However, on diplomatic grounds he suppressed his mirth, and followed his ponderous guide into a sitting-room so small that she almost filled it herself.
As he left the passage he saw a brilliant red head pop down the staircase leading to the basement; but whether it was that of a man or a woman he could not say.
Still, on recalling Miss Greeb's description of the Bensusan household, he concluded that the red head was the property of Rhoda, the sharp servant, and argued from her appearance in the background, and rapid disappearance, that she was in the habit of listening to conversations she was not meant to hear.
Mrs. Bensusan sat down on the sofa, as being most accommodating to her bulk, and cast a watery look around the small apartment, which was furnished in that extraordinary fashion which seems to be the peculiar characteristic of boarding houses.
The walls and carpet were patterned with glowing bunches of red roses; the furniture was covered with stamped red velvet; the ornaments consisted of shells, wax fruit under glass shades, mats of Berlin wool, vases with dangling pendants of glass, and such like elegant survivals of the early Victorian epoch.
Hideous as the apartment was, it seemed to afford Mrs. Bensusan—also a survival—great pleasure; and she cast a complacent look around as Lucian seated himself on an uncomfortable chair covered with an antimacassar of crochet work.
"My rooms are most comfortable, an' much liked," said Mrs. Bensusan, sighing, "but I have not had many lodgers lately.
Rhoda thinks it must be on account of that horrible murder."
"The murder of Vrain in No. 13?"
"Ah!" groaned the fat woman, looking tearfully over her double chin, "I see you have heard of it."
"Everybody has heard of it," replied Lucian, "and I was one of the first to hear, since I live in Miss Greeb's house, opposite No. 13."
"Indeed, sir!" grunted Mrs. Bensusan, stiffening a little at the sound of a rival lodging-house keeper's name. "Then you are Mr. Denzil, the gentleman who occupies Miss Greeb's first floor front."
"Yes. And I have come to ask you a few questions."
"About what, sir?" said Mrs. Bensusan, visibly alarmed.
"Concerning Mr. Wrent."
"You are a friend of his?"
"I said so, Mrs. Bensusan, but as a matter of fact I never set eyes on the gentleman in my life."
Mrs. Bensusan gasped like a fish out of water, and patted her fat breast with her fat hand, as though to give herself courage.
"It is not like a gentleman to say that another gentleman's his friend when he ain't," she said, with an attempt at dignity.
"Very true," answered Lucian, with great composure, "but you know the saying,
'All is fair in love and war.'
I will be plain with you, Mrs. Bensusan," he added, "I am here to seek possible evidence in connection with the murder of Mr. Vrain, in No. 13, on Christmas Eve."
Mrs. Bensusan gave a kind of hoarse screech, and stared at Lucian in a horrified manner.
"Murder!" she repeated. "Lord! what mur—that murder!
Mr. Vrain! Mr. Vrain—that murder!" she repeated over and over again.
"Yes, the murder of Mr. Vrain in No. 13 Geneva Square on Christmas Eve. Now do you understand?"
With another gasp Mrs. Bensusan threw up her fat hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling.
"As I am a Christian woman, sir," she cried, "I am as innocent as a babe unborn!"
"Of what?" asked Lucian sharply.
"Of the murder!" wept Mrs. Bensusan, now dissolved in tears. "Rhoda said——"
"I don't want to hear what Rhoda said," interrupted Lucian impatiently, "and I am not accusing you of the murder.
But—your house is at the back of No. 13."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Bensusan, weeping like a Niobe.
"And a fence divides your yard from that of No. 13?"
"I won't contradict you, sir—it do."
"And there is a passage leading from Jersey Street into your yard?"
"There is, Mr. Denzil; it's useful for the trades-people."
"And I daresay useful to others," said Lucian drily. "Now, Mrs. Bensusan, do you know if any lady was in the habit of passing through that passage at night?"
Before Mrs. Bensusan could answer the door was dashed open, and Rhoda, the red-headed, darted into the room.
"Don't answer, missus!" she cried shortly. "As you love me, mum, don't!"
CHAPTER XV RHODA AND THE CLOAK
The one servant of Mrs. Bensusan was a girl of seventeen, who had a local fame in the neighbourhood on account of her sharp tongue and many precocious qualities.
No one knew who her parents were, or where the fat landlady had picked her up; but she had been in the Jersey Street house some ten years, and had been educated and—in a manner—adopted by its mistress, although Mrs. Bensusan always gave her cronies to understand that Rhoda was simply and solely the domestic of the establishment.
Nevertheless, for one of her humble position, she had a wonderful power over her stout employer, the power of a strong mind over a weak one, and in spite of her youth it was well known that Rhoda managed the domestic economy of the house.
Mrs. Bensusan was the sovereign, Rhoda the prime minister.
This position she had earned by dint of her own sharpness in dealing with the world.
And the local tradesmen were afraid of Rhoda.
"Mrs. Bensusan's devil," they called her, and never dared to give short weight, or charge extra prices, or pass off damaged goods as new, when Rhoda was the purchaser.
On the contrary, No. 9 Jersey Street was supplied with everything of the best, promptly and civilly, at ordinary market rates; for neither butcher, nor baker, nor candlestick maker, was daring enough to risk Rhoda's tongue raging like a prairie fire over their shortcomings.
Several landladies, knowing Rhoda's value, had tried to entice her from Mrs. Bensusan by offers of higher wages and better quarters, but the girl refused to leave her stout mistress, and so continued quite a fixture of the lodgings.