“I shall place it in the hand of my lawyers to be put with family papers,” replied Cuthbert. “I am sure you agree with me, Yeo, that it is unnecessary to make the contents public. My uncle is dead.”
“Even were he still alive, I should advise you to say nothing,” replied Yeo, grimly; “the woman deserved her fate, even though it was an accident. She destroyed Caranby’s life. He would have married Selina Loach and have been a happy man but for her.”
“There I think you wrong her. It is Isabella Octagon who is to blame. She has indeed been a fatal woman to my poor uncle. But for her, he would not have been prevented from marrying Selina and thus have fallen into the toils of Emilia. Emilia would not have murdered Selina, and the result would not have come out after all these years in the death of my uncle at the hands of Bathsheba Saul.”
“Who is she?”
“Maraquito. But you don’t know the whole story, nor do I think there is any need to repeat the sordid tragedy. I will put this paper away and say nothing about it to anyone save to Jennings.”
“The detective!” said Yeo, surprised and startled. “Do you think that is wise? He may make the matter public.”
“No, he won’t. He has traced the coiners to their lair, and that is enough glory for him. When he knows the truth he will stop searching further into the case. If I hold my tongue, he may go on, and make awkward discoveries.”
“Yes, I see it is best you should tell him. But Miss Saxon?”
“She shall never know. Let her think Maraquito killed Emilia. Only you, I and Jennings will know the truth.”
“You can depend upon my silence,” said Yeo, shaking Cuthbert by the hand; “well, and what will you do now?”
“With your permission, I shall ask you to stop here and arrange about necessary matters in connection with the laying-out of the body. I wish to interview Mrs. Octagon this evening. To-morrow I shall see about Caranby’s remains being taken down to our family seat in Essex.”
“There will be an inquest first.”
“I don’t mind. Maraquito is dead and nothing detrimental to the honor of the Mallows can transpire. You need say nothing at the inquest as to the bottle being thrown at Juliet.”
“I’ll do my best. But she will be questioned.”
“I intend to see her this evening myself.”
“What about Mrs. Octagon?”
“Oh,” said the new Lord Caranby with a grim smile, “I intend to settle Mrs. Octagon once and for all.”
“Surely you don’t intend to tell her of the murder.”
“Certainly not. She would make the matter public at once. But her knowledge of the real name of Emilia, and her hushing up of the murder of her sister, will be quite enough to bring her to her knees. I don’t intend that Juliet shall have anything more to do with her mother. But I’ll say very little.”
After this Cuthbert departed and took a hansom to the “Shrine of the Muses.” He arrived there at ten o’clock, and was informed by the butler that Miss Saxon was in bed with a headache, and that Mrs. Octagon had given orders that Mr. Mallow was not to be admitted. Basil was out, and Mr. Octagon likewise. Cuthbert listened quietly, and then gave the man, whom he knew well, half a sovereign. “Tell Mrs. Octagon that Lord Caranby wishes to see her.”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t —”
“I am Lord Caranby. My uncle died this evening.”
The butler opened his eyes. “Yes, m’lord,” he said promptly, and admitted Cuthbert into the hall. “I suppose I needn’t say it is really you, m’lord,” he remarked, when the visitor was seated in the drawing-room, “I am afraid the mistress will be angry.”
“Don’t trouble about that, Somes. Tell her Lord Caranby is here,” and the butler, bursting to tell the news in the servants’ hall, went away in a great hurry.
Cuthbert remained seated near the table on which stood an electric lamp. He had the confession in his pocket, and smiled to think how glad Mrs. Octagon would be to read it. However, he had quite enough evidence to force her into decent behavior. He did not intend to leave that room till he had Mrs. Octagon’s free consent to the marriage and a promise that she would go abroad for an indefinite period with her hopeful son, Basil. In this way Cuthbert hoped to get rid of these undesirable relatives and to start his married life in peace. “Nothing less than exile will settle matters,” he muttered.
Mrs. Octagon, in a gorgeous tea-gown, swept into the room with a frown on her strongly-marked face. She looked rather like Maraquito, and apparently was in a bad temper. Mallow could see that she was surprised when she entered, as, thinking Lord Caranby was incapacitated by the accident described by Juliet, she did not know how he came to call at so late an hour. Moreover, Lord Caranby had never visited her before. However, she apparently was bent on receiving him in a tragic manner, and swept forward with the mien of a Siddons. When she came into the room she caught sight of Cuthbert’s face in the blaze of the lamp and stopped short. “How —” she said in her deepest tone, and then became prosaic and very angry. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Mallow? I hoped to see —”
“My uncle. I know you did. But he is dead.”
