The detective, bending over the album, was so deeply engrossed in
contemplating a photograph he had just discovered, that he failed to
notice my exclamation of surprise, or if he heard it he vouchsafed no
remark.
I turned to him for the purpose of seeking some explanation regarding
the portrait of myself and my dead bride, but in an instant it occurred
to me that he knew nothing regarding the strange circumstances of my
marriage, or of the fact that Sybil was "wanted," otherwise he would not
have been so indiscreet as to give me this book of photographs to
inspect. By directing his attention to it I should be compelled to
explain how ingeniously I had been tricked.
No. Again silence was best.
I decided that I would keep my own counsel, at least for the present,
and watch the progress of events. At the other portraits on the page I
glanced, then turned over leaf after leaf in search of another face I
had cause to remember--that of the mysterious Markwick. But he was not
included. Only Sybil and myself were suspected. What, I wondered,
could be the crime for which our arrest was demanded. Why, indeed, if I
had been "wanted," had I not been arrested long ago?
The discovery was astounding.
Grindlay, extracting the photograph from the book, left me hurriedly
with a word of apology, and while he was absent I again turned to the
strange assortment of foreign criminals, among whom I figured so
prominently. Again and again I read the endorsement beneath Sybil's
photograph. Her bright eyes looked out at me sadly. Her beautiful
countenance bore the same strange world-weary look as on that evening
when she had first passed me in the half-lights of the Casino Garden in
the far-off Pyrenean valley. But alas! the one word "death" written
below was a sad reality. She was lost to me, and had died with her
inscrutable secret locked within her heart.
Presently the detective returned, thrusting some ominous-looking papers
in his breast-pocket as he walked, and closing the book I followed him
out a few moments later.
"I have the warrant," he said calmly, as we entered a cab together. "I
shall make the arrest at once."
"Shall you arrest both men?"
"No," he replied, laughing. "The situation is rather critical. I don't
want to arrest the first man at present, only his companion. If I
arrest the latter the diamond thief will no doubt abscond. I shall
therefore be compelled to wait until they have parted."
"What's the charge against the other?" I inquired, much interested.
"Jewel robbery," he answered sharply. "He's one of a gang who have
their head-quarters in Brussels. I must keep him under observation, for
he's a slippery customer, and has already done several long stretches.
Where he's been lately, goodness knows. The police of Europe have been
looking out for him for fully two years, and this seems to be his first
public appearance. It was quite by a fluke that I spotted him, for he
can't hide the deformity of his hand, even though he is wearing gloves."
"What deformity?" I inquired. "I did not notice any."
"No," he laughed. "You are not a detective. The deformity consists in
two fingers of his left hand being missing. It was this fact that first
attracted my attention toward him."
Across Leicester Square we dashed rapidly, and, pulling up before the
Empire, were soon strolling again in the lounge, having been absent
about three-quarters of an hour. The crowd was now so great that
locomotion was difficult, nevertheless the detective, having lit a fresh
cigar, walked leisurely here and there in search of the pair of
criminals, while I confess my interest was divided between them and the
Earl of Fyneshade. Why the latter should now fraternise with the man of
whom only a few hours ago he had been so madly jealous was
incomprehensible, and my eyes were everywhere on the alert to again
discover them and watch their actions. Fyneshade had left his wife
because of her friendship with this sinister-faced individual, yet he
was actually spending the evening with him. It was a curious fact, and
one of which Mabel evidently did not dream. What, I wondered, could be
the motive? Had Markwick sought the Earl's society with some evil
design? Or had the Earl himself, determined to ascertain the truth,
stifled his feelings of jealousy, and for the nonce extended the hand of
friendship to the man he hated?
The performance was drawing to a close, the bars and foyer were crowded,
and the chatter and laughter so loud that neither song nor music could
be heard. Although we struggled backward and forward, and peered into
the various bars, Grindlay could not discover the men for whom he was in
search, neither could I find the Earl and his companions.
"I'm very much afraid they've left," the detective said to me presently,
when he had made a thorough investigation.
"What shall you do?"
"Oh, I know where I can find the first man, therefore the second; being
in London, it will not be a very difficult matter to get scent of him
again," he answered lightly, adding, "But I haven't seen your friend the
Earl. He's gone also, I suppose."
"I believe so. I haven't noticed him since we returned."
"You said you knew that man who was with him," he observed.
"The tall man," I repeated. "You mean Markwick. Yes, I've met him once
or twice. But I don't know much of him."
"Foreigner, isn't he?"
"I don't think so. If he is, he speaks English amazingly well."
"Ah! I thought he had a foreign cast in his features," he said,
striking a vesta to relight his cigar. "I've seen him about town of
late, and wondered who and what he was; that's why I asked."
"Well, I don't exactly know what he is. All I know is that he is a
friend of the Earl and his wife, and that he visits at one or two good
country houses. Beyond that I am ignorant."
The detective did not reply. He was too occupied in searching for the
jewel thieves. Time after time we strolled up and down, descended to
the stalls, ascended to the grand circle, and had peered into every
nook, but without success, until at length we entered one of the bars to
drink. While we stood there, I inquired whether he had the warrant for
the arrest of the man in his pocket, to which he replied in the
affirmative.
"Let me have a look at it," I urged. "I've never seen a warrant."
But he shook his head, and laughing good-naturedly replied:
"No, Mr Ridgeway; you must really excuse me. It is a rigid rule in our
Department that we never show warrants to anybody except the person
arrested. The ends of justice might, in certain cases, be defeated by
such an injudicious action; therefore it is absolutely forbidden. The
warrant is always strictly secret."
I smiled, assured him that it was only out of curiosity I had asked to
see it, and then, mentioning the strange disappearance of Gilbert
Sternroyd, asked him whether he had been engaged in that inquiry.
"Yes," he said, "I have--in an indirect manner. It's an extraordinary
case, most extraordinary. Murder, without a doubt."
"With what object?" I asked.
"As far as we can ascertain, there was absolutely no object," he
answered.
"Do they expect to make an arrest?"
"They hope to, of course," he replied vaguely. "Personally, I know but
little about it beyond what I've read in the newspapers. It is a
strange feature in the case that the body has not been found."
"What about the will?"
"Ah! another very curious point; but I don't attach much importance to
it. Many hare-brained, wealthy young fools make wills in favour of
women they admire. It is an everyday occurrence, only they generally
revoke or destroy the will, or else spend all their money before they
die. No; there is little in that, and certainly no clue. By the way,
the lady to whom he has left his money is the wife of your friend the
Earl. You knew Sternroyd, then?"