“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.
Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery’s reason for asking the question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, preferring to let the young man speak or not of his own affairs, as might seem to him best.
“No—that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir Vernon had set his heart on their marrying, and he always persisted in treating it as settled. Joan, I know, had told him again and again that she would not marry Prinsep; but he always put her off, and said that it would all come right in the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was really very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not get the money if he refused. I don’t know that I ought to speak like that about him now that he’s dead: but you know very well that I disliked him, and it’s no use pretending that I didn’t.”
Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—and again he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheerful on such an occasion. No more was said then, and during dinner, while the servants were in the room, they talked of other things—of the play which Ellery was writing, of where he had been during the day, of many indifferent matters. They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could return to the smoking-room and be again alone.
Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan. And then he had his surprise; for he found that his guardian had discovered that for himself long ago, and that he was being strongly encouraged to persist in his suit. “My dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you’re in love with Joan, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find out before long that she’s in love with you. She’s a very fine young woman, and I couldn’t wish you better fortune than to win her. I hope you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you can’t make love to her just now. You will have to wait until this terrible affair is over.”
“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—now that other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall simply blurt it out, and probably spoil my chance for good and all.”
Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about propriety.
Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he not say he loved her?
The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen her.
He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like a top.
He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about the murders.
Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up the trail of Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his resolution to see Ellery and get from him an explanation of his movements on Tuesday after leaving Liskeard House. His colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore
