"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 put the paper back in his hand, with a gesture of despair.
"The hopes of the police seem to be rising, do they not?" he went on in a conversational tone. "It will be quite a cause célèbre. I wonder whether you have noticed one thing, it says 'a person'; now hitherto it has always been assumed that the Abbey Court murderer was a woman. Does this vagueness mean that the police have changed their minds, I wonder?"
Judith gazed at him, a nameless fear gripping her heart. In the days immediately following the murder, and their first return to Heron's Carew, it had seemed to her that she had sounded every depth of misery; but since she had found the paper in her husband's dressing-case she had discovered that there were yet unknown abysses of woe, into which she might be plunged.
"Have you heard something? What do you mean?" she questioned hoarsely.
The smile in the man's mocking eyes deepened. "Well, you know I have been thinking over what you told me the other day," he said slowly. "I was rude enough to doubt it at the time, but when I thought it over later I saw a certain possibility that had not occurred to me before. It was possible that—some one might have overheard your appointment with Cyril, or have discovered it in some way; that this person—if we use the newspapers' judicious phrase—might have followed you, and fired the fatal shot. It is possible that this theory has occurred to the police. In this latter case"—his voice becoming softer, more persuasive—"don't you see how valuable the evidence I could give might become, as proving the person's identity?"
Judith opened her lips, but for a moment she literally could not speak, no sound would come from her dry parched mouth. Chesterham was folding the paper, placing it in his pocket-book; his expression as he turned to her was one of evil triumph.
"Do you think that Sir Anthony is quite in a position, all things considered, to place obstacles in the way of my engagement with Peggy? I think I shall have to ask for an interview, and put matters plainly before him."
"You—you couldn't!" The cry burst from Judith's tortured heart. In truth it did seem to her that the refinement of cruelty suggested by his words would be impossible even to the man before her.
His look at her, as he raised his brows, made her feel that he would stand at nothing to obtain his ends.
"I had hoped that you would spare me the trouble?" he said, in a quite unemotional voice. "But I want you to understand definitely, Lady Carew, that my silence is only conditional."
"Conditional!" Judith repeated. "What is the condition?" she questioned, with the same odd feeling that nothing mattered much; yet, though her voice was perfectly steady, her face, her lips, had faded to an absolute pallor, her eyes had a fixed ghastly stare.
"My condition is Sir Anthony Carew's free consent to my marriage with his sister," Chesterham said in his slow level voice, with its grim undertone of rigid determination.
Chapter XIV
Judith got up quickly, the scene around her was growing dimmer, the only thing, it seemed to her, was to get away, to be alone. But Chesterham rose too. He overtook her and walked beside her, his long legs keeping pace with her hurrying footsteps without difficulty.
People were gathering round the cricket ground now; Judith and Lord Chesterham made their way behind them quickly.
An old woman separated herself from the crowd, and came towards them, an old woman with a withered face that still bore traces of past comeliness, with white waving hair and big sunken eyes. She put herself directly in their path, curtsying deeply.
"Sure and your lordship hasn't forgotten old Betty Lee?"
Judith moved aside and went on quickly.
For an instant Chesterham stared at the old woman, then, as their eyes met, he smiled and held out his hand.
"Why, no! of course I have not forgotten my old friend, long as it is since we met. How has the world been using you, Betty?"
The old woman started a little as she heard his voice.
She peered forward and looked up into his face, then she curtsied again with a little cackling laugh.
"I have nothing to complain of, my lord; a little rheumatism now and then, and a cough in the winter."
"And how is my friend Ronald? You see I haven't forgotten him, either."
"No!" Again the old woman gave that cackling laugh. "No, I see you haven't, my lord. But"—her keen eyes watching the relief in the man's face—"he is dead, young Ronald is—years ago; or it is a proud man he would have been to-day, to see his old playmate come back the lord of Chesterham."
"Ronald dead!" Was it sorrow or relief in Chesterham's eyes. "Why, I had not heard. I must come up and have a crack with you over the old times, Betty. Are you living alone?"
"I have got my son Hiram with me, my lord." The old woman bent forward gazing apparently at the man's hands. "You'll remember Hiram maybe, Hiram that used to take you and Ronald out fishing? You'll have the Chesterham star, my lord?"
The sudden question seemed to take Lord Chesterham aback. He stared at her a minute without answering, then his face changed, his eyelids flickered. Without speaking he moved up his right cuff, and showed a blue mark, star-shaped, just above the wrist.
Old Betty's expression altered almost to fear as she stared at it. "Your lordship will forgive me—if I have been too free."
The man smiled with a furtive glance at her withered face, as he pulled his cuff down. "Free! Not a bit of it; I am glad you spoke to me." He gave her a smiling nod as he walked away.
Old Betty stared after him, amazed look on her wrinkled face. Her lips moved slowly. "It seems I were wrong, and yet I could ha' took my oath to it!"
The smile was still lingering in Chesterham's eyes as he strolled back to the tents.
Judith had not lost a moment when old Betty stopped them. She hurried onwards, intent only on getting away, on hiding herself from this mocking fiend of a man. She scarcely recognized Stephen Crasster as he crossed the soft turf to intercept her.
"Lady Carew, Peggy wants you to see the roses from the Dower House. She declares that they have beaten Heron's Carew. But what is the matter. You are ill," as he saw Judith's ghastly face.
Judith put out her hand. Stephen Crasster had never been wholly her friend; she had always felt that Anthony's marriage had disappointed him, that in some way he disapproved of her. But she was thankful to see him now, at any rate he would protect her from Chesterham's insolence.
"It was the heat that was too much for me, I fancy," she said incoherently.
"But Chesterham," Stephen looked bewildered.
"He went to speak to somebody, I think." Judith said vaguely. "Mr. Crasster, I must go home. I am not well enough to stay. Make my excuses for me."
Stephen turned with her. "I am exceedingly sorry. Won't you take one of the seats? And I will bring the