection?"

      "Entirely so," Beatrice answered emphatically. "He had private means (of which his solicitor, here present, will assure you), and so have I — I should say about equal to his."

      "He was a good deal older than you?"

      "Yes; I am twenty-three, and Mr. Mordaunt was five-and-thirty. After six weeks we became engaged." Her lips quivered, resolute though she was in bearing herself bravely.

      "It was, then, a very suitable marriage in a worldly point of view, as well as in a personal way?"

      "Quite so, sir."

      "Did you know his family, friends, and so on?"

      "He told me he had no near relations at all, was an only child, had lost his parents rather early — about one-and-twenty — and had never made any intimate friends. He was not the sort of man, either, to do so."

      "Then, in fact, you did not know very much about him or his?"

      "As you mean it — no."

      "Or of his antecedents, I suppose — save from himself?"

      "No."

      "Did you know much of his past life?"

      "I knew he had travelled a great deal — led in fact a roving sort of life — and by no means a steady one. He honourably told me himself, when he asked me to be his wife," her soft voice broke a little, "that he had been no saint — certainly no better, if not much worse, than others. Those were his words."

      "Yes? Was that all? Nothing especially mentioned? — pardon the question."

      "No — he added that he never wronged any man's honour, nor any innocent woman; and, with all his faults, he was the last man, believe me, to do such wrong. There was nothing about him base and vitiated."

      "I understand, Miss Ferrars. Then he never actually named or indicated any especial person who had at some period lived with him?"

      "He did not; he only spoke in a general way," Beatrice answered heavily. "I — I wish now he had; it might have been a clue to the murderer."

      She was then released, and Maurice Mordaunt's solicitor called He, however, it appeared, had only known Mordaunt as a client, and within the last two years. The deceased had money invested, which produced him about £1,000 a year. Had once remarked with a rather bitter laugh that "that was all he had left now — he had spun up the rest, like other fools; but he had no relatives, so he wronged no one but himself." When he became engaged he had not made any settlements, but had made two wills, practically similar, since in each the same lady was the sole inheritor absolutely of all he possessed; the one, leaving all to his wife (now waste paper), was ready to be signed directly after the marriage; the other, leaving all to her as Beatrice Mary Ferrars, he had at once duly signed and executed, so that this would now take effect.

      "Wasn't that rather an odd sort of pre-arrangement?" asked the Scotland Yard officer, looking up sharply.

      "Yes, it was rather unusual. I made a jesting remark about it, 'Did he expect to join the majority, then?' at which he laughed, and said, in a devil-may-care way he had, 'Lord, no — not I — threatened men live long, you know.'"

      "Whew—w!" went the detective to himself, and some of the people looked at each other. The careless remark, from a man who had led a buccaneer sort of life, might mean nothing much, or it might mean that he knew of some definite threat against him. Certainly, most present were impressed throughout with a feeling that the clue to the murder lay somewhere in the dead man's past life.

      The lawyer was the last important witness, and then the Coroner (but not till after luncheon) summed up really ably, weighing on the crucial points of the sad case. The medical and other evidence left but one verdict possible to be recorded — "Wilful Murder, by a woman, name unknown."

---

CHAPTER III.
A VERY ODD PRESENT.

ONE October morning a curious thing happened in Toronto. A parcel was left at a certain house of a good class. It came by parcel-post from England, and the post-mark showed that it had been posted in London on the 26th of September. It was a very compact, thick brown paper parcel, strongly fastened with string, and the direction was written on a white address label, gummed to the brown wrapper. The handwriting was pin-like, very upright and stiff, as of one unaccustomed to the free use of the pen, and using it slowly, or else the caligraphy was a feigned one. But, however that might be, or whether it was some practical joke or not, there was no mistake about the correctness of the address.

"Mrs. Dexter,       "98, Blanc Street,            "Toronto,                  "Canada."

      And so, here were Mrs. Dexter and her pretty daughter puzzling over it, and trying first to guess at that handwriting.

      "I can't recognise it one bit," said the elder lady; "and from England too. We have never been there, and know nobody in England. What is it, I wonder, in the parcel? Cut the string, Arabella, and let's see. Perhaps there is a letter inside."

      The daughter, full of eager curiosity, obeyed; opened the first wrapper, then one within, of newspaper, which disclosed something black, and thereby rather startled both ladies.

      Both exclaimed in a dismayed way, as the elder saw crape, but the next moment the younger burst out laughing as she caught up the folded article, and shook it out at arm's length.

      "Oh, mother, how foolish of us to be startled! It is some mistake. A handsome cashmere mourning gown, with deep crape trimming. Just look! Or else it's a joke — only —"

      "It's a very stupid, impudent joke then," broke in Mrs. Dexter indignantly, "but I cannot think who can have sent it, or for what. Let me look at the horrid thing."

      They both examined the dress. "Horrid" or not, joke, earnest, or mistaken direction, it was a handsome, stylish London-made dress, and apparently about Arabella's measure.

      "It wouldn't fit you, mother," said she, still laughing, "and looks a trifle long for me. There isn't a line with it, and it's quite new, I do believe. I declare, I'll try it on — it will be such fun, and it is certainly meant for us, and a letter will be along by the next mail."

      "My dear Arabella, pray don't."

      "Oh, don't be such a dear bit of superstition, mother mine," interrupted the daughter, half saucy, half self-willed, "and I'm so fair that I shall look just lovely in back. Come into the bedroom right away, and see it on."

      The two ladies were Americans, but resident in Toronto, where Mr. Dexter had had his business.

      Off she marched accordingly, Mrs. Dexter meekly following, and Miss Arabella very soon disrobed, and donned the black cashmere so unaccountably sent from England.

      It was just a little too long, a little too big in every way, except the width of the sleeves, which fitted closely to the young lady's rounded arms — not to say a trifle tightly from the elbow.

      "Now, isn't it real elegant?" said she, turning slowly round like a teetotum, and then curtseying. "It will alter."

      But suddenly Mrs. Dexter's eye blinked, like that of the redoubtable Mr. Brocklehurst in "Jane Eyre."

