Mrs. Krent placed her fat hands on her fat knees and stared at her wicked little husband. That gentleman lighted a fresh cigar and lounged back in his chair sipping a glass of port with an appreciative air.

‘Well, Maria?’ he murmured.

‘You — you had the Death’s Head?’ she stammered; ‘you — you placed it in the tent at the fete?’

‘Quite so, Maria, and took it away again. I placed it there on the chance — we must always allow for chance — that Bowring would have his fortune told. He did, and saw it, so he must have known that the end was not far off.’

‘Samuel, do you mean to say that Miss Warry knows who killed —’

‘I believe she does,’ interrupted the steward quietly, ‘and on that knowledge based her prophecy, which every fool believed. As to the Death’s Head, I’ll tell you why it frightened Bowring. He was a superstitious ass.’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Krent, who looked frightened herself, and cast a shivering glance round the comfortable room, ‘Bowring didn’t believe in ghosts.’

‘He believed in other things, such as sudden death at the hands of an enemy —’

‘Sir Hannibal?’

‘Not in this instance — a Zulu witch-doctor.’

‘Oh, Morgan said —’

‘He mentioned a witch-doctor tonight in his mumblings,’ finished Polwin pleasantly, ‘so I remember. The witch-doctor saw him in the Transvaal, that time Bowring took the boy with him. Morgan has not been the same since, as he got his life frightened out of him.’

‘What a shame — the poor, mad boy.’

‘Not mad enough to prevent him marrying your daughter,’ chuckled Polwin. ‘But, enough! Maria, you are prolix, and the night is getting towards morning, also the wine is finished and the fire is going out. Listen, and hold your tongue about what I’m telling you until such time as I give you leave to speak.’

Mrs. Krent glanced at the clock, which pointed to twelve, and nodded in an anxious manner. Polwin tipped off the ash of his cigar with his little finger and began a rather gruesome story.

‘In the Transvaal,’ said he —‘I won’t for obvious reasons mention the exact place — Sir Hannibal had the misfortune to murder a Zulu.’

‘No, I don’t believe it,’ gasped Mrs. Krent, pushing back her chair.

‘Maria, I’ll screw your hand again,’ said Polwin with displeasure, then, when she hastily hid her sore hand again in her bosom, he went on calmly: ‘This Zulu had a diamond, which Sir Hannibal, and I may say, Bowring, wanted. He refused to part with it, and while chaffering in the wilds, beyond sight of the Transvaal police — you understand, Maria — Sir Hannibal shot him and took the diamond.’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Krent, keeping a wary eye on her husband in case he should torture her again, ‘I don’t believe that Sir Hannibal is a thief and a murderer.’

‘He is a thief, because he stole the Zulu’s diamond,’ said Polwin calmly, ‘and doubly a murderer since he killed the Zulu and Bowring. No one knew the truth save Bowring, and Sir Hannibal feared him.’

‘Oh, and you say that Sir Hannibal killed Bowring for that reason?’

‘Yes,’ assented Polwin; ‘I believe that Bowring grew weary of Trevick’s threats about the forged bills, and said that he would tell of the murder of the Zulu. Then, to save himself, Trevick killed him.’

‘As though anyone would care about the death of a nigger,’ said Mrs. Krent contemptuously; ‘I have been in Africa, Samuel.’

‘Oh, but this Zulu was a young fellow of importance, the son of a famous witch-doctor whom the Boers were trying to conciliate. He made a lot of trouble over his son’s death, and if Trevick had been caught he would have suffered imprisonment, if not death. Yes, even now, long ago as it is; for the witch-doctor took his tribe away and gave the Boers a lot of trouble. Only the punishment of the witch-doctor’s son’s assassin will make that tribe amenable to British rule now that we have taken over the Transvaal. So, you see, Maria, that Sir Hannibal Trevick, Baronet, had every reason to fear lest Bowring should go to the Foreign Office and tell what he knew. The disaffected tribe is an important one, and the Government would do much to get it quiet, even by hanging the murderer of the man whose skull frightened Bowring so much.’

‘His skull!’ gasped Mrs. Krent, terrified; ‘is that scarlet skull the dead man’s?’

