"You have certainly found your tongue, Jim," said the Irishman, recovering his good humour, "and your arguments are moderately convincing. But you seem to forget that some fifty thousand pounds are involved in this marriage contract."
"Who told you so?"
"Miss Slarge. She is a dreamy, up-in-the-clouds old lady, as you know, but she can open her eyes and descend to the contemplation of ordinary things occasionally. Olive is the apple of her eye, and her wish is to see the girl happy; therefore, she does not approve of this marriage.'
"Isn't she pleased with Carson?"
"No, she dislikes him thoroughly, and she believes that he is marrying Olive solely for the sake of the money. Now Major Semberry is a chronic bankrupt, and half--even a quarter--of fifty thousand pounds would be a great temptation to him."
Aldean looked earnestly at his friend.
"I see what you mean," he said slowly. "Your idea is that Carson was murdered at Athelstane-Place, and that Semberry has substituted this impostor so that the marriage may take place, and they may share the proceeds. My dear Mallow, if you argue thus, you argue a rope round the Major's neck."
"Bosh! Did I say that Semberry was a murderer?"
"I am only bringing your argument to a logical conclusion, Mallow. If the real Carson has been murdered, Semberry must know of it, else he could have no reason to substitute the false one. Admitting as much, he must either have killed Carson himself, or he must know who did. In either case he is a criminal. Q.E.D."
Mallow shook his head.
"Even assuming that I am right, Semberry could not have murdered Carson, as it would be sheer folly for him to support an impostor when the real Simon Pure was his friend. However, I don't say that the real Carson has been murdered, nor do I identify him with the Athelstane Place victim; although," added Mallow seriously, "it is a strange thing that the clothes, both of the living and the dead, should smell of sandal-wood."
"It is strange," admitted Aldean, "and not to be easily explained. But we have argued the subject threadbare. What is your final opinion?"
"My original opinion--Carson is not Carson."
"Mallow, you are developing a monomania. Come and unbend your great mind over billiards."
The Irishman laughed and agreed. For the next hour or so they were taken up with cannons and breaks, and they left further discussion of Carson's identity to a more fitting occasion. The argument was not renewed that evening, and Mallow retired to bed with his mind less taken up with the subject than usual, and had a good night's rest. However, he woke early the next morning, and his thoughts at once reverted to Olive and her doubtful lover.
Beyond the fact of the sandal-wood perfume, he had no reason for connecting the man who had put in an appearance at Casterwell with the victim of Athelstane-Place, and his good sense told him that this was but a slender foundation upon which to build the superstructure of an imposture. And yet there remained with him an instinctive feeling that all was not right. Do what he would, argue as he might, he could not get rid of the idea that Semberry and his friend were brother rogues, bent upon obtaining the dowry of Olive.
"I cannot believe in Carson until I find some one who can identify him," thought Mallow, as he dressed himself. "If Mrs. Purcell were only in England, she would settle the question at once. But, according to Miss Slarge, she will not be back for three months, and this man is to marry Olive in two. On the 24th of August she comes of age. By the terms of the will, she must become Mrs. Carson before the 24th of September. After that date, be the man genuine or an impostor, I am powerless."
The matter agitated him so greatly as to render him irritable and restless. Unwilling to inflict his state of mind on Aldean, as it was yet early, he slipped out of the house and walked down to the village. He found the rural population astir and busy in the freshness of the morning air. During his tutorship of Aldean he had become friendly with many of these villagers, and those who met him now were glad to renew acquaintance with him. After strolling through the quaint High Street, admiring once again the old-fashioned houses, with their black beams diapered on the whitewashed walls, he turned into the churchyard, and strolled round the sombre grey building, which was the oldest of all the old things in Casterwell. The blackened tombstones, their queer inscriptions half obliterated by brown moss and yellow lichen, toppled askew amongst the uncut dewy grass, and from out the general untidiness rose the ecclesiastical fabric, its obtuse roof hidden by the open stonework and crocketted pinnacles. The massive square tower, draped with fresh green ivy, loomed out at the western end, and round it the swallows were wheeling and glancing like flying arrows. Thrush and blackbird and starling piped in the adjacent thicket, white pigeons whirled overhead, and wreaths of smoke curled from the village chimneys. Mallow enjoyed to the full the freshness of it all--the mellow sounds of waking life, the atmosphere surrounding him. The peace and beauty of it soothed his mind, and he fell to musing. He started when a voice at his elbow greeted him.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Mallow, this is an unexpected pleasure!"
"Mr. Brock!" cried the Irishman, turning suddenly. "I thought you were away."
"So I was," rejoined the Rector, holding out his hand. "I have been recruiting by the sea. I only returned last night. I see you are like myself, Mr. Mallow; you love the freshness of the early morning."
"I felt restless within doors, Mr. Brock, and came out to be soothed."
The Rector nodded approvingly.
"'You fly to Nature's breast for Nature's balm,'" he quoted in a deep, rolling voice. "It is to be regretted that all young men are not so sensible. Well, Mr. Mallow, and how are you?"
"I am in capital health and spirits," replied Laurence, lightly. "And you? You are not looking quite so fit as usual."
"Age, sir, age. Years are beginning to tell on me. After sixty the human frame begins to fail. I lose tone. My recent visit to the seaside was to restore it."
Mallow thought to himself that the result had not been wholly successful, for Mr. Brock looked sallow and wrinkled and hollow-eyed. He was a handsome, burly man, and he carried himself with an air of importance which many a bishop might have envied. His face was clean-shaven, and his features were clean-cut. His skin was of the particular hue one associates with old ivory, and a halo of silvery white hair lent an air of benignity to his expression. The Reverend Manners Brock had been vicar of Casterwell for over twenty years, and was as well-established as the church over which he presided. He was an industrious worker, an excellent orator, and a general social favourite with rich and poor alike. There was not in England a rector more popular or more admired. He might certainly have been a bishop, and--granting that the welfare of the community was the aim of those in power--he perhaps stood a good chance of becoming one. That he would adorn the position, as he adorned the rectorship of Casterwell, there could be no doubt. But, so far, there had been no hint of any such elevation for Mr. Brock.
As he strolled up and down chatting with Mallow, the click of the church-gate was heard. Simultaneously they turned to see a dark young man, with his arm in a sling, advancing along the grassy path. Mr. Brock started when he saw the face of the newcomer, and clutched the arm of his companion.
"Who--who is that?" he asked, his face grey and drawn, and his frame literally trembling with nervous agitation. "That is Mr. Carson," said Mallow, wondering.
"Carson! Oh, my God! Carson? Do--do the dead return?"
Mallow feared the old man was about to faint.
CHAPTER VII.
MARGERY.
Carson, with his usual amiable smile, came jauntily along the path, looking directly at Mallow and the Rector. He appeared to be amazed at the white and perturbed face of the latter, but, ignoring it, he held out his left hand in greeting to Laurence.
"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "I see you are an early