During a quarter of an hour I sat alone smoking a cigarette in
thoughtful silence under the trellis, when suddenly I heard the sound of
passionate voices on the other side of the ivy. Two persons had
evidently seated themselves in close proximity to myself, and I was, so
to speak, in the middle of a scene before I realised that I was
listening.
"You shall not do this thing," cried a woman's voice. "By God! you
shan't--you shall listen to reason. He has been murdered, foully done
to death, and--"
"Well, what of that? Can't you whisper, you fool?" and I heard an
imprecation from between a man's set teeth.
Stealthily, in order not to attract attention, I turned and parting the
foliage saw directly behind me the gleam of a light dress in the
darkness. At first I could not distinguish its wearer, but almost at
that moment her companion struck a match to light his cigar, and its
fickle flame illuminated both their faces.
The woman in the light dress was the Countess of Fyneshade, and the man,
wearing a heavy fur travelling-coat, and with several days' growth of
beard on his dark, frowning face, was the mysterious individual who had
met me on the night I had been married to Sybil.
"So you have come from Marseilles, for what purpose?" exclaimed Mabel
angrily. "Merely to run risk of compromising me, and to tell me
absolutely nothing. You must think me an idiot?"
"Have I not already told you the result of my inquiries into the
movements of Bethune?"
"I have surreptitiously read each letter that Dora has received from
him, and I was well aware of your devilish cunning, for I have already
had experience of it myself."
"So you entertain a suspicion that Gilbert Sternroyd has been murdered--
eh?" he said, with a low laugh, not deigning to remark upon the
uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken. "Surely a young man
may--er--disappear for a week or so, without any great harm coming to
him?"
"Mine is not a mere suspicion," she declared quickly. "I am absolutely
certain he has met with foul play."
"Why?"
"Because three days before his disappearance he told me in confidence
that an enemy, whom he would not name, had threatened him."
"But if he had really been murdered, surely his body would have been
found by this time?" he observed. "You have, I am well aware,
communicated your suspicions to the police, and they have made every
inquiry, but without avail. In passing through London this morning I
called at Scotland Yard on your behalf and was informed that they had
succeeded in tracing the missing man to the Army and Navy Club on the
night of his disappearance. He left there at midnight to walk home, but
since that moment nothing has been heard of him."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing except the curious fact that on the following morning a check
for five thousand five hundred pounds in favour of some mysterious
individual, named Charles Collinson, was handed in at the Temple Bar
branch of the London and Westminster Bank, endorsed in an illiterate
hand by the bearer, and duly cashed. After that all traces are lost.
He has disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and
swallowed him."
"I care nothing for police theories," Mabel said firmly. "I feel
convinced that he has been brutally murdered."
"But who were his enemies?"
"As far as I am aware, he had none," she answered. "The discovery of
the check, however, is a curious fact, and if this Collinson could be
found he could, no doubt, give the police a clue."
"I think not," her companion replied dubiously. "The check was dated
three days before, and therefore, in all probability, had no connection
whatever with his disappearance."
"But now, with regard to Bethune. Where is he?"
"At the Trombetta at Turin, under the name of Harding. I had a telegram
concerning him this morning. At your instigation a detective has
followed him, but I confess I can see no object in this, because no
warrant can be obtained, for the simple reason that the police have no
knowledge that Sternroyd is actually dead. He may, after all, be
keeping out of the way for some purpose or another. The most exhaustive
inquiries have been made, but have failed to elicit any solution of the
mystery. Even a careful examination of Bethune's chambers, made by two
most expert officers, has failed to show that any tragedy has been
enacted. It is true that the Captain destroyed some papers before
leafing, but they were mostly billets-doux which he apparently thought
might prove compromising to some of his fair correspondents. Thoughtful
of him, wasn't it?"
"Very. He was a friend of Sybil's, I believe?"
"Yes, and was very much attached to her at one time, if reports are
true," the man answered, with a low, coarse laugh.
Sybil! The mention of her name thrilled me; the words pierced my
strained ears, causing me to remain dumbfounded and open-mouthed in
expectation.
"Were any of her letters discovered?" Mabel asked in a low tone.
"None. Fortunately all were carefully destroyed."
"But why should he have left so mysteriously if he were in no way
connected with Gilbert's disappearance? I suspect him of murder,
therefore I gave instructions to have him watched. I care nothing for
the cost, or for any scandal that may accrue, so long as I bring the
assassin to justice. Gilbert entrusted me with the secret of his fear,
and it is therefore my duty to seek out the murderer."
"Even at the risk of Dora's happiness?" he inquired. "Yes. At risk of
her happiness. At present she must know nothing--nothing beyond the
fact with which she is already well acquainted, namely, that marriage
with Bethune is entirely out of the question. But listen! Someone is
coming! It's Fyneshade! Go! he must not see you. Quick!"
The man jumped up quickly and slipped away in the darkness, while the
Countess also rose with a frou-frou of silk, and went forward to meet
her husband, laughing aloud, saying:
"Ah! you dear old boy, I knew you would be looking for me. The rooms
are so awfully hot that I came out to get a breath of air. It's simply
delightful out to-night."
"Yes," he answered dryly, turning and walking back with her, uttering
some rapid, earnest words that I could not catch as they crossed the
lawn.
