The Red Window

"Oh, the deuce take the dignity of that," said Conniston, carelessly. "In this democratic age who cares for titles?"

"The Americans, Dick. You ought to marry one."

"I'll marry Lucy, who is the sweetest girl in the world," said Dick, firmly. "We understand one another, and as soon as this business is over, Mark – "

"You will marry."

"No. Bernard and I will go out to the Front."

"What! Does Bernard say that?"

"Yes. He intends to go back to his Imperial Yeomanry uniform, and I honor him for it," said Dick, with some heat. "Bernard is not the man to sneak out of doing his duty. And Miss Malleson approves. I go out to the Front also, and daresay I shall manage to get a place of sorts, from which to take pot-shots at the enemy."

"But, my dear fellow," said Durham, much disturbed, "you may be killed."

"'Naught was never in danger,'" said Conniston, opening the door. "You get Bernard out of this scrape, Mark, and then come and see us start. We'll return covered with glory."

"And without legs or arms," said Durham, crossly. "Just as if Bernard hadn't enough danger, he must needs run his head into more. Go away, Dick. It's your feather brain that has made him stick to his guns."

"Not a bit," retorted Conniston, slipping out, "it's Bernard's own idea. Good-bye, Mark. I hope you will recover your temper by the time we meet at Aunt Berengaria's hospitable table."

Things fell out as Durham prophesied. The article was published in all the London and country journals, and provoked both praise and blame. Many said that it was wrong to hint that a man was guilty before he had been tried. Others pointed to the sufferings that the innocent Bernard Gore had undergone, and insisted that even before the trial his name should be cleared. Those in authority took no notice of the storm thus raised, which seemed to confirm Durham's statement that the article had been inspired from high legal quarters. But the result of the publication and discussion of the matter was that one day a woman came to see Durham at his office.

The moment she entered he guessed who she was, even although she was veiled. Clothed from head to foot in black, and looking tragic enough for a Muse, poor soul, for certainly she had cause, Mrs. Gilroy raised her veil and examined the keen face of the lawyer.

"You did not expect to see me?" she asked, taking the seat he pointed to silently.

Durham was not going to tell her that the article had been published to draw her forth, as she might have taken flight and suspected a trap.

"It is a surprise," he said artfully. "And I am at a loss to understand why you have come."

"To save my son," said Mrs. Gilroy, looking at him with haggard eyes.

"Michael Gilroy?"

"Michael Gore. He has a right to his father's name."

"Pardon me, I think not. Bernard Gore is the heir."

"Ah!" said the woman, bitterly, and clasping her hands with a swift, nervous gesture. "He has all the luck – the title – the money – the – "

"You must admit," said Durham, politely, "that he had had very bad luck for the most part."

"His own foolishness is the cause of it."

"Did you come to tell me this?"

Mrs. Gilroy sat quite still for a moment, and Durham noticed that even what good looks she had were gone. Her cheeks were fallen in, her eyes were sunken, her drab hair was streaked with white, and her face wore a terrible expression of despair and sorrow. "I have come to tell you all I know," she said. "I would not do so, save for two things. One is, that I wish to save my son, who is absolutely innocent; the other, that I am dying."

"Dying? I hope not."

"I am dying," said Mrs. Gilroy, firmly. "I have suffered for many years from an incurable disease – it doesn't matter what. But I cannot live long, and, but for my son, I should have ended my miserable life long ago, owing to the pain I suffer. Oh the pain – the pain – the pain!" she moaned, rocking to and fro as Michael had done.

Durham was sincerely sorry for her, although he knew she was not a good woman. "Let me get you some brandy," he said.

"No," replied Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand. "Call in some clerk who can take down what I have to say. I will probably speak quickly, as my strength will not last long. I have come from an hospital to see you. Get a clerk who writes rapidly, and be quick."

Durham called in a clerk and gave the order, then turned to his client. "Was it on account of going to the hospital that you left Gore Hall?" he asked.

Mrs. Gilroy, still rocking, bowed her head. "Did you want me?" she asked.

"I wanted to tell you that Michael came to Miss Berengaria's to – "

"Michael. He came there. Why?"

"To pass himself off as Bernard."

"Ah, that was part of Beryl's scheme to get the money."

"Was it part of his scheme to poison Michael?" said Durham.

Mrs. Gilroy started to her feet, flushed with anger.

