This House to Let

now, he is your husband."

  Mrs Spencer rose. It seemed that there was a sense of relief in thefact that the interview was ending so amicably.

  "I would have preferred to remain as I am, but, on the whole, the lifedoesn't suit me, luxurious as it is. I am very fond of Guy really, hehas been so good to me, but I have alienated him from his friends. AndI have to sit here hour after hour by myself, with only my thoughts forcompany."

  "Let us say one week from now I will have that confession ready tosign."

  "And you will bring it here?" suggested Stella.

  "I think not. It will take some time to read through, and we might beinterrupted," was Hugh's answer.

  "At your hotel, then, I suppose?" was the young woman's next suggestion.

  "The same objection applies."

  He scribbled down an address on a piece of paper. "Meet me there thisday week at the hour I have appointed. Nobody will interrupt us, I willtake care of that."

  And Mrs Spencer lay awake half the night, working out a problem thathad suggested itself to her in a flash.

  The next day she lunched with George Dutton in the City. The detectivemight be watching her, but did it matter? Whatever happened at the endof the week, she had burned her boats.

  CHAPTER TWENTY.

  Two months had elapsed since the meeting between Major Murchison andStella Spencer, recorded in the last chapter.

  A handsome, well-set-up man of about thirty was travelling up fromManchester to London. The reason of his journey was his desire to visithis sister, Caroline Masters, who occupied a small flat in theneighbourhood of King's Cross.

  Up to a short time ago this handsome, well-set-up man had been leading avery quiet life in the busy city of Manchester. He was an electricianby trade, and a very clever one. He was civil, well-spoken, intelligentbeyond his station, but he had not foregathered much with hisfellow-workers, had kept himself very much to himself. And yet, strangeto say, this self-isolation had not provoked suspicion or resentment onthe part of his daily associates.

  Reginald Davis, for such was his name, had been unjustly suspected ofmurder, and the police had been hot on his track. Then had come thesuicide in Number 10 Cathcart Square, and his sister, Caroline Masters,had identified the dead body as that of her brother.

  Caroline Masters had always been a plucky, resourceful girl, and devotedto him. The dead man, no doubt, bore some resemblance to himself, andshe had taken advantage of the opportunity to swear to a falseidentification, and remove from him the sleepless vigilance of thepolice. This much she had conveyed to him in a guarded letter.

  Reginald Davis, the man falsely accused of murder, was dead in the eyesof the law: in a sense, he had nothing further to fear. But at the sametime, caution must be observed. The few friends he had were in London;at any time he might run across one or more of them. So, taking anothername, he had hidden himself in Manchester, and corresponded secretlywith the one of the two sisters he could trust, Caroline Masters.

  And then, suddenly, the burden had been lifted from his soul. There wasa small paragraph in the evening newspapers, afterwards reproduced inthe morning ones, which told him that he need not skulk through theworld any longer.

  A man lying under sentence of death for a brutal murder and without hopeof reprieve, had confessed to the crime of which Davis had been falselyaccused. In the paragraph, which was, of course, essentially the samein all the papers, were a few words of sympathy for the unfortunateReginald Davis who had stolen into Number 10 Cathcart Square andcommitted suicide, under a sense of abject terror. The police hadcarefully investigated the statements of the condemned man, with theresult that they found the late Reginald Davis absolutely innocent.

  The late Reginald Davis, very alive and well, knocked at the door of hissister's flat. She had been apprised of his coming, and greeted himaffectionately. She sat him down before a well-cooked supper. He washungry and ate heartily. She did not disturb him with much conversationtill he had finished.

  "Well, Reggie, that was a bit of luck indeed." She was, of course,alluding to the confession of the real murderer. "Now you are as freeas air. You were always a bit of a bad egg, old boy, but never acriminal to that extent."

  "No, hang it all, I am not particular in a general way, but murder wasnot in my line," he answered briefly. "It was hard lines to getscot-free of the other things, and then to be suspected of that at theend."

  He looked at her admiringly. "By Jove! Carrie, you were always thecleverest of the lot of us. That was a brain-wave of yours, walking inand identifying me as the suicide." Mrs Masters smiled appreciatively."Yes, it came to me in a flash. I read the account in the papers. Itstruck me I might do something useful. I went up to the court with thetale of a missing brother. I saw the body; the poor creature might havebeen your twin. Of course, I swore it was you, and gave you a new leaseof life." She added severely, "I hope you have taken advantage of whatI did, and become a reformed character." Davis spoke very gravely."Yes, Carrie, I swear to you I have. That shock was the making of me.I have lain very low, worked hard, and put by money."

  He pulled out an envelope from his breastpocket, and thrust it into herhand; it was full of one-pound notes.

  "Fifty of the best, old girl, for a little nest-egg. I have notforgotten my best pal, you see."

  The tears came into Mrs Masters' eyes. He had been a bad egg, but hehad a good heart at bottom.

  "That is very sweet of you, Reggie; it will come in very useful. Andnow to go back for a moment to Cathcart Square. Who was the poor devilwho killed himself there? He was as like you as two peas are like eachother."

  "I think we have got to find that out," said Reginald Davis gravely."Nor, reading the account in the papers, am I quite sure that it was asuicide."

  "But that was the verdict," interrupted the sister.

  "I know, but there are peculiar things about the case. Lettersaddressed to Reginald Davis were found on him; there was a letter signedReginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner, announcing his intention tocommit suicide. Those letters had been placed there by the person whomurdered him, and that person who murdered him was somebody who knew me,unless it was the accidental taking of a common name."

  "But the razor was clutched in his hand, Reggie!"

  "Quite easy," replied Davis, who, if not a murderer himself, couldeasily project himself, apparently, into the mind of one. "We willassume, for the moment, it was a man. He cut the poor devil's throat,and then thrust the razor into his stiffening hand, to convey the ideaof suicide."

  "It might be," agreed Mrs Masters.

  "Well, Carrie, one thing I have fixed on, and it is one of the thingsfor which I have come up. I go to Scotland Yard to-morrow, tell themstraight I am Reginald Davis, without a stain upon my character, explainto them that you were misled