CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER COMPLICATION.

Though he had arrested Myles Desmond, Dowker was by no means certain that he had got a hold of the right man. Judging from the conversation reported by Flip, Desmond himself appeared to have strong suspicions about Calliston, and Dowker in his own mind became convinced that there was some connection between the elopement of Lady Balscombe and the murder of Lena Sarschine.

He wanted to find out the name of the woman who visited Lady Balscombe on the night of the murder, for a sudden thought had presented itself, that this unknown visitor might have been Lena Sarschine. But the idea seemed absurd, for a woman of such a character as Lord Calliston's mistress could hardly have the audacity to visit Lady Balscombe.

"And yet," pondered Dowker, "I don't know--these two woman both loved the same man, and a free-lance like Lena Sarschine would not hesitate for a moment in slanging any woman who took her man away--but why did not Lady Balscombe kick up a row and order her to leave the house?--I'm hanged if I can get to the bottom of this!"

At length Dowker decided that the best thing to be done would be to find out from some servant of the Balscombe household all that took place subsequent to Lady Balscombe's departure. First, however, he decided on seeing Lydia Fenny and finding out if Lena Sarschine had let fall any hint of calling on her rival.

Lydia Fenny received the detective eagerly, as she evidently loved her mistress and wanted to do all in her power to further the ends of justice. As there was no time to be lost, Dowker plunged at once into the subject matter of his visit.

"Did Miss Sarschine state on the night of her murder where she was going?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Lydia, "as I told you before she said she was going to Lord Calliston's rooms."

"Nowhere else?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Humph! she did not make any remark that would lead you to believe she was going to Lady Balscombe's?"

"Lady Balscombe's!" echoed Lydia in astonishment, "why what would she want to do there?"

"I don't know, but I think she was there on that night," and Dowker detailed to Lydia the conversation overheard by Flip, at the conclusion of which she said:

"I suppose you want to find out from the servants if Miss Sarschine was there?"

"Yes; do you know any of the servants?"

"One--Lady Balscombe's maid--Anne Lifford."

"Oh!" said Dowker in a satisfied tone. "Can you ask her to come along here and see you? I can find out all I want to know from her."

"I daresay I can get her to come here to-day, as her mistress being away she cannot be busy."

"Good!" replied the detective, "send for her at once. I will wait here."

"Very well," said Lydia, and was leaving the room when Dowker called her back.

"Could you let me see your mistress's private desk?" he asked.

"What for?" demanded Lydia, rather taken aback.

"Because I want to look over her papers; from them I can gather her past life, and find out if anyone had a motive in killing her."

"Oh!" said Lydia after a pause, "you don't think then that Mr. Desmond is guilty?"

Dowker shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I tell?" he replied; "as far as I can see he had no motive, and one does not commit a murder for sport--but come, show me her desk."

Lydia looked at him doubtfully.

"I don't know if I ought to let you see her private papers."

Dowker laughed in a subdued manner.

"Why not?" he said lightly, "she is dead, and we want to find out who killed her--looking at her papers cannot do any harm and may save the life of an innocent man."

Lydia Fenny hesitated no longer, but leading the detective to the end of the drawing-room showed him a recess wherein was placed a very handsome desk of the ordinary office character. Dowker tried some of the drawers.

"Locked," he said quietly. "Have you the keys?"

"No, she had them with her."

Dowker made up his mind to commit a burglary.

"Bring me a chisel."

"At once," replied Lydia Fenny, going, "and I'll also send for Anne Lifford."

She left the room, and Dowker sitting down in front of the desk examined it carefully. It was one of those table desks with a knee-hole in the centre and a row of drawers on each side. At the back were a number of pigeon holes containing papers, and these Dowker examined, but found nothing more than bills and blank sheets of paper.

"Whatever private papers she's had," said Dowker, on discovering this, "are in these drawers."

Lydia Fenny arrived with the chisel and a small hammer, both of which she handed to Dowker, telling him at the same time she had sent for Anne Lifford. Dowker nodded carelessly and began to force open the drawers.

