"Will you--will you swear?" she implored, grasping my hands, her white
agitated countenance still lifted to mine in earnest appeal.
I had felt confident long ago that she must know something of Sybil,
from the fact that Sternroyd's photograph had been placed with that of
my dead wife, but was entirely unprepared for this strange offer. I was
to commit perjury and thus shield this mysterious scoundrel Markwick as
well as herself, in order to learn some facts about the woman I had
loved. At first, so intense was my desire to obtain a clue to the
inscrutable mystery that had enveloped Sybil, that I confess my impulse
was to give my promise. But on reflection I saw the possibility that
she desired to shield Markwick, and not herself; and I also recognised
the probability that her promised revelation might, after all, be
entirely untrue. These thoughts decided me.
"No," I answered with firmness. "I will not commit perjury, even though
its price be the secret of my wife's life."
"You will not?" she wailed. "Not for my sake?"
"No," I answered, gravely. "Much as I desire to solve the enigma, I
decline to entertain any such offer."
"Then you, too, are my enemy!" she cried wildly, with a sudden
fierceness, staggering back from me a few paces.
"I did not say so. I merely refused to be bribed to perjury," I
answered as she released my hands.
"And you will not help me?" she said, hoarsely, standing before me and
twirling the ribbons of her gown between her nervous bejewelled fingers.
"I will assist you in any way I can, but I will not swear that I have
not seen that man," I replied.
"Ah! you are prejudiced," she said with a deep sigh. Then in a meaning
tone she added, "If you knew the secret that I am ready to divulge in
exchange for your silence, you might perhaps have cause for prejudice."
She uttered these words, I knew, for the sole purpose of intensifying my
curiosity. It was a woman's wile. Fortunately, however, I remained
firm, and answered a trifle indifferently perhaps:
"If I can only learn the truth at such cost, then I prefer to seek a
solution of the mystery from some other source."
"Very well," she said, her eyes suddenly flashing with suppressed anger
at my blank refusal. "Very well. You refuse to render me a service,
therefore I decline to impart to you knowledge that would place your
enemies within your power. Speak the truth if you will, but I tell you
that ere long you will regret your refusal to enter into the compact I
have suggested--you will come to me humbly--yes, humbly--and beg of me
to speak."
"Of what?"
"To tell you the truth," she said quickly, a heavy frown of displeasure
crossing her pale brow. "I am fully aware of the many strange
adventures that have occurred to you during the past few months; those
incidents that have puzzled and mystified you, as indeed they would any
person. I could, if I chose, give you an explanation that would astound
you, and place in your hands a weapon whereby you might defeat the evil
machinations of those who seek your ruin--nay, your death."
"My death!" I echoed. "Who seeks my death?"
"Your friends," she replied with a low cynical laugh, as taking up an
unopened note that lay unheeded upon the table, she glanced at its
superscription and eagerly concealed it in the pocket of her tea-gown.
For a moment she paused, walking slowly toward the fireplace, but
suddenly turning back to me, stretched forth both hands, and with a
quiver of intense emotion in her voice, made a final appeal urging me to
hide from everyone all knowledge of the interview in the garden at
Blatherwycke.
My mind was, however, made up. I shook my head, but no word passed my
lips. I regretted deeply that I had responded to her summons.
"You are not more generous than the rest," she cried suddenly between
her set teeth. "No. You would ruin me, drive me to a suicide's grave!
But you shall not. Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed hysterically. "We are
enemies now; you and I. Well, let it remain so."
"It must be so if you desire it," I answered briefly, and not desiring
to prolong the interview, I bowed and turning upon my heel, strode from
the room, closing the door behind me.
As I stepped into the hall I encountered a person so suddenly that I
almost stumbled over him, yet so quickly did he motion me to silence,
that my expression of surprise died from my lips. The appearance of the
man under these circumstances was certainly as unexpected as it was
puzzling, for it was none other than the Earl of Fyneshade. It was not
surprising that he should loiter in his own house, attired in hat and
coat, but it was more than passing strange that while his wife was
deploring the fact that he had deserted her, and that a scandal would
thereby be created, he had actually been standing at the door, and in
all probability listening to a conversation which must have been
intensely interesting.
This thought flashed in an instant upon me. If he had overheard his
wife's appeal would it not convince him more than ever that his
suspicions were justifiable? Yet a few moments later, when he motioned
me to step into an adjoining room, the door of which he closed quietly
and turned to me in a manner quite friendly and affable, these fears
were at once dispelled. Evidently he had heard nothing, for in
explanation of his mysterious conduct he told me that he wished his wife
to believe he was out of town, and that he had entered with his
latch-key in order to obtain some money.
"I was afraid you would greet me aloud," he said laughing. "Fortunately
you didn't. The fact is Mabel and I have had some little differences,
and for the present our relations are rather strained. Did she ask you
to call?"
"Yes," I replied; adding, "she wanted to speak to me about Dora."
"Ah! poor Dora!" Fyneshade exclaimed rather sadly. "Most lamentable
affair that engagement of hers. She's a charming girl, but I'm afraid
the course of true love will not run very smoothly for her!"
"Why?"
"Well, Bethune is hardly the man one would wish for a husband for one's
daughter," he answered. "There are ugly rumours afloat regarding his
sudden disappearance."
"But he has now returned to face his traducers," I answered hastily.
"Yes, yes, I know. But does not his uneasiness strike you as--well, at
least as curious?"
His words were an admission that he suspected Jack. Had Mabel, I
wondered, told him of her suspicions?
"I really don't know," I said, with affected indifference. He smiled
rather incredulously, I thought, and lowering his voice, evidently
fearing that he might be overheard, he inquired--
"There is a question I want to ask you, Stuart. Are you acquainted with
a man named Markwick?"
"He is not an acquaintance of mine," I answered promptly, determined to
show no sign of surprise. "I have seen him at Thackwell's, but have
only spoken to him twice."
"Do you know who he really is?" he asked, with a strange intensity of
tone that surprised me.
"I've known him as Markwick, but if he has another name I am utterly
unaware of it. To me he has always appeared a rather shady individual
whose past is veiled by obscurity."
"And to me also. For weeks I've been trying to discover who the fellow
really is, but no one knows. He has been living at the Victoria
recently, and before that he made the Savoy his headquarters. He
appears to have plenty of money, but according to the information I have
gathered, his movements are most erratic, and their object a profound
mystery. He met my wife at some reception or another and called on her
the other day." Then, bending toward me he asked: "Do you think--I
mean--well, would you suspect him of being a detective?"