William Le Queux (continued 3)

Blatherwycke Hall was situated at a beautiful spot. I knew the place almost from the time I could toddle. It was a very ancient house. Its massive walls and dark oak timbers, its open hearths and spacious chimneys, its heavy doors with their antique locks and bars and hinges went back to the Armada days when the Stretton who held it was, in the words of a ballad of the time, “A hard-riding devil.” As old as the Hall, too, were the barns that clustered around it, the thatch of whose pointed gables was weathered to every shade of brown and grey, green with moss and golden with clinging lichens. Beyond was the green woodland, musical with streams, its stately pine trees springing straight and tall, its noble oaks just breaking into leaf, its larch and elm and hawthorn in all the pride of their young beauty.

From without it looked warm and cheerful with its brightly-lit windows, and within all was warm, comfortable, and brilliant. The party was a large one, for all the best people in the county came to Lady Stretton’s dances, and as I entered the great oak-panelled ballroom with its stands of armour and its quaint old chiming clock, I looked eagerly around and saw Dora in a ravishing toilette with skirt and sleeves of soft white satin, a bodice of rose-pink velvet, with the front lightly traced with jet, talking to several men, while at that moment I heard my name uttered by a well-known voice and turned to greet Mabel who, standing with her husband, the Earl, was attired in a marvellous gown of palest heliotrope.

As soon as dancing commenced, however, I managed to speak with Dora, and found she had saved me several dances. Many of the guests were my friends, and we spent altogether a most delightful night. Lady Stretton always entertained in first-rate style, and this was no exception. Outside, in the old-world garden, Chinese lanterns were hung in the arched walks, and in the smaller paths similarly arched crossing the central one at intervals those who desired air could find cool alleys, where the starlight filtered through the trees.

Along one of these I wandered with Dora after we had been waltzing, and finding a seat, we sat down to rest heedless of the chill air.

“Well,” I exclaimed at length, “have you heard from him?”

“Yes,” she answered rather gloomily. “Only three lines. I have brought it in my pocket so that you may see,” and producing a crumpled envelope, she handed it to me.

Striking a vesta I opened the note and read the few words it contained, written hurriedly in pencil; the message ran: “I cannot return yet, but tell no one you have heard from me. I still love you, darling, better than my life. Jack.” Then I looked at the postmark, and found it had been posted at Bardonnechia, an obscure village on the Italian frontier.

“He reassures you,” I said, after a moment’s silence. “We must wait.”

“Wait,” she echoed, sadly. “We can do nothing else. It is strange that he desires his absence to be concealed,” she continued. “Curiously enough only this morning a well-dressed man called just as I was going to the meet and saw me privately. He gave his name as Captain Allen, of Jack’s regiment, and said he had come from London to ask me his address, as he wished to send him a telegram on some important business. I told him I did not know. Then he asked if I had heard from him, and I told him—”

“You told him what?” I gasped, starting up.

“I told him that the letter I received yesterday was posted at Bardonnechia.”

I sank back upon the seat, nerveless, paralysed.

“Did he not tell you that if you loved him you must remain silent?” I demanded, fiercely. “Don’t you know what you’ve done?”

“No,” she gasped, alarmed. “What—what have I done? Tell me. What will happen?”

But I knew I had nearly betrayed myself, and quickly recovering my self-possession, said:

“You have—well, if he is on a secret mission, as I expect he is, it may be that you may have placed those who desire to thwart its success in a position to do so.”

“Ah! Heaven! I never thought of that,” she cried in despair. “Now, I remember, the man spoke with a rather foreign accent.”

“Yes,” I said, severely. “By disobeying his injunctions you may have placed him in the hands of his enemies!” She sat silent, her hands clasped before her, and sighing heavily, she shuddered.

Then rising slowly she left me. I did not follow, for I saw she walked unevenly with bent head, in order to hide her emotion.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Deeper Indiscretion.

During a quarter of an hour I sat alone smoking a cigarette in thoughtful silence under the trellis, when suddenly I heard the sound of passionate voices on the other side of the ivy. Two persons had evidently seated themselves in close proximity to myself, and I was, so to speak, in the middle of a scene before I realised that I was listening.

“You shall not do this thing,” cried a woman’s voice. “By God! you shan’t—you shall listen to reason. He has been murdered, foully done to death, and—”

“Well, what of that? Can’t you whisper, you fool?” and I heard an imprecation from between a man’s set teeth.

