Annie Haynes Premium Collection – 8 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Annie Haynes

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      "And the things you collect," she went on with a catch in her breath, "they are poor silly women's secrets—and their hearts. Ah! ah! is it not so, Monsieur Lennox?"

      But the inspector was pulling himself together now.

      "Their secrets perhaps," he said with a little hard laugh. "We poor police officers haven't much time to think of other things, mademoiselle."

      Hearing the new note in his voice, Célestine stared at him in astonishment for a minute: then to his consternation she burst into tears.

      "Oh it is hard—hard!" she sobbed. "You are a very cruel man, Mr. Lennox. You have broke my heart just to amuse yourself to find out my little secrets. And now what am I to do? No lady will take me for her maid again. Oh, yes, you have ruined me and broke my heart!"

      The inspector wiped his brow. "Mademoiselle—"

      Crasster glanced at him. "Let me speak to her, inspector. Oh, I don't think your heart is broken, mademoiselle!" he said in a bantering tone. "Unless it is at the fate that has overtaken your friend, Lord Chesterham. That must have been a delightful walk you took with him in the Lount Wood the other day."

      Célestine flashed a wrathful glance at him from beneath the shadow of her lace-trimmed handkerchief.

      "I do not know what you mean, monsieur!" she said.

      "Don't you?" Crasster questioned, still smiling. "I think you will remember presently, mademoiselle. I was taking a short cut through the wood, and it happened that I was behind you and the prisoner who was brought before the magistrate to-day. I saw—"

      "Ah!—you are a devil! I hate you!" Célestine burst forth, her whole frame shaking with fury, her eyes blazing.

      "Do you? I am sorry for that!" Crasster said coldly, "but you will forgive me by and by, mademoiselle, when you realize that your friend the inspector is guiltless in the matter of breaking hearts. And as for another situation, why I am sure Lady Palmer will be pleased to do all she can to help you to get one. It will be the least she can do, since you tried so hard to help her when you were at Heron's Carew."

      "Ah, ah!" with a moan like some wounded animal, Célestine stared at him for a moment, then she turned her back on them, and flew down the path, a small tornado of wrath.

      "Phew!" The inspector took off his cap and rubbed his forehead. "That was an awkward quarter of an hour, sir. If it hadn't been for you—"

      "Well, I have no scruples, in dealing with Célestine," Crasster laughed. "She was perfectly willing to sell her mistress to anyone. She was carrying on an underhand flirtation with that scoundrel Lee, or Chesterham, and doubtless giving him information, which he could use for his own purposes; and certainly at one time she was in Lady Palmer's pay, and that lady is, as we know, anything but a friend of Lady Carew. Oh, I don't think you have anything to reproach yourself with, inspector."

      Sir Anthony Carew led his wife, at the close of the proceedings at the police court, from the seat she had occupied between the Dowager Lady Carew and Mrs. Rankin, to their own carriage. As he took his place beside her, he saw that she was very pale, that every line in her attitude spoke of utter exhaustion. Though every impulse was bidding him to take her in his arms, tell her that he would hold her thus against all the world, the whiteness and the weariness of her seemed to forbid it.

      She did not open her eyes, or move unless it were to shrink further from him into her corner, as he looked at her, and for very pity her husband forebore to speak. That day's ordeal had been terrible to her he knew, though the kindness of the magistrates and the counsel had minimized it as far as might be. Though the nature of the tie that had bound her to Stanmore had not yet become common property, he knew that it must be inevitably disclosed at the trial, and the knowledge was gall and wormwood to him.

      Yet his thought now was not of his sullied pride, of the disgrace she had brought upon his name, but of her, his wife, the woman he loved, lying there before him, humbled to the very dust, her fair beauty dimmed, the very life of her seemingly quenched. His touch was very tender as the carriage stopped before the door of Heron's Carew, and he helped her up the steps and across the wide low hall into the drawing-room. A great roomy Chesterfield stood before the fire, and he placed her in it, propped her up with pillows. Then, seeing her wanness, her utter exhaustion, he went himself and brought wine and delicate sandwiches, and coaxed her to eat and drink, not resting until he had seen a fair amount swallowed and a faint tinge of colour coming back to the white cheeks and lips.

      As she gave him back the glass, and lay lack in her cushions, he bent over her.

      "Judith!"

      The big eyes, looking almost black in the shadow, glanced up at him for one moment, then veiled themselves in their long lashes, her breath quickened. "Is it really true that you—that I am—"

      He knelt down beside her, and took the weak hand, on which her wedding ring shone, in his. "It is certain, Judith. I put Shapcote on, and there can be no doubt that Cyril Stanmore"—he gulped over the name—"married an actress, one Phyllis Champion, when he was a young fellow, not one and twenty, and she was living a year ago. Therefore there can be no doubt. You are my wife—you have always been my wife!"

      "Your wife!" Judith stirred restlessly and turned her face towards the sofa cushions. "Anthony, what can I say? I am not worthy—it is only for Paul's sake—and yet how can I be glad when I remember that but for this you would be free—you could begin again."

      "Begin again!" Anthony had captured both the small cold hands now, he chafed them, laying them against his heart. "How should I begin again, child? What do you mean?"

      Judith's head was very low now; her golden hair dropped on the cushions.

      "I thought perhaps you were sorry you had married me before—" she said painfully. "When Sybil Palmer—" in answer to his questioning exclamation.

      There was a moment's silence; then Judith found her arms drawn round her husband's neck. "Sybil Palmer!" he repeated, with a contemptuous laugh. "I never knew you had heard that story, Judith. Yes, I thought myself very fond of Sybil in the old days, but I know now that it was never real love at all, never for a day. And now—now, surely my wife knows that the world holds only one woman for me."

      A soft ray of light was stealing over Judith's white face now, and yet it seemed too good to be true. Her arms slackened their hold.

      "You will never be able to forgive me for deceiving you."

      Sir Anthony drew her slight form to his breast. He laid his face against the gleaming hair. "There is no need for forgiveness between us sweetheart," he said tenderly. "But," as he felt her quick movement, "if there were—if you had done anything that in any way wronged me, don't you know that a man forgives anything—everything to—"

      Judith was resting now against his broad chest, her cheek pressed against the rough cloth of his coat, her hair lying across his shoulder in glittering disorder, her soft white arms twined round his throat. She trembled as she lay there, as she heard the quiver in his strong voice.

      "Yes, he forgives everything to whom, Anthony?" she questioned softly.

      He stooped nearer, drew her closely to him in his strong arms, laid his lips tenderly, passionately on hers. "To the woman he loves," he whispered. "Didn't you know that Judith, my darling, my wife."

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