The Witness on the Roof (15 page)

He made no movement to take the hand Evelyn had extended. With a shrug of her shoulders she let it fall by her side again.

“I remember Miss De Lavelle perfectly well,” he said in a cold, hard tone. “But surely this is not your sister, Joan?”

“Of course it is!” Evelyn said with a laugh that somehow sounded strained. “When I went on the boards, I didn't think Spencer a very taking name, Lord Warchester, I changed it to De Lavelle. Sounded better, somehow, I thought. But, say, is it not strange we should meet again like this—you a lord, and I your wife's sister?”

“It is strange,” Warchester assented moodily.

Joan watched them with startled eyes, resenting with a bitterness of which she was scarcely conscious this unaccountable previous acquaintance with her sister. She saw that Warchester's face had grown white, that the lines round his tense mouth were curiously sharpened.

What had been the tie between these two in the past? Joan asked herself miserably. That this was no meeting of mere chance acquaintance she saw plainly enough.

Evelyn was leaning nonchalantly against the woodwork, smoking a cigarette. As she spoke she raised her eyes; they flashed a quick warning to Warchester.

“Come inside, Lord Warchester; there is an iced drink I learned to make in the States. I have been teaching it to my man here; he has got the hang of it pretty well, and a glass will do you all the good in the world after your journey.”

Warchester obeyed her imperative gesture. Inside he waited, apparently oblivious of even Joan's presence, watching Evelyn's every movement as she rang the bell and gave the order. Then when the man had brought in the tray, he drank eagerly the contents of the glass Evelyn poured out for him.

Evelyn turned to her sister.

“Can't I persuade you, Joan? It isn't bad, really, is it, Lord Warchester?”

But Joan shook her head.

“Not now, thanks! And I think if we do not make haste we shall be late for dinner. So, if you are ready, Paul, we will go now,” She moved to the door; Warchester followed.

Evelyn accompanied them.

“I feel ever so much better now!” she cried in a loud voice that was a continual offence to Joan's ear. “It does one good to see people, and it is nice to meet an old friend.”

Outside in the hall Mason was coming out of the study. Joan guessed that the old woman had heard of her arrival and had planned to speak to her as she went out. She held out her hand pleasantly.

“How are you to-day, Mason?”

Tears came in the woman's eyes as she took it and made a curtsey.

“I am not very well, thank you, my lady. I was wanting to tell your ladyship that the other day I found a work-box you had when you were a little child. There were two or three little things in it. I thought perhaps my lady, if I brought it over to the Towers one day you would maybe give me two or three minutes.”

“Why, of course, I should be only too pleased! I must ask my sister to spare you to me for the day.”

“Oh, I shall be spared easily enough, Miss Joan!” The old woman spoke bitterly, reverting to her young mistress's maiden name in her excitement. “I am not wanted here,” glancing round to see that Evelyn was out of ear-shot. “Miss Davenant as good as told me I was too old to be of any use to her yesterday when she gave me notice.”

“Gave you notice? Oh Mason, I am sorry!”

To Joan Mason had always seemed inseparable from the Hall.

“I will speak to Miss Davenant,” she added. “She could not really have meant—”

“I beg your pardon, my lady!” Mason drew herself up with dignity. “But I would rather Miss Davenant was not asked to change her mind. It is most likely that I should not have stayed here much longer anyway. I am over-old to learn the ways of new mistresses. But if I might speak to your ladyship to-morrow or the next day—”

“Why, of course,” Joan said heartily. “Come over before lunch, Mason, and we will have a long afternoon together. I dare say I shall have thought of some fresh plan—”

“Oh, my lady—” Mason could not voice her thanks.

Evelyn and Warchester had walked to the door. On the threshold Evelyn paused and looked up into Warchester's face with mocking blue eyes.

“It is strange that Lord Warchester should turn out to be an old acquaintance, is it not? When I heard of my new brother-in-law I little thought that in him I should recognize my friend, Paul Wilton. Do the good stick-in-the-mud folks down here know of Lord Warchester's multiplicity of names? Why, this is the third I have heard —Wilton first, Warchester now, and once—”

“Hush!” Warchester interrupted her sternly with a glance at the two footmen who, it seemed to him, might be within hearing. “Do not mention that name! Heavens, don't you realize—”

Evelyn laughed recklessly.

