CHAPTER XXIV.

MRS. VERSCHOYLE PAYS A VISIT.

Next morning, when Ronald awoke, he was very much exercised in his mind as to the reason of Mrs. Verschoyle's visit, and wondered what she wanted to see him about.

"I wonder if she wants me to marry Carmela?" he thought; "of course, if she's in love with Vassalla, she'll be only too anxious to get Carmela disposed of. She did not commit the murder, or she wouldn't be such a fool as to come to England."

When he finished dressing, Mr. Monteith went downstairs into the dining-room, a pleasant apartment that opened, by French windows, on to the quaint old garden with the red-brick walls. He lighted a cigarette and walked slowly up and down waiting for Foster to come to breakfast, and was speedily joined by that gentleman.

"Aren't you hungry, old chap?" asked Gerald, as he came into the garden.

"Rather," retorted Ronald; "I was wondering when you were going to turn up."

"Hungry!" said Foster, raising his eyes, "and he says he's in love--oh, Cupid! what a worshipper you've got!"

Ronald laughed, and put his hand on Foster's shoulder.

"My dear lad," he said, quietly, "love is the least of my troubles. I want to see Carmela free from all this annoyance and then----"

"And then," repeated Foster, as they walked towards the breakfast-room.

"You'll see as true a lover as ever sighed his soul out to a midnight pillow," laughed Ronald; "now come and have some breakfast, I'm starving."

"What time do you think our friend will arrive?" asked Foster, as they sat down to the table.

"Oh, about three, I should imagine," said Ronald, attacking a fried sole, with a good appetite. "I wonder what the deuce she wants to see me about?"

"Humph! that's a puzzler," said the barrister, lightly; "but I don't think I'm far wrong when I say it will be all about Vassalla."

Ronald laughed, and went on with his breakfast. He was singularly light-hearted, this young man, because an idea had entered his mind that all would yet be well. If it were not for hope and sanguine expectations, where would our pleasure in the future be?

They finished their breakfast, and then went out for a walk; saw the house where Shelley lived, on which is a tablet, erected by Sir William Clayton, and interviewed the landlady of the hotel into which a portion of the place is turned.

"Don't remember 'im," said the landlady, when they asked about the poet; "I think he was afore my time."

"And this is fame!" ejaculated Foster, when they left. "Shelley isn't even remembered by name;" and he began to spout Horace, when Ronald stopped him.

"Don't be classical, old chap; but look at these old parties."

The old parties consisted of two old women, who informed the gentlemen that they were each eighty years old, and had never been out of the town. So Ronald gave them each a shilling, and walked away with his friend.

"I daresay they are much happier than we are," he said, sighing.

"Better to be a butterfly, and enjoy life for a day, than a tortoise, and sleep out a hundred years," said Foster, sapiently; "depend upon it, life is made up of quality, not quantity."

They strolled down to Marlow Church, and then to that tumble-down heap of cottages immortalized by Fred. Walker, the picturesque aspect of which struck Ronald very strongly.

"I don't know much about pictures," said the Australian, frankly, "and I haven't the eye of an artist, but I do admire these mellow-tinted roofs, so different from the galvanized tin of the colonies."

Then they went across the bridge, saw the river full of boats with their light-hearted occupants, had a drink at the Anglers Hotel, and looked out over the foaming waters of the Weir, murmuring like the humming of bees, and ultimately went back to the Crown Hotel, up the long street, with the old little shops on either side.

After they had some luncheon, consisting of bread and cheese and beer, they sat in the dining-room in a kind of somnolent state, smoking steadily, until a waiter came, and said that a lady had called to see them.

"Why, what's the time?" asked Ronald, sleepily, tumbling to his feet.

"Three o'clock, sir," returned the waiter.

"The Devil!" ejaculated Ronald. "I say, old boy, here's Mrs. Verschoyle."

"Right you are," answered Foster, awake and alert at once; "I'm coming--where is the lady?"

"In the sitting-room upstairs, sir," replied the waiter.

They went upstairs to the sitting-room, and found a lady, closely veiled, waiting for them. She arose when they entered, and looked from one to the other in a doubtful way.

"Mr. Monteith?" she asked.

"I have the honour to bear that name," replied Ronald, stepping forward. "You are Mrs. Verschoyle?"

The lady bowed and threw back her veil, disclosing a countenance so like Carmela's, that Ronald was startled for a moment.

"You will wonder what I've come about," said Mrs. Verschoyle, resuming her seat; "so I may as well tell you at once--it is to stop my sister's marriage with the Marchese Vassalla."

Gerald glanced at Ronald, and as their eyes met the same thought was in their minds.

"Jealousy!"

