CHAPTER VII

THE ASSURANCE MONEY

Mrs. Vrain's fainting fit was of no great duration, and she shortly

recovered her senses, but not her sprightliness. Her excuse was that the

long discussion of her husband's murder, and the too precise details

related to her by Link before Denzil's arrival, had so wrought on her

nerves as to occasion her temporary indisposition.

This reason, which was a trifle weak, since she seemed to bear her

husband's loss with great stoicism, awakened suspicions in Lucian's mind

as to her truthfulness. However, these were too vague and confused to be

put into words, so the young man remained silent until Mrs. Vrain and

her father departed. This they did almost immediately, after the widow

had given her London and country addresses to the detective, in case he

should require her in the conduct of the case.

This matter being attended to, she left the room, with a parting smile

and especial bow to Lucian.

Link smiled in his turn as he observed this Parthian shaft, the shooting

of which was certainly out of keeping with Mrs. Vrain's character of a

mourning widow.

"You seem to have made an impression on the lady, Mr. Denzil," he said,

with a slight cough to conceal his amusement.

"Nonsense!" replied Lucian, his fair face crimsoning with vexation. "She

seems to me one of those shallow women who would sooner flirt with a

tinker than pass unnoticed by the male sex. I don't like her," he

concluded, with some abruptness.

"On what grounds?"

"Well, she spoke very hardly about her husband, and seemed rather more

concerned about this assurance money than his death. She is a flippant

doll, with a good deal of the adventuress about her. I don't think,"

said the barrister significantly, "that she is altogether so ignorant of

this matter as she pretends to be."

The detective raised his eyebrows. "You don't propose to accuse her of

the murder?" he asked sceptically.

"Oh, no!" answered Denzil hastily. "I don't say she is as guilty as all

that; but she knows something, or suspects something."

"How do you make that out?"

"She fainted at the mention of stiletto; and I am convinced that

Vrain--as I suppose we must call him now--was killed with one. And

again, Link, this woman admitted that she had married her elderly

husband in Florence. Now, Florence, as you know, is an Italian town; a

stiletto is an Italian weapon. Putting these two things together, what

do you make of Mrs. Vrain's fainting?"

"I make nothing of it, Mr. Denzil. You are too suspicious. The woman

had no reason to rid herself of her husband as you hint."

"What about the assurance money?"

"There is a motive there, certainly--a motive of gain. Still, I think

you are making a mountain out of a molehill, for I am satisfied that she

knows no more who committed the crime than does the Pope himself."

"It is as well to look in every direction," said Lucian obstinately.

"Meaning that I should follow this clue you suggest, which has no

existence save in your own fancy. Well, I'll keep my eye on Mrs. Vrain,

you may be sure of that. It won't be difficult, as she will certainly

stay in town until she identifies the body of her dead husband and gets

the money. If she is guilty, I'll track her down; but I am certain she

has nothing to do with the crime. If she had, it is not likely that she

would enter the lion's den by coming to see me. No, no, Mr. Denzil; you

have found a mare's nest."

Lucian shrugged his shoulders, and took up his hat to go.

"You may be right," said he reluctantly, "but I have my doubts of Mrs.

Vrain, and shall continue to have them until she supplies a more

feasible explanation of her fainting. In the meantime, I'll leave you to

follow out the case in the manner you judge best. We shall see who is

right in the long run," and Denzil, still holding to his opinion, took

his departure, leaving Link confident that the young man did not know

what he was talking about.

As the detective sat thinking over the late conversation, and wondering

if he could shape any definite course out of it, Denzil put his head in

at the door.

"I say, Link," he called out, "you'd better find out if Mrs. Vrain is

really the wife of this dead man before you are guided by her story!"

After which speech he hurriedly withdrew, leaving Link to digest it at

his leisure.

At first, Link was indignant that Denzil should deem him so easily

hoodwinked as the speech implied. Afterwards he began to laugh.

"Wife!" said he to himself. "Of course she is the man's wife! She knows

too much about him to be otherwise; but even granting that Denzil is

right--which I don't for a moment admit--there is no need for me to

prove the truth of his assumption. If this pretty woman is not the true

wife of Berwin, or Vrain, or whatever this dead man's name actually may

be, the assurance company will get at the rights of the matter before

paying over the money."

Subsequent events reflected credit on this philosophical speech and

determination of Mr. Link. Had Mrs. Vrain been an imposter, her house of

cards would have been knocked down, as soon as reared, by the searching

inquiry instituted by the Sirius Assurance Company. It appeared that the

life of the late Mark Vrain was on the books of the company for no less

a sum than twenty thousand pounds; and under the will this was to be

paid over to Lydia Vrain, _née_ Clyne. The widow, aided by her

father--who was a shrewd business man, in spite of his innocent

looks--and the family lawyer of the Vrains, went systematically to work

to establish her own identity, the death of her husband, and her

consequent right to the money.