Stealthily, in order not to attract attention, I turned and parting the foliage saw directly behind me the gleam of a light dress in the darkness. At first I could not distinguish its wearer, but almost at that moment her companion struck a match to light his cigar, and its fickle flame illuminated both their faces.

The woman in the light dress was the Countess of Fyneshade, and the man, wearing a heavy fur travelling-coat, and with several days’ growth of beard on his dark, frowning face, was the mysterious individual who had met me on the night I had been married to Sybil.

“So you have come from Marseilles, for what purpose?” exclaimed Mabel angrily. “Merely to run risk of compromising me, and to tell me absolutely nothing. You must think me an idiot?”

“Have I not already told you the result of my inquiries into the movements of Bethune?”

“I have surreptitiously read each letter that Dora has received from him, and I was well aware of your devilish cunning, for I have already had experience of it myself.”

“So you entertain a suspicion that Gilbert Sternroyd has been murdered—eh?” he said, with a low laugh, not deigning to remark upon the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken. “Surely a young man may—er—disappear for a week or so, without any great harm coming to him?”

“Mine is not a mere suspicion,” she declared quickly. “I am absolutely certain he has met with foul play.”

“Why?”

“Because three days before his disappearance he told me in confidence that an enemy, whom he would not name, had threatened him.”

“But if he had really been murdered, surely his body would have been found by this time?” he observed. “You have, I am well aware, communicated your suspicions to the police, and they have made every inquiry, but without avail. In passing through London this morning I called at Scotland Yard on your behalf and was informed that they had succeeded in tracing the missing man to the Army and Navy Club on the night of his disappearance. He left there at midnight to walk home, but since that moment nothing has been heard of him.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing except the curious fact that on the following morning a check for five thousand five hundred pounds in favour of some mysterious individual, named Charles Collinson, was handed in at the Temple Bar branch of the London and Westminster Bank, endorsed in an illiterate hand by the bearer, and duly cashed. After that all traces are lost. He has disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.”

“I care nothing for police theories,” Mabel said firmly. “I feel convinced that he has been brutally murdered.”

“But who were his enemies?”

“As far as I am aware, he had none,” she answered. “The discovery of the check, however, is a curious fact, and if this Collinson could be found he could, no doubt, give the police a clue.”

“I think not,” her companion replied dubiously. “The check was dated three days before, and therefore, in all probability, had no connection whatever with his disappearance.”

“But now, with regard to Bethune. Where is he?”

“At the Trombetta at Turin, under the name of Harding. I had a telegram concerning him this morning. At your instigation a detective has followed him, but I confess I can see no object in this, because no warrant can be obtained, for the simple reason that the police have no knowledge that Sternroyd is actually dead. He may, after all, be keeping out of the way for some purpose or another. The most exhaustive inquiries have been made, but have failed to elicit any solution of the mystery. Even a careful examination of Bethune’s chambers, made by two most expert officers, has failed to show that any tragedy has been enacted. It is true that the Captain destroyed some papers before leafing, but they were mostly billets-doux which he apparently thought might prove compromising to some of his fair correspondents. Thoughtful of him, wasn’t it?”

“Very. He was a friend of Sybil’s, I believe?”

“Yes, and was very much attached to her at one time, if reports are true,” the man answered, with a low, coarse laugh.

Sybil! The mention of her name thrilled me; the words pierced my strained ears, causing me to remain dumbfounded and open-mouthed in expectation.

“Were any of her letters discovered?” Mabel asked in a low tone.

“None. Fortunately all were carefully destroyed.”

“But why should he have left so mysteriously if he were in no way connected with Gilbert’s disappearance? I suspect him of murder, therefore I gave instructions to have him watched. I care nothing for the cost, or for any scandal that may accrue, so long as I bring the assassin to justice. Gilbert entrusted me with the secret of his fear, and it is therefore my duty to seek out the murderer.”

“Even at the risk of Dora’s happiness?” he inquired. “Yes. At risk of her happiness. At present she must know nothing—nothing beyond the fact with which she is already well acquainted, namely, that marriage with Bethune is entirely out of the question. But listen! Someone is coming! It’s Fyneshade! Go! he must not see you. Quick!”

