CHAPTER XI. MISS DESTINY SPEAKS

There it glared at me--the glass eye for which I sought. As Striver had said, it was a mere shell, on the outward curve of which was depicted the pupil and the iris of a gray eye, the white portion of the fabric being delicately streaked with thin red veins. Uttering an ejaculation I tipped it over with my finger, and just had time to see that there was a piece of silver the size of a threepenny bit--and perhaps indeed a threepenny bit--fastened inside the concave, when I heard Mr. Monk's voice calling me on the terrace. It flashed across me in an instant that he must not see the eye, which apparently Gertrude had carelessly left lying on the table. I should have picked it up to slip into my pocket, but the sight was so very unexpected that I had not my presence of mind and stepped back again on to the terrace, leaving the sinister object on the table. At the same moment Mr. Monk coming round the corner of the terrace, slipped his arm within my own. "I heard your voice," he said gently and it guided me towards the corner, "come and see the green-house. There are some orchids there I should like you to examine. I am fond of these weird plants. Such a well-bred taste, too," added Mr. Monk, languidly. "The love of a man for orchids is like the love of a woman for lace."

I replied mechanically, for my head was in a whirl, and submitted to be led to a far distant corner of the garden where the greenhouses nestled under the red brick wall. Here, while Mr. Monk discoursed learnedly on flowers,--about which he knew less than nothing,--I wondered in my own mind what might be the meaning of my discovery. The glass eye could have been left in the drawing-room by no one but Gertrude, since I already possessed her cloak to show--what I had hitherto shrunk from acknowledging even to myself--that she was the lady who had stolen my motor-car. Then again, she was the one person who had a right to the fifty thousand pounds when found. I groaned. It really seemed that my pearl amongst woman was guilty of theft and murder. And yet, even at the eleventh hour, I could not make up my mind to believe that she was guilty.

Mr. Monk mistook my groan for weariness, and became offended. "I fear you don't take much interest in flowers, Mr. Vance," he said, glaring at me through his pince-nez.

"Oh, yes; they interest me; pray proceed," I said, hastily.

"No. The air of this place is so dense that it gives me a headache. The day is uncommonly warm for this season of the year. Let us return to the house. I have a new song I should like to show you. To-morrow I return to London, and shall not see you for some time."

"Oh, I can call on you when I go back to town," I said idly, for my brain was still preoccupied with the glass eye problem.

"No! No! Pardon me, no," said Mr. Monk decidedly and hastily. "I am going away for a few weeks to the Continent--on business of course."

"Business," I echoed, "I thought you were free, Mr. Monk."

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, as we slowly walked across the lawn towards the shallow steps of the terrace. "I have five hundred a year," he declared, "and what is that, a mere pittance. I have to allow Gertrude something and have this house to keep up. Also my flat in London has to be rented. I can't do that on ten pounds a week."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he did not remain at Burwain and play the part of a country gentleman, to reduce his expenditure, when he proceeded. "Yes, I am in business of a sort, connected with commissions on loans. That is, you will understand, Mr. Vance, I am not a money lender--far from it. I simply find people who have no money and who want it and agree to procure them money from those who possess it, on condition that I have a ten per cent commission. In a word I induce my many friends to benefit each other and so benefit myself. Come Mr. Vance, you are a rising dramatist who should be better known in the West End. Suppose you allow me--at ten per cent--to arrange a loan for you to produce one of your better class plays."

"I have no security," I objected.

"I can arrange that," said Mr. Monk with an airy wave of his hand, "and if you can find that eye," I started violently, but he did not appear to notice, "and get the fifty thousand pounds, I shall let you have the money myself at the same percentage. I shall not charge any commission," he ended generously, quite forgetting that he was proposing to gamble with his daughter's money. But that obtuseness was Mr. Monk all over.

"If I could see you in town,"--

"Later on: later on," he said hastily mounting the steps, "say in three or four months when I return from the Continent. Then we can have a talk."

"Your address is?"--

He interrupted again. "I shall see you here: I shall see you here. It will be much more convenient for me," and he passed through the French window into the drawing-room.

Mr. Monk puzzled me, as I did not understand why he should refuse to see me on his--so to speak--business premises, seeing he desired to speak with me on a business matter. However, all his froth and small talk were driven out of my head by my discovery that the glass eye had disappeared from the small table. I suppose Gertrude had put it into her pocket, as she was in the room arranging some flowers in a vase. I glanced at her keenly, but she appeared to be perfectly cool.

"Where is your aunt?" asked Monk, looking around.

"She has gone home again: she only came to see if she could get Joseph to attend to her place," said Gertrude, busy with her flowers, "good-morning, Mr. Vance."

"Good-morning," I answered looking hard at her--so hard that she blushed becomingly, but certainly not guiltily.

