Cousin Amy

ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER

HE Duchess unhooked the speaking-tube of the motor:

"I should like to see the effects of the fire, before we go on to the farm-house where Miss Patterdale has spent the last two nights. If you turn in at the gate which is in front of us, it will bring us, I think, straight to the house."

She hung up the speaking-tube and leant back. It had been a long, cross-country drive to this remote hamlet, but the journey was now almost at an end. As the motor rolled swiftly along under the high beeches of Scalands Park, the Duchess took a folded letter out of her handbag, and read it through.

Small wonder that the impulsive Duchess had persuaded the Duke to allow her to telegraph, "Laura will come and fetch you both to-morrow, about five o'clock. Hope you will stay with us as long as you find it convenient to do so."

Miss Patterdale, now nearly seventy, and by way of being an invalid, was not an agreeable woman; but if narrow-minded and censorious by nature, she had always tried to do her duty, both by her tenants, and by the young great-niece who was now her heiress.

As she put "Cousin Amy's" letter back into her bag, the Duchess thought with pity of Angela Patterdale. Twice the girl had been asked to stay a week-end at the Castle, to form one of a party of light-hearted young people. But each time the invitation had been refused. Miss Patterdale was known to be early-Victorian in her views concerning the behaviour of young people.

Angela was now twenty-two, but she was still treated like a child by the woman she called "Aunt Amy." At the age of eighteen she had been taken to London and presented at Court. But after a few weeks spent with a dull widowed contemporary of Miss Patterdale, she had been taken back to Scalands Park. And now the aunt and niece were said to get on ill together, and the Duchess told herself that if it was really true that Angela, through carelessness, had caused the fire, the girl was indeed to be pitied.

The motor suddenly emerged from under the trees, and drew up before the gaunt skeleton of what had been, until two days ago, a small, beautiful, and unspoilt Elizabethan manor-house.

At a sign from his mistress, the footman opened the door of the motor, and, stepping down, she gazed, with a feeling of melancholy and regret, at the piteous scene.

Against the blue sky of a lovely early summer day rose the blackened, jagged walls which were all that remained of what had been the cherished home of generations of Patterdales. Leaning against two of the windows which now looked like blinded eyes, were rough hoardings across which had been rudely scrawled in chalk, "Danger. Do not come too near," while under tarpaulins spread about the wide, now trampled-down lawn, were still stowed the furniture and household effects saved from the fire.

The Duchess turned away and, as she stepped up into the motor, she remembered with sudden vividness her one visit to Scalands Manor as a bride. Even then the Duke's "Cousin Amy" had seemed to the young visitor an old woman.

Cross-Road Farm was a long, low, rambling-looking house, set in a charming garden now filled with gaily-coloured, sweet-scented flowers. As she walked up the stone-paved path leading to the front door the Duchess, who sometimes felt a naïve longing for "the simple life," told herself that she could have led a very happy existence in such a homestead.

A pleasant, middle-aged woman, evidently the mistress of the house, opened the front door: "Miss Patterdale has gone to say good-bye to the Rector, but she won't be long," she observed, while showing the visitor into a tiny wainscoted room. "Miss Patterdale's sitting-room is next door, but I couldn't get in there just now. She must have taken the key with her."

After the other had left her, the Duchess, who was always interested in other people's lives, began walking about the attractive, curious-looking little room.

She noticed, with some surprise, that in a deep recess in the thick old wall stood a row of slender glass vases filled with tulips. "A clever, original way of arranging flowers," she said to herself; and then she sat down in the one easy-chair the study contained.

All at once there came the sound of a French window opening and shutting, and then a clash of voices—those of a man and a woman—sounding startlingly near.

"I hate the thought of leaving you! Why should she force me now to go to a place where she has always prevented my going before—just because she was angry they didn't ask her too? I could quite well stay on here as a paying guest."

"Don't talk so loud, darling. It really isn't safe! Of course you must go with her to Settleham Castle. Apart from one all-important reason, you seem to have forgotten the Duke might be awfully useful to me later on?" There was a pause, and then the invisible speaker added in a low voice—"In some ways, Angela, this is a tremendous bit of luck for us"

"I don't know what you mean," was the cross answer.

"In big houses of that sort no one notices anything—and you'll be left a lot alone with her."

At once came the passionate, defiant answer: "I suppose that would seem a treat to you? I'll only go if you'll promise to come too! There must be lots of hotels in the town."

