As Brendon was in the neighborhood of Amelia Square he paid a visit to the boarding-house. Having learned from Ireland that Miss Bull had informed him how Lord Derrington was connected with the late Mrs. Jersey, George thought it just as well that she should be questioned. Certainly Miss Bull, who appeared to be a dour and secretive sort of person, might not speak. On the other hand, if he could induce her to be frank he might learn from her--presuming she knew--the reason why Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey. It was a forlorn hope, but Brendon was so eager to learn the truth that he clutched even at this straw. Therefore, on leaving Ireland, he turned his steps in the direction of the boarding-house. Much as he disliked entering it again, it was necessary that he should do so.

On his way Brendon meditated on Ireland's remarks about the holly. He remembered the agitation of Mrs. Jersey when she saw the sprig in his coat. She had been at San Remo when his father was stabbed, and Ireland had mentioned that the woman with whom the deceased man had left the ballroom wore a sprig of yellow holly. Had the berries been red, George might not have thought so much of the matter; but yellow holly is comparatively rare, and evidently Mrs. Jersey's alarm had been caused by her recollection of the murder. The sight of the holly had revived her memory.

"I wonder if she had anything to do with the murder," mused George as he turned into Amelia Square. "Could she have been the woman in the blue domino? Certainly she was a servant and my father would have had nothing to do with her. But at the ball she would wear a domino and be closely masked. But even so, by what means could she have induced my father to leave the room with her? I don't suppose she murdered him herself, for she had no reason to do so, unless it was jealousy, which for a woman in her position was absurd. Bah! I am making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Eliza Stokes probably never went to the ball and had nothing to do with the blue domino or with the matter of the crime. From what Ireland says, however, a piece of yellow holly was mentioned in connection with the murder, and Mrs. Jersey, then Eliza Stokes, probably heard of it. That was why she shivered and turned pale when she saw the sprig in my coat."

Having thus decided the question, though not in a very satisfactory way, George rang the bell and was admitted into the house by Jarvey. The boy welcomed him with a grin, as George had given him half-a-crown when he left the mansion after the inquest. "Miss Bull, sir, yes, sir," said Jarvey, "step this way," and he introduced Mr. Brendon into the sitting-room in which the murder had taken place. It was empty, but Jarvey departed immediately to fetch Miss Bull.

George knew the room well. It had been used by his grandfather as a breakfast-room, and many a meal had he enjoyed at that very table. As the furniture had been sold to Lord Derrington, together with the house, the table was the very article of furniture at which Mrs. Jersey had been stabbed when seated. Brendon looked from the table to the door, and wondered if the assassin had entered stealthily, with a bared weapon, and had stabbed the wretched woman before she had time to turn her head. But on second thoughts he was inclined to think that the assassin had been in friendly conversation with Mrs. Jersey before inflicting the fatal stroke. Even in the short distance between table and door Mrs. Jersey would have had time to spring to her feet and give the alarm. "No," thought George, as he seated himself, "what I said to Train is correct. The assassin engaged Mrs. Jersey in friendly conversation, and then watched for an opportunity to strike from behind."

He would have continued trying to puzzle out the circumstances of the crime but that Miss Bull entered, accompanied by Margery. The little old maid looked whiter and more haggard than ever, but her eyes gleamed brightly, and she seemed to be in perfect health. Margery, now being the nominal head of the house, appeared more important, but she kept her eyes on Miss Bull's face, and in all things took her orders from this superior being. Miss Bull was a despot, although kindly enough, and Margery was her slave.

"How are you, Mr. Brendon?" said Miss Bull, smiling in her prim way, but without offering her hand. "I did not expect to see you again."

"Why not?" asked George, quickly.

Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders and fastened her beady eyes on his face. "Many of the boarders left on account of Madame's murder, so I thought you had done the same."

"I was only a visitor, Miss Bull. Had I been a boarder I should not have left. The murder did not scare me."

"No," replied Miss Bull, indifferently, "I don't suppose it did. I only talked for the sake of talking."