After half-an-hour's hard work this was the result of his labours.

First, a bundle of old letters addressed to "Miss Helena Dicksfall, Post Office, Folkestone," signed F. Carrill.

Second, a photograph of a handsome white-haired old man, on the back of which photograph was written, "Your loving father, Michael Dicksfall."

Third, a photograph of Lena Sarschine, taken in a white dress with a tennis racket in her hand.

Dowker examined the photographs carefully, and then coolly read all the letters, of which there were about ten. After doing this, he turned to Lydia Fenny who had been watching him all the time, and said:

"I can read a whole story in this; the name of your mistress was not Lena Sarschine, but Helena Dicksfall--she lived at Folkestone with her father, Captain Michael Dicksfall, and a lady she calls Amelia, whom I take to be her sister. Lord Calliston went down to Folkestone, saw her and fell in love--all these letters show how he conducted his intrigue, which he did under the name of Frank Carrill. He loved Miss Dicksfall but did not wish to marry her; at last he persuaded her to run away with him, and at last she did so. Ashamed of her position, she changed her name to Lena Sarschine so as to conceal her identity. The portrait of the old gentleman is that of her father, Captain Michael Dicksfall, and this one is herself."

Lydia Fenny listened in silent amazement to the way in which he had pieced the story together, and then taking the portraits in her hand she looked at them long and earnestly.

"Yes," she said at length, laying down the photographs with a sigh. "It is Miss Sarschine, but it must have been taken some time ago, for I never saw her in that dress, and I have been with her for about a year."

Dowker was about to make a reply when the door opened and a woman entered. Tall, thin, with a pale face, dark hair, and an aggressive manner, dressed in a green dress, and bonnet to match.

"Oh!" observed Lydia on seeing her, "is this you, Anne?"

Dowker looked sharply at the new comer, whom he now knew to be Lady Balscombe's maid, and she returned his gaze with a look of suspicion.

"Well, sit," she said at length, in a rather harsh voice, "I hope you'll know me again."

Dowker laughed, and Lydia hastened to introduce him to Miss Lifford, who being an extremely self-possessed young person took the introduction very calmly, though she manifested some surprise when she heard Mr. Dowker's calling.

"This gentleman," said Lydia when they were all seated, "wants to ask you a few questions."

"And for what?" asked Miss Lifford, indignantly, "my character I hope being above policemen's prying."

"I'm not a policeman," explained Dowker, smoothly, "but a detective, and I want to know all that took place on the night your mistress eloped."

"Are you employed by Sir Rupert?" asked Anne, grandly, "because though I knows they fought bitter, yet wild bulls won't drag anything out of me against my mistress, she being a good one to me."

"I don't want you to say anything against your mistress," replied Dowker, mildly, "but I am investigating this case of murder."

"Murder!" echoed Miss Lifford in a scared tone, "who is murdered--not Lady Balscombe?"

"No," said Lydia, bursting into tears, "but my poor mistress, Miss Sarschine."

"A person of no repute," sniffed Anne, coldly.

"Leave her alone," said Lydia passionately. "She's dead, poor soul, and even if she was not married, she was better than Lady Balscombe, carrying on with Lord Calliston."

"Oh, indeed, miss," said Ann, rising indignantly. "This is a plot, is it, to mix up Lady Balscombe with your mistress? I won't have anything to do with it."

Dowker caught her wrist as she arose, and forced her back into her chair.

"You'll answer what I want to know," he said sternly, "or it will be the worse for yourself."

Upon this Miss Lifford began to weep, and demanded if she was a slave or a British female, to be thus badgered and assaulted by a policeman. At last, after some difficulty, Dowker succeeded in making her understand that what he wanted to know was not detrimental to her mistress, upon which she said she would tell him what he required. So Dowker produced his note-book and prepared to take down Miss Lifford's evidence.

