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You wish to know who Wrent is you shall never know." He raised the bottle to his lips before Lucian, motionless with horror, could rush forward, and the next moment Count Ercole Ferruci was lying dead on the floor. That afternoon London was ringing with the news of Ferruci's suicide; but no paper could give any reason for the rash act.
"Why did you buy the cloak?" asked Lucian, satisfied with this explanation. "I bought it for Wrent. He asked me to buy it, but what he wanted it for I do not know. He had it some days before Christmas, and, I believe, gave it to Mrs. Clear, and afterwards to the girl Rhoda. But of this I am not sure." "Who is Wrent?" asked Denzil, reserving the most important question for the last.
I chose Clear because he was like Vrain. I made the scar on the cheek, and I thought he would die soon, being consumptive." "And you killed him?" "No! No! I swear I did not kill him!" "Did you not take that stiletto from Berwin Manor?" "No! I never did! I am telling the truth! I do not know who killed Clear." "Did you not visit Wrent in Jersey Street?" "Yes.
"Lawks! no, sir!" wheezed Mrs. Bensusan, shaking her head. "I've never set eyes on him since he went. 'Ave you, Rhoda?" Whereat the girl shook her head also, and watched Lucian with an intensity of gaze which somewhat discomposed him. "Did he owe you any money when he went, Mrs. Bensusan?" "No, sir. He paid up like a gentleman. I always thought well of Mr. Wrent."
Wrent, I guess; there ain't no two questions about that," finished Lydia triumphantly. "He is the assassin, you bet!" "I don't believe it!" cried Diana furiously. "Why, my father is too weak in the head to have the will, let alone the courage, to masquerade like that. He is like a child in leading-strings." "That's his cunning, Diana.
Who is Wrent, anyhow?" "I don't know. An old man with white beard and a skull-cap of black velvet." "Ugh!" said Mrs. Vrain, with a shiver. "Mark used to wear a black skull-cap, and the thought of it makes me freeze up. Sounds like a judge of your courts ordering a man to be lynched. Well, Mr. Denzil, it seems to me as you'd best hustle Ercole.
However, the main point about all this evidence is, that neither Ferruci nor Lydia Vrain killed your father." "No! no! that seems clear. Still! still! they know about it. Oh, I am sure of it. It must have been Ferruci who was in Pimlico on that night. If so, he knows who Wrent is, and why he stayed in Jersey Street." "Perhaps, although he denies ever hearing the name of Wrent.
If Wrent thinks she'll tell tales, he'll meet her in their own hunting grounds in Geneva Square, to make his terms. Hitherto he has not replied to her requests for money, but now he'll think she is driven into a corner, and will fix her up once and for all." "Do you think that Wrent is Vrain?" "Good Lord! no!" replied Link, staring. "What put that into your head?"
But the real Vrain, neglecting his personal appearance, had cultivated a long, white beard, and wore a black velvet skull-cap to conceal a baldness which had come upon him. I disguised myself in this fashion, therefore, and went to Pimlico under the name of Wrent." "In Geneva Square, Pimlico, I found the house I wanted.
You ain't going to talk bad of Mr. Wrent?" "It ain't bad, and it ain't good," replied Rhoda. "It's betwixt and between." "Well, I must 'ear all. I don't want the character of the 'ouse took away," said Mrs. Bensusan, with an attempt at firmness. "That's all right," rejoined Rhoda reassuringly, "you can jine in yerself when y' like. Fire away, Mr. Denzil." "Who is Mr.
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