The Red Symbol

He looked at me queerly through his glasses; and I experienced a faint, but distinctly uncomfortable, thrill. Could it be possible that he, who knew me so well, could imagine for a moment that I was guilty?

“No, I don’t believe you did it, my boy,” he said slowly. “But I do believe you know a lot more about it than you owned up to at the time. Have you forgotten that Sunday night – the last time I saw you? Because if you have, I haven’t! I taxed you then with knowing – or suspecting – that Anne Pendennis was mixed up with the affair in some way or other. It was your own manner that roused my suspicions then, as well as her flight; for it was flight, as we both know now. If I had done my duty I should have set the police on her; but I didn’t, chiefly for Mary’s sake, – she’s fretting herself to fiddle-strings about the jade already, and it would half kill her if she knew what the girl really was.”

“Stop,” I said, very quietly. “If you were any other man, I would call you a liar, Jim Cayley. But you’re Mary’s husband and my old friend, so I’ll only say you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he persisted. “It is you who don’t or pretend you don’t. I’ve learned something even since you’ve been away. I told you I believed both she and her father were mixed up with political intrigues; I spoke then on mere suspicion. But I was right. She belongs to the same secret society that Cassavetti was connected with; there was an understanding between them that night, though it’s quite possible they hadn’t met each other before. Do you remember she gave him a red geranium? That’s their precious symbol.”

“Did you say all this to Southbourne when he showed you the portrait that was found on Carson?” I interrupted.

“What, you know about the portrait, too?”

“Yes; he showed it me that same night, when I went to him after the dinner. It’s not Anne Pendennis at all.”

“But it is, man; I recognized it the moment I saw it, before he told me anything about it.”

“You recognized it!” I echoed scornfully. “We all know you can never recognize a portrait unless you see the name underneath. There was a kind of likeness. I saw it myself; but it wasn’t Anne’s portrait! Now just you tell me, right now, what you said to Southbourne. Any of this nonsense about her and Cassavetti and the red symbol?”

“No,” he answered impatiently. “I put two and two together and made that out for myself, and I’ve never mentioned it to a soul but you.”

I breathed more freely when I heard that.

“I just said when I looked at the thing: ‘Hello, that’s Anne Pendennis,’ and at that he began to question me about her, and I guessed he had some motive, so I was cautious. I only told him she was my wife’s old school friend, who had been staying with us, but that I didn’t know very much about her; she lived on the Continent with her father, and had gone back to him. You see I reckoned it was none of my business, or his, and I meant to screen the girl, for Mary’s sake, and yours. But now, this has come up; and you’re arrested for murdering Cassavetti. Upon my soul, Maurice, I believe I ought to have spoken out! And if you stand in danger.”

“Listen to me, Jim Cayley,” I said determinedly. “You will give me your word of honor that, whatever happens, you’ll never so much as mention Anne’s name, either in connection with that portrait or Cassavetti; that you’d never give any one even a hint that she might have been concerned – however innocently – in this murder.”

“But if things go against you?”

“That’s my lookout. Will you give your word – and keep it?”

“No.”

“Very well. If you don’t, I swear I’ll plead ‘Guilty’ to-morrow!”

CHAPTER XXVII

AT THE POLICE COURT

The threat was sufficient and Jim capitulated.

“Though you are a quixotic fool, Maurice, and no mistake,” he asserted vehemently.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I suggested. “Something pleasant, for a change. How’s Mary?”

“Not at all well; that’s why we went down to Cornwall last week; we’ve taken a cottage there for the summer. The town is frightfully stuffy, and the poor little woman is quite done up. She’s been worrying about Anne, too, as I said; and now she’ll be worrying about you! She wanted to come up with me yesterday, when I got the wire, – it was forwarded from Chelsea, – but I wouldn’t let her; and she’ll be awfully upset when she sees the papers to-day. We don’t get ’em till the afternoon down there.”

“Well, let her have a wire beforehand,” I counselled. “Tell her I’m all right, and send her my love. You’ll turn up at the court to-morrow to see me through, I suppose? Tell Mary I’ll probably come down to Morwen with you on Friday. That’ll cheer her up no end.”

