While in the Club that afternoon the page-boy handed me a card, uttering
the stereotyped phrase, "Gentleman to see you, sir."
I took it, and, to my surprise, found it was Markwick's. When he
entered, a few moments later, he was wearing a crimson flower in the
button-hole of his grey frock-coat, and carrying his cane with a jaunty
air. His swift glance ran round the room, to assure himself that we
were alone, as he greeted me with an air of gay nonchalance.
My recognition was, I am afraid, very frigid; but, tilting his hat, he
cast himself into one of the saddle-bag chairs, and, comfortably
settling himself, tapped the sole of his varnished boot with his cane,
exclaiming:
"I was just passing, don't you know, and thought I'd look you up. We
haven't met for an age," and taking out a silver case, he selected a
cigarette and lit it.
"I think," I said dryly, "it would have been better for me had we never
met at all."
He smiled sardonically, moved uneasily, and, turning towards me,
exclaimed:
"My dear fellow, you entirely misjudge me. I was, I admit,
unconsciously the cause of a rather grave catastrophe in your life; but
surely that is all of the past. Why think more of one who is dead?"
"Then, at last, you do now admit that you enticed me to that house?
Once you denied it."
"I know," he said, smiling. "From diplomatic motives I was compelled;
nevertheless, no blame attaches to me, I assure you. This I shall prove
to you before long, I hope."
"Why not now?" I urged eagerly. "Why not tell me what you know of
Sybil? That you were intimately acquainted with her is certain; and if
you wish to assure me of your honesty of purpose, there can be no better
way of doing so than explaining who and what she was."
"Ah! unfortunately I am unable, at least for the present," he said,
watching his cigarette smoke curl towards the dark oak-beamed ceiling.
"I may add, however, that, in return for your assistance in the little
matter concerning Lady Fyneshade, I will before long render you a
service of a character that will, perhaps, astonish you."
"Then she has already seen you?" I exclaimed.
"She has," he said, nodding. "And she has given me your note. It is
for that I looked in to thank you."
We exchanged glances. His thin pimply face wore an expression of
perfect composure. There were no signs of mental agitation, but rather
confidence and extreme self-satisfaction.
"Will you not, in return for my silence, tell me something of the woman
to whom I was so strangely wedded?" I asked at last.
"No. If it were possible I would, but I am precluded by certain
circumstances, the nature of which you shall be later on made aware. At
present be patient. The mystery that puzzles you will before long be
elucidated, and I will keep my promise made to you on the night we met."
"To tell me all?"
"To explain everything. But, by the way," he added suddenly, "have you
any knowledge where your friend Bethune is?"
"Why?"
"Surely you've seen the morning papers, haven't you?" Replying in the
negative I took up the Standard that lay within reach, and found it
opened at one of the inside pages. Almost the first thing that caught
my eyes were the startling head-lines, "The Murder of a Millionaire:
Discovery of the Body."
The papers had obtained knowledge of the truth at last.
Eagerly I read the jumble of distorted facts which the representative of
a press agency had gathered from an apparently unreliable source, and
found to my amazement a statement appended, to the effect that after the
discovery of the remains a warrant had been issued against a well-known
person who had absconded and was now in Germany. The police, however,
were fully cognisant of his whereabouts, and his arrest was only a
matter of a few hours.
When I lifted my face from the paper my glance met the calm face of my
visitor.
"Well," he asked, "what do you think of it? It points to Bethune. The
police seem at last to be on the right scent. They've muddled the whole
thing, or they would have arrested him long ago."
"Upon that point I can express no opinion," I observed. "He has
evidently, however, failed to get away unnoticed."
"If ever there was a cowardly crime it was the shooting of Gilbert
Sternroyd," the man said bitterly. "His generosity kept a whole school
of bounders and hangers-on, and only because he refused to be
blackmailed and bled they spread damning reports about his admiration
for Lady Fyneshade. Truly the life of a millionaire, young or old, is
not exactly a bed of roses."
"Then you believe implicitly in Bethune's guilt?" I inquired.
"Most decidedly; no sane man who watched him as I watched him when he
fled immediately after the crime can doubt that he is the culprit. It
is written on his face."
With this opinion I was unfortunately compelled to agree, and although I
endeavoured by dint of some artful questions to "draw" him upon several
points, he parried my attacks with consummate skill and tantalising
smiles, and left me after promising to see me again in a few days.
The reason he had called was only too evident. He desired to ascertain
what facts I knew regarding the crime, for he, like others, was unaware
that I had actually been the first to discover it, and although one or
two of his questions were artfully directed, I detected the trend of his
strategy, and combated all his crafty efforts to "pump" me. He was
admittedly an adventurer of the worst type, and his presence always
filled me with anger which I found difficult of control.
That day was one of interviews, for shortly after four o'clock, while
writing a letter at the club, Saunders brought me a note, observing that
as Miss Stretton's maid had delivered it, stating that it was very
urgent, he had come with it at once. An excellent man was Saunders. I
paid him well, and he was untiring in his efforts to secure me comfort
and freedom from the minor worries of life. Having dismissed him I
opened the letter, finding to my surprise and intense satisfaction that
it was a sanely-worded note from Dora saying that she had been
dangerously ill, but was now very much better, and desired to see me
without delay if I could make it convenient to call that afternoon.
