"Against Tibbie."
I pursed my lips, for I discerned his meaning. Was it possible that
Ellice Winsloe knew the truth?
"Therefore, what are we to do? What do you suggest?" I asked.
"You must not risk going to see Sybil to-morrow. Where is she?"
I briefly explained all that we had done that day, and how and where she
had gone into hiding.
"Then you must send her an express letter in the morning. We must not
go to see her. You are certainly watched."
"But think of her," I said. "I am posing as her husband, and she will
require my presence there to-morrow in order to complete the fiction."
"It's too risky--far too risky," Eric declared, shaking his head
dubiously.
"The only way is for you to keep watch upon Winsloe," I suggested, "and
warn me of his movements."
"But the woman--the woman who met him by appointment in the park? She
may be in his employ as spy."
"Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, I
wonder," I said.
"Never mind how they got to know," he exclaimed. "I tell you that you
mustn't go near Tibbie. It's far too dangerous at this moment."
His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybil
there alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it very
strange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it.
Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.
To allay Eric's fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and made
him promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guest
whenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, and
after a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far into
the night.
Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloe
ascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch upon
him, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe had
well-furnished rooms in King Street, St James's Square, was one of a
go-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayest
clubs frequented by the _jeunesse doree_.
It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street,
Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric's advice I
succeeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Station
and along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams' a little
after eleven o'clock.
Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window,
and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voice
loud enough for the landlady to overhear,--
"Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?"
"Yes, dear," was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closed
the door.
"The time passes here awfully slowly," she declared in a low voice. "I
thought you were never coming. I shall have to get a few books to
read."
"I was delayed," I said, taking off my cloth cap and flinging it upon
the sofa. "I found Eric Domville awaiting me. He came up from Ryhall
to-day and told me some strange news."
"Strange news!" she gasped, turning deathly pale and clutching at the
back of a chair in order to steady herself. "What--what news?"
The truth was instantly plain. Her fear was that the mystery of the
unknown had been discovered.
I had quite inadvertently struck terror into her heart, for upon her
countenance was that same haunted look as on that night when she had
left Ryhall in secret.
"What Eric has told me concerns Ellice Winsloe," I said, much surprised,
and yet allowing her agitation to pass unnoticed.
"Ellice Winsloe. Is he--has he come to London?" she gasped, staring at
me and starting.
"Yes, and more. He knows that you slept the night before last at
Harker's. He called to see you an hour after we had left yesterday."
"He knows!" she cried in a low, terrified voice.
"Ellice knows that I was there! Then he has followed me--he--he means
to carry out his threat!"
"What threat?"
"Ah, no. I--I'm mad, Wilfrid. I--I don't know what I'm saying!" she
cried, pushing her hair from her brow with both her hands and pacing up
and down the room. "But you will help me--won't you?" she implored,
halting before me and looking me straight in the face.
"Help you--of course," I said. "But I confess I can't understand. This
man only proposed marriage to you a fortnight ago."
"I know. I know. And I refused him. Ah! Wilfrid. I would rather
kill myself than marry that man!"
"Then you know something concerning him that is not in his favour?"
"I know a great deal. I often wonder why Jack and he are such intimate
friends."
"He's rich, you said, and Lady Scarcliff approved of him."
"That is so," she answered thoughtfully. "But the mater is ignorant of
it all. Ah! if I only dare tell you. It would astound and stagger
you."
"He is in search of you, that's very clear," I said, hoping to induce
her to tell me something further.
"But he must not find me," she declared. "The day he discovers me I
shall take my life," she added in a hard, desperate voice.
"Why? Do you fear him?"
She made no answer, but her chin sank upon her breast.
"Then tell me the truth, Tibbie," I said. "He tried to compel you to
marry him because he held some secret of yours that you do not wish to
be known. Am I not right?"
She nodded in the affirmative, and I saw that tears were in her fine
eyes.
What was the secret, I wondered? Was it the existence of that low-born
lover, a photograph of whom he had carried in his bag? Did he hold over
her a threat of exposure because he had become seized by a desire that
she should be his wife? Many a woman has been forced into an odious
marriage in order to preserve her secret.
I looked into her pale haggard face and wondered. How beautiful she was
in her terror and distress. She was in fear of that man, whose life
was, when viewed in the plain light of day, somewhat mysterious. But
what did she fear? Who was the man who had fallen by her hand?
We had arranged that Mrs Williams should cook for us, and presently she
came smilingly to lay the table, simply, but cleanly. Thus, our
conversation was interrupted, but when alone again I returned to the
subject, and she said, with a serious look,--
"Wilfrid, he must not discover me. If he does--if he does, then all is
at an end. Even you cannot save me."
"But I fear I may be followed here," I said. "He knew that we met last
night, or he would not have been aware that you slept at Harker's. He,
or someone employed by him, is watching me. I must remain away from
you."
"Yes," she remarked. "I quite foresee the danger, yet I shall be very
lonely. And besides, what can I say to Mrs Williams?"
"We'll have to make an excuse that I've been sent into the country to
work," I said. "If I come daily here I'm quite certain Winsloe will
discover you. This knowledge of his regarding our meeting the day
before yesterday makes me suspicious."
"You are right," she declared sadly. "He has means of knowing
everything. No secret seems safe from that man, Wilfrid. I sometimes
think--sometimes I think that--" and she hesitated.
"That what?"
But she did not reply. She was standing at the window gazing fixedly
down into the grey, dismal street. The words she had uttered
mechanically, just as though she were speaking to herself.
"You told me, Tibbie, that if I pretended to be your husband that I
might save you," I remarked presently.
"And so you may, providing Ellice Winsloe does not discover me. If he
does--then all is useless--quite useless. I shall have compromised
myself and placed you in an invidious position, all to no purpose."
"But by discretion--by my remaining away from you, and only coming here
by stealth when I know that Winsloe is not watchful, I may still remain
your husband in the eyes of these people."
"Yes, yes, Wilfrid," she said eagerly, placing her nervous hand upon my
shoulder and looking deeply into my eyes. "That is the only way. I
must live here alone--in hiding. They must not find me. Let us have
patience--patience always--and we may foil that man's evil intentions.
Ah! If you knew everything you would pity me. But you do not. You
believe that I hold some guilty secret. Yes," she added hoarsely, "it
is a guilty secret, and how can I sufficiently thank you for trusting me
as blindly as you do? I am very unworthy. You are the best friend,
Wilfrid, that woman ever had. Can you wonder at the suggestion I made
to you in the Long Gallery the other day?" Then she hesitated, still
looking me straight in the face. "But you have forgiven me," she went
on with a sigh. "I thought that you loved me still--yes--I was very
foolish. All women are so sometimes--all women who are terrified and
unhappy, as I am!"
And the tears again stood in her eyes as she bowed her beautiful head
before me.