"Did he do that, Mr. Durham?" she asked. "Did he dare to – "

"Yes. He got Michael to sign a will as Bernard, leaving all the money to him, and then employed Jerry to poison him. Jerry should not have done so for two or three days, but he was eager to get away, as he was afraid of being found out, so he poisoned your son within a few hours of the signing of the false will."

"The villain!" said Mrs. Gilroy, thinking of Beryl. "But he shall not escape. I have come to tell you all. I wish I could see him hanged. He is the cause of all the trouble. I saw in the papers that Sir Bernard was alive," she added; "how did he escape?"

"He swam across the river and went down to Cove Castle. We knew all the time he was there in hiding."

"Who knew?"

"Myself, Lord Conniston, Miss Berengaria and Miss Malleson."

"So you played with Michael?" said Mrs. Gilroy, drawing a breath.

"Yes. Miss Malleson and Miss Plantagenet both knew he was not the true Bernard. Your hint about your son being like his father showed me who Michael was, and I told the others. Yes, Mrs. Gilroy, I allowed Michael to sign the false will, so as to trap Beryl. But, believe me, had I known Beryl intended to poison your son, I should not have allowed the matter to go so far."

"You could do nothing else," said Mrs. Gilroy, sadly. "Both Michael and myself have suffered. I was deceived by a false marriage, and the sins of the father have been visited on the child."

"That is true enough," said Durham. "But for the sin of Walter Gore, Michael, with his wonderful resemblance to Bernard, would not have been born, and Beryl would not have been able to plot as he did."

"Well! well! He is an exile and has been punished."

"When you can prove his guilt, as I suppose you intend to do," said the lawyer, grimly, "I'll do my best to have him brought back and hanged. You will be pleased at that."

Mrs. Gilroy laughed in a hollow manner, and cast a strange look at the lawyer. "I should be pleased indeed," she said, "but there's no such luck. Hanging is not Beryl's dukkeripen."

"That's a gypsy word."

"I was found and brought up by gypsies," said Mrs. Gilroy, indifferently, "although I am not of Romany blood. But I learned a few secrets from the Romany," added Mrs. Gilroy, her eyes flashing, "and one of them relating to drabbing – if you know what that means – may come in useful this day."

"What does drabbing mean?"

"It has to do with drows," said Mrs. Gilroy, laughing and rocking. "I daresay you'll know the meaning of both words before the end of this day." And she began to sing softly: —

"'The Romany cha,And the Romany chal,Shall jaw tasulor,To drab the bawlor,And dook the gry.'"

Durham thought that her illness had affected her head. He did not say anything, but resolved to get her examination over as quickly as possible. A clerk entered at the moment, carrying a typewriting machine, which he set down on a small table near at hand.

"I think it will be best that your words should be taken down by the machine," said Durham, turning to Mrs. Gilroy, "as the writer can keep up with your speech."

"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "I have to sign my statement in the presence of witnesses, you and this young man."

"But why do you – "

"There, there," said the woman, impatiently, "don't I tell you I have very little strength left. Are you ready?"

"Yes, madam," said the clerk, who was addressed.

"Then don't interrupt. I am about to tell you strange things," and she began forthwith, the clerk taking down all she said as quickly as she spoke. Durham, pencil in hand, made a note occasionally.

"I am a foundling," said Mrs. Gilroy, smoothly and swiftly. "I was picked up by some gypsies called Lovel, in the New Forest. I was with them till I came of age. I was then a pretty girl. In our wanderings we came to Hurseton. There I saw Walter Gore at a fair. I did not know he was married, as we stopped at Hurseton only a short time. We went away. Walter followed and said he loved me. He married me at last. We went abroad – then came back to London. When my child, Michael, was born, I learned the truth, for Walter had deserted me. I went down to Hurseton to see Sir Simon. He sent me to the States with Michael, my son. Walter sent me money."

"This is slightly different to what Michael said," remarked Durham. "I understood that you never saw Sir Simon till you returned from the States."