      "It is not quite new, my dear," she exclaimed, pointing down to the crape. "The gown has been worn at least once, and out in the damp too. Look at the crape — it's limp, the crisp newness is gone. Now the dress is on one can see that plainly. Take it off, Bella, for Heaven's sake — perhaps it has been in a fever place."

      Arabella said "Pouf," but, all the same, she quickly unfastened the dress, first pulling the left arm out of the sleeve, then the right still more quickly, and instantly she uttered a sharp cry of pain, emphasized by an angry stamp of the foot, that made her mother jump.

      "If the wretch of a dressmaker hasn't left a horrid pin right in the back seam of the sleeve! See, what a scratch on my arm."

      So there was: right down the white arm, from the dimpled elbow to just above the wrist, a nasty tear of a scratch that had beads of red blood all down it, and would leave an ugly scar for weeks to come.

      She held it out pitifully — for it smarted badly — for the mother, mother-like, to tenderly wipe the blood from the sore, and bind the forearm round with a soft old handkerchief, and never a word of "I told you so."

      "You sweet, darling mammy," with a grateful and penitent kiss, as she got out of the black dress (bodice and skirt were in one), and into her own gown. "Why don't you scold me?"

      "The pin has done that, I think, my dear. Let's try to find the head of it.

      Easier said than done. Some dressmakers have a dreadful trick of leaving hidden pins in their work, and the first the wearer knows of it is the point in her flesh. This pin was so bedded and stitched into the very seam it had held for the sempstress, that it proved simply impossible to discover anything of it, except that nasty little point, not visible but felt, pointing downwards towards the cuff, so that the sleeve could not be pulled off, being tight, without that long scratch on the back of the hapless right arm.

      "Well," exclaimed Arabella indignantly, "if any one has worn this once even, the pin must have scratched her, and it's a shame to have sent it on to anyone without a warning."

      "I can't make out the whole thing at all," said Mrs. Dexter utterly puzzled. "Of course, you could unpick that seam and cut out the pin, if you like to use the dress."

      "No, not now, mother, thank you; there may be other such objectionable pins. I guess it's an ugly joke of some idiotic dude in the English Post Office, and it will be just real fun to send it back exactly as it came. I guess I will too, mother! Such fun! I'll address it to the head — what do the Britishers call him? — the Postmaster-General, and there'll be a fuss, and —"

      "But, you goose, he wouldn't know anything of such silly jokes — if joke it is."

      "Oh, he'll inquire. And I'll write a line about the pin, so that no one else may get so torn. It does hurt so."

      She was folding up the dress now as tight and small as she could, then began to laugh.

      "Ha, ha, better still; I guess I'll just address it, ' Mr. J. Smith, clerk, St. Martin's-le-Grand, London.' There's certain to be some Smith among the clerks there."

      "What a madcap you are, Bella; send it so if you choose. I can't imagine who it has come from, really, and as it must be some mistake it may be better, truly, to return it to some one in authority, after all, who may have inquiries made about it. Address it to the Postmaster-General then, dear. Yes, that is best, and I'll write a line myself, inside the parcel, to explain, and also mention that horrid pin."

      This was agreed upon, and also that the same stout brown paper should be used, by simply turning it with the old label inside.

      So the black dress with crape, so unaccountably sent to 98, Blanc Street, Toronto, was re-posted to London, addressed to no less a person than the Postmaster-General, and was duly delivered to that Minister's secretary, who opened the parcel.

      That worthy gentleman read the letter twice, examined the gown as it lay folded up, and with a long "Whew—w," presently carried the whole arrival to his chief. There was a short confab, the result being the departure of the secretary and parcel in a hansom to Scotland Yard.

---

CHAPTER IV.
"ONLY A FORGOTTEN PIN."

THE next morning the leading daily papers each had, in an unobtrusive corner, the following paragraph:

      Mr. Gransden read his own "par" with a laugh to himself.

      "That may or may not alarm the criminal, if she chances to see it," he muttered; "that risk must be run. And if this fails to draw any information I must chance advertising. We shall see what turns up. All those editors of weeklies and locals will be lynx-eyed for news of that murder and will copy this. Left sleeve, indeed! that'll help to blind the bird herself, if she sees the paragraph."

      But somebody else did, for one morning in the next week Gransden was sent for by the head of his department, who handed him a letter.

      "You had better see this Miss Alice Weatherly," he said; "it may be something real. And as she offers to come, if required, send for her to your own office. Her expenses and loss of time will be repaid her, as Miss Ferrars backs any extra expenses."

      "I'll write at once, sir, for her to call at three. Brixton isn't far."

      He saluted his superior officer and went out, wrote a letter and despatched it. Then he could only wait, as far as that business was concerned. Just after three o'clock a constable entered his room or office, and said that a young lady wished to see him.

      "Show her in," Gransden said, and rose, as a well-dressed, lady-like woman about thirty entered, pausing with a slightly diffident air. But the detective soon put her at her ease.

      "Take a seat, please, Miss Weatherly, "for I presume it is you who wrote this morning about that paragraph?"

      "Yes. Are you the Mr. Gransden who replied?"

      "Yes; I am in charge of the Maidenhead case, and," smiling, "I hope you have some clue to give us, Miss Weatherly."

      What a keen look he had given her, she thought.

      "Ah, that you will know," she said. "I am not clever enough to have an idea. Well, it is this. I am, as I wrote, a dressmaker; served my time at the West End, and all my customers are in town — good customers; I only live at Brixton on my mother's account. My sister, too, lives at home, and helps me. We have been so busy for weeks that we have scarcely ever looked at a paper, and I really only heard something here and there of a murder at Maidenhead, and a person in black being suspected."

      "Yes, I follow you; you did not, then, read the report of the inquest?" asked Gransden.