The man jumped up quickly and slipped away in the darkness, while the Countess also rose with a frou-frou of silk, and went forward to meet her husband, laughing aloud, saying:

“Ah! you dear old boy, I knew you would be looking for me. The rooms are so awfully hot that I came out to get a breath of air. It’s simply delightful out to-night.”

“Yes,” he answered dryly, turning and walking back with her, uttering some rapid, earnest words that I could not catch as they crossed the lawn.

That the Countess had been acquainted with Sybil was a fresh revelation. The strange sinister-looking individual whose identity was enshrouded in mystery, and with whom she appeared to be on such intimate terms, had aroused in my heart fresh suspicions that I had been duped. He had declared that Jack Bethune, the man I had trusted as a friend, and whom I was now striving to shield, had been one of Sybil’s lovers! The thought was maddening. I sprang to my feet, clenched my fists, and walked forward in a sudden outburst of fury. If Mabel had known her, was it not highly probable that she was fully aware of the secret of my marriage and the true story of her fate? The strange words inscribed upon the wreath that had been so mysteriously placed upon the grave recurred to me. “Seek and you may find.” Those words danced before my eyes in letters of fire. The whole enigma was one which grew more puzzling daily, and, try how I would, I was unable to solve it.

From what I had overheard I had learnt more than one fact of the highest importance. If no warrant had been issued against Bethune why should not this be communicated to him; why indeed should I not seek of Mabel the truth about the woman I had loved?

This course, after some consideration, commended itself to me, and I walked on with firm resolve to obtain from the smart Society leader some facts regarding Sybil’s tragic end. With that object I again wandered among the dancers in search of the striking study in heliotrope. I could not, however, find her, but discovering Dora flushed by waltzing, fanning herself, and enduring the inane chatter of an insipid young sprig of the Stock Exchange, I managed to take her aside.

“Now, Dora, tell me,” I said, when we were standing together alone on the veranda, “do you really want Jack back again?”

“Want him back!” she cried in wistful tones. “If you can induce him to return you will render me a service that I can never forget—a service that will bring happiness to us both.”

Happiness! I sighed, remembering the man who had fallen cold and stiff in the narrow passage in Bethune’s chambers. How could I allow her, bright, pure and good, to marry a murderer? But was I not selfish? I confess that in those moments of anguish and suspicion I cared for nought save myself. I was determined to know the truth regarding his relations with Sybil, and intended with that object to bring him back, even at risk of his subsequent arrest.

“Very well,” I said quietly, “within a week he shall be with you.”

“But how will you induce him to return? Besides, we cannot communicate with him.”

“Leave all to me,” I answered. “In a week he will be at your side, and I—I—”

“And you will receive my most heartfelt thanks,” she said in low, earnest tones, laying her hand upon my arm and looking into my face. “You know, Stuart, how I have suffered these long dreary days; how intensely I love him. You are my friend. Yes, you have always proved yourself my friend, although I fear I have on more than one occasion ridiculed you as a confirmed bachelor with a heart of adamant.”

“I also loved once,” I said.

“Who was the woman?”

“Ah! it is a secret,” I answered. “But I sympathise with you, because I, alas! have experienced all that poignant bitterness, the dregs of life’s unhappiness that are too often the lot of the lover. I loved, ah! I adored, one woman. She was my life, my very soul was hers, but she has gone, gone, and I am left alone with nothing but the memory of her face that comes back to me constantly in my day-dreams.”

“She married someone else, I suppose?” she observed gloomily.

“Death parted us,” I answered huskily, for the memory of her sad, sweet countenance always caused a lump to rise in my throat.

Dora echoed my sigh and was silent, deeply absorbed in thought, gazing away to where the moonbeams shimmered on the lake.

“Dead! then all is of the past,” she said presently. “I never suspected that you had really loved. I never knew that you had been guilty of any deeper indiscretion than the mild flirtation which used to be carried on between us in the old days. Now that you have told me your secret, I can well understand why pretty women have no longer attraction for you, and the reason you have become something of a misanthrope.”

“Misanthrope. Yes, you are right, Dora. I am not old in years, but unfortunately I have grown world-weary early, and have been overwhelmed by a catastrophe that has warped my life and sapped my youthful spirits. But do not let us discuss it further. You are young, and Jack Bethune is deeply attached to you. Therefore I will do my best to induce him to return.”

