The Brightener

As she went on I was thinking fast. Poor Rosemary! I was sure that Gaby had tried to work upon her fears – had promised secrecy if Mrs. Murray would get Doctor Jennings taken on as Ralston's physician. At first Rosemary had been inclined to yield. That must have been at the time when she wired to stop Sir Beverley's visit, if not too late. Then we had appeared on the scene, saying that it was too late, and urging that Sir Beverley might offer Ralston a chance of life. At this Rosemary's love for her husband had triumphed over fears for her own sake. She had realized that by keeping Sir Beverley away she might be standing between her husband and life itself. If there were a ray of hope for him, she determined to help, not hinder, no matter what the cost.

Once she had refused Mrs. Jennings' request, she had been at the woman's mercy; but Gaby had waited, expecting the thing that had happened to-day, and seeing that her best chance for the future lay with Murray. As for Jennings, it might be true that he wasn't in the plot; but if my theory concerning the portraits were correct, he certainly was in it, and had at least partially planned the whole scheme.

I was so afraid Ralston might accept the bargain without stopping to think, that I spoke without giving him time to open his lips. "Before you decide to take Paul Jennings as your doctor, send for an expert to look through your collection of portraits!"

"What have the portraits to do with Doctor Jennings?" asked Ralston, astonished.

I stared at Gaby Jennings as I answered; but a woman who uses liquid powder is fortified against a blush.

"That's what I want you to find out before making a bargain with his wife. All I know is, there are modern copies in the frames which once held your greatest treasures. Only a person free to come and go here for months could bring off such a fraud without too much risk. And if Doctor Jennings had brought it off, would he be a safe person to look after the health of the man he'd cheated?"

Gaby Jennings sprang to her feet. "Lady Courtenaye, my husband can sue you for slander!" she cried.

"He can; but will he?" I retorted.

"I go to tell him of what he is accused by you!" she said. "There is no fear for us, because you have no proof. But it is finished now! I leave this house where I have been insulted, and Major Murray may search the world. He will never find his lost wife!"

"Stop, Mrs. Jennings!" Murray commanded, sharply. "The house is mine, and I have not insulted you. I thank Lady Courtenaye for trying to protect me. But I don't intend to make any accusations against your husband or you. Tell me what you know, and I will write a letter asking Jennings to attend me as my doctor. That I promise."

Gaby Jennings threw me a look of triumph; and I am ashamed to say that for a minute I was so angry at the man's foolhardiness that I hardly cared what happened to him. But it was for a minute only. I felt that Jim would have done the same in his place; and I was anxious to help him in spite of himself.

The Frenchwoman accepted the promise, but suggested that Major Murray might now wish to change his mind: he might like to be alone with her when she made her revelations. Ralston was so far loyal to us, however, that he refused to let us go. We were his best friends, and he was deeply grateful, even though he had to act against our advice.

"Let them hear, then, that Rosemary Brandreth is Rosemary Brandreth to this hour – not Rosemary Murray," Gaby Jennings snapped out. "She is not your wife, because Guy Brandreth is not dead, and they are not divorced. She does not even love you, Major Murray. She loves madly her real husband, and left him only because she was jealous of some flirtation he had with another woman. Then she met you – on shipboard, was it not? – and this idea came into her head: to go through a ceremony of marriage, and get what she could to feather her nest when you were dead, and she was free to return home."

"My God! You lie!" broke out Ralston.

"I do not lie. I can prove to you that I do not. I knew Guy and Rosemary Brandreth before I left the stage. I was acting in the States. People made much of me there, as in England, in those days. In a big town called Baltimore, in Maryland, I met the Brandreths. I met them at their own house and at other houses where I was invited. There could be no mistake. But when I saw the lady here, as your wife, I might have thought her husband was dead; I might have thought that, and no more – except for one thing: she was foolish: she showed that she was afraid of me. Because of her manner I suspected something wrong. Letters take ages, so I cabled to a man who had been nice to me in Baltimore. It was a long message I sent, with several questions. Soon the answer came. It told me that Captain Guy Brandreth is now stationed in Washington. He is alive, and not divorced from his wife. They had a little quarrel, and she sailed for Europe, to stay three or four months, but there was not even gossip about a separation when she went away. My friend said that Captain Brandreth talked often about being anxious for his wife to come back, and instead of taking advantage of her absence, he no longer flirted with the lady of whom Mrs. Brandreth had been jealous. Now you have heard all – and you see all, don't you? I know about the codicil added to your will. You remember, my husband witnessed it, one day when Sir James Courtenaye had meant to come over, but could not? Mrs. Brandreth arranged cleverly. If you had died, as she was sure you would die before the time when she was expected back, she could easily have got your money – everything of which you had been possessed. She waited – always hoping that you might die. But at last she had to give up. She could stay no longer without fear of what her American husband might do. If you don't believe, I will show you the cablegrams I have received. But, in any case, you must read them!" And pulling from her hand-bag several folded papers, Gaby forced them upon Ralston.

