The formula of the oath fell upon my ears in a dull monotone, as mechanically I raised the Bible to my lips, afterwards replying to the Coroner’s formal questions regarding my name, address and occupation. The discovery I had made filled me with fierce, bitter hatred against my dead companion, and, dazed by the startling suddenness of the revelation, I stood like a man in a dream.

Dr Diplock, the Coroner, noticed it, and his sharp injunction to answer his question brought me back to a knowledge of my surroundings. I was standing in full view of an assembly of some three hundred persons, so filled by curiosity, and eager to hear my story, that the silence was complete.

“I beg your pardon, but I did not hear the question,” I said, bracing myself with effort.

“The deceased was your friend, I believe?”

“Yes,” I answered. “He shared a furnished cottage with me at Shepperton. I have known him for some time.”

“Were you with him at the day of his death?”

“I left him at Shepperton in the morning, when I went to town, and he called upon me at the Foreign Office about one o’clock. We lunched together, and then, returning to Downing Street, parted. We met again at Shepperton later, and came here, to Staines, in response to an invitation to dinner at ‘The Nook.’ I – ”

A woman’s low, despairing cry broke the silence, and as I turned to the assembly I saw, straight before me, Ella, rigid, almost statuesque. Her terror-stricken gaze met mine; her eyes seemed riveted upon me.

“Kindly proceed with your evidence,” exclaimed the Coroner, impatiently.

“We dined at ‘The Nook,’” I went on, turning again to face him. “Then we went for a row, and on our return Mr Ogle left us to walk back to Shepperton.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not accompany him?”

“Because I had, during the evening, received a telegram summoning me away.”

“Who was the message from?”

“The Earl of Warnham,” I replied. Then obeying his request to continue, I explained how, on leaving “The Nook” about an hour later to catch my last train, I had stumbled upon the body of my friend.

Then, when I had concluded, the Coroner commenced his cross-examination. Many of his questions were purely formal in character, but presently, when he began to take me through the events which occurred at the Foreign Office, I experienced a very uncomfortable feeling, fearing lest I should divulge the suspicions that had during the last half-hour been aroused within me. It was, I recognised, absolutely necessary that I should keep my discovery a strict secret, for upon my ability to do so everything depended.

“Was there any reason why he should call for you at the Foreign Office and ask you to lunch with him? Was he in the habit of doing this?” inquired the Coroner.

“No; there seemed no reason, beyond the fact that he was compelled to come to town, and merely wanted to pass an idle hour away,” I said.

“Why did he go to London?”

“I have no idea what business took him there.”

“He never told you that he had any enemy, I suppose?” the official asked, with an air of mystery.

“Never. He was, on the contrary, most popular.”

“And no incident other than what you have related occurred at the Foreign Office? You are quite certain of this?”

For a moment I hesitated, half inclined to relate the whole story of the mysterious theft of the secret convention; but risking perjury rather than an exposure of facts that I saw must remain hidden, I answered as calmly as I could, —

“No other incident occurred.”

“Have you any reason to suspect that he was a victim of foul play?” the Coroner continued, looking at me rather suspiciously, I thought.

At that moment I glanced at Ella, and was astounded to see how intensely excited she appeared, with her white face upturned, her mouth half open, her eyes staring, eagerly drinking in every word that fell from my lips. Her whole attitude was of one who dreaded that some terrible truth might be brought to light.

“I have no reason to suspect he was murdered,” I answered in a low tone, and as I surreptitiously watched the face of the woman I loved I saw an instant transformation. Her breast heaved with a heavy sigh of relief as across her countenance there passed a look of satisfaction she was unable to disguise. She was in deadly fear of something, the nature of which I could not conjecture.

“You have no suspicion whatever that the deceased had an enemy?” asked the foreman of the jury, who had the appearance of a local butcher.

“None whatever,” I answered.

“I frequently saw Mr Ogle on the river of an afternoon with Miss Laing,” the man observed. “Was there, as far as you are aware, any affection between them?”

Glancing at Ella, I saw she had turned even paler than before, and was trembling. The question nonplussed me. In my heart I strongly suspected that some attachment existed between them; but resenting this impertinent question from a man who struck me as a local busybody, I made a negative reply.

