CHAPTER XVI. STRIVER'S THREAT

I was having my fill of surprises by this time, and was beginning to wish that the matter should end. By the matter I mean this Mootley crime, the present cause of all these happenings. By stumbling on that fine adventure, I had become engaged to Gertrude, and, to keep Cannington from plundering my preserves, I had come to London. Here, at his aunt's house, I had met Gertrude's father masquerading as a millionaire. There was no use his denying this. His change of name may have been legal, and he may have acquired a competency by the death of his Australian cousin: but he certainly could not rank with the Park Lane fraternity. Yet Lady Denham believed him to be one, and he encouraged the idea.

I took my leave of the smooth-faced little man with the resolve to keep my promise. So long as he abstained from calling on Lady Denham, and withdrew his pretentions to Lady Mabel's hand, there was no need for me to strip him of his peacock's feathers. There was no need even to tell Gertrude, as the revelation would not change her feelings towards me in any way. Certainly the ingenious Mr. Striver knew, and I wondered that he had not made use of his information before, to force Monk's hand. But Striver was a patient man and perhaps had waited until he had acquired his aunt's wealth before pressing his suit. Then, if Gertrude refused, he could threaten to tell her of Monk's secret doings, unless that gentleman exercised his parental authority so far as to insist upon the unequal marriage. But--and the reflection made me chuckle--they were both a day after the fair, for Gertrude had promised to be my wife and I was equal to Striver in the knowledge of which he hoped to make use. It was a poor lookout for the handsome Joseph, and, in spite of Monk's warning, I had no fears that the man could harm myself or my darling in any way.

I remained a week in London, and enjoyed myself along with Cannington--that is, I went to the theatres, to various At Homes, to certain small dances, and to suppers, dinners, motor drives, and all the rest of it, including bridge drives, although I had no particular regard for that fashionable game. But my heart was far away with Gertrude, and I felt very much bored in spite of the boy's lively society. I think he noticed my abstracted condition at times, for he proposed that I should leave him and return to Burwain. I refused, since I had arranged to remain a week. I heard from Gertrude every day, and replied at length, so that somewhat ameliorated my desperate situation. Moreover, I wished to remain in London to see if Mr. Monk intended to keep his promise.

One day--the last of my stay in town, as a matter of fact--Cannington turned up at my club with two pieces of news. He delivered both over a brandy and soda and a cigar.

"Weston has been to Burwain, and has got his land lease for a few months," said Cannington, "and to-morrow he is taking down a gang of men to erect fences. Within a week--so he says--the fences will be up, and in a fortnight the sheds will be erected. Then he can take down the various parts of his airship to put the beastly thing together."

"But to get fences and sheds rigged up in such a hurry will take a very great number of men."

"Of course. However, Dicky has thirty thousand pounds a year----"

"So much as that? Why doesn't Mabel marry him, then? She wants money and love. Weston can give her both."

"Do you think so, really, old chap?"

"I am certain of it. He was dreadfully jealous of our friend, Mr. Marr."

"Well, I think he is. You see Dicky looks on Mabel as his own property, and hates anyone to poach. I wish he would adjust the situation, but hang him, he won't--that is, he has done his best, and can't."

"Why don't you ask him his intentions? You are the head of the family."

Cannington grew red. "Oh, hang it, I can't. It would look as though I were shying Mabel at the chap's head. It will all come right in time."

"Unless Mabel, in a fit of pique, accepts Marr."

"She won't do that. He's bunked out of the business."

"Really!" said I, with feigned surprise, "and why?"

"Lord only knows," said Cannington indifferently. "Aunt Lucy is in a fine state about his clearing. He wrote and said he had a sudden call on business to South America--something to do with a silver mine, I fancy--and would be away for a year. Aunt Lucy says this means he has given up any idea of making Mab his wife, and she blames poor Mab, and says it was her flirting with Dicky that sent old Marr off."

