When half-an-hour later I sat drinking tea _en famille_ with Lady
Stretton and her daughter, I confess I felt ill at ease, notwithstanding
their light and pleasant gossip.
"I really don't think you are looking very well, Stuart," the old lady
was saying, as the footman handed her her cup. "Town life does not
agree with you, perhaps."
"No," I said. "I always prefer the country."
"So do I. If it were not for dear Dora's sake, I think I should live at
Blatherwycke altogether."
"You would very soon tire of it, mother," her daughter laughed. "You
know very well when we are down there you are always wanting to see your
friends in town." Lady Stretton looked always stiff and formal in her
rich satins. Nearly sixty, with a profusion of white hair and a rather
red face, she brimmed over with corpulence, and still preserved some
remnant of the beauty that was half sunken beneath her grossness. To me
she was always complimentary and caressing. But she said "My dear" to
everybody, spoke in a high-pitched voice, and played the child with that
doleful languor characteristic of corpulent persons. She loved secrets,
made everything a matter of confidence, talked gossip, and was fond of
speaking in one's ear. She pitied others; pitied herself; she bewailed
her misfortunes and her physical ills. Nothing could have been more
pathetic than her constant attacks of indigestion. She took a very real
interest in the career of her friends, for it was part of her
completeness to be the centre of a set of successful people.
"We are going to Blatherwycke the day after to-morrow," she said. "The
hunting this season has been excellent. Have you been out yet?"
"Not once," I replied. "I haven't been home this season, but I mean to
go down in a week or so and have a run with the hounds."
"Oh, that will be awfully jolly," Dora exclaimed, gleefully. "We're
having a house-party, so we shall hope to see something of you."
"Thanks," I said. "Memories of our many runs are distinctly pleasant,
so I hope we may be companions again."
"Of course. Why, the papers always speak of you as one of the familiar
figures in the field," she said. "The hounds are out three days a week
now, and foxes are awfully plentiful about Rockingham Forest and away
beyond Apethorpe."
"Let's hope we shall obtain a few brushes," I said, and then our
conversation was mainly upon past recollections of rapid runs, of the
artfulness displayed by various reynards, and of spills, amusing and
serious.
No woman who rode with the Fitzwilliam hounds sat her horse so
magnificently as Dora Stretton. Even my old friend William Raven, of
King's Cliffe, for many years one of the most prominent figures in
hunting circles in North Northamptonshire, but now of venerable age,
white-bearded, and unable to ride to the meet; a thorough hunting man of
the old school, who, when the hounds pass his window, rises from his
warm armchair, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs
wistfully because he is not longer agile enough to take part in the
sport that he loves; an outspoken critic of all things pertaining to the
hunt, and never tired of comparing the splendid riding of twenty years
ago with the sloppy form now displayed by foppish youngsters who come
down from town and hunt "because it is the thing, you know," was
compelled to acknowledge the grace, daring, and firmness always
displayed by Lady Stretton's youngest daughter. Her pace was usually a
hot one; she took dangerous leaps with a recklessness that was
astounding, thought nothing of fatigue, and was almost invariably in at
the death.
The prospect of mad, exhilarating gallops with her was to me very
pleasant, for I was passionately fond of the saddle. But alas! my
anticipations were chilled by the knowledge of the fearful secret in my
inner consciousness.
Dora sat in her low chair, bright, radiant, and happy. Her hair was a
trifle disarranged, but it is the prettiest hair that sheds the most
hairpins. What if I told her the terrible nature of my discovery, of
the awful suspicion that the man who was her hero was a murderer, and
had fled?
But I chatted to them about mutual acquaintances, discussed Jack's
latest book, "The Siren of Strelitz," which the reviewers were declaring
to be the novel of the season, and talked of art at the Grosvenor and
the New, without scarcely knowing what words I uttered or what opinion I
endorsed. The mention of "The Siren of Strelitz" caused Lady Stretton
some little annoyance, and I could not help feeling amused. What, I
wondered, would this haughty woman of the world say when in a few brief
hours, the papers raised a hue and cry for the popular soldier-novelist,
in whose room a man had been found shot dead?
Even as I sat calmly gossiping over the tea-cups the police wires might
already be at work and the detectives lounging at the ports of departure
aroused from their cat-like lethargy to stand with keen eye, watching
every person embarking on Channel and other steamers. I had no interest
in her ladyship's idle talk; I was only waiting for her to go out of the
room so that I might ask a hurried question of her daughter.
At last, the corpulent old lady rose with an effort and a rustling of
silk, and left us.
"Well," I said, rising and taking up a position before the fire, "have
you seen anything of Jack to-day?"
"No," she replied, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. "I was in the
Row this morning and looked out for him, but he was not there. I expect
he is still at Hounslow."
