THE VISITORS.
It was dark before the West of England express pulled into Paddington
Station. Rupert alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand. He avoided
the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but walked to the underground
railway and took a train to Westminster. He was turning over a new
leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty of money, he had made up
his mind henceforth not to spend a penny more than was necessary.
He had not warned his landlady that he was coming, so he found that she
was out and that nothing was ready for him. His rooms looked dusty and
uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere was cold and
cheerless.
The servant suggested lighting the fire, but Rupert shook his head. He
was going to do without luxuries of any sort. The first thing he did
was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial Hotel, telling him
of his arrival and saying he was at his service during the whole of the
next day. Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing his clothes,
he went out and had dinner at a humble restaurant. He would have
telephoned to Ruby, but there was not much time, and, again, it would
have meant added expense.
It was curious and irritating how important money had suddenly become.
It seemed to check him at every turn--though there was gold in his purse
and a balance at his bank. A week or two ago when he had been really
broke, it scarcely troubled him. Not as it troubled him now.
For the first time in his life he realised its importance. And his
father's words continually echoed in his ears.
At eight o'clock he went to the Ingenue Theatre and waited at the stage
door for Ruby Strode to arrive. She generally put in an appearance
between eight and eight-fifteen. Every minute cabs and motor-cars drew
up and members of the company got out and passed through the narrow
entrance to the back of the theatre. Some of the girls he recognised,
but he kept out of the way, as he did not wish to be seen.
When the hands of the clock in the doorkeeper's office pointed to a
quarter-past eight, he began to grow a little anxious. Ruby was late.
As a rule she was careful about time where her work was concerned.
He waited five minutes more, then stepping inside the passage he knocked
at the sliding glass-panel of the doorkeeper's office and asked if Miss
Strode had arrived.
"I'm sure I couldn't say," the man in charge replied. "The doorkeeper's
been called away for a moment, but he'll be back directly. All the
chorus and extra people are supposed to be booked in by eight-fifteen."
As Rupert turned away a girl hurrying along the passage nearly ran into
him. As she apologised he recognised Iris Colyer, a friend of Ruby's.
"Do you know if Miss Strode has arrived yet? I wish you'd find her for
me," he said. "I've just come up to town from the country, and I don't
suppose I shall have more than twenty-four hours here. I want her to
meet me after the performance to-night."
He noticed a look of surprise on Miss Colyer's face, and she hesitated a
moment before replying. "But don't you know she has gone away? She's
been absent about a week now."
"Gone away," Rupert echoed blankly.
"Yes; didn't you know? She was a bit run down. Got a chill or
something--at least, she said so! Anyway, she wanted a holiday, poor
dear! She's been at it hard for the past twelve months."
"Yes--of course, she wanted a holiday," Rupert said mechanically.
"Where has she gone?"
Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea. As
you ought to know, Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones,
never gabbled about her own affairs or other people's like the rest of
the girls." She held out a neatly-gloved hand. "I must rush away; late
as usual. I expect you'll hear from Ruby in a day or two. I remember now
she talked about the Continent--Paris, I believe. Said she'd send me
picture postcards--of course, the little wretch never has.... So long."
Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head. Rupert remained standing
in the passage, pushed about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and
dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered himself with an
effort and made his way into the street and walked slowly along in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. He found it difficult to believe that
Ruby had gone away suddenly without a word to him, without even leaving
her address. She had not complained of feeling ill the day they parted.
He could not believe she had gone away. A sudden fear struck him that
perhaps she was seriously ill.
Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street. He rang the bell
three times without receiving an answer, then he went in search of the
porter.
The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had told him. Miss Strode had
gone away for a holiday. He did not know where she had gone, but he
remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to take her to
Victoria Station. She had left about eight o'clock on the evening of
the same day Rupert had started for Devonshire. She had said she would
send an address to which letters could be forwarded, but up to the
present she had not done so.
Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone alone, then he checked
himself, ashamed of the thought. For jealousy had prompted it.
He turned away without a word and walked blindly down the street. The
contemptible thought which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden
wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return of the dreadful fear
which had assailed him several times during the last forty-eight hours,
and against which he had so far fought successfully. But now it would
not be denied. It brought with it a horrible suspicion.
Why had she gone away? he asked himself again and again, still not
daring to find the answer which fear prompted. When she had said
good-bye to him at his rooms in Westminster she must have known she was
going and have made her preparations. Yet she had carefully concealed
the fact from him. It was not a case of illness. He would have seen it
or she would have told him. He knew she had not tired of her work at
the Ingenue. She loved the theatre.
Then why had she gone? Why had she suddenly run away from him, from
London, from life?
She loved him. Nothing could shake his faith in her love. She had
proved it. Her love had saved him from taking his own life.
Rupert found himself standing just inside the gates of the Marble Arch.
The roar of traffic echoed dully in his ears; on his left the lights of
Oxford Street glared. Facing him was the darkness of the Park, with
here and there the red blot of a gas lamp.
She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction. With extraordinary
clearness pictures rose before his eyes presenting each incident of the
last day they had spent together. They passed before him like the
pictures projected by a cinematograph.
She had not told him of his good fortune until she had found him seated
in the chair with a revolver clasped in his hand. Yet she had known his
position perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat of the
favourite in the big race ruin faced him. Yet she had said nothing until
she found him face to face with death.
He put his hands up to his face to shut out the pictures which danced
before his eyes. He heard himself laugh.
The next moment he was striding through the Park trying to escape from
his thoughts and from the fear which now permeated his whole being.
At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus. He wanted to get back to
his rooms again. He might find something there, some proof, that these
fears were groundless.
The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch on all the
electric lights. He noticed a vase of faded flowers on the bureau. He
was about to throw them into the fire when he hesitated. As far as he
could remember there were no flowers in the room when he had left.
He rang the bell and told the servant he wished to speak to the
landlady. The maid gave him a scared look and said she would ask her to
step up.
Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and, closing the door, stood
with her back to it. She gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to
pick up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.
"I've returned rather unexpectedly on business," Rupert said, speaking
jerkily.
"Yes, sir. I hope--there ain't no serious trouble, sir?"
Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why--by the way, are there any
letters for me?"
Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a
crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert.
"Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put
them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn't
live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them
while you were away, and I was to leave them there."
Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then
changed his mind, and put it into his pocket.
"No other letters?" he asked sharply.
The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron
commenced to twist the corners nervously.
"A gentleman called to see you this afternoon, sir, and not knowing you
was returning I told him you had gone away and weren't expected. He
said you were probably coming up to London--I didn't take no notice of
that. He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see
you."
Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton. Turning his back on Mrs.
Jones he took out his key intending to open the bureau. To his surprise
he found it was unlocked. The landlady continued to twist her apron,
watching him surreptitiously.
"There are no other letters for me?" he repeated.
"Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there were some letters--and Miss
Strode, after you was gone, I think she paid some bills for you. At
least, so I understood her to say. But two gentlemen have been here
since you arrived this evening----"
She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.
Rupert swung round. He waited for her to continue.
"Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them, sir--but, I couldn't help
myself."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs. Jones hesitated. She was washing her hands in her apron now, and
she sniffed suspiciously once or twice as if tears threatened.
"Speak out--speak plainly, for goodness' sake!" Rupert cried fiercely.
"What did these men come for? Who were they?"
"Scotland Yard, sir. In order to search the rooms." She raised her
apron to her eyes and commenced to sob. "Such a thing ain't never
happened to me before, sir, never since my poor husband died and I was
forced to take in lodgers. I told them what I thought of them, but it
weren't no good, sir. They had a warrant, or whatever it's called....
And they took your letters, sir. What right had they to them, I'd like
to know."
"It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly. "It's a mistake."
