She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor, living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame, who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room. That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's wages, and requesting her to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in France.
It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered her.
And now this woman's sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity.
"Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly.
"No, no, Céline! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me."
Céline, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died.
Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite another reason in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger.
Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was in her service.
"Now look here, Céline," she said at last. "I'll be perfectly frank with you. I've come to ask you if you'll let bygones be bygones, and return to me?"
The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
"I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."
That was exactly the reply for which the clever woman wished.
"Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone of regret.
"Because the man to whom I am betrothed would not allow me," was her reply.
"Oh! Then you are engaged, Céline! Happy girl! I congratulate you most heartily. And who is the happy man?"
"Henri Galtier."
"And what is his profession?"
"He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was her reply.
"He is at Chantilly now?"
The girl again hesitated. Then she replied:
"No he is in London."
Ena held her breath. It was evidently the man to whom Céline was engaged who was in London in search of Richard Bennett. Next second she recovered from her excitement at her success in making the discovery.
"In London? Is he employed there?"
"Yes temporarily," she answered.
"And when are you to marry?"
"In December we hope."
"Ah! Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand that you cannot return to me, Céline," exclaimed Ena. "Does Monsieur Galtier speak English?"
"Yes; very well, Madame. He was born in London, and lived there until he was eighteen."
"Oh, well, of course he would speak our language excellently. But though you will no doubt both be happy in the near future, I myself am not at all satisfied with my own conduct towards you. I've treated you badly; I feel that in some way or other I ought to put myself right with you. I never like a servant to speak badly of me."
"I do not speak badly of Madame," responded the girl, wondering whether, after all, her late mistress suspected her of overhearing that startling conversation late on the night following Mr. Martin's death.
Ena hesitated a moment, and then determined to act boldly, and said:
"Now Céline, let us be quite frank. I happen know that you have said some very nasty and things about me wicked things, indeed. I heard that you have made a very serious allegation against me, and "
"But, Madame! I !" cried the girl, interrupting.
"Now you cannot deny it, Céline. You have said those things because you have sadly misjudged me. But I know it is my own fault, and the reason I am here in Melun is to put matters right and to show you that I bear you no ill will."
"I know that, Madame," she said. "Your words are sufficient proof of it."
"But, on the contrary, you are antagonistic bitterly antagonistic towards myself and" she added slowly, looking straight into the girl's face "and also towards Mr. Bennett."
She started, looking sharply at the red-haired widow.
"Yes, I repeat it, Céline!" Ena went on. "You see I know the truth! Yet your feeling against Mr. Bennett does not matter to him in the least, because he died a month ago of influenza."
"Mr. Bennett dead!" echoed the girl, standing aghast, for, as a matter of fact, her lover, Henri Galtier, was searching for him in London.
"Yes; the poor fellow went to Birmingham on business, took influenza, and died there a week later. Is it not sad?"
"Very," the girl agreed, staring straight before her. If Bennett were dead, then of what avail would be all her efforts to probe the mystery of Mr. Martin's death?
"Mr. Bennett was always generous to you was he not?" asked Ena.
"Always," replied the girl. "I am very sorry he is dead!"
"Well, he is, and therefore whatever hatred you may have conceived for him is of no importance," she replied; and then adroitly turned the conversation to another subject.
At length, however, she returned to Céline's approaching marriage, expressing a hope that she would be very comfortably off.
"Has Monsieur Galtier money?"
"Not very much," she replied. "But we shall be quite happy nevertheless."
"Of course. Money does not always mean happiness. I am glad you view matters in that light, Céline," Ena said. "Yet, on the other hand, money contributes to luxury, and luxury, in most cases, means happiness."