‘It is. It must be some dead man’s, you know, Maria.’

‘But why should it frighten Mr. Bowring?’

‘I’m coming to that, if you hold your confounded tongue. It seems, as I afterwards heard the story and before I learned the exact truth, that the witch-doctor — Moolu, they called him — thought that Bowring had killed his son and stolen the diamond. He could not bring the crime home to him, but he did witchcraft over the business.’

‘What kind of witchcraft?’ asked Mrs. Krent, fearfully, for she was superstitious in spite of her gibe at Bowring.

‘Suggestion,’ snapped the little man. ‘He cut off the boy’s head, boiled away the flesh, coloured the skull scarlet and bound it round with a broad silver crown. Then he showed it to Bowring and said that when he, Bowring, that is, saw it again he would be near death.’

‘Why didn’t he kill Bowring at once?’

‘He wanted to torture him. In vain Bowring protested his innocence. He could not give away Trevick, you know, because of the forged bills. But Moolu didn’t believe Bowring’s protestations. He wanted to torture him with suspense and gloat over his sufferings. And he did torture him. Once in the Transvaal, Bowring found the skull in his tent, and afterwards was nearly speared. Then, again, in Cape Town he found it in his room, and he was knifed at night, but not badly enough to kill him. Moolu had told Bowring that when he saw the skull three times he would meet with his death. You may imagine, Maria, that Bowring had a very bad time, seeing that twice he had met with a narrow escape from death, and knew that the third appearance of the skull would be fatal. However,’ added Polwin, with a yawn, ‘he need not have been so frightened, for when Bowring went to England Moolu died, and there was no one to carry on the vendetta. But Bowring did not know that, and feared the third appearance of the skull. Suggestion, you see, Maria?— merely suggestion.’

‘And you brought the scarlet skull to England. Why?’

‘I thought it might be useful, as I knew how Bowring dreaded it. I used it in the tent, as I told you, but upon my soul Maria,’ the little man rose and looked serious, ‘knowing that Moolu was dead, I never thought that any harm would come of the business. I merely placed it in the tent to frighten Bowring. But he was killed, as you know. I believe that the talk of the skull being in the tent put the idea of murder in Trevick’s head. But I can’t prove anything. However, that is the story. Later we’ll tell it to Miss Trevick, and get evidence to prove Sir Hannibal’s guilt. Then she’ll hand over ten thousand pounds a year to me, and I vanish out of your life.’

‘I wish you were dead with all my heart,’ muttered Mrs. Krent, rising.

Polwin smiled blandly, and gave her a swinging slap on the face.

‘And now, my dear,’ he said, just as though he had kissed her, ‘I’ll take my way back to St. Ewalds.’

‘I wonder you’re not frightened to walk back in the dark along that lonely road seeing how wicked you are,’ whimpered Mrs. Krent, patting her cheek, which was scarlet.

The little villain laughed jeeringly, and walked alertly to the door, followed by his ponderous wife. When she opened the hall door to let him out he paused, and assume a meek, depressed air, worthy of a great actor; even his face seemed to change into the semblance of a sheep. He was in one second in all respects the meek Josiah Polwin who had faced Oswald Forde.

‘This is the man as he is known in St. Ewalds,’ said he in a soft little voice, ‘when you see him, my dear Mrs. Krent, you need not recognise him. If you do,’ he straightened himself, and his mean face grew black and devilish, ‘you’ll get something like this to think about,’ and before the terrified woman could draw back he pinched the fleshy part of her arm so severely that she uttered a yell. The next moment damp darkness swallowed up the meek steward, still smiling blandly.

‘Oh,’ moaned Mrs. Krent, as she dragged herself up to bed, ‘why haven’t I the strength to squeeze the life out of that little beast?’

She might well ask this, for it did seem extraordinary that so large and determined a woman should submit to a mean, cruel dwarf. If Mrs. Krent had read about Quilp, she might have seen that Polwin’s character had been anticipated in fiction.

‘Has he gone, mother?’ asked Jenny, who was waiting at the head of the stairs, having heard the cry of her parent and the clang of the door.