That same evening, attired in my working clothes, I watched Winsloe's
chambers in King Street at the hour when I knew his habit was to return
to dress for dinner.
From five o'clock till half-past seven I lingered in the vicinity; then
returning to my hotel in the Adelphi I there met Budd, whom I sent round
to the man's chambers to inquire when he would be in.
Half an hour later my valet returned with the information that Mr
Winsloe was out of town, and was not expected back for several days. He
had gone to the north, his man believed, but he had no instructions to
forward letters.
Gone north! Had he discovered Tibbie's whereabouts and gone after her?
Mine was a tantalising position, unable to return to my own rooms for
fear that Winsloe and Parham should discover that I was still alive.
They believed me to be dead--that I had "gone home," as "White Feather"
reported.
That night I spent several hours wandering through those streets behind
Regent Street, trying to recognise the house with the fatal stairs.
All, however, was to no purpose. I had, I think, mistaken the direction
which we had taken. Tired and worn out, I ate supper about ten o'clock
in a small and rather uncleanly little foreign restaurant in Dean
Street, and then returned to the Adelphi, where I sat a long time in my
room overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, lost in the mazes of
mystery that now presented themselves.
Where was Eric Domville? Where was Ellice Winsloe? Where was John
Parham, _alias_ Humphreys?
Tibbie evidently knew a great deal more than she would admit. She had
told me that my friend was in Paris. How could she know if she held no
communication with anyone?
No--the more I reflected the more evident did it become that she was
playing a double game.
As I sat at the window with the dark deserted gardens below me, the row
of gas-lamps and the wide river before me, I tried to analyse my real
feelings towards the dainty little love of my youth.
She was a woman guilty of the terrible crime of murder, and yet I had
promised to shield her because she had declared that her enemies
intended to crush her. Had I really acted rightly? I asked myself.
Truly, I was endeavouring to defeat the ends of justice. Nevertheless,
I recollected her wild earnest appeal to me, how she had fallen upon her
knees and implored my help and protection. I remembered, too, that in
her desperation she would have taken her own life rather than face her
enemies.
What did it all mean?
So extraordinary had been the sequence of amazing events that my mind
failed to grasp the true significance of all the facts.
Of one truth, however, I was well aware, namely, that the dull life of
workaday Camberwell had worked a wonderful change in my little friend.
She was more sedate, more composed, more womanly, while her calmness
accentuated her sweetness of manner. Yet why did she wish to pose as a
married woman? What did she fear beyond the exposure of her crime?
She was fascinating, I own that. But upon her beauty and grace was
resting that dark, gruesome shadow, the shadow of the sword of
retribution, which hung over her, and from which she, alas! would never
escape.
What did the family think of her prolonged absence? What did the police
think?
I knew well that both old Lady Scarcliff and Jack were leaving no stone
unturned to try to discover her, while Wydcombe had left word with Budd
that as soon as ever I returned he wished to see me. I would dearly
have liked to have gone round to Curzon Street, but by doing so, I saw
that Jack would know I had been there, and he might mention my visit to
Winsloe, who, without doubt, was still his friend.
My cipher advertisement had been so successful that, after due
consideration, I resolved to try and draw "White Feather," and ascertain
the identity of that mysterious person.
Therefore I sat at the table, and after half an hour had reduced to the
cipher the following announcement,--
"To White Feather.--Must see you. Very urgent. Meet me to-night at
entrance to Dean's Yard, Westminster, at nine, without fail.--S."
If "White Feather" was in London he or she would certainly keep the
appointment with Sybil. My only fear was that she might see the paper
up in Newcastle, and detect the forgery.
Before midnight I handed in the advertisement at the newspaper office in
Fleet Street, and next morning had the satisfaction of seeing it in
print.
The day I spent in comparative idleness. Budd, to whom I explained my
strange conduct by saying that I was still engaged in watching someone,
called with my letters and executed several commissions for me. I wrote
to "Mrs William Morton" at the post-office at Carlisle, and spent the
afternoon reading in the hotel. Budd had instructions to let me know
immediately anything was heard of Eric, and was now acting as my secret
agent, eager to serve me in every particular.
It was a wet, unpleasant night, as, a little before nine, I alighted
from an omnibus in Victoria Street, and passing up Great Smith Street,
approached Dean's Yard from the Great College Street side, the opposite
entrance to the spot where the appointment was to be kept.
Dean's Yard is a quiet square of ancient smoke-blackened houses, a
cloister of the abbey in the old days, quiet and secluded even in these
modern go-ahead times. In all Westminster there is no quieter,
old-world spot, frequented in the daytime only by the few persons who
use it as a short cut to Tufton Street and Horseferry Road, and at night
quiet and deserted.
Entering the small secluded square from the opposite side, I slipped
along half-way on the south side to a position where I could have a good
view of the great arched gate communicating with Victoria Street, and
there found a deep, dark doorway which afforded me admirable
concealment.
