At first I dared not look the exigency in the face. For fully an hour I
paced the room in nervous agitation, but the imperative necessity of
recovering the box impressed itself every moment more deeply upon me.
The crime was, as yet, still undiscovered; therefore, might I not enter,
search, find the piece of evidence that would link me with the terrible
tragedy, and return in the same manner as on the previous night?
Undoubtedly the body was lying silent and ghastly where I left it, and
if only I could get in and out of the flat unobserved, I should be free
to assist the wretched man who was my friend, and who had held in his
possession the extraordinary letter from Sybil.
The mantel-clock told me it was nearly three. At that hour there would
be little likelihood of meeting anyone on the staircases, therefore I
decided to go.
Taking one of the candles from the piano and a box of matches, I put on
my overcoat and walked quickly along the deserted streets, avoiding the
gaze of each constable I met, and eagerly scanning every dark nook as I
went forward to the entrance of the imposing pile of flats in which
Bethune resided.
My heart beat quickly as I placed my key in the lock and gained
admittance. Then, scarce daring to breathe, I sped swiftly upstairs,
and carefully unlocking the door of the flat, entered and closed it
again. For a moment I stood breathless. A piano sounded somewhere
overhead. The darkness unnerved me, for I knew I was in the presence of
the ghastly dead.
With trembling hands I drew forth the candle and lit it, afterwards
creeping silently forward toward the room in the doorway of which I had
discovered the body of the man whose association with my dead love was
so mysterious. By death his lips were sealed.
A loose board creaked ominously, and as I passed down the small narrow
hall a long grandfather's clock vibrated and startled me. In those
moments of terror every sound became magnified, and I could hear the
rapid thumping of my own heart.
Dreading to gaze upon the corpse, I held my breath and at last peered
round the corner to the study door, but judge my amazement when I
realised that the body was no longer there!
The crime had been discovered!
I dashed forward into the little book-lined den. It presented the same
appearance as when I had left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Only the
body had been removed, and all trace of the tragedy obliterated.
I bent to examine more closely the spot where the victim had fallen,
when suddenly the sound of someone moving appalled me. There was a
stealthy footstep in the hall.
Instantly I blew out the candle. But too late! I had been discovered.
In the impenetrable darkness the footsteps approached with soft
stealthiness. Drawing myself up I placed my back resolutely against the
wall, prepared to defend myself. The body of young Gilbert Sternroyd
had been secretly removed, but I had been detected in the act of
examining the spot, and had therefore betrayed knowledge of the crime.
The murderer might commit a second crime to hide the first. The
suggestion held me motionless.
Unarmed, I stood helpless against the unseen assassin, with only my
clenched fist uplifted to ward off a blow.
"Who are you?" cried a voice. "Speak! or by Heaven, I'll fire!" The
voice was that of my friend Bethune.
"Jack!" I gasped. "Don't you know my voice--Stuart?"
"You--old chap!" he exclaimed laughing. "What on earth do you mean by
frightening a fellow out of his senses at this hour? I thought you were
one of--" and he hesitated. "I thought you were a burglar," he added
quickly.
Then in a few moments we entered the study, and I saw how pale and
haggard he looked. His coat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up as
if he had been at work. There were dark rings about his bright fevered
eyes, and his complexion seemed a yellow clay-colour. In his trembling
hand gleamed a deadly weapon--the revolver that had caused the death of
Mabel's mysterious friend.
Startled by this sudden discovery I stood staring at him, unable to
utter a word. He laid the revolver upon the table, and gazed at me with
eyes in which was an expression of abject terror. In those brief
moments it flashed through my mind that some violent exertion had caused
the beads of perspiration that stood upon his cold, pale brow; that the
body might be still lying in the flat, and that I had entered just at a
time when he was in the act of concealing it Guilt was betrayed upon his
face; he appeared suspicious and utterly unnerved.
Yet he was my friend, and although I could scarce believe he had stained
his hands with blood, I nevertheless resolved to ascertain the truth at
all hazards. For a single instant I felt inclined to turn and leave him
abruptly, but I quickly realised the necessity of not betraying
suspicion if I desired to penetrate the mystery.
We had discovered each other in compromising attitudes. Neither of us
dared to speak.
"Well," I said at last, after a desperate effort to remain calm, "how is
it that you bring out a revolver to welcome your visitors--eh?"
"Visitors!" he echoed bitterly. "At this hour? You let yourself in
with your own key? Ah! I had never thought of that," he gasped, as if
the sudden recollection that my key fitted his door terrified him.
"Yes. I have been out late to-night, and not having seen or heard
anything of you for a couple of days, I dropped in just to see if you
were alive."
"Why shouldn't I be alive?" he snapped. "I've been down to barracks.
Thatcher got leave on account of his father's illness, and I had to do
duty for him. I wrote to Dora."
"I had no line from you. That's why I looked you up," I said, as
carelessly as I could.
"Then all I've got to say, Stuart, is that you might have waited until
morning, and not creep in and frighten a fellow just as he's going to
roost."
"I had no intention of frightening you. In fact, I did not know you
were at home."
"Then why did you come in?" he asked, with emphasis. I at once saw I
had inadvertently made a declaration that might arouse his suspicions,
and sought to modify it. "Well," I said, "I came in order to leave a
note for you. In the passage I heard something fall, and was looking
for it. I am leaving town early in the morning."
