The Red Symbol. Ironside John

murder! How thrilling. Do tell us all about it,” cried a pretty, kittenish little woman whose name I did not know. Strange how some women have an absolutely ghoulish taste for horrors!

      “Give him a chance, Mrs. Vereker,” interposed Jim hastily, with his accustomed good nature. “He hasn’t had a drink yet. Moselle cup, Maurice, or a long peg?”

      He brought me a tall tumbler of whiskey and soda, with ice clinking deliciously in it; and I drank it and felt better.

      “That’s good,” I remarked. “I haven’t had anything since I breakfasted with you,—forgot all about it till now. You see I happened to find the poor chap—Cassavetti—when I ran up to say good-bye to him.”

      “Cassavetti!” cried Jim and Mary simultaneously, and Mary added: “Why, that was the man who sat next us—next Anne—at dinner last night, wasn’t it? The man the old Russian you told us about came to see?”

      I nodded.

      “The police are after him now; though the old chap seemed harmless enough, and didn’t look as if he’d the physical strength to murder any one,” I said, and related my story to a running accompaniment of exclamations from the feminine portion of my audience, especially Mrs. Vereker, who evinced an unholy desire to hear all the most gruesome details.

      Jim sat smoking and listening almost in silence, his jolly face unusually grave.

      “This stops your journey, of course, Maurice?” he said at length; and I thought he looked at me curiously. Certainly as I met his eyes he avoided my gaze as if in embarrassment; and I felt hot and cold by turns, wondering if he had divined the suspicion that was torturing me—suspicion that was all but certainty—that Anne Pendennis was intimately involved in the grim affair. He had always distrusted her.

      “For a day or two only. Even if the inquest is adjourned, I don’t suppose I’ll have to stop for the further hearing,” I answered, affecting an indifference I was very far from feeling.

      “Then you won’t be seeing Anne as soon as you anticipated,” Mary remarked. “I must write to her to-morrow. She’ll be so shocked.”

      “Did Miss Pendennis know this Mr. Cassavetti?” inquired Mrs. Vereker.

      “We met him at the dinner last night for the first time. Jim and Maurice knew him before, of course. He seemed a very fascinating sort of man.”

      “Where is Miss Pendennis, by the way?” pursued the insatiable little questioner. “I was just going to ask for her when Mr. Wynn turned up with his news.”

      “Didn’t I tell you? She left for Berlin this morning; her father’s ill. She had to rush to get away.”

      “To rush! I should think so,” exclaimed Mrs. Vereker. “Why, she was at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s last night; though I only caught a glimpse of her. She left so early; I suppose that was why—”

      I stumbled to my feet, feeling sick and dizzy, and upset the little table with my glass that Jim had placed at my elbow.

      “Sorry, Mary, I’m always a clumsy beggar,” I said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll ask you to excuse me. I must get back to the office. I’ve to see Lord Southbourne when he returns. He’s been out motoring all day.”

      “Oh, but you’ll come back here and sleep,” Mary protested. “You can’t go back to that horrible flat—”

      “Nonsense!” I said almost roughly. “There’s nothing wrong with the flat. Do you suppose I’m a child or a woman?”

      She ignored my rudeness.

      “You look very bad, Maurice,” she responded, almost in a whisper, as we moved towards the house. I was acutely conscious that the others were watching my retreat; especially that inquisitive little Vereker woman, whom I was beginning to hate. When we entered the dusk of the drawing-room, out of range of those curious eyes, I turned on my cousin.

      “Mary—for God’s sake—don’t let that woman—or any one else, speak of—Anne—in connection with Cassavetti,” I said, in a hoarse undertone.

      “Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?” she faltered.

      “He doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s considerably upset,” said Jim’s hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the garden. “You go back to your guests, little woman, and make ’em talk about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there’s no stopping her; and if they won’t serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave Maurice to me. He’s faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of himself even more than usual! Off with you!”

      Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.

      “All right; I’ll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him come back to-night, though.”

      She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.

      “Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell me all about it.”

      “There’s nothing to tell,” I persisted. “But I guess you’re right, and hunger’s what’s wrong with me.”

      I managed to make a good meal—I was desperately hungry now I came to think of it—and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.

      “That’s better,” he said, as I declined cheese, and lighted a cigarette. “‘When in difficulties have a square meal before you tackle ’em; that’s my maxim,—original, and worth its weight in gold. I give it you for nothing. Now about this affair; it’s more like a melodrama than a tragedy. You know, or suspect, that Anne Pendennis is mixed up in it?”

      “I neither know nor suspect any such thing,” I said deliberately. I had recovered my self-possession, and the lie, I knew, sounded like truth, or would have done so to any one but Jim Cayley.

      “Then your manner just now was inexplicable,” he retorted quietly. “Now, just hear me out, Maurice; it’s no use trying to bluff me. You think I am prejudiced against this girl. Well, I’m not. I’ve always acknowledged that she’s handsome and fascinating to a degree, though, as I told you once before, she’s a coquette to her finger-tips. That’s one of her characteristics, that she can’t be held responsible for, any more than she can help the color of her hair, which is natural and not touched up, like Amy Vereker’s, for instance! Besides, Mary loves her; and that’s a sufficient proof, to me, that she is ‘O. K.’ in one way. You love her, too; but men are proverbially fools where a handsome woman is concerned.”

      “What are you driving at, Jim?” I asked. At any other time I would have resented his homily, as I had done before, but now I wanted to find out how much he knew.

      “A timely warning, my boy. I suspect, and you know, or I’m very much mistaken, that Anne Pendennis had some connection with this man who is murdered. She pretended last night that she had never met him before; but she had,—there was a secret understanding between them. I saw that, and so did you; and I saw, too, that her treatment of you was a mere ruse, though Heaven knows why she employed it! I can’t attempt to fathom her motive. I believe she loves you, as you love her; but that she’s not a free agent. She’s not like an ordinary English girl whose antecedents are known to every one about her. She, and her father, too, are involved in some mystery, some international political intrigues, I’m pretty sure, as this unfortunate Cassavetti was. I don’t say that she was responsible for the murder. I don’t believe she was, or that she had any personal hand in it—”

      I had listened as if spellbound, but now I breathed more freely. Whatever his suspicions were, they did not include that she was actually present when Cassavetti was done to death.

      “But she was most certainly