“Then jealousy, it would appear, was not the cause of the crime,” the foreman observed to his fellow-jurymen.

The Coroner, however, quickly corrected him, pointing out that they had not yet ascertained whether death had, or had not, been due to natural causes.

Turning to me, he said, —

“I believe I am right in assuming that you are engaged to be married to Miss Laing, am I not?”

“I was engaged to her,” I replied hoarsely.

“Then you are not engaged at the present moment? Why was the match broken off?”

I hesitated for several moments, trying to devise some means to avoid answering this abrupt question. The bitter thought of Ella’s double dealing occurred to me, and with foolish disregard for consequences I resolved not to spare her.

“Because of a confession she made to me,” I said.

“A confession! What of?”

“Of unworthiness.”

“She acknowledged herself unfaithful to you, I presume?” observed one of the jurymen who had not before spoken; but to this I made no reply.

“Now, have you any suspicion that any secret affection existed between her and the deceased?” the Coroner asked, in a dry, distinct voice, that could be heard all over the room.

“I – I cannot say,” I faltered.

The movement among the audience showed the sensation my reply had caused, and it was increased by Ella suddenly rising from her place and shrieking hysterically: “That answer is a lie – a foul lie!”

“Silence!” shouted the Coroner, who, above all things, detested a scene in his Court. “If that lady interrupts again, she must be requested to leave.”

“Have you any further question to ask Mr Deedes?” he inquired, turning to the jury; but as no one replied, he intimated that the examination was at an end, and I felt that I had, at last, successfully passed through the ordeal I had dreaded.

Retiring to a seat, my place as a witness was at once taken by Beck; but scarcely had I sunk into a chair near where Ella was sitting when I felt within my hand the object I had taken from among the things found in the dead man’s possession. It had not been missed, and I wondered whether its loss would ever be detected. To keep it was, I felt, extremely dangerous; nevertheless I sat holding it in my palm, listening to the evidence of the well-known member for West Rutlandshire. His story, related in that loud, bombastic tone that had at first so prejudiced me against him, was much to the same effect as mine regarding the discovery of the body, its removal into the house, and the subsequent examination by the doctor, until there commenced the minute cross-examination.

“How long have you known the deceased?” the Coroner inquired, looking up suddenly from his notes.

“A few months. About six, I should think,” he answered.

“Have you any suspicion that he had an enemy?”

“No. He was about the last man in the world who would arouse the hatred of anybody. In fact, he was exceedingly popular.”

“You say you have been a frequent visitor at Mrs Laing’s. Now, from your own observations, have you seen anything that would lead you to the belief that he loved Miss Laing?”

“Nothing whatever,” he replied. “Ella was engaged to Mr Deedes, and although she was on the river a great deal with Ogle, I am confident she never for a moment regarded him as her lover.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“Because of certain facts she has confided in me.”

“What are they?”

He was silent. Evidently he had no intention of being led on in this manner, but, even finding himself cornered, his imperturbable coolness never deserted him, for he calmly replied, with a faint smile, —

“I refuse to answer.”

“Kindly reply to my question, sir, and do not waste the time of the Court,” exclaimed the Coroner, with impatience. “What were these facts?”

Again he was silent, twisting his gloves around his fingers uneasily.

“Come, answer if you please.”

“Well,” he replied, after considerable hesitation, “briefly, she gave me to understand that she loved Deedes, and had refused to listen to the deceased’s declaration of affection.”

“How came she to confide this secret of hers to you?” the Coroner asked eagerly.

Through my memory at that moment there flashed the scene I had witnessed in secret in the garden on that memorable night when I had detected this man with his arm around Ella’s waist, and I looked on in triumph at his embarrassment.

“I am a friend of the family,” he answered, with a calm, irritating smile a moment later. “She has told me many of her secrets.”

I knew from the expression upon his face that he lied. Was it not far more likely that on that night when I had discovered them he was uttering words of affection to her, and she, in return, had confessed that she loved me?

“Are you aware whether Mr Deedes had any knowledge that the deceased was his rival for Miss Laing’s hand?” inquired the Coroner, adding, self-apologetically, “I much regret being compelled to ask these questions, for I am aware how painful it must be to the family.”