Brendon knew this was untrue, as Miss Bull was not a woman to waste words. Besides, the old maid's eyes were fixed with a certain amount of curiosity on his face, and he could not conceive why this was so. He was rather embarrassed how to begin the conversation, especially as Margery was present. Something of this showed itself in his manner, for Miss Bull drew Margery's hand within her own and nodded affably. "Miss Watson is the head of the house," she said. "Do you come to see her or me, Mr. Brendon?"

"I come to see you," said George, hoping she would send the inconvenient third away. But she did nothing of the sort.

"In that case Margery can stop as my friend, Mr. Brendon. Anything you say before her will go no further. She keeps my secrets."

"Always! always!" cried Margery, her eyes on the old maid. "I would rather die than reveal your secrets, Miss Bull."

"Rather tragic, my dear, rather tragic," replied the elder, patting the hand she held. "I have really no secrets worth revealing. A lonely old woman, Mr. Brendon, solaced by the friendship and devotion of this lonely girl."

Margery, who had flushed at the rebuke, stopped and kissed the old maid's hand. Miss Bull patted her head and turned cheerfully to her visitor. "Yes, Mr. Brendon?" she said in an interrogative manner. Again George felt awkward, but judged it best to plunge into the middle of the matter and get it over as soon as possible. "You called to see a certain Mr. Ireland," he said, "about the lease of this house. I have to come to ask you why you did so."

Miss Bull stopped patting Margery's hand and her lips tightened. "I don't see what business that is of yours," she said tartly.

"On the face of it, Miss Bull, I admit that the question sounds impertinent. But I am anxious to learn something about Mrs. Jersey's early life, and since you know something----"

"I know nothing," interrupted Miss Bull, quickly, "absolutely nothing. I came here as a boarder many years ago, and, as is my custom, I kept myself to myself. Madame and I did not get on well together. She was not a lady."

"Do you know what she was?" asked Brendon, shrewdly.

"I have already said that I know nothing," replied Miss Bull, coldly.

Evidently it was impossible to learn anything from so secretive a woman. Nevertheless, George tried another tack. "Do you know if Mrs. Jersey left any writings behind her?"

He asked this because it struck him that Mrs. Jersey might have been tempted to write out her relations with the Vane family. It was apparent that Lord Derrington had given her a lease of the house to silence her about the possible marriage, so for the sake of her niece Mrs. Jersey might have left some confession which would secure its renewal. And that the lease had been renewed was evident from the fact that the boarding-house was still being carried on in the old way, and by the niece.

Miss Bull did not reply to this question herself. "That is not my business," she said; "Miss Watson took possession of her aunt's papers."

"They were in a green box," said Margery, artlessly.

"What did they consist of?" asked Brendon.

"You need not answer that question, Margery," said Miss Bull, quickly, and from that moment, Margery preserved a lumpish silence. George rose in despair.

"You will not help me," he said, taking up his hat.

"So far as I can see there is no reason why we should help you," was Miss Bull's reply, and she rose in her turn.

Brendon saw nothing for it but to go, yet he hesitated to abandon the chance of learning something from Miss Bull. He stared at her pinched, white face and wondered if it would be any good appealing to that love of romance which is inherent in the heart of every woman. Old and withered as Miss Bull was, she might soften under the influence of a love-tale. Brendon disliked telling his business to strangers, especially anything regarding Dorothy, whom he looked upon as a sacred vestal not to be lightly mentioned. However, so much was at stake that he determined to speak openly, on the bare chance of Miss Bull yielding. But he could not speak in the presence of the girl Margery. She was such a sullen animal that to mention his love in her presence would be like casting pearls before swine. He therefore turned to Miss Bull, who stood with folded hands, eyeing him frigidly. "If I could see you alone," said Brendon.

Miss Bull cast a shrewd glance at him, rapidly made up her mind and told Margery to go. The girl looked at him tigerishly, as she was evidently jealous, and sulkily withdrew. When the door was closed Brendon resumed his seat, but Miss Bull remained standing. This was not a good sign; but George was now committed to a certain course and had to follow it.