“I hope you may! But suppose it goes against you, and you’re committed for trial?” Jim demanded gloomily. His customary cheeriness seemed to have deserted him altogether at this juncture.

“I’m not going to suppose anything so unpleasant till I have to,” I asserted. “Be off with you, and send that wire to Mary!”

I wanted to get rid of him. He wasn’t exactly an inspiriting companion just now; besides, I thought it possible that Southbourne might come to see me again; and I had determined to tackle him about that portrait, and try to exact the same pledge from him that I had from Jim. He might, of course, have shown it to a dozen people, as he had to Jim; and on the other hand he might not.

He came right enough, and I opened on him at once. He looked at me in his lazy way, through half-closed lids, – I don’t think I’ve ever seen that man open his eyes full, – and smiled.

“So you do know the lady, after all,” he remarked.

“I’m not talking of the original of the portrait, but of Miss Pendennis,” I retorted calmly. “I’ve seen Cayley, and he’s quite ready to acknowledge that he was misled by the likeness; but so may other people be if you’ve been showing it around.”

“Well, no; as it happens, I haven’t done that. Only you and he have seen it, besides myself. I showed it him because I knew you and he were intimate, and I wanted to see if he would recognize her, as you did, – or thought you did, – when I showed it you, though you wouldn’t own up to it. I’m really curious to know who the original is.”

“So am I, to a certain extent; but anyhow, she’s not Miss Pendennis!” I said decisively; though whether he believed me or not I can’t say. “And I won’t have her name even mentioned in connection with that portrait!”

“And therefore with, – but no matter,” he said slowly. “I wish, for your own sake, and not merely to satisfy my curiosity, that you would be frank with me, or, if not with me, at least with Sir George. However, I’ll do what you ask. I’ll make no further attempts, at present, to discover the original of that portrait.”

That was not precisely what I had asked him, but I let it pass. I knew by his way of saying it that he shared my conviction – and Jim’s – that it was Anne’s portrait right enough; but I had gained my point, and that was the main thing.

The hearing at the police court next day was more of an ordeal than I had anticipated, chiefly because of my physical condition. I had seemed astonishingly fit when I started, – in a cab, accompanied by a couple of policemen, – considering the extent of my injuries, and the sixty hours’ journey I had just come through; and I was anxious to get the thing over. But when I got into the crowded court, where I saw numbers of familiar faces, including Mary’s little white one, – she had come up from Cornwall after all, bless her! – I suddenly felt myself as weak as a cat. I was allowed a seat in the dock, and I leaned back in it with what was afterwards described by the reporters as “an apathetic air,” though I was really trying my hardest to avoid making an ass of myself by fainting outright. That effort occupied all the energy I had, and I only heard scraps of the evidence, which seemed, to my dulled brain, to refer to some one else and not to me at all.

At last there came a confused noise, shouting and clapping, and above it a stentorian voice.

“Silence! Silence in the court!”

Some one grasped my right arm – just where the bandage was, though he didn’t know that – and hurt me so badly that I started up involuntarily, to find Sir George and Southbourne just in front of the dock holding out their hands to me, and I heard a voice somewhere near.

“Come along, sir, this way; you can follow to the ante-room, gentlemen; can’t have a demonstration in Court.”

I felt myself guided along by the grip on my arm that was like a red-hot vice; there were people pressing about me, all talking at once, and shaking hands with me.

I heard Southbourne say, sharper and quicker than I’d ever heard him speak before:

“Here, look out! Stand back, some of you!”

The next I knew I was lying on a leather sofa with my head resting on something soft. My collar and tie lay on the floor beside me, and my face was wet, and something warm splashed down on it, just as I began to try and recollect what had happened. Then I found that I was resting on Mary’s shoulder, and she was crying softly; it was one of her tears that was trickling down my nose at this instant. She wiped it off with her damp little handkerchief.

“You poor boy; you gave us a real fright this time,” she exclaimed, smiling through her tears, – a wan little ghost of a smile. “But we’ll soon have you all right again when we get you home.”

“I’m all right now, dear; I’m sorry I’ve upset you so,” I said, and Jim bustled forward with some brandy in a flask, and helped me sit up.

