"Ah! I see. A lover's quarrel, eh? Why don't you return to Elveham
and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better."
I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I
thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must
pass before any explanation.
"No," I answered, "I'll remain in London, at least for the present. I
don't know exactly when I shall return."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk so despondently. Remember it's only
a petty quarrel, after all," he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.
I tried again to laugh, saying, "Yes, that's true, but absence makes the
heart grow fonder--we're told."
"Very well, old fellow, if you won't take my advice I can't help it," he
observed disappointedly.
By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, "By
the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?"
"Nothing."
"Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior
Garrick; I'm on my way there."
"Thanks, you're very kind. By Jove, I've had nothing to eat since I
left the Dene, and I'm getting a trifle peckish!"
"Then come along," I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered
the club.
In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded
a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had
assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.
They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn,
I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner,
soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.
Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a
devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as
rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession.
Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a
working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a
touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a
firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf.
Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and
was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.
I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked
for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical
speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at
by those who were not his friends.
Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall,
dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably
altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I
should scarcely have recognised him.
Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of
uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial
Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his
jokes and beamed with that _bonhomie_ as was his wont in times gone by.
Bob, Ted, Demetrius and myself, were a merry quartette, despite the
anxiety and the many maddening thoughts gnawing constantly at my heart.
The dinner passed off pleasantly, Ted giving a humorous description of
life among Australian squatters. Although he asserted that dramatic
business took him to the Antipodes, he admitted that he had been
compelled to go up-country in search of work, and that his employment at
one period had been that of a shepherd in Gippsland.
His description of the shifts which he had been put to in order to
obtain a crust--he, a curled darling of Society, whilom actor at a West
End theatre, and pet of the ladies--was very amusing, and caused us to
roar with laughter.
"And how have you been all this time, Burgoyne?" he asked of me, when he
had finished his narrative.
"Oh! Frank's a Benedict now," interposed Bob, laughing. "Married a
fair Russian."
"What!" exclaimed Ted in surprise. "Well, well, it's what all of us
must come to, sooner or later. But Burgoyne's different from us poor
beggars; he's rich, and can afford matrimony."
"I don't see what money has to do with it," I said. "Many poor men are
happy with good helpmates."
"Oh! don't you," exclaimed Rivers. "My idea is that marriage without
money is suicide under an euphonious name."
"Opinions differ on that point," remarked Demetrius. "If I married a
woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money.
But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I've left my cigar-case in my
overcoat," and rising, he left the table.
"Ah, cigars?" I said, suddenly remembering. "I've some somewhere," and
feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and
papers with it.
I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from
between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the
table-cloth.
It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.
I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it
up, exclaiming,--
"Hulloa! carrying Vera's photo about like a love-sick swain, eh? By
Jove?" he ejaculated when he had glanced at it. "Ah!--I've caught you,
have I? Why, this isn't Vera, but some other woman! I'm surprised at
you," and he feigned the utmost indignation.
"Let's look!" demanded Rivers, taking it from Bob's hand, as I vainly
endeavoured to regain possession of it.
"Ah--Heavens?" exclaimed Ted with a repugnant gesture, when his eyes
fell upon it.
"What! you know her, then?" asked Bob.
"No--er--no, my dear fellow," replied the other hurriedly, with a
curious smile. "Never saw her in my life. The likeness is very like
some one--some one I once knew," he added hastily, as he scrutinised it
carefully, looking upon the back at the name of the photographer. "But
I see I--I'm mistaken, it isn't she."
And he returned the picture to me.
"Who's the lady?" inquired Bob. "Pretty woman, without a doubt."
"Ask no questions," I replied, smiling mysteriously. "A purely private
matter."
"Hum!--those private matters are entertaining, sometimes," remarked Ted,
as he and Bob laughed at my confusion; but as Demetrius returned just at
that moment, the subject dropped.
We went to the smoking-room and sat chatting over coffee and liqueurs,
but I noticed a marked difference in the manner of Rivers. He was no
longer gay, but gloomy and taciturn, and more than once I caught him
regarding me with an evil, angry glitter in his dark eyes, and a scowl
upon his features. The others noticed it also, but made no remark.
When the clock chimed ten Ted rose, and addressing Nugent, said: "You
must excuse me, old fellow, but I've an engagement which I must keep.
Sorry to have to leave you so early, but it's a matter of rather urgent
business."
"Oh, no. Stay another hour; the evening's young yet," urged Demetrius.
"Very sorry; but I cannot."
"Put off your engagement till to-morrow," I suggested, but he made no
reply, affecting not to have heard me.
"Well, if you must go, _au revoir_," Bob said, offering his hand. "I'm
here every evening, so I hope you'll often drop in, now you have
returned to civilisation."
"Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be
re-elected a member."
He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers
in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.
Without wishing me good-night, he departed.
An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering
what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have
with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?
Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all
knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?
Was he the murderer of the dead man's wife, the unfortunate Nell, who
was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from
Russia?
Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my
room until the small hours, then--heartily sick of it all--I sought
repose.