"Ah! you wish to know who Wrent is?
Well, excuse me for a few minutes, and I'll bring you something to show who he is."
With a nod to Lucian he passed into his bedroom, leaving the barrister much astonished.
He thought that Ferruci was Wrent himself, and had gone away to resume the disguise of wig and beard.
While he pondered thus the Count reappeared, carrying a small bottle in his hand.
"Mr. Denzil," said he, with a ghastly smile, "I have played a bold game, and, thanks to a woman's treachery, I have lost. I hoped to get twenty thousand pounds and a charming wife; but I have gained nothing but poverty and a chance of imprisonment; but I am of noble birth, and I will not survive my dishonour.
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.
CHAPTER XXVIII THE NAME OF THE ASSASSIN
That afternoon London was ringing with the news of Ferruci's suicide; but no paper could give any reason for the rash act.
This inability was due to the police, who, anxious to capture those concerned in the conspiracy to obtain the assurance money of the Sirius Company, kept everything they could out of the papers, lest Lydia and Wrent should be put on their guard, and so escape.
Lucian had been forced to report the death of Ferruci to the authorities.
Now the case was out of his hands again, and in those of Link, who blamed the young barrister severely for not having brought him into the matter before.
The detective was always more prone to blame than to praise.
"But what could I do?" cried Lucian angrily. "You threw up the case twice!
You said the assassin of Clear—or, as you thought, Vrain—would never be discovered!"
"I did my best, and failed," retorted Link, who did not like his position. "You have had better luck and have succeeded."
"My luck has been sheer hard work, Link.
I was not so faint-hearted as you, to draw back at the first check."
"Well, well, the whole truth hasn't been discovered yet, Mr. Denzil.
As you have found out this conspiracy, I may learn who the assassin is."
"We know that already.
The assassin is Wrent."
"You have yet to prove that."
"I?" said Lucian, with disdain. "I prove nothing.
I wash my hands of the whole affair.
You are a detective; let me see what you will make of a case which has baffled you twice!" and Denzil, with rage in his heart, went off, laughing at the discomfiture of Link.
At that moment the detective hated his successful rival with his whole heart.
Lucian took a hansom to the Royal John Hotel in Kensington, where Diana, in a great state of alarm, was reading the evening papers, which contained short notices of Ferruci's death.
On seeing her lover, she hurried forward anxiously and caught him by the hand.
"Lucian, I am so glad you have come!" she cried, leading him to a chair. "I sent messages both to Geneva Square and Sergeant's Inn, but you were neither at your lodgings nor in your office."
"I was better employed, my dear," said Lucian, with a weary sigh, for he was quite worn out with fatigue and anxiety. "I have been with Link, telling him about Ferruci's death, and being blamed as the cause of it."
"You blamed!
And why?" said Diana, with just indignation.
"Because I forced Ferruci to confess the truth, and when he saw that there was every chance of his being put into jail for his villainy, he went to his bedroom and took poison.
You know, Mrs. Clear said the man was something of a chemist, so I suppose he prepared the poison himself.
It was very swift in its action, for he dropped dead before I could recover my presence of mind."
"Lucian! this is terrible!" cried Diana, wringing her hands.
"You may well say that," he replied gloomily. "Now the whole details of the case will be in the papers, and that unfortunate woman will be arrested."
"Lydia! And what will her father say?
It will break his heart!"
"Perhaps; but he must take the consequences of having brought up his daughter so badly.
Still," added Lucian, reflectively, "I do not believe that Lydia is so guilty as Wrent.
That scoundrel seems to be at the bottom of the affair.
Ferruci and he contrived and carried out the whole thing between them, and a precious pair of villains they are."
"Will Wrent be arrested?"
"If he can be found; but I fancy the scoundrel has made himself scarce out of fright.
Since he left Jersey Street, after the murder, he has not been heard of.
Even Mrs. Clear does not know where he is.
You know she has put advertisements in the papers in the cypher he gave her—according to the arrangement between them—but Wrent has not turned up."