"Did he tell you he was going to Hounslow?" I asked. "Yes, he sent me
a note yesterday morning, saying that one of his brother-officers had
been compelled to obtain leave unexpectedly, and that he was going down
to do duty for him."
"For how long?"
"He said he would be back again last night," and placing her hand in her
pocket she drew forth the letter, and read it to reassure herself that
she had made no mistake.
"I want to see him on a most important matter; if he does not return I
shall have to run down to Hounslow," I said. Then, as if suddenly
remembering, I added, "Oh, by the way, do you know any maid named
Ashcombe--Annie Ashcombe?"
"Ashcombe," she repeated, puzzled. "Why do you want to know the names
of servant-maids? What interest have you in her?"
"I--er--well, I want to find her, that's all. If I can discover her
she'll hear something to her advantage, as the solicitors'
advertisements say."
"I'm sorry I can't help the young person to her good fortune," she
laughed. "However, I'll bear the name in mind, and if I come across her
I won't fail to let you know."
"Thanks," I said. "It is most important that I should find her as
quickly as possible, so you might render me a real service if you would
make inquiries among your friends."
"Of course, I'll do anything to oblige you," she said frankly.
"Ashcombe--I shall remember the name."
"And you will let me know as soon as you hear from Jack?"
"Certainly," she answered. "I'll send you word at once."
At that moment our tete-a-tete was interrupted by the reappearance of
Lady Stretton, who said:
"Dora and I are going to the Lyceum first night. If you'll join us in
our box we shall be charmed."
"Thanks very much," I replied. "I shall be delighted." I had no
especial desire to witness an Irving play, but in my gloomy frame of
mind any diversion seemed better than the loneliness of my own chambers.
"Very well. Run home and dress, return and dine with us, and we will go
along together. We shall meet Mr Gilbert Sternroyd there. Do you know
him?" her ladyship asked.
The mention of the name caused me to start, and I felt that a sudden
pallor overspread my face.
"Mabel introduced me," I stammered.
"Charming young fellow! So wealthy, too," exclaimed Lady Stretton, a
remark which was received with a little grimace by Dora, at that moment
standing behind her mother.
"I know very little of him," I said in a strained voice. "I only met
him once."
Then I left, went home, dressed and returned. Dinner was served with
that old-fashioned stateliness that characterised everything in the
Stretton household, and I was thoroughly glad when dessert was reached.
Afterward, we drove to the theatre, and found in several boxes and
scattered over the stalls many mutual acquaintances. Several men and
women came to us and exchanged greetings, and more than once her
ladyship observed:
"I wonder why Mr Sternroyd does not come, Dora? He promised me
faithfully."
"I don't know, mother," answered her daughter unconcernedly. "I suppose
he is better engaged at his club, or elsewhere."
"Well, it is decidedly ungentlemanly not to have sent a line of regret,"
the old lady observed, sniffing angrily.
Did they perceive by my silence and my face that their talk was
torturing me? Did they expect a dead man to seat himself in the vacant
chair awaiting him? These constant references to the victim of the
tragedy unnerved me. What would they think if they knew that the young
man who had promised to escort them was now lying stiff and cold?
The play proceeded, the calls were taken, the curtain fell, and when the
usual bouquets had been presented to Miss Terry, the great actor
addressed a few well-chosen words to his admirers. All was brilliant,
everyone was enthusiastic; the play was voted an unqualified success.
Yet I, the most lethargic, conscience-stricken wretch amid that gay,
well-dressed, bejewelled throng, was oppressed by the knowledge of an
awful secret, for upon me had been forced by Dora's words increased
suspicion that one of the most popular writers of the day was an
assassin.
Outside, under the portico, the vendors of "extra specials" were
shouting the latest news, varying their strident cries with the
monotonous question, "Keb or kerridge?" In eagerness I listened to
their words and glanced at the contents-bills--pink, green, amber, and
white--thrust under my nose, but in a few moments reassured myself that
the tragedy still remained undiscovered.
The Stretton carriage quickly drew up, and as the ladies were handed in
I thanked them for a pleasant evening and bade them good-night, not,
however, before I had managed to whisper to Dora, "If you hear from
Jack, telegraph at once to my chambers."
"You don't seem quite yourself to-night," she had replied. "I believe
something has happened."
"No," I stammered, "nothing unusual has occurred." Then I excused
myself by adding, "The heat of the theatre has been rather oppressive,
that's all."
The night air refreshed me, and as I strolled along the Strand westward
I suddenly overtook Thackwell, the cotton-king, also returning from a
theatre. His greeting was as usual, bluff and hearty, and we had supper
together at the National Liberal Club, of which institution he was one
of the shining lights.
