DOROTHY DRUMMOND PREFERS SECRECY
DOROTHY looked more worn and anxious than on that morning when I had
walked with her in Westbourne Grove. But the air of mystery enveloped
her still, and to even the casual observer her face was interesting as
that of a woman with some tragic history.
“Miss Drummond,” I said, “it is a real pleasure to me that we meet
again.”
She started at the mention of her name, but made no comment, except to
say, in her sweet, well-modulated voice:—
“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you, Dr. Pickering.” Then she asked:
“How did you know I was staying in this neighbourhood?”
I explained how I had seen her emerge from the farmhouse and gather the
flowers, and what old Ben Knutton had told me of her youth.
“I had no idea that you knew this district,” I added.
“Yes,” she responded, looking around her, “I’ve known it all my life.
Every house, every field, every tree is familiar to me, for here I spent
my happiest days,” and a slight sigh escaped her as her memory ran back.
We were walking together slowly along a path beside the winding Welland.
She knew the way, and had led me through a gate and across a small strip
of pasture down to the river. We were safer from observation there than
upon the open highway, she said.
After we had been chatting some time she suddenly grew serious, and
said:—
“Do you know, Doctor Pickering, why I’ve come to you to-night?”
“No, but I hoped it was to resume our pleasant companionship,” I said.
“It was to warn you.”
“Of what?”
“Of your enemies.”
“You mean those men Bennett and Purvis,” I said, hoping to learn
something from her. “Purvis is your uncle, is he not?”
She glanced at me quickly, and responded in the affirmative.
“Tell me, Miss Drummond,” I urged, “are you aware of the reason I am
staying here?”
“I know it all,” she replied, in a strained voice. “I am well aware that
you are searching for the hidden gold, which you cannot find. I am
aware, too, that you hold the key to the plan, and that by aid of that
key the place of concealment could be at once ascertained.”
“Mr. Purvis bought the plan from old Knutton,” I remarked.
“Yes; the drunken old idiot sold it, even though it had been in
possession of his family for centuries. The treasure would be partly his
if it could be discovered.”
“But does Mr. Purvis know anything definite regarding the place where it
is hidden?”
“He believes it to be in the Manor House, and for that reason they have
reopened the old subway from the Glebe to the Manor. He has with him the
man Bennett, said to be one of the worst characters outside the walls of
a gaol.”
“I know; they call him Black Bennett,” I said.
“Beware of them,” she urged. “They will hesitate at nothing to possess
themselves of the treasure. They would kill you.”
The recollection of what Reilly had witnessed in London flashed through
my mind. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention it, yet I feared to
do so, not knowing what effect it might have upon her highly strung
temperament.
“What Knutton has told me regarding your romantic life has aroused my
interest, Miss Drummond,” I said presently. “Did you never know your
parents?”
“Alas! no. They died when I was quite young. All I know about them is
that they lived somewhere in Norfolk, and that my father was ruined by
speculation just before his death. I was fourteen when the good woman
who brought me up died, and my Aunt Lewis sent me to school. Then on her
death, quite recently, Mr. Purvis became my guardian.”
“But who and what is this man Purvis?” I asked. “I know you are unhappy.
Confide in me everything. I give you my bond of secrecy,” I said
earnestly.
“I knew nothing of his existence until a few weeks ago, when Aunt Lewis
died and Mr. Purvis came forward and promised to look after me. I had
taken up typewriting and obtained a clerkship in a City office, which I
held until I resigned a fortnight ago to come down here.”
“At Purvis’s suggestion?”
“Yes, because I am acquainted with the district.”
“Then you lived alone in Bayswater?” I suggested.
“Yes. I have never lived under the same roof with Purvis, except here at
Page’s, because I—I hate him.”
“Why?”
Her pale, quivering lips compressed, but no word escaped them.
I knew the truth. The man was implicated in the assassination of her
lover, if not the actual murderer. Therefore she held him in loathing.
“Well,” I said at length, as we strolled along beside the dark, silent
stream, “tell me the story of the treasure as my enemies know it. We are
friends, Miss Drummond, and our enemies are mutual. Cannot we unite
forces and combat them?”
“Oh!” she sighed, “I only wish we could. I fear, however, that it is
impossible.” There was a pathos in her voice which showed that the words
came direct from a heart overburdened with grief.
“What do these men know about me?” I inquired.
“Everything. They have watched you vigilantly day and night, and are
aware of every movement on your part. They know the whole story of how
you discovered the derelict, and what you found on board. They even know
the contents of certain of the parchments you recovered—one, I think,
had a number of signatures upon it.”
“The one stolen from Mr. Staffurth’s?” I cried.
“Yes. But they had a copy of that long before. From what I’ve heard,
there was on board your steamer a man named Harding, who had sailed as
seaman, but who was a professor of Latin who had come down in the world.
It was he who made the copy and translation and sold it to some one, who
afterwards sold it to Purvis. The latter lost no time in coming here and
buying the parchment from Knutton, thus forestalling you.”
“Was Harding previously acquainted with Purvis?”
“I think so. The copy and information were not, however, sold direct,
but through a third person.”
“Are they sanguine of success?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “By some means they’ve discovered evidence that
the gold is concealed in the Manor House.”
“In what part?”
“Ah! That is not known. They intend to make a search. To-night they will
probably break through—four of them. Therefore be on the alert.”
