In my own room I sat for a long time silent in deep reverie. Saunders
glided in and out, brought me a brandy-and-soda that went flat,
untasted, and placed at my elbow my letters, with a deferential
suggestion that some of them might be important. Glancing at their
superscriptions, I tossed them aside, in no mood to be bothered with
cards of invitation or tradesmen's circulars.
Two hours passed, and the ever-watchful Saunders retired for the night.
Then, after pacing the room for a long time in hesitation, I at last
determined to write to Jack, who had returned home, warning him of his
peril. I knew that by shielding a murderer from justice I accepted a
great moral responsibility; nevertheless, I had formed a plan which I
meant at any hazard to pursue. It was, I felt certain, my last chance
of obtaining the knowledge I had so long and vainly sought, therefore I
sat down, wrote a hurried note to him, in which I urged him to fly and
hide himself for a time; but, after obtaining a hiding-place, to
telegraph to me, using the name of a mutual friend, as I desired to see
him at the earliest possible moment. This note I took across to the
Club, and gave it to the commissionaire, with strict injunctions to
deliver it personally.
Three-quarters of an hour later the old pensioner returned, saying that
he had placed the letter in Captain Bethune's hand, and as I strolled
again homeward I pondered over the serious responsibility of my action.
In my heart I felt convinced that my friend had killed Sternroyd.
Indeed, every fact was plain. I knew that he was a murderer, and my
previous esteem had now been transformed into a deep-rooted repugnance.
If he were innocent he could never have been so suspicious of me as he
had been since that memorable night when he found me in his chambers.
Within myself I admitted that I had no right in his rooms; nevertheless
the old adage, "Murder will out," forcibly occurred to me. If there was
one witness who could bring Captain Bethune to the gallows it was
myself.
Ah, how quickly things had changed! A few brief weeks ago Jack was the
popular soldier and brilliant writer hailed by the Press as one of the
greatest living novelists; while Dora, charming and radiant, was
courted, flattered, and admired at home, in the Park, in the ball-room--
everywhere. Now the one was a murderer, hounded by the police; and the
other, alas! demented.
Patience and discretion. It was Grindlay's motto, and I would take it
as mine. Already, as I walked through the silent, deserted streets,
Bethune was, I knew, preparing for hurried flight somewhere out of
reach. I alone had frustrated Grindlay's plans, but only as a means to
attain my own end.
Next day passed, and in the evening Saunders brought in the Inspector's
card. When Grindlay entered his first words were:
"Your friend Bethune has returned and again bolted."
I feigned surprise, but in the course of the conversation that ensued he
sought my advice on the most likely places to find him. I suggested
Hounslow, but the detective had already made inquiries there, and could
glean nothing.
"The curious part of the affair is that he should, after his recent
extraordinary show of bravado in returning to England, suddenly become
suspicious just at the moment when we meant to take him," he said, after
we had been discussing the matter. "I suppose you have no further
suggestions to offer as to any likelihood of his whereabouts?"
"None. I should not expect him to try and escape abroad again after his
last futile attempt to elude you."
"No. The ports are watched, and he might as well walk into the Yard at
once as to attempt to cross the Channel," remarked the detective,
smiling. "But I must be going. If you hear anything let me know at the
Yard at once."