She turned to me, and taking my hand in hers went on: “I can only express my gratitude, and—and hope that into your life may enter some other woman who may be as worthy honest love as the one whose sad death has struck this chord of tragedy in your heart.”

“Thank you, Dora,” I answered with earnestness, looking into her eyes. “But I am afraid I am doomed to bachelorhood. As I have observed on a previous occasion, if it were not for Jack’s existence I should, in all probability, go down on my knees and kiss this hand of yours.”

“How foolish!” she cried in a strained voice. “I love Jack!”

“For that very reason I have not endeavoured to perform what you once dubbed as an absurd antic,” I said gallantly.

“And for that reason also you ought not to speak quite so frankly,” she replied coquettishly. “But, nevertheless, you will be a perfect angel if you really bring Jack back again. Indeed, I almost feel prompted to kiss you now.”

“I am sure I have no objection,” I answered laughing. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No, but now I’m a woman kissing isn’t proper,” she answered, with a little moue, and laughing brightly, added: “I think our conversation is drifting as usual into a dangerous channel. Come, let us go back.”

We turned, and as we re-entered the room, which buzzed with the soft sibilation of Society small-talk, a partner claimed her for a waltz at that moment commencing, and as she was whirled away she laughed lightly at me across his shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen.

Beneath the Rouge.

In no mood to participate in the gaiety, I went to the library and wrote a long telegram which I addressed to “Harding, Hotel Trombetta, Turin,” explaining that if he feared arrest for any crime his fears were groundless, as no warrant was out, and urging him to return to Dora if only for a few days. This I despatched by my own man to Gretton station, to be transmitted the first thing in the morning. Afterward I again sought Mabel.

When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and as she sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, she regarded me, I think, with some little surprise.

“Well,” she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguised expression of amusement, “why all this secrecy? Don’t you think it would be best if we allowed the door to be open?”

“No, Mabel,” I answered. “What I am about to utter is for no other ears than yours.”

She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath the faint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, she recovered her self-possession and declared that she was all attention. She was always an admirable actress.

“We have been friends, Mabel, for many years, and this fact allows me to speak with greater freedom,” I said, seating myself carelessly upon the edge of the table before her. “To-night I have made a discovery. I discovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who—”

“And you overheard!” she gasped, starting to her feet. “You—you listened to what I said?”

“I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither your enemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I assure you, is in safe keeping.”

Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly into the dying fire.

“You will remember,” I continued, “that you introduced me to young Sternroyd, the man who is missing—the man who has been murdered.”

“Murdered? How do you know?” she snapped.

I saw I had nearly betrayed my knowledge, but quickly correcting myself I said: “Murdered, according to your belief. Well, it strikes me as curious that you should take such an intensely keen interest in the missing man; that you have thought fit to urge the police to arrest my friend, Captain Bethune; nay, that you yourself should employ a private detective to watch his movements. When you told me, on the occasion on which you introduced us, that Sternroyd was a protégé of your husband’s, you lied to me!”

She frowned, bit her lip, but no word escaped her. “Fyneshade knows no more of Sternroyd than he does of this man whom you have met in the garden to-night,” I continued. “Therefore, when the mystery surrounding the young man’s disappearance is cleared up, no doubt it will make some exceedingly interesting matter for the newspapers.”

“You insinuate that I love Sternroyd!” she cried, starting up again suddenly, and facing me with a look of defiance. “Well, all I can say is, Mr Ridgeway, that you are very much mistaken in your surmise. You are quite at liberty to go to my husband and explain the circumstances under which you were introduced to Gilbert. Tell him that Gilbert was my lover, and see what he says,” she added laughing.

“If he were not your lover I scarcely think you would take so much trouble to ascertain his present whereabouts,” I observed with sarcasm.

“He is not my lover, I say,” she cried angrily. “I hated and detested him. It is not love that prompts me to search for his assassin.”

I smiled incredulously, saying: “Your denial is but natural. If it is not love that causes you to seek the truth regarding Sternroyd’s disappearance, what is it?”

“I refuse to answer any such impertinent question,” she replied haughtily. “I am absolute mistress of my own actions, and my husband alone has a right to inquire my reasons.”

