CHAPTER X.

A CONFERENCE OF THREE.

Julian Roper was a peculiar character, and had a marked individuality of his own. He was a man of good family, and had been brought up at a public school, the intention of his father being to place him in the army. But Julian objected to his future life being thus mapped out for him, and determined to take his own view of things, and act as inclination led him. This was in the direction of detective work, and his greatest delight was in trying to unravel some mystery of real life which, for strangeness and complication, was far in advance of any work of fiction. But his father, being an aristocratic gentleman of the old school, naturally thought that detective work was not quite the thing for a gentleman, and he sternly commanded his son to dismiss the idea at once. What was the consequence? Julian left his father's house as a prodigal son, and went on the way his particular bias inclined him.

When will fathers learn the great truth that they cannot compel Nature, and that any strong individuality in man or woman is sure to assert itself sooner or later. Every child is not formed on the pattern of its parents, and therefore the parents cannot judge in every case as to the wisdom or fitness of their children's choice. Therefore, as long as the bias is in a right direction, and the children can earn their bread by honourable exercise of their talents, why should they not have free power to display those talents? Julian would have made but an indifferent soldier. As it was, he made an admirable detective, and was noted in London for the quickness of his perception, and the wisdom of his judgments. When the Countess of Darrington's diamonds were stolen, was it not Julian who traced the robbery to none other than the noble lady herself, who had pawned her jewels in order to pay her lover's debts?

When Michael Cantwell was charged with poisoning his wife, was it not Roper who discovered that the wife had poisoned herself, and left a letter laying the blame on her husband out of revenge? Why, these stories are the common talk of the detective force, and when Gerald Foster asked Roper to take the "Verschoyle Mystery" in hand, he knew he had got a good man, with the sagacity of a sleuth-hound, and the inflexible determination of a Richelieu.

And, indeed, when the case was explained to Julian by the barrister, that astute gentleman had eagerly agreed to do his best in discovering the culprit, for it was a mystery which delighted his soul. In fact, Roper was in love with these Chinese puzzles of social life, and nothing pleased him so much as spending months in adding, link by link, to a chain of evidence ending, in the complete clearing up of a curious case.

So the three gentlemen sat in Foster's office, and talked the case over. Ronald; eager and attentive to the views of the others; Foster, quiet, cynical, and keen; and Roper, calm and unfathomable, with his sharp, blue eyes bent on both, and his acute hearing taking in every word said.

It is no use sketching Roper's portrait, for like Proteus he had many shapes, and what the real Roper was no one knew. One day he would be a parson, the next, a sporting gentleman, the third day a tramp, and so on, until the noble fraternity of thieves actually began to suspect each other, so ubiquitous and clever was the famous detective.

"It's the strangest case I was ever in," said Mr. Roper, in his soft, low voice; "but one which it will be a pleasure to work at. At present we have the merest clue. Now, the great thing is to follow it up."

"First," said Foster, taking some papers from the drawer of his desk, "let us look at the divorce case, 'Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor.'"

"Oh, we know all about that!" said Ronald, impatiently.

"Not all of it," replied Gerald, smoothing the brief. "In the first place what do you think was the name of Mrs. Verschoyle?"

"Her maiden name?"

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"Then I will tell you. Cotoner!"

"What?"

Ronald sprang to his feet as pale as death.

"Yes," said Julian Roper, pulling out his pocket-book; "did not a lady of that name come on board the 'Neptune' at Malta?"

"My God!" cried Ronald, madly, "you don't mean to say----"

"We mean to say nothing," answered Foster, quietly; "except that the young lady you know is innocent of this crime."

Ronald gave a kind of strangled sob.

"It is sacrilege even to think of her in connection with it!" he said, in a stifled voice; his young face now haggard with pain. "Why, the Maltese wife was thirty, and Miss Cotoner is only twenty-six! Vassalla, her cousin, was with her all the time she was on board before the ship started. She had no motive for killing Verschoyle. She didn't even know him when I spoke about him."

"Not as Verschoyle, no," from Roper.

"Do you believe this?" asked Ronald, savagely.

"No, I don't," replied the detective, blandly; "but we may as well look at all sides of the question. I daresay Miss Cotoner is as innocent as you or I of this crime. Still, we must lose no opportunity of getting evidence."

