Fayre slept little that night and rose the next morning jaded and sick
at heart. During the long hours in which he had tossed ceaselessly on
his bed, wrestling in vain with the problem that was torturing him, he
had been unable to come to any conclusion. If he did what he felt was
his duty he would be the means of involving two, at least, of his
dearest friends in dire trouble, besides running the risk of
jeopardizing the cause he had most at heart. If, on the other hand, he
held back the discovery he had just made he would be taking on his
shoulders a responsibility so great that he hardly dared face it. He
had confronted difficult problems in the course of his official life,
but seldom one that touched him so nearly or made him feel so utterly
helpless.
It was in this mood that Cynthia found him when she rang up from her
aunt’s house in Grosvenor Square and asked him to take her out to
lunch. A troublesome tooth had given her the opportunity she longed
for and she had hurried up to town, ostensibly to see the dentist, but
really to find out what progress Fayre had made in his investigations.
For a moment Fayre was taken aback, then he found himself welcoming
the prospect of her company for an entire afternoon. He feared her
sharp eyes and direct mode of attack, but, more even than these, he
dreaded his own thoughts. Cynthia was the embodiment of youth and
courage and, after his night of miserable indecision, he felt a
positive craving for the stimulus of her society.
As though in answer to his needs she seemed even more vividly alive
than usual when he picked her up and carried her off to an
unpretentious, but very select, little restaurant he and several of
the older members of his club affected. Cynthia had stipulated for a
quiet place where her ready tongue could wag freely. She had plenty to
say. Bill Staveley had managed to procure her another interview with
John Leslie and she reported him as cheerful and inclined to take a
hopeful view of the future.
“He says that, so long as he knows he’s innocent and that I believe in
him, he doesn’t mind what happens; but he doesn’t realize how black
things look against him,” said Cynthia. “He’s frightfully grateful to
you and Edward Kean and full of faith in you both. I tried not to show
how anxious I was. Uncle Fayre, they surely can’t convict him if he’s
innocent, can they?”
On the face of this Fayre found it hard to break to her the news that
Gregg had completely cleared himself. To his relief she took it more
cheerfully than he had expected.
“I never really suspected him, you know,” she said. “I suppose I
should have been beast enough to be glad if he had done it, because it
would have cleared John, but I should have been sorry, too. It would
be too horrible if it was some one that one knew. It’s a relief, in a
way. Has Mr. Grey done anything about the Page clue? I always felt
that that was where our hope lay.”
“He’s working on the Carlisle to London route, on the chance that the
car may have got held up somewhere and, if that fails, he proposes to
advertise openly for Page. If, as I still think, the man had nothing
to do with the actual murder, he may come forward. On the other hand,
it would be a mistake to warn him by advertising too soon. It is a
last resort.”
“I believe he did it,” asserted Cynthia obstinately. “If we can find
Page we shall get to the bottom of the whole thing. You know the
police have let the tramp go? He ended by confessing that he took Mrs.
Doggett’s money and I made her go up to the station and speak for him.
He’s very lame still and the police want him to stay in the
neighbourhood, so Bill found him a room in one of his cottages. I went
to see him. He’s a funny little man and we got quite chummy, but he’s
determined to go back to ‘the road,’ as he calls it, as soon as he can
get away. He told me that he had been tramping for years and he’s got
all sorts of interesting stories about tramps and burglars and all
kinds of queer people and he adores you. When I spoke about John he
said: ‘The gentleman’ll get ’im off, you see,’ as if you were a kind
of Providence. He’s rather a pet, really. What did you do to make him
love you so?”
“Treated him like a human being, I suppose. He’s not going back to the
road, if I can help it, poor little beggar. He’s never had a chance
and I’d like to give him one.”
“If we do get onto that man, Page, he’ll deserve it. After all, it was
through him that we first heard of the strange car.”
“When I get my cottage I’ll see what I can find for him to do. He’s
not a pleasing object at present, but he’ll improve with prosperity.”
“I can see your cottage!” observed Cynthia mischievously. “It’ll be
crammed with all sorts of derelicts and lame dogs and you’ll go
fussing round them like a hen with a lot of chickens. May I come and
stay with you, Uncle Fayre?”
“As often and as long as you like. You’ll be a respectable married
woman by then and you can act as chaperone to Miss Allen.”
“Is Miss Allen going to stay with you?”
“If she’ll come. I haven’t asked her yet.”
“I’m glad you’ve made friends with her. She’s a brick, isn’t she?”
