CHAPTER XVII

PART OF THE TRUTH

For a moment the lovers stared at one another in the luminous twilight. The meeting was so strange, the place where it took place so significant of the trouble that had parted them, that both were overcome with emotion. Anne was as white as the marble tombstone, and looked at him with appealing eyes that beseeched him to go away. But having found her Giles was determined not to lose her again, and was the first to find his tongue.

"Anne!" said he, and stepped towards her with open arms.

His voice broke the spell which held her chained to the ill-omened spot, and she turned to fly, only to find herself on his breast and his dear voice sounding entreatingly in her ears.

"Anne," he said in a hoarse whisper, "you will not leave me now?"

After a brief struggle she surrendered herself. There was no danger of any one coming to the churchyard at this hour, and since they had met so unexpectedly, she—like the tender, sweet woman she was—snatched at the blissful moment. "Giles," she murmured, and it was the first time he had heard her lips frame his name. "Giles!"

Again there was a silence between them, but one of pure joy and transcendental happiness. Come what might, nothing could banish the memory of that moment. They were heart to heart and each knew that the other loved. There was no need of words. Giles felt that here was the one woman for him; and Anne nestled in those beloved arms like a wild bird sheltering from storm.

But the storm which buffeted her wings would tear her from this refuge. The passionate delight of that second of Eden passed like a shadow on the sun dial. From heaven they dropped to earth, and parted once more by a hand-breath, stared with haggard looks at one another. The revulsion was so great that Anne could have wept; but her sorrow was so deep that her eyes were dry. For the gift of the world she could not have wept at that hour.

But she no longer felt an inclination to fly. When she saw how worn and thin her lover looked, she knew that he had been suffering as much as she had, and a full tide of love swelled to her heart. She also had lost much of her beauty, but she never thought of that. All she desired was to comfort the man that loved her. She felt that an explanation was due to him, and this she determined to give as far as she could without incriminating others.

Taking his hand in her own, she led him some little distance from the grave of Daisy; and they seated themselves on a flat stone in the shadow of the church, and a stone's throw from the park wall. Here they could converse without being seen, and if any one came they could hear the footsteps on the gravelled path, and so be warned. And throughout that short interview Anne listened with strained attention for the coming step. At the outset Giles noted her expectant look and put his arm round her.

"Dearest, do not fear," he said softly. "No one will come; and if any one does I can save you."

"No," she replied, turning her weary eyes on him. "I am under a ban. I am a fugitive from the law. You cannot save me from that."

"But you are innocent," he said vehemently.

"Do you believe that I am, Giles?"

"Do I believe it? Why should you ask me such a question? If you only knew, Anne, I have never doubted you from the first. Never! never!"

"I do know it," she said, throwing her arms round his neck. "I have known all along how you believed in my innocence. Oh, Giles, my darling Giles, how shall I be able to thank you for this trust?"

"You can, Anne, by becoming my wife."

"Would you marry me with this accusation hanging over me?"

"I would make you my wife at this moment. I would stand beside you in the dock holding your hand. What does it matter to me if all the foolish world think you guilty? I know in my own heart that you are an innocent woman."

"Oh, Giles, Giles!" Then her tears burst forth. She could weep now, and felt the better for that moment of joyful relief. He waited till she grew more composed, and then began to talk of the future.

"This can't go on for ever, Anne," said he decisively; "you must proclaim your innocence."

"I can't," she answered, with hanging head.

"I understand. You wish to protect this man. Oh, do not look so surprised. I mean with the man you fled with—the man Wilson."

"I don't know any one called Wilson."

"Anne!"—he looked at her keenly—"I implore you to tell me the truth. Who is this man you fled with to Gravesend—with whom you went on board the yacht?"

"Is that known?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Yes. A great deal is known."

"Portia never told me that," she murmured to herself.

"Who is Portia?"

"She lives at the Priory, and——"

"I see. She is the red-haired, freckle-faced girl—the daughter of Mr. Franklin. Morley told me that. Portia! What a stately name for that dreadful young person!"

"But indeed, Giles, she is a good girl, and has been a kind friend to me," explained Anne eagerly. "She told me all about you, and how you believed in my innocence."

"Ah!" exclaimed Giles, "then that was why she seemed so pleased to hear my name. I met her in the park just now, Anne——"

"You met her in the park?" Anne half rose to go. He drew her down.

"Yes, dearest. But don't be alarmed. She will never think that we have met. She was looking for this." And Giles took out the coin.

Anne gave a cry of delighted surprise. "Oh," she said, taking it eagerly, "I thought I had lost it forever. And you found it, Giles?"