"Stop a moment," said Ronald, calmly; "because the name of Mrs. Verschoyle was Cotoner I do not see that Miss Cotoner is implicated--there are, no doubt, more people than one of that name in Valletta."

"Of course there are," said Foster, quietly; "but Miss Cotoner's mother's maiden name was Vassalla."

"What?"

"Yes! that was the reason of my surprise, when I heard the name last night."

"That proves nothing."

"Only that her cousin's name is also Vassalla. So it proves, pretty clearly, that Miss Cotoner is Mrs. Verschoyle's sister."

Ronald groaned; for there flashed across him Verschoyle's remark that his wife had Arab blood in her veins, and that Miss Cotoner had made the same statement at Gibraltar; so it seemed true, after all.

"Go on," he said, huskily; "what is to be done now?"

"The best thing to be done," said Roper, quietly, "is to find out some one who knew Verschoyle."

"Yes, but how can you find out such a person?"

"I have done so!"

"Already?"

"Yes; he has a sister staying in London, and I know where to find her."

"Indeed."

"Yes; she is a Mrs. Taunton, and her husband is at artist; if we could see her and get her to show Mr. Monteith a portrait of the deceased, he would be able to recognise it."

"Of course I should," said Ronald, eagerly.

"Then," pursued Mr. Roper, without altering his voice; "there is another bit of evidence we must get hold of; the letter sent by the wife to Verschoyle, saying she would kill him."

"But how can we obtain that?"

"Well," shrugging his shoulders, "I am going on a forlorn hope. Mrs. Taunton may have it."

"Nonsense," said Foster, incredulously.

"I dare say it is--but still there is a chance that Verschoyle, when going to Australia, left some of his papers behind; a man does not care about dragging a lot of luggage all over the world, and it is very likely that Mrs. Taunton has some of her brother's things to look after, till he returned."

"And if this paper is among the things?"

"In that case," observed the detective; "we must get some writing of Mrs. Verschoyle, and compare the two; if they correspond, we shall have strong evidence that she is the criminal."

"And then?"

"Then I will go out to Malta, and see if I can ascertain her movements on the night in question. By the way," to Ronald, "what date was it you left Malta?"

"I think it was the 13th of June."

"Thank you," replied Roper, noting it in his pocket-book; "then I want to find out where she was on the 13th of June between seven and nine o'clock p.m."

"But instead of you going to Malta, why couldn't Monteith ask Miss Cotoner?"

"I won't," burst out Ronald, savagely; "what has she to do with it--she isn't the wife."

"No, but she might be the wife's sister."

Ronald thought a moment.

"Yes, she might," he answered, pale as death; "but all the same, you haven't proved that yet, and I won't insult her by asking her."

Roper sighed as he looked at this stubborn young man; it was no good trying to get assistance from him, so he would have to do the best he could.

"Very well," he said, calmly; "we won't ask Miss Cotoner anything. The first thing to be done is to establish the identity of Ventin with Verschoyle, and then I will go to Malta and see about Mrs. Verschoyle."

"But, how are we to find Mrs. Taunton?" asked Foster.

"There is a meeting of the 'Society for the Improvement of Art,' to-night," said Roper, "and she is sure to be there with her husband."

"Oh, I've got tickets," said Gerald; "so myself and Monteith will go, and we'll soon find out all about her and her brother; will you come, Monteith?"

"No," doggedly.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to go on with this case any more."

"I can understand your reason," said Roper; "you think Miss Cotoner may be mixed up in it."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do, sir--apologising for the contradiction; but if you want to find out who killed Verschoyle, you had better go on with the case; it will be more satisfactory to yourself and"--hesitating--"Miss Cotoner."

"She has nothing to do with it."

"Of course not," said Roper, soothingly; "we've only the similarity of name to go by. I think I would go to this meeting to-night sir, if I were you."

Ronald thought a moment----"Very well, I will," he said resignedly; and then Roper arose to take his leave.

"I'll look in to-morrow, and see what information you've obtained," he said. "Good-day, Mr. Foster--good-day, Mr. Monteith."

"Good-day," replied Ronald, not taking his eyes off the table.

Julian and Foster went out.

"Is he in love with her?" asked the detective.

"He is!"

"I thought so; this case will be harder than you or I think."

"But you don't suppose Miss Cotoner had anything to do with it?"

"No; but I think she's the sister of the woman who committed the crime."