The first thing to be done was to prove that the dead man was really

Vrain. There was some little difficulty in obtaining an order from the

authorities for the opening of the grave and the exhumation of the body;

but finally the consent of those in power was obtained, and there was

little difficulty in the identification of the remains. The lawyer, Mr.

Clyne, Mrs. Vrain herself, and several people brought up from Bath by

the assurance company, swore that the corpse--buried under the false

name of Berwin--was that of Mark Vrain, for decomposition had not

proceeded so far but what the features could be recognised. There was

even no need to unwrap the body from its cerements, as the face itself,

and the scar thereon, were quite sufficient for the friends of the

deceased to swear to the corpse. Thereupon the assurance company, on the

fullest of evidence, was compelled to admit that their client was dead,

and expressed themselves ready to pay over the money to Mrs. Vrain as

soon as the will should be proved.

Pending the legal process necessary to do this, the widow made a great

parade of her grief and affection for the dead man. She had the body

re-enclosed in a new and sumptuous coffin, and removed the same to

Berwin Manor, near Bath, where, after a short lapse of time, it was duly

placed in the family vault of the Vrains.

The widow, having thus disposed of her husband, bethought herself of her

stepdaughter, who at that time was on a visit to some friends in

Australia. A long letter, giving full details, was despatched by Mrs.

Vrain, and the daughter was requested, both by the widow and the lawyer,

to come back to England at once and take up her abode in Berwin Manor,

which, with its surrounding acres, had been left to her under the will.

Matters connected with the death and its consequences having been

disposed of thus far, Mrs. Vrain sat down, and, folding her hands,

waited till such time as she would receive the assurance money, and

begin a new life as a wealthy and fascinating widow. Every one said that

the little woman had behaved very well, and that Vrain--weak-headed as

he was supposed to be--had shown excellent judgment in dividing his

property, real and personal, so equally between the two claimants. Miss

Vrain, as became the child of the first wife, received the home and

acres of her ancestors; while the second wife obtained the assurance

money, which every one candidly admitted she quite deserved for having

sacrificed her youth and beauty to an old man like Vrain. In those days,

when all these details were being settled, the widow was the most

popular personage in Bath.

Matters went smoothly with Mrs. Vrain in every respect. The will was

duly proved, the twenty thousand pounds was duly paid over; so, finding

herself rich, the widow came with her father to take up her abode in

London. When settled there one of her first acts was to send a note to

Lucian, telling him that she was in town. The good looks of the young

man had made a considerable impression on Mrs. Vrain, and she appeared

anxious to renew the acquaintance, although it had been so

inauspiciously begun in the purlieus of the police courts.

On his part, Lucian lost no time in paying his respects, for after the

searching inquiry conducted by the Sirius Assurance Company, out of

which ordeal Mrs. Vrain had emerged unscathed, he began to think that he

had been too hasty in condemning the little widow. So he called upon her

almost immediately after receiving the invitation, and found her, after

the lapse of three months, as pretty as ever, and clothed in less heavy

mourning.

"It's real sweet of you to call, Mr. Denzil," said she vivaciously. "I

haven't seen anything of you since we met in Mr. Link's office. And

sakes! have I not had a heap of trouble since then?"

"Your trouble has done you no harm, Mrs. Vrain. So far as your looks go,

three minutes, rather than three months, might have passed."

"Oh, that's all right. I guess it's not good enough to cry one's self

sick for what can't be helped. But I want to ask you, Mr. Denzil, how

that policeman is progressing with the case."

"He has found out nothing," replied Lucian, shaking his head, "and, so

far as I can see, there's not much chance of learning the truth."

"I never thought there was," said Mrs. Vrain, with a shrug. "Seems to me

you don't get round much in this old country. Well, it don't seem as I

can do much more. I've told all I know, and I've offered a reward of

£500 to discover the man who stuck Mark. If he ain't found for dollars

he won't be found at all."

"Probably not, Mrs. Vrain. It is now over three months since the crime

was committed, and every day makes the chance of discovery less."

"But for all that, Diana Vrain's going on the trail, Mr. Denzil."

"Diana Vrain! Who is she?"

"My stepdaughter--Mark's only child. She was in Australia--out in the

wild west of that country--and only lately got the news of her father's

death. I got a letter from her last week, and it seems as she's coming

back here to find out who laid her poppa out."

"I am afraid she'll not succeed," said Denzil dubiously.

"She'll do her best to," replied Mrs. Vrain, with a shrug. "She's as

obstinate as a battery mule; but it's no use talking, she will have her

own way," and dismissing the subject of Miss Vrain, the pretty widow,

with an air of relief, talked on more frivolous subjects until Lucian

took his departure.