“Guess I realize enough to know it might be awkward if I called you by it in the market-place!” Her eyes gleamed strangely. “Good thing I didn't meet you there, wasn't it? Now we are both prepared—”

Warchester's face had become very pale.

“For what?” he questioned beneath his breath. Involuntarily his eyes strayed to Joan, looking so fair and dainty in spite of her fatigue, then wandered from her to the painted face of the woman beside him. How was he to have guessed, he asked himself passionately—how should it have ever entered his mind that these two out of all the world should be sisters?

Evelyn shook her head.

“I do not know—how should I?” Her eyes narrowed as she watched him closely, as she saw how he flinched beneath her gaze. “Perhaps”—with another of the hard laughs that Warchester was learning to hate—“you would come in and talk it over, say, to-morrow morning. You know you must be careful for Joan's sake.”

Warchester controlled himself with an effort.

“We will leave Lady Warchester's name out of the question, if you please,” he said sternly. “If you wish it I will come over to-morrow, though I fail to see what purpose it will serve.”

“To-morrow then, I shall expect you,” Evelyn responded, waving her much beringed hand at him as she turned back. “Ta-ta! It is rather cold out here now the sun has gone down. I hope you have plenty of wraps, Joan?”

“I don't think I shall need them. I like the touch of chill in the air,” Joan responded absently. “Good-bye, Evelyn,” kissing her sister's cheek. “I am glad you are better. You must come over and see me at the Towers soon.”

“Of course!” Evelyn smiled and glanced at the tall dark man standing by the car. It was a pleasure to her to think that, in spite of his apparent calm, these seemingly innocent words of hers were making him wince. “Naturally, I want to see my sister's new home, and also that of my old friend, Lord Warchester.”

As they drove down the avenue Warchester glanced more than once at Joan. She was sitting upright in her corner, her head bent forward, two little perpendicular lines between her level brows telling their own story of mental perturbation. She did not speak until they turned out of the lodge gates and were bowling swiftly along the road to the Towers. Then, still without looking at him, she said slowly:

“It is very strange that you should have known Evie. When we were trying to find her did you never guess—”

“Guess! How should I guess?” Warchester questioned roughly. “I had known her as Cécile De Lavelle. What should make me think—what faintest likeness between you is there that I should dream it was possible that she could be your sister? Even now—now that I have seen you together, that I have heard you call her sister, that I have seen you kiss her—I cannot bring myself to believe that this monstrous, this inconceivable thing is true, that you and that woman are sisters.”

Something in his tone brought a ray of comfort to Joan's heart. She glanced at him timidly. She ventured to slip her hand in his beneath the rug.

“You didn't like her in the old times, did you, Paul? Not as you like me?”

“Like her as I like you!” Paul replied. “Joan, haven't you realized that you are the only woman in the world for me? Oh, my dear, have I failed so utterly to make you understand?”

“M
R.
L
OCKYER
and another gentleman are in the library, my lord.”

“Mr. Lockyer!” Warchester was lounging on the divan, his thoughts, to judge from his expression, none of the pleasantest. He sprang up. “I will come to them at once. Tell her ladyship Mr. Lockyer is here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The footman withdrew and Warchester hurried to the library. He had taken a great fancy to Septimus Lockyer, though so far he had seen little of him. He had heard that he was expected at the Trewhistles' however, and had sent a pressing invitation to him to spend a few days at the Towers.

As he opened the door he was wondering whether the keen-faced, kindly lawyer would be of any help to him now. Then with a sigh he shook his head. His affairs were of too tangled a nature even to be set straight by Septimus Lockyer.

Mr. Lockyer was standing by the fireplace, talking in a low, earnest tone to his companion.

“Ah, my dear Warchester; this is kind!” he said as his host entered the room. “I hope I have not disturbed you. I ventured to bring Mr. Hewlett with me. Mr. Hewlett—Lord Warchester. Mr. Hewlett has been actively engaged in the search for my missing niece, and, hearing last night that you had recognized an old friend in Miss Evelyn Davenant, he thought it would be interesting to hear where you had met her.”