"Miss Bull," he said deliberately, "what I am about to tell you, being my own private business, I must ask you to keep to yourself."

"I don't want to hear it," said Miss Bull. "I never care for other people's secrets."

"This is not a secret, Miss Bull. It is merely that I am engaged to be married."

"Indeed, and what interest can that have for me, Mr. Brendon?"

"This much. You are a woman and must feel interested to a certain extent in a love romance. I am aware that I am appealing to you in a way which you may regard as foolish, but I am so anxious for certain information, and, from what Mr. Ireland said, you alone can give it. To put the thing in a nutshell--I am in love, and you can forward my marriage if you will."

Miss Bull heard him in silence, but as he talked a faint crimson flushed her face and a softer light shone in her hard eyes. She put her hand to her heart, as though she felt a cruel pain, and sank into a chair. Alarmed by her pallor, which had now returned, George would have called for assistance, but she stopped him. "I shall be all right shortly," she muttered in faint tones. "Marriage, love, what have I to do with such things?" She paused, and then continued, her voice gathering strength as she proceeded, "Who is the bride, Mr. Brendon?"

"She is not a bride yet; she never may be," replied the young man, gloomily, "for if she does not become my wife she will accept no one else. I can trust her implicitly. Her name is Dorothy Ward."

Miss Bull rose with an ejaculation and her face grew red. "Is her mother the Honorable Mrs. Ward who married Lord Ransome's son?"

"Yes. Do you know her?" asked George, surprised at her emotion.

"I have heard of her," replied Miss Bull, resuming her seat with feigned indifference, but with barely concealed agitation. "Dorothy Ward. A handsome girl. I have seen her in the Park."

"She is as good as she is beautiful," cried Brendon, enthusiastically.

"I'll take your word for that," said Miss Bull in a softer tone. "Mr. Brendon, I will help you. Don't ask me why. Perhaps it is on account of your romance; perhaps because--because--" her hand clenched itself and she fought down an outburst--"no matter. I will do what I can to forward the marriage. What do you wish to know?"

"About Mrs. Jersey."

"In relation to Lord Derrington?"

"Yes. He was the landlord of this house, I believe."

"He was and is. It was leased to Mrs. Jersey, furniture and all, by the year."

"By the year," said Brendon, surprised. "Why not a seven-years' lease in the ordinary way?"

"I cannot say. I am only telling you what Mrs. Jersey's lawyer told me. Lord Derrington bought this house from Mr. Ireland with the furniture as it stood, and as it stood he gave it to Mrs. Jersey. She turned it into a boarding-house some fifteen years ago. I don't think she added or took away any furniture. It is in the same condition as when it left Mr. Ireland's hands. And he, I believe, sold it on account of the last owner."

"He did," admitted George. "The last owner was Mr. Anthony Lockwood; he was----" George had it in his mind to state that Lockwood was his father. But the time was not yet ripe for such a disclosure, and he said nothing at the moment. "He was a singing-master," he finished rather lamely. "Mr. Ireland told me all about him."

"That is all correct, so far as I know, Mr. Brendon. I dare say you wish to know why I saw Mr. Ireland. I did so on behalf of Margery Watson, as I wanted the girl to continue the boarding-house. I like the poor creature, and when her aunt died she was left very badly off."

"Didn't Mrs. Jersey leave any money?"

"No. She lived principally on an annuity from Lord Derrington."

"Ah!" said Brendon, his suspicions becoming more and more confirmed, "so he allowed her an annuity. Why?"

"I can't tell you that. But with the death of Mrs. Jersey the annuity naturally ceased. I asked Mr. Ireland about the lease, and then sought out Lord Derrington. I represented to him the position of Margery Watson, and he was good enough to renew the lease in her name, on my security."

"Still by the year?" asked George.

"Still by the year. So now the poor girl can live."

"You are a good woman, Miss Bull, to help her in this way."

"I am not good," cried Miss Bull, vehemently. "God knows I have enough sins to repent of. Don't call me good, Mr. Brendon. I am only a desolate old woman who has had a hard life. I should have been married and settled, but--but"---- She shook her head and the tears came into her hard eyes. "God help me, I have had sorrows, and will have them till I die."

