She sat back on the floor and stared at the empty well. Where—how had it gone? The wardrobe had been locked, the key of the jewel-case had never been out of her possession; she went back feverishly, tore all the things from the hooks, and scattered them around her on the floor, only to make more certain of what had been obvious from the beginning—the tea-gown was gone!
With a slow movement of despair she got up, her knees shaking under her, cold beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead. Who could have learnt of its presence in the wardrobe—who could have obtained possession of it?
At last her lips moved mechanically, they framed words.
"They—they spoke of a clue to be produced at tomorrow's inquest," she whispered hoarsely. "Was it this? My God, was it this—was it this?"
Chapter VIII
Heron's Carew was a big imposing-looking building, standing on the top of the hill, looking down to the Heron's moat. It had no pretensions to any kind of architectural beauty. In ancient time, rumour had it, the old house had stood lower down and the Heron's moat had surrounded it; some vandal of a Carew had pulled it down to build the newer edifice on the top of the hill. Of the house that had been built originally on the hill, much was destroyed by a fire in the days of the first George, the residue formed the kernel of the present Heron's Carew; but to it had been built by different Carews such additions as took their fancy, a new wing here, a large dining-room thrown out there, bedrooms built over any spare space. Time had mellowed the whole, had thrown over the heterogeneous mass a kindly veil of ivy, ampelopsis and other climbing plants. The Carews, every one of them, loved Haron's Carew, but it is to be doubted whether any of them had loved Heron's Carew with a greater love than Judith, the wife of the present owner.
It had meant safety to her, the old house, when she came to it. It was there that she had first dared to dream tremblingly that Anthony cared for her, it was there that the golden days of her early married life had been spent, there that her little son had been born—it was small wonder that she loved every stone of the grey walls.
Already, though they had been back only a week, Heron's Carew was beginning to exert its spell over her. Some of the fret and the worry had smoothed itself out of Judith's face; she was looking stronger and better as she sat in her lounge chair beneath the shade of the big cedar.
Paul, fresh and rosy from his afternoon's sleep, was on the rug at her feet playing with a big woolly lamb, and emitting every now and then a satisfied chuckle.
A couple of footmen came down from the house bringing the tea-things; Sir Anthony followed them, a bundle of papers in his hand. He sat down in one of the wicker chairs and smiled at Paul, who was trying in his own fashion to attract his attention.
"Well, young man, how are you? Judith"—a slight subtle change in his voice as he addressed his wife—"you heard from Peggy this morning, didn't you? What did she say to you? Did you gather that she is enjoying herself with Alethea?"
"Oh, enormously, I think." Judith hesitated a moment, and coloured, bending over the baby to hide her confusion. She was conscious that Peggy's letter had received but scant attention. "Lady Leominster is taking her out everywhere, and Peggy is getting lots of admiration, as she was sure to." Judith finished with a smile; her pretty young sister-in-law was very dear to her.
"Did she say anything about this new Lord Chesterham to you?"
"New Lord Chesterham?" Judith wrinkled up her brows. "I don't remember. No, I feel sure she did not mention Lord Chesterham. Why do you ask?"
Anthony drew a letter from his pocket. "I have just heard from Alethea. She says—oh, here it is. The new Lord Chesterham was at the Westropps' the other night. Peggy made quite an impression upon him, I think. It was easy to see he was attracted and, knowing how near Chesterham Castle is to Heron's Carew, my mind could not help glancing at certain possibilities. But it is early days for such speculations yet, so I will say no more. That is all." Sir Anthony folded the letter up and glanced meditatively at it.
"Lord Chesterham!" Judith repeated. "That is the one who has just come into the title, isn't it?"
Sir Anthony nodded. "He didn't bear the best of reputations before he succeeded either, from what I hear. I am sorry Peggy has met him. I should have thought Alethea was to be trusted to look after her. But she seems quite pleased with this," tapping the sheet with his hand. "However, as Peggy says nothing about the man herself, I expect it is all right. She would have been certain to tell you if there had been anything in it."
Judith did not answer as she busied herself about the tea-urn. With her surer knowledge of a woman's heart, she was inclined to think that Peggy's silence might be a bad sign.
"It is time Chesterham came down here," Sir Anthony presently went on, "the estates are going to rack and ruin, but there never was any Chesterham of the lot that troubled about that as long as there was money to pay for their pleasures." He laid Lady Leominster's letter, together with a pile of others, on an empty chair beside him as he spoke, and caught up his heir: "Well, Master Paul, come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself."
Judith watched them with fascinated eyes. To her, after the ceaseless nervous terrors of the past six weeks, it was something like happiness to be here in their own grounds, safe from intrusion, alone with her husband and child. Sir Anthony, too, had seemed more like himself since their return to Heron's Carew. Nevertheless Judith was conscious that the barrier between them remained, that the perfect confidence that formerly subsisted between them was now a thing of the past. Suddenly at the bottom of the pile of letters she caught sight of the evening edition of a London paper. She drew in her breath sharply. The inquest on Cyril Stanmore had been adjourned until this morning—was it possible that there could be any news of it yet? Public interest in the West End flat murder, as it was called, had flagged a little of late.
The disappearance of her tea-gown had thrown Judith at first into a perfect frenzy of alarm; but as the time wore on and she heard nothing of it, her fears began to subside, though the occurrence remained as mysterious as ever. Questioned, Célestine had obstinately denied all knowledge of it.
Her hand stole towards the paper; Anthony was still absorbed by the baby; he would not see her. She drew it out quickly, and opened it with as little rustle as possible. Yes. There it was on the space reserved for intelligence received on going to press.
WEST END FLAT MURDER—INQUEST AND VERDICT
"The inquest on the man known as C. Warden was resumed this morning before Mr. Gwynne Bargrave. No further evidence was offered by the police, who stated that, so far, the clues in their possession had led to nothing tangible. The jury returned a verdict of 'Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.'"
That was all.
Judith drew a long breath of thankfulness. She had but little knowledge of the law's procedure in criminal cases; and it seemed to her that the Leinster Avenue case was finished now, that she had nothing more to fear.
She let her clasped hands fall on the paper with the gesture of one who had escaped from an intolerable bondage; then, looking up, her eyes met Sir Anthony's. He had the baby on his knee still, but over its fluffy yellow head his eyes were watching Judith eagerly, with a certain furtiveness. He dropped his heavy lids, but not before Judith had surprised an expression of keen watchfulness. It had the effect of a sudden shock upon her, it was as if he had purposely placed the paper there, as if he had been waiting to see the result upon her.
The next minute he had risen with Paul in his arms; he was tossing the delighted child in the air. Judith told herself that she must have been mistaken, that her nerves were overstrained,