"You are?" he cried eagerly. "Where are you going?"
"To Wadenhoe, for some hunting. My object in leaving the note was to
ask you to run down and stay with us for a week or so. My people will
be awfully glad to see you, and as Dora and her mother are going to
entertain a house-party at Blatherwycke, you won't be lonely."
"Well, thanks, old fellow, it's exceedingly good of you," he answered,
evidently reassured. "I should be charmed to have a few runs with the
Fitzwilliam, for I've most pleasant recollections of three weeks last
season in your country. When shall I come?"
"Next Saturday."
"Very well. Give my compliments to your mother, and thank her for her
kind invitation. I'll be down on Saturday."
"But why were you so scared when you discovered me?" I asked, leaning
on the edge of the table and regarding him with feigned amusement.
"I don't think I was very scared, was I?" he asked, with a hollow laugh.
"There's a bit of a scandal in the regiment that has upset me, and I
don't feel quite myself just now. A night's rest, you know, will set me
right. Besides, I've been writing a good deal lately and it always
takes the nerve out of me."
He drew forth the spirit stand and poured out some whisky. At first I
could not bear the thought of drinking with a murderer, but again it was
impressed upon my mind that, to successfully solve the mystery of the
murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I must act with discretion and arouse no
suspicion that I had actually discovered the body. Therefore we drank
together, while Jack's demeanour quickly became calmer. It was apparent
that he had no idea of my previous visit, and it was also equally
manifest that the light-hearted gaiety succeeding his intense
nervousness was forced and quite unnatural. He was striving to hide
from me his terrible secret!
He flung himself into a chair while I stood upon the hearthrug, and our
conversation drifted mainly upon our proposed runs with the hounds. I
had not expected to find him at home nor to meet him with a revolver in
his hand, but now I had made the discovery I understood all its
importance. Yet his demeanour had in a few minutes so entirely changed;
he seemed so calm and reassured that I relapsed into discouraging
uncertainty.
Nevertheless, if he came to Wadenhoe I should have better opportunity of
observing him, and of ascertaining whether the murdered man was an
acquaintance. I could then test him by making observations and watching
his face; I could worm from him his secret. I had trusted this man as
my best friend, but now that I was half convinced he was an assassin I
was filled with a feeling of revulsion, and was determined that Dora's
life should never be wrecked by an alliance with one whose hands were
stained with blood.
Lying back in the American rocking-chair, with his hands clasped behind
his head, he was laughing tightly as he told me an amusing story he had
heard at mess that night, entirely forgetting the strange circumstances
of our meeting, and having apparently overlooked the extreme lameness of
my excuses. His appearance had been so unexpected that I had been quite
unprepared to answer his questions and my invitation had been given
entirely without previous contemplation. But I knew I had acted wisely,
and that I had entirely allayed any suspicions I had aroused.
Then I thought of my missing match-box. He had no doubt not yet
discovered it, and if he found it subsequently he would believe I had
lost it during my present visit. Good! I was in the position of a
detective holding an important clue, upon which I might work, and either
clear or convict him.
Presently, when I announced my intention to depart, he rose, exclaiming
with a laugh:
"When you call next time, old chap, you might ring, and not enter with
your key. It was a narrow squeak that I didn't wing you."
"Are you so fond of shooting at people?" I asked meaningly.
"Shooting! What do you mean?" he asked with a sickly smile. "As a
soldier I have to practice with the revolver, of course."
"But not upon your visitors, I hope," I said laughing as we were passing
along the narrow hall.
We were outside the door of the dining-room, which, being ajar, showed
there was no light inside, when suddenly there came from the room a
distinct sound.
"Halloa!" I cried gayly. "Who have you got in there? Let's have a
look."
I placed my hand upon the door to push it open, but with an agile
movement he sprang towards me and stood resolutely with his back to the
door, deathly pale in alarm.
"No, Stuart," he gasped. "You must not enter."
"Why? Who's your friend? You arouse my curiosity," I said.
"I forbid you to enter," he replied firmly, standing with his arms
akimbo and brows knit in determination.
"What's the meaning of this confounded secrecy?" I asked seriously.
"It means--well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me
privately."
"Male or female?"
"I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs," he
replied brusquely.
"Come, don't humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is," I said,
trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the
door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:
"I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed,
your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I'm
almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them."
"Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?"
"I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person
who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity
of my best friend."
Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed
plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor's
identity.
Was it some person who was assisting him to get rid of the hideous
evidence of the crime?
His hands trembled perceptibly as he stood before the locked door, and
there had returned to his ashen face that wild, haggard expression of
intense fear so noticeable when he had first discovered me.
"You speak of the person being compromised if discovered by me," I said.
"Then I presume your visitor is a woman?"
"You are at liberty to entertain whatever conviction you please. I
shall, however, tell you nothing."
"You refuse?"
"Yes, I refuse."
"Even though I should tell Dora that I found, in the middle of the
night, a mysterious woman in your rooms?"
"Even then I shall refuse to compromise my visitor," he answered, with
firmness that completely astounded me.
"Very well," I said abruptly. "Good-night. Remember your appointment,
and come down to Wadenhoe next Saturday."
"Good-night. Next time we meet I hope you will not be quite so
inquisitive," he replied, as he closed the door after me and I descended
the stairs.