"True, Madame, I believe so," replied the ex-maid, whose thoughts were, however, filled by what her late mistress had, apparently in all innocence, told her, namely, that Bennett, the man her lover meant to hunt down, was dead. She had no reason to doubt what Mrs. Pollen had said, for only on the previous day Henri had written her to say that his inquiries had had no result, and that he believed that the man Bennett must be dead, as he could obtain no trace of him. The reward which they hoped to gain from the insurance company when they had established Bennett's identity had therefore vanished into air.
Céline Tènot sat bewildered and disappointed, and the clever woman seated with her read her thoughts as she would have read a book.
"Now let's come to the point," she said, after a pause. "I want to make amends, Céline. I want you to think better of me, and for that purpose, I want to render you some little service, now that you are to marry. My desire is to remove from your mind any antagonism you may entertain towards myself. The best way in which I can do that is to make you a little wedding-present something useful."
"Oh, Madame!" she cried. "I I really want nothing!"
"But I insist, Céline!" replied the wealthy widow. "Poor Mr. Bennett remarked that I was very harsh in dismissing you. At the time I did not think so, but I now realise that the fault was on my side, therefore I shall give you thirty thousand francs to put by as a little nest-egg."
"But, Madame, I could not really accept it!" declared the girl, exhibiting her palms.
"I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and to-morrow I shall place the thirty thousand francs there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen. "I shall want you to come to Paris to the Hôtel Bristol so that we can go to the bank together, and you can there open an account and give them your signature. If I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur Galtier about it or even tell him of my visit. Just keep the money for yourself as a little present from one who, after all, greatly valued your services."
"But, Madame, I could not really accept it!" declared the girl, exhibiting her palms.
"I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and to-morrow I shall place the thirty thousand francs there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen. "I shall want you to come to Paris to the Hôtel Bristol so that we can go to the bank together, and you can there open an account and give them your signature. If I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur Galtier about it or even tell him of my visit. Just keep the money for yourself as a little present from one who, after all, greatly valued your services."
Though the girl pretended to be entirely against receiving any present, yet she realised that possession of such a respectable sum would be able to assist in preparing her new home. After all, it was most generous of Madame. Yes! she had sadly misjudged her, she reflected, after Mrs. Pollen had left. So, adopting her late mistress's suggestion, she refrained from telling her mother of the unexpected visit.
That night she wrote to Galtier, who was staying in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury, telling him that she had heard of the death of Bennett, but not revealing the source of her information. She therefore suggested that he should spend no further time or money on the inquiry, but return at once to his duties at Chantilly.
Next day Céline called at the Hôtel Bristol, when mistress and maid went together to the bank in the Boulevard des Italians, and there the girl received the handsome present. After this, she returned much gratified to Melun, while her late mistress left Paris that same night for London.
She had cleverly gained the girl's complete confidence, thereby preventing any further inquiry into the curious circumstances attending the death of Mr. Martin, of Chiswick.
CHAPTER VI
THE LOCKED ROOM IN HAMMERSMITH
"I'll go in first, and see if Mr. Boyne is at home," said Marigold Ramsay excitedly to her companion, Gerald Durrant, as they turned into Bridge Place, Hammersmith, about half-past nine one night ten days later.
"Yes. If he's there I won't come in. We'll wait till another evening," the young fellow said.
"If he's out, I shall tell auntie that you are here, and ask whether I can bring you in," said the girl, and leaving him idling at the corner, she hurried to the house, and went down the basement steps.
What Marigold had told Durrant had aroused his curiosity concerning the occupier of that creeper-covered house, and after much deliberation, he had, after his return from Newcastle, decided to make an investigation. Certainly the exterior of the place presented nothing unusual, for the house was exactly the same as its neighbours, save for the dusty creeper which hung untrimmed around the windows. Yet the fact that the man who lived there disguised himself when he went to a locked attic was certainly mysterious.
After a few moments, the girl emerged, and hastening towards him, said eagerly:
"It's all right. Mr. Boyne is not expected home before half-past ten. I'll introduce you to my aunt, and before she goes to bed as she always does at ten I'll manage to unbolt the basement door. Then we'll go out, and return without her being any the wiser."