      "Oh, dear no; I have not had time, and I don't, as a rule, care to read about crimes for the mere sake of horrors. But yesterday we chanced to see that paragraph about the hoax of a dress and a pin in it. Mother laughed and said, 'Why, that is just what your Miss Fane (a customer) says you do, Alice — leave pins in to prick her. One would think you must have made this gown, and sent it for a hoax.' Then we laughed and chaffed a good deal about it, and at last I asked my mother if she remembered much about that murder. She said, 'No, not much, only that it was three weeks or a month ago, and there was a lot of evidence about a lady in deep mourning — black dress and thick crape veil.' I said, 'But it must have been more than a month ago, mother — it seems such a time back.' My mother got vexed a bit at her memory being doubted — she is past sixty — and said, a little sharply, 'I know it wasn't longer, then, Alice, because I remember it was soon after you made that cashmere and crape dress for that lady you never saw.' In that moment, sir, something seemed to go through me like a shock," said Alice Weatherly, shuddering. "I felt myself go white as a sheet with the horrible thought that sprang up at those words."

      "Stop a minute," interposed the intent listener, kindly. "You are white and trembling now. Rest a little."

      He got up and stirred the fire, to give her, perforce, a moment's pause; though, internally, he himself was on the rack for her story; all the sleuth-hound instinct of the man's professional nature was on the qui vive. Here seemed the promise, in truth, of a clue, for the young woman was clearly sincere, and his mind at once sprang to possibilities which hers could not suggest nor grasp, except vaguely.

      "Thank you," she said, as Gransden resumed his seat. "I can go on now; but it was such a horrible idea, to think that, possibly, I had helped towards such an awful crime; but we all three at home thought that I ought to inform the authorities here."

      "Quite right, Miss Weatherly. What seems nothing to you may really be much to us. Go on, please; I am all attention. Only I earnestly hope you have all kept this to yourselves?"

      "Absolutely, Mr. Gransden. We never have mixed up, or chattered with anybody; the neighbours think we are proud — only it isn't that."

      "No," said the detective quietly. "I can see exactly how it is; the neighbours are not your sort of people. Continue please — this dress?"

      "Well, it was this. On the 14th of September, I got a letter from a lady — an utter stranger — enclosing £6 in postal orders, in pre-payment, the letter explained, as the new customer was a stranger, for the dress ordered. In the letter were measurements, full directions and so forth, given for me to make it by. The dress was to be cashmere, crape-trimmed on the skirt and sleeves, and to be sent by parcel-post — not by hand — in a week: it was wanted for a funeral. The lady signed herself 'Adeline Charlemont.' I was to address the parcel to 'Mrs. Charlemont, 40, Feltham Street, Pimlico.' She added that she was much too unwell from her recent loss to see anyone. We thought her rather an odd sort of customer, but put it down to her being, perhaps, an eccentric old lady. We were very busy, and I daresay I did leave in that seam of the sleeve a pin or two. I should know the dress again, of course."

      "Are you sure? Could you swear to one black dress more than another?"

      Alice smiled outright

      "Why, of course. I should know my own work anywhere — any dressmaker would. I know the cut — the work — everything. I'll describe that dress minutely, if you choose."

      "Do, please. If it is accurate, before I show you the gown sent us, your evidence will be still more valuable."

      Alice Weatherly described the dress in detail, its style, length from throat to hem, girth of the waist, length of sleeves, the depth of the cuffs and of the broad crape band round the skirt, and the number of buttons on the dress.

      "By Jove, it is all exact," exclaimed Gransden in delight. "I have taken all those measurements myself, of course, and it is all correct to a T, and matches, too, with the description Mrs. Hughes gave at the inquest. I'll show you the gown."

      He unlocked a drawer in a sort of big press and brought out a parcel from which he took the dress sent from Toronto.

      "Now — is that the gown you made, Miss Weatherly?"

      She would not speak in a hurry, but held it up, turned it about, in and out, all over.

      "That is the very dress," she said quietly. "I can swear to it in any court in the kingdom. I knew it at once."

      "Capital, we shall get on," said the detective with sparkling eyes. "Now, has the gown been much worn, or only a little?"

      It was curious to see the scientific way — so to speak — in which the experienced modiste handled the gown again, inside and out, from the lining of the bodice to the limp crape of the flounce; the man watching her face intently; such an honest reliable face. "All square there," he mentally settled.

      Then she gave a very decided opinion.

      "The gown has been worn once or twice — not more; the lining shows that, but it has been worn in very damp air — as the crape shows."

      "I noted it," said Gransden. "Do you think it has been in rain?"

      This was a "catch" question.

      "Oh, not rain, an actual wetting would simply have ruined the crape — cockled it up. But I should certainly think — indeed I am sure of it — that it has been worn for some time — several hours, maybe — in very damp air, such as mists produce."

      "Such as night mists on low-lying ground, you mean, Miss Weatherly?"

      "Yes — just the damp sort of mist that lies so over fields and open commons at this time of the year. The damp has slowly and insidiously taken out all the new crispness from the crape and left it as dank and limp as if it were old crape. I daresay it has been six or seven hours in such an atmosphere, and then, mind you, not properly dried but put away damp — folded up, too, for the cashmere is creased."

      "By Jove, you are an invaluable witness," exclaimed Gransden, "and your experienced opinion has exactly hit the facts. Now, feel here — the back seam of the right sleeve — put your hand inside, but carefully, or you will prick yourself."

      She obeyed at once, and was obliged to smile.

      "Yes, that's just like me — a pin left in, and how it is bedded in — all but the point. Dear! dear, it must have given Mrs. Charlemont a frightful scratch when she took off the dress, I know!"

      "You think so?"

      "Think! Why, there can be no mistake about it, sir, the sleeve is tight from the elbow, as is the fashion — the woman wouldn't feel any prick in putting on the sleeve but in pulling it off, especially if done quickly, woe betide her! — that stupid pin must have torn a bad scratch all down the right arm."

      "Don't say 'stupid pin,' Miss Weatherly; but for that pin the gown never would have been here — nor your information, nor, therefore, the clue I now have. Now, did you keep that letter from Mrs. Charlemont? — I do hope you did."

      "Then I am glad I did, and I searched it out yesterday, and brought it with me. I had tossed it into a drawer with other old letters and forgotten it, else I should have torn it up, no doubt."

      Gransden took the letter, the envelope of which was stamped Sep. 14th. The caligraphy almost made him start as he saw the address and then read the letter within.

