The enigma was maddening; I felt that sooner or later its puzzling
intricacies must induce mania in some form or other. Insomnia had
seized me, and I had heard that insomnia was one of the most certain
signs of approaching madness. In vain I had striven to penetrate the
mystery of my union and its tragic sequel, at the same time leaving
undisturbed that cold, emotionless mask which I had schooled myself to
wear before the world.
Days had passed since my visit to Eaton Square, and through all my pain
the one thought had been dominant--I must obtain from Dora the
revelation she had promised. It seemed that blindly, willingly I had
resigned every hope, joy, and sentiment that made life precious; I had,
like Faust, given my soul to the Torturer in exchange for a few sunny
days of bliss and fleeting love-dreams.
Wearied, despondent, and anxious I lived through those stifling hours
with but one thought, clinging tenaciously to one hope; yet after all,
what could I expect of a woman whose mind was affected, and whose lover
accused of a capital offence? In this distracted mood I was wandering
one evening along the Strand and arriving at Charing Cross Station
turned in mechanically to purchase a paper at the bookstall. The hands
of the great clock pointed to half-past eight, and the continental train
stood ready to start. Porters who had wheeled mountains of luggage
stood, wiped their brows and pocketed the tips of bustling tourists
about to commence their summer holiday. City clerks in suits of cheap
check and bearing knapsacks and alpenstocks were hurrying hither and
thither, excited over the prospect of a fortnight in Switzerland for a
ten-pound note, while constant travellers of the commercial class strode
leisurely to their carriages smoking, and ladies already seated peered
out anxiously for their husbands. The scene is of nightly occurrence
after the London season, when everyone is leaving town, and I had
witnessed it many times when I, too, had been a passenger by the night
mail. As I stood for a moment watching I heard two men behind me
engaged in excited conversation in French.
"I tell you it's impossible," exclaimed one in a decisive tone.
"Very well, then, you shall not leave London," the other said, and as I
turned I was surprised to find that one of them was Markwick, the other
a short, rather elderly, shabbily-dressed little Frenchman, whose grey
beard and moustache were unkempt, whose silk hat was sadly rubbed and
whose dark eyes were keen and small. In an attitude of firm
determination he held Markwick by the arms and glared for a moment
threateningly into his face. The latter, too occupied to notice my
presence, retorted angrily--
"Let me go, you fool. You must be mad to act like this, when you know
what we both have at stake."
"No, no," the irate Frenchman cried. "No, I am not mad. You desire to
escape, but I tell you that you shall not unless you give me the money
now, before you go."
"How much, pray?" Markwick asked with a dark, severe look.
"What you promised. One thousand pounds. Surely it is not a great
price."
"You shall have it to-morrow--I'll send it to you from Paris."
"Ah! no, m'sieur, you do not evade me like that! You are playing a deep
game, but you omitted me from your reckoning. The ticket you bought
this morning was not for Paris, but for New York via Havre."
"How--how do you know my intentions?" Markwick demanded, starting.
"You confounded skunk, you've been spying upon me again!"
But the little Frenchman only grinned, exhibited his palms, and with a
slight shrug of his shoulders, said:
"I was not at the police bureau in Paris for fifteen years without
learning a few tricks. You are clever, M'sieur, shrewd indeed, but if
you attempt to leave to-night without settling with me, then you will be
arrested on arrival at Dover. Choose--money and liberty; no money and
arrest."
"Curse you! Then this is the way you'd blackmail me?" Markwick cried,
his face livid with rage. "I secured your services for a certain fixed
sum, which I paid honourably, together with three further demands."
"In order to secure my silence," the Frenchman interrupted. "Because
you were well aware of your future if I gave information."
"But you will not--you shall not," answered the man who had met me in
the garden at Richmond on that memorable night. His face wore a
murderous look such as I had never before seen. It was the face of an
unscrupulous malefactor, a countenance in which evil was portrayed in
every line. "If it were not that we are here, in a public place, I'd
wring your neck like a rat."