I stood and waited. Scarcely had I settled myself there when the chimes
of Big Ben rang out the hour, and then I strained my eyes towards the
great ill-lit Gothic gateway.
Not a soul was in the place, not even a policeman. Presently a poor
woman with a shawl over her head hurried past in the falling rain, and
afterwards came the postman, who, very fortunately, had no letters for
the door where I stood concealed in the shadow. The place seemed dark,
mysterious, almost ghostly, in the dead silence of the night.
The quarter chimed, but no person lingered at the gateway. Perhaps the
advertisement had not been seen; or, more likely, "White Feather" was
absent from London.
At last, however, I heard the rattle of a four-wheeled cab outside the
gateway. I saw it stop, and a man alighted. Then the vehicle moved on
slowly, and again stopped, as though awaiting him. A dark figure in
black overcoat and low felt hat loomed up in the darkness of the
gateway, and entering the Yard glanced eagerly around.
Next moment another person, a rather taller man, entered and passed him
by, but without speaking. Indeed, they passed as strangers, the second
man strolling slowly along the pavement in the direction of where I was
in hiding. He passed by me, and as the street lamp shone upon his face
I saw that he was young and his features were aquiline, dark and
evil-looking. I had never to my knowledge seen him before. He seemed
well-dressed, for his overcoat did not conceal the fact that he was
wearing evening clothes. His collar was turned up, but he went on
heedless of the rain, his sharp eyes searching everywhere. My
hiding-place was a most excellent one, however, and he failed to detect
my presence.
A few minutes later a third man entered the Yard, a youngish man with
the air of the Cockney from the East End. He wore a hard hat of the
usual costermonger type, a red woollen comforter about his neck, and his
trousers were bell-bottomed and adorned with pearl buttons. He,
however, gave no sign to either of the other two, although it was
apparent that they were acquainted, for sorely three men could not be
keeping appointments at that unfrequented spot at the same moment.
The first comer still stood in the gateway, but too far away to allow me
to clearly distinguish his features. He stood back in the shadow, his
face turned expectantly out to the open roadway, where ever and anon I
saw the lights of cabs passing and re-passing. Meanwhile, the two men
in the quiet little square had walked to the opposite gateway, and there
halted, though at a respectable distance from each other.
The man who had arrived in a cab stood for a long time in patience, the
other two giving no sign whatever of their presence. At first I was
half inclined to think that the trio were strangers to each other, but
on watching their movements I saw that something was premeditated--but
what it was I could not gather.
While the man dressed as a costermonger--or perhaps he was a real
costermonger--remained near the exit to the Yard ready to give warning
of anyone approaching, the man in evening clothes slowly re-passed me,
while at the same time the watcher at the gate came forward in his
direction.
When not far from me he halted and struck a vesta in order to light a
cigarette. The fickle flame betrayed his countenance.
It was the man John Parham, the person believed by his wife to be in
India.
What was contemplated? The four-wheeled cab was still in waiting in the
little open space which divides Dean's Yard from Victoria Street, while
the exit to Great College Street was being watched, and the thin-faced
man lurked there ready for Sybil's arrival.
Within myself I smiled to think that all their elaborate arrangements
were futile, and wondered if Parham was the man who signed himself
"White Feather?" In that fellow's house were the fatal stairs,
therefore if I followed him I should now be enabled to fix the actual
place to which I had, on that never-to-be-forgotten night, been enticed.
While the costermonger remained on vigil, Parham and his companion
passed and re-passed, but still without acknowledging each other.
Once the costermonger suddenly began to whistle a popular music-hall
air, and turning I saw that it was a preconcerted signal. A man had
entered the Yard from Great College Street and was crossing to where
Parham was standing.
For fully three-quarters of an hour they waited patiently until ten
o'clock struck. Then Parham approached his companion, and they stood in
earnest conversation.
Almost at the same moment a female figure in deep black came swiftly
through the gateway into the Yard, causing both to start quickly and
draw back. Next instant, however, Parham started off briskly, walking
past me to where the costermonger was standing, while his thin-faced
accomplice slipped past the newcomer and disappeared into Victoria
Street.
It was evident that the woman's appearance had instantly upset all their
calculations.
The newcomer stopped, glanced around and strained her eyes into the
darkness. She wore a close black hat, a long mackintosh, and carried an
umbrella, yet so swiftly had Parham disappeared that she had not noticed
his presence in the Yard, while the other man had so cleverly slipped
past her and out through the gateway that she had not seen his face.
For a few moments she stood expectant. I could see that she had
hurried, in fear of being too late.
Then, as she approached me, I discerned that she was the girl O'Hara.
And of her, Parham and his lurking accomplices were evidently in fear,
as they separated and disappeared.
I watched her standing there and wondered why she had come. Was it in
order to save Sybil from some plot that had been prepared for her?
Was it their intention to take her to that dark, mysterious house with
the fatal stairs?
I felt convinced that it was. The truth was plain. There was a plot
against Sybil. The cab had been in waiting there to convey the victim
to her grave!