CHAPTER XXII.

THE TESTIMONY OF THE DAGGER.

Ronald and Foster went up to the Crown Hotel, which is at the top of the principal street in Marlow, from which point two streets branch off to right and left, one leading to Little Marlow, the other to the village of Medmenham. A quaint, battered, old obelisk of stone, surrounded by an iron railing, stands in what is called the Market Place, and serves as a sign-post. The hotel itself, with its archway in the middle, which divides it into two parts, was mostly occupied with boating men, in their picturesque flannels, and as the young fellows went upstairs to dress, they saw the bar crowded with thirsty souls.

Ronald was ready first, and putting a light coat over his evening dress, went down to order a dog-cart to take them to Hurley, and then amused himself by observing the different people with which the place was thronged. Getting tired of this, he strolled through the dining-room to the quaint garden at the back, with the red brick walls, all softened by time and covered with peach trees.

"It's like the song," said Ronald, looking at all the harmonious tints, softened under the fading twilight of the sky, and he commenced to hum Hope Temple's song, "The Old Garden," when he heard Foster calling him, and found that gentleman waiting for him in the dog-cart.

"Jump up, my boy," said Mr. Foster; "we've no time to lose, it's past six now."

"All right," replied Ronald, pulling out his pipe; "wait till I light up." And, having done so, he sprang up to the side of his companion, and they were soon spinning swiftly down the High Street of Marlow.

"I know the way," said Foster; "so I'll drive."

Ronald nodded, by way of response as they went over the bridge, and they saw the river, dim and fantastic-looking below, while the lights were twinkling in the windows of houses, and the air was full of floating shadows. In front arose the great mass of Quarry Woods, with here and there a tall tree, standing out sharply against the clear glow of the sky. An owl hooted in the distance, and then there came the deep sound of a dog's bark, as the two young men drove swiftly along.

"Did you speak to Miss Cotoner to-day?" asked Foster, after a pause.

"I did not--exactly," said Ronald, hesitatingly, taking the cigar out of his mouth; "but she asked me if I knew the reason she was marrying her cousin. I said yes, and asked was it true?"

"And her answer?"

"Was, 'God help me, it is true!'"

"Humph!" said Foster, thoughtfully, "she might not have been referring to your thought that she killed Verschoyle, but to her own, that she marries him to shield her sister."

"Then you think she is innocent?" cried Ronald, eagerly.

"I don't know," replied Foster, "but I would certainly give her the benefit of the doubt rather than condemn her unheard."

"Condemn her!" echoed Ronald, bitterly, "God knows I'd give my life to prove her innocent."

"It won't be required of you, dear boy," retorted Foster, coolly, "the whole affair seems to be a deuced muddle, and it's my opinion that Vassalla is at the bottom of it; however, we'll see what success you meet with to-night."

Ronald did not answer, but, gripping his cigar hard with his lips, puffed away fiercely. They drove through the village of Bisham, up the long hill and down through the Temple Park, each absorbed in his own thoughts until they found themselves in front of Bellfield where a groom was waiting at the gate to take charge of the horse.

The two young men alighted and entered the house, where they were welcomed by Sir Mark, who, after they had removed their cloaks, led the way to the smoking-room, where Chester, Bubbles, Pat, and a young Oxonian, by name, Hammond, were assembled.

The ladies were not yet in the drawing-room, so the hospitable baronet proposed a glass of sherry and bitters, which was accepted by all the young men, and then they began to talk about the day's regatta until the servant announced the arrival of the Bishop of Patagonia, his wife, and Mrs. Pellypop.

The most stately thing in the world is, undoubtedly, a swan, the next a Bishop; and when the worthy churchman walked in, tall and dignified, no one would have thought how he quailed before his mother-in-law. But such is the superior force of women that they can subdue even the haughtiest natures to their yoke--if they go the right way about it.

My Lord Bishop was very affable and very condescending, and when they went to join the ladies in the drawing-room, Pat pronounced him a good sort, and he, whose experience was extensive, knew a good sort when he saw one.

Mrs. Pellypop, tall and majestic, in black velvet and lace; Mrs. Bishop, timid and nervous, hid herself under the matrimonial wing, and all the ladies looked even more charming in evening dress than during the day. At the sound of the gong, Sir Mark gave his arm to Mrs. Pellypop; he ought to have done so to the Bishop's lady, but then, Mrs. Pellypop always insisted on going first. The Bishop escorted Miss Trevor as the hostess, and Ronald found himself walking by Carmela.

They spoke very little to one another, Carmela talking principally to Bubbles, who sat beside her, and Ronald listening to the talk of a young lady next to him, who was a Girton girl, and thought she knew everything, whereas she knew nothing,--not even what a bore she was. Ronald thought the dinner was interminable; but it came to an end, as all things must, and the ladies followed Bell out of the room. The gentlemen, left to themselves, waxed merry over their wine; but were restrained from transgression by the presence of the Bishop, which that astute prelate quickly perceived, and left the room, followed by Sir Mark. Truth to tell, both gentlemen were anxious to escape in order to discuss a high church question then vexing the land.

"Mr. Ryan," said Sir Mark, as he left the room, "you can look after my guests."

"Faith, I will," cried Pat, taking the host's chair, "now then, boys, fill up, and no heel taps. Ronald, my boy, you're like a death's head; pass the claret, and don't be bringing your Egyptian mummies to the feast."

Under the influence of Pat, everyone woke up, and the wine was circulated, and also several stories, the morality of which was doubtful. After they had had enough wine, all the gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, where they found the Girton girl at the piano, wailing out the last new sentimental ballad, called "Columbine," which was very milk-and-watery, but useful in keeping the conversation going.