"Michael doesn't know everything," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently. "I tell my own story in my own way. Do not interrupt. I remained in the States for a long time. Then Walter died, and his true wife also. I came to see Sir Simon again. He was sorry for me, and offered to make me the housekeeper at Gore Hall, which should have been my home, but he insisted that Michael should return to the States. My boy did so, in charge of some friends. Sir Simon promised to give me five hundred a year when he died, so that I could help my boy. He only left me one hundred, the mean villain! I supported my son out of my wages. He grew weary of the States and came to England. Sir Simon was angry, but he got him a situation in London, on condition that the boy never came to Hurseton. That was why no one knew there was any one resembling Sir Bernard so closely. Well, in London Michael fell in with Julius Beryl – "

"I know all that," said Durham, quickly. "Michael told me. I know he was employed by Beryl to impersonate Bernard so that Sir Simon's anger should be aroused."

"Well, then, you know a good deal," said Mrs. Gilroy, "but not all. No, indeed," she added, smiling strangely, "not all."

"Tell me the events of that night, and how Beryl killed Sir Simon."

Mrs. Gilroy laughed again. "I am coming to that. You will be much surprised when I tell you all. Bernard was in town as a soldier; Beryl got Michael to masquerade. I never knew it was my own son who courted Jane Riordan. Had I known, I should have put a stop to the business. I really thought from the description given, that Jane's lover was Bernard. I wanted Sir Simon, whom I told, to throw over Bernard and let my son have the property. He would have done so, but that Michael had forged a check – "

"I know about that also."

"Very good. We will pass that," said the woman. "Well, Sir Simon was angry. I saw there was no chance for my boy, and cast about how else to get the money for him. Beryl informed me that he intended by means of the Red Window and Jerry to lure Bernard to the Square, in the hope that when he saw the red light he would come up and have a quarrel with his grandfather."

"What about?" asked Durham.

"About Bernard's supposed courting of the housemaid. That was why Beryl employed my son to masquerade. He knew that Sir Simon was a proud man, and would not readily forgive such a thing. He knew Sir Simon was regretting his quarrel with Bernard, and wished to give it renewed life. Well, then, Beryl arranged to go to the theatre. He said he would come round after ten or near eleven to see if the old man had quarrelled with Bernard. He hoped that he would be able to get the order to turn Bernard out. He did not know, though, at what time Bernard would arrive. But when he did, I was to open the door to him."

"Jerry's whistle was to be the signal," said the lawyer.

"Yes. Then I was to show Bernard up, and the quarrel would then take place."

"Beryl did not really intend murder, then?"

"Mr. Durham, you will harp on that," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently. "Wait till I speak out. You see how matters were arranged for that night. Miss Randolph and Beryl went to the theatre so that they should not be mixed up in the quarrel."

"But Miss Randolph knew nothing?"

"Of course not. Beryl knew she was friendly to Bernard, and wished her out of the way. For that reason, he took her to the theatre. I then suggested to Sir Simon that probably Bernard knew of the house from you, and might come back. Sir Simon had sent for him to the kitchen, but my son, being afraid, ran away. Sir Simon laughed at the idea of the red lamp, but he did not forbid my arranging it. I got a lamp and placed it before the window. Then I placed across the window a red bandana of Sir Simon's. From the outside the signal could be plainly seen."

"What happened next?" asked Durham, while the typewriter clicked in a most cheerful manner.

"Various things," retorted Mrs. Gilroy, "and not those you expect to hear. I sat downstairs, waiting and working. Sir Simon was in the room with the red light showing through the window. The trap was laid. It only remained for Jerry to bring Bernard to fall into it. Shortly before ten an Italian called."

"Bernard's uncle, Signor Tolomeo?"

"Yes. I knew him, and took him up to Sir Simon, thinking his presence might make the quarrel worse. All Beryl and I wished to do was to prevent Bernard and Sir Simon from becoming reconciled. Well, Tolomeo saw Sir Simon, and while he was with him, my son arrived. I asked him what he was doing there. He told me then that he had been masquerading as Bernard, and informed me about the check. He was afraid of trouble in connection with it, as by means of it, Beryl held him in his power. He came to make a clean breast of it to Sir Simon. I tried to stop him going up – "

"But why?" interrupted the lawyer, quickly.

"I had my own plans, with which Michael's presence interfered," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "However, he would not be overruled, and went up to see Sir Simon. The old man concealed Tolomeo behind a curtain, and then quarrelled with Michael about the check. There was a great row, as Sir Simon threatened to have Michael arrested. In the middle of the quarrel Tolomeo came out. Michael took him for a detective, and fled. He ran out before I could stop him. Then Tolomeo departed also. I went up the stairs and implored Sir Simon not to arrest my son. Then Beryl arrived nearly at the half hour."

