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CHAPTER XXII

WHEN Ethel and Mary arrived at the Grange they found that it wore an unpleasantly deserted appearance. It is true that most of the servants were there, but the windows were curtainless and in several of the rooms and on the stairs the carpets were up. The old butler received the girls with dismay.

"You didn't even send us a telegram, miss," he said, addressing Mary.

"We had no time," answered Mary; "our return was unexpected. But it does not matter at all about the state of the rooms. We can have something to eat in the library, I suppose?"

"Certainly, Miss Mary; and I'll speak to Ann about your rooms at once, young ladies."

"Please do," said Mary, turning in the direction of the morning-room. Ethel, looking dreadfully discontented, followed her.

"Dear, dear," said Ethel, "it is horrid coming back like this. I must say Kate has not behaved very kindly to us. I don't understand her. If she is so ill as Ralph seemed to think, she ought to have kept us both to nurse her."

"For my part, I should have disliked very much being Kate's nurse," answered Mary; "and as to the trivial discomfort here for a few hours, what does it matter?"

"But it is so lonely in this big house without father and mother," continued Ethel.

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"We shall not be here long, and while we are here we shall have no time to think whether we are lonely or not," was Mary's reply.

"Now, Molly, what do you mean?"

"I am going to startle you a little bit, Ethel; but I intend to take the initiative at last in a certain matter which has long perplexed me. My mind is quite made up."

"Oh, good gracious, Mary, how mysterious you look! What do you intend to do now?"

"To return to Cornwall to-morrow."

"To Cornwall?"

"Yes. You need not stare at me as if you had lost your senses. You can stay here by yourself, or come with me, just as you please."

"Mary, I don't understand you."

"Very likely not; but in any case I go to Cornwall to-morrow. I will tell you why, if you care to listen."

"Please do," exclaimed Ethel.

"I daresay I have puzzled you a good bit lately," answered Mary, staring straight at her sister as she spoke, "but, if so, you must be satisfied with the fact that I puzzled myself still more. But now I am puzzled no longer. I mean to go straight ahead. Each obstacle as it arises I shall overcome. There is a mystery, and I must reach the bottom of it. In the bottom of the well lies truth. I am going to explore to the very bottom of this particular well, and will bring truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to the surface."

"Now, I think you must be quite mad," said Ethel, "for I suppose you are alluding to those queer, queer thoughts of yours about poor Kitty."

"Think what you like--will you come with me or will you stay here?"

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"Do you mean to return to Falmouth?"

"No; I am going to the neighbourhood of the Pines."

"The Pines! Kitty's old home? Where Sir John Fenton-Douglas lives?"

"Precisely. I mean to see Sir John Fenton-Douglas and to have a long talk with him."

"Mary! again I say that I think you mad."

"Think what you like--do you mean to come with me?"

"I must; it would be scarcely safe for you to go alone. But how strange Sir John will think your conduct!"

"He may think what he pleases. There are a few questions I mean to ask him; answer those questions he must."

"Won't you tell me what the questions are?"

"Not until I have got the answers which I expect to get. Ethel, how would you like to be--"

"What?"

"Rich--very rich."

"I don't know," said Ethel. "I am never going to be rich, so where is the use of bothering about it?"

"If Kate were dead you would be rich. We are our uncle's next heiresses."

"But Kate is alive," answered Ethel. "Mary, I hate that sort of expression which your face so often wears lately. My darling, sweet Kitty is in the world, and long, long may she remain there. I would rather be poor and have Kitty, than rich without her."

"I don't at all know that I should," answered Mary.

She stole out into the garden, leaving Ethel much puzzled and feeling thoroughly miserable.

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"How horrid everything is just now!" thought the girl. "I wonder if Mary is really quite right in her head--that queer craze has been coming over her for some time now. What does she suspect poor dear Kitty of? What is the truth which she is going to dig out of the well? Really, Mary's manner is most alarming. Is her brain really going? If so, I must be very patient with her."

Meanwhile Mary was walking rapidly up and down at the end of the garden. The small suspicion which had entered her head some months ago had now grown large--so large, that turn where she would she could think of nothing else.

