On hearing the confession of the girl, both men looked at one another in amazement. How could Cuthbert’s photograph have come into the possession of Senora Gredos, and why had Susan Grant stolen it? And again, why did she hint that she had held her tongue about the matter for the sake of Mallow? Jennings at once proceeded to get at the truth. While being examined Susan wept, with an occasional glance at the bewildered Cuthbert.
“You were with Maraquito as parlor-maid?”
“With Senora Gredos? Yes, sir, for six months.”
“Do you know what went on in that house?”
Susan ceased her sobs and stared. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, looking puzzled. “It was a gay house, I know; but there was nothing wrong that I ever saw, save that I don’t hold with cards being played on Sunday.”
“And on every other night of the week,” muttered Jennings. “Did you ever hear Senora Gredos called Maraquito?”
“Sometimes the gentlemen who came to play cards called her by that name. But she told her maid, who was my friend, that they were old friends of hers. And I think they were sorry for poor Senora Gredos, sir,” added Miss Grant, naively, “as she suffered so much with her back. You know, she rarely moved from her couch. It was always wheeled into the room where the gambling took place.”
“Ah. You knew that gambling went on,” said Jennings, snapping her up sharply. “Don’t you know that is against the law?”
“No, sir. Do you know?”
Cuthbert could not restrain a laugh. “That’s one for you, Jennings,” said he, nodding, “you often went to the Soho house.”
“I had my reasons for saying nothing,” replied the detective hastily. “You may be sure I could have ended the matter at once had I spoken to my chief about it. As it was, I judged it best to let matters remain as they were, so long as the house was respectably conducted.”
“I’m sure it was conducted well, sir,” said Susan, who appeared rather indignant. “Senora Gredos was a most respectable lady.”
“She lived alone always, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.” Then Susan hesitated. “I wonder if she had a mother?”
“Why do you wonder?”
“Well, sir, the lady who came to see Miss Loach —”
“Mrs. Herne?”
“I heard her name was Mrs. Herne, but she was as like Senora Gredos as two peas, save that she was older and had gray hair.”
“Hum!” said Jennings, pondering. “Did you ever hear Senora Gredos speak of Mrs. Herne?”
“Never, sir. But Mrs. Pill — the cook of Miss Loach — said that Mrs. Herne lived at Hampstead. But she was like my old mistress. When I opened the door to her I thought she was Senora Gredos. But then the scent may have made me think that.”
Jennings looked up sharply. “The scent? What do you mean?”
“Senora Gredos,” explained Susan quietly, “used a very nice scent — a Japanese scent called Hikui. She used no other, and I never met any lady who did, save Mrs. Herne.”
“Oh, so Mrs. Herne used it.”
“She did, sir. When I opened the door on that night,” Susan shuddered, “the first thing I knew was the smell of Hikui making the passage like a hairdresser’s shop. I leaned forward to see if the lady was Senora Gredos, and she turned her face away. But I caught sight of it, and if she isn’t some relative of my last mistress, may I never eat bread again.”
“Did Mrs. Herne seem offended when you examined her face?”
“She gave a kind of start —”
“At the sight of you,” said Jennings quickly.
“La, no, sir. She never saw me before.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” muttered the detective. “Did you also recognize Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale as having visited the Soho house?”
“No, sir. I never set eyes on them before.”
“But as parlor-maid, you must have opened the door to —”
“Just a moment, sir,” said Susan quickly. “I opened the door in the day when few people came. After eight the page, Gibber, took my place. And I hardly ever went upstairs, as Senora Gredos told me to keep below. One evening I did come up and saw —” here her eyes rested on Cuthbert with a look which made him turn crimson. “I wish I had never come up on that night.”
“See here, my girl,” said Mallow irritably, “do you mean to say —”
“Hold on, Mallow,” interposed Jennings, “let me ask a question.” He turned to Susan, now weeping again with downcast eyes. “Mr. Mallow’s face made an impression on you?”
“Yes, sir. But then I knew every line of it before.”
“How was that?”
Susan looked up surprised. “The photograph in Senora Gredos’ dressing-room. I often looked at it, and when I left I could not bear to leave it behind. It was stealing, I know,” cried Miss Grant tearfully, “and I have been brought up respectably, but I couldn’t help myself.”
By this time Cuthbert was the color of an autumn sunset. He was a modest young man, and these barefaced confessions made him wince. He was about to interpose irritably when Jennings turned on him with a leading question. “Why did you give that photograph to —”
“Confound it!” cried Mallow, jumping up, “I did no such thing. I knew Maraquito only as the keeper of the gambling house. There was nothing between —”
“Don’t, sir,” said Susan, rising in her turn with a flush of jealousy. “I saw her kissing the photograph.”
“Then she must be crazy,” cried Mallow: “I never gave her any occasion to behave so foolishly. For months I have been engaged, and —” he here became aware that he was acting foolishly in talking like this to a love-sick servant, and turned on his heel abruptly. “I’ll go in the next room,” said he, “call me when you wish for my presence, Jennings. I can’t possibly stay and listen to this rubbish,” and going out, he banged the door, thereby bringing a fresh burst of tears from Susan Grant. Every word he said pierced her heart.
“Now I’ve made him cross,” she wailed, “and I would lay down my life for him — that I would.”
“See here, my girl,” said Jennings, soothingly and fully prepared to make use of the girl’s infatuation, “it is absurd your being in love with a gentleman of Mr. Mallow’s position.”
Miss Grant tossed her head. “I’ve read Bow–Bells and the Family Herald, sir,” she said positively, “and many a time have I read of a governess, which is no more than a servant, marrying an earl. And that Mr. Mallow isn’t, sir.”
“He will be when Lord Caranby dies,” said Jennings, hardly knowing what to say, “and fiction isn’t truth. Besides, Mr. Mallow is engaged.”
“I know, sir — to Miss Saxon. Well,” poor Susan sighed, “she is a sweet young lady. I suppose he loves her.”
“Devotedly. He will be married soon.”
“And she’s got Miss Loach’s money too,” sighed Susan again, “what a lucky young lady. Handsome looks in a husband and gold galore. A poor servant like me has to look on and keep her heart up with the Church Service. But I tell you what, sir,” she added, drying her eyes and apparently becoming resigned, “if I ain’t a lady, Senora Gredos is, and she won’t let Mr. Mallow marry Miss Saxon.”
“But Mr. Mallow is not in love with Senora Gredos.”
“Perhaps not, sir, but she’s in love with him. Yes. You may look and look, Mr. Jennings, but lame as she is and weak in the back and unable to move from that couch, she loves him. She had that photograph in her room and kissed it, as it I saw with my own eyes. I took it the last thing before I went, as I loved Mr. Mallow too, and I was not going to let that Spanish lady kiss him even in a picture.”
“Upon my word,” murmured Jennings, taken aback by this vehemence, “it is very strange all this.”
“Oh, yes, you gentlemen don’t think a poor girl has a heart. I couldn’t help falling in love, though he never looked my way. But that Miss Saxon is a sweet, kind, young lady put upon by her mother, I wouldn’t give him up even to her. But I can see there’s no chance for me,” wept Susan, “seeing the way he has gone out, banging the door in a temper, so I’ll give him up. And I’ll go now. My heart’s broken.”
But Jennings made her sit down again. “Not yet, my girl,” he said firmly, “if you wish to do Mr. Mallow a good turn —”
“Oh, I’ll do that,” she interrupted with sparkling eyes, “after all, he can’t help giving his heart elsewhere. It’s just my foolishness to think otherwise. But how can I help him, sir?”
“He wants to find out who killed Miss Loach.”
“I can’t help him there, sir. I d............