THE DOUBLE LIFE
How long I stood there I cannot tell.
Once I was on the point of rushing after her and demanding to know the
truth concerning that young stranger of the previous night: the man who
had apparently brought some false charge against me. But I restrained
myself, for I saw that the meeting had been arranged purposely to break
off our secret engagement.
Such an issue as this I had never dreamed. So implicitly had I trusted
her that it had never, for one moment, crossed my mind that she could
play me false. But now, as I stood there in the falling London dusk,
the distant roar of traffic sounding away behind the trees, a feeling
of utter loneliness fell upon me; that soul-killing loneliness that the
broken-hearted can feel even in the midst of the hurry and bustle of
our great Metropolis.
She was a stage-woman--a variety artiste. All that I had read regarding
such people crowded up in my mind; how their enemies said, for a woman
to make sufficient to live upon was an utter impossibility if she still
wished to retain her self-respect. I remembered the denunciation of my
late brother-journalist, Clement Scott, whom I so often used to meet,
and who said, "No woman can succeed on the stage without sacrificing
her honour." I recollected what a storm of abuse was hurled upon him
because he had dared to state this opinion, and it now became forced
upon me how the public--the respectable suburban audiences who go to
the theatres and music-halls--close their eyes to what is so palpably
placed before them. Until that moment of my bitter awakening, I, like
all the others, had closed my eyes and endeavoured to believe the stage
an eminently respectable profession. Yet the truth did not admit of
argument. To-day, with the decadence of the legitimate drama, and the
rapid advancement of variety shows and so-called musical comedy, our
stages are not trodden by actresses or singers, but in many cases by
women who flaunt their meretricious charms with impunity and parade
the stage for the advancement of their own ends. Perhaps my views were
embittered by the thought of my beloved's conduct to me.
Had not Daisy deceived me all along? Had I not been fooled by her
pretty speeches and her feigned modesty? Was it possible for a young
girl like her, with beautiful countenance, pretty hair, and good
figure, to have made such rapid strides legitimately in a profession
already over-crowded? Before my eyes arose a vision of her as I so
often saw her, a vision of neat silk stocking, dainty lingerie, low-cut
black bodice trimmed with carnations and glittering with silver
spangles, as she danced and sang before her hundreds of admirers. Her
illuminated number appearing always caused an outburst of applause, for
she was already a popular favourite, whose face laughed at you from the
big boards outside the hall whereat she was appearing, and whose song,
"The Motor Maid," was being whistled by every errand-boy and being
played by every barrel-organ in the suburbs.
Yet, recollecting all that I had seen, heard, and read regarding the
stage, of which, as a journalist, I possessed inside knowledge, how
could I help in the present circumstances regarding her with suspicion?
I had been fooled. She had carried the joke to a point where it
could not be carried further. The well-dressed young club-lounger of
the previous night--the man with whom she had sat in the Gambrinus,
laughing and talking so merrily--was, I felt convinced, her lover.
I clenched my hands, and an angry imprecation escaped my lips. I hated
that man, for he was my most bitter enemy. He had stolen her from me.
"No!" I cried aloud, still standing at the spot where my love had left
me. "No! I will not think ill of her. I have no proof. I love her, and
while I love her I will not allow this horrible suspicion to enter my
heart. I have believed her to be pure and honourable, believed that
she was the exception to all other women, and I will still retain my
good opinion of her. These thoughts shall not cause me to prejudge
her. It would be cruel and unjust to thus condemn the woman I love so
devotedly. All this to-day is a misunderstanding--a misunderstanding
caused by some infernal plot formed by my secret enemy. She did
love me, I am confident of that. And she shall return to me when I
have discovered the truth of this extraordinary conspiracy to place
suspicion upon me of that mysterious crime."
I paused, glancing in the direction she had taken. I was alone; no one
had passed.
"No, Daisy!" I cried bitterly, aloud. "Though to-day you have forsaken
me in favour of that man, you little dream who or what he is. You are
his victim, like myself, and it is my duty, not to denounce you as
worthless, but to save you--yes, my own love, to save you!"
And, fully resolved, I turned upon my heel and walked back to
Knightsbridge.
Recollecting my appointment with Whitlock, I hailed a hansom and drove
straight to King's Cross, where, upon the departure platform, I found
him walking up and down with Inspector Kennedy, giving him certain
instructions. The latter was dressed in a smart suit of grey tweed,
while my friend wore a dark brown overcoat and bowler hat.
"Halloa, Keene!" he cried, when he saw me. "Coming up with me, as you
promised? I'm going to Scarborough by this train," indicating the one
standing at the platform.
"Well----" I hesitated, for I had brought nothing.
"Oh, do come up. I've got a seat in the diner for you. We shall change
into the back of the train at Doncaster."
I again hesitated.
"Hurry up and get a ticket. Look! there's only three minutes," he said,
glancing at the clock.
And so, almost before I knew where I was, I found myself in the
dining-car, with the train slowly moving out of the station on its
journey North.
We had a small table to ourselves, therefore we could talk.