“Certainly! Won't you sit down, Uncle Septimus?” Warchester's change of countenance did not escape the eyes of either of the two men watching him. “I really knew very little of Miss Davenant—that is to say, I only met her in a casual way one does meet such people. She was only known to me under her stage name of De Lavelle. I need not say I had not the very remotest idea she was identical with the missing Evelyn Spencer.”

“Quite so, quite so!” Septimus Lockyer assented.

He had settled himself comfortably in one of the morocco-covered easy-chairs by the fireplace. Warchester took the opposite one facing the window; Hewlett, the detective, sat farther back in the shadow of the curtains. He was totally unlike the popular idea of a detective—short and thick-set in figure, with a florid complexion, a big fair moustache, fair hair retreating from his temple, and mild blue eyes, in one of which was screwed a monocle.

“We—that is to say Mr. Hewlett—had already discovered that she had gone on the stage under the name of De Lavelle before, in reply to the advertisement, Evelyn appeared on the scene,” Mr. Lockyer went on. “I say the stage, but I believe, as a matter of fact, it would be more correct to say—er—the music-halls.”

He looked inquiringly at Warchester, who nodded his assent. What in the world did these two men want? he was asking himself. By what concatenation of unlucky events had they come to hear of his early acquaintance with Evelyn Spencer?

“Would you just tell me what you knew of her, when you were introduced and all that?” Septimus Lockyer went on persuasively. “There were two Miss De Lavelles, I believe?”

“At one time,” Warchester acquiesced, “they were called the Sisters De Lavelle, but it was perfectly well-known that they were not related, though there was a certain vague likeness between them. They used to sing and dance together, had turns at two or three halls every evening, for at one time they were very popular. But in spite of the undoubted resemblance between them, in spite of the fact that they were dressed alike, it was their very contrast that made them so piquante. We used to call them the Saint and the Demon.”

“I remember.” Septimus Lockyer nodded. “I have heard of them. I saw them once—that was why I fancied the photograph was familiar. And my niece, Evelyn, was—”

Warchester laughed.

“Your niece and my sister-in-law, my dear Uncle Septimus, was the Demon! I fear we have to face that fact both of us.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Lockyer looked amused. “Ah, well, what's in a name, and what became of the Saint?”

“Ah, there I can't help you!” Warchester was brushing a speck of cigar-ash from his waistcoat. My acquaintance with the Sisters De Lavelle ended before their partnership was dissolved. I have no further knowledge of their movements.”

“And the Dem—I mean my niece, Evelyn—was Marie,” Septimus Lockyer remarked.

“Evelyn was Cécile,” Warchester contradicted curtly.

“Oh, Evelyn was Cécile, was she?” Septimus Lockyer said slowly. “Oh, ah, of course—Evelyn Cecil Mary! Took her second name instead of her first, didn't she? Quite so, quite so!”

There was a pause. Warchester sat silent apparently contemplating the immaculate polish of his boots with interest. Mr. Lockyer was tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the leather-covered arm of his chair; the detective was gazing out of the window absently.

The door opened suddenly and Joan entered with a rush.

“Oh, Uncle Septimus, is it not funny that just as I heard you were here I should have found—I beg your pardon,” as her glance fell on the detective. “I fancied you and Paul were alone.”

“Dear, dear, did you? And what does that matter?” The great
K.C.
was smiling at the pretty, blushing face as he imprinted a paternal kiss on her forehead. “This is Mr. Hewlett, who has been spending a good deal of time looking for your sister, Evelyn, lately. And now what is it you have found just as you heard I was here? And why is it funny?”

“Well, it is funny, because you have wanted it so much, and have looked for it so often,” Joan answered. “But I don't suppose you will care about it now—it is too late.”

Mr. Lockyer's smile deepened.

“Something that I have wanted very much and you have looked for very long? You are exciting my curiosity, Joan. What is this wonderful discovery, and why is it too late?”