"First," asked Dowker, "do you remember the night when Lady Balscombe eloped?"

"Not being a born fool, I do," retorted Miss Lifford sharply. "Such goings on I never saw."

"Can you tell me all that took place on that night?"

Miss Lifford sniffed thoughtfully.

"There was a ball they was going to."

"Who were going to?"

"Lady Balscombe and Miss Penfold. They did go, and left shortly before ten, but before I had time to turn round, they were back again, as Lady Balscombe said she had a headache."

"Oh, so I suppose she went to bed?"

"Then you suppose wrong," retorted Anne triumphantly, "for there was a pusson waiting to see her."

"A lady?" asked Dowker, eagerly.

"I don't know," retorted Miss Lifford sharply. "She had a veil on."

"Can you describe her dress?"

Miss Lifford thought a moment, while Lydia bent forward anxiously to hear her answer.

"A hat trimmed with blue and brown velvet, and a sealskin jacket."

Lydia Fenny sank back in her seat with a groan.

"Oh, my poor mistress!"

"Your mistress!" echoed Miss Lifford, turning sharply. "It could not have been Miss Sarschine who called on that night."

"But I'm certain it was," said Dowker.

"What impertinence!" muttered the virtuous Anne.

"Never mind," said Dowker sharply, "go on with your story,"

Miss Lifford sniffed indignantly and resumed:

"Lady Balscombe returned at half-past ten and went up to her dressing-room, where this--this lady was waiting for her. Miss Penfold went to bed. I don't know how long the lady was with my mistress, as I was told that my mistress would not require me again that night; but I waited about in case I should be wanted, and saw the lady leave the house shortly after eleven."

"Miss Sarschine?"

"Yes--at least, the lady in the sealskin jacket, and you say it was Miss Sarschine, so I suppose it was. I then went to Lady Balscombe's room, but found the door locked, so as I thought she had gone to bed I went downstairs to get my supper. When I came upstairs again, about twelve, the door was still locked, so I went to bed."

"Lady Balscombe could not have gone out in the meantime?"

"No, because I asked the footman if anyone had gone out or come in, and he said no one."

"She could not have gone out without attracting the notice of the servants, I suppose?"

"No, they would have recognised her at once. I think she waited till everyone was in bed and then went off to meet Lord Calliston."

"But you are sure she did not leave till after twelve?"

"I'd swear it anywhere," returned Miss Lifford impatiently.

"In that case," muttered Dowker, "it could not have been Lady Balscombe who saw Mr. Desmond at Lord Calliston's chambers, so it must have been Lena Sarschine."

"Do you want to know anything more?" asked Miss Lifford icily.

"Yes. Tell me, what was Lady Balscombe like?"

Miss Lifford laughed contemptuously.

"Why, don't you know?" she replied. "You ought to, as she was one of the beauties of the season. Her portrait was all over the place. Why," catching sight of the photograph on the study-table, "you have one."

Dowker handed her the photograph.

"Do you say that is Lady Balscombe?"

"Yes, certainly."

"What nonsense!" said Lydia, "why, that is Miss Sarschine."

"I never saw Miss Sarschine," retorted Miss Lifford, "but I know that's Lady Balscombe."

"I never saw Lady Balscombe," replied Lydia, angrily, "but I know that's Miss Sarschine."

Dowker looked from one to the other, and then slipped the photograph into his pocket along with the letters and the other photograph.

"There's only one way of settling this," he said quietly, "I'll call on the photographer and ask him who it is."

He gave Anne Lifford some money, and then left the house wrapped in thought.

"This is a new complication," he said to himself, "this resemblance--they must be very like one another if their maids mix them up like this--and then Lena Sarschine calling on Lady Balscombe, I wonder if there can be any relationship between them--not likely--a lady of title, and a woman of light character--well," finished up Dowker, philosophically, "I think the best thing for me to do is to discover as much about Lena Sarschine's previous life as possible, and to do this, I'll run down to Folkestone, and look up Captain Michael Dicksfall."