He was rather astonished to find that Mrs. Vrain had arrived, and was deep in conversation with the detective, while a third person, who had evidently accompanied her, sat near at hand, silent, but attentive to what was being discussed.
As the dead man had been close on sixty years of age, and Mrs. Vrain claimed to be his wife, Denzil had quite expected to meet with an elderly woman.
Instead of doing so, however, he beheld a pretty young lady of not more than twenty-five, whose raiment of widow's weeds set off her beauty to the greatest advantage. She was a charming blonde, with golden hair and blue eyes, and a complexion of rose-leaf hue.
In spite of her grief her demeanour was lively and engaging, and her smile particularly attractive, lighting up her whole face in the most fascinating manner.
Her hands and feet were small, her stature was that of a fairy, and her figure was perfect in every way.
Altogether, Mrs. Vrain looked like a sylph or a dainty shepherdess of Dresden china, and should have been arrayed in gossamer robes, rather than in the deep mourning she affected.
Indeed, Lucian considered that such weeds were rather premature, as Mrs. Vrain could not yet be certain that the murdered man was her husband; but she looked so charming and childlike a creature that he forgave her being too eager to consider herself a widow.
Perhaps with such an elderly husband her eagerness was natural.
From this charming vision Lucian's eyes wandered to the attentive third person, a rosy-cheeked, plump little man, of between fifty and sixty.
From his resemblance to Mrs. Vrain—for he had the same blue eyes and pink-and-white complexion—Lucian guessed that he was her father, and such, indeed, proved to be the case.
Link, on Lucian's entrance, introduced him to the sylph in black, who in her turn presented him to the silvery-haired, benevolent old man, whom she called Mr. Jabez Clyne.
At the first sound of their voices Lucian detected so pronounced a twang, and so curious a way of collocating words, as to conclude that Mrs. Vrain and her amiable parent hailed from the States.
The little lady seemed to pride herself on this, and indicated her republican origin in her speech more than was necessary—at least, Denzil thought so.
But then, on occasions, he was disposed to be hyper-critical.
"Say, now," said Mrs. Vrain, casting an approving glance on Lucian's face, "I'm right down glad to see you. Mr. Link here was just saying you knew my husband, Mr. Vrain."
"I knew him as Mr. Berwin—Mark Berwin," replied Denzil, taking a seat.
"Just think of that now!" cried Mrs. Vrain, with a liveliness rather subdued in compliment to her apparel; "and his real name was Mark Vrain.
Well, I guess he won't need no name now, poor man," and the widow touched her bright eyes carefully with a doll's pocket-handkerchief, which Lucian noted, somewhat cynically, was perfectly dry.
"Maybe he's an angel by this time, Lyddy," said Mr. Clyne, in a cheerful, chirping voice, "so it ain't no use wishing him back, as I can see.
We've all got to negotiate kingdom-come some time or another."
"Not in the same way, I hope," said Lucian dryly. "But I beg your pardon, Link, I interrupt your conversation."
"By no means," replied the detective readily. "We had just begun when you entered, Mr. Denzil."
"And it wasn't much of a talk, anyhow," said Mrs. Vrain. "I was only replying to some stupid questions."
"Stupid, if you will, but necessary," observed Link, with gravity. "Let us continue. Are you certain that this dead man is—or rather was—your husband?"
"I'm as sure as sure can be, sir.
Berwin Manor is the name of our place near Bath, and it looks as though my husband called himself after it when he changed his colours.
And isn't his first name Mark?" pursued the pretty widow. "Well, my husband was called Mark, too, so there you are—Mark Berwin."
"Is this all your proof?" asked Link calmly.
"I guess not, though it's enough, I should say.
My husband had a mark on his right cheek—got it fighting a duel with a German student when he was having a high time as one of the boys at Heidelberg.
Then he lost part of his little finger—left-hand finger—in an accident out West.
What other proof do you want, Mr. Link?"
"The proofs you have given seem sufficient, Mrs. Vrain, but may I ask when your husband left his home?"
"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.
I know no more than you do."
"Did you not know where he went on leaving Berwin Manor?"
"Sakes! how should I?
Mark and I didn't pull together nohow, so he kicked over the traces and made tracks for the back of beyond."
"And you might square it, Lyddy, by saying as 'twasn't you who upset the apple cart."
"Well, I should smile to think so," said Mrs. Vrain vigorously. "I was as good as pie to that old man."
"You did not get on well together?" said Link sharply.
"Got on as well as a cat hitched along with a dog.
My stars! there was no living with him.