“A thorough good sort, I should say,” assented Fayre rather
cautiously. There was a gleam in Cynthia’s eye he didn’t quite like.
She flashed a sidelong glance at him.
“It’s an awfully good idea; I wonder I never thought of it.”
“What is?” asked Fayre suspiciously.
“Her coming to stay with you, of course,” was Cynthia’s innocent
rejoinder.
After lunch they called at Grey’s office.
“I’m glad you dropped in,” he told Fayre. “We’ve got on the track of a
car which was held up at York. It was traveling without a tail-light.
If it was our friend, Page, he was probably trying to conceal his
broken number-plate. Anyway, I’ve sent a man up there to find out all
the particulars and he’ll be back early to-morrow. There’s just a
chance that we’ve got onto the right car.”
“That’ll please you, Cynthia. Lady Cynthia’s always believed in the
Page clue,” explained Fayre.
“Now that Dr. Gregg’s gone off with a clean sheet, it’s all we’ve got
to go on,” said Grey. “It’s a funny thing how he crops up all through
this case. That fellow Baxter died in his house, you know, and Gregg
signed the certificate. As far as we can make out, everything seems in
order and, short of exhuming Baxter, we’ve done all that’s necessary
to prove his death.”
“I’ve no reason to think that Gregg was concealing anything the other
day. He seemed only too anxious to tell all he knew. If he’s shielding
any one he’s doing it very cleverly.”
“I think we may wipe out Dr. Gregg altogether now. After all, at the
time, he’d have had no reason to conceal Baxter’s death, whatever he
may feel about it now.”
“I’ve got a feeling in my bones about this Page business,” said
Cynthia, as they turned into the Strand after leaving Grey’s office.
“I believe we’re going to find him and that things are going to be all
right for John. You can call it imagination, if you like, but this is
the first time I’ve felt really hopeful. Life seems quite different,
all of a sudden!”
Fayre was suddenly afraid for her. There was something terribly
pathetic in her optimism and he knew it was reared on a pitifully
frail foundation.
“Don’t build too much on it,” he begged, ruefully aware that it was
always his lot to throw cold water on her enthusiasm. “It may be
nothing but a wild goose chase, after all.”
“It isn’t,” she asserted positively. “I can’t tell you why I know, but
I do and you’ll see I’m right. The funny thing is that Sybil Kean has
had the same feeling all along. Did you know? She told me so when she
was ill at Staveley.”
The haggard look came back into Fayre’s eyes. He had forgotten his own
worries for the moment, carried away by Cynthia’s enthusiasm, but now
they returned to him, their strength in no wise diminished. Cynthia,
intent on her own thoughts, did not notice his preoccupation.
“It was the night before I went to Carlisle to stay with the
Campbells. I didn’t tell her why I was going, because we’d agreed that
it was better for her not to talk about the whole thing. We hadn’t
mentioned John or anything, but, when I said good night, she looked at
me in such a queer way and said, somehow as if she knew it was true:
‘Don’t worry, Cynthia, John will never be convicted. I’m certain of
it.’”
Fayre stared at her in astonishment.
“Sybil said that! Did she give any reason for it?”
“None, but she seemed so curiously certain. Almost as if she knew
something. She didn’t say any more and she looked so desperately ill
and tired that I just went. Do you think she had some sort of
second-sight, Uncle Fayre? People do do that sort of thing when
they’ve been very ill, don’t they? I’m certain she wasn’t just saying
it to reassure me.”
The worried lines on Fayre’s face deepened.
“I don’t know,” he said, “and I can’t understand it. I was under the
impression that she was worrying about the whole thing more than was
good for her. It never occurred to me that she was in the least
hopeful. I only hope she’s right. You know she’s been very ill again?”
“Yes. Edward wrote to Bill. He was a fool to whisk her off like that
before she was really fit. It was Dr. Gregg’s fault, really, for
saying she could go. It’s funny, but he felt just as you did about the
case. He said she must be got away from the atmosphere of the whole
thing because she was wearing herself to a thread over it and would
never have a chance of pulling up unless she got right away. And she’s
the only person who’s given me any real hope!”
“You’re very fond of Sybil, aren’t you?” asked Fayre thoughtfully.
Cynthia stared at him.
“Of course. She’s been a perfect brick to me always and she’s a dear,
anyway. You know, whenever I’ve got hopelessly fed up with things at
home she’s had me in London for weeks together, and she was an angel
about John from the beginning. I’d do a good deal for Sybil, and I’m
not naturally an unselfish person,” she finished frankly.