"It's just as well, Cannington. Weston is a much better match for your sister, and is quite rich enough, besides being younger. But has Marr really gone away?"

"I suppose so. I haven't seen him about town lately, and he said that he was sailing soon for New York. I'm sure I don't care: he can go hang for me." He laughed. "Aunt Lucy said I ought to thrash him for compromising Mabel. But that's all bosh. Mab's quite able to look after herself, and I can't lay hands on a man old enough to be my father. What do you think? Ought I to thrash him?"

Privately I thought that it would do Mr. Marr-Monk good to have a trifle of physical pain, and when Cannington knew the whole truth I was not at all sure but what he would reconsider his position and thrash the scoundrel. But since Monk had kept his promise I had to keep mine, so I merely shrugged my shoulders. "He's too old, boy. Besides, your sister never cared for him. When the airship is floated--is that the correct term--Weston is sure to propose."

"And you expect Mab to take him with a 'Thank you,'" flashed out the boy, growing red and haughty.

"Well," said I, with a look of surprise, "she loves him."

"That's true enough, but she's not going to be at the beck and call of Master Dick, as I told him."

"When?"

"When he came grumbling to me that Mab had refused him."

"He asked her to marry him?" I exclaimed.

Cannington nodded. "Dicky got so mad with the way in which Aunt Lucy talked that evening you were there, and with the way in which Marr seemed to be so sure of his ground, that he proposed the next day. Mab refused him at once, as he seemed to think he only had to ask and to have. I told him it served him [**] well right, and that I admired Mab's spirit."

"[**] do I," was my hearty reply, "but I don't think [**] meant his offer to be taken in that light. He's a absent-minded man and----"

"[**] hang it! a refusal will do him good," said Cannington crossly, "and perhaps he'll drop being [**] an ass. Of course he wants me to persuade Mab, [**] I told him I wouldn't lift a finger. Well, then, Vance, you see that Mab has lost both her lovers at once. Marr has sheered off--like his impudence, although I'm glad--and Dicky has been sent away with a flea in his ear, and serve him jolly well right."

"And how is Mabel?"

"As jolly as a sandboy, bless her, in spite of Aunt Lucy's nagging. I have asked her to come down to Murchester for a week. She can take rooms at the Lion Hotel, and collar some old woman as a chaperon. Then we can have a good time together. Come down also."

"No, boy. I must return to Burwain to-morrow."

"And when am I to be asked down to see Miss Monk?"

"Very shortly, as soon as I have her father's consent."

"Oh, she has a father?"

"Yes, but no mother. By the way," I said swiftly, to avert further questions, "you didn't give me your opinion of the case I put to you."

"I don't know what sort of opinion to give," said Cannington testily; "the best thing to be done is to find out who it was entered the shop when Miss Monk went away. I can think of nothing else."

Cannington's opinion was mine also. But if Gertrude refused to speak I did not see what I could do. Besides, she was anxious for me to abandon the case. I felt inclined to do so myself, much as the mystery piqued me. However, I ceased to discuss it with Cannington--who really took very little interest in intricacies--and we spent the evening at theatre. Next day I furbished up the Rippler and departed at top speed for Burwain.

I flew, so to speak, on the wings of love, as [**] desperately anxious to reach the side of my [*]. It was a wet day and the roads were in a very [*] condition. Nevertheless I broke every rule with regard to speed and defied the police traps. I broke through three, I know, and managed to escape having the number of my car taken. By the time I reached Burwain I had accumulated a tidy sum in fines. I did not care. I would have paid three times as much to reach Gertrude. But the fun of it was that, owing to my desperate haste, there was no chance of my being made to pay the money, as I had flown past with the speed of a kingfisher. "More haste, less speed" was not a true proverb in this instance.