      "I am afraid I must keep this at present, Miss Weatherly, as the writing — evidently feigned too — is exactly the same as that on the parcel."

      "I don't want it again at all, sir. Do — do you think then that Mrs. Charlemont — it seems too horrible."

      "To you, perhaps, but not to me. Yes, I am tolerably sure that Mrs. Charlemont is the woman who wore the dress as a disguise when she murdered poor Mr. Mordaunt, and got rid of it in the cleverest manner I've ever come across — only that pin of yours has spoiled all her cleverness. You look puzzled enough," he smiled, "but you will hear all when I catch my bird. Meanwhile, silence, Miss Weatherly. I need not keep you any longer, save to settle for your loss of time and to thank you very much for coming forward as you have done. It will be a very curious case, too, if we succeed in bringing home the woman's guilt — it will be the first murder I ever heard of being traced out through a pin."

      "Most extraordinary it all seems to me," said Alice, as she rose to depart. "I cannot imagine how you can do much from it, or find the woman you suspect."

      He laughed.

      "There lies the difficulty certainly, but now I can get a description of Mrs. Charlemont. Well, good-bye for the present, Miss Weatherly. You will hear again from us in due time, I don't doubt."

      He showed her out himself and then went to his chief. The two men compared the letter to Miss Weatherly with the address to Mrs. Dexter.

      "Fac-simile," said the chief at length, "it needs no expert to prove that — pointed, stiff, upright — a feigned hand clearly, and by one not used to disguise it either. Now, what have you learned further, Gransden?"

      There was a conference then, after which Gransden went out, and took his way to No. 40, Feltham Street, Pimlico, kept, as the Directory informed him, by a Mrs. Hester Taylor.

---

CHAPTER V.
NO. 40, FELTHAM STREET.

OF course Mr. Gransden knew Feltham Street. To use his own expression — a pithy, current slang — "he wasn't born yesterday and christened the day before."

      It was a street that mostly "let apartments," not "lodgings"; that was too vulgar: some of the houses — the minority — were respectable to a turn, others the very reverse, but the majority kept a sort of via media: they had got to live in hard times — as the tenants had — and couldn't know from A to Z who or what they let to, so that they got their money and kept any objectionable doings out of the house. Of course, the detective knew the cut of each classification of house, and at once placed No. 40 in the third category even before his ring was answered by a rather smart servant.

      "Is Mrs. Charlemont at home?" Gransden asked urbanely.

      "No, sir, she's been gone these two or three weeks."

      Precisely what the detective had expected. The woman, if she was the one he suspected, would scarcely be such a fool as to remain in the same house, however cleverly she might have hedged herself round.

      "How vexing!" he said in mild annoyance. "Do you know where she has gone?"

      "No, sir, I don't, but perhaps Mrs. Taylor do."

      "Perhaps: is she at home? Ask her to kindly see me on important business. I won't detain her long."

      The girl left him in the passage, and went into the back parlour, but in a minute came out and said "would he step in, please," and ushered the visitor into the landlady's own sanctum and presence. Mrs. Taylor was an "elderly party" whom the astute detective at once set down as a sometime housekeeper to — probably — some jolly old bachelor, who had left her a nice little bit of money.

      Mr. Gransden at once ingratiated himself by politely apologizing for intruding on a lady, "but only a most urgent matter could have made him venture to do so" — half pausing.

      "Oh, don't mention it, sir," interposed the flattered and curious dame, quite delighted with such a "very nice, polite gentleman," as she mentally put it. "I'm sure you don't intrude at all. What might be the business?"

      Thereupon the detective, remarking that it was best to be quite straightforward to a lady like herself, explained in the frankest manner that he was a solicitor, by name Johnson — that his firm had in trust, under a client's will, a sum of £4,000 to hand over to Mrs. Charlemont, and that he (the speaker) was empowered to pay well for any information leading to the discovery and identification of that lady as Mrs. Taylor's late lodger.

      "You see, madam," added the visitor sweetly, "we are sure that your Mrs. Charlemont is our legatee, but only you could identify any lady as the same you knew, so I may say you only are sure to rightly win the reward offered by us for all information and identification. Your own very shrewd mind," smiling and bowing, "will at once understand the matter."

      Flattery and gold — of course, after that, Gransden had no trouble in getting hold of every scrap the woman knew, thought, or guessed at. She really was, too, quick, observant and shrewd, and, as she said, "had got to live, sir, but still, people's got to be all that's respectable in this house. What's outside, or been before, ain't my business."

      The upshot of cross-questions was, on the whole, highly satisfactory.

      Firstly, a very lucid and usable personal description of Mrs. Charlemont, who thus appeared as a remarkably handsome woman. Said she was a widow of some years' date. Dressed well, in colours; had two big tin boxes with her and three bags; one was a smallish black bag: had a long summer ulster of plum-brown colour, quite covered any dress. . . . Yes, she (Mrs. Taylor) perfectly remembered a large parcel coming by post to Mrs. Charlemont on the 21st of September, because it was a Saturday and the lady's rent-day, and she paid her as usual (weekly rent and week's notice) and gave her notice, as she was taking a house in a West End suburb.

      "Ah, someone taking it for her, eh?" suggested Gransden, to draw her on.

      "That's what I think, sir: I'm not to be easy deceived: not but what she was very nice and quiet like, and all that — only she'd got a temper, sir. Lor' bless you, yes, she had, when she was regular put-out."

      "Scratch a Tartar and find a tiger, eh?" laughed Gransden; "you are sharp, Mrs. Taylor; what a lawyer you would have made. Well, and she remained, then, only a week after the parcel came? Or did she go before the Saturday?"

      Mrs. Taylor, now brimming over with confidential detail, feeling herself of huge importance and fast securing the reward offered, replied at length:

      Yes, and no, to the question: that is, Mrs. Charlemont, on the Wednesday following her notice (September 25th), had said she was going to see a friend for a day or two. Had tea-dinner at half-past six, and must have left about eight. Neither mistress nor maid had seen her leave, but they heard the street-door shut and soon afterwards they found her room vacant. She must have called a cab herself. They missed the black bag and the plum-brown ulster, both of which used to hang under a dress behind the bedroom door, so she must have worn the ulster She had come home the next day about twelve. She had a latch key, and as at that hour both Mrs. Taylor and the servant were in the kitchen (and there were no other lodgers then, it being the slack season), Mrs. Charlemont had entered and gone upstairs unheard.

