The girl’s face grew a shade paler. Her eyes had a suggestion of pain in them as she turned to the speaker.
“I think I understand,” she murmured. “If my suspicions are correct, this is a great blow to me; but, having said so much, I think I must know the rest. And now, now you see how impossible it is that I can remain here much longer.”
Ravenspur was silent for a moment. He had forgotten the little scene which he had witnessed some time ago between Vera and Walter Lance. So that was why she was going. She had given her heart to Walter, and only too late she had discovered that a marriage between them was out of the question.
The same subject was uppermost in Vera’s mind. They were both looking at the same thing from a different point of view; and it seemed to Vera that if Ravenspur’s words meant anything, it meant that she was not even entitled to the name she bore. Every drop of blood appeared to have left her heart. She stood there, white and breathless. Yet, amidst all her storm of thoughts, one dominant idea possessed her. The time had come to strike now. There must be no further delay. She must leave the house. She must go out into the world to get her own living. She would stay here no longer under these shameful conditions.
“You have spared my feelings,” she began. “I almost wish now that I had not asked you any of these—”
Vera broke off abruptly as the door opened, and Walter Lance came into the room. He looked uneasy and anxious. He started to say something to Ravenspur, then he paused, as he saw that Vera was standing there. In spite of the girl’s utter misery and dejection, she did not fail to see that she was in the way now.
“I am just going,” she said. “I am going as far as the drawing-room. When you have finished with your uncle I should like to have a few words with you, Walter.”
“You had much better go to bed,” Ravenspur said, with a sudden stern inflection in his voice. “It is getting late, and I am sure that you must be tired, Vera.”
The girl made no reply. She walked through the door on the far side of the library and made her way into the drawing-room. Uncle and nephew stood there facing one another; they could hear the sound of Vera’s piano softly played.
XXIII
The Next Move
“Well, and what is it now?” Ravenspur asked. “You look as if you had seen a ghost. Is there anything new in this ghastly business? Have the police solved the problem?”
“On the contrary, the problem gets more bewildering every hour,” Walter said. “As you know, I was going to talk over our side of the puzzle with Inspector Dallas, and he gave me some startling information. As soon as ever I mentioned the Flavio business he told me that he had made a discovery which connected it closely with the death of poor Louis Delahay. It appears that there is in England at the present moment an Italian detective, called Berti, who had the Flavio affair in hand.”
“I recollect the name perfectly well,” Ravenspur murmured.
“It appears that Berti has seen Mrs. Delahay since the inquest. He was rather interested in the affair, and he contrived to get a sight of Mrs. Delahay. And now comes the most extraordinary feature of the story. Berti is absolutely certain that Mrs. Delahay is no other than Carlotta, Countess Flavio.”
“Impossible,” Ravenspur cried. “The man is mistaken.”
“He is prepared to swear to his statement, any way,” Walter said. “And, after all, I don’t see why it should be impossible. In fact it is not in the least impossible, and I’ll tell you why. After this amazing thing came out I thought it my duty to go back to the hotel and see Mrs. Delahay. I told her what Berti said, and taxed her with being a principal in the Flavio tragedy.”
“And she denied it promptly, of course?”
“She did. She told me quite calmly that she had never heard of the Flavio affair. I confess her words staggered me, because they were so calm and self-possessed. I watched her narrowly when I was speaking, and she never so much as changed colour. Even when I told her the story she appeared to be as mystified and puzzled as ever. She said, as she has always said, that for the best part of her life she has been more or less a recluse, and altogether out of touch with the world’s happenings. You see, Berti was so confident, and Mrs. Delahay so self-possessed, that I was utterly puzzled.”
“There is nothing to be puzzled about,” Ravenspur said. “The Italian detective has made a mistake. His recollections of Carlotta Flavio’s features after eighteen years have become blurred. For goodness sake, don’t let us harp upon this absurdity. Surely, there are enough complications without this!”
“So I thought at first,” Walter said. “But you will recollect telling me the story of your friend Count Flavio and his unhappy marriage. There were two Descartis—Carlotta, who married your friend, and Maria, who disappeared and was not heard of for years. Now isn’t it rather significant, bearing in mind what Berti says, that Mrs. Delahay’s name should be Maria?”
Ravenspur looked up with a startled expression.
“Well, yes,” he exclaimed. “But I see you have more to tell me. Will you please go on?”
“I am coming to the interesting part now,” Walter said. “Though I was prepared to believe that Mrs. Delahay knew nothing of the Flavio affair, I was by no means satisfied. I felt that there
