He had provided ample funds for the young man to make a fresh start, and had recommended him to the care of an old friend in Monte Video. He had refused to tell his daughter where the brother had gone, lest they should write to each other.
Mabel had been only a child at the time, but she never forgot her brother. As she sat in the garden after breakfast no shadow crossed her mind. The letters and papers had not arrived, as they were out of the beaten track.
John, the butler, approached her from the house with a salver, on which he bore a visiting card.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Mabel,” he said, and handed the card. She took it and read,
Mr. Sylvester Collins,
14, Severn Street,
London, W.
“What does he want?” said she.
“I do not know, Miss, but he asked if you could see him on an important matter. He has come down by the night train from London.”
“Oh, I’ll come and see him,” and she got up and went in.
Collins had slept on the way down, and had breakfasted on the train. He felt quite fresh after a motor ride from Wilton-on-Sea, but he had a strong distaste for his task.
He walked up and down the fine old drawing-room, through the open windows of which came the scent of roses.
The girl entered, and he was struck with her simple beauty, without any of the adornments of the modern girl, and in her dainty morning frock of cretonne.
He knew that in a few moments her present happiness would be turned to bitter sorrow. She advanced towards him at once, and took his hand in a friendly way.
“You are a friend of my father’s, I suppose,” she said.
“Miss Watson,” he said gravely. “It is no good beating about the bush. I have some bad news for you. You must try and be brave.”
“My father,” she said, with quick instinct.
He nodded.
“Don’t tell me anything has happened to him. He only left me the day before yesterday. Is he ill?”
In her excitement she had not let go of his hand, and her fingers retained their hold.
“You must try and bear up, a terrible thing has happened. The worst that can happen.”
“You mean,” she said, her face turning pale, “that he is dead.”
“Yes,” he said.
The shock of such an announcement does not, as a rule, have the instant effect that is supposed to take place. The mind cannot at once grasp the facts. It is like a shell wound. For a moment the wounded man gazes in surprise at a stump where his arm was a moment before. It takes some seconds before realization or pain is felt.
So it was with Mabel. It was as though someone were telling her a tale of some remote happening which did not concern her.
“How was it?” she whispered.
He had expected tears, possibly a fainting fit. This calm surprised him for the moment.
“Shall I tell you?” he said.
“Please.”
“He was found shot in his library yesterday.”
“Do you mean murdered?” she said, dismissing the thought of suicide unconsciously.
“I am afraid so,” he replied. The sweat stood on his forehead. What a fool he had been to undertake this task!
“And you have come to tell me about it? How kind of you,” she said, as in a dream. He saw this could not last, and with quick instinct rang the bell.
The door opened, and an old servant with a sweet face came in. She had been Mabel’s nurse, and had remained with her as a sort of companion and friend. At the sight of her something seemed to snap in the girl’s head, and she ran to her.
“Oh, Nanna,” she cried. “My father has been murdered.”
The woman looked indignantly at Collins, as though he had struck her darling, and took her in her arms, where the tears came at last.
Collins withdrew to the farther side of the room, and looked at the garden. When he turned, the room was empty.
Irresolute, he strolled into the old garden. What a catastrophe had he brought by his news! Better, perhaps, if he had wired.
Still, he must go through with it. He could not study the feelings of the poor girl when larger issues were at stake.
Presently he saw the butler coming towards him.
The old man was bent, and he had been crying.
“My mistress is too upset to see you, sir,” he said; “but I was to ask you to make yourself at home. And would you like some refreshment?”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I have had breakfast. I do not need anything. You have heard the sad news.”
“Yes, sir, the papers have come, and the post. They all know now,” and he broke down.
“Come, come, man,” said Collins almost roughly. “It’s all right for women to cry.”
“I had known him for twenty-five years, sir,” said the old man simply, “and I wish it had been me instead of him. Do you think they will catch the murderer?”
“Surely,” said Collins. “But perhaps I had better go.”
“Oh, no, sir, Miss Mabel wants to see you when she is a bit better. She particularly asked me to say so.”
“Well, then, if so, perhaps you could give me a minute? I would like to ask a question or two.”
The old butler bowed and waited.
“You were here when Sir James’ son went away?”
“Master Ronald? Oh, sir, I am sure he is nothing to do with this terrible murder.”
“Whoever said he was? But he is now heir to his father’s baronetcy even if he has been cut out of his father’s will, and we must try and find him.”
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” said the old man. “But are you a friend of the family?”
“I hope so,” said Collins cheerily, and not to commit himself.
“What exactly did young Ronald do? Anything very dreadful?” he asked.
The butler drew himself up with dignity.
“I think, sir, you had better ask someone else,” he said.
“That’s very stupid of you,” said
