"Murdered!" I gasped, springing to my feet. "Impossible!"
"I've just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I
didn't stop to make an examination."
Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps
which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to
my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were
alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in
the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing
approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of
Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at
one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St Martin's Lane;
while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of
the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my
chambers could be reached was the porter's box, but placed in such a
position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the
stairs.
I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her,
but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry
of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky.
It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his
box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening,
across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the
stage-door of the Alhambra.
"Blood!" I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that
it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not
been caused by a fall.
"Yes," exclaimed Bryant, "she's evidently been stabbed. Do you know
her?"
"Know her!" I cried. "She's my intended wife!"
"Your betrothed!" he gasped. "My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a
frightful shock for you!" And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly
raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no
movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either
of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor
at the top of St Martin's Lane.
Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment
later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon
Bryant's arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast.
Respiration had returned.
I bent, fondly kissing her chilly lips, and striving vainly to staunch
the ugly wound, until suddenly it struck me that the best course to
pursue would be to at once remove her to my room; therefore we carefully
raised her, and with difficulty succeeded in carrying her upstairs, and
laying her upon my bed.
My feeling in these moments I cannot analyse. For months, weary months,
during which all desire for life had passed from me, I had sought her to
gain her love, and now, just as I had done so, she was to be snatched
from me by the foul, dastardly deed of some unknown assassin. The fact
that while the electric lights were shedding their glow in every part of
the building they were extinguished upon that small landing was in
itself suspicious. Bryant referred to it, and I expressed a belief that
the glass of the two little Swan lamps had been purposely broken by the
assassin.
At last after a long time the doctor came, a grey-haired old gentleman
who bent across the bed, first looking into her face and then pushing
back her hair, placed his hand upon her brow, and then upon her breast.
Without replying to our eager questions, he calmly took out his pocket
knife, and turning her upon her side, cut the cord of her corsets, and
slit her bodice so that the tightness at the throat was relieved.
Then, calling for a lamp and some water, he made a long and very careful
examination of the wound.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, apparently satisfied at last. "The attempt was a
desperate one. The knife was aimed for her heart."
"But will she die, doctor?" I cried. "Is the wound likely to be
fatal?"
"I really can't tell," he answered gravely. "It is a very serious
injury--very. No ordinary knife could inflict such a wound. From the
appearance of it I should be inclined to think that a long surgeon's
knife was used."
"But is there no hope?" I demanded. "Tell me the truth."
"It is impossible at present to tell what complications may ensue," he
responded. "The best course is to inform the police of the affair, and
let them make inquiries. No doubt there has been a most deliberate
attempt at murder. Your servant tells me," he added, "that the lady is
a friend of yours."
"Yes," I said; "I intend making her my wife; therefore you may imagine
my intense anxiety in these terrible circumstances."
"Of course," he replied, sympathetically. "But have you any suspicion
of who perpetrated this villainous crime?"
I thought of that thin, crafty, bony-faced scoundrel Hibbert, and then
responded in the affirmative.
"Well, you'd better inform the police of your suspicions, and let them
act as they think proper. I've seen the spot where your friend
discovered her, and certainly it is just the spot where an assassin
might lie in wait, commit a crime, and then escape into the street
unseen. My advice is that you should inform the police, and let them
make inquiries. I only make one stipulation, and that is that no
question must be asked of her at present--either by you, or by any one
else. If you'll allow me I'll send down a qualified nurse, whom I can
trust to carry out my instructions--for I presume you intend that she
should remain here in your chambers until she is fit to be removed?"
"Certainly," I answered eagerly. "I leave all to you, doctor; only
bring her back to me."
"I will do my utmost," he assured me. "It is a grave case, a very grave
one indeed," he added, with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form; "but
I have every hope that we shall save her by care and attention. I'll go
back to the surgery, get some dressing for the wound, and send at once
for the nurse. No time must be lost."
"And you think I ought to inform the police?" I asked.
"As you think fit," the doctor responded. "You say you have a suspicion
of the identity of the would-be assassin. Surely you will not let him
go unpunished?"
"No!" I cried in fierce resolution. "He shall not go unpunished." But
on reflection an instant later it occurred to me that Muriel herself
could tell us who had attacked her, therefore it would be best to await
in patience her return to health.