"Of course if you insist on my coming, I'll have to come. But I think it's stupid, as well as dangerous." His voice dropped, "I've brought what you will have to take with you."

"I won't take them! What you're asking me to do is very unfair. You never think of me"

"All right! We'll throw the whole thing up, Angela. There's a good job, as well as a good-looking and good-tempered girl, waiting for me in Belgrade"

There came a cry, not loud, but full of bitter, yearning pain, "Don't say things like that! You know I'll do anything—anything you want me to do," and the voice, which the Duchess now knew to be that of Angela Patterdale, broke into a sob.

The unwitting eavesdropper looked about her, feeling utterly bewildered. It was as if that angry, ungracious interchange of words was taking place here, in this tiny room, empty but for her own presence.

She rose from her chair, took a few cautious steps forward, and then, with a sensation of relief, she realised that the row of high, flower-filled glasses concealed an oblong aperture in the wall between the tiny room where she now stood, and the one next it.

Slowly she approached the curious peep-hole, and then she saw, without being seen, the two in the other room. They were still talking, though now in so low a whisper that, to her relief, she heard nothing of what they were saying.

A tall, slender, singularly good-looking man stood close to a very plain young woman, whose masses of fair shingled hair—her only beauty—had been brushed back off her forehead and looked, so the Duchess told herself, like a lion's mane.

The apartment in which they were standing, was low-ceilinged and spacious, obviously the best sitting-room of the farm. On the floor, and heaped up on the chairs, was a curious, motley collection of objects; and all at once it flashed into the unseen watcher's mind that they must be the flotsam and jetsam of old Miss Patterdale's precious personal possessions saved from the fire.

Suddenly the Duchess heard three taps on the window of the other room, and at once the man exclaimed, "Your aunt mustn't catch me here"

"She can't catch you, I've locked the door"

"And what if she comes round by the garden?"

"Nothing would induce her to do such a thing"

"How can you tell that? I really must go, darling. It's so stupid, so useless to take any risk!"

He took the girl in his arms, and they exchanged a long, clinging kiss. Then he opened the French window and vanished into the garden, while Angela Patterdale walked quietly across the room and unlocked the door.

The Duchess retreated to an easy chair and sat down, feeling, to use an old-fashioned and vivid expression, thoroughly upset. It was plain—at least she thought it plain—that Angela Patterdale was engaged to this man, either secretly, or in defiance of her aunt's wishes.

The incident produced a most unpleasant impression on Angela's coming hostess, and she could not help feeling genuinely sorry that she had surprised the girl's secret—if indeed it were a secret.

The door slowly opened, and the old woman whom the Duke called. "Cousin Amy" came through it. She was tall, thin, gaunt, and she looked very ill, her face, indeed, of a chalky white colour, though her green eyes, the only feature she and her great-niece had in common, were unnaturally bright.

"I was not expecting you till five o'clock, Duchess. I'm sorry I was out when you arrived"

The words were uttered in cold, incisive tones.

The Duchess, who was impulsive and warm-hearted, would have liked to kiss the poor old lady; but Miss Patterdale's manner was almost forbidding.

"It's very good of the Duke," she went on stiffly, "to offer me such generous hospitality. It will only take me a few moments to get ready."

"I hope the second car has arrived," exclaimed the Duchess. "I mean the one for your maid and the luggage."

"I have no maid," replied Miss Patterdale. "Owing to the income-tax I have become a poor woman, so when my faithful Beckett had to go back to her mother, I made up my mind that I would do without a maid. The very little maiding I require is done by Angela."

"I'm very sorry for Angela," the Duchess instinctively lowered her voice. "It must be so terrible for her to know that her carelessness caused the fire. What exactly did she do, Cousin Amy?"

"Left a lamp burning by her bedside till the oil caught fire. You need not waste any pity on that girl; she has hardly said she was sorry."

"I hope you were well insured?"

The Duke had shown a good deal of interest as to this question. And the Duchess was surprised, for Miss Patterdale was known to be penurious, by the quick answer—"Yes, the value of the building is completely covered. Angela's trustees forced me to double the insurance on the house two years ago. I was very much vexed at the time, but I suppose I ought to be glad now, though of course nothing can replace" and then old Miss Patterdale did show some trace of real feeling, indeed tears came into her eyes. But she was obviously ashamed of betraying such emotion, for she hurried across to the window, and furtively taking out her handkerchief, wiped her tears away.