"What is the matter?" she asked, putting her hand to her head, "is my hair out of order?"

"No--o--o--o," I said hesitatingly, for her coolness amazed me. "I was only delighted to see you looking so well."

She blushed again. "Thank you," was her laughing reply, "for that compliment you shall have a flower," and she actually handed me a late rosebud.

I placed it in my button-hole, feeling quite bewildered. It was impossible that she could be guilty, and yet the eye had certainly been on the table, and perhaps had found a place in her pocket.

Meanwhile Mr. Monk was fuming with injured egotism at being left out of the conversation. "Attend to me, Gertrude, if you please," he said sharply. "I wish you would tell your aunt that I disapprove of her trying to get Joseph to attend to her garden. She will not pay him, and the man can't work for nothing."

"Oh, I think he can," said Miss Monk, putting the vase of now-arranged flowers on the mantelpiece. "Mrs. Caldershaw left him quite a fortune for a man in his station of life. But why don't you speak to my aunt yourself."

"No! no! no! She upsets my nerves. We always quarrel."

"Exactly what happens when I speak to her" rejoined Gertrude with a shrug; "so I am never pleased when she comes here. It's your fault, papa; when you are away she never calls. I really think she must be in love with you, dear. You had better take care, papa. Since the Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill is law now, aunty may wish to marry you."

Monk laughed, and smiled, not ill-pleased by this tribute to his looks. "I shall chose a younger wife than your aunt, my dear. The stepmother I may give you will be young and charming."

His daughter looked at him in dismay. "Papa, are you thinking of marrying again?" she demanded quickly.

"No, my love. I am too poor to marry; but if I met a rich woman, well----" he stopped, pulled up his collar, glanced in a near mirror and adjusted his tie, apparently thinking he was worthy to be wooed by an heiress.

Gertrude laughed, more at ease in her mind. "It would be foolish to marry at your age, papa. You have a comfortable house and a good income, so why not enjoy yourself as you are doing now."

But it appeared that she had said the wrong thing, since her father was excessively touchy. "At my age, Gertrude," he remarked in an offended tone, "you forget that I am still comparatively young, and that when you marry I shall be very solitary. As to my income, it is a mere pittance to a man of my artistic tastes."

His daughter might have reminded him that he spent most of his income on himself, and kept her on next to nothing. But she passed over the whole speech save one remark: "I shall never marry, papa," she said quietly.

"Why not? why not?" fumed Mr. Monk, startled.

"No one will have me," she said demurely.

"Oh," her father laughed, "that is all right; I haven't been unmindful of you, my child, when in town. There are one or two men to whom I must introduce you with a view to matrimony. I shall arrange----"

"Please don't, papa; I prefer to arrange the question of marriage myself."

"Foolish, foolish child," said Monk, his touchy temper again getting the better of him, "you shall do as I tell you else you will place me in the disagreeable position of Lear," and he walked out of the room just like a child, annoyed because the bad naughty table has hurt it.

"Oh, dear me, how easily papa is offended," sighed Gertrude, shrugging when he banged the door, "this must be unpleasant for you, Mr. Vance."

"What must be?"

"These family jars."

"Oh, dear, no, don't think that," I answered easily. "I see you have to humor your father."

"He's a dear father, Mr. Vance, but sometimes he is difficult to deal with; I offend him without meaning to, he is so sensitive."

I thought the man selfish myself, but it was none of my business to say so, therefore I dropped the subject and asked Miss Monk to grant me a favor.

"I wish you to come to tea to-morrow at the inn. Mrs. Gilfin will play the part of chaperon, if your father can't come."

"I don't think papa can, as he is going back to London in the morning. I accept with pleasure."

"Shall I ask your aunt."

"Oh, no, please don't. I would rather Mrs. Gilfin were present. Not that it needs anyone to play propriety, as I am sure you can behave yourself. At what time do you want me to come?"

"Four o'clock, unless you like to come earlier and go for a drive in my motor."

"No. I shall come to The Robin Redbreast at four. I wish to ask your advice on a very important subject."

"To renew our conversation of the night when your father entered so unexpectedly?"

"Yes. As I said then, I want a friend."

"And I said----"

"I know what you said. If you say it again, I shall begin to think I must have a chaperon for your proposed tea after all. Now you must go. I have heaps and heaps of housework to do. Also I must pack papa's portmanteau."

I internally blessed Mr. Monk and his confounded portmanteau, then took my departure, as I had entered, by the middle window. As I passed out I could not help glancing again at the table whereon I had seen the glass eye. Miss Monk saw my inquiring gaze and came forward. "Have you lost anything?"

