"He wished to speak to her about George Franklin, who would inherit the money if she died. I believe he intended to warn her that George was dangerous, for he hates my uncle."

"Did your father know that the money had been left at the time?"

"No. It was only because he was on the spot that he wished to see Daisy. He wrote on a scrap of paper that he wished to see her about the money, and she came out."

"She was always eager after that miserable money," said Ware sadly. "But your father did know that Powell was dead at the time, Anne." And he told her of his discoveries in connection with the office boy. "So you see your father was in England masquerading as Wilson," he finished.

"Yes," said Anne, with a shudder, "I see now. But he told me nothing of this. Indeed, I can't understand my father at all."

"Do you know the meaning of the Scarlet Cross?"

"No; he refuses to tell me. He won't say why he pretended to be dead; and in every way he is most mysterious. But I am fond of my father, Giles, although I know he is not a good man. But he did not kill Daisy; I am sure of that. And even at the time I thought he had done so I saved him. After all he may be as bad as possible; but he is my father, and I owe him a daughter's affection."

Giles would have argued this, but at the moment Anne started to her feet. She heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and without a word to Giles she flew over the low wall and darted across the park. He was too astonished by this sudden departure to say a word. He had lost her again. But he knew where she was after all.

CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

Giles left the churchyard slowly, with his brain in a whirl. Anne had departed in hot haste, taking shelter in her hiding-place, and he dare not follow unless he wanted it to be discovered. He never knew who it was, whose footsteps had startled her away. When she left him he remained for quite ten minutes where he was, in a kind of dazed condition. The footsteps were not heard now. So intent had he been upon Anne's flight, and on the amazing things she had told him, that he had not noticed when they ceased. Then it occurred to him that they had retreated – just as though a person had been listening and had hastily gone away. But of this he could not be sure. All he did know was that when he rounded the corner there was not a soul in sight. And nothing remained but to go home.

Olga and her mother did not put in an appearance on this night, so Giles had ample time to think over his meeting with Anne. He did not see how he could help her, and the story she had related bewildered, instead of enlightening him. After a time he rearranged the details, and concluded that, in spite of all denial, her father was the guilty person, and the crime had been committed for the sake of the Powell money.

"Whether the Scarlet Cross indicates a political society or is the symbol of a thieves' association," said Giles to himself, "I can't say until Steel is more certain of his ground. But this Alfred Denham, or Walter Franklin, or whatever he chooses to call himself, is evidently a bad lot. He has sufficient love for his daughter to keep his iniquities from her, and that is why Anne is so much in the dark. I quite believe that she thinks her father innocent, and saved him on the spur of the moment. But he is guilty for all that."

And then Giles proceeded to work out the case as it presented itself to him. Walter Franklin – as he found it most convenient to call him – was a scoundrel who preyed on society, and who by some mischance had a pure and good daughter like Anne. To keep her from knowing how bad he was – and the man apparently valued her affection – he sent her to be a governess. She believed in him, not knowing how he was plotting to get the Powell money.

Certainly Walter had resided in Florence under the name of Denham. Ware quite believed this, and guessed that he did so in order to keep an eye on his brother George, who was to inherit the Powell money. Probably he knew beforehand that Powell was ill, and so had feigned death that he might carry out his scheme without Anne's knowledge. That scheme was to impersonate his brother; and Giles trembled to think of how he proposed to get rid of George when the time was ripe. He must have intended to murder him, for since he had slain Daisy with so little compunction, he certainly would not stick at a second crime.

However, thus Giles argued, the first step to secure the money was for him to feign death and thus get rid of Anne. Then he came to London, and as Wilson stopped with Mrs. Benker in order to spy on the Ashers through Alexander. As soon as he knew for certain that Powell was dead and that the money was coming to Daisy, he came down to Rickwell on the errand of serving the summons, and then had lured the girl outside of the church to kill her. But for Anne following him, he would have disappeared into the night and no one would have been the wiser.