That the Countess had been acquainted with Sybil was a fresh revelation.
The strange sinister-looking individual whose identity was enshrouded
in mystery, and with whom she appeared to be on such intimate terms, had
aroused in my heart fresh suspicions that I had been duped. He had
declared that Jack Bethune, the man I had trusted as a friend, and whom
I was now striving to shield, had been one of Sybil's lovers! The
thought was maddening. I sprang to my feet, clenched my fists, and
walked forward in a sudden outburst of fury. If Mabel had known her,
was it not highly probable that she was fully aware of the secret of my
marriage and the true story of her fate? The strange words inscribed
upon the wreath that had been so mysteriously placed upon the grave
recurred to me. "Seek and you may find." Those words danced before my
eyes in letters of fire. The whole enigma was one which grew more
puzzling daily, and, try how I would, I was unable to solve it.
From what I had overheard I had learnt more than one fact of the highest
importance. If no warrant had been issued against Bethune why should
not this be communicated to him; why indeed should I not seek of Mabel
the truth about the woman I had loved?
This course, after some consideration, commended itself to me, and I
walked on with firm resolve to obtain from the smart Society leader some
facts regarding Sybil's tragic end. With that object I again wandered
among the dancers in search of the striking study in heliotrope. I
could not, however, find her, but discovering Dora flushed by waltzing,
fanning herself, and enduring the inane chatter of an insipid young
sprig of the Stock Exchange, I managed to take her aside.
"Now, Dora, tell me," I said, when we were standing together alone on
the veranda, "do you really want Jack back again?"
"Want him back!" she cried in wistful tones. "If you can induce him to
return you will render me a service that I can never forget--a service
that will bring happiness to us both."
Happiness! I sighed, remembering the man who had fallen cold and stiff
in the narrow passage in Bethune's chambers. How could I allow her,
bright, pure and good, to marry a murderer? But was I not selfish? I
confess that in those moments of anguish and suspicion I cared for
nought save myself. I was determined to know the truth regarding his
relations with Sybil, and intended with that object to bring him back,
even at risk of his subsequent arrest.
"Very well," I said quietly, "within a week he shall be with you."
"But how will you induce him to return? Besides, we cannot communicate
with him."
"Leave all to me," I answered. "In a week he will be at your side, and
I--I--"
"And you will receive my most heartfelt thanks," she said in low,
earnest tones, laying her hand upon my arm and looking into my face.
"You know, Stuart, how I have suffered these long dreary days; how
intensely I love him. You are my friend. Yes, you have always proved
yourself my friend, although I fear I have on more than one occasion
ridiculed you as a confirmed bachelor with a heart of adamant."
"I also loved once," I said.
"Who was the woman?"
"Ah! it is a secret," I answered. "But I sympathise with you, because
I, alas! have experienced all that poignant bitterness, the dregs of
life's unhappiness that are too often the lot of the lover. I loved,
ah! I adored, one woman. She was my life, my very soul was hers, but
she has gone, gone, and I am left alone with nothing but the memory of
her face that comes back to me constantly in my day-dreams."
"She married someone else, I suppose?" she observed gloomily.
"Death parted us," I answered huskily, for the memory of her sad, sweet
countenance always caused a lump to rise in my throat.
Dora echoed my sigh and was silent, deeply absorbed in thought, gazing
away to where the moonbeams shimmered on the lake.
"Dead! then all is of the past," she said presently. "I never suspected
that you had really loved. I never knew that you had been guilty of any
deeper indiscretion than the mild flirtation which used to be carried on
between us in the old days. Now that you have told me your secret, I
can well understand why pretty women have no longer attraction for you,
and the reason you have become something of a misanthrope."
"Misanthrope. Yes, you are right, Dora. I am not old in years, but
unfortunately I have grown world-weary early, and have been overwhelmed
by a catastrophe that has warped my life and sapped my youthful spirits.
But do not let us discuss it further. You are young, and Jack Bethune
is deeply attached to you. Therefore I will do my best to induce him to
return."
She turned to me, and taking my hand in hers went on: "I can only
express my gratitude, and--and hope that into your life may enter some
other woman who may be as worthy honest love as the one whose sad death
has struck this chord of tragedy in your heart."
"Thank you, Dora," I answered with earnestness, looking into her eyes.
"But I am afraid I am doomed to bachelorhood. As I have observed on a
previous occasion, if it were not for Jack's existence I should, in all
probability, go down on my knees and kiss this hand of yours."
"How foolish!" she cried in a strained voice. "I love Jack!"
"For that very reason I have not endeavoured to perform what you once
dubbed as an absurd antic," I said gallantly.
"And for that reason also you ought not to speak quite so frankly," she
replied coquettishly. "But, nevertheless, you will be a perfect angel
if you really bring Jack back again. Indeed, I almost feel prompted to
kiss you now."
"I am sure I have no objection," I answered laughing. "It wouldn't be
the first time."
"No, but now I'm a woman kissing isn't proper," she answered, with a
little _moue_, and laughing brightly, added: "I think our conversation
is drifting as usual into a dangerous channel. Come, let us go back."
We turned, and as we re-entered the room, which buzzed with the soft
sibilation of Society small-talk, a partner claimed her for a waltz at
that moment commencing, and as she was whirled away she laughed lightly
at me across his shoulder.