"Now," she continued in an earnest, appealing tone. "You, Stuart, have
always been my friend; if you choose you can shield me. Before long you
may be cross-examined upon that very incident, but what is there to
prevent you from saying that it was you yourself and not Markwick who
was sitting with me?"
"You ask me to lie in order to save you?" I exclaimed severely.
"Well, to put it very plainly, it amounts to that."
"But who will cross-examine me? In what form do you dread exposure?"
"I only dread the scandal that must arise when it becomes known that I
am acquainted with this man," she answered quickly. "As I have before
told you, there is no thought of affection or regard between us. While
hating him, I have been compelled to seek his assistance by untoward
circumstances."
"When do you anticipate these attempted revelations?" I asked calmly.
She was silent. The flames shot high in the grate, illuminating the
great handsome apartment and were reflected in the many mirrors, while
outside a neighbouring clock slowly struck six. The mansion seemed
strangely quiet and dismal, now that its master, the Earl, had parted
from his smart wife.
"Bethune will be tried for murder. Some awkward questions will then be
asked," she answered at last. "Markwick is quite resolved, then," I
cried, starting up. "Quite. I, too, have every reason to believe that
Gilbert fell by Bethune's hand."
"Yet you have no proofs," I observed.
"I did not say that Certain proofs will be forthcoming at the trial."
"But I presume you are aware that Jack strenuously denies the
allegation?"
"Of course. It is but natural. He fancies himself secure and is
confident we dare not cause his arrest for fear he should make a
revelation regarding a strange and startling incident that occurred
recently. But he is quite mistaken. I intend to establish the fact
that Gilbert was murdered, and further, that he fell by the hand of your
friend."
"And the reason for this, Mabel," I exclaimed, bitterly; "the reason for
this is because you have received information that the foolish youth
executed a will under which, in the event of his death, you inherit
three millions. This fact is already common gossip, although your name
has not yet transpired in the newspapers. It is but natural that you
should wish to prove his death, even though you may have loved him."
"He was a foolish boy, and pretended to admire me, but I swear, on my
honour, that I gave him no encouragement. I treated him kindly, as the
married woman usually treats a love-sick youth."
"And he has left you three millions because you were kind to him," I
said. "Well, of course you are anxious to prove that he is not merely
ill or abroad and likely to turn up again; in fact, it is to your own
interest to show that he was murdered."
"I will prove it, even if I have to face a cross-examination in the
witness-box," she exclaimed with firm determination. "All I ask you is,
for the sake of our long friendship, not to reveal the conversation you
overheard in the shrubbery."
"You wish me to assist you against my friend?" I said. "No, Mabel, I
cannot give you my promise. What I overheard was suspiciously like a
conspiracy formed to convict Jack of murder, and if I am asked I shall
speak the truth."
Her lips quivered. With a pretty woman's wilful egotism she had
anticipated that I would perjure myself to shield her, and her
disappointment and chagrin were apparent. Her face was turned toward
the fire, and for a long time neither of us uttered a word.
"Because my husband has gone and I am defenceless," she said at last
with much bitterness, "all my whilom friends will, I suppose, now unite
in maligning me. You, of all men, know the tragedy of my marriage," she
continued appealingly. "I married for money and a coronet, but ere my
honeymoon was over, I discovered that to love my husband was impossible,
and further that his reputed wealth existed entirely in the imagination;
for truth to tell he has been on the verge of bankruptcy ever since our
marriage. No, my life during these past three years has been a
wretchedly hollow sham; but because I am Countess of Fyneshade, and am
considered smart, I have been flattered and courted. Put yourself for a
moment in my place, and see whether you would prefer the misery of your
husband's great, empty, comfortless home to the many happy, well-filled,
and brilliant houses always open to you, houses where you are deemed the
centre of attraction, and where admiration and flattery greet you on
every hand. Think, think deeply for a moment, and I feel assured you
will not condemn me so unmercifully as you have."
"I do not condemn you, Mabel," I said quietly, "On the contrary, you
have my most sincere sympathy. If there is anything I can do that will
induce Fyneshade to return and thus avoid the scandal, I will do it
willingly, but, understand, once and for all, I will not perjure myself
in a court of justice."