      "In fact, sir, we didn't know she had come home till she rang for luncheon near one. I went up, surprised to see her back, but she said her friend was taken ill that morning with scarlet fever, they feared, so she'd left at once. She looked awful tired and pale herself too."

      "Did she? You remarked that then, Mrs. Taylor?"

      "Yes, sir — not to her, but to Emily. 'She looks so jaded,' I says, 'got frightened perhaps, as she's never been ill.'"

      "Not ill here, you mean, madam?"

      "Law, no, sir; not in all the six weeks she was here. She quite laughed at the idea of her being ill, she did — but she looked so that day."

      "I daresay," thought the detective grimly. "I'm getting on, by the Lord." Then aloud:

      "What had she on, Mrs. Taylor?"

      "I forget what dress exactly, sir, but it was light colour — a morning costume, so she must have changed it before she rang."

      "Yes, of course. Did she get better — go out again, that day?"

      "Yes, I heard her come down in the afternoon — I was in here — and go out quickly, and she was gone quite an hour by the clock, for I was curious, because she went out so quickly that I thought she was took ill and gone off to a chemist's or doctor's to get something."

      "Wouldn't she then have sent Emily for a doctor?"

      "N—o—; she'd be afraid I'd think it was fever and send her off to a hospital. But she come back looking all right — for I purposely met her in the 'all, only she said it was chilly evenings now, and she'd have a fire lighted."

      "Oh, did she?" carelessly; "hadn't had one till that evening, then?"

      "No, sir, and didn't again. Saturday morning she left, but I don't know where for, only what she said before about a West End suburb."

      "I see. But she had a cab, of course?"

      "Oh, yes; trust her, sir. Emily fetched her one, and had to run right into Victoria Station for a four-wheeler."

      "Was it a station cab, then, off the stand there?" the man asked quickly.

      She nodded.

      "Yes — got Victoria Station on it a stoutish, red-faced, elderly man the driver was. Law, he blowed like a grampus getting up the boxes with Emily."

      "Poor old fellow! And neither you nor Emily, then, heard the address given by Mrs. Charlemont?"

      No; she only said he was to get into the Knightsbridge Road as she had to call at a shop there. That's all I know of her and her doings."

      Gransden rose, smiling.

      "And I have not much doubt, my dear madam, that before long I shall be able to call on you to identify this lady, and hand you over the well-earned reward. Only, remember this one condition — absolute silence till I call again, or you will lose all. I will explain more fully when I come again. Meanwhile, I am to ask you to accept a slight acknowledgment for your time spared to me."

      He laid down a £5 note, part of the sum placed at disposal by the murdered man's betrothed wife, and though Mrs. Taylor made a feint of demurring she soon yielded, and the detective took leave, triumphant and hopeful. All he had learned of the lodger fitted exactly with his part of the puzzle. The cabman could easily be found, then the address, then the woman herself.

      "And if she has the fatal pin-scratch on her right arm," he said inwardly, "she is the murderess of Maurice Mordaunt."

---

CHAPTER VI.
THE SUSPECT.

      A WOMAN sat in a second-rate drawing-room of a second-rate street at the extremity of Brompton — quite beyond any possibility of calling it South Kensington. The room was a fair size, but carpeted and furnished entirely in that abominable dingy green which still reigns supreme in second-rate lodgings; the walls and ceiling were shady, and an inner door, ajar, gave a glimpse of the back room, arranged as a bed-chamber. The only brightness in the room was the fire, by which the occupant of the apartment sat in an easy chair, and the light from the gas chandelier above.

      That occupant looked out of place somehow — in a certain fashion — not because she looked unmistakably a lady "to the manner born," or too refined for her surroundings, for she looked neither, and was neither, although, broadly speaking, you would have mentioned her as "that lady"; but, in fact, she just fell short of being within the pale. She was about thirty, with rich brown hair and eyes, wonderfully thrown up by the still brilliant complexion; the features were well cut, the bowed lips and full, rounded chin a trifle sensual, and the great dark eyes had habitually that sort of feline, sleepy languor which so often belongs to a sensual nature, whose passions are fierce, vengeful, emotional, rather than strong or deep. Beyond dispute, a handsome, even superb-looking woman, with a certain dash about her which perhaps partly gave that suggestion of incongruity with her surroundings, and made one mentally place her amidst a garish — not a refined — splendour. For, about her, as intangible, yet real, as the air she breathed, there was that curiously subtle, undefinable something which suggests at once and unerringly to the man or woman of the world, a "woman with a past," as the phrase goes.

      She was dressed in a gown of terra-cotta velveteen, which was not a very new one, though quite good and still à la mode; her white hands were loosely locked on her knee, as she lazily leaned back, looking down into the fire, at first with a mere stare that saw nothing, and indicated no special thought; but after a time the vacant look suddenly went, a slow smile, triumphant, defiant, crept up from lips to eyes, but gave no light, unless it were the sort of lurid gleam that lies beneath a thunder-cloud.

      "The trump card is mine," she muttered. "It is beyond possibility to be. . . What inspiration suggested that idea? It can tell no tales — nor the fire — ah, the friendly fire! Well, what is it, Fanny?"

      This rather sharply, as the girl of all work opened the door. "Please, 'm, a gentleman wants to see you on bizness, he says — Mrs. Rashleigh he ast for."

      An odd look flashed into the woman's eyes. Startled, apprehensive, was it, or only questioning surprise?

      "Oh, there must be some mistake," she said easily. "Not me at all he wants. I know no one who could call, and it's too late for business with any stranger, tell him."

      "Pardon me, madam, but I must see you, please," said a man's voice, quietly determined, at the door, as the girl came out, and in a moment Gransden had entered, and shut the door behind him.