But the appearance of his daughter in the library upset his plans. She followed him into the church and came out to find him near the dead body. He certainly made an excuse, but Giles believed that such was a lie. If he had confessed to the crime, even Anne might not have stopped with him. But here Giles remembered that at the time of the flight Anne really believed that her father was guilty. At all events he had made use of her to get away, and thus had reached the yacht at Gravesend. It was waiting for him there, in order that he might fly after the crime was committed. Perhaps he intended to walk to Tilbury, and crossing the Thames get on board the yacht before the hue-and-cry was out. Anne hampered his plans in some measure and then, by means of the stolen motor-car, assisted them. Thus the man had got away, and by the murder of the girl had opened the way to George inheriting the money.

"They went to Paris," mused Giles, "then to Florence. I daresay this Walter intended to send Anne away on some excuse and to murder his brother in Florence. Then he could slip into the dead man's shoes, and come to inherit – as George – the property of Powell. Probably George left Florence before Walter arrived, and thus escaped death. He is safe so far, but how long will he be safe?"

Then a terrible thought occurred to Giles. He wondered if Walter had placed his daughter at the Priory so as to have an opportunity of coming to see his brother, and thus seizing his chance of killing him. Anne, innocent as she was of the real meaning of these terrible schemes, might be a decoy. If her father came, George would be murdered. Walter, who was able to disguise himself with infernal ingenuity, might slip into the dead man's shoes, and thus the money he had schemed for would come to him. Evidently the last act of the tragedy was not yet played out.

The more Giles puzzled over the matter, the more bewildered he became. He could see – as he thought – what had been done, but he could not guess how the last act was to be carried out. Yet Walter Franklin was hiding somewhere waiting to pounce out on his unsuspecting brother, and the second crime might involve Anne still deeper in the nefarious transactions of her father. Finally Giles made up his mind to seek George Franklin at the Priory and tell him what he thought. The man should at least be put on his guard. It may be said that Ware fancied he might be permitted to see Anne as a reward for his kind warning.

Before calling on Franklin he went to see the foreign ladies. To his surprise both had left by the early morning train. There was a note from Olga, which informed him that her mother had insisted on returning to town, finding the country cold and dull. The note added that she – Olga – would be glad to see him at the Westminster flat as soon as he could come to London, and ended with the remark that he had yet to give his answer to her question. Giles was relieved when he read this. Olga was gone, and the two days of probation were extended indefinitely. He might find some way of releasing Anne before he need give this dreadful answer. Again and again did he bless the selfishness of the elder Princess, which had removed the obstacle of Olga from his path.

Meanwhile he put her out of his mind and went on to the Priory. He called in on the way to see Morley, but learned that the little man had gone to town. Mrs. Morley looked more worn and haggard than ever, and seemed about to say something as Giles was taking his leave. However, she held her peace and merely informed him that she missed her children dreadfully. "But I'm sure that is not what she meant to say," thought Ware, as he departed. On looking back he saw her thin white face at the window and concluded – as Mrs. Parry did – that the poor lady had something on her mind.

In due time he arrived at the Priory and was shown into a gloomy drawing-room, where George Franklin received him. Giles apologized for not having called before, and was graciously pardoned.

"And, indeed, I should have called on you, Mr. Ware," said Franklin, "but I am such a recluse that I rarely go out."

"You call on Mr. Morley, I believe?"

"Yes; he is a cheery man, and won't take no for an answer. I find that his company does me good, but I prefer to be alone with my books."

There were many books in the room and many loose papers on the desk, which Giles saw were manuscripts. "I write sometimes," said Franklin, smiling in his sour way. "It distracts my mind from worries. I am writing a history of Florence during the age of the Renaissance."

"A very interesting period," Giles assured him.

"Yes; and my daughter Portia helps me a great deal. You have met her, Mr. Ware. She told me."

"Yes; we met in the park. She was looking for something, which I found; but I gave it to – to – " Giles hesitated, for he was on dangerous ground. "To another lady," he finished desperately, and waited for the storm to break.

To his surprise the man smiled. "You mean my niece Anne," said he in the calmest way.

"Yes; I do mean Miss Denham. But I did not know that – that – "

"That I wished you to know she was under my roof. Is that it?"

"Yes," stammered Giles, quite at sea. He did not expect this candor.

Franklin rather enjoyed his confusion. "I did not intend to let you know that she was here. It was her own request that you were kept in ignorance. But since you met her – "

"Did you hear of our meeting?"