I was more confounded than ever. "No--nothing," I said hurriedly. "Good-day," and I departed at top speed, entirely at sea as regards the true state of affairs. And yet, apart from the evidence of the cloak, the presence of the glass eye at The Lodge seemed conclusively to prove the guilt of Gertrude.

On my way back to the inn I wondered if by any chance Miss Destiny had seen the eye. On reaching the house, it was not impossible that after my capture by Mr. Monk, she might have entered the drawing-room; in which case, being--as I had frequently found--of an inquisitive turn of mind, it was certain that she had caught sight of the object. It was even possible that she had taken the eye in order to find the secret hiding-place of the fortune. Miss Destiny was a miser; Miss Destiny had no great love for her niece, so the theft of the eye would appeal to her avarice and love of making herself disagreeable. And of course, she would know very well, that her niece could say nothing without getting herself into trouble.

No sooner had this idea entered my mind, than I wheeled about and took the road to Miss Destiny's hovel, with the intention of asking questions. But these were not easy to formulate. If she possessed the eye, she certainly would not acknowledge the theft: if she did not, I might reveal my suspicions of Gertrude and thus would place a weapon in the little old lady's hand, which she would undoubtedly make use of. But in my hurried walk to my destination, there was no time to arrange what to say, so I determined to trust more or less to chance. And in this doubtful state of mind I arrived at the tin house.

Miss Destiny herself opened the door, and explained that Lucinda was shopping in the village. She appeared to be her usual mincing self, and betrayed no uneasiness. I was invited into her sordid, shabby sitting-room, and she entered into a long complaint about her brother-in-law's treatment. "Walter is so very mean," lamented Miss Destiny, sitting down, "I believe he grudges Joseph coming to work for me."

"Mr. Monk has engaged Joseph to attend to his own garden," I reminded her.

"The Lodge garden is in good order," she snapped, "whereas mine needs a lot of attention. Walter might send the man along."

"If you pay Joseph, Miss Destiny----"

"Pay him," she interrupted with a shriek, and throwing up her hands, "my dear Mr. Vance, it is as much as I can do to keep bread in my mouth. I am reduced to this"--she glanced round--"which is by no means the abode of a gentlewoman. But Gertrude and her father would let me starve sooner than behave as relatives should."

"Oh, no, no," I protested. "Miss Monk is extremely kind."

"Have you found her so?" demanded the vindictive aunt.

"I have found her charming," was my cautious reply.

"Charms don't pay taxes, Mr. Vance. I suppose," she added abruptly, "that you intend to marry her. Oh, don't look so astonished, young man. I remember how you admired her photograph in Anne's house, and you didn't come here for nothing. Oh dear me, no."

"I came here to learn all I could about the glass eye, so that I might trace the assassin of Anne Caldershaw."

"Oh, indeed," Miss Destiny's sharp eyes twinkled wickedly, "and you haunt my niece in order to ask questions?"

"Why not?" I ventured cautiously.

Miss Destiny laughed significantly. "Why not indeed," she echoed, "it's my opinion that Gertrude knows much more about the glass eye than she dares to tell you, or anyone else."

My blood ran cold, for the moment. Apparently this disagreeable old woman had seen the eye on the drawing-room table, and thence had drawn the very worst conclusions. I ventured on a bold stroke. "Do you mean to say that Miss Monk has the glass eye?"

"I don't say that."

"Then she has not the glass eye," I said impatiently, and drawing a breath of great relief.

"I don't say that either."

"Then what do you say, Miss Destiny."

"Nothing, except that you will be wise to go away from Burwain and give up all idea of marrying my niece."

"Why?" I asked very directly.

"Because--as I said--Gertrude knows something about the murder."

"That is a serious thing to say, Miss Destiny. On what grounds do you make such an accusation?"

She made no direct reply, but rocked to and fro, "I know, I know," she said, with a cunning look, and a malicious chuckle.

I ventured still further on the dangerous ground upon which I was treading. "Have you seen the glass eye in Miss Monk's possession?"

"No," she said, and her reply startled me, for I had made sure that she dared to speak thus freely from having espied the object on the drawing-room table, "I never said that she had the glass eye."

"Then on what grounds----"

"Oh, I don't wish to say anything," she interrupted.

"Having said so much, you must say more," was my firm reply, "you have no right to make dangerous accusations without proof."

"Gertrude herself can supply the proof."

"I would not insult her by asking her to."

"No," screeched Miss Destiny, jumping to her feet like a small fury, "because you are a fool. Every man who loves is a fool. And you love Gertrude. Heaven only knows what you see in her."

"I see a lovely girl and an accomplished lady, a good daughter and an honorable gentlewoman."

"Four people rolled into one," sneered the spiteful little creature, quivering with wrath. "She may be lovely in your eyes--I know what fools men are--but, good and honorable she is not."