“Very well,” I said calmly, surprised at her denial and sudden defiance. “I have no desire whatever to ascertain facts that you desire to conceal; on the other hand, you must admit that I have acted quite openly in telling you that I overheard your conversation with your strange visitor, who, if I am not mistaken, I have met before.”

“Where?” she answered quickly.

“Have you already forgotten that evening at old Thackwell’s, where you met him with a thin, scraggy girl in pink?” I asked. “On that occasion you were deeply embittered against him, and urged me to avoid him. You said that you knew him ‘once.’ I presume your friendship has now been resumed?”

“Only because it has been imperative,” she declared, speaking mechanically, her face hard set and haggard.

“But is he a desirable acquaintance for a woman like yourself, whose every action is chronicled by Society gossips, and who is surrounded by jealous women who would ruin your reputation if only they had half a chance?”

“I do not seek him,” she answered. “He comes to me because my interests are his.”

“In what direction?”

“I cannot tell you. It is really unfair to ask. You are aware of my acquaintance with this man, and I merely tell you that it is absolutely compulsory.”

She was standing before me, with jewels upon her neck and arms flashing in the lamplight, one of the handsomest of women, yet upon her face was a wild and wearied expression such as I had never before seen. Assuredly some great and terrible secret lay hidden in her heart. “I heard you mention to your friend that Jack Bethune once knew a woman—a woman named Sybil. Who was she?” I asked at last.

“Sybil! Sybil!” she repeated, with a puzzled look, as if trying to recall the conversation. “Oh, yes! you mean Sybil Houston.”

“Who was she?”

“The daughter of a retired naval officer, I believe. I never met her, but I understood that she acted as Jack’s amanuensis. She was, however, engaged to some impossible person or other, whom she married.”

“Are you sure he knew no other woman named Sybil?” I asked eagerly.

“My dear Mr Ridgeway, however should I know? Jack did not tell me all his little affairs of the heart, for, remember, I am Dora’s sister, and he feared probably that I might tell her,” and she gave vent to a harsh, discordant laugh.

I remembered, with a sudden pang, that the letter I had discovered was undoubtedly in my dead bride’s handwriting, and felt half inclined to disbelieve her; yet she had spoken so frankly that it seemed as though she had told all she knew. It was only her strange laugh, almost hysterical, that aroused doubts within me.

“If anyone should know something of Jack Bethune’s female friends it is yourself. I know you are his confidant,” she added.

“He has no female friends now but Dora,” I observed, “and he loves her dearly.”

“Yes, I know, but they must both see the absurdity of it all,” she said petulantly. “They can never marry, so I cannot see why Dora should trouble her head about him. I declare she has been going about looking quite pale and wretched during the past week. People are beginning to talk.”

“And why can’t they marry?” I asked.

“We’ve discussed the question before,” she replied impatiently. “First, he hasn’t sufficient money, for Dora would ruin him in a year; secondly—” and she paused.

“Well—secondly?”

“Secondly, my sister shall never marry a murderer!” she said in a hoarse half-whisper, first glancing at the door to ascertain that it was still closed.

“But if he returns, and is able to prove that he has had no hand in the sudden disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd?”

“He cannot. I shall be able to prove to the contrary. Let him return to England, and each step he takes will be towards the gallows,” she declared vehemently.

“Your words betray you,” I said severely. “Although you have pretended that Sternroyd is merely missing, you know he has been murdered!”

She started violently, clutching at the edge of the table to steady herself.

“And—and your words also show that you are aware! of the truth, that he has been foully done to death, and that your friend Bethune is guilty of the crime!” she gasped when, in a few moments, she recovered her self-possession. “Let him come, let him face me if he can.” There was a wild look in her bright eyes, an expression of terrible murderous hatred as her fingers worked convulsively, and her bare chest with its diamonds heaved and fell quickly, causing the gems to glitter with dazzling brilliancy. Her face was that of a woman haunted by the shadow of a crime.

“Very well,” I said, quickly. “We will not prolong this very painful interview. He will return, either to prove his innocence or be convicted; either to pay the penalty or marry Dora.”

Walking to the door I threw it open, and as I did so she tottered across the room towards it and almost fell. I caught her quickly, but she only laughed hysterically, saying:

“I am a little faint and shall not dance again. If you see Fyneshade, tell him—say that I have gone to my room,” and, with a cold, haughty bow she swept suddenly past me with hurried, uneven steps.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Mysterious Mr Markwick.

