Leaving him in my room, I crept again down the corridor, and presently
both she and Mason came noiselessly along in the dark. My little friend
had on a thick box-cloth motor coat with fur collar, a motor-cap and her
goggles hanging round her neck, while Mason, who often went in the car
with her, had also a thick black coat, close cap and veil.
"I hope we sha'n't get a break-down," Tibbie said, with a laugh. "I
really ought to take Webber with me," she added, referring to her smart
chauffeur. "But how can I?"
"No," I said. "Drive yourself and risk it. I know you can change a
tyre or mend a puncture as well as any man." Whereat she laughed.
"Very well," she said, "let us go," and we crossed the Long Gallery and
descended the wide oak stairs, Mason carrying the candle, which she
afterwards blew out.
Upon my suggestion, we made our exit by that same window through which
Eric and I had passed earlier in the night. Mistress and maid scrambled
through, and I assisted them down upon the grass.
Then we slipped across to where the car was, opened the door, and after
Sybil had mounted into her place Mason and I pushed the fine "Mercedes"
slowly out, while she steered it down the incline to the avenue.
She let it run twenty yards or so, and afterwards put on the brake to
allow her maid to mount beside her. Then after I had tucked the rug
round her legs, she gripped my hand tightly and meaningly, saying in a
low voice,--
"Thanks so much, Mr Hughes. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," I whispered. "_Bon voyage_."
And slowly the long powerful car glided off almost noiselessly down the
incline, and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the great
avenue.
I stood peering into the blackness, but in a few moments could hear no
further sound. She had escaped, leaving me utterly mystified and
wondering.
When, ten minutes later, I returned to Eric and described her silent
departure, he said,--
"So you're going to meet her in town--eh?"
"Yes, in secret, on Thursday night. She has made an appointment. She
will leave Mason in Bournemouth, and then simply disappear. By the time
Mason returns here the dead man will be in his coffin, therefore she
won't have any opportunity of identifying him."
"But there'll be a hue and cry after her. The police will think that
something has happened to her."
"Let them think. We shall pretend to make inquiries and assist them.
In the meantime, with all these letters and things in our hands, we hold
the trump cards."
"If Tibbie knew that we had her letters, I wonder what she would say--
how she would act?"
"She no doubt fears that they may fall into the hands of the police.
That is why she is disappearing."
"Of course. And for the present she must be allowed to remain in that
belief," Eric replied. "I wonder who the man Parham is? We must
inquire. On Sydenham Hill are some rather nice houses. I once knew a
rather pretty girl who lived in that neighbourhood, and used to take her
for evening walks up the hill to the Crystal Palace."
"Yes," I said. "We must discover all we can about the dead man's
friends. We must also call and see the pawnbroker in the Fulham Road.
He may be able to tell us who pledged the watch and ring. Indeed, we
might get them out of pawn and see whether there are any remarks or
inscription that will tell us anything."
With my suggestion he entirely agreed, and for a second time we re-read
those curious letters of the woman who was now flying into hiding, and
whom I had promised to meet and assist.
I had placed myself in a very difficult and dangerous position. Of that
I was well aware. I hoped, however, to save her. Too well I knew that
she was in desperation, that she had seriously contemplated suicide
until she had resolved to make her appeal for my sympathy and help.
Yet she was under the impression that I was as yet in ignorance of this
tragedy, although in her white, terrified countenance I saw guilt
distinctly written.
I took counsel with Eric. He was entirely against the very dangerous
part that I had now promised to play, saying,--"I can't for the life of
me see what motive she can have. To hide is all very well--to bury
herself in a working-class suburb and pretend to be poor is certainly a
much safer plan than endeavouring to slip across to the Continent. But
why does she want you to act as her husband? Not for appearances' sake,
surely! And yet if she hadn't a very strong motive she would not thus
run the very great risk of compromising herself. She respects you, too,
therefore all the stronger reason why she would never ask you to place
yourself in that awkward position. No, old fellow," he declared,
seating himself upon the edge of my bed, "I can't make it out at all."
"Of course, it has to do with the affair of yesterday," I remarked.
"Undoubtedly. It has some connection with it, but what it is we can't
yet discern."
"I can only act as she suggests," I remarked.
"I fear you can't do anything else," he said, after a pause. "Only
you'll have to be most careful and circumspect, for I can foresee danger
ahead. Tibbie's clever enough, but she is erratic sometimes, and one
untimely word of hers may upset everything. I hardly like the idea of
you posing as her husband, Wilfrid. I tell you plainly that I have some
distinct premonition of evil--forgive me for saying so."
"I hope not. I'm only consenting to it for her sake."
"Because you are still just a little bit fond of her, old fellow. Now,
confess it."
"I'm not, Eric. I swear to you I'm not. We could never marry. We are
no longer lovers."
"I hope not," he said in an altered tone. "But pretended love-making is
always dangerous, you know."
"Well," I said, pacing up the old tapestried room and down again, "let's
leave love out of the question. What I intend to do is to save Tibbie,
and at the same time find out the truth. You, Eric, will help me, won't
you?"
"With all my heart, my dear chap," he said. "But--well, somehow I have
had lately a very faint suspicion of one thing; and that is, I believe
Ellice Winsloe is deeply in love with her. I've seen it in his face.
If so, you and I have to reckon with him."
"How?"
"Because as soon as she disappears he'll commence making eager inquiries
and trying to trace her. His inquiries may lead him in our direction,
don't you see. Besides, it would be awkward if he found you down at
Camberwell."
I was silent. There was a good deal of truth in what he said. Eric
Domville always had a knack of looking far ahead. He was what is
vulgarly known as "a far-seeing man."
"But don't you think that when I'm a compositor in a well-worn tweed
suit and a threadbare overcoat with wages of two pounds a week I'll be
beyond the pale and safe from recognition?"
"That's all very well, but the working-class are intelligent. They'll
easily see through a gentleman's disguise."
"I quite agree," I said. "There is no more intelligent class than the
working-class in London, or indeed in any of the big cities of the
North. It is the working-man who is the back-bone of England, after
all. The capitalist may direct and public companies may manoeuvre, but
it is the skilled labourer who has made England what she is. Yes, I'm
quite with you there. I shall have to exert all my tact if I'm to pass
as a printer among working-men. Yet Tibbie's idea that I should be on a
morning paper and be out at work at night is an ingenious one, isn't
it?"
"Ingenious? Why, isn't she one of the very cleverest women in England?"
he asked. "I say that she is as unequalled for her ingenuity as for her
beauty. Therefore, Wilfrid, have a care. I'll help you--unknown to
Tibbie, of course--but I beg of you to be careful. And now let's turn
in for an hour or so. We must be astir and alert to-morrow, for our
work of fathoming the mystery must commence at once. We must be all
ears and eyes. We already hold the honours in our hand, it is true; but
much very difficult and dangerous work lies before us."
"Never mind," I said. "We must save her, Eric. We must save her at all
hazards!"