"I'm sorry to hear what you've just told me about Angela," observed the Duchess slowly. "She must be feeling very sad, for, after all, your beautiful house was to have been hers some day."

"I've done my duty by her," said the other emphatically. "Poor as I've become of late years, she's always had a good horse to ride: and she went to two hunt balls last year."

"I'm glad of that! I always believe in girls having what is called a good time."

"Not so I, Duchess! What's called 'a good time' makes girls unfit for the only life a woman ought to lead."

"You mean," said the Duchess gently, "the life of wife and mother?"

Cousin Amy hesitated. "Yes, I suppose I do mean that."

"And is there any chance of a happy marriage for Angela?" inquired the Duchess. "Is she engaged?"

"Engaged? As far as I know, and I think I should have known it, she has never even had what I would call an offer of marriage. She is very unattractive. Her only beauty was her hair, yet, in spite of the fact that I had, of course, forbidden her to do so, she secretly had it all cut off and what they call, I believe, shingled!"

At that moment the lady of the house opened the door of the tiny sitting-room. "Miss Angela asked me to tell you, Miss Patterdale, that she thinks she has forgotten nothing. I helped her to pack, and she has just gone on with the luggage"

"Gone on with the luggage?" exclaimed the old lady in a tone of extreme surprise and annoyance. "What an extraordinary thing to do!"

And then the Duchess intervened. "I suppose she thought it would be more comfortable for us if she went in the other motor."

"She ought not to have done such a thing without asking my permission," and Miss Patterdale pressed her lips together.

But after they were well away from the village, and the Duchess had had time to try some of her innocent, but potent arts of kindness, sympathy, and understanding on the Duke's old kinswoman, Miss Patterdale suddenly exclaimed, with a spot of red rising to each of her pale cheeks: "I feel I ought to confess, Laura, that I was not quite truthful when I told you that Angela had never received an offer of marriage. Three years ago she engaged in a secret and, I think, disgraceful, love affair, with the son of a farmer about three miles from here—not one of my tenants, I need hardly say. The father of the loutish young man came and saw me about it, and at first I couldn't believe what he told me was true. I shall never forget the interview. It was odious, odious! He evidently supposed I had it in my power to disinherit Angela, and I did not enlighten him—the matter was none of his business. Still, as a result of this interview, the affair came to an end. Angela has never forgiven me, though we have never spoken of the matter since."

What a melancholy, sordid story! The Duchess felt a rush of pity for the girl. Was it possible, she asked herself, that the good-looking man she had seen holding Angela Patterdale in his arms, scarce an hour ago, was a local farmer's son? Everything is possible nowadays; but somehow she felt sure that Angela's present, and evidently secret, lover, was a very different type of man from the one of whom the old-fashioned gentlewoman, now sitting upright by her side, had just spoken with such acrid contempt.

days had gone by since the arrival of Miss Patterdale and her niece at the Castle. They had been long, dull days, for the Duke had had to leave for town, and, owing to a case of measles in the nursery, there were no other visitors. Now, in the late afternoon, after her solitary tea, the Duchess sat trying to read a book in her own sitting-room. But soon she gave up the pretence, and began considering, with almost painful intentness, Miss Patterdale, and, what was to her of far greater moment, the problem of Miss Patterdale's niece and heiress. Incidentally the old lady was really ill. She had taken to her bed almost at once, and the doctor had been in daily attendance.

But it was round Angela Patterdale that her hostess's mind revolved. The Duchess had a suspicion, now deepening into certainty, that the girl was constantly meeting the man with whom she, at Scalands, had so strangely surprised her, and whom Angela evidently loved with all the strength of a sullen, passionate, frustrated nature.

During the last ten days the Duchess had tried to win, if not Angela's confidence, then some measure of liking, but, do what she might, she could make no way with her. Indeed it was plain that the girl regarded her hostess as belonging to her aunt's faction. Not that Angela allowed herself to say a word against Miss Patterdale. To the surprise of the Duchess, she "maided" her devotedly. The old lady, though by now really ill, refused with angry obstinacy all thought of a nurse, and was remorselessly selfish in making her niece dance attendance on her.

