Sylvia's theory

It was close upon midnight when Paul reached his garret. Sandal drove him in a hansom as far as Piccadilly Circus, and from that place Beecot walked through Oxford Street to Bloomsbury. He had not been able to extract further information of any importance from the young lord. It appeared that Lady Rachel Sandal, in love with an inferior, had quarrelled with her father, and had walked to Christchurch one night with the intention of joining the man she wished to marry in London. But the night was stormy and Lady Rachel was a frail woman. She took refuge in "The Red Pig," intending to go the next morning. But during the night she was found strangled in the bedroom she had hired. Sandal could give no details, as the events happened before he was born, and he had only heard sc.r.a.ps of the dreadful story.

"Some people say Lady Rachel was murdered," explained Sandal, "and others that she killed herself. But the opal brooch, which she wore, certainly disappeared. But there was such a scandal over the affair that my grandfather hushed it up. I can't say exactly what took place. But I know it happened at a small pub kept by a woman called Krill. Do you think this woman is the same?"

"It's hardly likely," said Paul, mendaciously. "How could a woman who kept a small public house become suddenly rich?"

"True," answered Lord George, as they stopped in the Circus, "and she'd have let on she knew about my name had she anything to do with the matter. All the same, I'll ask her."

"Do so," said Paul, stepping out of the cab. He was perfectly satisfied that Mrs. Krill was quite equal to deceiving Sandal. The wonder was, that she had not held her peace to him about "The Red Pig."

"You won't come on to my club?" asked Sandal, leaning out of the cab.

"No, thank you," replied Paul. "Good-night," and he walked away.

The fact is Beecot wished to put on paper all that he had heard that night and send it to Hurd. As soon as he reached his attic he set to work and wrote out a detailed account of the evening.

"You might find out if Lady Rachel committed suicide or whether she was strangled by someone else," ended Beecot. "Certainly the mention of the serpent brooch is curious. This may be the event in Norman's past life which led him to change his name."

Paul wrote much more and then went out to post the letter. It was after midnight when he did, so there was not much chance of Hurd getting the letter before the second or third post the next day. But Paul felt that he had done his duty, and had supplied the information as speedily as possible, so he went to sleep with a quiet mind, in spite of the excitement of the evening. But next morning he was unable to sit down to his desk as usual, and felt disinclined to go to the newspaper office, so he walked to Jubileetown to see how Sylvia was getting along. Deborah met him at the gate.

"Well I never, Mr. Beecot," said Mrs. Tawsey, with her red arms akimbo in her usual att.i.tude; "this is a sight for sore eyes. Won't my pretty be 'appy this day, say what you may. She's a-makin' out bills fur them as 'ad washin' done, bless her 'eart for a clever beauty."

"How is business?" asked Paul, entering the gate, which Deborah opened.

"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, I'll be a lady of forting soon," answered the proprietress of the laundry, "the way washing 'ave come in is jest amazin'. One 'ud think folk never 'ad no linen done up afore, and that they never did 'ave," said Deborah, rubbing her nose hard, "in my way, which _is_ a way. If you'd only send along your shirts, Mr. Beecot, I'd be proud to show you what can be done with fronts, an' no thumbnails down them to spile their loveliness."

Paul did not reply to this, but laughed absently. He was wondering if Deborah had ever heard her master drop any hint as to his having come from the place where Mrs. Krill resided, and asked the question on the spur of the moment.

"Do you know Christchurch in Hants?"

Deborah rubbed her nose harder and looked at him doubtfully.

"Me as said as I'd no relatives must tell the truth now, as I 'ave,"

said she rather incoherently, "for my sister, Tilly Junk, worked for someone in that there place for years. But we never got on well, she being upsettin' and masterful, so arsk her to my weddin' I didn't, and denied relatives existing, which they do, she bein' alive ten years ago when she larst wrote."

"You have not heard from her since?" asked Paul, inquisitively.

"Sir, you may burn me or prison me or put me in pillaries," said Mrs.

Tawsey, "but deceive you I won't. Me an' Tilly not bein' of 'appy matchin' don't correspond. We're Londing both," exclaimed Deborah, "father 'avin' bin a 'awker, but why she went to the country, or why I stopped in Gwynne Street, no one knows. And may I arsk, Mr. Beecot, why you arsk of that place?"

"Your late master came from Christchurch, Mrs. Tawsey. Did you never hear him mention it?"

"That I never did, for close he was, Mr. Beecot, say what you like. I never knowed but what he'd p.a.w.ned and sold them bookses all his blessed life, for all the talkin' he did. If I'd ha' knowd," added Deborah, lifting her red finger, "as he'd bin maried afore and intended to cast out my lovely queen, I'd ha' strangled him myself."