Almost instantly I set forth to respond to her invitation, and half an
hour later found her in her mother's drawing-room, radiant and quite
herself again. Lady Stretton was not present, therefore she greeted me
in her frank, hoydenish way, as of old, led me to a seat, and taking one
herself, proceeded to describe her malady.
"But, of course, you have heard how unwell I've been, so I need not tell
you," she added. "I'm quite right again now. For days my head was
strangely muddled, and I had no idea that I was at home. I fancied
myself in some queer horrid place surrounded by all sorts of terrors;
but suddenly, early yesterday morning, this feeling--or hallucination it
was, I suppose--left me, and the doctor today said I was recovering
rapidly. Where is Jack? Have you seen him?"
This was a question I had been momentarily expecting and feared to
answer.
"Yes," I said hesitatingly; "I have seen him."
"Then tell me quickly," she cried excitedly; "tell me, is it true what
the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he
has fled abroad?"
She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind
should again become unhinged.
"Yes, Dora," I said sympathetically. "I am afraid it is true."
She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the
lace trimming of her dress.
"They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I
understand," she said. "The police think that Jack shot him."
"They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I
believe."
"Do you suspect him?" she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.
"I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion."
"Ah! I understand; you, like the others, think he is guilty," she said
in a tone of bitter reproach. "Some enemy has denounced him and set the
bloodhounds of the law upon him. They will follow the scent, and soon
discover him. But is he guilty?"
"I can only tell you one fact, Dora, much as I regret it," I answered.
"The detective who has the case in hand, one of the most renowned
experts in his profession, holds evidence against him of a most
conclusive character."
"In what way? What is the nature of the evidence?" she demanded.
"There is a witness," I replied slowly. "A person discovered Gilbert
lying dead in Jack's chambers immediately after the crime. On the
following night the same person visited the place secretly, and there
met Jack, who was apparently engaged in getting rid of all traces of the
murder. This witness desired to enter one of the rooms, but Jack locked
the door in his face. In that room it will be proved the body of the
murdered man was still lying."
"It will not be so easy to prove that last fact as you imagine," she
said very seriously.
"Then Jack has already told you the truth!" I exclaimed.
"He told me something before--before I fell ill," she answered.
It was on my lips to ask her for an explanation of the cause that led to
her brain trouble, but, remembering the strict injunctions of the great
specialist, I deferred my question.
"Then you believe he is innocent?" I asked eagerly. "The police may
bring forward an array of whatever witnesses they choose, but I will
show them that Jack is no murderer," she said firmly. "I do not wonder
that you, in common with others, suspect him, but when the truth is made
clear you will be amazed at the villainy that has been resorted to by
those responsible for Sternroyd's death."
"Do you, then, allege that there was more than one person?"
"That point will be made clear at the trial," she answered briefly.
"But tell me, you know something of Jack's movements. When do you
anticipate he will be arrested?"
"To-night most probably," I said. "Perhaps he is already detained."
"He is at some little out of-the-world place in Germany, isn't he?"
"Yes; how did you ascertain that?"
"I had a letter from him to-day," she replied; "but we have no time to
lose. Ah!" And she stood with both hands suddenly pressed to her brow.
"My head throbs so painfully now and then. Sometimes it seems as if my
forehead must really burst."
"Can I assist you?" I asked, rising quickly and standing beside her,
but as I did so the door opened and the Earl of Fyneshade was announced.
"Ah! my dear Dora," he cried effusively, as he strode into the room. "I
only returned from Paris this morning, and hearing you were unwell came
along to inquire. The account I had of you was that you were delirious,
with all sorts of other complications, but I'm glad you are not so ill
as reported."
"Thanks very much," she said, shaking his hand. "I'm very much better
to-day."
Then I exchanged greetings with the Earl. He looked spruce and well,
and by his casual question whether Mabel had been there often during his
absence, no one would have suspected him of any serious disagreement
with his young wife. For a quarter of an hour we chatted, when, finding
Lady Stretton was out driving, he rose and left.
"I'm so thankful he's gone," Dora exclaimed with a grimace, as soon as
the door had closed. "He's such a dreadful old bore. I wonder Mabel
ever fell in love with him; but there, ill-disposed persons say she
didn't."
And we both laughed.
"But we haven't any time to gossip," she exclaimed, rising with a sudden
impetuosity. "You will go with me, won't you?"
"Where?"
"Not far. I want to convince you that what I have said regarding Jack's
innocence is the absolute truth."
"I am, of course, open to conviction," I said eagerly. "If I could only
see him cleared of this terrible suspicion I should be happy."
"Then you shall," she said, laying her hand tenderly on my arm, and
adding with earnestness, "Stuart, you told me on one occasion that you
had loved a true, honest woman, and that your life had been blighted by
her death."
"Yes," I said, "I remember I spoke to you once of her."
"Have you ceased to remember her?" she asked mysteriously.
"Never. Daily, hourly she is in my thoughts. There has, alas! been no
brightness in my life since the well-remembered day when I lost her," I
exclaimed fervently.
"If what I hear be true, she puzzles you. You knew nothing of her
parentage, of her past, of the reason for the strange ceremony of your
marriage," she said in a soft voice.
"Nothing. I have ever since sought to penetrate the mystery and
ignominiously failed in every effort."
She paused and, looking steadfastly into my face, exclaimed in a strange
voice full of suppressed excitement: "Then to-night I will take you to a
place where you may ascertain the truth. At all hazards I will save
Jack the indignity of falling into the hands of the police, and at the
same time reveal to you certain facts that will astound you."