"How did he enter?"

"Tolomeo, running after Michael, left the door open. Beryl tried to pacify the old man. I remained in the room all the time – "

"Then you saw the murder."

"Wait a moment," said Mrs. Gilroy, rising in the excitement of her tale. "Beryl and the old man quarrelled. Then Sir Simon told him to go back to the theatre. Beryl, thinking he had offended Sir Simon past recall, wept. Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a sneer, "he cried like a child. Sir Simon was disgusted. He snatched his handkerchief from him, and threw it on the floor. Beryl was ordered out of the house again. He left and went back to the theatre. The interview took only a few minutes."

"But the murder?"

"I committed it," said Mrs. Gilroy, simply.

Durham and the clerk both jumped and stared.

"You?" said the lawyer.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "You have been on the wrong tack all along. You thought that Bernard killed Sir Simon – that my son did so – that Tolomeo did so – that Beryl was guilty. But you were all wrong. I, and none other, killed Sir Simon."

"You say this to save your son?"

"No. Tolomeo can prove that Sir Simon was alive when Michael fled from the house. Beryl can prove that I was alone with Sir Simon. I was late – the servants were in bed. I determined to kill the old man."

"Why, in Heaven's name?"

"Because I saw that when Bernard came he would be arrested, and there would be a chance for my son getting the money. Then Sir Simon intended to have Michael arrested – I wished to stop that. Then, again, for years Sir Simon had insulted and humiliated me. I hated him fervently. Oh, I had plenty of reasons to kill the old brute. I went downstairs and got the chloroform."

"Had you that ready?" asked Durham, horrified at this recital.

"Yes and no. I didn't buy it then. I always thought that Sir Simon kept his will at the Hall, and I bought the chloroform months before, hoping one night to make him insensible, so that I could look at the will. But the chloroform was not wasted," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a pale smile. "I brought it with me to town – always ready to watch for my chance of rendering my master insensible and of reading the will. I wanted to see if he left Michael anything, and if he had really left me the five hundred he promised. Besides, in his death, I saw a chance of getting rid of Bernard by hanging, and of having my son acknowledged as the heir."

"But Beryl? You reckoned without Beryl?"

"No," said Mrs. Gilroy, calmly. "You forget the handkerchief. I took that down with me, and soaked it with chloroform. I guessed that the handkerchief would condemn Beryl, should it be necessary to accuse any one. I did not foresee what would happen," added the woman, impatiently. "I only acted as I saw things then. I came upstairs, and while pretending to arrange Sir Simon's cushions, I clapped the handkerchief over his mouth. He struggled for a long time. It is not easy to chloroform people," said the woman, pensively. "I thought they went off at once, but Sir Simon was some time struggling."

"Go on – go on," said Durham in disgust. "Get this over."

Mrs. Gilroy laughed and drew her shawl tightly about her spare figure.

"After he was insensible," she continued, "I strangled him with his own handkerchief, after tying Beryl's handkerchief across his mouth. I then went down and took my work up again while waiting for Bernard."

Durham made a gesture of abhorrence. "You could work?"

"Why not?" said Mrs. Gilroy. "There was nothing else to do – the old man was dead – the trap was set. All I had to do was to wait till Bernard walked into it."

"Had you no regrets for that?"

"None. Bernard Gore robbed my boy of his birthright."

"Bernard was the eldest son, even though Michael had been born in – "

"I know all about that," said Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand, "spare me your preaching. Is there anything more you wish to know?"

"About this plot to get the false will signed?"

"I knew little of that. I accused Bernard, and he escaped. Beryl guessed I murdered the old man, but for his own sake he held his tongue. I heard Bernard's whistle, or rather Jerry's, and went out crying murder. The rest you know. Then I played my part. I left the diary at the Hall for Miss Randolph to find, as I thought Tolomeo might be accused. I fancied, as things turned out, it would be better to have Bernard back, and get him to do something for Michael. That was why I prepared the diary."

"It was a false entry?" said Durham, looking at her.

Mrs. Gilroy yawned. "Yes, it was. I prepared it, as I say. I am getting very tired," she added. "Let me sign the paper and go."

"You must sign the paper, and you must be arrested," said Durham.

