"So Vrain is alive, after all!" was Lucian's comment on the speech of Jorce, "and he is here under your charge? Jove! it's wonderful!
Diana was right, after all!"
"Diana?
Who is Diana?" queried Jorce, then held up his hand to stop his visitor from replying. "Wait!
I know! Vrain mentioned his daughter Diana."
"Yes, she is the daughter of Vrain, and she believes her father to be alive."
"On what grounds?"
"Because the dead man, whom, until lately, she believed to be Mr. Vrain, had one of his little fingers missing.
That fact came to her knowledge only a week ago.
When it did, she declared that the deceased could not be her father."
"H'm!" said Jorce thoughtfully, "I am quite in the dark as to why Mr. Vrain was put under my charge."
"Because Ferruci wished to marry his widow."
"I see! Ferruci substituted another man for my patient and had him killed."
"Evidently," replied Lucian; "but I am almost as much in the dark as you are, Dr. Jorce.
Tell me how Vrain came to be placed here, and, exchanging confidence for confidence, I'll let you know all I have discovered since the death of the man in Geneva Square who called himself Berwin."
"That is a fair offer," replied Jorce, clearing his throat, "and one which I willingly accept. I do not wish you to think that I am in league with Signor Ferruci.
What I did was done honestly.
I am not afraid of telling my story."
"I am sure of that," said Lucian heartily. "I guessed that Ferruci had not trusted you altogether, from the time he feigned that your evidence was needed only to decide a bet."
"Trust me!" echoed Jorce, with scorn. "He never trusted me at all.
He is too cunning for that.
However, you shall hear."
"I'm all attention, Doctor."
"A week before last Christmas, Signor Ferruci called to see me, and explained that he was interested in a gentleman called Michael Clear, whom he had met some years before in Italy.
Clear, he said, had been most intimate with him, but later on had indulged so much in the morphia habit that their friendship had terminated with high words. Afterwards, Clear had returned to England, and Ferruci lost sight of him for some months. Then he visited England, and one day found Clear in the street, looking ill and wretched.
The man had become a confirmed morphiamaniac, and the habit had weakened his brain.
The Count pitied the poor creature, according to his own story, and took him to his home, the whereabouts of which Clear was happily able to remember."
"Where is the house?" asked Lucian, taking out his pocketbook.
"Number 30, St. Bertha's Road, Bayswater," replied Jorce; and when the barrister, for his private information, had made a note of the address, he continued: "It then appeared that Clear was married.
The wife told Ferruci that she was afraid of her husband, who, in his fits of drink—for he drank likewise—often threatened to kill her.
They had lost their money, and the poor woman was at her wit's end what to do.
Ferruci explained to me that out of friendship he was most anxious to befriend Clear, and stated that Mrs. Clear wished to get her husband cured.
He proposed, therefore, to put Clear into my asylum, and pay on behalf of the wife."
"A very ingenious and plausible plan," said Lucian. "Well, Doctor, and what did you say?"
"I agreed, of course, provided the man was certified insane in the usual way.
Ferruci then departed, promising to bring Mrs. Clear to see me.
He brought her late on Christmas Eve, at ten—"
"Ah!" interrupted Lucian, "did she wear a black gauze veil with velvet spots?"
"She did, Mr. Denzil.
Have you met her?"
"No, but I have heard of her.
She was the woman who visited Wrent in Jersey Street.
No doubt Ferruci was waiting for her in the back yard."
"Who is Wrent?" asked Jorce, looking puzzled.
"Don't you know the name, Doctor?"
"No."
"Did Mrs. Clear never mention it?"
"Never."
"Nor Ferruci?"
"No.