      At his very first words the woman had started up, going white as death, but indignantly haughty in her bearing and manner, as she said:

      "I don't understand this extraordinary intrusion of a perfect stranger. You have made some curious mistake, sir, and I decline any interview."

      "There is no mistake at all on my part; it is you I want — Adeline Charlemont."

      She fell back a step, catching her breath, as if to stifle a strangled cry.

      "Then there is a mistake — that is not my name," she said sharply, and put her hand on the back of a chair.

      "I daresay not," returned the visitor quietly, moving forwards. "But it is the name you went by lately. Take care what you say, please, for" — stepping forwards and touching her shoulder — "I am a police officer, and I arrest you on a warrant, for the murder of Maurice Mordaunt."

      "My God! what an awful charge!"

      It was a hoarse whisper in her throat, and she dropped into the chair beside her, drawing a heavy, laboured breath; guilt or innocence might alike wear such aspect.

      "An — awful charge, indeed!" she repeated slowly, after a moment, as if struggling to realize it, get herself together after the shock, and face it, as it were, and she lifted beautiful, half-appealing eyes to the man's face; "and to know it a terrible mistake — an innocent woman — I never knew the mere name, till I saw it in the papers."

      "That remains to be seen, of course, before the magistrate to-morrow. At present, my duty is to read you my warrant, if you wish, and take you to the police station for the night."

      "Read it then," she said, in a hard, fierce way, and her eyes went, covertly as she thought, round the room, but very little ever escaped Gransden. He just said aloud "Harrison," and the subordinate he had left outside the door walked in, and whilst the warrant was read by the one, the other's half down-bent eyes never really left that beautiful woman. Whether she had meant to try and reach the inner door, lock herself in the bedroom and take her life, or destroy any papers, was a question never, perhaps, to be solved, but if such were her thought, she was baffled by a man who was quite up to everything, and something more besides.

      The woman stood up, and moving slowly towards the bedroom door, said, with a sort of superb disdain that seemed to put it as as question, a polite formula only, for a foregone conclusion:

      "I suppose that I can make some necessary change of dress — I shall not keep you five minutes?"

      "Excuse me, Mrs. Charlemont," said the detective, stepping forwards, "I must not lose sight of you at all, nor must you remove what you are now wearing, until you have been duly searched at the station. You can get some out-door things, of course — nothing else, at present. All your effects will be at once taken possession of, until they have been searched."

      She bit her lip till the blood came, then said, suddenly, violently:

      "I must, and will, write to a solicitor," and turned so sharply towards a small desk on a side table, that it was almost a spring.

      In an instant the man's strong hand was on her arm, and had swung her round.

      "One more such attempt," he said, sternly, "and I'll hand-cuff you. You were warned, so all this will be used as evidence against you. Harrison, light the gas in that room, please."

      The constable obeyed, but the woman turned upon her captor, demanding fiercely:

      "On what wretchedly false evidence am I charged with a crime of which I know nothing, and treated with such indignity? You can answer that, I suppose," with a hard sneer, and sullen, lurid eyes, that looked into the man's unmoved face.

      What a devil the woman was; you could see that now. Gransden said drily, ignoring the sneer:

      "There's a dumb witness come back from Toronto — came, as it went, by parcel-post."

      She staggered a little as she turned at once, and went straight into the next room, he following, but pausing within the door, watching her every movement, as she put on bonnet and mantle.

      Without a word the woman went with the two men down to the cab — a four-wheeler — which they had at the door, and, leaving her with Harrison for a few minutes, Gransden went back to speak to the landlady and lock up those rooms till later, when he could return and take possession of the effects, in order to search them. That there was something in that desk which the accused had meant to destroy, he was convinced.

      At the station the prisoner was handed over to the female searcher, to whom Gransden said significantly:

      "Remember my orders. Call when you are ready. We shall be here, of course."

      "Yes, sir, Dr. Norris will be round directly."

      The two women went into the next room, as the divisional surgeon entered the outer office, and asked briskly:

      "Ready yet, Gransden?"

      "No, sir, but the searcher won't be longer than she can help," adding very low, "Every bit of clothing will have to come off, you see, sir — she's the sort to be up to any dodge and concealment. Mrs. James will call us when the dress is on again, all but the arms in."

      The doctor nodded, and both men waited quietly till the searcher's voice said from the inner room:

      "Come in, please, sir," followed by a violent exclamation from the prisoner.

      "How dare you call those men in before my dress-bodice is on! They shall wait till — this is an insult outright."

      For both doctor and police-officer had quietly entered. "Pooh! pooh!" said the first coolly, "it's simply duty — neither an insult nor improper. We shan't be five minutes" — as both crossed to where she stood — dressed entirely save for the bodice of her gown; but a worked camisole left bare only the white neck and fair, rounded arms, which she had folded closely across her bosom.

      "I must trouble you, please, to unfold your arms."

      She blazed out in a fury of passion — or was it more desperate fear, that mastered all caution?

      "I will not! I refuse to be ordered about in this insolent fashion! It is a shameful abuse, and I shall report you both."

      "As you please, ma'am," said Gransden, quite unmoved, "but if you refuse the doctor's request — as a polite request — I shall be obliged to use force, you see."

      "Against a woman, you coward!" she said through her teeth. The native brute in the woman was fast coming out.

      "Oh, we're not playing private theatricals here, Mrs. Charlemont," remarked the detective drily. "I hope you won't compel me to use strength — but if I must — I must."

      "Give me your hand," said the doctor, and it was now yielded sullenly. She was beaten, as the brutes are, by fear; the grace and suavity which are an integral part of the fine and well-bred nature, are only a thin veneer to the essentially coarse fibre of such a nature as this.

      Dr. Norris had only been requested by Gransden to examine the prisoner's arms, and if he found any marks, report on them, and now, as he lifted the white, finely-moulded right arm, he and Gransden at once saw, what the one expected and the other did not a long, ugly red scratch from elbow to wrist.

      "Why, how on earth did you get such a scratch?" exclaimed the doctor, examining it. "It's a regular —"

      "It's nothing but the scratch of a spiteful kitten," interposed the woman sharply. "It's an old one."

