"I—I should like to tell you—to let you know that though you met me coming away from the flat that night that I never harmed him—Cyril," she said, speaking fast and jerkily. "I know that you think I did. It is natural perhaps, that you should, but I had nothing to do with his death—nothing."
"Then who had?" the man asked quietly. His eyes watched every movement of her face, every fluctuation of her colour.
Judith raised her eyes despairingly. "How should I know? I was there in the darkened room, and I heard the revolver shot, that is all I know. I did not see anyone, I—I only heard the breathing."
There was a pause. Judith's voice had ceased, her eyes were downcast. Still leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Chesterham watched her intently.
Then at last he laughed aloud. The sound of it struck across Judith's flagging spirit like a lash of whipcord. She raised her head, her colour mounting hotly. Chesterham laughed again.
"I am afraid you will have to try another story, Lady Carew," he said lightly. "I will think over the affair myself. Perhaps I might be able to help you to something more probable. As for what you have told me—"
A certain amount of courage had come back to Judith. "I have told you the truth!" she said icily.
"Have you?" Chesterham questioned lightly. "Then I am afraid that it will hardly carry conviction. Let me put it to you. You had the strongest of all motives for getting rid of Stanmore. You are young, beautiful you have attained an assured position; you are happy in the love of your husband and your child. Stanmore's coming to England, his discovery of you spelt ruin for you. He insists on seeing you. Presumably, at any rate you visit him at his flat alone, late at night. The next morning he is found dead—shot. As far as can be ascertained by the strictest inquiry you were the only visitor; you were met and recognized coming away. No, no! I'm afraid your story won't do, Lady Carew."
"Nevertheless, it is true," Judith said wearily.
"Well, then," Chesterham shrugged his shoulders. "I should delay making it public for as long a time as possible, dear Lady Carew. In all probability it will be received with a good dealt of scepticism. In the meantime, I assure you, you may rely upon my silence as long as you do not interfere with my plans. Now allow me to suggest that you pull yourself together. Peggy is coming back, and some one is with her; it is not the estimable Crasster. I conclude, therefore, that it must be your—it must be Sir Anthony Carew."
Judith looked up. Yes, it was Anthony who was coming towards them from the rosery at Peggy's side; Anthony, with his dear dark face downbent, looking by no means pleased at the prospect of making his future brother-in-law's acquaintance.
Lord Chesterham got up and went to meet them. Judith heard Peggy's introduction. "This is Lorrimer, Anthony." She saw that Sir Anthony only bowed stiffly; that he paused noticeably before taking Chesterham's outstretched hand. Peggy left the two men together and flew across to her sister-in-law.
"Stephen was obliged to go," she complained. "Wasn't it tiresome? Just when I particularly wanted him to stay and make friends with Lorrimer."
Sir Anthony and Lord Chesterham joined them in a minute or so. Chesterham was evidently laying himself out to make a good impression on Peggy's brother. Under the influence of his genial manner and ready, pleasant smile Sir Anthony's first ill-humour was apparently thawing.
Yet Judith saw that his eyes had a puzzled expression. After a minute or two Chesterham noticed it also.
"I wonder whether you have marked the great likeness that is said to exist between the portrait of my ancestor who fell at Fontenoy and myself, Sir Anthony?" he asked tentatively.
"No," Carew answered slowly, "though I see it now that I hear you speak of it. You are very like him. I suppose it must have been that after all. Or possibly there is a resemblance to the last lord. I believe there is."
He relapsed into silence as Peggy claimed Chesterham's attention.
The lovers strolled away and walked up and down under the trees.
Left alone, husband and wife sat silent, constrained. Judith told herself that she would have told Anthony everything, that she would have thrown herself upon his mercy and trusted to his love to understand and forgive, if she had not found that incriminating paper in the secret drawer of his dressing-case, if she could have rid herself of the horrible doubt its possession implied. She watched Anthony furtively from under the shadow of her long lashes. He for his part was stirring up the contents of his tea cup, and gazing at them in a gloomy abstracted fashion. Suddenly he started and uttered a sharp, inaudible exclamation.
Judith raised her eyes. "What is it?"
Sir Anthony did not answer. He was looking across at Chesterham. At last he turned his eyes back to his wife. Their expression was so curious, such an odd mixture of accusation and yet of horror that Judith involuntarily shrank from him.
"It was nothing," he answered her slowly at last. "Only a stitch in my side. I have had several lately. I was just thinking that undoubtedly Lord Chesterham is very like some of his family portraits. That was why"—with a slight stammer—"his face and figure seemed vaguely familiar to me at first."
Chapter XIII
The Wembley Horticultural Show, and the athletic sports, which were held together in the Wembley People's Park, was a very great event to the country folk around Wembley. It would be a particularly brilliant function this year in the estimation of the country people, since not only was Lady Carew to distribute the prizes to the successful competitors, but of course the new Lord Chesterham would be there in attendance on his fiancée, Miss Peggy Carew.
Sir Anthony Carew, in his position as Peggy's guardian, had insisted that there should be no recognized engagement, no talk of a wedding for at least a year. He had declared that Peggy was too young to know her own mind, that the year would give her breathing space, and also allow them an opportunity of knowing something of Lord Chesterham, who was at present practically a stranger to them all. That Peggy, as well as her mother and her lover, thought this absolutely unreasonable, went without saying.
The morning of the Wembley Show dawned fine and clear; as the day wore on, it became almost oppressively sultry; Sir Anthony and Lady Carew motored over, arriving on the scene in good time. Stephen Crasster was with them, and they were soon joined by General Wilton and his family, and Lady Palmer.
In the tent given over to the exhibition of table decorations they encountered the Dowager Lady Carew and Peggy, with Lord Chesterham in attendance. His stepmother attached herself to Sir Anthony now in her gentle wavering fashion. Peggy turned eagerly to Stephen, and Chesterham managed to place himself by Judith.
She was wearing an exquisite gown of painted muslin, her leghorn hat, with its bunch of feathers and big brilliant buckle shaded her face, and a long veil of exquisite Chantilly lace was thrown behind.
"Have you seen to-day's papers?" Chesterham asked with apparent carelessness.
"No!" Judith turned paler. "Why, what do you mean—is there anything about the—?"
Chesterham slowly unfolded a piece of paper. "I thought you would be interested, so I cut this out, in case you had not seen it." He handed it to her, and she read:
THE ABBEY COURT MURDER
"It is understood that within the last few days the police have made an important discovery with regard to this case. They are, naturally reticent, but it is rumoured that further developments are expected hourly, and that an arrest will be made very shortly. Report has it that the suspect is a person of good family, moving in the highest social circles."
"Well," Chesterham was smiling as she looked up.
She