"Have you discovered whether the man last night was really Drayton?" I
asked in eagerness.
He smiled, and placing his hand in his breast-pocket produced several
letters and papers.
One of them was a large white printed form upon which were impressed
ten finger-marks; the identification paper of a criminal from among the
many thousand records kept at Scotland Yard. A second paper, smaller
and something like a large-sized photograph, he placed beside it.
"Well?" I asked, looking at them both.
"The four fingers and thumb of the right hand are identical," he said
triumphantly. "I was right, you see, after all."
"Then he is actually Francis Drayton!" I gasped, feeling that my
revenge was near at hand.
"The finger-prints never lie, Keene."
"But how did you get these?" I inquired, indicating the photograph.
"Quite easily," he laughed. "Last night the man drank at a West End
bar, you'll remember. I simply gave orders that the glass was to be
taken away carefully and left untouched until I sent for it. Three
hours later at the Yard they dusted it over with some of our green
chalk which they find useful, and out came the tell-tale marks which
are photographed there!"
"By Jove!" I exclaimed; "then there's even a danger of identification
in going to get a drink?"
"Yes," he laughed. "Men who want to avoid recognition should wear
gloves. Had Drayton worn his gloves we should have been puzzled. But,
as it is, all is plain sailing."
"All plain sailing!" I echoed. "Then you have a clue?"
"Well--not exactly," was his rather dubious answer. "We must first
establish the identity of the murdered woman."
"And of the suicide."
"The second will be easy when we discover the first. I'm hoping to get
at something to-morrow morning in Scarborough. We shan't be there till
half-past eleven. We'll stay at the Grand. Ever been there before?"
"Once," I answered, longing to take him into my confidence and tell
him of the interview I had had that afternoon. "But how does the
identification of Drayton affect the affair? Who is he?"
"The establishment of Drayton's identity puts an altogether new phase
on the affair," he said. "Until this afternoon I believed that certain
surmises I held were correct, but now I find them entirely wrong. We
were following an entirely different line."
"And the present is the correct one?"
"I believe it to be. If we meet with success up in Scarborough, we
ought by this time to-morrow to know the names of both women and the
reason for the assassination."
"And also why the girl lived there alone with the telegraph
instrument?" I added.
"Yes. That's one of the most mysterious points in the whole case.
But we ought, if we persevere, to be able to clear it up." And as he
replaced the papers he had shown me, I saw that he had with him the
photograph we had discovered in Woburn Square.
"But tell me about Drayton. He interests me very much," I said. "Of
what offence was he convicted?"
"His last was a sentence for forgery. He is, it seems, clever with his
pen."
"He looks a very gentlemanly young man," I remarked.
"Quite the swell, I admit. Belongs to a good club in Piccadilly--under
another name," Whitlock remarked. "It would astound and horrify the
members of some good West-End clubs if they only knew how many of their
fellow-members are shady characters who have adopted names which they
did not receive at their baptism. I could point out at least a dozen
men who have 'done time' and who now mix in the most select circles,
their friends never dreaming that they report themselves periodically
at some obscure police-station."
"Yes, the world of London is a strangely complex one," I admitted.
"There must be many black sheep in even the most select clubs. The
successful criminal can easily afford forty guineas entrance fee,
and there are many men who will stand his sponsors for a monetary
consideration. A good name, can, nowadays, as easily be purchased as
a pound of cheese, and the biggest scandal in the Press to-day is
entirely forgotten next week. But this man Drayton," I added, "tell me
more about him."
"You seem very much interested in the fellow," was Whitlock's reply,
as he went on eating his dinner. "He was released on licence from
Parkhurst on July 11th last year, and for the past eight months has
failed to report himself until three days ago, when he walked into
the police-station at Staines, and gave his address at a cottage in
Feltham, a few miles away. He stated that he had been abroad, and asked
the inspector on duty to place the matter before the Commissioner of
Police in order that his excuse might be accepted. Otherwise he is
liable to be arrested and sent back to complete his term."
"And has he really been abroad?"
"I believe so--to Peru. But of that I'm not absolutely certain."
"Why to Peru? What has he been doing out there? Didn't you say that it
was believed that Drayton had died in Lima."
"Yes; that's a fact that is extremely puzzling. He went out there with
some motive, and, judging from his present means--for he has money, no
doubt--his journey turned out a very profitable one. So profitable,
indeed, that he told the inspector at Staines that he had decided to
lead an honest life in future. But," Whitlock went on, "you remember
the girl who was with him last night, don't you?"
"Yes," I said eagerly. "What about her?"
"Well," he replied, "I've found out one or two very curious facts
concerning her. She's on the music-halls, it seems. But if all is true
that I have learnt to-day, then I believe she knows more about the
affair at Barnes than anybody else."
"What!" I gasped. "Do you believe that she committed the crime?"
"I believe nothing, until I have proof," was the officer's calm reply.
"But the mystery concerning her and the double life she leads is--well,
it is, to put it plainly, one of the most remarkable and extraordinary
stories of duplicity and cunning that I've ever heard."