Mrs. Octagon caught at a chair to stop herself from falling, and wiped away a tear. “Dead!” she muttered, and dropped on to the sofa.
“He died two hours ago. I am now Lord Caranby.”
“You won’t grace the position,” said Mrs. Octagon viciously, and then her face became gloomy. “Dead! — Walter Mallow. Ah! I loved him so.”
“You had a strange way of showing it then,” said Cuthbert, calmly, and he also took a seat.
Mrs. Octagon immediately rose. “I forbid you to sit down in my house, Lord Caranby. We are strangers.”
“Oh, no, we aren’t, Mrs. Octagon. I came here to arrange matters.”
“What matters?” she asked disdainfully, and apparently certain he had nothing against her.
“Matters connected with my marriage with Juliet.”
“Miss Saxon, if you please. She shall never marry you.”
“Oh, yes, she will. What is your objection to the marriage?”
“I refuse to tell you,” said Mrs. Octagon violently, and then somewhat inconsistently went on:
“If you must know, I hated your uncle.”
“You said you loved him just now.”
“And so I did,” cried the woman, spreading out her arms, “I loved him intensely. I would have placed the hair of my head under his feet. But he was never worthy of me. He loved Selina, a poor, weak, silly fool. But I stopped that marriage,” she ended triumphantly, “as I will stop yours.”
“I don’t think you will stop mine,” replied Cuthbert tranquilly, “I am not to be coerced, Mrs. Octagon.”
“I don’t seek to coerce you,” she retorted, “but my daughter will obey me, and she will refuse your hand. I don’t care if you are fifty times Lord Caranby. Juliet should not marry you if you had all the money in the world. I hated Walter Mallow, your uncle. He treated me shamefully, and I swore that never would any child of mine be connected with him. Selina wished it, and forced me to agree while she was alive. But she is dead and Lord Caranby is dead, and you can do nothing. I defy you — I defy you!”
“We may as well conduct this interview reasonably.”
“I shall not let you remain here any longer. Go.”
She pointed to the door with a dramatic gesture. Cuthbert took up his hat.
“I shall go if you insist,” he said, moving towards the door, “and I shall return with a policeman.”
Mrs. Octagon gave a gasp and went gray. “What do you mean?”
“You know well what I mean. Am I to go?”
“You have nothing against me,” she said violently, “stop, if you will, and tell me the reason of that speech.”
“I think you understand what I mean perfectly well,” said Mallow again, and returning to his seat. “I know that your sister died years ago,” Mrs. Octagon gasped, “and that Emilia feigned to be Selina Loach. And perhaps, Mrs. Octagon, you will remember how your sister died.”
“I didn’t touch her,” gasped Mrs. Octagon, trembling.
“No, but Emilia Saul did, and you condoned the crime.”
“I deny everything! Go and get a policeman if you like.”
Cuthbert walked to the door and there turned. “The statement of Emilia will make pleasant reading in court,” he said.
Mrs. Octagon bounded after him and pulled him back by the coat-tails into the centre of the room. Then she locked the door and sat down. “We won’t be disturbed,” she said, wiping her face upon which the perspiration stood, “what do you know?”
“Everything, even to that letter you wrote to my uncle, stating he should see the pretended Selina Loach.”
This was a chance shot on Mallow’s part, but it told, for he saw her face change. In fact, Mrs. Octagon was the only woman who could have sent the letter. She did not attempt to deny it. “I sent that letter, as I was weary of that woman’s tyranny. I thought it would get her into trouble.”
“She would have got you into trouble also. Suppose she had lived and had told the story of Selina’s death.”
“She would have put the rope round her own neck,” said Mrs. Octagon in a hollow tone, all her theatrical airs gone. “I was a fool to wait so long. For twenty years that woman has held me under her thumb. It was Emilia that made me consent to your engagement to Juliet. Otherwise,” she added malevolently, “I should have died rather than have consented. Oh,” she shook her hands in the air, “how I hate you and your uncle and the whole of the Mallows.”
“A woman scorned, I see,” said Cuthbert, rather cruelly, “well, you must be aware that I know everything.”
“You don’t know who killed Emilia?”
“Maraquito said it was you.”
“I” shrieked Mrs. Octagon, “how dare she? But that she is dead, as Juliet told me, I would have her up for libel. Maraquito herself killed the woman. I am sure of it. That coining factory —”
“Did you know of its existence?”
“No, I didn’t,” snapped Mrs. Octagon. “I knew nothing of Emilia’s criminal doings. I let her bear the name of my sister —”
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