I congratulated him upon the success of his recent reception, but he
smiled rather sadly, saying:
"Ay, ay, lad, it's only because aw've got a bit o' brass. Creawn a foo,
an' folk'll goo deawn o' their knees to him. Society's all very well,
if it's nobbut to see heaw th' nobs carry'n on, but a man is a sight
more happy as a journeyman than when he can reckon in millions. What
saysta?"
"But money makes the world hum," I said.
"Aw'll tell thee what, lad, for me it hums the wrong tune," he said, and
upon his frank, wrinkled face there settled a look of despondency.
"It's true the fine folk flatter me and teem warm wayter deawn my back,
makkin' it itch where it has no' been bitten, but my gowd is mixed wi'
brass and pain wi' pleasure. Awm a lonely mun, and aw find cross looks
among smiles and friendship wi' a bit o' suspicion o' booath sides."
I described minutely the strange man I had encountered in his rooms on
the night of the reception, and his girlish companion in pink, hoping to
obtain some clue to their identity, but although he was unusually,
confidential, his mind at this point seemed a perfect blank.
"Aw never know who's invited," he declared smiling. "They're all
welcome, all the folk, but they come to meet each other, and doant care
a bobbin for their host. Half of 'em come out o' sheer curiosity to see
my place, because they've 'eard from th' papers heaw mich it cost me.
Hawe, lad, awm baffled in every effort to improve my social standing;
while in business--in business everything aw touch turns to gowd."
When we entered the great smoking-room a little later I felt for my
match-box--a small gold one with my initials engraved upon it, that I
wore suspended from my watch-chain--but it was gone. I valued it
highly, as it was a present from my mother, and was much concerned
regarding its loss. On reflection I could not remember having used it
that day, and suddenly the possibility occurred to me that I might have
dropped it when I had stumbled and fallen over the body of Gilbert
Sternroyd. If it were found beside the corpse, I might be suspected of
the crime. I had no clear proof that I had dropped it there, but an
impression of dread gripped my heart. There is an infinite distance
between our fancies, however precise they may be, and the least bit of
reality. The discovery of the crime had stirred my being to its utmost
depths, and summoned up tragic pictures before my eyes. Even after I
had read the letter, and the half-burnt writing in Sybil's hand
repeatedly, I had cherished a secret hope that I was mistaken, that some
slight proof would arise and dispel suspicions that I denounced as
senseless, perhaps because I had a foreknowledge of the dreadful duty
which must devolve upon me when the body was discovered.
Excusing myself by lame apologies, I left the millionaire and went
straight to my chambers.
"Saunders," I cried as I entered, "you handed me my watch and chain this
morning. Did you notice anything remarkable about it?"
"Yes, sir," my man answered promptly. "I noticed your match-box was not
there."
"Then, confound it, I've lost it--I must have lost it last night," I
gasped. "I remember distinctly using it once or twice during the
evening."
"I thought you had taken it off and put it in your vest pocket," he
said. "You do sometimes."
"Yes," I answered. "But look here, the swivel has snapped from the
box," and taking off the chain I handed it to him to examine.
On my sitting-room table lay a note, and as I took it up I saw the
envelope bore a coronet and the wyvern's head couped at the neck vert,
the crest of the Strettons.
"That came by boy-messenger a quarter of an hour ago, sir," Saunders
said, as I eagerly tore it open.
It was a hurried scribble from Dora in pencil, and read as follows:
"Dear Mr Ridgeway,--I have found on my return a letter from Jack. I
must have your advice at once, and will therefore call at your chambers
at eleven o'clock to-morrow. The letter was posted at Dover this
morning.--Yours sincerely, Dora Stretton."
"I shall want nothing more, Saunders," I said, as calmly as I could, and
the man wishing me good-night withdrew.
"Posted from Dover!" I echoed. "Then he has decamped. Jack is a
murderer!"
I sank into my chair and re-read Dora's note carefully. What should my
course be if he were guilty? I put this question to myself plainly, and
perceived all the horror of the situation. Yes, I must see Dora and
ascertain the nature of this letter, but how could I bear to tell her
the truth, to strike her such a cruel blow, bright, fragile being that
she was? The first glimpse of the double prospect of misery and scandal
which the future offered, if my suspicions proved just, was too terrible
for endurance, and I summoned all my strength of will to shut out these
gloomy anticipations. I dreaded to meet Dora; I was already shrinking
from the pain that my words must inflict upon her.
What if detectives found my match-box beside the corpse? Might I not be
suspected? Might they not dog my footsteps and arrest me on suspicion?
If the slightest suspicion attached itself to me, I should be precluded
entirely from assisting my friend.
It was clear that I had lost it on that fatal night, for I now
remembered distinctly that as I fell my stomach struck heavily against
some hard substance. I could indeed still feel the bruise. That my
lost property was in Jack's chambers was evident. If I intended to
clear myself and assist him I should be obliged to act upon a
resolution.