"That shows you have a good heart," said George, alluding not to her sorrows, but to her actions toward Margery. "Well, Miss Bull--" he rose--"you have told me what I want to know. I hope to make use of it. In return for your confidence I should tell you----"

"Tell me nothing," cried the old maid, quickly. "I don't wish to hear your secrets. The less said the soonest mended. When Miss Ward becomes Mrs. Brendon," she added with a dry smile, "you can send me a piece of wedding cake."

"She will not become Mrs. Brendon," said George, shaking his head. "I will be frank with you, Miss Bull. My name is not Brendon."

She rose from her seat and looked at him steadily, perusing every line in his face. "I thought I had seen some one like you before. I see now--now--don't tell me your name is--is--but it's impossible."

"My real name is George Vane. I am Lord Derrington's grandson."

The little woman looked at him wildly for a moment and then quietly slipped to the ground. She had fainted in real earnest, and George rang the bell for assistance. Margery, who had evidently been lurking outside, rushed in. When she saw her friend extended pale and lifeless on the carpet she turned on George with a furious face.

"What have you been doing to the poor darling?" she demanded, "you--you." She raised her hand to strike, but Brendon caught her by the wrist.

"I have been doing nothing," he declared, quelling the rage of the she-bear by the power of his glance. "Miss Bull fainted unexpectedly. Thank goodness here is some one."

It was one of the servants, but Margery waved her off. "No one but me--no one but me!" she cried, and took the slender form of her friend up in her arms. "Wait here," she added to George. "I'll be down soon."

When she left the room George looked at the servant, who was a quiet, respectable old woman. "Is that girl mad?" he asked.

"She's queer, poor soul, sir," replied the woman, "and entirely devoted to Miss Bull. And well she may be for it is Miss Bull who manages the house. The girl is a natural, sir."

"She looks like it," replied George, sitting down. "You can go. I shall wait here until Miss Bull recovers."

"Yes, sir," replied the woman, and departed. But as she closed the door George heard her muttering something to herself about the danger of Margery's claws scratching him.

Brendon did not feel very comfortable on this point himself. He saw that Margery was a kind of untamed animal who had been brought into subjection by Miss Bull. No other person could manage her, and should she return, still in a passion, Brendon feared lest she should use physical violence. Still he held his ground, as he was anxious to learn how the old maid was feeling, and still more anxious to find out, if possible, why she had fainted on hearing his name. "I wonder if Mrs. Jersey told her anything," muttered George as he looked out of the window; "but that's impossible. Mrs. Jersey would keep her own secret so as to terrorize over Derrington. Besides, Miss Bull declared that she recognized my face. I wonder if she knew my father, and if she can throw any light on the murder. It is strange that she should be connected with the matter and live in the same house as Mrs. Jersey. Upon my word," said George, in disgust, "it seems as though there were a gang of shady people here connected with my affairs. And she was moved by the mention of Dorothy's name. I wonder what that meant?"

But whatever it did mean he did not learn that day. Margery returned and stated that Miss Bull was better, but was too faint to resume the conversation. She begged Mr. Brendon to call another day. Margery gave this message in quite a friendly way, and nodded smilingly to the astonished George. "You are better disposed toward me," he said, taking up his hat.

"Miss Bull told me to be kind to you," she declared, still smiling; and then, with a burst of good nature, "I will be kind. Do you want to know about the papers?"

"If you choose to tell me," said George, artfully, but rejoicing at the opportunity this offered of learning something.

"Yes, I do choose," said Margery. "She asked me to be kind to you."

"Well, then, tell me," replied George, humoring her.

"There was a lease in the green box, and many bills," said Margery, "a few photographs, and that was all. I couldn't see the story."

"What story, Miss Watson?"

Margery nodded with a cunning smile, and answered, in a whisper, as though her aunt was still alive and within hearing. "She told me it was a story she was writing. Oh, such a long story! Sheets and sheets of a story--foolscap sheets. She kept them in a long blue envelope and would not let me see them."