      "A 'spiteful' pin," said the doctor decisively, "and not such a very old one, either. Poor thing! it must have hurt you, anyway. Kitten, indeed! let's look again, please," suiting the action to the word.

      But he shook his head again as decidedly, and the detective said quietly:

      "That's all, sir, thank you," and the two went out. Then Gransden asked aside, quite low:

      "Are you quite sure in your opinion, sir, about that scratch on her arm?"

      "Yes, pretty positive; it's regularly been torn down by a pin — and nothing else. Just a common pin — if it matters at all what scratched that arm."

      "It matters everything, sir. That pin-scratch is the most damning evidence against her," answered the detective.

---

CHAPTER VII.
RICOCHÉ.

ONLY a few short weeks ago a terrible murder had been committed, shrouded in such impenetrable mystery that the coroner's court could only record a verdict against "a woman unknown," and yet here, to-day, behold! a woman stood in the prisoner's dock charged, under the name of Adeline Charlemont, alias Rashleigh, with the guilt of that very crime. She pleaded "Not Guilty," that, of course, whether the plea were true or false, and denied all knowledge of Maurice Mordaunt, but, beyond that, having as yet no legal aid, she was clever enough to reserve her defence, Gransden only offering sufficient evidence to obtain the usual remand. The black dress was mentioned, of course, but nothing was said at present of the curious clue that had, in truth, led to this arrest — the little insignificant pin which might, in the end, through the mark it had made on two — asserted — wearers of the dress, prove an unshakable, if dumb, witness in the cause of Justice.

      In the rooms of the accused, Gransden found the black bag and plum-brown ulster, which Mrs. Taylor identified; the bag also answered to Mrs. Hughes' description. Further, the detective, on trying it, found, as he had thought, that the said ulster would fold up into the bag. All these facts bore out the theory he had formed as to the accused woman's proceedings on the fatal night.

      In the little desk he found a valuable (possible) clue to her past — a photograph of herself, bearing the name — a French name — and address of a photographer in a suburb of Paris. It was, doubtless, this photograph which she had wanted to get at and burn.

      That evening he received a wired reply from the chief of the Toronto police.

      "Good," said Gransden, highly satisfied. "Now for Paris and M. Joseph Lévé."

      At the next examination of the prisoner, she was defended by a well-known firm of solicitors, the Crown (prosecution) being represented by the Treasury solicitor. Some more evidence was given, amongst other, the latter stating that they should produce proof that the accused had known Mr. Mordaunt, and had used threats towards him. The prosecution finally asked for a committal, which the defence also wished, since, as the accused reserved her defence, there was no object in further remands. In the end, therefore, "Adeline Charlemont, alias Rashleigh," was fully committed for trial.

      For which event the public waited on the very tiptoe of expectation. It was talked over, wondered over, surmised about, discussed. The police, of course, were pestered with silly letters, and several were even sent to Beatrice Ferrars — as if the miserable wreck of her young life were not enough. And, perhaps, this interval before the trial was the most trying time of all, just because she was, perforce, personally inactive in the avenging of her lover's death — hers was the high and proud spirit that will never rest or surrender till justice be appeased — the wrong avenged. When, at length, in December, the great sensational cause célèbre came on, and Beatrice took her place in court amongst the other witnesses for the Crown, she looked, indeed, deadly pale and worn, but calm, steadfast, proudly self-controlled; the gaping crowd around should not see the anguish of the widowed heart — that woman in the dock should have no such gloating triumph as she perhaps anticipated. As Adeline entered, looking superbly handsome, she swept a disdainful glance over the sea of upturned faces, her gaze resting last on the murdered man's beautiful betrothed.

      Well, well — and then the terribly realistic play for life or death began in stern earnest.

      The Attorney-General, in a terse and telling opening speech, unfolded the singular story, the facts of which, he said, he should prove, step by step, by the evidence of trustworthy witnesses and by other evidence, which, because of the "inexorable logic of fact," was, perhaps, still more unimpeachable.

      After a brief résumé of the past life, position, and murder of Maurice Mordaunt, as proved at the inquest, the learned counsel went on to the story of the black gown, its cleverly conceived transmission to a Mrs. Dexter, in Toronto, the curious fact of a pin, left in the sleeve by the dressmaker, having made its ugly mark on the lady by whom the dress was ordered — the prisoner — and on the daughter of the lady to whom it was anonymously sent — Miss Dexter — who tried it on; the pin being the cause of mother and daughter re-posting the "uncanny" gown to London.

      The details of all this it is needless to repeat here. Counsel went on to say that the prisoner denied she was, or could be, the woman in mourning — he should prove that she was. She denied the least knowledge of the deceased — he should prove that, now three years ago, she had been Maurice Mordaunt's mistress, had lived with him in apartments at a Parisian photographer's, and had, there was reason to think, been previously with the deceased in Toronto. She had been heard. to threaten her lover's life when he broke off his relations with her, vowing he should never marry whilst she, his mistress, lived. It was, therefore, a fair presumption that jealousy and revenge were the motives of the murder. It would also be proved that the accused possessed a very small, silver-mounted pistol (now in court), that this had been found in a pool on the road from Maidenhead to Windsor, and that the bullet which had been extracted from Mr. Mordaunt's body fitted the bore exactly. After these statements were concluded, the witnesses, one after the other, were called, the first being Joseph Lévé, the French photographer. He identified the prisoner as the lady, called merely "Madame Adeline," who had been photographed by him; she had lodged in his house near Paris with an English gentleman, M. Maurice Mordaunt, who had said they were recently in Toronto, and that madame had once been a medical student there. Shown several photos, witness pointed out one of poor Mordaunt, which belonged to Beatrice Ferrars. Lévé then gave evidence of the final quarrel and of the woman's fierce threat, "like one diablesse," which he had overheard. After this M. Mordaunt left the lady, but gave her (she had said) French bank bills for 12,500 francs. This evidence matched with that of Mordaunt's lawyer, to whom the former had said, "Oh, threatened men live long, you know." Lévé identified the pistol as one he had often seen in the lady's possession.