"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, perfectly calmly. Then Durham sent for Inspector Groom, and, pending his arrival, Mrs. Gilroy signed the paper, with Durham and the clerk as witnesses. She then fell asleep, and Durham went out to receive Groom. They talked together for some time, then entered the room. Mrs. Gilroy was lying on the floor in convulsions, and laughed when she saw them.

"Good Heavens!" cried Groom. "She has poisoned herself!"

"I have taken drows," gasped Mrs. Gilroy. "That's my dukkerin!" and died hard.

CHAPTER XXIII

A YEAR LATER

It was midsummer, and Miss Berengaria's garden was a sight. Such splendid colors, such magnificent blossoms, such triumphs of the floricultural art, had never been seen outside the walls of a flower show. The weather was exceedingly warm, and on this particular day there was not a cloud in the sky. Miss Plantagenet pottered about her garden, clipping and arranging as usual, and seemed to be in the very best of spirits. And well she might be, for this was a red-letter day with her.

Under the shade of a large elm-tree sat Durham, in the most unprofessional tweed suit, and beside him, Alice, radiant in a white dress. She looked particularly pretty, and her face was a most becoming color. Every now and then she would glance at the watch on her wrist, and Durham laughed as he saw how frequently she referred to it.

"The train won't be here for another hour," he said, smiling. "You will see Bernard soon enough, Miss Malleson."

"Oh, dear me," sighed Alice, "can I ever see him soon enough? It seems like eleven years instead of eleven months since he went away. I wish he hadn't gone."

"Well," said Durham, following with his eyes the spare little figure of Miss Berengaria flitting about amongst the flowers, "I didn't approve of it at the time, and I told Conniston so. But now I think it was just as well Bernard did keep to his original intention and go to the Front. It is advisable there should be an interval between the new life and the old."

"The new life?" asked Alice, flushing.

"He is coming home to be married to you," said Durham.

"And with a bullet in his arm," sighed Alice. "I shall have to nurse him back to health before we can marry."

"Miss Randolph will be occupied in the same pleasing task with Conniston," replied Durham, lazily, "and I envy both my friends."

"You needn't," laughed Miss Malleson, opening her sunshade which cast a delicate pink hue on her cheeks. "Poor Bernard has been wounded and Lord Conniston has been down with enteric fever."

"I am glad they have got off so easily. Bernard might have been shot, you know."

Alice shuddered and grew pale. "Don't, Mr. Durham!"

"That was why I feared about his going out," said he. "I thought it would be a pity, after all he passed through, that he should be killed by a Boer bullet. But he has only temporarily lost the use of his arm; he has been mentioned for gallantry in the despatches; and he is coming home to marry the most charming girl in the world – I quote from his own letter," finished Durham, smiling.

"And Lord Conniston?"

"He is coming also to marry Miss Randolph. Both weddings will take place on the same day, and Conniston has escaped the dangers of the war with a slight touch of fever. But why tell you all this – you know it as well as I do."

"What's that?" asked Miss Berengaria, coming up to the pair.

"I was only discussing Miss Malleson's future life," said Durham.

"Ah," sighed the old lady, sitting down. "What I shall do without her I don't know."

"Dear aunt," said Alice, kissing the faded cheek, "I shall not be far away. The Hall is within visiting distance."

"That's all very well," said Miss Berengaria. "But Bernard will want you all to himself, and small blame to him. What is the time?"

Alice glanced at her watch. "It's nearly three, and the train arrives at half-past," she said. "Oh, I wish we could meet them."

"Not at all," rejoined Miss Berengaria, brusquely, "better wait here with Lucy. She will be over soon. I don't want a scene of kissing and weeping on the platform. But, I must say, I am glad both those boys are back."

"You will have them as near neighbors, Miss Berengaria," said the lawyer. "Bernard at Gore Hall and Conniston at the castle."

"I hope he and Lucy won't live there," said the old lady, rubbing her nose. "A dreadfully damp place. I went over there the other day to tell Mrs. Moon about Jerry."

"Have you had good reports of him?"

"So, so. The reformatory he was put into seems to be a good one, and the boys are well looked after. But Jerry is a tree which will grow crooked. He seems to have been giving a lot of trouble."

"Yet he was lucky to get off as he did," said Durham. "The judge might have sent him to jail instead of into a reformatory."

"And he'll land in jail some day," said Alice, shaking her head. "At least, Bernard seems to think so."