"Brave words! brave words!" exclaimed the other, laughing
contemptuously. "A sign from me and the prison doors would close behind
you for ever. But see! The train will leave in a few moments. Will
you pay, or do you desire to stay and meet your accusers?"
Markwick glanced at the train wherein all the passengers had taken their
scats. The guards were noisily slamming the doors, and the
ticket-examiners, passing from end to end, had now finished their work.
He bit his lips, glanced swiftly up at the dock, and snatching up his
small bag said, with a muttered imprecation:
"I care nothing for your threats. I shall go."
Shaking off the Frenchman's hand he moved towards the barrier, but his
opponent, too quick for him, sprang with agility before him, barring his
path.
This action attracted the attention of several bystanders, who paused in
surprise, while at the same moment the engine gave vent to a whistle of
warning and next second the train slowly moved away. Markwick, seeing
himself thus thwarted and the centre of attraction, turned to the little
foreigner, and cursing him audibly strode quickly out of the station,
while his irate companion walked away in the opposite direction.
In the yard Markwick jumped into a hansom and was driven rapidly away,
and as I watched I saw almost at the same moment a tall, well-dressed
man spring into another cab, give the driver rapid directions, and then
follow the conveyance Markwick had taken.
As the stranger had mounted into the cab and conversed with the man his
face was turned full towards me, and in that instant I recognised him.
It was Grindlay! He, too, had evidently watched unseen.
That this ex-detective held Markwick's secret was evident, and as
Grindlay--whom I had imagined far away in Germany--was taking such a
keen interest in the doings of the man I hated, the thought occurred to
me that by following the Frenchman I might be of some assistance. I
therefore turned suddenly on my heel, crossed the station-yard, and
hurried along the Strand citywards in the direction he had taken.
Before long I had the satisfaction of seeing him walking rapidly before
me muttering imprecations as he went. By his own admissions he was a
blackmailer and had had no doubt a hand in Markwick's schemes, yet it
occurred to me that if judiciously approached he might possibly throw
some light upon the events of the past few months. Markwick, himself an
adventurer, was not the kind of man to submit to blackmail unless his
enemy held him beneath his thumb. The scene I had witnessed proved
conclusively that he went in mortal fear of this Frenchman, otherwise he
would have treated his importunities with contempt, and left in the
train by which he apparently had intended to escape by a roundabout
route to America. Therefore, in order to learn more of this latest
denunciation of the man whose presence always filled me with hatred and
loathing, I kept close behind the angry foreigner. The Strand was
crowded with theatre-goers at that hour, but this facilitated my
movements, for according to his own statement he had had experience in
Paris as an officer of police, and I saw it might be somewhat difficult
to follow him without attracting his attention. I had a strong desire
to accost him then and there, but on reflection felt certain that it
would be best to find out where he went, and afterwards leave him to the
tactful Grindlay. A single impolitic question might arrest any
revelation that he could make; or if he found himself followed his
suspicions might be aroused, and he himself might fly ere I could
communicate with my friend the detective. So, exercising every caution,
I carefully dogged his footsteps. It was not yet dark and I was
therefore enabled to keep him well in view, although at a respectable
distance. At the same rapid pace he passed along the Strand, up Bow
Street and Endell Street to Oxford Street, which he crossed, continuing
up Gower Street. When near the Euston Road he turned into a short
dismal thoroughfare bearing the name of University Street, and there
entered one of the rather dingy blackened houses by means of a latch
key. When he had disappeared I passed and repassed the house several
times, taking careful note of its number and of the appearance of its
exterior, then, determined to communicate as early as possible with
Grindlay, I returned home and wrote him a note which I sent to Scotland
Yard by Saunders.
Shortly before eleven o'clock that night a messenger brought me a
hastily-scribbled note from him asking me to come round to his office at
once. I went, was ushered into his presence without delay, and related
what I had witnessed at the railway station, and what I had overheard.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "their altercation when I arrived had almost ended.