Fayre did not allude to the matter again and, when Cynthia announced
her intention of going to the Keans’ on the chance of being allowed to
see Sybil, he walked with her to the door, but he did not offer to go
in. Instead, he mounted a bus and went out to Richmond. Arrived there,
he made for the Park and walked until he was tired out. It was late
when he entered the station and took the train back to London and he
was worn out with hard exercise and lack of food, but he had at last
come to a part solution of his difficulties. He had some supper at the
club and then literally fell into bed. And this time he slept.
Next morning he rang up Cynthia, whom he found just starting for her
dentist’s. He picked her up there after her appointment and carried
her off to Kensington Gardens.
He waited until they had found chairs under the trees and then went
straight to the point.
“You’re an unusual person, Cynthia,” he said appreciatively. “I’ve
kidnapped you in the middle of a busy morning and you’ve not asked a
single question.”
“I’ve been worrying, though,” she answered. “Do you realize that
you’ve been looking as if you’d lost a shilling and found sixpence, as
old Mrs. Doggett would say, ever since I’ve been in town? I nearly
asked you before what was the matter, but I thought I’d wait till you
came out with it yourself. There is something wrong, isn’t there?”
“Nothing that affects you or Leslie,” he hastened to assure her. “But
you are right, I have been worried about something. The trouble is not
my own, or I’d put the whole thing before you, and I don’t mind
admitting that I should be glad of an outside opinion on it. But
that’s out of the question. I’m sorry to be so mysterious.”
Cynthia nodded. Her face showed complete understanding.
“Poor Uncle Fayre!” she said. “I know how you feel. One bothers and
bothers over a thing until one can’t see it straight at all and then
one loses faith in one’s own judgment. It’s quite true, an outsider
_is_ a help sometimes.”
“It’s a help I shall have to do without in this instance,” he admitted
reluctantly. “Let’s forget it and talk of something pleasant.”
They chatted desultorily for a while, laughing and joking and taking a
genuine pleasure in each other’s company, as people with a keen sense
of humour will, even though tragedy be close upon their heels, but
Cynthia never ceased to be aware that there was an object in their
meeting and knew that he was only waiting for an opportunity to broach
the subject that was really on his mind.
He did so at last, so casually that, if she had not been on the alert,
she might have missed the significance of his question. He had brought
the conversation round to Sybil Kean and her illness.
“If only she doesn’t have a relapse now,” he said thoughtfully. “If
would be a bit of bad luck for us if Edward were to throw up the
case.”
Cynthia turned to him with something like panic in her eyes.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she exclaimed. “Of course if she were
really ill he wouldn’t be able to go to Carlisle. He’d never leave
her.”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t. He’s utterly wrapped up in her. Sybil is a
fascinating person, but I must admit that Edward’s devotion was a
revelation to me. I did not know he had it in him to care so much for
any one.”
“I don’t believe anybody else would ever have understood him as Sybil
does,” said Cynthia slowly. “He’s not an easy person to know.”
Fayre gazed reflectively at the tips of his well-polished boots.
“You’ve seen a lot of Sybil in the last few years, haven’t you?” he
asked suddenly.
Cynthia knew that the question for which she had been waiting had come
at last, but she could not see its point.
“Yes,” she answered wonderingly. “I’ve stayed with her in London, you
know, as well as seeing her often at Staveley. Why do you ask?”
“What do you really think of those two, Cynthia?” Then, seeing the
genuine bewilderment in her face: “I’m curious about Sybil. Edward is,
and always has been, absolutely devoted and there can be no question
that, from his point of view, their marriage has been a very happy
one. But what about Sybil?” Cynthia’s face cleared.
“You mean, does she love him?” she said frankly. “It’s funny you
should ask that. I was puzzling over it last night. Eve Staveley told
me a long time ago that Sybil had never got over her first husband’s
death and that she believed that it was only Edward’s insistence that
made her marry him. Well, I was wondering last night whether she was
right.”
“You think that Sybil’s fonder of Edward than any of us realize?”
In spite of his efforts he could not subdue the urgency in his voice.
“Honestly, I believe she is fonder of him than she realizes herself,”
answered Cynthia slowly. “If you asked her, she’d probably tell you
that she had never forgotten her first husband and could never care
for any one else and she’d think she was speaking the truth, but I saw
Sybil once when she was really anxious about Edward and I’m certain
she cares far more than people think. You see, I’d just got engaged to
John then and I suppose I was in the mood to notice that sort of
thing,” she finished, with a swift, shy glance at his intent face.