"He had no intention of casting out Sylvia," said Paul, musingly; "he certainly left the money to her."

"Then why 'ave that other got it?"

"Sylvia's name wasn't mentioned, and Miss Krill is legally ent.i.tled as the legitimate daughter."

"Call her what you like, she's a cat as her mother is afore her," said Mrs. Tawsey, indignantly, "and not young at that. Thirty and over, as I'm a livin' woman."

"Oh, I don't think Miss Krill is as old as that."

"Being a man you wouldn't, sir, men bein' blind to wrinklings and paint.

But paint she do, the hussey, and young she ain't. Over thirty--if I die for the sayin' of it."

"But Mrs. Krill was married to your master only thirty years ago."

"Then more shame to 'er," snapped Deborah, masterfully; "for she ain't an honest woman if the signs of age is believing. Will I write to my sister Tilly, as I don't love Mr. Beecot, and arsk if she knowed master when he wos in that there place, which she can't 'ave, seeing she's bin there but ten year, and he away twenty?"

"No, Deborah, you'd better say nothing. The case is in Hurd's hands.

I'll tell him what you say, and leave the matter to him. But you must be deceived about Miss Krill's age."

"I've got two eyes an' a nose," retorted Mrs. Tawsey, "so don't talk of deceivin's. Thirty and more she is, the hussey, let her Jezebel of a mar lie as she like, an' can say what you will, Mr. Beecot. But there's my pretty smilin' from the winder and the tub's a-waitin'; so you go in and smooth 'er to affections, while I see that Mrs. Purr irons the shirts, which she do lovely there's no denyin'. Hoh!" and Deborah plunged round the corner of the house, rampant and full of corn.

Paul walked through the newly-created garden, in which he saw many proofs of Sylvia's love for flowers, and reached the door in time to take the girl in his arms. She was flushed and joyful, and her eyes were as bright as stars. "Paul, darling," she said, as they entered the sitting-room, where she was struggling with the accounts, "I'm so glad you are here. What's nine times nine?"

"Eighty-one," said Paul, looking at the long list of figures Sylvia had been trying to add up. "Why do you make your head ache with these accounts, darling?"

"I must help Debby, Paul, and I get on very well with the aid of an arithmetic." And she pointed to a small school book which she had evidently been studying.

"Let me take the burden from your shoulders," said her lover, smiling, and sat down at the table which was strewn with bills. In about an hour he had arranged all these, and had made them out neatly to Deborah's various customers. Then he directed the envelopes, and Sylvia sealed them up. All the time they laughed and chatted, and despite the dull toil thoroughly enjoyed themselves. "But I am glad to see, Sylvia," said Beecot, pointing to three library volumes lying on the sofa, "that you enjoy yourself occasionally."

"Oh!" said Sylvia, pouncing on these, "I'm so glad you spoke, Paul; I wanted to say something to you. _The Confessions of a Thug_," she read out, and looked at Paul. "Have you read it?"

Beecot nodded. "By Colonel Meadows Taylor. A very interesting book, but rather a bloodthirsty one for you, dearest."

"Debby got it," confessed Miss Norman, "along with some other books from a literary customer who could not pay his bill. It is very strange, Paul, that _The Confessions of a Thug_ should be amongst the books."

"Really I don't see why," smiled Beecot, fingering the old-fashioned volumes.

"It's the finger of Fate, Paul," said Sylvia, solemnly. Then seeing her lover look puzzled, "I mean, that I should find out what goor is?"

"Goor?" Paul looked more puzzled than ever.

"It's an Indian word," explained Sylvia, "and means coa.r.s.e sugar. The Thugs eat it before they strangle anyone."

"Oh," laughed Beecot, "and you think your father was strangled by a Thug? My dear child, the Thugs were stamped out years ago. You'll read all about it in the preface of that book, if I remember. But it's long since I read the work. Besides, darling," he added, drawing her to him caressingly, "the Thugs never came to England."

"Paul," said Sylvia, still more solemnly and resenting the laugh, "do you remember the Thug that came into the shop--"

"Oh, you mean the street-hawker that Bart spoke of. Yes, I remember that such an Indian entered, according to Bart's tale, and wanted to sell boot-laces, while that young imp, Tray, was dancing on poor Bart's body.

But the Indian wasn't a Thug, Sylvia."

"Yes, he was," she exclaimed excitedly. "Hokar, he said he was, and Hokar was a Thug. Remember the handful of coa.r.s.e brown sugar he left on the counter? Didn't Bart tell you of that?"