In no mood to participate in the gaiety, I went to the library and wrote
a long telegram which I addressed to "Harding, Hotel Trombetta, Turin,"
explaining that if he feared arrest for any crime his fears were
groundless, as no warrant was out, and urging him to return to Dora if
only for a few days. This I despatched by my own man to Gretton
station, to be transmitted the first thing in the morning. Afterward I
again sought Mabel.
When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and as
she sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, she
regarded me, I think, with some little surprise.
"Well," she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguised
expression of amusement, "why all this secrecy? Don't you think it
would be best if we allowed the door to be open?"
"No, Mabel," I answered. "What I am about to utter is for no other ears
than yours."
She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath the
faint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, she
recovered her self-possession and declared that she was all attention.
She was always an admirable actress.
"We have been friends, Mabel, for many years, and this fact allows me to
speak with greater freedom," I said, seating myself carelessly upon the
edge of the table before her. "To-night I have made a discovery. I
discovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who--"
"And you overheard!" she gasped, starting to her feet. "You--you
listened to what I said?"
"I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither your
enemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I assure you, is in safe
keeping."
Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly into
the dying fire.
"You will remember," I continued, "that you introduced me to young
Sternroyd, the man who is missing--the man who has been murdered."
"Murdered? How do you know?" she snapped.
I saw I had nearly betrayed my knowledge, but quickly correcting myself
I said: "Murdered, according to your belief. Well, it strikes me as
curious that you should take such an intensely keen interest in the
missing man; that you have thought fit to urge the police to arrest my
friend, Captain Bethune; nay, that you yourself should employ a private
detective to watch his movements. When you told me, on the occasion on
which you introduced us, that Sternroyd was a protege of your husband's,
you lied to me!"
She frowned, bit her lip, but no word escaped her. "Fyneshade knows no
more of Sternroyd than he does of this man whom you have met in the
garden to-night," I continued. "Therefore, when the mystery surrounding
the young man's disappearance is cleared up, no doubt it will make some
exceedingly interesting matter for the newspapers."
"You insinuate that I love Sternroyd!" she cried, starting up again
suddenly, and facing me with a look of defiance. "Well, all I can say
is, Mr Ridgeway, that you are very much mistaken in your surmise. You
are quite at liberty to go to my husband and explain the circumstances
under which you were introduced to Gilbert. Tell him that Gilbert was
my lover, and see what he says," she added laughing.
"If he were not your lover I scarcely think you would take so much
trouble to ascertain his present whereabouts," I observed with sarcasm.
"He is not my lover, I say," she cried angrily. "I hated and detested
him. It is not love that prompts me to search for his assassin."
I smiled incredulously, saying: "Your denial is but natural. If it is
not love that causes you to seek the truth regarding Sternroyd's
disappearance, what is it?"
"I refuse to answer any such impertinent question," she replied
haughtily. "I am absolute mistress of my own actions, and my husband
alone has a right to inquire my reasons."
"Very well," I said calmly, surprised at her denial and sudden defiance.
"I have no desire whatever to ascertain facts that you desire to
conceal; on the other hand, you must admit that I have acted quite
openly in telling you that I overheard your conversation with your
strange visitor, who, if I am not mistaken, I have met before."
"Where?" she answered quickly.
"Have you already forgotten that evening at old Thackwell's, where you
met him with a thin, scraggy girl in pink?" I asked. "On that occasion
you were deeply embittered against him, and urged me to avoid him. You
said that you knew him `once.' I presume your friendship has now been
resumed?"
"Only because it has been imperative," she declared, speaking
mechanically, her face hard set and haggard.
"But is he a desirable acquaintance for a woman like yourself, whose
every action is chronicled by Society gossips, and who is surrounded by
jealous women who would ruin your reputation if only they had half a
chance?"
"I do not seek him," she answered. "He comes to me because my interests
are his."
"In what direction?"
"I cannot tell you. It is really unfair to ask. You are aware of my
acquaintance with this man, and I merely tell you that it is absolutely
compulsory."
She was standing before me, with jewels upon her neck and arms flashing
in the lamplight, one of the handsomest of women, yet upon her face was
a wild and wearied expression such as I had never before seen.
Assuredly some great and terrible secret lay hidden in her heart. "I
heard you mention to your friend that Jack Bethune once knew a woman--a
woman named Sybil. Who was she?" I asked at last.
"Sybil! Sybil!" she repeated, with a puzzled look, as if trying to
recall the conversation. "Oh, yes! you mean Sybil Houston."
"Who was she?"
"The daughter of a retired naval officer, I believe. I never met her,
but I understood that she acted as Jack's amanuensis. She was, however,
engaged to some impossible person or other, whom she married."
"Are you sure he knew no other woman named Sybil?" I asked eagerly.
"My dear Mr Ridgeway, however should I know? Jack did not tell me all
his little affairs of the heart, for, remember, I am Dora's sister, and
he feared probably that I might tell her," and she gave vent to a harsh,
discordant laugh.
I remembered, with a sudden pang, that the letter I had discovered was
undoubtedly in my dead bride's handwriting, and felt half inclined to
disbelieve her; yet she had spoken so frankly that it seemed as though
she had told all she knew. It was only her strange laugh, almost
hysterical, that aroused doubts within me.
"If anyone should know something of Jack Bethune's female friends it is
yourself. I know you are his confidant," she added.
"He has no female friends now but Dora," I observed, "and he loves her
dearly."
"Yes, I know, but they must both see the absurdity of it all," she said
petulantly. "They can never marry, so I cannot see why Dora should
trouble her head about him. I declare she has been going about looking
quite pale and wretched during the past week. People are beginning to
talk."
"And why can't they marry?" I asked.
"We've discussed the question before," she replied impatiently. "First,
he hasn't sufficient money, for Dora would ruin him in a year;
secondly--" and she paused.
"Well--secondly?"
"Secondly, my sister shall never marry a murderer!" she said in a hoarse
half whisper, first glancing at the door to ascertain that it was still
closed.
"But if he returns, and is able to prove that he has had no hand in the
sudden disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd?"
"He cannot. I shall be able to prove to the contrary. Let him return
to England, and each step he takes will be towards the gallows," she
declared vehemently.
"Your words betray you," I said severely. "Although you have pretended
that Sternroyd is merely missing, you know he has been murdered!"
She started violently, clutching at the edge of the table to steady
herself.
"And--and your words also show that you are aware! of the truth, that he
has been foully done to death, and that your friend Bethune is guilty of
the crime!" she gasped when, in a few moments, she recovered her
self-possession. "Let him come, let him face me if he can." There was
a wild look in her bright eyes, an expression of terrible murderous
hatred as her fingers worked convulsively, and her bare chest with its
diamonds heaved and fell quickly, causing the gems to glitter with
dazzling brilliancy. Her face was that of a woman haunted by the shadow
of a crime.
"Very well," I said, quickly. "We will not prolong this very painful
interview. He will return, either to prove his innocence or be
convicted; either to pay the penalty or marry Dora."
Walking to the door I threw it open, and as I did so she tottered across
the room towards it and almost fell. I caught her quickly, but she only
laughed hysterically, saying:
"I am a little faint and shall not dance again. If you see Fyneshade,
tell him--say that I have gone to my room," and, with a cold, haughty
bow she swept suddenly past me with hurried, uneven steps.