"Certainly. Anne told me of it directly she came back. Oh, I have heard all about you, Mr. Ware. My niece confessed that you loved her, and from Morley I heard that you defended her."

"Did Morley know that Anne was here?"

"Certainly not. At the outset of our acquaintance he informed me that he believed her to be guilty. I resolved to say nothing, lest he might tell the police."

"Why did you not tell him that she was innocent?" asked Giles hotly.

The man looked grave and smoothed his shaven chin – a habit with him when perplexed. "Because I could not do so without telling an untruth," he said coldly.

Giles started to his feet, blazing with anger. "What!" he cried, "can you sit there and tell me that your own niece killed that poor girl?"

"I have reason to believe that she did," replied Franklin.

"She told me she was innocent," began Ware.

Franklin interrupted. "She loves you too well to say otherwise. But she is – guilty."

"I would not believe that if she told me herself."

"Sit down, Mr. Ware," said Franklin, after a pause. "I'll explain exactly how the confession came about."

Giles took his seat again, and eyed his host pale but defiant. "It is no use your saying anything against Anne. She is innocent."

"Mr. Ware, I believed that when she first came to me. I hate my brother because he is a bad man; but I liked his niece, and when she came to me for shelter I took her in, notwithstanding the enormity of the crime which she was accused of having committed."

"It gained you your fortune," said Ware bitterly.

"I would rather have been without a fortune gained at such a price," answered Franklin coldly; "but I really believed Anne guiltless. She defended her father, but I fancied, since she had helped him to escape, that he had killed the poor girl."

"And he did," cried Giles. "I am sure he did."

"He had no motive."

"Oh yes, to get the money – the five thousand a year."

"You forget. By Miss Kent's death that came to me."

"Your brother would have found means to get it. I believe he will find means yet."

"I don't understand you. Will you explain?"

Franklin seemed fairly puzzled by Giles' remarks, so the young man set forth the theory he had formed about the murder. At first Mr. Franklin smiled satirically; but after a time his face became grave, and he seemed agitated. When Giles ended he walked the room in a state of subdued irritation.

"What have I done to be so troubled with such a relative as Walter?" he said aloud. "I believe you are right, Mr. Ware. He may attempt my life to get the money; and as we are rather like one another in appearance he may be able to pass himself off as me. Why, there was a woman here who called herself Mrs. Benker. She insisted that I was called Wilson, under which name she knew my brother Walter. So you must see how easily he could impose on every one. I am dark and clean-shaven; he is red-haired and bearded. But a razor and a pot of black dye would soon put that to rights. Yes, he might attempt my murder. But do not let us saddle him with a crime of which he is guiltless. Anne killed the girl. I assure you this is the truth."

"I don't believe it," cried Giles fiercely.

"Nevertheless" – Franklin paused and then came forward swiftly to place a sympathetic hand on the young man's shoulder – "I heard her say so myself. She confessed to me that she had met you, and seemed much agitated. Then she ran out of this room to another. Fearing she was ill, I followed, and found her on her knees praying. She said aloud that she had deceived you, stating that she could not bear to lose your love by proclaiming herself a murderess."

"No, no; I won't listen." Giles closed his ears.

"Be a man, Mr. Ware. Anne is ill now. She confessed the truth to me, and then fled to her bedroom. This morning she was very ill, as my daughter Portia assured me. Portia is out of the house. If you will come with me, you will hear the truth from Anne herself. She is so ill that she will not try to deceive you now. But if she does confess, you must promise not to give her up to the police. She is suffering agonies, poor child!"

"I'll come at once," said Giles bravely, starting to his feet. And it was brave of him, for he dreaded the truth. "If she confesses this, I'll go away and never see her again. The police – ah, you needn't think I would give her up to the police. But if she is guilty (and I can't believe such a thing of her) I'll tear her out of my heart. But it's impossible, impossible!"

Franklin looked at him with a pitying smile as he hid his face in his hands. Then he touched him on the shoulder and led the way along a passage towards the back part of the house. At a door at the end he paused. "The room is rather dark. You won't see her clearly," he said, "but you will know her by her voice."

"I would know her anyway," cried Giles fiercely, and tormented beyond endurance.