“I believe he was utterly ignorant of it,” Beck replied. “He regarded Mr Ogle as his closest friend.”

“A false one, to say the least,” Dr Diplock observed in tones just audible. Beck shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.

The inquisitive foreman of the jury then commenced a series of clumsy, impertinent questions, many of which the witness cleverly evaded. He resented this man’s cross-examination just as I had done, and during the quarter of an hour’s fencing with the tradesman no noteworthy fact was elicited. The Coroner, seeing this, suddenly put an end to the foreman’s pertinacious efforts to draw from the Member of Parliament further facts regarding home life at “The Nook,” and called Dr Allenby.

The doctor, who had apparently had long experience of inquests, took the oath in a business-like manner, and related the facts within his knowledge clearly and succinctly, describing how I had summoned him, his visit to “The Nook,” and the appearance of the dead man.

“Have you made a post-mortem?” the Coroner asked, without looking up from the notes he was making.

“I made an examination yesterday, in conjunction with Dr Engall. We found no trace of disease, with the exception of a slight lung trouble of recent date.”

“Was it sufficient to cause death?”

“Certainly not; neither was the bruise upon the forehead, which had, no doubt, been caused by the fall upon the gravel. The heart was perfectly normal, and we failed utterly to detect anything that would result fatally. The contents of the stomach have been analysed by Dr Adams, of the Home Office, at the instigation of the police, I believe.”

“Then, as far as you are concerned, you are unable to determine the cause of death?”

“Quite. It is a mystery.”

The next witness was a thin, white-haired, dapper little man, who, in reply to questions, explained that he was analyst to the Home Office, and had, at the request of the police, submitted the contents of the deceased’s stomach to analysis, the position of the hands pointing to a slight suspicion of poison.

“And what have you discovered?” inquired the Coroner, the Court being so silent that the proverbial pin, if it had been dropped at that moment, might have been heard.

“Nothing,” he answered clearly. “There was no sign of anything of a deleterious nature whatsoever. The deceased was certainly not poisoned.”

The assembly of excited townspeople again shifted uneasily, as it was wont to do after every important reply which might elucidate the mystery. It seemed as though a rumour had been circulated that Dudley had been poisoned, and this declaration of the renowned analyst set at rest for ever that wild, unfounded report. People turned to one another, whispering excitedly, and a shadow of disappointment rested upon their inquisitive countenances. They had expected it to be pronounced a case of murder, whereas it would now be proved that death had occurred from some natural but sudden and unknown cause.

“Then you have no opinion to offer as to the cause of death!” the Coroner exclaimed.

“None whatever,” was the reply, and that concluded the analyst’s important testimony.

The foreman of the jury expressed a wish to put a question to Ella, and a few moments later she stood where I had stood, and removing her glove, took the oath with trembling voice.

“Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Laing, that Mr Ogle’s declaration of love to you had aroused the enmity of Mr Deedes?” asked the man, seriously.

“No,” she answered in a tone so low that I could scarcely distinguish the word.

“Mr Deedes was your lover, wasn’t he?”

“I am still engaged to him,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. “He tells a falsehood when he says that our love is at an end.”

“Then why did you not tell him of Mr Ogle’s declaration?”

“Because they were friends, and I did not wish to arouse animosity between them.”

Slight applause followed this reply, but it was instantly suppressed.

The Coroner, to bring matters to a conclusion, asked, “Now, knowing Mr Ogle as intimately as you did, do you suspect that he might have been murdered?”

She gasped, swayed slowly forward and gripped the corner of the baize-covered table to steady herself.

“Yes,” she answered in a clear but tremulous voice. “I – I believe he was murdered.”

A thrill of excitement and wonder ran through the onlookers. Her handsome face was ashen pale, and her breast, beneath her blouse of cool-looking muslin, rose and fell quickly, showing how intense was her agitation.

“And what causes you to believe this?” asked the Coroner, raising his brows in interrogation.

“I have suspicions,” she answered in a low voice, striving to remain calm, and glancing quickly around the silent assembly.

“You suspect some person of having been guilty of murder?” he asked, interested.