I saw then that Sir George and Southbourne were still in the room; the lawyer was sitting on a table close by, watching me through his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and Southbourne was standing with his back to us, staring out of the window.

“What’s happened, anyhow?” I asked, and Sir George got off the table and came up to me.

“Charge dismissed; I congratulate you, Mr. Wynn,” he said genially. “There wasn’t a shred of real evidence against you; though they tried to make a lot out of that bit of withered geranium found in your waste-paper basket; just because the housekeeper remembered that Cassavetti had a red flower in his buttonhole when he came in; but I was able to smash that point at once, thanks to your cousin.”

He bowed towards Mary, who, as soon as she saw me recovering, had slipped away, and was pretending to adjust her hat before a dingy mirror.

“Why, what did Mary do?”

“Passed me a note saying that you had the buttonhole when you left the Cecil. I called her as a witness and she gave her evidence splendidly.”

“Lots of the men had them,” Mary put in hurriedly. “I had one, too, and so did Anne – quite a bunch. And my! I should like to know what that housekeeper had been about not to empty the waste-paper basket before. I don’t suppose he’s touched your rooms since you left them, Maurice!”

“It might have been a very difficult point,” Sir George continued judicially; “the only one, in fact. For Lord Southbourne’s evidence disposed of the theory the police had formed that you had returned earlier in the evening, and that when you did go in and found the door open your conduct was a mere feint to avert suspicion. And then there was the entire lack of motive, and the derivative evidence that more than one person – and one of them a woman – had been engaged in ransacking the rooms. Yes, it was a preposterous charge!”

“But it served its purpose all right,” drawled Southbourne, strolling forward. “They’d have taken their time if I’d set them on your track just because you had disappeared. Congratulations, Wynn. You’ve had more than enough handshaking, so I won’t inflict any more on you. Wonder what scrape you’ll find yourself in next?”

“He won’t have the chance of getting into any more for some time to come. I shall take care of that!” Mary asserted, with pretty severity. “Put his collar on, Jim; and we’ll get him into the brougham.”

“My motor’s outside, Mrs. Cayley. Do have that. It’s quicker and roomier. Come on, Wynn; take my arm; that’s all right. You stand by on his other side, Cayley. Sir George, will you take Mrs. Cayley and fetch the motor round to the side entrance? We’ll follow.”

I guess I’d misjudged him in the days when I’d thought him a cold-blooded cynic. He had certainly proved a good friend to me right through this episode, and now, impassive as ever, he helped me along and stowed me into the big motor.

Half the journalists in London seemed to be waiting outside, and raised a cheer as we appeared. Mary declared that it was quite a triumphant exit.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WITH MARY AT MORWEN

“It’s terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, from her, or her father, just to say she was alive, I wouldn’t mind so much.”

“She may have written and the letter got lost in transit,” I suggested.

“Then why didn’t she write again, or wire?” persisted Mary. “And there are her clothes; why, she hadn’t even a second gown with her. I believe she’s dead, Maurice; I do indeed!”

She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not know what to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as to what had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; for that would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it was imperative that she should be spared any extra worry, and, if possible, be reassured about her friend.

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “You’d have heard soon enough if anything had happened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father’s a wealthy man, and, when she found the things didn’t arrive, she’d just buy more. Depend upon it, her father went to meet her when he left the hotel at Berlin, and they’re jaunting off on their travels together all right.”

“I don’t believe it!” she cried stormily. “Anne would have written to me again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if one letter went astray it’s impossible that they all should. But you – I can’t understand you, Maurice! You’re as unsympathetic as Jim, and yet – I thought – I was sure – you loved her!”

This was almost more than I could stand.

“God knows I do love her!” I said as steadily as I could. “She will always be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never see or hear of her again. But I’m not going to encourage you in all this futile worry, nor is Jim. He’s not unsympathetic, really, but he knows how bad it is for you, as you ought to know, too. Anne’s your friend, and you love her dearly – but – remember, you’re Jim’s wife, and more precious to him than all the world.”

She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to look directly at her.

