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"Committed for trial, is he? well, they couldn't do much else!"

It was the verdict of Mrs. Curtis, at the Carew Arms, as she watched the crowd pouring down the village street.

Carew village had never known such excitement within the memory of man. Lord Chesterham, in some extraordinary way, had turned out not to be Lord Chesterham at all, but Ronald Lee, whom many of the villagers remembered as a child, and, as if this news was not thrilling enough, he had been brought before the magistrates that morning charged with having murdered somebody—the true Lord Chesterham, some people said it was—up in London.

He had attempted to commit suicide too, and had been carried into court that morning with his leg swathed in bandages. Small wonder was there that there had not been standing room in the magistrates' court—that the whole population of the neighbourhood seemed to have turned out, eager to learn all that there was to be learned of this astonishing story.

Inspector Furnival came down the street with Stephen Crasster.

"I congratulate you, inspector," Crasster was saying, as they neared the Carew Arms. "You have done a difficult piece of work marvellously well. I wonder what it was that first gave you the clue that enabled you to straighten out the tangle?"

The inspector pondered a minute, his hand on the garden gate.

"I think it was the blue star of the Chesterhams! But I must premise that I never believed Lady Carew guilty. Though very soon it was a matter of certainty with me that she was Warden's mysterious visitor, I felt a premonition all along that Warden's murderer must be searched for elsewhere. The blue star made me feel sure that there was some connection between Warden and the Chesterhams too."

"It seems a very slight thing to have led to so momentous a conclusion," Crasster said thoughtfully. "I can't make out how you guessed the man to be an impostor, either. I say inspector, I think I will come in with you for a minute or two"—as he became suddenly aware that their colloquy was exciting an unusual amount of interest from the passers-by—"we shall have a crowd round us in no time if we stand here."

"By all means, sir." The inspector stood back. "It is not often the folks down here get anything like this to talk about," he added as he shut the gate.

They did not enter the house, but walked up and down the garden paths.

"You want to know what made me think him an impostor, sir?" the inspector went on. "Well, when the idea first occurred to me I had nothing to go on but guesswork. His friendship for the Lees was the first definite thing I had to put me on the track. I had the pleasure of 'assisting' at one of his interviews with old Betty, as our French neighbours say, and that was enough to show me that she, at any rate, suspected a mystery. Then I could find no trace of anyone who might have been Warden among the Chesterham collaterals. Although his likeness to them, as well as the blue star, proved that he must have been related. The only illegitimate descendant of whom I could find any definite trace was young Ronald Lee, and he had no blue star. Later I found that young Lee had a passion for tattooing, and also from his gipsy relatives he had learned many tricks of colouring. I became sure that one of them, either Warden or the man called Lord Chesterham, had simulated the star, and, on the whole, it didn't seem to me it was so likely to be the dead man. The impersonation supplied the motive for the murder, you see."

"As one can't doubt after to-day's evidence," Crasster assented. "The murder must have been premeditated, inspector.

"Distinctly," the inspector agreed. "He had discovered that Lady Carew was to be there, and laid his plans accordingly, so the suspicion should turn upon her. There can be no doubt that he was waiting in the outer room to accomplish his purpose; the accidental turning out of the light gave him his opportunity, and he instantly availed himself of it. He must then have gone out of the flat and watched. He met Lady Carew on the stairs designedly, to frighten her, to show her that she was in his power; and when he had left her he went back to the flat, having previously provided himself with a key—you remember the wax on the lock—and took all the papers that proved Stanmore to be the heir to the peerage of Chesterham. He trusted to his knowledge of the family history, and his undoubted likeness to the Chesterhams, to enable him to carry out the rest. It was a diabolical scheme, and might have succeeded, but that he gave himself away over the pistol. Undoubtedly he left it in the flat to implicate Sir Anthony or Lady Carew. He had forgotten that when he picked it up there was ink on the table-cloth, that some of it got on his hands, and that therefore his finger-prints were left on the revolver. That was what turned my suspicion into a certainty. When I applied to him for a warrant later I managed to upset some ink, and obtain some impressions of his thumb and fingers. They corresponded with those on the revolver, and thus practically clinched the matter."

"Well, it has been a pretty smart thing," concluded Crasster. "And it will be a feather in your cap for years to come, inspector. There are not many men who could have cleared up the mystery as you have. Bless my life"—with a sudden change of tone, as they suddenly turned a corner—"who is this?"

A woman stood before them on the path, a small scarlet fury of a woman, her little piquante face distorted with rage, her black eyes blazing. The inspector cast one glance at her, and then, distinguished police officer though he was, looked as though he was about to run away.

But Célestine placed herself directly in front of him.

"Good day to you, Meestare Lennox—or Inspector Furnival," she said, subduing her shaking voice to accents of ironic politeness. "So it is a—well what you call—police officer you are, after all!"

Crasster with difficulty repressed a smile; the inspector's face threatened to become a copper colour.

"That is it, mademoiselle," he responded, with a gallant attempt to appear at his ease.

Célestine doubled up her little black-gloved fist.

"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."