Of herself Miss Skinner said nothing. Her straight black gown, and poke-bonnet, seemed sufficiently to tell her story.
She ended her fragmentary scraps of her family history in a faltering voice, and with eyes that swam in tears.
“I pray for the two night and day, sir,” she said, clasping her hands together, “without ceasing, I beseech the Good Shepherd to—”
“But,” interrupted Clive, anxious to bring her back to the point where his interest was keenest, “did your sister on your arrival here give you no hint as to what was on her mind?”
“I know up to a certain point, sir. When I first arrived here, although she was suffering terribly, there was no fever on her, and she could talk calmly at intervals. In her sleep she used to mutter a good deal about some diamonds which, she seemed to fear, might get her and someone else into trouble.”
Clive gave a great start.
“Diamonds!” he ejaculated.
“Yes, sir. So once, when she seemed suffering a little less, I asked her if she had anything in her possession that did not rightfully belong to her. At first she refused to answer; but when I spoke to her about the great judgement seat before which she must shortly stand, she grew frightened, and told me to fetch her a certain box out of one of her drawers. I did so, and found in it a magnificent diamond brooch that had had some of its stones removed. This she desired me to take to the church of the Carmelites on Sunday, and put into the offertory bag. It would then, she said, no doubt, get back to its rightful owner, for there had been advertisements out offering a large reward for it.”
“But did she give you no idea how the brooch came into her possession?” exclaimed Clive.
It was hard to be brought thus to the edge of an explanation, and then be left as much in the dark as ever.
“None whatever, sir, and she grew so rapidly worse that it became impossible to question her. In her delirium the name of Culvers was very often on her lips. I spoke to John about this, and told him also about the brooch, and what I had done with it. Upon this he was very angry; he called me a fool, and said that if I had given the brooch to him he would have returned it to Lord Culvers, and had five hundred pounds for his pains.”
“And does John know nothing of how your sister obtained the brooch?”
“He says not, sir, and flies into a passion whenever I mention it to him. And although my poor sister has again and again in her delirium muttered the name of Culvers, she has never again alluded to the brooch. Last night, as I watched beside her, she muttered once or twice, ‘send for him—send for him.’ I could think of no one but Lord Culvers that she could wish sent for; so the first thing this morning I went to John, and asked him if he knew Lord Culvers’s address so that I might telegraph to him Mary’s wish to see him, for I could not tell what might lie behind it. John was rough, and refused me any information. One of John’s associates, however, a man who once or twice has been moved by the Lord to show me a kindness, followed me down the stairs from John’s rooms, and told me that Lord Culvers would be in Paris today, and most likely at the Hôtel Bristol in the afternoon.”
Mystery seemed increasing upon mystery.
“Who was that man? How on earth could he know anything of Lord Culvers’s movements?” exclaimed Clive.
“I don’t know, sir. His name is Johnson; off and on he is a good deal with John. I wish I could tell you more, sir. Mary seemed slightly better, and was sleeping quietly when I went out this afternoon, and I was hoping that she might have rallied enough to explain matters to you; but alas! while I was away a change set in, and I fear now that she will carry her secret into the grave with her.”
It was a long story. Clive had listened to it with the closest attention, summing up, meanwhile, in an undercurrent of thought, its many and diverse details, weighing them, as it were, in order to discover what bearing they might have on the main facts.
“I must see your brother,” he said, as she finished speaking, “and ask him a few questions. Give me his address, that is if you do not expect him back again here shortly.”
Miss Skinner shook her head.
“I may not see him for days, sir,” she answered, “unless I go to him, and then, most likely, I shall find him sound asleep, for he is up half the night and in bed half the day.”
Then she fetched pen and ink and wrote her brother’s address upon a slip of paper.
“I have done my best, sir,” she said, as she handed it to Clive and noted his dissatisfied expression of countenance. “I have felt all through that a great deal lies behind all this; but how to get at it I do not know.”
Clive needed no telling that a great deal lay behind the story he had just heard. Mystery seemed accumulating upon mystery; clouds seemed thickening, not lifting.
“I must go back to the sickroom now, sir,” she said, after waiting a moment for an answer. “My poor Mary may want me. And I must pray—pray for the poor lost lamb to the very last. Will you care to wait here