And yet, even so, either early in the morning, or very late in the afternoon, Angela would always manage to slip out of the Castle, and, preferably by some garden door, go off on what was supposed to be a long solitary walk.

The Duchess sighed: she knew it was unprofitable to waste time thinking over the curious problem of Angela Patterdale. Both aunt and niece were on her nerves, and she longed for the conclusion of their visit, while aware that there was no hope of this as long as Miss Patterdale's illness continued. Why, only yesterday Cousin Amy had had what the housemaid had called "a very bad turn."

There came a knock at the door, and Doctor Wakefield, who was not only her medical man, but also a dear and trusted friend, came into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

"May I have a word with you, Duchess?" He looked perturbed—unlike his usual, calm self.

"You don't think Miss Patterdale worse?" she exclaimed. "I thought she looked dreadfully ill this morning!"

"She is certainly worse," he announced gravely—and then, "I do wish we could persuade her to have a nurse."

"I wish we could. And it's all the more odd of her not to allow anyone to wait on her but her niece, as, unfortunately, the old lady and Angela Patterdale don't really get on together."

"I should put it even more strongly myself. To my mind Miss Angela hates her aunt."

"Would you go as far as that?"

"I would indeed; and it's not surprising, considering how the old lady treats her. Who could suppose the unfortunate girl to be her adopted daughter?"

"Oh, but that's a great exaggeration!" cried the Duchess quickly. "Angela is Miss Patterdale's great-niece, and the real reason why the old lady dislikes her so is that she is bound to come into the Scalands property."

"That's not a reason for treating the poor girl as a kind of slave. No servant would put up with it for a moment."

Then, after a pause, and in a very different tone, he added: "Miss Patterdale's condition puzzles me very much. I mean her physical, not her cantankerous mental, state. In fact, I'd give a good deal to know what really is the matter with her."

"She has suffered a great shock," said the Duchess thoughtfully. "That old house took the place, with Cousin Amy, of all normal human affections."

"I quite realise the truth of what you say, Duchess. But she has certain definite symptoms which point to" and then he stopped dead.

"What symptoms do you mean?" asked the Duchess. The colour rushed to her face, as she thought of a dread disease.

"The symptoms in question point to poison," said Dr. Wakefield deliberately.

"Poison?" She stared at him incredulously.

"Were it not that I consider the possibility of such a thing as out of the question, I should be tempted to believe that Miss Patterdale is now having administered to her, day by day, small, but even so, most dangerous, doses of some form of arsenical poison. What is more, it looked yesterday as if the dose had suddenly been greatly increased."

"What a strange, horrible idea!"

"If it be a fact, which, of course, I do not believe, horrible rather than strange," said the doctor quietly.

He waited a moment, then went on, gravely: "There has always been, and there always will be—human nature being what it is—a great deal of secret poisoning going on. What is more, Duchess, every medical man of my age and standing has probably had to consider the question, as it affects himself as well as a patient, more than once during his professional life. However"—his tone altered; it became cheerful and matter-of-fact—"we know that there can be nothing of the kind going on in this case, and I therefore suggest calling in a specialist who may discover, after a thorough examination of our patient, a comparatively simple explanation of what so puzzles me. Though I do my best to do so, I find it impossible to keep my knowledge, as to the wonderful new medical discoveries which are being made, really up to date."

"I'm afraid she'll refuse to see a specialist."

He said nothing for a moment, then he exclaimed: "I do earnestly beg you to try and persuade her to do so. I do feel seriously uneasy. She nearly slipped through our hands yesterday"

"I had no idea of that!"

"Such is the fact, and I should like to get Sir Joseph Flintlaw down to-morrow."

After Dr. Wakefield had left her, the Duchess, taking her courage in her hands—for Miss Patterdale was, in her fragile way, very formidable, and always knew her own mind—went and knocked at the door of the stately bedroom which had been assigned to the Duke's kinswoman.

Owing perhaps to the doctor's unexpected confidence, she felt shocked at the old lady's appearance. Was it so that a woman looked, when she was being slowly, secretly done to death by poison? Though there could be no thought of such a dire happening here, the Duchess shuddered inwardly.

"I've come to sit with you," she said gently. "I think Angela ought to go out for a little walk." She was aware that the girl had been kept a close prisoner since lunch.

Throwing for once a really grateful look at her hostess, Angela Patterdale almost ran past her, out of the room.

"How are you feeling this evening, Cousin Amy?"

And then, as she had hoped would be the case, Miss Patterdale gave her the opportunity she sought.

"I'm sorry to say I feel far less well than when I arrived here. Yesterday I was really very ill. And though I know you have a high opinion of him, Laura, I cannot say I like your doctor."

"Dr. Wakefield confesses himself puzzled, Cousin Amy, and so to-morrow we are having down a really great man, Sir Joseph Flintlaw, to hold a consultation."

A look of surprise and displeasure came over the old lady's drawn face, and so the Duchess hurried on, saying the only thing she knew might smooth away that look. "James always begins by asking for news of you during our little morning telephone talk. And I know that it will be a great relief to him for you to see a specialist."

Miss Patterdale's face softened. "The Duke is very kind," she said feebly. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. Suddenly she opened them again.

"There is no necessity for you to stay here, Laura. I feel sleepy. If I want anything I will ring for the housemaid to give it to me. I ought to have told Angela not to be out for more than half an hour."

"I'm walking into the town, so if I meet "her I'll tell her that you would like her to be in by half-past six," she glanced at the clock, which was just going to strike the hour.

What a terrible tyranny is the tyranny of age! The Duchess, in her secret heart, hoped that she would not meet the girl with whom she, as she put it to herself, so longed to get "on terms."

It was as though there were a high, impassable barrier between the two, the kind affectionate hostess and the lonely young visitor. A barrier no doubt caused by the secret love affair which the Duchess felt sure was absorbing all Angela's waking thoughts. The girl never looked at a paper, and rarely opened a book. She was engaged on an elaborate, ugly, piece of needlework, but often she would leave it lying on her lap, and, needle still in hand, gaze into vacancy with such a curious look—was it a watchful or a waiting look?—on her plain face.

Again dismissing poor Angela as an unprofitable subject of speculation, the Duchess, as she walked briskly down the broad carriage drive that led to the gateway and so into the town, told herself that she had managed "Cousin Amy" quite cleverly. In fact she was now actually on her way to tell Dr. Wakefield of her success, so that he could get a call through to the specialist to-day. She hoped he would be at home, though, were he out, she could leave a message with his wife.

But Dr. Wakefield met her at the door of the fine old Georgian house which had belonged to four of his medical forbears, and he took her straight, a little to her surprise, into his consulting-room.

Before she had even had time to sit down, she told him her good news. But he seemed so little pleased, so—so indifferent, that she told herself something must be weighing on his mind—a bad case maybe, to which he was just starting when her coming had stopped him? So she got up.

"Just let me get my hat and stick," he exclaimed. "I should like to walk back with you, Duchess, if you will allow me to do so."

They were some way up the familiar High Street when he said suddenly, "Something has happened, since I saw you, which has altered the problem of Miss Patterdale."

He spoke in a brusque, preoccupied tone, and after they had passed under the Norman archway, it was as though half-consciously he guided her steps up a narrow path which led away from, instead of towards, the Castle. The Duchess felt surprised, more by his manner than by what he had just said.

"Have you guessed what is really wrong with her?"

"I'm afraid what I am going to tell you will give you a great shock—and it's just possible that I've got hold of a mare's nest. But I think not—I fear not."

"Tell me quick—you're frightening me!"

"Hush!"

The word slipped out instinctively.

There had come the sound of footsteps hard by, on the carriage drive, and through a row of evergreen bushes they could see Angela Patterdale walking quickly back on her way to the Castle.

She was wearing a close cap and long ulster, and she looked more like an under-servant than a visitor.

They waited until she was quite out of earshot, and then Dr. Wakefield said in a low voice: "That girl, Duchess, is slowly but surely doing her aunt to death. Each morning and evening she goes out and secretly meets a man who is stopping at that old 'Fisherman's Rest,' down by the river. He calls himself Captain Ranley, and he must have arrived at the hotel two days after Miss Patterdale and Miss Angela came here. It is this Captain Ranley who is almost certainly providing, day by day, the arsenic which is being administered to Miss Patterdale. The two are, no doubt, convinced that their meetings, which take place in a lonely lane, near the river, are absolutely secret and unsuspected. But they little know what a gossip-ridden place is a little country town like ours."

"How have you learnt all this?" asked the Duchess.

She spoke in a quiet, collected tone; but she was feeling sick with horror, and, for the first time in her life, for she was a brave woman, consciously terrified.