I explained how we had been aroused on the previous night by the cutting
of the door, and how we had explored the passage as far as the Glebe
Farm. Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said earnestly—
“Oh, Dr. Pickering, do be careful! I fear that you may come to harm at
the hands of these unscrupulous men.”
“But why have you associated yourself with them?” I asked, taking her
hand and speaking very seriously.
She was silent. Then at last she answered:—
“Because I am unfortunately compelled.”
“But the fact that this man Purvis is your guardian is no reason why you
should participate in his scheme. He seems an adventurer, just as
Bennett is known to be one.”
“Ah! doctor,” she cried, turning to me suddenly, her whole form
trembling, “do not argue thus! You do not know; you cannot know all.”
But I knew, and regarded her with pity born of love.
Those men held her to them by threats of exposure. She had enticed that
unknown man to his death, and was therefore an accessory. The hideous
truth was plain. She was the puppet and decoy of these scoundrels. She
had decoyed me on that night when she had taken me to Blackheath, but at
the last moment her better nature had rebelled and she had sent me back
without any explanation more than a lame excuse.
I saw how utterly helpless she was in the hands of that pair of
assassins. When I questioned her I found that the sum Purvis allowed her
was very small, and that long before the death of her Aunt Lewis she had
earned her own living as a typewriter.
By dint of careful questioning I endeavoured to obtain from her some
facts regarding Purvis’ private life, but she appeared to know but
little of it. He now lived at Hammersmith, she said, but she never
visited his house unless at his orders, and then the motive was
generally in connexion with their scheme to gain possession of the
treasure.
It is always advantageous to have a friend in the camp of the enemy, and
in this case what Dorothy Drummond told me ultimately proved of the
greatest service to us.
I longed to explain the knowledge I possessed regarding the murder at
Kilburn, yet how could I? If she suspected that I knew the truth she
would, in her present agitated state of mind, flee from me in terror
lest I should betray her.
“Cannot you sever yourself entirely from these men?” I suggested.
“Indeed, Miss Drummond, I hate to think of you participating in the
desperate schemes of such adventurers. Suppose they should fall into the
hands of the police, you also may be implicated!”
She burst into a torrent of tears at my words and, halting, covered her
face with her hands. Tenderly I strove to console her, and placing my
hand upon her shoulder, there in the darkness, I bent to her ear and in
hot, fervent words told her my secret—that I loved her.
She heard me in silence, sobbing till the end. Then, in a hoarse, broken
voice, she answered:—
“No. It is impossible! You must not tell me this—you must not entertain
any affection for me.”
“Why not, Dorothy?” I asked, calling her for the first time by her
Christian name. “Have I not confessed to you how I love you with all the
passion of which a man is capable? For weeks and weeks you have been my
all in all. Waking or sleeping, your face has been ever before me, and I
feel by a mysterious intuition that our lives in future are bound to one
another.”
“Ah, spare me!” she cried, through her tears. “Spare me! I cannot bear
to hear your words. Would that I might return your love, but I dare not.
No, I dare not—for your sake, as well as for mine.”
Was she thinking of her dead lover, and of the traitorous part she had
been compelled to play? Yes. She hated herself, and at the same time
held me in fear.
“But you love me, Dorothy?” I whispered. “Tell me, truthfully and
honestly.”
“No, no,” she urged. “Do not seek to wring the truth from me. Let us
part. We must never meet again after to-night. I—I saved you once from
death, that night when I took you to Blackheath,” she went on
breathlessly. “It suddenly dawned upon me that they meant to kill you
and secure all the documents which you had found on board the derelict.
They awaited you in a house they had taken for the purpose, and
compelled me to come to you with a fictitious story regarding my
brother, and to induce you to walk into the trap. Held in bondage, I
dared not disobey, and came to you. But at the last moment I compelled
you to return and went back to face their anger. Why did I act as I did?
Cannot you guess?”
“Perhaps, Dorothy, it was because you entertained a spark of affection
for me?”
A silence fell between us for some moments. Then she answered in a low
voice, only just audible:—
“You have guessed aright. It was.”
I leant towards her and kissed her cold, hard-set lips. She made no
remonstrance, only she shuddered in my grasp, and a second later
returned my caress and then burst again into tears.
“Ah, you must not care for me,” she declared. “I am unworthy. You don’t
know everything, or you would hate me rather than love me.”
“But I love you with the whole strength of my being, Dorothy!” I
declared, in deep earnestness. “That is enough. Now that you reciprocate
my affection I am satisfied. I want for no more. You are mine, darling,
and I am yours—for ever.”
“But I fear that you may bitterly repent this—I fear that when you know
all my past your love will turn to hatred and your admiration to
loathing.”
“The past does not concern us, dearest,” I answered tenderly, with my
arm about her slim waist. “It is for the future we must live, and to
that end assist one another.” And again I pressed my lips to hers fondly
in all the ecstasy of my new-found happiness.
What further description can I give of those moments of bliss? You, my
reader, know well the sweet idyllic peace that comes in the stillness of
night when two hearts beat in unison. Wisely or unwisely, you have loved
with all the ardour of your nature, just as I loved. You remember well
the passion of those first caresses, the music of those fervent words of
devotion, and the opening vista of happiness unalloyed.
Pause for a moment and reflect upon first your own love, and you will
know something of my tender feelings toward the poor hapless woman whose
pure and loving heart was frozen by the terror of exposure.