"I found it," he replied gravely. "It was that discovery which made me believe that you were in the neighborhood. And then when Olga——"

"Olga." Anne looked at him suddenly. "Do you know her?"

"Very well. She is your friend."

"My best friend. She loves me like a sister."

Giles could have told her that the sisterly love was not to be trusted, but she had so much trouble that he could not find it in his heart to add to her worries. Besides, time was slipping by, and as yet he knew nothing of the truth of the matter.

"Tell me why you fled with that man," he asked.

"Giles, I will tell you all," she replied earnestly, "but on your part let me hear what is being done about the death of poor Daisy. It will set my mind at rest. You see how I have taken care of her grave, dear. Were I guilty would I do that?"

"I never thought you guilty," he repeated impatiently. "How many times have I to say that?"

"As many as you can bring your mind to repeat," she replied. "It is sweet to think that you love me so well, that you can refuse to believe evil of me in the face of the evidence against me."

"Anne, Anne, why did you fly?"

"Tell me how the case stands against me and what you have discovered," she asked in a composed voice, and with a visible effort to command her feelings. "And I shall tell you all that I can."

As time was precious Giles did not lose a moment. He plunged into the story of all that had taken place, from his interview with Mrs. Parry to the finding of the coin which had first given him his clue to the whereabouts of Anne. Also he touched lightly upon the visit of Olga to Rickwell, but was careful not to allude to her feelings towards him. Since Anne believed the woman to be her friend, he wished her to remain in that belief. He was not the one to add to her sorrows. And even when she was cleared of the charge and became his wife Ware determined that he would never speak of Olga's treachery. For her own sake he knew that the Hungarian would be silent.

Anne listened in silence to his recital, and when he ended drew a sigh of relief. "It might have been worse," she said.

"I don't see how it could be," replied Ware bluntly. "Morley will insist that you are guilty, and Steel thinks so too. I must admit that he wavers between you and this man you fled with. Come now, Anne, tell me all."

"I shall not have much time," she said hurriedly. "I dare not let Mr. Franklin know that I have met you. If I am not back in the Priory soon, he will send Portia to look for me."

"You can tell me much in ten minutes. Who is the man?"

"My father," she replied in a low voice.

Giles could hardly speak for surprise. "But your father is dead?"

"I thought he was," said Anne. "I have believed it these many months. But when I saw him in Mr. Morley's library on that night I knew that he still lived."

"But I can't understand how you made such a mistake. Does Morley know?"

She shook her head. "I managed to restrain myself. Mr. Morley knows nothing. Afterwards I went to the church in the hope of meeting my father. He was in church."

"I saw him," said Giles; "but tell me how the mistake occurred."

"My father lived in Florence, and——"

"Is his name Walter Franklin?"

"That is his real name; but he was known in Florence as Alfred Denham."

"You spoke to Olga Karacsay about him under that name?"

"Yes, because I did not know until lately that his name was Walter Franklin. Nor did I know that George Franklin, who inherits Daisy's money, was his brother."

"So George Franklin is your uncle and Portia your cousin?"

"Yes; but let me go on. My father lived in Florence. I was often away from home, as I was engaged as a governess. I came to England and met Olga at the Institute. I procured an engagement in London; it was the one I had before Mrs. Morley engaged me. I received news that my father was ill of typhoid fever. I hurried at once to Florence. He not only was dead, but he was buried, so I was informed by Mark Dane."

"Who is Mark Dane?"

"He was my father's secretary."

"One moment, Anne. Your uncle stated that he was the man who lived in Florence, and that your father being a scamp lived in England. On account of Walter George resided abroad."

"That is quite true. But Walter—I may speak of my father so for the sake of clearness—used to come sometimes to Florence. George never knew that he was there, thinking that he was in London. I learned all this lately. At the time my father and I lived in Florence I knew nothing of the relationship between George and Walter. My father knew that if Daisy died his brother would inherit the money, and he kept a watch on George so as to see if he would come into the property. But I knew nothing of this, neither did Mark, although he was deep in my father's confidence. Well, as I say, my father was supposed to have died. I expect another corpse was buried in his place. Mark no doubt agreed to the fraud, whatever was the reason. But I have not seen Mark since immediately after the death, and can't get an explanation. I saw him in Florence, and he told me that my father was dead and buried. Since then I have not seen him."

"So you returned to England, thinking your father was dead?"

"Certainly. He left me a little money. I went back to my situation. Afterwards I came down here. On that New Year's Eve I entered the library and saw my father speaking to Mr. Morley. I disguised my feelings, as I was certain he did not wish to be recognized. But the shock was so great that I nearly fainted. I went up to my room, and afterwards to church to see my father. He was there, as you know. I saw him pass a paper to Daisy. She went out ten minutes later; he followed. I wished to see him, and I was curious to know why he had come to Rickwell and had let me think he was dead. Shortly afterwards I went outside. It was snowing fast. I could not see my father or Daisy. Suddenly I came across my father. He was beside the grave of Mr. Kent. Daisy was lying on the ground. He gasped out that she was dead, and implored me to save him."

