The Red Symbol. Ironside John

servitude for life?”

CHAPTER IX

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NOT AT BERLIN

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      “

      Hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life.”

      There fell a dead silence after Jim Cayley uttered those ominous words. He waited for me to speak, but for a minute or more I was dumb. He had voiced the fear that had been on me more or less vaguely ever since I broke open the door and saw Cassavetti’s corpse; and that had taken definite shape when I heard Freeman’s assertion concerning “a red-haired woman.”

      And yet my whole soul revolted from the horrible, the appalling suspicion. I kept assuring myself passionately that she was, she must be, innocent; I would stake my life on it!

      Now, after that tense pause, I turned on Jim furiously.

      “What do you mean? Are you mad?” I demanded.

      “No, but I think you are,” Jim answered soberly. “I’m not going to quarrel with you, Maurice, or allow you to quarrel with me. As I told you before, I am only warning you, for your own sake, and for Anne’s. You know, or suspect at least—”

      “I don’t!” I broke in hotly. “I neither know nor suspect that—that she—Jim Cayley, would you believe Mary to be a murderess, even if all the world declared her to be one? Wouldn’t you—”

      “Stop!” he said sternly. “You don’t know what you’re saying, you young fool! My wife and Anne Pendennis are very different persons. Shut up, now! I say you’ve got to hear me! I have not accused Anne Pendennis of being a murderess. I don’t believe she is one. But I do believe that, if once suspicion is directed towards her, she would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to prove her innocence. You ought to know that, too, and yet you are doing your best, by your ridiculous behavior, to bring suspicion to bear on her.”

      “I!”

      “Yes, you! If you want to save her, pull yourself together, man; play your part for all it’s worth. It’s an easy part enough, if you’d only dismiss Anne Pendennis from your mind; forget that such a person exists. You’ve got to give evidence at this inquest. Well, give it straightforwardly, without worrying yourself about any side issues; and, for Heaven’s sake, get and keep your nerves under control, or—”

      He broke off, and we both turned, as the door opened and a smart parlor-maid tripped into the room.

      “Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t know you were here,” she said with the demure grace characteristic of the well-trained English servant. “It’s nearly supper-time, and I came to see if there was anything else wanted. I laid the table early.”

      “All right, Marshall. I’ve been giving Mr. Wynn some supper, as he has to be off. You needn’t sound the gong for a few minutes.”

      “Very well, sir. If you’d ring when you’re ready, I’ll put the things straight.”

      She retreated as quietly as she had come, and I think we both felt that her entrance and exit relieved the tension of our interview.

      I rose and held out my hand.

      “Thanks, Jim. I can’t think how you know as much as you evidently do; but, anyhow, I’ll take your advice. I’ll be off, now, and I won’t come back to-night, as Mary asked me to. I’d rather be alone. See you both to-morrow. Good night.”

      I walked back to Westminster, lingering for a considerable time by the river, where the air was cool and pleasant. The many pairs of lovers promenading the tree-shaded Embankment took no notice of me, or I of them.

      As I leaned against the parapet, watching the swift flowing murky tide, I argued the matter out.

      Jim was right. I had behaved like an idiot in the garden just now. Well, I would take his advice and buck up; be on guard. I would do more than that. I would not even vex myself with conjectures as to how much he knew, or how he had come by that knowledge. It was impossible to adopt one part of his counsel—impossible to “forget that such a person as Anne Pendennis ever existed;” but I would only think of her as the girl I loved, the girl whom I would see in Berlin within a few days.

      I wrote to her that night, saying nothing of the murder, but only that I was unexpectedly detained, and would send her a wire when I started, so that she would know when to expect me. Once face to face with her, I would tell her everything; and she would give me the key to the mystery that had tortured me so terribly. But I must never let her know that I had doubted her, even for an instant!

      The morning mail brought me an unexpected treasure. Only a post-card, pencilled by Anne herself in the train, and posted at Dover.

      It was written in French, and was brief enough; but, for the time being, it changed and brightened the whole situation.