“Not exactly that,” she said quickly. “That Mr Ogle was murdered I feel confident, but who committed the crime I am unaware. It is a mystery. Knowing Mr Ogle so well as I did, he entrusted to me knowledge of certain facts that he strenuously kept secret from others. Yet I cannot conceive who would profit by his death.”

At this point the inspector of police rose and expressed a desire to know, through the Coroner, whether she had quarrelled with Mr Ogle.

“The day prior to his death we had a few words,” she faltered.

“Upon what subject?” asked the Coroner.

She at first refused to reply, but after being pressed, said, “We quarrelled about my engagement to Mr Deedes.”

So she acknowledged with her own lips that the dead man had been my bitter enemy, as I, too late, had discovered.

“He wished you to marry him?” suggested the Coroner. She did not answer, but burst into a fit of hysterical tears, and a few moments later was led out of the Court.

“I think, gentlemen,” the Coroner observed, turning to the jury, “no end can be obtained in pursuing this very painful inquiry further. You have heard the evidence, and while on the one hand the exact cause of death has not been established, on the other we have Miss Laing declaring that the unfortunate gentleman was murdered. The evidence certainly does not point to such a conclusion, and there are two courses that may be pursued; either to adjourn the inquiry, or to return an open verdict and leave the elucidation of the mystery in the hands of the police.”

The jury, after consulting among themselves, retired, but only for five minutes, coming back into court and returning an open verdict of “Found dead.”

Then, as the Coroner thanked the twelve tradesmen for their attendance, I rose and crossed to Beck, afterwards walking with him to “The Nook.”

Chapter Eight
“I Dare Not!”

“What do you think of Ella’s statement?” Beck asked, as we were crossing Staines Bridge on our way to Mrs Laing’s.

“I can’t understand it,” I replied.

“Neither can I,” he said. “Girls of her excitable temperament are apt to make statements of that character utterly without foundation. No doubt Dudley was her intimate friend, and finding him dead, her romantic mind at once conjured up visions of murder.”

“Yes. There is a good deal in your argument,” I admitted, with a touch of sorrow at the remembrance that Ogle had aspired to her hand.

“I never spoke to you on the subject, for fear of making mischief, but I have many times been amazed at your blindness when Dudley and Ella used to flirt openly before your very eyes,” he observed, glancing at me.

“Ah! you are right,” I cried angrily. “I foolishly trusted him, believing implicitly in his honour and in Ella’s purity.”

“Of the latter you surely have no cause for suspicion,” he exclaimed quickly.

“I am not so certain,” I replied with bitterness. “The more deeply I attempt to probe this mystery, the more sorrow I heap upon myself. I was happy in the belief that she loved no other man except me, yet apparently she is as tactful as an adventuress, and delights in toying with a man’s affections.”

“Every woman is fickle,” my friend remarked sympathetically. “If she is thrown into the society of one man frequently, and passes idle hours alone with him, she either ends in loving him or hating him. There is little purely platonic friendship between men and women nowadays.”

“Yes, alas!” I echoed, as we entered the carriage drive and passed the well-remembered spot where I had discovered the body. “There is very little indeed.”

A quarter of an hour later I stood alone before the window of the bright morning-room which commanded a beautiful view of the brilliant, sunlit Thames, and the row of tall, swaying poplars and drooping, wind-whitened willows on the opposite shore. I was awaiting Ella, who had, her maid told me, gone to her room.

Presently, pale-faced and trembling, she entered, and, closing the door, moved slowly towards me, stretching forth her hand in silence, her tearful eyes downcast. I grasped the slim, white fingers, and found them cold as marble.

“Geoffrey,” she exclaimed, low and huskily. “Geoffrey, forgive me!”

“Forgive! For what reason?” I inquired sternly, looking at her in admiration, yet determined to be firm. This was, I resolved, to be our last interview.

“Because I – I was foolish and weak, and – ” She paused, sighing deeply.

“Well?” I said cynically. “What other excuse?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried brokenly. “I know they are mean, paltry excuses. I know I am trying to make you believe it was not my own fault, yet – ” and pausing again, she raised her clear blue eyes to mine with passionate glance, “and yet, Geoffrey, I love you in a manner I have loved no other man before.”

