The next morning there came another brief note from Loveday which ran thus:
“As a matter of collateral interest, find out if a person, calling himself Harold Cousins, sailed two days ago from London Docks for Natal in the Bonnie Dundee?”
To this missive Loveday received, in reply, the following somewhat lengthy dispatch:
“I do not quite see the drift of your last note, but have wired to our agents in London to carry out its suggestion. On my part, I have important news to communicate. I have found out what Harry Craven’s business out of doors was on the night of the murder, and at my instance a warrant has been issued for his arrest. This warrant it will be my duty to serve on him in the course of today. Things are beginning to look very black against him, and I am convinced his illness is all a sham. I have seen Waters, the man who is supposed to be attending him, and have driven him into a corner and made him admit that he has only seen young Craven once—on the first day of his illness—and that he gave his certificate entirely on the strength of what Mrs. Craven told him of her son’s condition. On the occasion of this, his first and only visit, the lady, it seems, also told him that it would not be necessary for him to continue his attendance, as she quite felt herself competent to treat the case, having had so much experience in fever cases among the blacks at Natal.
“As I left Waters’s house, after eliciting this important information, I was accosted by a man who keeps a low-class inn in the place, McQueen by name. He said that he wished to speak to me on a matter of importance. To make a long story short, this McQueen stated that on the night of the sixth, shortly after eleven o’clock, Harry Craven came to his house, bringing with him a valuable piece of plate—a handsome epergne—and requested him to lend him a hundred pounds on it, as he hadn’t a penny in his pocket. McQueen complied with his request to the extent of ten sovereigns, and now, in a fit of nervous terror, comes to me to confess himself a receiver of stolen goods and play the honest man! He says he noticed that the young gentleman was very much agitated as he made the request, and he also begged him to mention his visit to no one. Now, I am curious to learn how Master Harry will get over the fact that he passed the lodge at the hour at which the murder was most probably committed; or how he will get out of the dilemma of having repassed the lodge on his way back to the house, and not noticed the wide-open window with the full moon shining down on it?
“Another word! Keep out of the way when I arrive at the house, somewhere between two and three in the afternoon, to serve the warrant. I do not wish your professional capacity to get wind, for you will most likely yet be of some use to us in the house.
Loveday read this note, seated at Mr. Craven’s writing-table, with the old gentleman himself reclining motionless beside her in his easy-chair. A little smile played about the corners of her mouth as she read over again the words—“for you will most likely yet be of some use to us in the house.”
Loveday’s second day in Mr. Craven’s study promised to be as unfruitful as the first. For fully an hour after she had received Griffiths’ note, she sat at the writing-table with her pen in her hand, ready to transcribe Mr. Craven’s inspirations. Beyond, however, the phrase, muttered with closed eyes—“It’s all here, in my brain, but I can’t put it into words”—not a half-syllable escaped his lips.
At the end of that hour the sound of footsteps on the outside gravel made her turn her head towards the window. It was Griffiths approaching with two constables. She heard the hall door opened to admit them, but, beyond that, not a sound reached her ear, and she realized how fully she was cut off from communication with the rest of the household at the farther end of this unoccupied wing.
Mr. Craven, still reclining in his semi-trance, evidently had not the faintest suspicion that so important an event as the arrest of his only son on a charge of murder was about to be enacted in the house.
Meantime, Griffiths and his constables had mounted the stairs leading to the north wing, and were being guided through the corridors to the sickroom by the flying figure of Moggie, the maid.
“Hoot, mistress!” cried the girl, “here are three men coming up the stairs—policemen, every one of them—will ye come and ask them what they be wanting?”
Outside the door of the sickroom stood Mrs. Craven—a tall, sharp-featured woman with sandy hair going rapidly grey.
“What is the meaning of this? What is your business here?” she said haughtily, addressing Griffiths, who headed the party.
Griffiths respectfully explained what his business was, and requested her to stand on one side that he might enter her son’s room.
“This is my daughter’s room; satisfy yourself of the fact,” said the lady, throwing back the door as she spoke.
And Griffiths and his confrères entered, to find pretty Miss Craven, looking very white and scared, seated beside a fire in a long flowing robe de chambre.
Griffiths departed in haste and confusion, without the chance of a professional talk with Loveday. That afternoon saw him telegraphing wildly in all directions, and dispatching messengers in all quarters. Finally he spent over an hour drawing up an elaborate report to his chief at Newcastle, assuring him of the identity of one, Harold Cousins, who had sailed in the