"In quite a simple way! But first let me assure you that the worst of what I have told you is still unsuspected by anybody, and will, I hope, remain so."

She felt greatly relieved, and he went on: "One of the children of the man who keeps 'The Fisherman's Rest' has measles, and I went down to see the little chap, who is rather bad, on leaving you this afternoon. The moment I arrived the child's mother mysteriously took me off into a bedroom which I could see was in the occupation of a man. She unlocked a ramshackle-looking drawer with a key she took out of her pocket, and in that drawer showed me a small brass-bound box. This also, to my surprise, she unlocked. In it were a considerable number of—well, I hardly know what to call them! Let's say tiny packets. I recognised the pale blue paper in which each was wrapped as that commonly used by Italian chemists. The woman confessed, with some agitation, that she and her husband had given the powder contained in one of these packets to a cat, with the result to the poor creature that you can imagine! She wanted my advice as to what they ought to do—whether they ought to go to the police? The husband, who is a prudent sort, thinks it no business of theirs. The more so that this Captain Ranley is a pleasant-spoken young man, and generous with his money. The woman mentioned, as an afterthought, that he is a friend of one of the young ladies staying at the Castle, and she told me, tittering, that they met daily, secretly, by the river."

"I told her I would think the matter over," went on Dr. Wakefield, "and of course I pointed out to her that Captain Ranley might possess the stuff, whatever it may be, for some quite innocent purpose. I also suggested that if they desired me to do so, I would speak to the gentleman myself, and so clear up what may after all be no mystery, and she said she would consult her husband."

"How horrible!" murmured the Duchess. "And what do you think can be done?" she asked, feeling for once quite helpless.

For a time her companion remained silent. Then at last he answered, and she felt the hesitation in his mind, rather than in his voice.

"I think you will agree that our first thought must be to save that unhappy girl from the awful consequences of her wickedness. On the other hand, the matter is so very serious that we ought, if possible, to find out something about this man Ranley, if, indeed, Ranley is really his name. You know our local Police Inspector, Eartham?"

"Of course I do."

"I think the best thing to do would be to take him, to a certain limited extent, into our confidence. I suggest he should be told, as from you, Duchess, what I suspect will be no news to him, that one of your young lady visitors, a cousin of the Duke's, is engaged in a secret love affair with a man who you fear is an adventurer. Ask him to communicate with Scotland Yard, and find out if anything is known of this Captain Ranley. Tell him frankly what a help it would be to you in dealing with the matter if the man is as much of a rogue as you believe him to be."

Seeing how greatly she was disturbed and distressed, he added: "I will undertake to speak to Eartham if you will authorise me to do so. He will probably get a call through to London to-night, and I will tell him that if he has anything to say he can let me know the result, and I will then ask if I may speak to you on the telephone."

Late that same evening the Duchess received the message she longed yet feared to hear.

"It is the man's real name," were the cautious words, "and someone is coming down from town to see you concerning his past career to-morrow."

There followed for the Duchess a sleepless night. She lived over and over again every moment she had spent with Angela Patterdale, since the awful, to her, almost incredible, revelation. The girl had looked exceptionally composed, it might almost be said exceptionally happy, all the evening. She had also talked more than usual, and had appeared quite animated, as well as quite unsuspecting of the change which had come over her hostess.

The Duchess seldom thought of herself as possessed of exceptional privileges, but as she waited for the man whom in her own mind she designated "the gentleman from Scotland Yard," she did vaguely realise that there were advantages attached to her position as the wife of a great Duke. What she did not realise was how very much her own radiance of nature and kindness of disposition helped her over the rough places of life. Inspector Eartham would not have taken the trouble he had taken the night before had her Grace been ten times a Duchess, but for the fact that, as he would himself have expressed it, he thought all the world of her.

But alas! the interview on which the Duchess had built so much, though it opened, as she said frankly to herself, very well, proved a disappointment.

"With regard to this Captain Ranley," observed the official, who had been sent down from town to see her, "there is very little to tell, though I may inform your Grace, in confidence of course, that there is one black mark against him. Within a short time of the armistice, and before he had been demobilised, he was charged with having committed bigamy."

"Bigamy!" exclaimed the Duchess.

"Yes, in eight months this man had contracted two marriages. The brother of his second, bigamous wife laid an information against him. But in those days magistrates were lenient to temporary officers, and, as his real wife refused to prosecute, he escaped with a caution."

"Then he's married?" She felt immensely relieved.

"As far as we know he is a widower," was the unexpected answer. "The young woman who refused to give evidence against him died within a few weeks of the case. Here is a newspaper cutting containing a short summary of the Police Court proceedings."

The Duchess glanced at it eagerly. "The magistrate was less shocked than I should have been," she exclaimed.

"I understand from Inspector Eartham that your Grace has no definite charge against Ranley? The fact that he is secretly engaged to a young lady of good family cannot be regarded as a criminal offence," and a slight smile came over the shrewd face.

For a moment the Duchess felt angry. Then she reminded herself that, after all, the shape this interview was taking was her own fault. She had not breathed a word, and did not intend to breathe a word, of her terrible suspicion.

"How would you feel if this Captain Ranley were meeting your own daughter or sister in secret?" she asked sorely.

The man addressed looked, and felt, ashamed.

"I would move heaven and earth to put an end to such meetings," he said sincerely.

Then looking straight into her troubled face: "Though I doubt if I am justified in allowing the information about this man which I have given your Grace to be so used, I do authorise you to show the young lady the cutting I have just handed you. If the fact that you possess this information about him can be conveyed to Captain Ranley, he'll probably decamp"

"May I ask Inspector Eartham to see him?"

"To that I fear I must say 'No.' But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I think the best thing of all would be for your Grace to see Captain Ranley, if you can bring yourself to do so."

the afternoon that followed the Duchess's interview with the official from Scotland Yard, the moments seemed minutes, and the minutes hours. Dr. Wakefield had insisted on sending in a nurse, to Miss Patterdale's indignation, an indignation shared, oddly enough, by her great-niece. But even in the middle of the unpleasant discussions and "fusses" over the nurse, the Duchess managed to have a talk with the doctor, and together they worked out what seemed to them both the only way out of a dangerous, as well as tragic, dilemma. So it was that at half-past six—having already ordered her motor to be in readiness—she made her way to the pleasant bedroom in which she had last been, to see if everything there was cosy and comfortable for her coming guest, just before that expedition to Scalands, which now seemed to belong to another life.

Angela Patterdale was jamming on her hat with furious haste, for it was already late, and the man she loved with so abject a devotion did not like to be kept waiting. So when there came a knock on the door, a feeling of intense annoyance swept over her. But this changed to surprise when the door was opened by the Duchess, looking so unlike herself that even the unperceptive girl felt a pang of—was it fear?

"I'm just going out, Cousin Laura. I suppose you've just come in?"

"No, I'm going out too. But I've something very important to tell you."

She did not look at Angela. She was staring away from her, wondering how she could put into words the dreadful thing she had come to say.

"A terrible discovery has just been made," she said at last.

"A discovery? How d'you mean, Cousin Laura?"

The girl had taken off her hat. There was a look of defiant anger in her face. But she was far, far from suspecting that she had been—dread words—found out.

"Dr. Wakefield has discovered that your Aunt Amy is being poisoned. Two days ago, had it not been for a certain precaution the doctor thought it right to take," at this she raised her eyes and looked straight into Angela's now pallid, mask-like face, "she would have died in agony."

She waited a moment, then said quietly: "You would have been a free woman, then, Angela, with enough money to indulge not only your own tastes, but the tastes of Captain Ranley, the villain to whom you are, I suppose, secretly engaged."

Angela had grasped the pillar of her four-post bed. Her green eyes were dilated, and in them was an expression of almost animal terror.

"This morning," went on the Duchess, her voice sinking almost to a whisper, "someone came down from Scotland Yard."

And then, as the girl looked about to faint, "Pull yourself together!" she cried. "The man who came here knew nothing about what has been going on, but he told me certain things about Captain Ranley—things which you ought to know."

And then a dreadful suspicion came to her for the first time. "You are not secretly married to him?" she asked. And, as Angela shook her head, "Thank God for that!"

She handed the girl the newspaper cutting in which was set out in formal, colourless, but, to unhappy Angela Patterdale, terrible words, a brief record of the Police Court proceedings.

The girl read the short report twice through. And when she saw on Angela's face the awful effect those colourless words could cause, feeling full of pity, the Duchess went up to the wretched girl, and taking the cutting from her nerveless hand, she led her to the writing-table which she herself had taken the trouble to make pretty the day of Angela's arrival.

