hypocrite, if not a schemer.
The man who had called himself Davies, Vera told me, in the course ofour long conversation that evening, was not named Smithson at all. Thatwas a name he had adopted for some motive which, she seemed to take itfor granted, I must be able to guess. Mexican by birth, though ofBritish-Portuguese parentage, he had spoken to her, perhaps,half-a-dozen times. He appeared to be a friend of her father, she said,though what interest they had in common she had never been able todiscover.
Speaking of Paulton, she said, her soft hand resting in mine, that hehad known her mother longer than her father, and he had, she believed,been introduced by her mother to Sir Charles, since which time, the twomen's intimacy had steadily increased.
She gave no reason for the dismay the sight of the framed panel portraitof "Smithson" had created, or for the sudden dismissal that night of allthe servants at Houghton, and the subsequent flight. I could not quitedecide, in my mind, if she took it for granted that I, knowing SirCharles' secret--as she supposed--knew also why he had left Houghtonthus mysteriously, or whether she intentionally refrained from tellingme. But certainly she seemed to think there was no reason to tell mewho had done poor James, the butler, to death, or who had fired therifle shots from the wood, and killed the chauffeur. At the inquest onthe butler, the jury had returned an open verdict.
Could he have been drowned by Paulton, and drowned intentionally? Orwas Davies responsible for his death? That it must have been one ofthose two men I now felt certain--supposing he had not committedsuicide, or been drowned by accident.
Another thing Vera clearly took for granted was, that I must have knownwhy the man hidden in the wood had fired those shots at me. I hadguessed, of course, from the first, that the bullet that had killed thedriver had been meant for me; though why anybody should wish to do meharm I had not the remotest idea.
Of some points, of course, my love was ignorant as myself.
On the subject of the flask with the gelsiminum--a very potent poisondistilled from the root of the yellow jasmine--that had been picked upon the drive at Houghton, just outside the front door, Vera saidnothing. Indeed, though I referred to it more than once, she each timeturned the conversation into a different channel, as though by accident.
"By the way, darling," I said, as our lips met again in a long,lingering caress, when we had been talking a long time, "why did youring me up to tell me you were in trouble and needed my help, and whydid you call with Davies at my chambers?"
Several times during the evening I had been on the point of asking herthese questions, but on each occasion she had diverted my intention. Itseemed odd, too, that though I had more than once asked her to tell meDavies' true name, she had each time turned the conversation withoutsatisfying me. And at last she had point-blank refused to tell me.
Why? I wondered.
She looked at me steadily for some moments.
"It seems almost incredible, Dick," she said at last, speaking veryslowly, and drawing herself away, "that knowing my father's secret, youshould ask those questions. Tell me, how did you come to make theterrible discovery about my father? How long have you known everything?Who told you about it?"
CHAPTER TEN.
RELATES A STRANGE INCIDENT.
Vera's very direct questions took me aback, though I had expected themsooner or later. "Who told me?" I said, echoing the words in order togain time for thought, my arms still about her. "Oh, I'm sure I can'tremember. I seem to have known it a long time."
"It can't have been such a _very_ long time," she answered, stilllooking at me in that queer way that made me feel uncomfortable."Surely you must remember who told you. It is hardly the sort of thingone would be told every day--or even twice in one's life, is it?"
"Honestly," I said with quick decision, "I can't tell you how I came toknow it."
"Your `cannot' means `will not,'" she said, and her lip twitched in thecurious way that I knew meant she was nettled.
However, after that she dropped the subject, and I felt relieved. Ihated deceiving her, yet I was compelled. I am not an adept in the artof what Lamb calls "walking round about a truth," at least, not for morethan a minute or two at a time, and my love had such quick intelligencethat it is no easy matter--as I had several times discovered, to mydiscomfiture--to mislead her.
For the first time since we had met in the house in Belgrave Street, ourconversation became purely personal.
I had almost feared the events of the past weeks might have altered herregard for me, and it afforded me intense relief to find I was mistaken.For I was desperately in love with her, more so than I cared to admiteven to myself. And now I found to my joy that my love for her wasapparently fully reciprocated.
And yet why should she care for me? This puzzled me, I confess, thoughI know as a thoroughgoing man of the world and as a cosmopolitan thatwomen do take most curious likes and dislikes. I am neither clever,good-looking nor amusing, nor, I believe, even particularly "goodcompany" as it is called. There are scores upon scores of men just likemyself. You meet them everywhere, in town and in the country. Societyteems with them, and our clubs are full of them. Men, young and middleaged, who have been educated at the public schools and Universities, whohave comfortable incomes, are fond of sport, who travel up and downEurope, who have never in their lives done a stroke of work--and don'tintend ever to do one if they can help it--who live solely for amusementand for the pleasure of living.
What do women see in such men, women who have plenty of money andtherefore do not need to marry in order to secure a home or to betterthemselves? What did--what could Vera Thorold see in me to attract her,least of all to tempt her to wish to marry me?
"Vera, my dearest," I said, when we had talked of each other's affairsfor a considerable time, "why not marry me now? I can get a speciallicence! Then you will be free of all trouble, and nobody will be ableto molest you. I shall have a right to protect you in every waypossible."
"Free of all trouble if I marry you, Richard?" she answered,reflectively, evading my question, and looking at me queerly.
"And why not?" I asked. I felt rather hurt, for her words seemed toimply some hidden meaning. "Don't you think I shall be good to you andtreat you properly?"
"Oh, that would be all right," she answered, apparently amused at mymisconstruing her meaning. "I am sure, Dick, that you would be good toany girl. I have already heard of your spoiling two or three girls, andgiving them presents they had no right to accept from you--eh?" sheasked mischievously.
I am afraid I turned rather red, for, to be candid, I am something of afool where women are concerned. At the same time I was surprised at herknowing the truth, and I suppose she guessed this, for, before I hadtime to speak again, she went on--
"You must not forget that I am a modern girl, my dear old Dick. I knowa great deal that I suppose I have no business to know, and when I hearthings I remember them. Don't for a moment flatter yourself that Ithink you perfect. I don't. My frank opinion of you is that you reallyare an awfully good sort, kind, sympathetic, unselfish--singularlyunselfish for a man--generous to a fault, and extravagant. In short, Ilike you far, far better than any man I have ever met, and I love youvery much, you dear old boy--but there it ends."
"I should rather say it did!" I answered. "If you really think allthat of me, I am more than satisfied."
"On the other hand," she continued quickly, "I don't pretend to think--and you needn't think I do--that you are not just like most other men insome respects, in one respect in particular."
"What is the one respect?"
"You are dreadfully susceptible--oh, yes, Dick, you are! There is noneed for any one to tell me that. I can see it in your face. Your eyesbetray you. You have what I once heard a girl friend of mine call,`affectionate eyes.' She said to me: `Never trust a man who has"affectionate eyes," and I never have trusted one--except you.'"
"I am flattered dear. Then why not do what I suggest?" I asked,raising her soft
hand to my lips.
"It wouldn't be safe, Dick, it really wouldn't. We must wait until--until Paulton is dead."
"Until Paulton--is--until he--is dead!" I gasped. "Good Heavens! thatmay not be for years!"
She smiled oddly.
"He may live for years, of course," she answered drily.
"What do you mean?" I asked, staring at her in amazement.
"I mean," she said, looking straight at me, and her voice suddenly grewhard, "that when he is dead, the world will be rid of a creature whoought never to have been born."
Her eyes blazed.
"Ah! Dick--Ah! Dick!" she went on with extraordinary force, sighingheavily,