George reflected that evidently Mrs. Jersey had been writing out an account of her early life, and Margery's next words put the matter beyond a doubt. "My aunt said that she would let me have the story to read after she died. But I could not find it in the green box."

"Perhaps you did not look thoroughly," suggested George.

"Yes, I did, and I looked in all other places. But I could not find it. The story was Italian," went on Margery, staring at him, "for when my aunt wasn't looking I peeped. San Remo is in Italy, isn't it?"

"I believe so," replied George, more and more convinced that Mrs. Jersey had left a confession behind her. "Did you tell Miss Bull?"

Margery nodded. "She said I wasn't to say a word about it. But she will not be angry at my telling you. She likes you, and says you are like some one she once knew and loved."

Brendon did not pursue the conversation. He was afraid lest Margery might say too much and Miss Bull might be angry. And it was necessary that he should keep on good terms with Miss Bull. Evidently she had known his father; she may even have loved him. But George had heard so much that day that his brain was quite bewildered, and he wanted to be alone to think the matter out. Only one last request he made of Margery. "Will you show me the photographs which were in the green box?" he asked persuasively.

"I can't," she replied, drawing down her lip like a child; "Miss Bull has them. But she'll show them to you," brightening, "for she likes you. I like you too. You are so handsome."

With a laugh and a blush at this na?ve compliment George left the house, promising to call again. With his head filled with many thoughts consequent on his two interviews, he emerged from Amelia Square and walked down to Oxford Street. A shout aroused him from his day-dreams as he reached the corner. He saw a tall, red-headed man crossing the road, and a cab was bearing down on him. The man stood paralyzed in the center, and it was apparent that the horse would soon be on him. George, almost without thinking, dashed into the street, and, seizing the animal, reined it back on its haunches with a powerful hand. There was a shout of admiration from the throng on the footpath, a few oaths from the driver of the hansom, and the next minute the red-headed man was thanking his preserver on the pavement and shaking his hand violently.

"Don't you think I'll forget it, sir," he said with rather an American accent. "You have saved Bawdsey, and Bawdsey can help you at a pinch."

Brendon was too bewildered by this extraordinary address to take it all in. Besides, the admiring crowd pressed around. Seeing this, Bawdsey took him by the arm and ran him round the corner into a quiet street. George recovered and looked at the man he had saved.

He was a tall man with a thin face, though his body was rather stout. His hair was red, his eyes were blue, and he had an alert manner about him which made Brendon wonder how such a sharp person ever came to place himself in the position of being run over. But Bawdsey gave him no time to think. "What is your name?" he asked.

"George Brendon."

Bawdsey stepped back, and a look of genuine surprise overspread his freckled face. And he was apparently more astonished than he showed, as Brendon guessed by the trembling of his hands. "I have lived over fifty years in the world," said Bawdsey, "and this is the queerest thing I ever dropped across. And I drop across many queer things, stranger."

"Well, Mr. Bawdsey, if that is your name," said George, good-humoredly, "it is a good thing I have saved your life. But you seem as though you could--"

"I can--I can," interrupted Bawdsey, anticipating the remark. "But have you ever heard of that disease--fear of open spaces?"

"No," replied Brendon, "what is it?"

"I shan't give you the medical name," said Bawdsey, "as you would not understand. But it is a dread to cross any open space. At times it takes me unexpectedly, and I get a sort of paralysis of the will and cannot move. That was why I stopped in the middle of the road. I should have been killed but for you."

"Perhaps I had better see you home, then," said Brendon.

"No. I shall take a cab. It is only now and then that the thing takes me. It can't be cured and maybe it will get worse. At present it does not prevent me attending to my work. Come home with me and I'll tell you more. I live in No. 43 Amelia Square."

"What, in that house?" cried George, for this was the number of the Jersey mansion.

"Yes. What do you know of it?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, yes, you do; but you won't trust me. However, I'll see you again, and I'll trust you. Take care of Lola Velez. She means you harm."

The next moment he was gone, and George was staring after him.