Franklin gave him another glance, as though asking him to brace himself for the ordeal, and then opened the door. He showed small mercy in announcing Ware's coming. "Anne, here is Mr. Ware come to see you. Tell him the truth."

The room was not very large, and was enveloped in a semi-gloom. The blind was pulled down, and the curtains were drawn. The bed was near the window, and on it lay Anne in a white dress. She was lying on the bed with a rug thrown over her feet. When she heard the name of Giles she uttered a cry. "Keep him away!" she said harshly. "Keep him away! Don't let him come!"

"Anne! Anne!" cried Giles, coming forward, his mouth dry, his hands clenched. "Do not tell me that you killed Daisy."

There was a groan and silence, but Anne – so far as he could see – buried her face in the pillow. It was Franklin who spoke. "Anne, you must tell the truth once and for all."

"No, no," she cried, "Giles would despise me."

"Anne," he cried in agony, "did you kill her?"

"Yes," came the muffled voice from the bed. "I found her at the grave. My father was not there. He had missed her in the darkness and the snow. She taunted me. I had the stiletto, which I took from the library, and I killed her. It was my father who saved me. Oh, go away, Giles, go away!"

But Giles did not go. He rose to his feet and stepped towards the window. In a second he had the blind up and the curtains drawn apart. The light poured into the room to reveal – not Anne Denham, but the girl Portia Franklin.

CHAPTER XIX
THE CLUE LEADS TO LONDON

It was indeed Portia. Seeing that she was discovered, she sprang from the bed and faced Giles with a sullen, defiant look on her freckled face. Still standing in the strong light which poured in through the window, Ware looked at the girl satirically.

"You are a very clever mimic, Miss Franklin," said he, "but you rather forgot yourself in that last speech. Anne is of too sensitive a nature to have explained herself with such a wealth of detail."

"You were deceived at first," grumbled Portia, rocking herself.

"Only for a moment," replied Giles. "And now I should like to know the meaning of this masquerade?"

"I also," cried Franklin, in his turn. He was staring at his daughter with a look of profound amazement. "Where is Anne, you wretched girl?"

"She has run away."

"Run away!" exclaimed the men simultaneously.

"Yes. After your finding out last night that she had killed Daisy Kent she was afraid to stop. She knew that you hated her father, and thought you might hand her over to the police. Last night she told me so, and said she would run away. I love Anne, and I let her do as she liked. It was I who let her out," ended Portia, defiantly.

"Anne should not have so mistrusted me," cried Franklin, much perturbed. "Surely I always protected her, and treated her well."

"Ah, but you didn't know till last night that she was guilty."

"No; but for all that – " began Franklin, only to break off. "Where has she gone?" he demanded angrily.

"I don't know. She had some money, and took a small black bag with her. She said when she got settled she would write here and let me know where she was, on condition that I did not tell you."

"She has every reason to. Poor, miserable girl! to be an outcast, and now to leave her only refuge," he sighed and shook his head. Giles all the time had been watching Portia, whose face bore an expression of obstinacy worthy of a mule. "Did this scheme for Anne's departure include the masquerade you have indulged in?"

"It is my own idea," she retorted defiantly. "Anne wished to get away without my father knowing, so I stopped in her room and pretended to be Anne. The servants were deceived, as I knew exactly how to imitate her voice. I pulled down the blind, so that no one should see who I was. Only you could have guessed the truth."

"How is that?"

"Because you love her."

Giles thought this a strange speech for the heavy-looking girl to make. "Is that an original remark on your part?" he asked.

"No," she confessed candidly; "I suggested to Anne that I should pass myself off as her, and so give her a longer time to get away. She said that I might deceive the servants and my father, but that I could never deceive you, because you loved her. But I had a good try," continued Portia, nodding her red head triumphantly. "When my father spoke your name at the door I thought I would try."

"Well, you have done so only to fail," responded Ware coolly. "For the moment I was deceived, but you forgot how to manage your voice, and, moreover, your explanation was too elaborate. But how is it you dare to confess, as Anne, that she killed the girl?"

"Anne did kill Daisy Kent!"

"She did not."

"Yes, she did. She confessed as much to father last night, and to me also. She asked me to tell you so, that you might forget all about her. I was going over to your place this very day to tell, but when father brought you in I thought I would pretend to be Anne and tell you in that way."

