The amazing letter which I held in my nerveless fingers had been
hurriedly scribbled on a piece of my wife's own notepaper, and read--
"DEAR OWEN--I feel that our marriage was an entire mistake.
I have grossly deceived you, and I dare not hope ever for
your forgiveness, nor dare I face you to answer your
questions. I know that you love me dearly, as I, too, have
loved you; yet, for your own sake--and perhaps for mine
also--it is far best that we should keep apart.
"I deeply regret that I have been the means of bringing
misfortune and unhappiness and sorrow upon you, but I have
been the tool of another. In shame and deepest humiliation I
leave you, and if you will grant one favour to an unhappy
and penitent woman, you will never seek to discover my
whereabouts. It would be quite useless. To-night I leave you
in secret, never to meet you again. Accept my deepest
regret, and do not let my action trouble you. I am not
worthy of your love. Good-bye. Your unhappy--SYLVIA."
I stood staring at the uneven scribbled lines, blurred as they were by
the tears of the writer.
What had happened? Why had she so purposely left me? Why had she made
that signal from the theatre-box to her accomplice?
She admitted having grossly deceived me, and that she was unworthy.
What did she mean? In what manner had she deceived me?
Had she a secret lover?
That idea struck me suddenly, and staggered me. In some of her recent
actions I read secrecy and suspicion. On several occasions lately she
had been out shopping alone, and one afternoon, about a week before,
she had not returned to dress for dinner until nearly eight o'clock.
Her excuse had been a thin one, but, unsuspicious, I had passed it by.
Had I really been a fool to marry her, after all? I knew Marlowe's
opinion of our marriage, though he had never expressed it. That she
had been associated with a shady lot had all along been apparent. The
terrors of that silent house in Porchester Terrace remained only too
fresh within my memory.
That night I spent in a wild fever of excitement. No sleep came to my
eyes, and I think Browning--to whom I said nothing--believed that I
had taken leave of my senses. The faithful old servant did not retire,
for at five in the morning I found him seated dozing in a chair
outside in the hall, tired out by the watchful vigil he had kept over
me.
I tried in vain to decide what to do. I wanted to find Sylvia, to
induce her to reveal the truth to me, and to allay her fear of my
reproaches.
I loved her; aye, no man in all the world ever loved a woman better.
Yet she had, of her own accord, because of her own shame at her
deception, bade farewell, and slipped away into the great ocean of
London life.
Morning dawned at last, cold, grey and foggy, one of those dispiriting
mornings of late autumn which the Londoner knows so well. Still I knew
not how to act. I wanted to discover her, to bring her back, and to
demand of her finally the actual truth. All the mystery of those past
months had sent my brain awhirl.
I had an impulse to go to the police and reveal the secret of that
closed house in Porchester Terrace. Yet had she not implored me not to
do so? Why? There was only one reason. She feared exposure herself.
No. Ten thousand times no. I would not believe ill of her. Can any man
who really loves a woman believe ill of her? Love is blind, it is
true, and the scales never fall from the eyes while true affection
lasts. And so I put suspicion from my mind, and swallowed the cup of
coffee Browning put before me.
The old man, the friend of my youth, knew that his mistress had not
returned, and saw how greatly I was distressed. Yet he was far too
discreet a servant to refer to it.
I entered the drawing-room, and there, in the grey light, facing me,
stood the fine portrait of my well-beloved in a silver frame, the one
she had had taken at Scarborough a week after our marriage.
I drew it from its frame and gazed for a long time upon it. Then I put
it into an envelope, and placed it in my pocket.
Soon after ten o'clock I returned to the Coliseum, and showed the
portrait to a number of the attendants as that of a lady who was
missing. All of them, both male and female, gazed upon the picture,
but nobody recognized her as having been seen before.
The manager, whom I had seen on the previous night, sympathized with
me, and lent me every assistance. One after another of the staff he
called into his big office on the first floor, but the reply was
always the same.
At length a smart page-boy entered, and, on being shown the portrait,
at once said to the manager--
"Why, sir, that's the lady who went away with the gentleman who spoke
to me!"
"Who was he?" I demanded eagerly. "What did he say? What was he like?"
"Well, sir, it was like this," replied the boy. "About a quarter of an
hour before the curtain fell last night I was out in the vestibule,
when a tall dark gentleman, with his hair slightly grey and no
moustache, came up to me with a lady's cloak in his hand--a dark blue
one. He told me that when the audience came out a fair young lady
would come up to me for the cloak, as she wanted to get away very
quickly, and did not want to wait her turn at the cloak-room. There
was a car--a big grey car--waiting for her outside."
"Then her flight was all prepared!" I exclaimed. "What was the man
like?"