“Yes, I – I know that,” she said, almost in a whisper. “And I’ll try not to worry, for his, – for all our sakes. You’re right, you dear, kind old boy; but – ”

“We can do nothing,” I went on. “Even if she is ill, or in danger, we can do nothing till we have news of her. But she is in God’s hands, as we all are, little woman.”

“I do pray for her, Maurice,” she avowed piteously. “But – but – ”

“That’s all you can do, dear, but it is much also. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Keep on praying – and trusting – and the prayers will be answered.”

She looked at me through her tears, lovingly, but with some astonishment.

“Why, Maurice, I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”

“I couldn’t have said it to any one but you, dear,” I said gruffly; and we were silent for a spell. But she understood me, for we both come from the same sturdy old Puritan stock; we were both born and reared in the faith of our fathers; and in this period of doubt and danger and suffering it was strange how the old teaching came back to me, the firm fixed belief in God “our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” That faith had led our fathers to the New World, three centuries ago, had sustained them from one generation to another, in the face of difficulties and dangers incalculable; had made of them a great nation; and I knew it now for my most precious heritage.

“I should utterly have fainted; but that I believe verily to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure; be strong and He shall comfort thy heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.

”Through God we will do great acts; and it is He that shall tread down our enemies.”

Half forgotten for so many years, but familiar enough in my boyhood, – when my father read a psalm aloud every morning before breakfast, and his wrath fell on any member of the household who was absent from “the reading,” – the old words recurred to me with a new significance in the long hours when I lay brooding over the mystery and peril which encompassed the girl I loved. They brought strength and assurance to my soul; they saved me from madness during that long period of forced inaction that followed my collapse at the police court.

Mary, and Jim, too, – every one about me, in fact, – despaired of my life for many days, and now that I was again convalescent and they brought me down to the Cornish cottage, my strength returned very slowly; but all the more surely since I was determined, as soon as possible, to go in search of Anne, and I knew I could not undertake that quest with any hope of success unless I was physically fit.

I had not divulged my intention to any one, nor did I mean to do so if I could avoid it; certainly I would not allow Mary even to suspect my purpose. At present I could make no plans, except that of course I should have to return to Russia under an assumed name; and as a further precaution I took advantage of my illness to grow a beard and mustache. They had already got beyond the “stubby” and disreputable stage, and changed my appearance marvellously.

Mary objected strenuously to the innovation, and declared it made me “look like a middle-aged foreigner,” which was precisely the effect I hoped for; though, naturally, I didn’t let her know that.

Under any other circumstances I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay with her and Jim at the cottage, a quaint, old-fashioned place, with a beautiful garden, sloping down to the edge of the cliffs, where I was content to sit for hours, watching the sea – calm and sapphire blue in these August days – and striving to possess my soul in patience. In a way I did enjoy the peace and quietude, the pure, delicious air; for they were means to the ends I had in view, – my speedy recovery, and the beginning of the quest which I must start as soon as possible.

We were sitting in the garden now, – Mary and I alone for once, for Jim was off to the golf links.

I had known, all along, of course, that she was fretting about Anne; but I had managed, hitherto, to avoid any discussion of her silence, which, though more mysterious to Mary than to me, was not less distressing. And I hoped fervently that she wouldn’t resume the subject.

She didn’t, for, to my immense relief, as I sat staring at the fuchsia hedge that screened the approach to the house, I saw a black clerical hat bobbing along, and got a glimpse of a red face.

“There’s a parson coming here,” I remarked inanely, and Mary started up, mopping her eyes with her ridiculous little handkerchief.

“Goodness! It must be the vicar coming to call, – I heard he was back, – and I’m such a fright! Talk to him, Maurice, and say I’ll be down directly.”

She disappeared within the house just as the old-fashioned door-bell clanged sonorously.

A few seconds later a trim maid-servant – that same tall parlor-maid who had once before come opportunely on the scene – tripped out, conducting a handsome old gentleman, whom she announced as “the Reverend George Treherne.”

I rose to greet him, of course.

“I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Treherne,” I said, and he could not know how exceptionally truthful the conventional words were. “I must introduce myself – Maurice Wynn. My cousin, Mrs. Cayley, will be down directly; Jim – Mr. Cayley – is on the golf links. Won’t you sit down – right here?”

