A week went by, but no word of the discovery of the ghastly evidence of
the crime found its way into the papers. For reasons of their own the
police obtained the postponement of the inquest, although the body had
been removed to the mortuary, and the house still remained in the
possession of a plain-clothes' man. The theory of the Criminal
Investigation Department was that the house would be visited by someone
who, unaware of the discoveries that had been made, would walk straight
into the arms of an officer of the law.
But it proved a waiting game. Another week passed. Several times I
called at Lady Stretton's, only to learn, alas! that Dora had not
improved in the slightest degree. She recognised no one--not even her
mother. Her ladyship was prostrate, while Mabel, whom I met one morning
when I called, seemed haggard and particularly anxious regarding her
sister.
The thought did not escape me that Mabel herself had, at least on one
occasion, most probably visited that strange house that had its entrance
in Radnor Place, and I was on the point of mentioning it to her, but
decided to wait and see whether she alluded to it. She, however, did
not. When I asked her for news of Fyneshade she replied, snappishly,
that she neither knew nor cared where he was. In fact, she treated me
with a frigid reserve quite unusual to her.
About noon one day Saunders brought me a telegram. Opening it, I found
the words:
"Tell Boyd to sell Tintos.--Roland. Post, Alf, Moselle."
It was from Bethune. Roland was the name we had arranged. So he had,
notwithstanding all the precautions taken by the police, succeeded in
again escaping to the Continent, and was now in hiding at the post-house
of the little riparian village of Alf. I knew the place. It was far in
the heart of the beautiful Moselle country on the bank of the broad
river that wound through its vine-clad ruin-crested hills, altogether a
quaint Arcadian place, quiet, restful, and unknown to the felt-hatted
horde of tourists who swarm over the sunny Rhineland like clouds of
locusts.
Three days after receiving the telegram I alighted from a dusty,
lumbering fly at the door of the building, half post-house, half inn,
and was greeted heartily by my friend, who spoke in French and wore as a
disguise the loose blue blouse so much affected by all classes of
Belgians. Alone in the little dining-room he whispered briefly that he
was going under the name of Roland, representing himself to be a
land-owner from Chaudfontaine, near Liege. None of the people in the
inn knew French; therefore, his faulty accent passed unnoticed. When
there were listeners we spoke in French to preserve the deception, and I
am fain to admit that his disguise and manner were alike excellent.
Together we ate our evening meal with the post-house keeper and his
buxom, fair-haired wife; then, while the crimson sunset still reflected
upon the broad river, we strolled out along the bank to talk.
All the land around on this south side is orchard--great pear and cherry
trees linked together by low-growing vines, and in the spring months
they make a sea of blossom stretching to the river's edge. The noise of
the weir is loud, but the song of the myriad birds can be heard above
it. Away eastward, down the widening, curving stream, above the vines
there arise, two miles off, the blackened, crumbling towers of mediaeval
strongholds. To the north lies the Eifel, that mysterious volcanic
district penetrated by few; to the south the Marienburg and the
ever-busy Rhine. The vale of the Moselle on that brilliant evening was
a serene and sylvan scene, glorious in the blaze of blood-red sunset,
and when we had walked beyond the village, cigar in mouth, with affected
indifference, Bethune turned to me abruptly, saying:
"Well, now, after all this infernal secrecy, what in the name of Heaven
do you want with me?"
"You apparently reproach me for acting in your interests rather than in
my own," I answered brusquely.
"I acted upon your so-called warning and left England--"
"Without seeing Dora?" I inquired.
"She's away in the country somewhere," he snapped. It was evident that
he was entirely ignorant of the dire misfortune that had befallen her.
"My warning was justified," I said quietly. "That a warrant is out for
your arrest I am in a position to affirm, and--"
"A warrant issued on your own information, I presume," he interrupted
with a sneer.
"I have given no information," I replied. "I obtained the truth from
the detective who held the warrant, and sent word to you immediately."
"Extremely kind, I'm sure. You've done all you can to prejudice me, and
now it seems that for some unaccountable reason you have altered your
tactics and are looking after my interests. I place no faith in such
friends."
"My tactics, as you are pleased to term them, are at least legitimate,"
I answered, annoyed. "I deny, however, that I have ever acted in
opposition to your interests. During these past weeks of anxiety and
suspicion I have always defended you, and show my readiness to still do
so by contriving your escape thus far."
"Bah! What have I to fear?" he exclaimed, turning on me defiantly.
I looked straight into his face, and with sternness said--"You fear
arrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd." He frowned, and his eyes
were downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed his
tight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying--
"Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottom
of my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances to
again extend to you the hand of friendship."
"I don't want it," he growled. "I tell you plainly that you are my
enemy--not my friend."
"I have never been your enemy. It is true that the police of Europe are
searching for you; that your description is in the hands of every
official charged with criminal investigation from Christiania to
Gibraltar, and that the charge against you is that you murdered a young
millionaire. It is true also that it lays in my power to shield or to
denounce you. Think, think for a moment the nature of the evidence
against you. One night I entered your flat with my key, stumbled across
something, and discovered to my horror that it was the body of
Sternroyd, who had been shot."
"You lie!" he cried, turning upon me fiercely, with clenched fists.
"You lie! you never saw the body!"
"I tell you I did," I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I went
on to describe the exact position in which it lay.
My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained no
suspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal,
and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal night
and witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I held
he was visibly crushed and cowed.
"Well, go on," he said mechanically, in a hoarse tone. "I suppose you
want to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest--eh?"
"Think of the nature of my evidence," I continued. "I entered your flat
again on the following night to find you present, the body removed, and
you met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking the
door and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficient
circumstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?"
He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.
"Again," I said, "in addition to this, I may as well tell you that the
body you sought to hide has been discovered."
"Discovered!" he gasped. "Have they found it?"
"Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always
difficult to hide."
"Who searched? Who discovered it?"
"The police."
"And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?"
I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts.
Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the
success of my next move.
Turning to him presently, I said: "I have a confession to make, Bethune.
On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed
a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from
a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have
no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations
with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act
openly and tell me what you know of her."
"I know nothing--nothing," he answered, in a low tone.
"That's a lie!" I exclaimed angrily. "She wrote to you on apparently
the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with
her."
"Well, I was acquainted with her."
"And with Sternroyd?"
"And with Sternroyd."
"Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position,
and why the police desired her arrest?"
"No; I cannot tell you that," he answered firmly. "Why?"
"Because I refuse."
"You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell the
truth because it would incense me?"
"I do not fear to tell the truth," he retorted.
"Then why do you decline?"
"Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preserving
silence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter."
His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words I
had read a hundred times before. They were: "...desire that your
friend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact." Yes;
he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.
"Will you tell me nothing regarding her?" I asked persuasively.
"I am not at liberty to say anything."
"Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a right
to know who and what she was, I have," I urged.
"I'm well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by her
extraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and--"
"Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?" I cried
fiercely.
"Take it as you please, the truth is the same," he answered, with a
sneering smile. "You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a fly
in a trap." And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.
"Then you will tell me nothing about her?" I exclaimed angrily. "You
refuse to assist me in recognition of the service I have done you in
avoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well--
there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall you
will never extricate yourself."
"Death?"
"No; an officer of police."
"Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter," he cried, in a tone
of banter. "Denounce me--let them arrest me. I am ready to face my
traducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothing
of Sybil."
"Very well," I said. "Then the warrant shall be executed without
delay."
And I turned and left him.
What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.