Oh, with what horrible plausibility the story hung together! It fitted in with everything I had ever guessed, suspected, or known of Rosemary – except her ethereal sweetness, her seeming love for the man she had now deserted. Could she have pretended well enough to deceive me in spite of my suspicions? Above all, would she have offered the blood from her veins to save Ralston Murray if she had not wanted him to live?

My head buzzed with questions, and no answers were ready. Still I could see, confusedly, that the terrible imposture Rosemary was accused of might have been committed by a woman who loved its victim. Meeting him on shipboard, old feelings might have crept back into her heart. On a mad impulse she might have agreed to make his last weeks on earth happy. As for the money, that extra temptation might have appealed to the worst side of her nature.

When Ralston implored desperately, "Do you believe this of Rosemary?" I could not speak for a moment. I glanced from his despairing face to Jim's perplexed one. Almost, I stammered, "I'm afraid I do believe!" But the look I caught in Gaby's eyes as I turned stopped the words on my lips.

"No, I don't believe it of her – I can't, and won't!" I cried.

"God help me, I do!" groaned Ralston, and breaking down at last, he covered his face with his hands.

CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN IN THE THEATRE

Well, there we had to leave matters for the moment.

Ralston Murray loved us very much, but he didn't wish for our advice. Indeed, he wished for nothing at all from any one – except to be let alone.

He had said to Gaby Jennings that he would always want Rosemary back whatever he heard about her past; but now, believing Gaby's story with its additional proofs, at all events he had no more hope of getting her back. In his eyes she was another man's wife. He did not expect to see her again in this world.

Jim and I could do nothing with him: Jim was helpless because he also, at heart, believed Gaby, and defended Rosemary only to please me; I had ceased to be of use, because I could give no reason for my faith in her. What good to say: "There must be some awful misunderstanding!" when there were those cablegrams from Baltimore and Washington? Gaby would not have shown copies of her own messages with the address of her correspondent, if she hadn't been willing that Murray should make inquiries as to the man's identity and bona fides.

We could not persuade him to wait, before keeping his promise to Mrs. Jennings, until he had heard from America. He knew what he should hear, he said. Besides, a promise was a promise. He didn't care whether Paul had stolen his heirlooms or not, but there was no proof that he had, and people must be presumed innocent until they were found to be guilty. Nor did he care what Jennings' designs on him might be. It was too far-fetched to suppose that the man had any designs; but no greater kindness could now be done to him, Ralston, than to put him for ever out of his misery.

This was mad talk; but in a way Ralston Murray went mad that day when he lost Rosemary. No doctor, no alienist, would have pronounced him mad, of course. Rather would I have seemed insane in my defence of Rosemary Brandreth. But when the man's heart broke, something snapped in his brain. All was darkness there. He had turned his back on hope, and could not bear to hear the word.

We did persuade him, in justice to Rosemary, to let us cable a New York detective agency whose head Jim had known well. This man was instructed to learn whether Gaby's friend had told the truth about Captain Brandreth and his wife: whether she had sailed for Europe on the Aquitania, upon a certain date; and whether the pair had been living together before Mrs. Brandreth left for Europe.

When news came confirming Gaby's story, and, a little later, mentioning that Mrs. Brandreth had returned from abroad, Ralston said: "I knew it would be so. There's nothing more to do." But I felt that there was a great deal more to do; and I was bent on doing it. The next thing was to induce Jim to let me do it.

To my first proposition he agreed willingly. Now that I had shot my bolt, there was no longer any objection to employing detectives against the Jenningses. Indeed, there was a strong incentive. If their guilt could be proved, Ralston Murray would not be quite insane enough to keep Paul on as his doctor.