He nodded.
“I expect you’re right. At any rate, I’m prepared to trust to your
intuition.”
He returned to the study of his boot-tips and, for a minute or two,
they sat in silence. It was broken by Cynthia.
“Then it was Sybil you were worrying about,” she remarked calmly.
Fayre jumped.
“I have been worrying about her ever since I got back to England,” he
began mendaciously; but she interrupted him ruthlessly.
“The thing that has been bothering you and that you said you wished
you could consult some outside person about has something to do with
Edward and Sybil Kean, hasn’t it? I’m not going to ask indiscreet
questions, Uncle Fayre, but Sybil’s my friend as well as yours and
it’s only fair to tell me if she’s in any real trouble.”
Fayre hesitated for a moment and then he spoke frankly. “As I said
before, I can’t tell you what it is all about. But I can say this.
There is something that, sooner or later, I shall have to tell Edward,
something that affects him so nearly that, I honestly believe, were he
to hear it now, would cause him to throw up the case. I would do
anything to keep the knowledge from him altogether, but I cannot. My
only problem is, whether I am justified in keeping this news back till
after the trial. That’s what I have been trying to decide and I’ve
made up my mind at last. So far as I can see I shall be harming nobody
if I hold the news over until after the trial is over, and I have
definitely decided to do so. But I’ve got to a point at which I hardly
dare trust my own judgment.”
“Does Sybil know of this, Uncle Fayre?”
“Good Heavens, no! If she did I think it would kill her.”
“And it will really make no difference to her if you keep this back
till John’s trial is over?” she persisted.
“None, that I can see. In fact, my instinct is to put off telling
Edward as long as possible, but that’s simply because I shrink from
hurting either of them. He’s got to be told in the end, but, what with
the impending strain of the trial and all the worry he has gone
through on Sybil’s account lately, this seems the worst moment to
spring bad news on him. Grey says that the case is one of the first on
the list at the Carlisle Assizes and should come on early next month.”
At the thought of the trial Cynthia’s face blanched and she clenched
her hands tightly on her lap to stop their trembling. Fayre realized
that it was kinder to ignore her agitation.
“As I said,” he went on quietly, “I made up my mind last night to hold
this thing over. You can rest assured that, as far as I am concerned,
nothing will happen to put a spoke in Edward’s wheel and, if we can
count on him, it will be half the battle.”
He gave her a few minutes in which to recover herself and then saw her
back to her aunt’s house, after which he strolled slowly back to the
club. On the way he pondered over Sybil Kean’s words to the girl at
Staveley. He could not reconcile them with her evident anxiety when
she spoke to him about Leslie. No doubt she had seen that Cynthia was
near to the breaking-point and had lied nobly in the hope of
reassuring her. And yet that wasn’t like Sybil, as he knew her.
She was the last person to kindle a false hope deliberately.
His mind was still dwelling on her as he picked up the little pile of
letters that awaited him at the club and it was with a shock that he
recognized her handwriting on one of them. He opened it eagerly.
Inside was a closed envelope, unaddressed, with a covering letter from
Sybil herself which ran:
“Hatter dear, the flowers were lovely. It was like you to think of
them. In a day or two I shall have got rid of the doctor and be able
to thank you in person, instead of in this silly note which looks so
much more shaky than I really am. I am picking up wonderfully, but it
was a close shave this time, Hatter, and it has made me think. Don’t
tell Edward, but I have a strong feeling that the next attack will be
my last. I want you to do me a favour and put the enclosed among your
most private papers. If I should die before John Leslie’s trial is
over and if he should be convicted I want you to open it and read it
and then show it to Edward. If John Leslie is acquitted or if I am
alive at the close of the trial I am trusting you to burn it unread. I
expect you think I am mad, and sometimes, lately, I have wondered
whether my brain is not going, but you are the only friend I have
whose loyalty I know I can utterly depend on. I know I can trust you
and that you will do what I ask unquestioningly. Good-by, my dear,
till we meet. They won’t let me write any more. Sybil.”
Fayre stood staring blankly at the letter and the enclosure; then he
crossed to a writing-table and wrote in his small, neat hand across
the envelope: “_In the event of my death, to be destroyed unread._”
This done, he put it carefully away in his pocket-book with the
snapshot Miss Allen had given him.
“She knows,” he told himself heavily. “And she has kept the truth from
Edward. No wonder the strain of it has almost killed her!”