"Anne would have written, and – "

"No, she wouldn't," said Portia, eagerly. "She began to write a letter saying that she was guilty, but afterwards she thought it might fall into the hands of the police, and tore it up. She told me to let you know by word of mouth. All she asks of you is that you will forget that she ever existed."

"Let her tell me that with her own lips," said Giles, groaning.

"Yes, Portia, tell Mr. Ware the place Anne has gone to."

Portia eyed her father with some anger. "How can I tell when I don't know? Anne never said where she was going. I let her out by the back door just before dawn, and she went away. I know no more."

"If she writes, you will let Mr. Ware know."

"I shan't," retorted the girl. "Anne wants him to forget her."

"That is impossible," said Giles, whose face was now haggard with the anguish of the moment; "but you must be my friend, Portia, and tell me. Think how I suffer!"

"Think how she suffers, poor darling!" cried Portia, whose sympathies were all with Anne. "Don't ask me any more. I shan't speak."

And speak she would not, although Giles cajoled and Franklin stormed. Whatever could be said of Portia, she was very loyal to the outcast. There was nothing for it but for Ware to depart. And this he did.

What was the best thing to be done Giles did not very well know. Anne was lost again, and he did not know where to look for her. He could not bring himself to believe that she was guilty, in spite of her confession to Portia and Franklin.

"It's that blackguard of a father of hers over again," he thought, as he tramped moodily through the Priory park. "She is afraid lest his brother – her uncle – should denounce him, and has taken the crime on her own shoulders. Even though he is her father, she should not sacrifice so much for him. But it is just noble of her to do so. Oh, my poor love, shall I ever be able to shelter you from the storms of life?"

There did not seem to be much chance of it at the present moment. Mistrusting her uncle, she had vanished, and would let no one but Portia know of her new hiding-place. And Portia, as Giles saw, was too devoted to Anne to confess her whereabouts without permission. And how was such permission to be obtained? Anne allowed her uncle to think her guilty in order to save her unworthy father from his fraternal hatred. She had asserted her innocence to Giles, but had apparently, through Portia, tried to deceive him again, so that he might not follow her. "Poor darling!" cries Giles, full of pity, "she wishes to put me out of her life, and has fled to avoid incriminating her father. If she told me the whole truth her father would be in danger, and she chooses to bear his guilt herself. But why should she think I would betray the man? Bad as he is, I should screen him for her dear sake. Oh" – Giles stopped and looked up appealingly to the hot, blue sky – "if I only knew where she was to be found, if I could only hold her in my arms, never, never would I let her go, again! My poor Quixotic darling, shall I ever be worthy of such nobility?"

It was all very well apostrophizing the sky, but such heroics did not help him in any practical way. He cast about in his own mind to consider in which direction she had gone. The nearest railway station to London was five miles away; but she would not leave the district thus openly, for the stationmaster knew her well. She had frequently travelled from that centre as Miss Denham, and he would be sure to recognize her, even though she wore a veil. Anne, as Giles judged, would not risk such recognition.

Certainly there was another station ten miles distant, which was very little used by the Rickwell people. She might have tramped that distance, and have taken a ticket to London from there. But was it her intention to go to London? Giles thought it highly probable that she would. Anne, as he knew from Portia, had very little money, and it would be necessary for her to seek out some friend. She would probably go to Mrs. Cairns, for Mrs. Cairns believed her to be guiltless, and would shelter her in the meantime. Later on a situation could be procured for her abroad, and she could leave England under a feigned name. Giles felt that this was the course Anne would adopt, and he determined to follow the clue suggested by this theory.

Having made up his mind to this course, Giles hurried home to pack a few things and arrange for his immediate departure. Chance, or rather Providence, led him past "Mrs. Parry's Eye" about five o'clock. Of course, the good lady was behind the window spying on all and sundry, as usual. She caught sight of Giles striding along the road with bent head and a discouraged air. Wondering what was the matter and desperately anxious to know, Mrs. Parry sent out Jane to intercept him and ask him in. Giles declined to enter at first; but then it struck him that since he was in search of information about Anne, Mrs. Parry might know something. Her knowledge was so omniscient that, for all he knew, she might have been aware all the time of Anne's presence at the Priory, but held her tongue – which Mrs. Parry could do sometimes – out of pity for the girl's fate. Giles went in resolved to pump Mrs. Parry without mentioning what he knew of Anne. Supposing she was ignorant, he was not going to be the one to reveal Anne's refuge. And if she did know, Ware was certain that Mrs. Parry would tell him all, since she was aware how deeply he loved the governess. Thus in another five minutes the young man found himself seated in the big armchair opposite the old lady. She was rather grim with him.

