A silent witness
“You spoke of your friends. Are any of them known to me?”
“Well,” I replied, “I was referring more particularly to your
daughter.”
She continued to regard me fixedly, and, after a brief interval,
rejoined:
“You are referring to my daughter. But I do not recall the existence
of any such person. I think you must be mistaken.”
It seemed extremely probable, and I hastened to amend the description.
“I beg your pardon. I should have said Miss Vyne. But perhaps she is
not at home.”
“You are evidently mistaken,” was the paralyzing reply. “I am Miss
Vyne; and I need not add that I am at home.”
“But,” I demanded despairingly, “is there not another Miss Vyne?”
“There is not,” she answered. “But it is possible that you are
referring to Miss Sylvia Vyne. Is that so?”
I replied sulkily that it was; and being somewhat nettled by this
unnecessary and rather offensive hair-splitting, offered no further
remark. How the conversation would have proceeded after this, I cannot
even surmise. But it did not proceed at all, for the embarrassing
silence was brought to an end by a very agreeable interruption. The
door opened softly and for one moment Sylvia herself stood framed in
the portal; then, with a little cry, she ran towards me with her hands
held out impulsively and the prettiest smile of welcome.
“So it is really you!” she exclaimed. “That silly little goose of a
maid has only just told me you were here. I _am_ glad to see you. When
did you graciously please to descend from the clouds?”
“I arrived home this afternoon, and as soon as I had changed and had
lunch I came here to report myself.”
“How nice of you,” said Sylvia. “I suppose you guessed how anxious we
should be?”
“I didn’t presume to think that you would actually be anxious about
me,” I replied, with a furtive eye on the waxwork, “though I knew that
you had been kind enough to express an interest in my fate.”
“What a cold-bloodedly polite way to put it!” laughed Sylvia.
“‘Express an interest,’ indeed! We were most dreadfully worried about
you.”
To a somewhat friendless man like myself this sympathetic warmth was
very delightful, and my pleasure was not appreciably damped when a
chill, emotionless voice affirmed:
“The use of the first person singular would, I think, be preferable.”
Sylvia turned on her aunt with mock ferocity.
“Well, really,” she exclaimed. “You are a dreadful impostor, Mopsy,
dear! Just listen to her, Dr. Jardine. And if you had only seen what a
twitter she was in as the time went on and no news came!”
I gasped, and the hair seemed to stir on my scalp. Mopsy! The name was
obviously not applied to me. But could it be--was it possible that
such a name could be associated with that terrific old lady? It was
inconceivable. It was positively profane! It was almost as if one
should presume to address the Deity as “old chap.” I could hardly
believe my ears.
I glanced at her nervously and caught her glittering eye; but the
grotesque face was as immovable as everlasting granite, though,
indeed, by some ventriloquial magic, the word “Rubbish” managed to
disengage itself from her person.
“It isn’t rubbish,” retorted Sylvia. “It’s the plain truth. We were
both worried to death about you. And no wonder. Dr. Thorndyke was very
quiet and matter-of-fact, but there was no disguising his fear that
something dreadful had happened to you. And then there was the
advertisement in the papers. Did you see that? Oh, it’s nothing to
grin about. You’ve given us all a nice fright; and me especially,
because, of course, I naturally thought of that ruffian from whom you
rescued me in the lane.”
“But he never saw me.”
“You don’t know. He may have done. At any rate, you owe us an
explanation; so, when the tea comes in you shall give us the true
story of your adventures. I hope you’ve let Dr. Thorndyke know about
your resurrection.”
I reassured her on this point, and as the “goose of a maid” now
brought in the tea, I proceeded to “pitch my yarn” as the skipper had
expressed it, without those reservations that I had considered
necessary in the case of Mrs. Blunt.
The old lady, having been unmasked by Sylvia, developed a slight
tendency to thaw. She even condescended, in a rigid and effigean
fashion, to consume bread and butter; a proceeding that seemed to me
weirdly incongruous, as though one should steal into the British
Museum in off hours and find the seated statue of Amenhotep the Third
in the act of refreshing itself with a sandwich and a glass of beer.
But I was less terrified of her now since I had gathered that a core
of warm humanity was somewhere concealed within that grim exterior;
and even though her little sparkling eyes were fixed on me immovably,
I told my story to the end without flinching.
Sylvia listened to my narration with a rapt attention that greatly
flattered my vanity and made me feel like a very Othello, and when I
had finished, she regarded me for awhile silently and with an air of
speculation.
“It’s a queer affair,” she said at length, “and there is a smack of
mystery and romance about it that is rather refreshing in these
commonplace days. But I don’t like it. Adventure is all very well, but
there seems to have been a deliberate attempt to make away with you;
unless you think it may have been a piece of silly horse-play that
went farther than it was meant to.”
“That is quite possible,” I replied untruthfully--for I didn’t think
anything of the sort, and only made this evasive answer to avoid
raising other and more delicate issues.
“I hope that is the explanation,” said Sylvia, “though it sounds
rather a lame one. You would know if you had an enemy who might wish
to get rid of you. I suppose you don’t know of any such person?”