      Alice Weatherly, called next, proved the ordering (letter handed up), the making and posting of the dress, the latter early on the 21st of September. Yes, she often left a pin or two in her work, where she had pinned it for stitching. Swore to the dress shown her now; knew her own work. Gown had unquestionably been many hours in damp air, such as the night mist of the country-side. Had told the same to Mr. Gransden.

      Mrs. Taylor, of Feltham Street, identified the prisoner as her lodger, "Mrs. Charlemont," and proved taking in a parcel on that 21st. Stated all she had told the detective. Her servant corroborated.

      The G. W. R. guard and Hughes next gave their evidence, as at the inquest. Certainly, prisoner was about the height and figure of the lady they had seen. Miss Ferrars followed, repeating her former evidence. She was soon released, and, amid some sensation, Miss Dexter was called. She related the strange incident of the black gown being sent, and what had passed. Bared a very pretty arm, and showed the mark — still quite visible — of the pin-scratch. She fully and practically corroborated Alice's assertion that, as the pin was placed, no one could pull off the sleeve without tearing herself badly. If the prisoner did wear the gown, she too must have a similar mark on the right arm. The pin could not be now removed without unpicking the seam.

      An expert, next called, said (this indeed was self-evident) that the letter to Miss Weatherly and the address to Mrs. Dexter were in similar handwriting, and both were evidently feigned. Not well feigned either, for the expert — shown a letter found in the prisoner's desk, and written by her, signed, "A. Rashleigh" — said that both were in the same hand, and he pointed out resemblances.

      Dr. Norris followed, and deposed to finding the pin-scratch on prisoner's arm, and described her conduct at the station. Lastly, Gransden was called. He proved the arrest of the prisoner, also spoke as to her conduct, and to the fact of the pin-mark. His evidence was detailed and fitted in the links of the chain in a way that seemed to leave not one unclinched. He had been indefatigable. Of course, besides the gown, the plum ulster and black bag were in court. The detective had discovered that early in September a woman, humbly dressed, but resembling his description and the photo taken of the prisoner after her arrest, had been seen near St. Mark's Church, Maidenhead — had enquired about that lane, and about the way to Windsor and Slough. The woman had gone down the lane. That was in the evening. He had then walked from Maidenhead to Windsor, and half-way had come upon a large, deep pool of water where three roads met. Had had this dragged as a chance, and had there found the pistol produced to which the fatal bullet fitted and which M. Lévé had sworn to as having belonged to the prisoner. Thence he (Gransden) had gone on to Windsor Station and obtained further trace from a porter named Baylis.

      Baylis, next called, stated that one morning about the end of September he had seen a lady, wearing a brownish sort of ulster, who went by the ten o'clock train to London. She was handsome — thought the prisoner was the same lady.

      All this supported the statements put forward in the opening speech — that the murderess had walked to Windsor Station, after loitering all night on the way; that she had thrown the pistol into the pool, then donned the ulster and put the fur cape and veil into the bag, and had left Windsor at an hour when plenty of ladies would be going up to town also, so that she would not be remarked. Lévé was recalled and sharply cross-examined, but was unshaken. The pistol was the one that the prisoner had possessed; it was remarkably small and beautifully mounted — he had cleaned it for her. She was a good shot.

      This evidence closed the case for the prosecution, and the defence followed — such as it was, for it was only another form of the famous Non mi ricordo — a denial of everything adduced. The prisoner, said her counsel, had never lived with the deceased, or known him even, had never ordered nor received the dress, had never been in Maidenhead at all, and had never had a pistol at all. The scratch on her arm was made by a kitten, not a pin. The witnesses who swore to her identity were mistaken. On the 25th and 26th of September she had been with a friend, as she had said; he (counsel) might add, a gentleman, who, being married, would not, the prisoner knew, come forward, and she did not know his real name — which wretchedly lame excuse raised a sneering laugh in the gallery, and provoked a general smile and shrug.

      The counsel made the most of the woman in mourning being veiled, her face invisible; suggested that some other person could have entered at the open back door when Mordaunt let out his visitor — doubtless one he did not wish Miss Ferrars to hear of; but it was up-hill work; the prisoner was not the woman in black of the murder — that was the sum total of it.

      The reply was short, pointed out the utter weakness of the defence, and ended with a slight peroration, concluding with a remark on the singular way in which the very means so cleverly taken by the prisoner to get rid of the dangerous dress had been as the ricochet of a shot; it had rebounded and struck her, all through the accident — providential accident — of the dressmaker forgetting to remove a little pin. This little pin had left a mark that had been indeed, as the witness Gransden said, "a dumb witness."

      (Subdued applause, checked by usher.)

      The Judge's charge carefully and evenly recapitulated the evidence, but the one side was so strong, the other so, in truth, nil, that the jury were absent hardly fifteen minutes before they re-entered with the verdict that everyone in court expected — Guilty.

*       *       *       *       *      *

      The night before the execution the prison chaplain made one more — a last — attempt to reach that human soul which had but four short hours now between it and Eternity. For, from first to last, the condemned woman had refused all his ministrations; her invincible stubbornness was the more awful because of the hardened, sullen ferocity she displayed, and her vengeful triumph in the deed that had widowed and wrecked a young life at the grave of the murdered man.

      Haggard but defiant, with bloodless lip and lurid, hollow eyes, out of which seemed to look a mocking devil, she faced the priest and grimly, without one flicker of remorse, avowed her guilt — it was all true what they had said and surmised; she was Maurice Mordaunt's mistress — loved him madly, jealously; but he knew what she was, and had no right to tire of the tie and break it off.

      She had vowed revenge, had vowed that he should never marry, and she had kept those vows — she confessed it in triumph, although she was doomed, all through that accursed little tell-tale pin they had called a dumb witness. No, she would hear no word of a Future, or any such priest's jargon — she would die as she had lived; he could go — leave her unmolested; and she turned fiercely from him, flinging herself on the pallet bed as the heavy door clanged to behind the chaplain.

      And in the early December morning, when it was yet scarcely daylight, the prison bell began to toll.