"But why do you come to us?" said Ronald, politely; "we cannot stop the marriage."

How he fervently wished he could!

"Yes, you can," she replied, quietly; "you are looking for the murderer of my husband."

Both the young men stared; what was she going to say?

"My sister and I are not very good friends," said Mrs. Verschoyle; "but I don't want to see her married to a man guilty of a crime."

"Guilty of a crime!" cried Ronald, springing to his feet; "you don't mean to say that Vassalla----"

"Is the murderer of Leopold Verschoyle," she said. "Yes, I swear it."

Ronald sat down again, and looked helplessly at Foster, who came to his aid.

"This is a very serious charge you make, madam," said Foster, gravely; "are you sure?"

She sprang to her feet in a fury.

"Sure!" she hissed, viciously; "of course I am sure; you have been looking for the murderer of my husband, and I tell you the man, then you doubt my word--bah!"

Foster was quite unmoved by her violence.

"I always presume a man's innocent till he is proved guilty," he said, quietly; "so that must be my excuse; but are you sure Vassalla committed this crime?"

"I will tell you all about it," said Mrs. Verschoyle, sitting down again; "when I married Mr. Verschoyle, my cousin Matteo was in love with me."

"So your sister said," interposed Ronald, gravely.

"He swore he would kill Leopold Verschoyle if he got the chance, and he has kept his word. I was on board and saw him."

"Saw him commit the crime!"

"Not so much as that," she replied; "but I will explain. I met my husband in Valletta, and went on board to see him."

"You denied doing so in your letter to Vassalla," said Foster.

"Ah! he showed you that--it was to save him I wrote it. I am the only witness who could prove him guilty, and I said I was not on board, so in the case of his being found out, I would not have to appear against him."

"How was the crime committed?" asked Ronald.

"I saw my husband on board, but did not speak to him. I heard him mention the number of his cabin to you, and then leave. Matteo Vassalla, who was beside me, followed him."

"And you?"

"I remained where I was, but I did not think Matteo was going to commit a crime, or I would have gone with him."

"When did you see Vassalla again?"

"I went to my husband's cabin, and met Vassalla coming out. He tried to prevent me from going in, but I entered, and saw my husband dead, with Matteo's stiletto in his breast. Matteo implored me to be silent, and I obeyed. I went on shore at once, and wrote the letter you saw. I would have kept silent still, only I heard that he was going to marry my sister, and determined to save her."

"You say Vassalla's stiletto was in poor Verschoyle's breast," said Foster quietly, fixing his keen eyes on her face. "Will you kindly describe the weapon?"

"An ordinary stiletto," she replied, "with a curiously carved ivory handle, representing the head of Bacchus surrounded with wreaths of grapes and vine leaves."

"Yes, that is the description of the weapon," said Foster; "but how do you know it was Vassalla's?"

"Because my sister told me she had given it to him."

Ronald started, and would have spoken, as he remembered Carmela had said the same thing; but Foster stopped him.

"You say," observed the barrister, smoothly, "that Miss Cotoner gave your cousin the stiletto; may I ask when?"

"Oh, six or seven years ago."

"And it has been in Vassalla's possession ever since?"

"Yes," defiantly; "who else could have it?"

Foster made no answer, so Ronald took up the conversation.

"What motive had Vassalla for committing this crime?" he asked, in a puzzled tone; "he would not have nourished revenge all these years."

"Ah, you don't know a Maltese gentleman," said Mrs. Verschoyle; "he never forgets an insult. My husband insulted him seven years ago, and he swore he would kill him. It is like the Corsican Vendetta with us."

"Are you prepared to make this statement in a court of law?" asked Foster, eyeing her keenly.

"Yes! I will swear to it on the cross."

"Vassalla will have to be arrested."

"Of course," she retorted, defiantly. "I want him to be arrested."

"For the murder of your husband at Valletta?"

"Yes!"

"Good! We will go up to London to-night, and take out a warrant."

"The sooner the better!" she said, vindictively.

"Will you let me offer you some refreshment?" said Ronald, as he arose to leave the room.

"Yes; send me a glass of brandy and soda," she replied. "I feel worn out."

Ronald bowed, and then went out with Foster to see after their things. They sent up the drink to Mrs. Verschoyle, and then Ronald wrote a letter to Carmela, telling her he was going up to London on business, but did not mention what. Foster paid the bill, got their dressing-bags, and in a few minutes they were on their way to the station.

While Foster was getting the tickets, Mrs. Verschoyle being on the platform, Ronald took the opportunity to ask his friend a question.

"Do you think her story is true?" he asked.

"If it isn't, Vassalla can easily clear himself." was the ambiguous reply.