"I know that, sir. But it ain't pleasant to have a thing like that
happen in one's own house. Police officers they were, sir.... I told
them you was a perfectly respectable gentleman.... You'd paid your
bills, as they could see----"
"That will do," Rupert interrupted. "Did they take anything else out of
my rooms?"
Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes with her apron. "I don't think so, sir. I
had a look round after they'd gone. The race card you'd left and which
I'd put on the blotting-pad was missing; and they took the blotting-pad,
too, the robbers. I'd just filled it up with fresh blotting-paper the
very day before you left, as you may remember."
"Yes, I remember." Again Rupert laughed. "You needn't worry, Mrs.
Jones. It's a mistake and it will be put right to-morrow. That'll do,
you can go now."
The landlady hesitated, fingering the door-handle. "No one knows but me,
sir. Fortunately, I answered the door myself, so my servant, she don't
know. People will talk, so----"
"I quite understand. But there will be nothing to talk about.
Good-night."
"Good-night, sir. Anything I can do I'm sure----" The door closed on
the remainder of the sentence.
Rupert waited until her footsteps had died away. He opened the bureau
and searched. A few papers were missing, some notes he had made of his
examination, and one or two unimportant letters. As far as he could
remember that was all, with the exception of the letters which had
arrived during his absence and the bills Ruby had paid. It was lucky
they had found and taken the race card.
He took Ruby's letter from his pocket and opened it:
"DARLING,--
"In case you return before we meet again, this is just to greet you and
to tell you I have paid all the bills I could find, and put a hundred
and fifty pounds to your credit in the bank. It is just possible that I
may go away for a little holiday, as I have been feeling rather seedy,
lately, and the management say that if I give them a doctor's
certificate I can take a rest. So don't worry if you return and find me
flown. I won't write to Devonshire as you told me it would be better not
to. Guard yourself for my sake. I love you better than anything else
in the world.
"Always yours,
"RUBY."
"P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau. I'm afraid they'll die before
you see them, but they are my thoughts, which will always be in this
room with you."
He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their heads. Bending down
he pressed the letter to his lips. Then slowly and deliberately he tore
it up, threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them burn. Drawing a
chair forward he sat down and stretched out his hands to the glowing
coal. They were icy cold. He was shivering.
It was obvious that the police suspected him of having altered Sir
Reginald Crichton's cheque. Their suspicions must have been pretty
strong. They must have found some evidence in order to obtain a warrant
to search his rooms.
Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest. He smiled grimly. But
suddenly the expression on his face changed.
If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire it would break his
father's heart, ruin his sister's life.
He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending to go out at once
and find Sir Reginald. The clock struck the hour--eleven. It was too
late to see him now. Besides, he did not know for certain that the
police suspected him!
They had some letters, the contents of which he did not know. Receipts
for the bills Ruby had paid.
It was quite possible they might suspect her. He threw his hat aside and
examined the bureau again.
Why had the police taken the blotting-pad? He could not remember having
written any letters on the day of the race. Yet the blotting-pad must
have contained evidence of some sort or the police would not have taken
it. If the cheque had been altered in his rooms and blotted on that
pad----
His body broke out into a sweat. He dropped back into the chair and sat
gazing into the fire.
His suspicions would no longer be stifled. He still fought them, but it
was useless. He reasoned with himself, he argued with himself. But the
more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions take root.
Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all. She had told a lie to
save his life!
And, having saved his life, she had had to find the money which, she
told him, they had won, and without which he had confessed he dared not
face life.
How had she obtained that money?
He heard the question answered again and again, but he dared not listen.
He put his hands over his ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony.
To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself. She could not have known what
she was doing. She must have been mad at the time.... As mad as he
when he had taken his revolver and placed it over his heart intending
self-destruction.
Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed. The sun was commencing to
rise before he slept. For sleep only came when he had made up his mind
what he would do when a few hours later he met Sir Reginald Crichton.