I politely pulled forward the most comfortable of the wicker chairs.

“Thanks. You’re an American, Mr. Wynn?” he asked.

“That’s so,” I said, wondering how he guessed it so soon.

We got on famously while we waited for Mary, chatting about England in general and Cornwall in particular. He’d been vicar of Morwen for over forty years.

I had to confess that I’d not seen much of the neighborhood at present, though I hoped to do so now I was better.

“It’s the loveliest corner in England, sir!” he asserted enthusiastically. “And there are some fine old houses about; you Americans are always interested in our old English country seats, aren’t you? Well, you must go to Pencarrow, – a gem of its kind. It belongs to the Pendennis family, but – ”

“Pendennis!” I exclaimed, sitting up in astonishment; “not Anthony Pendennis!”

He looked at me as if he thought I’d suddenly taken leave of my senses.

“Yes, Anthony Pendennis is the present owner; I knew him well as a young man. But he has lived abroad for many years. Do you know him?”

CHAPTER XXIX

LIGHT ON THE PAST

“Yes, I’ve met him once, under very strange circumstances,” I answered. “I’d like to tell them to you; but not now. I don’t want my cousin to know anything about it,” I added hastily, for I heard Mary’s voice speaking to the maid, and knew she would be out in another minute.

“May I come and see you, Mr. Treherne? I’ve a very special reason for asking.”

He must have thought me a polite lunatic, but he said courteously:

“I shall be delighted to see you at the vicarage, Mr. Wynn, and to hear any news you can give me concerning my old friend. Perhaps you could come this evening?”

I accepted the invitation with alacrity.

“Thanks; that’s very good of you. I’ll come round after dinner, then. But please don’t mention the Pendennises to my cousin, unless she does so first. I’ll explain why, later.”

There was no time for more, as Mary reappeared.

A splendid old gentleman was the Rev. George Treherne. Although he must certainly have been puzzled by my manner and my requests, he concealed the fact admirably, and steered clear of any reference to Pencarrow or its owner; though, of course, he talked a lot about his beloved Cornwall while we had tea.

“He’s charming!” Mary declared, after he had gone. “Though why a man like that should be a bachelor beats me, when there are such hordes of nice women in England who would get married if they could, only there aren’t enough men to go round! I guess I’ll ask Jane Fraser.”

She paused meditatively, chin on hand.

“No, – Jane’s all right, but she’d just worry him to death; there’s no repose about Jane! Margaret Haynes, now; she looks early Victorian, though she can’t be much over thirty. She’d just suit him, – and that nice old vicarage. I’ll write and ask her to come down for a week or two, – right now! What do you think, Maurice?”

“That you’re the most inveterate little matchmaker in the world. Why can’t you leave the poor old man in peace?” I answered, secretly relieved that she had, for the moment, forgotten her anxiety about Anne.

She laughed.

“Bachelorhood isn’t peace; it’s desolation!” she declared. “I’m sure he’s lonely in that big house. What was that he said about expecting you to-night?”

“I’m going to call round after dinner and get hold of some facts on Cornish history,” I said evasively.

I hadn’t the faintest notion as to what I expected to learn from him, but the moment he had said he knew Anthony Pendennis the thought flashed to my mind that he might be able to give me some clue to the mystery that enveloped Anne and her father; and that might help me to shape my plans.

I would, of course, have to tell him the reason for my inquiries, and convince him that they were not prompted by mere curiosity. I was filled with a queer sense of suppressed excitement as I walked briskly up the steep lane and through the churchyard, – ghostly looking in the moonlight, – which was the shortest way to the vicarage, a picturesque old house that Mary and I had already viewed from the outside, and judged to be Jacobean in period. As I was shown into a low-ceiled room, panelled and furnished with black oak, where the vicar sat beside a log fire, blazing cheerily in the great open fireplace, I felt as if I’d been transported back to the seventeenth century. The only anachronisms were my host’s costume and my own, and the box of cigars on the table beside him, companioning a decanter of wine and a couple of tall, slender glasses that would have rejoiced a connoisseur’s heart.