So anxious was I to hold Gertrude in my arms that I halted the Rippler before the gate of The Lodge and proposed, dripping as I was, to have an interview before driving on to the Robin Redbreast. I soon made my way to the door, and rang the bell. The house looked forlorn and dismal in the misty rain, and there was a chill in the atmosphere. But love cares very little for such discomforts, so I smiled gaily at Eliza when she appeared at the door. She was a sour-faced, elderly woman, with a silent tongue, and usually never opened her mouth, even to me, although I was a constant visitor. But on this occasion, with a somewhat disturbed face, she spoke eagerly and seemed pleased to see me.

"Thank goodness you have come, sir," she whispered, with a backward glance, "I know you'll make him clear out."

"Make who clear out, Eliza?" I asked, staring.

"That Joseph, sir."

"The gardener?"

"Yes, sir. Ever since you have been away, he's been haunting the house. It's sheer lunacy, sir, but he's in love with Miss Gertrude, and follows her like a dog. An hour ago he forced himself into the house, and is now talking with her in the drawing-room, and--oh, sir," she caught hold of me, as I compressed my lips and strode past her, "don't anger him: he's a desperate man."

"I'll break his neck," said I drily; "let me go, woman," and wrenching my sleeve from her grasp, I walked to the drawing-room door, and flung it open.

"Cyrus!" Gertrude saw me at once, and flung herself across the long room to nestle in my arms, "I am so glad you are here. He--he"--she pointed to the gardener--"he's quite mad."

Striver, dressed much the same as he had been when I interviewed him in the Mootley corner shop, stood sullenly at the end of the room. Apparently he had pinned Gertrude in a corner, but his turning to see who was entering had given her the chance, and now she was safe by my side. The fellow looked as handsome as ever, but his face was scarlet with anger, and his fists hung clenched by his side. Feeling myself to be the master of the situation I was comparatively cool.

"What the devil do you mean, man?" I said, with pointed and intended insolence.

"He is mad: he is mad," cried Gertrude, clinging to me, and replying for the man, who still kept a sullen silence. "He forced his way into the house and has been saying dreadful things."

"Things you cannot deny," said Striver, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Mr. Vance, you had better keep out of this, or it will be the worse for her," and he pointed to Gertrude.

I removed her arms from my neck and walked straight across the room. Before Striver was aware of my intention I had my hands on his throat and was shaking him as a terrier does a rat. With desperate efforts he tried to tear away my grasp, but could not do so, and his face was rapidly turning black with strangulation, when Gertrude ran to my side. "Don't kill him, for God's sake, Cyrus."

I loosened my grip, and Striver, staggering back, fell into a chair. Then, somewhat unjustly, I turned on Gertrude. "Are you thinking of him?" I demanded in a thick voice, for at the moment I was not master of myself.

"I am thinking of you," she replied, clasping her hands, "who else would I think of? I don't wish to see you hanged for murder."

"You would hang together," gasped the gardener, recovering his breath with a gigantic effort; "with my dying breath I would tell the truth."

"What truth?" I asked fiercely.

Gertrude clung to me. "Don't listen to him; don't listen to him."

"Ah," Striver sneered with pale lips, "she's afraid, you see."

"I am not afraid," cried Gertrude, her eyes flashing, and drawing herself up to her full height. "Cyrus knows everything. I only asked him not to listen because I wish you to go away and rid me of your hateful presence--your hateful presence," she repeated incoherently.

Striver gave a sob. "If you knew how I loved you!"

"Stop!" I had control of my feelings by this time. "It is no use your saying these things, Miss Monk is engaged to me."

"She'll never marry you, never," said the man between his teeth. "I shall denounce her to the police."

"As what--be quiet, Gertrude--as what, Mr. Striver?"

"As the woman who murdered my aunt," he cried, staggering to his feet.

I laughed, and the two stared at me in astonishment. The sound of merriment at such a tragic moment startled them. But I saw swiftly that it was useless to act a melodramatic scene, and was half sorry that I had so nearly strangled the gardener. Now I was cool and composed and, before proceeding to act, wished to know where I stood. "Sit down, Striver; sit down, Gertrude." They did as I asked them in sheer amazement. "Now then," I took a seat myself, "perhaps you will explain."