It was a rather awkward question. I didn’t want to tell an untruth,
but, on the other hand, I knew that Thorndyke would not wish to have
my affairs discussed while his investigations were in progress; so I
“hedged” once more, replying, quite truthfully, that I was not
acquainted with anyone who bore me the slightest ill-will.
My adventures done with, the talk drifted into other channels and
presently came round to the little crucifix that had been the occasion
of Sylvia’s disagreeable experience in the lane. In spite of my
confusion, I had noticed, on first entering the room, that the old
lady was wearing suspended from her neck, a small enamelled crucifix,
and had instantly identified it and wondered not a little that she
should be thus disporting herself in borrowed ornaments; but when
Sylvia had arrived, behold, the original crucifix was hanging on its
chain from _her_ neck. From time to time during my recital my eyes had
wandered from one to the other seeking some difference or variation
but finding none, and at length my inquisitive glances caught the
younger lady’s attention.
“I can see, Dr. Jardine,” said she, “that you are eaten up with
curiosity about the crucifix that my Aunt is wearing. Now confess.
Aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admitted. “When I first came in I naturally thought it was
yours. Is it a copy?”
“Certainly not,” said Miss Vyne, the elder. “They are duplicates.”
Sylvia laughed. “You’d better not talk about copies,” said she. “My
aunt has only acquired her treasure lately, and she is as proud of it
as a peacock; aren’t you, dear?”
“The sensations of a peacock,” replied Miss Vyne, “are unknown to me.
I am very gratified at possessing the ornament.”
“Gratified indeed!” said Sylvia. “I consider such vanity most
unsuitable to a person of your age. But they _are_ very charming, and
there is quite a little story attached to them. My father and a cousin
of his--”
“By marriage,” interposed Miss Vyne.
“You needn’t insist on that,” said Sylvia, “as if poor old Vitalis
were a person to be ashamed of. Well, my father and this cousin were
at a Jesuit school in Belgium--at Louvain, in fact--and among the
teachers in the school was an Italian Jesuit named Giglioli. Now the
respected Giggley--”
“--oli,” interposed Miss Vyne in a severe voice.
“--oli,” continued Sylvia, “had formerly been a goldsmith; and the
Father Superior, with that keen eye to the main chance which you may
have noticed among professed religious, furnished him with a little
workshop and employed him in making monstrances, thuribles and church
plate in general. It was he who made these two crucifixes; and, with
the Father Superior’s consent, he gave one to my father and the other
to the cousin as parting gifts on their leaving school. As the boys
were inseparable friends, the two crucifixes were made absolute
duplicates of one another, with the single exception that each had the
owner’s name engraved on the back. When my poor father died his
crucifix became mine, and a short time ago, his cousin--who is now
getting an old man--took a fancy that he would like the two crucifixes
to be together once more and gave his to my aunt. So here they are,
after all these years, under one roof again.”
As she finished speaking, she detached the crucifix from her neck and,
having given it to me to examine, proceeded to remove its fellow from
the neck of the elder lady--who not only submitted quite passively but
seemed to be unaware of the transaction--and handed that to me also.
I laid them side by side in my palm and compared them, but could not
detect the slightest difference between them. They were complete
duplicates. Each was a Latin cross with trefoiled extremities, wrought
from a single piece of gold and enriched with champlevé enamel. The
body of the cross was filled with a ground of deep, translucent blue,
from which the figure stood out in rather low relief, and the space
between each of the trefoils was occupied by a single Greek
letter--Iota and Chi at the top and bottom respectively, and at the
ends of the horizontal arm Alpha and Omega. On turning them over, I
saw that the back of each bore an engraved inscription carried across
the horizontal arm, that on Sylvia’s reading: “A.M. Robertus, D.G.,”
while that on the other read: “A.M. Vitalis, D.G.”
“They are very charming little things,” I said, as I returned them to
Sylvia; “and it was a pretty idea of the old Jesuit to make them both
alike for the two friends. I suppose he didn’t make any more of them
for his other pupils?”
“What makes you ask that?” demanded Sylvia.
“I am thinking of that man in the lane. He must have had some reason
for claiming the crucifix as his, one would think; and as these are
quite unlike any ordinary commercial jewellery, the suggestion is that
the worthy Giglioli was tempted to repeat his successes. What do you
think?”
“I think,” said Miss Vyne, “that the suggestion is inadmissable.
Father Giglioli was an artist, and an artist does not repeat himself.”
“I am inclined to agree with my aunt,” said Sylvia. “An artist does
not care to repeat a design, excepting for a definite purpose, as in
the case of these duplicates; especially when the thing designed is
intended as a gift.”
To this I gave a somewhat qualified assent, though I found the
argument far from convincing; and, as I had made a very long
visitation, especially for a first call, I now rose to depart.
“I hope I may be allowed to come and see you again,” I ventured to say
as Miss Vyne raised a sort of semaphore arm to my extended hand.
“I see no reason why you should not,” she replied judicially. “You
seem to be a well-disposed young man, though indiscreet.
Good-afternoon.”
I bowed deferentially and then, to my gratification, was escorted as
far as the garden gate by Sylvia; who evidently wished to gather my
impressions of her relative, for, as she let me out, she asked with a
mischievous smile:
“What do you think of my aunt, Dr. Jardine?”
“She is rather a terrifying old lady,” I replied.