"You have not been to see me for ever so long," said she, rubbing her beaky nose. "Your Royal Princesses have taken up too much of your time, I suppose. Oh, I know all about them."

"I am sorry they did not stay for a few days," replied Giles in his most amiable tone. "I wished to introduce them to you."

"You mean present me to them," corrected the old dame, who was a stickler for etiquette. "They are genuine Princesses, are they not?"

"Oh, yes. But they are not royal. Princess Karacsay is the wife of a Magyar noble. She is not an Austrian, however, as she came from Jamaica. The younger, Princess Olga, is – "

"Jamaica," interrupted Mrs. Parry! "Humph! That is where Anne Denham was born. Queer this woman should come from the same island."

"It's certainly odd," replied Giles. "But a mere coincidence."

"Humph!" from Mrs. Parry. "Some folks make their own coincidences."

"What do you mean, Mrs. Parry?"

"Mean? Humph! I don't know if I should tell you."

Giles was now on fire to learn her meaning. Evidently Mrs. Parry did know something, and might be able to help him. But seeing that she was slightly offended with him, it required some tact to get the necessary information out of the old lady. Giles knew the best way to effect his purpose was to feign indifference. Mrs. Parry was bursting to tell her news, and that it would come out the sooner if he pretended that he did not much care to hear it.

"There is no reason why you should tell me," said he coolly. "I know all about the Princess Karacsay. She and her daughter only came down here for a rest."

"Oh, they did, did they, Ware? Humph!" She rubbed her nose again, and eyed him with a malignant pleasure. "Are you sure the elder Princess didn't come down to see Franklin?"

"She doesn't know him," said Giles, trying to be calm. "She took a walk in the Priory woods. I suppose that is how the mistake – "

"I don't make mistakes," retorted Mrs. Parry, with a snort. "I know a new gardener who is employed at the Priory. He told Jane, who told me, that Princess Karacsay, the mother, called on Franklin the other morning and entered the house. She was with him for over an hour. He came to the door to see her off. The gardener was attending to some shrubs near at hand. He could not hear what they said to one another, but declares that Franklin was as pale as a sheet."

"Queer," thought Giles, remembering how the elder lady had denied all knowledge of the man. However, he did not make this remark to Mrs. Parry. "Well, there's nothing in that," said he aloud. "Franklin lived in Italy for many years. He may have met the Princess there."

"True enough." Mrs. Parry was rather discomfited. "There may be nothing in it, and Franklin seems to be decent enough in his life, though a bit of a recluse. I've nothing to say against the man."

Giles thought that this was rather fortunate for Franklin, seeing that Mrs. Parry's tongue was so dangerous. If she ever came to know of his brother Walter, and of the relations between him and George, she would be sure to make mischief. He thought it prudent to say nothing. The less revealed to the good lady the better. However, this attitude did not prevent Ware from trying to learn what Mrs. Parry had discovered with regard to the two Princesses. She told him an interesting detail without being urged.

"Last night about nine I saw one of them out for a walk."

"Princess Olga?" questioned Giles.

Mrs. Parry nodded. "If she is the younger of the two, she is not a bad-looking girl, Ware. She passed my window and went on to look at the church. Rather a strange hour to look at a church."

Giles started. It was about that hour that he had been talking to Anne, and shortly afterwards she had heard the footsteps and had fled. He now believed that Olga must have overheard a portion of the conversation. It was her footsteps which they had heard retreating. At once he remembered Olga's threat, that if he tampered with Anne in the meantime she would have her arrested. This, then, was the reason why Olga had not come to his house again, and why she and her mother had left so suddenly for London. He wondered if the elder Princess knew about Anne, and was assisting her daughter to get the poor girl into the hands of the law. Giles turned pale.