Why did Kate leave Castellis? Why did she refuse to see Sir John Fenton-Douglas?

"The answer is plain," she thought. "Sir John was Kate's doctor at Mentone; she confessed that fact herself. He knows a secret about Kate, and Kate is afraid, terribly afraid, that he will tell that secret to us. Well, it will not be my fault if he does not confide it to me."

The luncheon bell rang, and Mary returned to the house.

"Where are we going to stay when we get to Cornwall?" asked Ethel.

The village of Castellis has an inn," answered Mary; "we will sleep there for one night. Our stay will be quite short--one interview with Sir John Fenton-Douglas will in all probability be sufficient."

Ethel was silent. If Mary's mind was going she ought not to contradict her.

Early the next morning the girls started for Cornwall. When they arrived at the railway station Mary wrote a telegram--it was to Sir John Fenton-Douglas. | | 222 Ethel did not know what she had put into the telegram. It was despatched, and the journey began. They arrived at their destination late in the evening. Here a fly was waiting for them, and they drove straight to the little village inn known as the "Beehive." The landlady came out to receive them with smiles and welcome.

"Welcome, young ladies, welcome," she said. "I have got the front bedroom ready for you both. I am glad you sent me that telegram last night, Miss Mary, for I have got everything as snug as possible. A nice little dinner ready, too--a young, tender duck, and bottled peas as green and fresh as if they had just come out of the garden, for I bottled them my own self."

"Has any message come for me?" asked Mary, in an eager voice."

"Yes, miss, there's a letter; a messenger brought it from the Pines not an hour ago."

"Give it to me, please.

Mary tore open the thick envelope. A brief note lay within.

"Dinner--quick, please," said Mary, her eyes sparkling; "and, by the way, Mrs. Grace, can we have a private sitting-room."

"Certainly, Miss Mary; 'tain't likely you would want your dinner in the bar. There's a cosy little parlour at your service. Come this way and I'll show it to you."

The tiny room into which Mrs. Grace conducted | | 223 her guests was bright with flowers, and the next moment a small rosy-cheeked handmaid appeared, to lay the cloth for dinner.

"Ethel," said Mary to her sister the moment they were alone, "I must see Sir John Fenton-Douglas by myself to-night."

"As you please, Mary."

Mary went up to her sister and kissed her.

"I see you are dissatisfied with this place," she said; "but never mind, our visit will be very brief; we can leave to-morrow morning."

"I cannot make you out," answered Ethel.

Sir John called sharp to the moment. Ethel had left the room, and Mary was standing by the fire, looking very pale when he entered.

"It is good of you to come to see me," she said. "Won't you sit down?"

"Can I serve you in any way, Miss Hume?" answered Sir. John. He sank into the chair which Mary had provided. She looked at him for a moment without speaking, then she said slowly--

"I will come to the point. I asked you to call in order to make some inquiries from you."

Sir John raised his eyes now and looked her full in the face.

"Are you Mr. Hume's daughter?"

"His eldest daughter."

"Does your father know of this visit?"

"He does not. I have come on my own account."

Sir John stared again at the young lady; then he said gravely--

"Your questions?"

"They have to do with Mrs. Henley."

Sir John pulled himself together, and Mary noticed | | 224 with pleasure the alert look which came into his eyes.

"Ah!" he said.

"You are surprised, Sir John, at my cousin, Mrs. Henley, not seeing you the other day?"

Sir John did not answer. He said, after a moment's reflection--

"She has returned to London."

"Yes." Mary suddenly seated herself in a chair close to Sir John, and brought her face to within a few inches of his.

"I am intensely curious about Mrs. Henley," she said.

"Your cousin?" answered the baronet.

"She calls herself my cousin, and I have every hope that such is the case."

"But can you have a doubt?"

"I have many doubts. I am much disturbed about her. It has occurred to me that you, Sir John, can set my mind at rest."

Sir John did not speak.

Red spots had now appeared on Mary's cheeks; there was a cruel eagerness on her face.

"I want you," she continued, speaking very slowly, "to give me full, full particulars with regard to my cousin's illness last spring at Mentone."

"Why?"