"Prove what you say," I cried, but she only trotted about the room, tremulous with anger and jealousy. I determined to enrage her still further, as if she completely lost her temper she might unexpectedly come out with all she knew. I was therefore pointedly rude. "The fact is, Miss Destiny, you are jealous of your niece's beauty."

"Me!" she quavered, and her eyes flamed, "me jealous?"

"Yes, you are also annoyed because your niece has Gabriel Monk's money."

"Has she? If she has, she committed murder to get it."

"That's a lie."

"You forget, sir, that you speak to a lady."

"I do not," I retorted, still carrying out my plan, "I am speaking to a jealous old woman who is trying to harm an innocent girl."

This last speech brought about the desired result. "Innocent!" she cried, and stamped her foot, "if she is innocent, what was she doing at Anne Caldershaw's on the night of the murder."

"She was not there."

"Yes she was; yes she was; yes she was," chattered Miss Destiny, thrusting her angry face close up to mine. "I said nothing about it at the inquest, as I did not wish to get her into trouble. But now that you dare to say I am jealous of that--that minx"--she brought out the word with a gasp. "I shall speak out, and I dare Gertrude to contradict me. I arranged to meet her at Anne's house at five o'clock. I started on the previous day in the trap with Lucinda, and stopped the night with a friend at Saxham. Next day I went on, but owing to the state of the roads and the slowness of the horse I did not reach Anne's house until after the crime was committed. But Gertrude intended to go to Murchester, and thence walk to Anne's house on the day when the murder took place. I am sure that she was at Mootley at five o'clock to keep the appointment. And it was after that time that Anne was stabbed with the hat-pin. A hat-pin with a blue glass head," cried Miss Destiny triumphantly. "I gave Gertrude three pins like that myself as a Christmas present last year. Now you see, she is guilty."

It certainly looked like it, but I declined to admit even the shadow of a suspicion. "I don't see," said I, tartly, and controlling myself with an effort. "Miss Monk may have called at five o'clock and not finding you there may have returned to Burwain by the evening train."

"Oh, did she," mocked Miss Destiny cruelly, "then what about the blue glass-headed hat-pin? What about her presence at Mootley about the time Anne was killed? What about the lady who stole your motor car?"

"You can't prove the lady was Miss Monk?"

"Yes I can. That man Giles said the lady wore a white cloak. I saw her with the white cloak myself. And Gertrude had such a white cloak."

"Really," I said bantering, although these proofs of guilt made me tremble; "perhaps you recognized Miss Monk when the motor car nearly collided with your cart--I beg pardon--your trap."

"No, I didn't recognize her," said Miss Destiny, sitting down sullenly, "It was darkish, and Gertrude was the last person I expected to see in a motor car. I saw that the lady had a white cloak, and knew my niece possessed one; but it never struck me that Gertrude was the driver, until I came to Mootley and heard that Anne had been murdered. The information about the glass-headed pin made me certain."

"All this has to be proved," said I, after a nervous pause, for there was no denying that Miss Monk's position was perilous, "have you accused her?"

"No, I haven't. I asked her why she didn't meet me at Mootley, and she said that she had decided not to go. A lie--a lie," cried Miss Destiny, leaping to her feet again, "she was there, and she murdered Anne."

"And stole the eye, perhaps?"

"I can't say that for certain. I only speak of what I know. But, as Anne was murdered for the sake of the eye--everyone seems to think that--I have no doubt that Gertrude has it."

"Have you seen it in her possession?"

"You asked me that before. I have not seen it in her possession. I only speak of what I know," she said again and looked dogged.

There was a few minutes' silence. Putting together Miss Destiny's statements and what I knew about the eye and the cloak, it would seem that the proofs of guilt against Gertrude were overwhelming. Prejudiced as I was in her favor, and blinded, more or less by love, I could not help acknowledging that the evidence was dead against her. If Miss Destiny spoke out, and Gertrude was arrested, she would be hard put to prove her innocence. Only one thing remained to be done: to silence Miss Destiny, until Gertrude could explain herself.

"Of course you will say nothing," I said sternly.

Miss Destiny looked at me sulkily. "Of course," she asserted. "I don't love Gertrude; all the same I don't wish to see her hanged."

"Not that word," I rose and put out my hand, wincing.

"Hanged! hanged! hanged!" screamed the furious old woman, "you are so blinded by love, you fool, that you can't see her wickedness--the murderess."

"She is not."

"The thief."

"She is not." I turned on my heel and flung open the door. Miss Destiny leaped to my side.

"What are you going to do?"

"I intend to see Miss Monk, and ask her to disprove your accusations."

"She can't; she daren't."

"We shall see," I snapped, and left the house, while Miss Destiny jeered and made mouths after me like a wicked foul old witch.