The doctor left to obtain his instruments and bandages, while Bryant,
Simes, and myself watched almost in silence at her bedside. The
kind-hearted old doctor before he went, however, asked us to leave the
room for a few minutes, and when we returned we found he had taken off
her outer clothing, improvised a temporary bandage, and placed her
comfortably in bed, where she now lay quite still, and to all
appearances asleep. From time to time in my anxiety I bent with my hand
glass placed close to her mouth to reassure myself that she was still
breathing. It became slightly clouded each time, and that gave me the
utmost satisfaction and confidence.
After a quarter of an hour the old man returned, while a little later
the nurse, in her neat grey uniform, was in the room, attending to her
patient, quickly and silently, and assisting the doctor to cleanse and
bandage the wound with a dexterity which had been acquired by long
acquaintance with surgical cases.
With Bryant I retired into the sitting-room while these operations were
in progress, and when I again entered my bedroom I found the lights
lowered and the nurse calmly sitting by Muriel's side. Then the doctor
assured me that she would be quite right for three hours, and that
during the night he would look in again; and with this parting
re-assurance he left, accompanied out by Bryant.
Through that night I had but little repose, as may be imagined. The
long hours I spent in trying to read or otherwise occupy myself, but
such was the intensity of my anxiety that times without number I went
and peeped in at the half-open door of my bedroom, wherein lay my
beloved, motionless, still as one dead.
A whole week went by. Two or three times daily the doctor called, but
by his orders I was not allowed in the room, and it was not until nearly
a fortnight had gone by that I entered and stood by her bedside. Even
then I was forbidden to mention the circumstances of that night when
such a desperate attempt had been made upon her life. Therefore I stood
by her with words of love only upon my lips.
Ours was a joyful meeting. For days my love had hovered between life
and death. The doctor had gone into that room and come out again grave
and silent several times each day, until at last he had told me that she
had taken a turn for the better, and would recover. The delirium had
left her, and she had recovered consciousness. Then there came to me a
boundless joy when at last I was told that I might again see her.
Not until ten more long and anxious days had passed was I allowed to
speak to her regarding the mystery which was driving me to desperation,
and then one afternoon, as the sunset, yellow as it always is in London,
struggled into the room, I found myself alone with her. She was sitting
up in my armchair, enveloped in a pretty blue dressing-gown which the
nurse had bought for her, and her hair tied coquettishly with a blue
ribbon.
She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with
sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me
forward to a seat beside her.
"And you are much better, dearest?" I asked, when we had exchanged
kisses full of a profound and passionate love.
"Yes," she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was.
"The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope
to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?"
"Don't trouble about the shop, darling," I answered. "You will never go
back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content,
and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there
in the country air until we can marry."
"Then you still love me, Clifton?" she faltered.
"Love you!" I cried. "Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to
doubt me?"
She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering.
"Because--because I am unworthy," she faltered.
"Why unworthy?" I asked, quickly.
"I have deceived you," she replied. "You are so good to me, Clifton,
yet I have concealed from you the truth."
"The truth of what?"
"Of the strange events which have led up to this desperate attempt to
take my life."
"But who attacked you?" I demanded. "Tell me, and assuredly he shall
not escape punishment."
She paused. Her eyes met mine firmly.
"No," she answered. "It is impossible to tell you. To attempt a
retaliation would only prove fatal."
"Fatal!" I echoed. "Why?"
"All that has been attempted is of the past," she responded. "It is
best that it should remain as it is. If you seek out that man, there
will be brought upon us a vengeance more terrible than it is possible to
contemplate. Do not ask me to divulge the identity of this man, for I
cannot."
"You will not, you mean," I said in a hard voice.
"No," she answered hoarsely. "No, I dare not."
"Then you fear this man who has attempted to kill you--this man who
sought to take you from me!" I cried fiercely. "Surely I, the man you
are to marry, have a right to demand this assassin's name."
"You have a right, Clifton, the greatest of all rights, but I beg of you
to remain patient," she answered calmly. "There are reasons why I must
still preserve a silence on this matter--reasons which some day you will
know."
"Does this man love you?"
She shrugged her shoulders and extended her thin, white hands vaguely.
"And he is jealous of me!" I cried. "He attempted to kill you because
you came here to me."
"Remain in patience, I beg of you," she said imploringly. "Make no
surmises, for you cannot guess the truth. It is an enigma to which I
myself have no key."
"The name of the man who has attempted to murder you is Hibbert," I
observed, annoyed at her persistent concealment of the truth. "He is
the man who was your lover. You can't deny it."