Very carefully, and after considerable search and calculation, I
presently transcribed the secret message thus:--
"White Feather reports W.H. gone home. Nothing to fear."
That was all. But was it not very significant? The initials were my
own, and did not the announcement that I had "gone home" mean that I had
gone to my death. There was nothing to fear, it was plainly stated.
They therefore had feared us, and that was the motive of their ingenious
crime.
For whose eyes was that curious advertisement intended, I wondered. Who
was "White Feather?"
Ah! If I could only discover, then I should obtain a clue to the
mystery that was now puzzling me and driving me to despair.
At two o'clock Eric was still absent, therefore I turned in. My head
troubled me. It was very painful, and the horrors of that past night
ever rose before me, while my unbalanced brain was distracted by wonder
at the reason of that desperate attempt upon my life. Man of the world
that I was, I knew well enough that there was some deep motive. They
feared me--but why?
Next morning, there being no word from Eric, my anxiety was greatly
increased. My friend might have shared the same fate as myself and
remained unconscious till the flood had overwhelmed him. If so, then
all trace of him might have disappeared and his body was now floating
slowly out to sea.
Those hard defiant words of his still rang in my ears. What did he
mean? Who were the persons who held him in their power?
To remain inactive was impossible. Every moment I remained increased
the danger of my discovery by Winsloe and his companions. I could, of
course, have gone forth to King Street with a constable and given him in
charge for the attempt upon me. Indeed, that was my first impulse, yet
on reflection I saw that by adopting such a course I might imperil
Sybil. Without a doubt the fellow knew her secret, and for that reason
was in such active search of her.
Therefore I decided to remain patient and watchful. Winsloe believed
that I was dead, and perhaps it was as well, for I should now be
afforded an opportunity of watching his movements.
For three whole days I was compelled to remain a prisoner on account of
my annoying bandages, which were too conspicuous to allow me to go
forth. I had several callers, including Jack and Lord Wydcombe, but to
everyone Budd replied that both his master and Mr Domville were absent,
where, he had no idea.
My anxiety for Eric increased hourly, yet what could I do?
The doctor, at my request, removed the bandages so that my wound was
hidden when I wore a golf-cap, and about eleven o'clock that same night,
dressed in my working clothes, I crept forth into Bolton Street unseen,
and in Piccadilly mingled with the crowd homeward bound from the
theatre.
I went into Regent Street confident in my excellent disguise, and taking
one of the streets to the right, wandered on and on in search of the
house with the fatal stairs. On that disastrous night the villainous
pair had engaged me deeply in conversation as we drove along, in order
to take my attention off the route we were traversing, therefore I own
that I was absolutely without any landmark. All I knew was that we had
turned off Regent Street about half-way up and that the house was
situated in a quiet, rather dark street, an old-fashioned house of three
storeys.
Eagerly in search of the place from which I had so narrowly escaped with
my life I wandered in the night up and down those narrow thoroughfares,
that puzzling maze of streets that lie between Regent Street and Soho
Square--Brewer Street, Bridle Lane, Lexington Street, Poland Street and
Berwick Street. I could not, however, find any house answering to the
very vague impression I retained of it, though I went on and on until
far into the night.
Fearing to return to Bolton Street, I took a bed at an obscure hotel in
the Euston Road, and next morning went over to Camberwell, where Tibbie
warmly welcomed me. I attributed the cut on my head to a fall on the
kerb, and when we sat together I saw how thoroughly resigned she had
become to her strange surroundings.
With womanly enthusiasm she told me of the kindness of the landlady, who
would not allow her to mope there alone. She had taken her out to see
her friends, wives of working-men like herself, and they had gossiped,
had high tea and discussed the affairs of the neighbourhood.
"Tibbie," I said, presently, after we had been chatting some time, "I am
compelled to leave London, and I confess I am very apprehensive on your
behalf."
"Leave London!" she exclaimed. "Why?"
"It is imperative. Winsloe is watching me, and is doing all he can to
discover you. Every time I come here I run a great risk."
"I know," she said, frowning. "His spies are no doubt dogging your
footsteps everywhere."
"Then your position here is unsafe. You would do better to escape from
London now, and hide in the country--say in one of the larger towns in
the north."
"Yes; but the police are in search of me, remember. The mater and Jack
have raised a hue and cry. They think I've met with foul play."
"Then all the more reason why you should slip out of London. The
country police are slower, and you will stand less chance of
recognition."