"Excellent!" he replied, as they walked to the front door which Marigold had left ajar.
In the hall Mrs. Felmore met them fussily.
"Very pleased to know you, Mr. Durrant," declared the deaf old lady without, of course, having heard Gerald's greeting as he shook her hand.
"My aunt is very deaf," the girl said. "She can read what I say by my lips, but it will be useless for you to try and converse with her. Mr. Boyne can just manage to do so."
"Then I'll do the same," said Gerald, glancing around the front parlour, into which Mrs. Felmore had then ushered them.
He noted the cheapness of the furniture, combined with scrupulous cleanliness, as Mrs. Felmore, turning to him, said in that loud voice in which the deaf usually converse:
"I hope you'll make yourself at home, Mr. Durrant! Any friend of my niece is welcome here. Would you like a cup of tea? I know Marigold will have one."
He thanked her, and she went below to prepare it, leaving the pair in Mr. Boyne's room.
Quickly Gerald rose, remarking:
"There's nothing very curious about this, is there?" He made a critical tour of the apartment.
He noticed the cupboards on either side of the fireplace, and on trying the handle of one, found it locked.
"He keeps his insurance papers in there," said his companion in a low voice.
"What? More insurance papers! I thought he kept them in the locked room upstairs!" exclaimed Durrant.
"So he does, but there are some others here," she said. "This cupboard is open. He keeps Nibby here."
"Nibby who's that?"
"Here he is!" replied the girl, opening the door and taking out the cage containing the tame rat.
"Is that his pet?" asked the young man, bending to examine the little animal, whose beady eyes regarded him with considerable apprehension.
"Yes. Nibby always feeds off his master's plate after he has finished. A sweet little thing, isn't he?"
Durrant agreed, but the possession of such a pet showed him that Boyne was a man of some eccentricity.
"Would you like to see the door of the locked room?" Marigold asked. "If so, I'll go downstairs and keep my aunt there while you run up to the top floor."
"Excellent! I've brought my electric torch with me."
So while Marigold descended to the kitchen to talk to her aunt and help to prepare the cup of tea, young Durrant switched on his light and rushed up the stairs, half fearing lest the front door should suddenly open and Boyne appear.
Arrived at the top of the stairs, he was confronted by the door which led into the attic, a stout one of oak, he noted. The doors of all the other rooms were of deal, painted and grained. This, however, was heavy, and of oiled oak.
After careful examination, he came to the conclusion that the particular door was much more modern than the others, and the circular brass keyhole of the Yale latch gave it the appearance of the front door of a house, rather than that of a room.
Some strange secret, no doubt, lay behind that locked door.
If it had an occupant he would, in all probability, have a light, therefore he switched off his torch and tried to discover any ray of light shining through a crack.
Carefully he went around the whole door, until he drew away the mat before it, when, sure enough, a light showed from within!
With bated breath he listened. He could, however, distinguish no sound, even though he placed his ear to the floor. Then, raising himself, much gratified at his discovery, but nevertheless increasingly puzzled, he recollected that the occupant, whoever he might be, would no doubt have heard his footsteps and was now remaining quiet, little dreaming that his light had betrayed his presence.
Suddenly, as he stood there straining his ears, he heard the sound of low ticking the ticking of a clock. Again he bent his ear to the bottom of the door, and then at once established the fact that the clock was inside that locked room.
He heard Marigold coming up from below, and at once slipped down again, meeting her in the hall. When within the sitting-room, he said to her in a low, tense voice:
"There's somebody in that room! There's a light there!"
"Your first surmise is correct then, Gerald!" she exclaimed. "Who can it possibly be?"
"Ah! that we have to discover!" he said. "Let's be patient. I wonder, however, who can be living up there in secret. At any rate, he has both light and the time of day. In this weather he only wants food and water."
"But it's extraordinary that somebody should live here without my aunt's knowledge."