"He forced his way----" began Gertrude, when I stopped her.

"I know that much. Mr. Striver is in love with you. I don't blame him for that, since no man can help his feelings. He has forced his way into this house to compel you by threats to be his wife. I condemn him on those grounds, for no human being has a right to coerce another. Now then, the situation being plain, perhaps, Striver, you will speak out."

If I had been violent the man could have met me more easily. But my perfect fairness and coolness confounded him, and he stared stupidly at me. I grew impatient. "Come, Striver, speak up. I don't wish to condemn you unheard. On what grounds do you accuse Miss Monk of this crime?"

"She was at my aunt's house on that evening."

"I know as much from her own lips. I also know that she left her white cloak behind and a certain hat-pin. Well?"

He was more confounded than ever. "She stabbed my aunt," he muttered.

"I never did, I never did," cried Gertrude breathlessly.

"My dear," said I, patting her hand, "there is no need for you to deny that, I am aware of your innocence. But I wish to know upon what grounds Mr. Striver bases his accusation."

"I shall tell them to the police," said the gardener, rising.

"You can't do that," struck in Gertrude, "without incriminating yourself."

"Oh, indeed," said I lightly; "perhaps you will explain, Striver. You see, I am treating you with all justice."

"I don't want your justice," he said rudely.

"Ah!" I retorted meaningly, "perhaps you want the justice of a British jury, Striver. Come, out with it."

The young man clenched his fists. "If I ruin myself, I shall ruin her. You shan't have her if I can't."

"Allow me to tell you, Striver," I said, repressing Gertrude, "that all this bombast has no effect on me. Prove your accusation."

"You can't without incriminating yourself," repeated Gertrude, drawing a breath. "Cyrus, he told me that----"

"I'll tell him," interrupted the gardener fiercely. "I know that I run the risk of standing in the dock. But you, Miss Monk, will be by my side. It's my love for you which makes me risk my neck."

"So that you can put a rope round the neck of the woman you love," I said cheerfully, although I confess that the man's decisive tone made me uneasy. "That is an affectionate way of acting." "Well, are you going to confess?"

"I am not afraid to confess," said Striver, in thick tones, but more composed. "You can't make use of my confession without proving her"--he pointed to Gertrude--"to be a murderess and a thief."

"A lie, a lie," moaned the girl.

"I have been very patient with you, Striver," I said, suppressing my anger with an effort, "but if you call Miss Monk names I'll knock your teeth down your throat."

"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Vance."

"No; you're afraid of the police."

"And so is she," he pointed again.

"I am not," denied Gertrude, and stood up calm and unflinching to deny it.

"Oh, damn your fencing, come to the point. Forgive me for swearing, Gertrude, but this long-winded ass would provoke a saint."

Striver took no notice of the insult. He plunged, with a gasp, directly into the middle of his story, and I soon saw how it was that he did not dare to denounce Gertrude. "My aunt wished me to marry Miss Monk," he said rapidly, and with his eyes on the carpet--he was standing up, by the way--"and as I loved her I wished for nothing better. My aunt said that she could give me Gabriel Monk's money after her death, as she had concealed its whereabouts in her glass eye."

"Oh," I said, half to myself, "so I was right."

"Yes, you were right," assented Striver quickly. "I wanted my aunt to show me the eye when she was alive, but she always refused and said that it would remain in her head until she died."

"A violent death, Mr. Striver."

"Yes. She always declared that because of this secret she would not die in her bed. She was afraid that Miss Monk would kill her."

"Oh, rubbish!" I interrupted impatiently. "Miss Monk would not kill a fly, as you well know. Mrs. Caldershaw must have been mad."

"I think she was," murmured Gertrude, clinging to me.