“You have a strange way of exhibiting this so-called affection,” I observed coldly. “You actually encouraged the advances of the man in whom I reposed foolish and ill-placed confidence.”

“For a purpose. I never loved him – never,” she protested, trembling.

“You had a reason? A strange one, I should think,” I exclaimed angrily. “Indeed, at this very moment you are mourning the loss of this man.”

“Dudley Ogle was not your enemy, Geoffrey. He was your friend,” she answered, with a tremor in her voice. “Some day I will prove this to you. I cannot now. It is impossible.”

“Why?”

“I dare not!”

“Dare not! What do you fear?” I demanded in surprise, instantly releasing her hand.

“The consequences would be fatal to our love,” she gasped. Then, after a pause, she clutched my arm, and, burying her beautiful face upon my shoulder, sobbed bitterly.

“Our love!” I echoed contemptuously. Notwithstanding the fierceness of my anger, I smoothed her dark gold hair, and presently, when she grew a trifle calmer, endeavoured to discover the meaning of her strange, enigmatical words.

“You cannot know – you will never know – how dearly I have loved you, Geoffrey,” she cried, in answer to my eager questions. “Neither will you ever know how much I have suffered, how hard I have striven for your sake.”

“For my sake! Yet you admit having allowed Dudley Ogle to utter words that I alone had a right to utter!”

“Yes, I admit all,” she said, with a tragic touch of sorrow in her strained voice. “I deny nothing.”

“And you come to me asking forgiveness, believing that I can again trust you without hearing any explanation of your recent strange conduct with Beck, as well as with Dudley! I think you must regard me, Ella, as a weak, impressionable fool,” I added, with bitter sarcasm.

“No, I do not,” she cried quickly. “I appeal to your generosity towards a woman. I have been compelled to act against my own inclinations, compelled, in order to outwit my enemies, to act a part despicable and revolting. I can now only ask forgiveness,” and, throwing herself suddenly upon her knees before me, she cried, “See! Geoffrey, I crave one grain of pity from you, my old friend, the only man I have loved!”

“No, Ella,” I answered, quickly withdrawing my hand that she was pressing to her hot, fevered lips. “I may pity you, but forgive you never.”

“Never!” she gasped, clasping her breast with her hands as if to stay the wild beating of her heart, and struggling unevenly to her feet. “Why never?”

“Because you have deceived me.”

“Yes, yes!” she wailed. “I admit it, I admit it all, but I swear my actions were imperative. Ah! alas that you cannot know everything, or you would kiss me as fondly as you used to do. You, Geoffrey, would love me with a love even more tender and passionate than before, if only you were aware of what I have suffered for your sake.”

I turned from her in disgust. Her tragic attitude filled me with loathing and contempt, for I knew she was lying.

“Can you never again trust me?” she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. “Will you never forgive?”

“I can have no further confidence in a woman who has practised such artful deception as you have,” I answered, turning again towards her, and noticing the look of unutterable sadness in her tearful eyes.

“Deception!” she cried, starting. “What do you mean? What have I done?”

“You acknowledge having deceived me wilfully with all the deep cunning of an adventuress, yet you refuse me one word of explanation, either in regard to Beck or Dudley?”

“There is nothing to explain, as far as Mr Beck is concerned,” she answered demurely. “He is an old friend, and your suspicions that there was any love between us are absolutely absurd.”

“Why, then, did you confess in your letter that you were unworthy of my love!” I demanded with warmth, walking towards her.

She hung her head. There was a deep silence, broken only by the low ticking of the clock. In a few moments her hand stole in search of mine, and, engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I let it linger there.

“Geoffrey,” she said at length, timidly.

I gazed out upon the sunlit river, watching a boatful of happy holiday folk pass by, and remained stolidly unconscious.

“Geoffrey,” she repeated, “I tried ever so long to refrain from that confession, yet was unable. But I did not allude to Mr Beck. It was my conduct with Dudley that caused me to become a conscience-stricken wretch. I feared from day to day that you might discover our many long excursions and the idle afternoons we spent up the backwaters; he lazy and indolent, I using all my woman’s wiles to fascinate him and bring him to my feet.”