"Ah, you are cruel and hard-hearted, for you refuse to allay his
suspicions, even though you must know from the character of our
conversation that at least there is not one iota of affection between
Markwick and myself. Is it because of Jack that you refuse?"
"Yes," I answered point-blank. "It is because I don't believe he is
guilty."
Slowly she rose from her low chair and stood before me, tall and erect,
a bewitching figure against the fitful firelight.
"Then let me tell you one fact that may induce you to alter this
opinion," she said. "You will remember that you went to his chambers
alone in the darkness, and met him there. You suspected him, but gave
him no inkling of your suspicions, yet when you wanted to enter one of
his rooms he refused to allow you."
"Yes," I said, amazed. "How do you know that?"
"It matters not by what means I have gained this knowledge; but I tell
you further that in that room at the moment you desired to enter, there
was stretched upon the floor the body of Gilbert Sternroyd!"
Her words came upon me as a bolt from the blue. How she had become
aware of my visit was an entire mystery, but her allegation fully bore
out my horrible suspicion that the murderer was at that moment hiding
the ghastly evidence of his crime.
"Such, then, is the nature of the evidence you intend to adduce against
him," I said, when I had fully contemplated her startling announcement.
"You will, however, be compelled to prove that he committed the crime.
If you are aware that the body was concealed in that room, you probably
know where it is at the present time."
"My proofs I retain until the trial," she said. "Gilbert has been
murdered, and I am but doing my best to bring the culprit to justice.
You think I am acting strangely; that my husband perhaps is, under the
circumstances, justified in leaving me to face a scandal and the
derision of the women who have envied me. Well, you are welcome to your
opinion. I can tell you, however, that when the truth is out, although
my reputation may be blighted, some revelations will be made that will
amaze you."
"I do not blame you for endeavouring to solve this mystery, Mabel," I
said rather sympathetically, "but remember Jack Bethune is my friend,
and Dora loves him dearly--"
"Because, poor girl, she is ignorant of the terrible truth," she
interrupted.
"Then let her remain in ignorance until his guilt be proved," I urged.
"She is happy; do not disturb what unfortunately may be but a brief
period of joy."
"You may rely on me," she answered. "I shall tell my sister nothing.
But if Bethune is arrested do not be surprised."
"I do not anticipate his arrest," I observed. "For when he is brought
to trial, the revelations of which you have spoken will implicate too
many people."
"How do you know? What has he told you?" she inquired quickly.
"Nothing. I have learnt much from my own observations."
"Now, tell me," she said, suddenly placing her hand softly upon my arm.
"Will you not take upon yourself the identity of Markwick for that brief
quarter-of-an-hour in the shrubbery--that is, of course, providing you
are asked? I--I appeal to you," she added in a low tone, panting with
emotion. "I appeal to you, as a woman clinging to one last hope, to
remove this unfounded suspicion attaching to me. Speak, Stuart. Tell
me you will remain my friend!"
I was silent. The darting flames showed her hand some face upturned to
mine, pale, haggard, anxious. Her breast rose and fell beneath its silk
and chiffon, and her white hand grasped my arm convulsively.
"I--I have been reckless," I admit, she went on, brokenly. "My
recklessness has been caused by an absence of love for my home or my
husband, but I swear that Fyneshade's suspicions are utterly groundless.
Ah!--if you knew the terrible secret in my heart you would pity me--you
would shield me, I know you would," and some other words that she
uttered were lost in a sudden fit of hysterical sobbing.
"What is your secret?" I asked calmly, when struggling with her
emotion, she again looked up to my face.
"You will remember when we were in the library at Blatherwycke, you
asked me if I ever knew a woman named Sybil."
"Yes," I cried eagerly. "Yes. Did you know her?"
"I--I lied to you when I denied all knowledge of her," she answered. "I
am well aware of the strange manner in which you became acquainted with
her and of your marriage, but even though these incidents are startling,
the secret of her life and death is far more astounding."
"Tell me, Mabel. Tell me all," I cried breathlessly. "No," she
answered. "No, not until you have promised to swear that you sat with
me in the shrubbery, and that Markwick was not present. Only in
exchange for your aid will I reveal to you the secret."