We both liked the idea of putting my old friend Mr. Smith on to the case, and applied to him upon our own responsibility, without a word to Murray. But this was nothing compared with my second suggestion. I wanted to rush over to America and see for myself whether Rosemary was living in Washington as the wife of Guy Brandreth.

"What! You'd leave me here, and go across the Atlantic without me on a wild-goose chase?" Jim shouted.

"Who said anything about my going without you?" I retorted. "Oh, darling Man, do take me!"

That settled it: and as soon as the thing was decided, we were both keen to start. Our one cause for hesitation was fear for Ralston Murray's safety, now that he had so recklessly flung himself into Paul Jennings' hands. Still, in the circumstances, we could do little good if we stayed at home. Ralston had shut himself up, refusing to see any one – including ourselves. His mental state was bad enough to sap his newly restored health, even if I did Doctor Paul Jennings a grave injustice; and Mr. Smith could watch the Jenningses better than we could.

I did take the precaution to write Sir Beverley that his late patient had fallen into the clutches of the Merriton doctor, and beg him to call at the Manor some day, declining to take 'no' for an answer if he were refused at the door: and then we sailed. It was on the Aquitania again, and every moment brought back some recollection of Rosemary and Ralston Murray.

We travelled straight to Washington after landing, and were met at the station by the young detective Jim's friend had engaged. He had collected the information we needed for the beginning of our campaign, and had bought tickets for the first performance of a new play that night.

"The Brandreths have a party going," he said, "and your places are next to theirs. Yours are at the end of the row, so they'll have to pass you going in, if you're early on the spot."

I liked that detective. He had "struck" a smart idea!

We had only just time to dress and dine at our hotel, and dash to the theatre in a taxi, if we wished to arrive when the doors were opened.

It was lucky we did this, for the audience assembled promptly, in order to hear some music written for the new play by a popular composer. We had hardly looked through the programme after settling down in our chairs when a familiar fragrance floated to me. It was what I had always called "Rosemary's leitmotif," expressed in perfume. I turned my head, and – there she was in great beauty coming along the aisle with three or four men and as many pretty women.

I had got myself up that night expressly to attract attention – Rosemary's attention. I was determined that she should not, while laughing and talking with her friends, pass me by without recognition. Consequently, I was dressed more suitably for a ball than a play. I had on a gown of gold tissue, and my second best tiara, to say nothing of a few more scattered diamonds and a double rope of pearls. It was impossible for the most absent-minded eye to miss me, or my black-browed, red-haired giant in evening dress – Jim. As I looked over my shoulder at Rosemary, therefore, she looked at me. Our gaze encountered, and – my jaw almost dropped. She showed not the slightest sign of surprise; did not start, did not blush or turn pale. Her lovely face expressed good-natured admiration, that was all.

She glanced at Jim, too – as all women do glance – with interest. But it was purely impersonal interest, as if to say, "There's a man!"

Those black brows of his drew together in disapproval, because she had no right to be so rosy and happy, so much more voluptuous in her beauty than she had been when with Ralston Murray. Rosemary, however, seemed quite unconscious of Jim's disgust. She had an air of conquering, conscious charm, as if all the world must love and admire her – such an air as she had never worn in our experience. Having looked us over with calm admiration she marshalled her guests, and was especially charming to one of the women, a dark, glowing creature almost as beautiful as herself. Something within me whispered: "That's the woman she was jealous of! This party is meant to advertise that they're the best of friends."

"Guy, you're to sit next Mrs. Dupont," she directed; and at the sound of her voice my heart gave a little jump. There was a different quality about this voice – a contralto quality. It was heavier, richer, less flutelike than Rosemary's used to be.

Mrs. Dupont and Guy Brandreth passed us to reach their chairs. Guy was a square-jawed, rather ugly, but extremely masculine young man of a type intensely attractive to women.

"She wants to show everyone how she trusts him now!" I thought. "She's giving him Mrs. Dupont practically to himself for the evening."

All the party pushed by, Rosemary and an elderly man, who, it appeared, was Mr. Dupont, coming last. He sat between her and me, and they chatted together before the music began; but now and then she looked past him at me, without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

"Jim," I whispered, "it isn't Rosemary!"

"Well – I was wondering!" he answered. "But – it must be."