CHAPTER XII

THE VEIL AND ITS OWNER

As may be surmised, Lucian was considerably startled by the discovery of

this important evidence so confirmative of Diana's suspicions. Yet the

knowledge which Link had gained relative to Mrs. Vrain's remaining at

Berwin Manor to keep Christmas seemed to contradict the fact; and he

could by no means reconcile her absence with the presence on the fence

of the fragment of gauze; still less with the supposition that she must

have climbed over a tolerably difficult obstacle to enter the yard, let

alone the necessity--by no means easy to a woman--of descending into the

disused cellar by means of a shaky and fragile ladder.

"After all," thought Lucian, when he was seated that same evening at his

dinner, "I am no more certain that the veil is the property of Mrs.

Vrain than I am that she was the woman whose shadow I saw on the blind.

Whosoever it was that gained entrance by passing over fence and through

cellar, must have come across the yard belonging to the house facing the

other road. Therefore, the person must be known to the owner of that

house, and I must discover who the owner is. Miss Greeb will know."

Lucian made this last remark with the greatest confidence, as he was

satisfied, from a long acquaintance with his landlady, that there was

very little concerning her own neighbourhood of which she was ignorant.

The result verified his belief, for when Miss Greeb came in to clear the

table--a duty she invariably undertook so as to have a chance of

conversing with her admired lodger--she was able to afford him the

fullest information on the subject. The position of the house in

question; the name of its owner; the character of its tenants; she was

thoroughly well posted up in every item, and willingly imparted her

knowledge with much detail and comment.

"No. 9 Jersey Street," said she, unhesitatingly; "that is the number of

the house at the back of the haunted mansion, Mr. Denzil. I know it as

well as I know my ten fingers."

"To whom does it belong?" asked Lucian.

"Mr. Peacock; he owns most of the property round about here, having

bought up the land when the place was first built on. He's seventy years

of age, you know, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Greeb conversationally,

"and rich!--Lord! I don't know how rich he is! Building houses cheap and

letting them dear; he has made more out of that than in sanding his

sugar and chicorying his coffee. He----"

"What is the name of the tenant?" interrupted Lucian, cutting short

this rapid sketch of Peacock's life.

"Mrs. Bensusan, one of the largest women hereabouts."

"I don't quite understand."

"Fat, Mr. Denzil. She turns the scale at eighteen stone, and has pretty

well broke every weighing machine in the place."

"What reputation has she, Miss Greeb?"

"Oh, pretty good," said the little woman, shrugging her shoulders,

"though they do say she overcharges and underfeeds her lodgers."

"She keeps a boarding-house, then?"

"Well, she lets rooms," explained Miss Greeb in a very definite manner,

"and those who live in them supply their own food, and pay for service

and kitchen fire."

"Who is with her now?"

"No one," replied the landlady promptly. "She's had her bill up these

three months. Her last lodger left about Christmas."

"What is his name--or her name?"

"Oh, it was a 'he,'" said Miss Greeb, smiling.

"Mrs. Bensusan prefers gentlemen, who are out of doors all day, to

ladies muddling and meddling all day about the house. I must say I do,

too, Mr. Denzil," ended the lady, with a fascinating glance.

"What is his name, Miss Greeb?" repeated Lucian, quite impervious to the

hint.

"Let me see," said Miss Greeb, discomfited at the result of her failure.

"A queer name that had to do with payments. Bill as the short for

William. No, it wasn't that, although it does suggest an account.

Quarterday? No. But it had something to do with quarter-days. Rent!"

finished Miss Greeb triumphantly. "Rent, with a 'W' before it."

"W-r-e-n-t!" spelled Lucian.

"Yes. Wrent! Mr. Wrent. A strange name, Mr. Denzil--a kind of charade,

as I may say. He was with Mrs. Bensusan six months; came to her house

about the time Mr. Berwin hired No. 13."

"Very strange!" assented Lucian, to stop further comment. "What kind of

a man was this Mr. Wrent?"

"I don't know. I never heard much about him," replied Miss Greeb

regretfully. "May I ask why you want to know all this, Mr. Denzil?"

Lucian hesitated, as he rather dreaded the chattering tongue of his

landlady, and did not wish his connection with the Vrain case to become

public property in Geneva Square. Still, Miss Greeb was a valuable ally,

if only for her wide acquaintance with the neighbourhood, its

inhabitants, and their doings. Therefore, after a moment's reflection,

he resolved to secure Miss Greeb as a coadjutor, and risk her excessive

garrulity.

"Can you keep a secret, Miss Greeb?" he asked, with impressive

solemnity.

Struck by his serious air, and at once on fire with curiosity to learn

its reason, Miss Greeb loudly protested that she should sooner die than

breathe a word of what her lodger was about to divulge. She hinted,

with many a mysterious look and nod, that secrets endangering the

domestic happiness of every family in the square were known to her, and

appealed to the fact that such families still lived in harmony as a

proof that she was to be trusted.

"Wild horses wouldn't drag out of me what I know!" cried Miss Greeb

earnestly. "You can confide in me as you would in a"--she was about to

say mother, but recollecting her juvenile looks, substituted the word

"sister."

"Very good," said Lucian, explaining just as much as would serve his

purpose. "Then I may tell you, Miss Greeb, that I suspect the assassin

of Mr. Vrain entered through Mrs. Bensusan's house, and so got into the

yard of No. 13."

"Lord!" cried Miss Greeb, taken by surprise. "You don't say, sir, that

Mr. Wrent is a murdering villain, steeped in gore?"

"No! No!" replied Lucian, smiling at this highly-coloured description.

"Do not jump to conclusions, Miss Greeb. So far as I am aware, this Mr.