"Do you think he killed her?"

"No. Afterwards he denied that he did. But at the time I believed that he was guilty. I saw that he would be arrested, and in a frenzy of alarm I cast about for some means to save him. I remembered your motor-car was waiting at the gates. I sent Trim away on an errand——"

"I know, I know! You deceived him!"

"To save my father," replied Anne quietly. "I got the car in this way and went off with my father. He told me to go to Gravesend, where he had a yacht waiting. Near Gravesend the car upset. We left it on the roadside and walked to Tilbury. A boatman ferried us across the river, and we went on board the yacht."

"Did you know your father was the owner of the yacht?"

"No, I did not. He said that it belonged to a friend. We departed in the yacht and went to a French port, then on to Paris."

"And it was from Paris that you sent me the drawing of the coin."

"Yes; I knew that appearances were against me, and could not bear to think that you should believe me guilty. I did not dare to send any letter, but I knew you would recognize the drawing of the Edward VII. coin, and so sent it as you saw."

"How long did you stay in Paris?"

"For some weeks. Then we went to Italy, to Florence."

"Wasn't your father recognized?"

"No; he had altered his appearance. He gave me no reason at first for doing this, but afterwards told me that he was engaged in a political conspiracy, something to do with the Anarchists."

"Is the red cross the symbol of some society?"

"I can't say. He refused to explain the mystery of the cross to me. I admit fully, Giles, that I cannot understand my father. His ways are strange, and he leads a most peculiar life. Afterwards George Franklin, my uncle, came to England and inherited the property. My father sent me to him with an explanation. My uncle refused to believe that I was guilty, and gave me shelter in his house until such time as my character could be cleared. I came over and have been hiding in the Priory ever since. I was so sorry for poor Daisy and for her unexpected death that I came to see after her grave. I found it neglected, and thus went to clean it, as you see. Portia, my cousin, has been very good to me. I have stayed in all day and have walked out in the evening. No one knows that I am here. No one will ever know unless you tell."

"I tell? Anne, what do you take me for? I will keep quiet until I can clear your character, and make you my wife."

"You must not see me again."

"No," sighed Giles, "it will not be wise. But can't you tell me who killed Daisy, and thus clear yourself?"

Anne shook her head.

"I wish I could. But my father declares that he came out to see the girl, and found her already dead on the grave face downwards. She had been killed during the time he waited behind. He saw that there was a danger of his being accused of the crime, since he had asked her to leave the church. Thus it was that he lost his presence of mind and called on me to save him. I did so on the impulse of the moment, and thus it all came about."

"Where is your father now?"

Anne thought for a moment.

"I would tell you if I knew," she said seriously, "as I know you will not betray him. But I don't know where he is. Since I have been here I have not heard a word from him."

"Your uncle?"

"If my uncle knew, he would hand my father over to the police. He hates him; but he is always kind to me."

"Anne, I wonder if your uncle killed Daisy to inherit the money?"

"No; he was in Italy at the time. I am sure of that."

"Has your father any suspicion who killed Daisy?"

"No. He says he has not."

"Why did he ask her to leave the church? And how did he manage it?"

"He wished to speak to her about George Franklin, who would inherit the money if she died. I believe he intended to warn her that George was dangerous, for he hates my uncle."

"Did your father know that the money had been left at the time?"

"No. It was only because he was on the spot that he wished to see Daisy. He wrote on a scrap of paper that he wished to see her about the money, and she came out."

"She was always eager after that miserable money," said Ware sadly. "But your father did know that Powell was dead at the time, Anne." And he told her of his discoveries in connection with the office boy. "So you see your father was in England masquerading as Wilson," he finished.

"Yes," said Anne, with a shudder, "I see now. But he told me nothing of this. Indeed, I can't understand my father at all."

"Do you know the meaning of the Scarlet Cross?"

"No; he refuses to tell me. He won't say why he pretended to be dead; and in every way he is most mysterious. But I am fond of my father, Giles, although I know he is not a good man. But he did not kill Daisy; I am sure of that. And even at the time I thought he had done so I saved him. After all he may be as bad as possible; but he is my father, and I owe him a daughter's affection."

Giles would have argued this, but at the moment Anne started to her feet. She heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and without a word to Giles she flew over the low wall and darted across the park. He was too astonished by this sudden departure to say a word. He had lost her again. But he knew where she was after all.