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"I don't know if that motive is quite strong enough to justify this woman in risking her neck," responded the barrister. "As Mrs. Vrain of Berwin Manor she had an ample income, for your father seems to have left all the rents to her, and spent but little on himself; also she had an assured position, and, on the whole, a happy life. Why should she risk losing these advantages to gain more money?"
At the same time, he was impatient of lingering in the heart of the clammy fog at such a late hour; so, as his companion seemed indisposed to move, he caught him again by the arm without ceremony. The abrupt action seemed to waken again the fears of Berwin. "Where would you take me?" he asked, resisting the gentle force used by Lucian. "To your own house. You will be ill if you stay here."
"About a year ago, eh, poppa?" "You are overdoing it, Lyddy," corrected the father. "Size it up as ten months, and you'll do." "Ten months," said Lucian suddenly, "and Mr. Berwin " "Vrain!" struck in Lydia, the widow, "Mark Vrain." "I beg your pardon! Well, Mark Vrain took the house in Geneva Square six months back. Where was he during the other four?" "Ask me something easier, Mr. Denzil.
We agreed that when Clear died, and his body was identified as Vrain's, that the real man should be put in an asylum, which was and I am sure every one will agree with me the best place for him. "All this being arranged, I went out to look for a house in a secluded part of the town, in which Clear under the name of Berwin should live until he died as Vrain.
"Not even of those who are after you?" hinted Denzil, recalling the conversation of the previous occasion. Berwin gave a kind of eldritch shriek and stepped back a pace, as though to place himself on his guard. "What what do you know about such such things?" he panted. "Only so much as you hinted at when I last saw you." "Yes, yes! I was not myself on that night.
For the next week Lucian resolutely banished the subject from his thoughts, and declined to discuss the matter further with Miss Greeb. That little woman, all on fire with curiosity, made various inquiries of her gossips regarding the doings of Mr. Berwin, and in default of reporting the same to her lodger, occupied herself in discussing them with her neighbours.
Some suspicion seemed to engender a mixture of terror and defiance which placed him on his guard against undue intimacy, even when some undefined fear was knocking at his heart. "Who are you?" he demanded in a steadier tone. "How do you know my name?" "My name is Denzil, Mr. Berwin, and I live in one of the houses of this square. As you mention No. 13, I know you can be none other than Mr.
Firstly, that Berwin was in hiding; secondly, that he saw people secretly who entered in some way we cannot discover; and thirdly, that to solve the problem it will be necessary to look into the past life of the dead man." "Your third conclusion brings us round to the point whence we started," retorted Link. "How am I to discover the man's past?"
"No, I think not," replied the man, who looked wretchedly ill. "You can bring my breakfast to-morrow." "At nine, sir?" "At the usual time," answered Berwin impatiently. "Go away!" Mrs. Kebby gave a final glance round to see that all was in order, and shuffled out of the room as fast as her rheumatism would let her.
Berwin so called was dead; he was buried under his assumed name, and there, so far as the obtainable evidence went, was an end to the strange tenant of the Silent House. Gordon Link, the detective charged with the conduct of the case, confessed as much to Denzil. "I do not see the slightest chance of tracing Berwin's past," said he to the barrister.
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