CHAPTER XVII.

MAN AGAINST WOMAN.

Gerald Foster was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Ronald, in his chambers, for he was anxious to know what Carmela would say about her sister's movements on the night in question. He was pacing up and down his room, biting his nails, and casting impatient looks at the clock.

"He's a long time away," he said, aloud; "I wonder what on earth she's telling him. The worst of it is Monteith is so transparent that she will see through his motive at once, and, in order to shield her sister, will deny everything. They don't like one another, but for the credit of her own name she won't say a word--ah!" as a footstep on the stair attracted his attention, "here is my ambassador--I am anxious to learn the new move in the game. Well," as Ronald entered the room, "am I right or wrong?"

Ronald threw himself into a seat with an air of lassitude, and looked gloomily at the floor.

"You are right."

Foster gave a cry of triumph.

"I knew it; things are coming to a crisis my dear fellow, and we'll soon run this woman to earth."

"I hope not."

"You hope not--why?"

"Because I am anxious to marry Carmela, and I do not want to have a murderess for a sister-in-law."

"Whether it's made private or public, you are bound to have that," replied Foster, dryly; "my advice is not to marry her."

"But I love her, madly," said Ronald, raising his heavy eyes to his friend's face, "it would kill me to lose her."

"Men have died and worms have eaten them, but love did not kill them," said the barrister, cynically; "you'll get over this fancy in time--but come, tell me all about it."

So Ronald related his interview with Carmela, to which Foster listened attentively.

"I wonder what Vassalla will say to that?" he said, when the Australian had finished; "you see, Mrs. Verschoyle was on board after all."

"That does not prove her guilty of the murder," retorted Ronald.

"Then why does she try to prove an _alibi?_" said Foster, quickly. "Why, everything we find out only makes the case stronger against her. I should like to have an interview with her."

"That will be easily managed: she is coming to England."

"You don't say so! When?"

"Miss Cotoner received a cablegram while I was there," said Ronald, "and her sister is on her way now."

"What the deuce does she mean by running her head into the lion's mouth?" observed Foster, in a puzzled tone. "She must know that such a crime cannot be passed over in silence."

Ronald looked up suddenly.

"What are you going to do next?" he asked, wearily.

"Wait, and see Roper. He is on his way also, and I should not be surprised if he came in the same boat with her. So he may, perhaps, give us clearer information than we have already received."

Ronald groaned.

"This is the irony of fate," he said, in a dull voice. "Had I known how this case was likely to affect the woman I love best in the world, I would not have undertaken it, and the thing might have remained a mystery for ever."

"Possibly," replied Foster, pointedly; "but you forget, others might have taken it up. Besides, when you started in the case you did not love Miss Cotoner, and, moreover, did not know how closely she was connected with the author of the crime."

Ronald rose to his feet and took his hat and stick.

"I am going to the hotel," he said, "to lie down. I feel quite worn out."

"When may I see you again?" asked Foster, accompanying him to the door.

"To-morrow, when Roper arrives," and Monteith left the room without saying good-bye.

"Poor boy!" said Gerald, as he went back to his work, "he is very much cut up--and no wonder! Where will it all end? I expect in smoke; because the evidence is too slight, even to convict that woman. Well, we shall see when Roper arrives."

Ronald walked along the crowded street as in a dream, and paid no attention to the buzz of voices around and the noise of the traffic. So preoccupied he was with his own sad thoughts that he did not see that a man was walking beside him, till the latter spoke, and then he looked up with a start, and saw Vassalla looking at him with an amused smile.

"Eh, my friend," said the Marchese, lightly, "in what day-dream are you lost?"

"Not a very pleasant one," returned Ronald, coldly. "I was thinking of our conversation this morning." Vassalla shrugged his shoulders.

"You might have had more pleasant thoughts," he said, with a sneer.

"I might," returned Monteith, emphatically. "I might have thought every word you said this morning true."

The Marchese changed colour a little, and drew himself up haughtily.

"Is this an insult, sir?" he asked.

"As you please," retorted Ronald, indifferently. "You will understand my meaning plainly, when I tell you that I had the pleasure of an interview with Miss Cotoner this morning."

"Indeed!" said Vassalla, his face looking as black as thunder; "and she said--"

"More than you would have cared to hear," replied the Australian. "She simply contradicted every word you said, and told me that her sister came on board and said good-bye to her, and that you, the Marchese Vassalla, knew she was there, and saw her down the gangway as she left the ship."

"It's a lie," retorted Vassalla, livid with rage; "Mrs. Verschoyle was not on board."

"Go and ask Miss Cotoner; she will tell you differently," said Ronald, fiercely. "You are playing a dangerous game, Marchese, for I have sworn to find out who killed Leopold Verschoyle, and, by God, I'll keep my word."

"You shall answer for this," hissed Vassalla between his teeth.

"When and where you please," retorted the Australian. "If the days of duelling are past in England, they are not on the Continent, and if you care to defend your damnable lies, I'll meet you anywhere you please."

"You shall hear from me, Monsieur," said Vassalla, hoarsely, and he walked away without another word.