Then Mrs. Bishop tickled the piano in a mild, clerical way, playing "The Maiden's Prayer," as taught to her by Mrs. Pellypop, who learned it in her youth, somewhere about the reign of George III. Carmela was asked to sing, but refused, whereupon Pat sat down and sang, "I love a lubly gal," the melody of which brought all sorts of memories to Ronald's heart, as he remembered the days on board the "Neptune." He looked at Carmela, but saw she had arisen from her seat, and had gone out into the moonlight. Ronald sprang to his feet, and, snatching up a light cloak, ran out to place it on her shoulders.

"You will catch cold, Miss Cotoner," he said politely placing it round her.

Carmela accepted his attention passively, and they walked in silence round the house, until they came to the lawn. A ruddy glare of light blazed across it, which proceeded through the open door of the smoking-room, and it looked so warm and comfortable that they both moved simultaneously towards it, and stepped in.

"It will be warmer here," said Ronald, ceremoniously removing the cloak from his companion's shoulders, while she knelt in front of the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. The Australian leaned against the mantelpiece, tall and stately, and looked sadly at the girl at his feet.

"Yes," replied Carmela, slowly; "it will be--why do you speak to me so coldly?" she asked, suddenly.

"How would you have me speak?" he said, bitterly; "you cannot expect me to say much to another man's promised wife."

This was brutal--she arose to her feet.

"I did not expect that from you," she said. "You are unjust; I am forced into this."

"You are not," he began but she stopped him.

"I think we will go to the drawing-room, Mr. Monteith," she interrupted; "will you give me your arm? this is a pleasant room," with an effort at gaiety.

"Yes, very," he replied. They were both acting a part.

"Look at all these guns and daggers," said Carmela, stopping before them, "and there's a stiletto; get it down, will you, Mr. Monteith?"

Ronald took down the weapon, overcome with vague emotions. A stiletto, the very weapon she had used to-- But, no--it could not be true.

"It's very pretty," said Carmela, taking it to the lamp to examine it. "I had one once with an ivory handle--the head of Bacchus surrounded with bunches of grapes."

Ronald gave a cry. She was describing the very stiletto by which Verschoyle had been killed. Great heavens! could it be that she was guilty after all?

"Head of Bacchus--grapes! was--was that yours?" he stammered.

"Yes," she replied, laying down the weapon on the table, and looking at him in a puzzled manner.

"When did you see it last?

"Oh, not for many years; it has been lost for a long time."

Was she trying to shelter herself under the cloak of a lie? Ronald was determined to know the worst. He sprang forward and caught her wrist, she recoiled with a cry of alarm.

"Now, tell me the truth." panted Ronald, his eyes blazing fiercely; "tell me the truth, I will not betray you."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you kill him?"

"Kill him--whom?"

"Leopold Verschoyle."

"Are you mad?"

She flung away his hand, and drawing herself up to her full height, looked like an angry goddess at the man who thus insulted her. But Ronald was too excited to heed her, and his words came pouring out in one torrent.

"Yes, I am mad--mad, to believe anything against you, who are as pure as an angel. I'm only a poor devil who loves you, and want you to tell me all you know about this murder, so that I can save you."

"Save me--murder!"

She reeled a little, and caught hold of the table for support.

"Look! look!" cried Ronald, pulling out his pocket-book with the fatal paper, which he had brought on purpose; "look here"--spreading it out--"your writing--your writing."

Carmela glanced at it, and a film came over her eyes.

"Yes, it's my writing--seven--seven years ago."

"Then the stiletto by which he was killed, you have described it. You were on board; you recognised him."

"I did not." She spoke the words firmly. "No, until you told me the other day who the murdered man was, I had no more idea than you had at Malta that Lionel Ventin was Leopold Verschoyle. I did write that note when I was mad with the treatment I had received. I was only a girl, and acted foolishly, as girls will. I did have such a stiletto, but I have not seen it for years. I gave it to my cousin Vassalla about five years ago."

"Vassalla!" Ronald looked up suddenly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, he took a fancy to it, and I presented it to him. Did you believe me guilty?" suddenly.

"No, on my soul I did not."

"Can I believe you?"

"Yes,--appearances were against you, but I swore you were--innocent. I told the detective so."

"Detective! Is a detective employed?"

"Yes."

"By you?--don't deny it. I see it in your face. Oh, God!" wringing her hands; "What am I to do? You will ruin my sister!"

Ronald suddenly grew calm.

"Carmela, you know I love you?"

"Don't speak of love at such a time."

"I must; I believe I can save your sister."

"You can?"

"Yes, I think so."

She clasped her hands with a gesture of entreaty.

"Oh, if you only could," she cried passionately, "I would not then be forced to marry Vassalla!"

"That is one of my reasons for trying to save her," he said. "I do not want you to sacrifice yourself in this way--but we must not talk, we must act"; and he struck the bell on the table.

"What would you do?" she asked.

"You must tell my friend Foster all you know about your sister's marriage; he is a lawyer, and will find a way out of this dilemma."

The servant appeared.

"Tell Mr. Foster to come here."

The servant disappeared.

"How can you save my sister," she asked, quickly; "is she innocent?"

"I don't know," he replied evasively; "but even if she is guilty, I'll save her."

Mr. Foster entered the room.

"Well," said that gentleman, "what's the matter?"

"Miss Cotoner would like to tell you a story," said Ronald quietly.

Carmela sat down, and so did Foster, who was now all attention, while Ronald leaned against the mantelpiece, and listened eagerly.

"This," thought Foster, as he settled himself, "is the beginning of the end."