I had been keeping close observation on Markwick all the afternoon, but
he had eluded me, and it was only by the merest chance that I went along
to Charing Cross to see if his intention was to decamp. So you tracked
down that wild little Frenchman, did you? Excellent. Why, you are a
born detective yourself," he added, enthusiastically. "Nothing could be
better. Now we shall know something."
"Did Markwick elude you again?" I inquired.
He smiled. "Scarcely," he answered. "But his acquaintance with Jules
De Vries is quite unexpected, and puts an entirely different complexion
on affairs."
"You know the Frenchman then?"
"Yes. He was, before his retirement last year, one of the smartest men
in the Paris detective force. During eighteen months before he was
pensioned he was head of the section charged with the inquiries into the
anarchist outrages."
"But he was apparently endeavouring to levy blackmail!" I observed.
"Oh! there's a good deal of corruption among the French police," he
answered, laughing. "Perhaps, living retired, he is seeking to make
money out of the secrets entrusted to him in his professional capacity.
That is often the case."
Our conversation then turned upon the inquest upon the body of Gilbert
Sternroyd, which had now been fixed, and to which I was summoned to give
evidence regarding the discovery of the body at Gloucester Square.
Grindlay, in answer to my question, admitted that Jack had not yet been
arrested, but that as soon as certain inquiries then in active progress
were complete the German police would detain him for extradition.
"Then you still believe him guilty," I observed with sadness.
"Can anyone doubt it?" he asked. "I ought to say nothing about the
matter, but as you are a witness I may as well tell you that our
inquiries show conclusively that your friend Bethune committed the
murder, although the circumstances under which the fatal shot was fired
were of such an astounding character that I leave you to hear them
officially. It is sufficient for me to say that the murder of young
Sternroyd is the strangest and most complicated crime that in the course
of my twenty-four years' experience I have ever been called upon to deal
with. But I must be off. I am due at eleven-thirty at Shepherd's Bush,
so you must excuse me. We will meet again soon. Good-bye."
A moment later we parted, and I returned to my chambers.
Soon after eleven o'clock next morning Saunders entered my sitting-room
and announced a visitor. I took the card. It was Dora's!
Rushing forward I greeted her gladly, and bringing her in, enthroned her
in my big arm-chair, the same in which she had sat on a previous
occasion when she had called upon me.
She was dressed simply but with taste in light grey alpaca with a large
black hat and veil, but the face which was disclosed when the veil was
raised was pale as death, lit by two large lustrous eyes. For a moment
she regarded me with a sad, wistful expression, as if imploring me not
to reproach but to pity her. Then a sad, quiet smile slowly dawned upon
her countenance, and she stretched forth her hand towards me.
"Stuart," she murmured, in a low voice like the subdued wail of an
aching heart. "Stuart, are you displeased with me? Are you angry that
I should come to you?"
"Displeased! Angry!" I exclaimed, quickly grasping her extended hand
between my own. "No, no! Dora. I only hope you have recovered, that
you are now strong and well again."
"Yes. I--I feel better," she said. "But what of him--tell me. Has he
yet cleared himself? At home they affect ignorance of everything--
everything."
I shook my head sadly, remembering Grindlay's words. "No, alas! He has
not cleared himself, and to-day, or at least to-morrow, he will, I fear,
be arrested."
"Then it is time to act--time to act," she repeated excitedly. "I
promised I would reveal some strange facts--facts that will amaze you--
but I was prevented by illness. Now, while there is still time you will
help me, will you not? You will come with me and see with your own
eyes, hear with your own ears. Then only can you justly judge. I
confess that long ago," she added in a low half-whisper bending towards
me, "long ago I loved you, and wondered why you never uttered words of
love to me. But now I know. I have ascertained the wretched duplicity
of those about you, their evil machinations, and the purity of the one
beautiful woman whom you loved. There has been a conspiracy of silence
against you, rendered imperative by strange circumstances, but it shall
continue no longer. You shall accompany me and know the truth. Come."
She rose suddenly. Obeying her I sought my hat, and together we
descended the long flight of stone stairs into the busy thoroughfare
below.
At last the promised revelation was to be made.