"You must write a letter now, at once, to Captain Ranley. Make it as short as you like, but tell him that what has been going on is now known, and that he must not lose a moment to avoid arrest. Put it into your own words, but remember not to incriminate yourself."

Angela sat down at the writing-table. But she made no effort even to take up the pen. She stared before her as though lost in a maze of fear and pain.

"Shall I tell you what to say?"

The girl started. She took the pen in her hand, and looked up, "I—I can't think of anything to say!"

"Put simply this:

"Scotland Yard is on your track. You have the night before you in which to get away. I have been shown the Police Court report of what happened in 1918."

Slowly the girl wrote the words in a round, childish hand. But it was the Duchess who blotted the bit of note-paper, and who, after putting it into an envelope, wrote on it Private.

Suddenly she told herself that the official from Scotland Yard had advised more wisely than he knew. If she sent Angela alone to "The Fisherman's Rest," the girl might disappear with this man for whose sake she had so nearly committed murder.

"We are going together to 'The Fisherman's Rest.' If Captain Ranley is there, I will myself give him the letter. If not, you will have to follow him to the place where I suppose you usually meet. We can entrust this note to no one else."

Neither of them spoke during the drive down to what had become of late years a famous riverside hostelry. The Duchess had been to "The Fisherman's Rest" many a time, but she was well aware that this evening's visit would cause a good deal of gossip and speculation in the little town. But that, after all, was a very small price to pay, and Angela Patterdale was not known here.

"Captain Ranley? I think he's in the lounge, your Grace."

It was with intense relief that the Duchess saw that the man she sought was not alone when she came face to face with him. There were two other men, strangers, in the rather stuffy little hall.

"Captain Ranley? I have been asked to give you this."

His handsome face flushed. There came over it a half-smile, as this still attractive-looking woman came up to him.

She did not wait to see the astounding change which came over that same smiling, debonair-looking face, when he had torn open the envelope and seen what it contained.

Cousin Amy and her great-niece had been gone for quite a long time; indeed the foundation-stone of the new Scalands Manor had already been well and truly laid; and the Duchess was beginning to feel that the dreadful episode of which she had shared the secret only with Dr. Wakefield had been a dream rather than reality, when one morning something very extraordinary happened. She and the Duke had just enjoyed a cosy little breakfast together in her sitting-room, when the Duke suddenly looked up from a letter which he was reading with some care.

But before he could speak, she threw him an apprehensive look: "That looks like poor Cousin Amy's spidery handwriting, James?"

He smiled a little queerly. "You have guessed right. Let me see? You became quite fond of Angela Patterdale, eh, Laura? What d'you think your pet has gone and done now?"

The Duchess started to her feet with a cry: "Not killed herself?"

"Killed herself? Married herself! I'll show you poor old Cousin Amy's letter in a minute. With her 'kind hearts' are not more 'than coronets'"

"I quite agree!" exclaimed the Duchess. "But whom has the poor girl married?"

"From what she says, your queer young friend had a secret love affair, some years ago, with the son of a farmer who lives near Scalands. Her indignant aunt sent for the young man's father, and gave him what for. She thought the whole business at an end, but, of course, it was nothing of the kind, and the girl went off and married the youth yesterday."

"Thank God!" the Duchess exclaimed.

He looked at her. "You're easily pleased, I must say."

"Angela was so horribly unhappy, James. She has a far better chance of becoming a good sensible woman married to this farmer's son, who was her first love, after all, than if she had waited for Cousin Amy's death, and married some fortune-hunter."

"Well, well," cried the Duke, "you are always surprising me, Laura! And I suppose you will go on surprising me until"

"—'Death us do part,' darling?"

And then she got up and went round to where he was sitting.

Putting her arms round his neck, she began to cry. "Don't ask me the reason why," she sobbed. "But I have got a very good reason for being glad that poor girl is married."

"I don't want to know the reason," said the Duke. "Fortunately for myself, I'm a most incurious man. If you're pleased to welcome a farmer's boy—Cousin Amy uses a less pleasing term—into your children's family, I'll not say you nay. But I don't feel we can ask the happy couple here during Cousin Amy's lifetime, eh?"

"If that's the case, then I hope Cousin Amy will live to be a hundred," said the Duchess decidedly.