"Because I will know." Mary stood up now, her breath coming hard and fast. "I will know," she repeated, "and I will tell you why. I am firmly convinced that she is acting a part. In what condition was she when you attended her at Mentone?"

"There is no reason why I should not tell you. Your cousin was very ill."

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"Seriously ill?"

"Yes."

"What was the nature of her complaint?"

"I thought her to be suffering from consumption."

"Then, of course, her lungs were diseased?"

"Extensively."

"I wish you could see her now," continued Mary. "To all appearance she has no trace of consumption; she looks strong--very strong. You know the delicate colour which most consumptives have?"

"Your cousin had that colour," said the baronet. In spite of himself he was much interested.

"If she had, she lost it before she came to England," said Mary. "She looks what she is--a strong and beautiful woman. But now I have one more question to ask. Why does she dislike meeting you?"

"Her husband explained that," answered Fenton-Douglas slowly. "He said she showed a very marked nervousness at the slightest allusion to that time of dangerous illness. I think I can understand her feelings. My presence would, of course, have revived old associations."

"For instance, the death of her companion?" said Mary. "She seemed much attached to her companion."

"A fine girl," said Sir John--"a very fine girl."

"What was her name?"

"Miss Mildmay."

"And the two were remarkably alike in appearance?" said Mary, in a musing tone.

"Yes; now that you speak of it, the likeness between them was extraordinary. But why all these questions, Miss Hume?"

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"I have one or two more to ask, then I will tell you. Did you see Miss Mildmay die?"

"Certainly not; when I last saw the poor girl she was, to all appearance, in robust health."

"Like this, for instance," said Mary. She had taken a photograph out of her pocket, and now thrust it into Sir John's hand. He stared at it.

"Yes," he said, "that is the girl; that is exactly how she looked, poor thing, when I last spoke to her."

"That happens to be a photograph of my cousin, Mrs. Henley," said Mary.

"Imposs--" began the baronet; then he stopped--the words were arrested on his lips. He looked at Mary in an almost frightened way.

"I cannot understand this," he said; "I could have sworn that that was the portrait of Miss Mildmay."

"The two girls were remarkably alike," answered Mary; "I have been often told of the strange likeness between them. And yet, when you last saw Mrs. Henley, she was, in your opinion, far gone in consumption?"

"Such was my opinion."

"How long did you give her to live?"

"She might have died at any time. When I last saw her I did not think she would survive a week. Sudden business called me to England, and I did not see her again. I left the case in the hands of my colleague--a Dr. Gardner; but Miss Bouverie even then had a strange dislike to seeing medical men, and earnestly requested that he would not call unless specially sent for. I have learnt since that he was never sent for. He has since died--otherwise he might throw light on what puzzles you."

"And yet," continued Mary, "Miss Mildmay died a week later, and Kate Bouverie got quite well. This | | 227 picture you have just looked at is supposed to be one of Kate Bouverie; when you saw it you thought it was Kate Mildmay. Sir John, I think I can guess why my cousin, Kate Henley, refuses to see you."

"If so, except for the natural reason which I have stated, you know more than I do, Miss Hume."

"I will tell you why she won't see you. She does not wish you to sound her lungs because they are perfectly strong and healthy, because there has never been anything the matter with them."

"Here you make a mistake," answered Sir John.

"What do you mean?"

"I will read you part of a letter which I received from Henley this morning."

Sir John took a letter from his pocket, opened it, and read the following lines:--

"You see," said Sir John, as he folded up the letter, "that Mrs. Henley really was very ill last year. | | 228 I will own, Miss Hume, that your questions have puzzled me. I cannot imagine why you should have ever doubted my opinion with regard to Mrs. Henley's case."

"I never for a moment doubted your opinion, Sir John."

"This letter is conclusive," said Sir John, rising and putting it into his pocket. "Why, what is the matter? Have you any other questions to ask?"

"No more questions of you at present," answered Mary, "but I have one remark to make."

"What is that?"

"Kate Henley is the cleverest woman that ever lived."

"What do you mean?"

"This. I don't believe that testimony. I am going to see Dr. Agnes Stevenson myself."