"She was not mad enough to give away the secret of the eye to me," said Striver savagely. "I heard from Miss Destiny that Miss Monk had learned from some diary of Gabriel Monk's that my aunt knew the secret of the money."

"Yes," interrupted Gertrude, looking up, "but not of the eye."

"Seeing that you murdered my aunt, I believe you did," contradicted the gardener bluntly. "Miss Destiny said that you were going over to Mootley to see my aunt. I went over also."

"On that evening?" I asked, startled.

"Yes, and some time before Miss Monk arrived. I saw my aunt and asked her to tell me the secret. She refused, as she only wished me to have the money after her death. Then Miss Monk arrived, and my aunt smuggled me up the stairs into a bedroom. From above I saw Miss Monk enter the back room with my aunt. I returned to the bedroom to wait, and fell asleep. When I awoke it was quite dark. I stole down the stairs into the back room, and found it in darkness. Also I found my aunt's body and the eye missing. My aunt was not quite dead, as she moaned. While I was wondering what to do, I heard a motor arrive."

"My motor?" I asked swiftly.

"Yes. I then saw in a flash that being found with my aunt dying I might be accused of murder and of stealing her eye, seeing that I wanted it so much. I could not risk anyone entering the back room, so I fumbled for the key. It was on the outside, and you entered the shop, Mr. Vance, before I could get it. But there was a bolt on the inside of the door, and this I slipped. When you tried the door you could not get in. Afterwards, when you were filling your tank with petrol, I came out softly and stole up the stairs with the white cloak."

"Why did you take the white cloak?"

"I knew that it belonged to Miss Monk, as I had frequently seen her wearing it. I wished to keep it as evidence that she had murdered my aunt in the back room."

"I left the cloak, when I had to depart in a hurry," said Gertrude defiantly.

"So you say," sneered Striver, "but I believe differently. However, I managed to get safely back to the bedroom, and wondered how I could escape. It then struck me that I could assume the cloak as a disguise. I found a veil also, and put that round my cap. In the dusk, with the long cloak and the veil, I thought I would look like a woman, and could steal out."

"Oh," I said, with a gasp, "then you ran away with my car."

"Yes, I did," he said with a sort of triumph. "I waited my chance to get out of the place, as I was afraid lest I should be accused of the murder. When you entered the back room----"

"Attracted by the moan of the dying woman. Yes, go on."

"Well, then I stole down the stairs and turned the key, which, I already knew, was on the outside. You had set your motor going, so I ran out and leaped in. That man Giles saw me--although I did not know his name at the time--and I put on all speed to escape. Luckily you had turned the motor round in the Murchester direction. I spun along and met Miss Destiny in her trap, as you know. At the time I didn't think it was her. Then it struck me that she--a stranger, as I believed--might say how she had seen the motor and I would be traced. I therefore slewed the machine into the field through the gate. I left it stranded there, and concealed the cloak----"

"Which I found, along with the veil," I put in. "Go on, Mr. Striver."

"There's nothing more to tell," he said sulkily. "I walked to Murchester and caught a train. As I had not the motor or the white cloak, I felt that I was safe. And so I was."

"You are not very safe now," I remarked, rising to stretch myself. "Suppose I tell the police?"

"Then I denounce Miss Monk as guilty; she was in the back room----"

"I had left long, long before," interposed Gertrude, very pale.

"I was in the back room also, Striver, yet I am innocent. However, I can see that if I talk you can talk, so, for the present, in any event, I shall say nothing about the matter. You can go." I pointed to the door.

He stood his ground and looked at Gertrude. "You are in my power," said he.

"And you are in ours," I retorted cheerfully, "it won't do, Striver, things shall remain as they are for the present. Miss Monk is not for you."

"I shall tell the police," he threatened.

"By all means, and cut your own throat. Go!" I flung open the door.

He looked with deadly hatred at Gertrude and myself, then departed in silence.

When I turned towards my darling, she had fainted.