“And you succeeded,” I interrupted huskily.

“Yes, I succeeded,” she went on, speaking slowly, almost mechanically. “I had set my mind upon victory, and I achieved it after weeks and weeks of striving, dreading always that you might discover the truth, and fearing lest my conduct should appear in your eyes too serious for forgiveness. The blow that I dreaded has now fallen,” she cried, with a choking sob. “Dudley is dead, and I, compelled to speak the truth, have publicly acknowledged myself unworthy of your love.”

“Is it not best that I should know the truth?” I asked seriously. “You render your behaviour the more unpardonable by the absurd falsehoods you wish me to believe.”

“I do not wish you to believe any falsehoods,” she cried resentfully, her bright eyes flashing as she glanced at me. “What I have now told you is the truth. I swear it before Heaven!”

“You deliberately flirted with Dudley, with an object in view. Oh, no!” I laughed with contempt, “that is too lame a tale.”

“It is the truth,” she said, looking me straight in the face, her nervous hands toying with her rings. “Even though you may believe ill of me, I have lost neither honour nor self-respect. I acted under compulsion, to achieve one object.”

“And I hope you have gained the mysterious end you had in view,” I said, with bitter sarcasm.

“Yes, I have,” she replied, with an intenseness in her voice that surprised me. “I have gained my object even at risk of being discarded by you, Geoffrey, and being branded as a base adventuress.”

“Even at the cost of the life of the man you deceived?” I hazarded.

She started at my words. Her pale lips trembled, and in her eyes was a strange look, as if haunted by some spectral fear. The effect of this remark was extraordinary, and I at once added, —

“Remember, you suspect that Dudley’s death was not due to natural causes.”

“Suspect?” she cried. “I know he was foully murdered.”

“By whom?” I inquired, with breathless eagerness.

“I have yet to discover that,” she answered, in a low voice. “But I will make the elucidation of the mystery the one object of my life. It is I alone who will avenge his murder.”

“Your very words betray your love for him,” I exclaimed, disgusted.

“I tell you it is not because I loved him,” she protested, with indignation.

“Then why do you seek revenge?” I demanded ruthlessly.

“For reasons known to myself – reasons I refuse for the present to disclose,” she replied, regarding me with unwavering glance.

“And you expect me to again repose confidence in you, notwithstanding your steady refusal to explain anything?” I observed, with a laugh.

“All I have told you now, Geoffrey, is the truth,” she replied, looking earnestly into my eyes. “Once I deceived you, but I will never do so in future. I promise some day before long to explain all the facts to you; when I do so they will astound you. For the success of my plans I am compelled at present to preserve my secret, even from you.”

“What are your plans?”

“Be patient, and you shall see.”

“You intend to avenge Dudley’s death?”

“I do; and something further,” she said. “Only by the most careful investigation and the strictest secrecy can my plans be successfully carried out. Trust in me, Geoffrey. Tell me that you will reconsider your decision not to forgive me,” she whispered, leaning upon my shoulder with one arm entwined affectionately about my neck, as was her habit. “And I will yet prove to you that I am an honest woman who has acted only in your interests.”

“In my interests? How?” I asked, amazed.

“You shall know all later, when I have ascertained the truth.”

“Tell me one thing, Ella,” I exclaimed, after a pause. “Have you any idea whether Dudley had any occupation?”

“Occupation? I always understood he had enough money to be independent.”

Then taking from my vest pocket the object I had picked up from among the contents of the dead man’s pockets displayed on the table in the Coroners’s Court, I held it up to her, saying seriously, —

“Now, tell me truthfully, Ella, have you ever seen this in Dudley’s possession?”

She glanced at it for an instant, holding her breath, as across her blanched countenance there passed an expression of bewildered amazement.

The object I held beneath her gaze was insignificant in itself, merely a small brass seal, but it bore the Warnham arms in exact imitation of the cut amethyst worn by the Earl. It was the seal which had been used to manufacture the duplicate of the envelope containing England’s secret alliance with Germany.

The suddenness with which I had produced it startled and nonplussed her. As I transfixed her blue eyes with my keen, suspicious gaze, her white lips moved, but no sound fell from them. Embarrassment held her dumb.