Wrent you speak of is innocent. Do you know Mrs. Bensusan and her house

well?"

"I've visited both several times, Mr. Denzil."

"Well, then, tell me," continued the barrister, "is the house built with

a full frontage like those in this square? I mean, to gain Mrs.

Bensusan's back yard is it necessary to go through Mrs. Bensusan's

house?"

"No," replied Miss Greeb, shutting her eyes to conjure up the image of

her friend's premises. "You can go round the back through the side

passage which leads in from Jersey Road."

"H'm!" said Lucian in a dissatisfied tone. "That complicates matters."

"How so, sir?" demanded the curious landlady.

"Never mind just now, Miss Greeb. Do you think you could draw me a plan

of this passage of Mrs. Bensusan's house, and of No. 13, with the yards

between?"

"I never could sketch," said Miss Greeb regretfully, "and I am no

artist, Mr. Denzil, but I think I can do what you want."

"Here is a sheet of paper and a pencil. Will you sketch me the houses as

clearly as you can?"

With much reflection and nibbling of the pencil, and casting of her eyes

up to the ceiling to aid her memory, Miss Greeb in ten minutes produced

the required sketch.

"There you are, Mr. Denzil," said Miss Greeb, placing this work of art

before the barrister, "that's as good as I can draw."

"It is excellent, Miss Greeb," replied Lucian, examining the plan. "I

see that anyone can get into Mrs. Bensusan's yard through the side

passage."

"Oh, yes; but I don't think a person could without being seen by Mrs.

Bensusan or Rhoda."

"Who is Rhoda?"

"The servant. She's as sharp as a needle, but an idle slut, for all

that, Mr. Denzil. They say she's a gypsy of some kind."

"Is the gate of this passage locked at night?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then what is to prevent any one coming in under cover of darkness and

climbing the fence? He would escape then being seen by the landlady and

her servant."

"I daresay; but he'd be seen climbing over the fence from the back

windows of the houses on each side of No. 13."

"Not if he chose a dark night for the climbing."

"Well, even if he did, how could he get into No. 13?" argued Miss Greeb.

"You know I've read the report of the case, Mr. Denzil, and it couldn't

be found out (as the kitchen door was locked, and no stranger entered

the square) how the murdering assassin got in."

"I may discover even that," replied Lucian, not choosing to tell Miss

Greeb that he had already discovered the entrance. "With time and

inquiry and observation we can do much. Thank you, Miss Greeb," he

continued, slipping the drawing of the plan into his breast coat pocket.

"I am much obliged for your information. Of course you'll repeat our

conversation to no one?"

"I swear to breathe no word," said Miss Greeb dramatically, and left the

room greatly pleased with this secret understanding, which had quite the

air of an innocent intrigue such as was detailed in journals designed

for the use of the family circle.

For the next day or two Lucian mused over the information he had

obtained, and made a fresh drawing of the plan for his own satisfaction;

but he took no steps on this new evidence, as he was anxious to submit

his discoveries to Miss Vrain before doing so. At the present time Diana

was at Bath, taking possession of her ancestral acres, and consulting

the family lawyer on various matters connected with the property.

Once she wrote to Lucian, advising him that she had heard several pieces

of news likely to be useful in clearing up the mystery; but these she

refused to communicate save at a personal interview. Denzil was thus

kept in suspense, and unable to rest until he knew precisely the value

of Miss Vrain's newly acquired information; therefore it was with a

feeling of relief that he received a note from her asking him to call at

three o'clock on Sunday at the Royal John Hotel.

Since her going and coming a week had elapsed.

Now that his divinity had returned, and he was about to see her again,

the sun shone once more in the heavens for Lucian, and he arrayed

himself for his visit with the utmost care. His heart beat violently and

his colour rose as he was ushered into the little sitting-room, and he

thought less of the case at the moment than of the joy in seeing Miss

Vrain once more, in hearing her speak, and watching her lovely face.

On her part, Diana, recollecting their last meeting, or more

particularly their parting, blushed in her turn, and gave her hand to

the barrister with a new-born timidity. She also was inclined to like

Lucian more than was reasonable for the peace of her heart; so these two

people, each drawn to the other, should have come together as lovers

even at this second meeting.

But, alas! for the prosaicness of this workaday world, they had to

assume the attitudes of lawyer and client; and discourse of crime

instead of love. The situation was a trifle ironical, and must have

provoked the laughter of the gods.

"Well?" asked Miss Vrain, getting to business as soon as Lucian was

seated, "and what have you found out?"

"A great deal likely to be of service to us. And you?"

"I!" replied Miss Vrain in a satisfied tone. "I have discovered that the

stiletto with the ribbon is gone from the library."

"Who took it away?"

"No one knows. I can't find out, although I asked all the servants; but

it has been missing from its place for some months."

"Do you think Mrs. Vrain took it?"

"I can't say," replied Diana, "but I have made one discovery about Mrs.

Vrain which implicates her still more in the crime. She was not in

Berwin Manor on Christmas Eve, but in town."

"Really!" said Lucian much amazed. "But Link was told that she spent

Christmas in the Manor at Bath."

"So she did. Link asked generally, and was answered generally. Mrs.

Vrain went up to town on Christmas Eve and returned on Christmas Day;

but," said Diana, with emphasis, "she spent the night in town, and on

that night the murder was committed."

Lucian produced his pocketbook and took therefrom the fragment of gauze,

which he handed to Diana.

"I found this on the fence at the back of No. 13," he said. "It is a

veil--a portion of a velvet-spotted veil."

"A velvet-spotted veil!" cried Diana, looking at it. "Then it belongs to

Lydia Vrain. She usually wears velvet-spotted veils. Mr. Denzil, the

evidence is complete--that woman is guilty!"