Judith's weak voice went on insistently. "You don't listen, and I—I want you to help me. I can't remember what it is I have to tell you."
Sir Anthony glanced at her. She was looking very ill, he noted it dispassionately.
"Help me, Anthony. What am I to tell you?"
"Nothing," he spoke sternly. "Nothing, there is nothing you can tell me, Judith. You are to be still and go to sleep."
But the great eyes that looked purple now in the shadow only gazed at him more anxiously. "But I must tell you, I promised Peggy—"
"Promised Peggy!" Sir Anthony echoed, startled in spite of himself. "What did you promise Peggy?"
Judith drew her brows together. "I—I don't know," she said faintly. "Peggy said I must be brave; we were coming together to tell you—something. Then they came, and said that Paul was ill, and I think a black cloud burst in my brain; everything is dark and mixed up together. I can't remember what I wanted to say to you. I—I wish I could." The tears sprang into her eyes, ran down her cheeks; she began to sob pitifully.
Anthony felt that this was no time for further questioning. He soothed her agitation as well as he could, and Judith yielded herself to his influence and presently fell into a restful slumber.
Sir Anthony waited until the soft regular breathing told him that she was really asleep, then he went into his dressing-room and closed the door. He felt a certain prevision that the day that he had been dreading for so long, the day that he had always known in his heart was inevitable, was close at hand.
It was wearing towards seven when Lady Carew woke at last with her mind fully conscious of her surroundings. She got out of bed then, and walking slowly, helping herself by the balustrade like one recovering from a serious illness, she made her way to the nursery, and satisfied herself that Paul was going on well.
The nurse cried out when she saw her mistress's face, but Judith only smiled wanly, and told her that she was going to speak to Sir Anthony, and that she would come up again presently.
The irony of her words made her smile as she went back to her room. What would have happened before she saw her child again? What pity, what help could she hope for, from Paul's father, when he had heard her story?
She took the nourishment her maid brought her, and forced herself to swallow it. She would need all her strength, she knew, for the coming interview, if she could hope in any way to make Anthony understand.
As she went downstairs she heard voices in the hall—Anthony's and Crasster's. "I'll just show you what I mean, Crasster," Anthony was saying. "But I won't come any farther to-day. Truth to tell, I have had such a fright about the boy, I don't care to be out of hearing of him." There was an inaudible reply from Stephen. Judith drew back out of sight on the bend of the stair. They crossed to the front door.
The door slammed behind them. Judith waited a minute or two to make sure the coast was clear, then she came down slowly and, after a moment's hesitation, opened the study door. Anthony had said he was going to do some work there; well, he would find her waiting.
The study was a large room, furnished in a severely masculine style, with big leather covered easy chairs and solid looking tables, a low divan ran across one end of the room, since Sir Anthony preferred it to the regular smoking room.
A big screen of stamped leather stood near the window, Judith took the chair it shaded, the partial gloom was very grateful to her tired eyes. Anthony was longer in coming back than she imagined he would be. At last, her eyelids drooped, her thoughts trailed into unconsciousness, and she was asleep once more.
How long she had been there she never knew. She was awakened by the sound of voices on the other side of the screen, strange voices, but they were speaking of things that concerned her. She caught words that drove the blood back from her heart. "The Abbey Court murder." She realized that the speakers believed themselves to be alone, that they were speaking of her and Anthony. She leaned forward and listened, her white face aglow with a strange eagerness.
Chapter XXVII
"Sir Anthony will see you in a few minutes, if you will please to take a seat." The butler ushered Mr. Lennox and his companion into the study.
Mr. Lennox glanced about him keenly as he took the chair the man indicated; then his face assumed a satisfied expression.
"I think it is the only thing to be done. We can't afford to pick and choose in our profession, Barker."
"No, sir," the man acquiesced.
Mr. Lennox straightened himself suddenly. "I should say the Abbey Court murder has been as puzzling an affair as we ever had in hand, take it from first to last."
Mr. Barker looked at his superior in a little surprise. "And we are not out of the wood yet, sir."
"We are pretty well through with it," the other contradicted. "There will not be much left to the imagination when I have finished with Sir Anthony Carew, I fancy. You understand what you have to do, Barker?"
"I think so, sir."
"Be careful! A word or two too much or too little might do untold mischief. On the other hand, if you manage successfully there will be a promotion for you over this business. Ah, here is Sir Anthony," as they caught an echo of his voice in the hall.
Both men stood up as Sir Anthony came into the room. He was looking manifestly tired and ill.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said as he bowed. "But my time is rather full up to-day. I understand that your business is important, Mr.—er—Lennox," glancing at the card in his hand.
"It is, sir," that functionary answered. "Had it been possible to delay it longer I would have done so, knowing that you had a good deal of anxiety to-day. But I am acting on instructions from headquarters. And I think I had better begin by telling you, Sir Anthony, that, though I have called myself Lennox down here for reasons that you will understand, I am really Detective-Inspector Furnival, of Scotland Yard."
"Indeed!" There was a slight stiffening of Sir Anthony's muscles that did not escape the detective's keen eyes. "I should be glad if you could make your business as short as possible," he went on politely, "since my time is, of necessity, much occupied."
"I quite understand, Sir Anthony. If you will allow me." He spoke a few words in an undertone to Mr. Barker. "My friend will wait for us in the hall, sir, if you have no objection." He opened the door and showed the man out. Then as he closed it, his manner changed; he came back to Sir Anthony. "I am down here to investigate the Abbey Court murder, and I want your help, sir."
"My help!" Sir Anthony echoed, his countenance changing, in spite of his best effort to maintain his composure. "I am at a loss to understand you. In what way can I help you?"
"I will tell you, sir," the inspector looked round. "But as it is likely to be a long story, might I suggest a seat—"
"Take one!" Sir Anthony said curtly. He went ever to the fire-place as the inspector availed himself of his permission, and took up a position on the hearthrug, with one elbow on the high wooden mantelshelf. His dark face was absolutely impassive now, as he looked at the inspector and waited for him to begin.
The detective cleared his throat. "It would help me greatly, sir, it would help everybody who is interested in the case, very materially, if you would tell us the facts as you know them."
"The facts as I know them! I am unable to guess your meaning, you must be more explicit, please! What facts do you imagine