"The black villain," muttered Ronald, as he strode along; "I believe he knows more about this affair than he cares to tell. I've been talking grandiloquently, I suppose; but I'll stick to my word, and I think I can hold my own both with pistol and rapier."

Quite a style of conversation of the time of George III., was it not? but all young men become romantic at times, and Ronald, brave lad that he was, meant all he said, being as much in earnest as any periwigged beau of the eighteenth century, though he carried a cane instead of a sword.

The Marchese Matteo Vassalla jumped into a hansom, and ordered the cabman to drive to the Langham Hotel, as he was anxious to see Carmela, and find out all that had taken place between her and Monteith. It was necessary for him to do this, as he was anxious to win her for his wife, and the least slip on his part might prove fatal to success.

He was mad with rage when he entered the cab, but by the time it arrived at the Langham was quite calm and self-possessed, for he knew he would need to have all his wits about him in the coming interview. He dismissed his cab, and went up to the drawing-room, where he found no one. Ringing the bell he asked after Carmela, and was informed that she had gone to lie down; but, determined to see her, he sent up a message that he wanted her immediately on important business, and then calmly sat down to think over his line of action.

The waiter soon returned with a message that Miss Cotoner would be down shortly, and almost immediately, after he retired, Carmela appeared, looking white and wan in her long, white dress, with her dark hair hastily fastened in a dishevelled knot at the back of her head. She came quickly into the room, and would have spoken, but Vassalla gave her no time.

"My cousin," he said, rapidly, in French; "I congratulate you on the success of your interview this morning."

"What do you mean?" asked Carmela, haughtily.

"Simply this," retorted the Marchese, quietly, "that I have seen Monteith, and he told me to my face that you gave me the lie in your conversation with him."

"I did," she retorted, defiantly; "my sister was on board, and you had no right to say otherwise."

"Bah! You cannot see an inch before your nose," retorted Vassalla, taking out his pocket-book: "read this, and then see what your truth-telling tongue has done."

He handed her Mrs. Verschoyle's letter, which she read eagerly, and, having finished, gave it back to the Marchese, with a cold smile.

"I see, she also denies being on board," she said, quietly; "so you are both telling deliberate falsehoods; will you kindly explain this riddle to me?"

"That will be easy enough, my cousin," answered the Marchese, with a sneer; "I presume Monteith told you all about the death of Leopold Verschoyle?"

"Well?" she asked, turning a shade paler: though Heaven knows, poor thing, she was pale enough before.

"Well!" he echoed, mockingly; "don't you know that your sister was his wife, and, if it were known she had been on board, ugly questions might be asked?"

"I understand what you mean," said Carmela, clasping her hands, "you think that she--had something to do with his death."

"I did not say so."

"No; but you hinted as much."

"Then accept the hint I give, and deny that your sister was on board."

"What! deny my own words?"

"Certainly," he replied, coolly, "better than," significantly, "the other thing."

"I don't believe it; I don't believe it," she cried, vehemently. "Bianca did not kill him."

"How do you know?" he asked, pointedly.

"Do you also accuse her?" she said, turning fiercely on him.

"I accuse nobody," he said, coldly, "I merely tell you to hold your tongue."

"I will justify myself to my sister, not to you," said Carmela, proudly; "she will be here next week."

"What!--Is she coming here?" "Yes."

"My faith! What cursed fools women are," he cried: "write, telegraph, anything, only say she must not come."

"Why not?"

"Because there is danger."

"Danger!"

"Yes; that meddling young fool of a Monteith is trying to find out about Verschoyle's death; if he is successful your sister is lost."

"Is she guilty?"

"For the second time, I say--I did not say so."

"Is she guilty?"

"Yes."

Carmela gave a cry and turned away; this answer parted her from Ronald for ever. In an instant Vassalla was at her side--she felt his hot breath on her cheek.

"But, I can save her, I can save her!" he said hurriedly,--"on one condition."

"And that?"

"Your hand," and he put his arm round her waist.

"Never!" She tore herself away with an indignant cry; "do you take me for hush money?"

"Either that, or your sister will reap the reward of her crime, and our name will be dishonoured for ever."

"Think of your name alone," she said, imploringly; "you will save her?"

"On the condition I mention. I don't care for the name, I only care for you. Why will you not marry me? You think of the Australian; he can be nothing to you. Would you marry the man who is hunting down your own flesh and blood; and would he marry the sister of a woman whom he knows is a murderess? Think again. I will save your sister and our family honour--on that one condition--you must be my wife."

"If not?" she asked, defiantly.

"Events must take their course. I will not interfere. If you marry me you will have an honoured name, and the satisfaction of knowing that you have saved your sister. If you refuse, you will lose your honourable name, your sister, and not even gain your Australian lover in return."

"Mercy!" she cried, falling at his feet.

"No!" He stood above her, calm and pitiless, stroking his beard.

"I will give anything but that," she murmured.

"I can accept nothing else."

"You are a devil!"

"Possibly. Your answer?"

She sprang to her feet with a face pale as marble, and clung to the mantelpiece for support; but though Vassalla saw she was weak he gave her no assistance.

"Your answer?" he demanded, pitilessly; "yes or no?"

"Yes," she whispered, and for the second time that day fainted.