"He struck me as being a gentleman, yet his clothes seemed shabby and
ill-fitting. Indeed, he had a shabby-genteel look, as though he were a
bit down on his luck."
"He was in evening clothes?"
"No, sir. In a suit of brown tweeds."
"Well, what happened then?"
"I waited till the curtain fell, and then I stood close to the
box-office with the cloak over my arm. There was a big crush, as it
was then raining hard. Suddenly a young lady wearing a cream
theatre-wrap came up to me hastily, and asked me to help her on with
the cloak. This I did, and next moment the man in tweeds joined her. I
heard him say, 'Come along, dear, we haven't a moment to lose,' and
then they went out to the car. That's all I know, sir."
I was silent for a few moments. Who was this secret lover, I wondered?
The lad's statement had come as an amazing revelation to me.
"What kind of car was it?" I asked.
"A hired car, sir," replied the intelligent boy. "I've seen it here
before. It comes, I think, from a garage in Wardour Street."
"You would know the driver?"
"I think so, sir."
It was therefore instantly arranged that the lad should go with me
round to the garage, and there try to find the man who drove the grey
car on the previous night.
In this we were quickly successful. On entering the garage there
stood, muddy and dirty, a big grey landaulette, which the boy at once
identified as the one in which Sylvia had escaped. The driver was soon
found, and he explained that it was true he had been engaged on the
previous night by a tall, clean-shaven gentleman to pick up at the
Coliseum. He did so, and the gentleman entered with a lady.
"Where did you drive them?" I asked quickly.
"Up the Great North Road--to the George Hotel at Stamford, about a
hundred miles from London. I've only been back about a couple of
hours, sir."
"The George at Stamford!" I echoed, for I knew the hotel, a quiet,
old-fashioned, comfortable place much patronized by motorists to and
fro on the north road.
"You didn't stay there?"
"Only just to get a drink and fill up with petrol. I wanted to get
back. The lady and gentleman were evidently expected, and seemed in a
great hurry."
"Why?"
"Well, near Alconbury the engine was misfiring a little, and I stopped
to open the bonnet. When I did so, the lady put her head out of the
window, highly excited, and asked how long we were likely to be
delayed. I told her; then I heard her say to the gentleman, 'If they
are away before we reach there, what shall we do?'"
"Then they were on their way to meet somebody or other--eh?"
"Ah! that I don't know, sir. I drew up in the yard of the hotel, and
they both got out. The lady hurried in, while the gentleman paid me,
and gave me something for myself. It was then nearly four o'clock in
the morning. I should have been back earlier, only I had a puncture
the other side of Hatfield, and had to put on the 'Stepney.'"
"I must go to Stamford," I said decisively. Then I put something into
his palm, as well as into that of the page-boy, and, entering a taxi,
drove back home.
An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur, as we drove through the
steadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath, on our hundred-mile
journey into Lincolnshire.
We both knew every inch of the road, having been over it many times.
As it was wet, police-traps were unlikely, so, having negotiated the
narrow road as far as Hatfield, we began to "let her out" past
Hitchin, and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stilton
village. We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford, but about
half-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hill
beneath the high wall of Burghley Park, and saw beneath us the roofs
and many spires of quiet old Stamford.
Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George, and,
alighting, entered the broad hall, with its splendid old oak
staircase, in search of the manageress.
She related a rather curious story.
On the previous night, about eleven o'clock, there arrived by car two
well-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together in
French. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that they
expected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in the
night. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of the
hotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latter
stated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, he
saw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examining
something which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to be
diamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept a
watchful eye upon the pair.
One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed--the exact
description of Pennington--and the other description the man
afterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second man
was none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece of
chicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?
"About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir," went on the
boots, "and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in,
and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that I
should not understand, they again started talking in some foreign
language--French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentleman
came in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name of
Lewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heard
him exclaim: 'By Jove! old man, you can't think how glad we are to see
you back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another single
living man would have acted with the determination and bravery with
which you've acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man--deuced
careful. There are enemies about, you know.' Then the gentleman said:
'I know! I'm quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrow
shave in Paris a short time ago--I hear from Sonia.' 'Yes,' laughed
the other, 'she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very close
thing. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?' he asked. The other said: 'He
met me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me all
that's happened.' 'Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?' he
asked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding:
'It's a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph--a very bad job for the
fellow!' That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time,
for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas."
"And what else did you see or hear?" I asked eagerly, much puzzled by
his statement.
"They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir," the man said. "After
I had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed to
hold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two men
drove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I told
him he was--for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name of
Douglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to the
conference."
"Rather curious--to hold a conference in such a manner and at such an
hour!" I remarked.
"Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke in
another language. The two men who last arrived were no doubt
foreigners."
"Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?" I inquired
quickly.