The daily ride was a regular institution at Wadenhoe, whither Dora came frequently to visit my mother, and during the few days following the dance we went out each morning. We chose early hours for riding; starting betimes to enjoy to the full the poetry of those bright mornings, and often the sounds of our horses’ hoofs were the first to awaken the echoes along the roads and lanes. From the brown fields would be rising in white clouds the filmy mist, gossamers would be gently waving, reflecting all the colours of the rising sun, while on every tuft and blade of grass stood glistening dewdrops. Then as we reached the woods the air would become fresher, and from all sides would arise the pleasant smell of damp moss and wood, of wild thyme, and of the many little spring flowers that filled the air with woodland fragrance, seeming to blossom out altogether as if anxious not to lose an instant of the opening day.

It was then that I felt mostly under her influence, the influence of a true, honest woman. The way was narrow, and we had to go in single file—Dora going first, entirely absorbed in holding up her horse, who would occasionally stumble over the slippery stumps; I following, leaving my horse to follow his own way, my attention fixed upon the lithe, graceful figure in straw hat and perfectly-fitting habit before me.

Alas! an undefined sense of trouble remained to me, and now that I was questioning myself and trying to read my heart, I was so astonished at my own feelings that I endeavoured to give them any name, to explain them by any possibility, rather than resolve them into a single word.

I knew that my admiration was almost akin to love. That instinctive feeling which attends all affection, the need of reciprocity, had awakened in my heart. The only event that could save me from falling actually in love with her would, I knew, be the advent of Jack Bethune. Six days had already passed, but I had received no word from him. Possibly the fugitive had left Turin before my telegram arrived, or, more likely, he had regarded it as a ruse on the part of the police to induce him to return, and thus save the complicated process of extradition.

Yet each morning as we rode together she discussed the prospect of seeing him, and wondering why he had neither arrived nor telegraphed, while I endeavoured to console her by anticipating his arrival each evening. Foolishly I clung to those hours of ignorance, and, like a man who shuts his eyes because he will not see, I forced my mind and heart not to remember or forebode. I would snatch from Fate yet one more day, one single day longer of that vague, ill-defined uneasiness which I could treat as foolishness until the voice of authority had pronounced it to be well-founded. Once more I would feel without alloy that I was young, happy, beloved.

She, too, was happy in the expectation of having the man she loved again by her side. She was ignorant that he was suspected of murder; and I felt myself utterly unable to begin attacking so deep and tranquil a happiness, linked so firmly into what seemed an endless chain of bliss.

We were riding together one morning on the road between Thrapston and Aldwinkle, and when near the cross-road that leads to Titchmarsh, Dora suddenly uttered an exclamation of joy and pointed on before. I looked, and saw upon the road a familiar figure in a tweed suit and grey felt hat. With one accord we galloped forward, and in a few minutes were shaking Jack Bethune heartily by the hand.

But in those glad moments I could not fail to notice how changed he was. His unshaven face was pale and thin, and in his eyes was a curious expression; indeed, he seemed to avoid my gaze. Then again there fell upon me the suspicion that this man had been Sybil’s lover. Yet I gripped his hand in welcome.

“I received your telegram, old fellow,” he said, turning to me after he had greeted the woman he loved. “How did you ascertain I was in Turin?”

I laughed, but vouchsafed no satisfactory reply, and as we all three walked towards Wadenhoe the conversation grew animated. Jack, suppressing the truth that he had feared arrest, made it appear to Dora that he had been sent abroad on a secret mission and had been compelled to move rapidly from place to place. At breakfast he related how he had received my telegram late at night, after travelling to Asti, and had packed up and left immediately.

“But why have you not written oftener?” Dora asked. “Your letters were couched so strangely that I confess I began to fear you had done something dreadfully wrong.”

I watched the effect of those innocent words upon him. He started guiltily, his thin lips compressed, and his face grew pale.

“You are not very complimentary, dearest,” he stammered. “I have never been a fugitive, and I hope I never shall be. I suppose the papers have been saying something about me. They always know more about one than one knows one’s self. The statements I read in my press-cuttings are simply amazing.”

“As far as I am aware the papers have not commented upon your absence,” she answered. “It was merely a surmise of my own, and, of course, absolutely absurd. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he answered, rather dryly.

“No, nothing,” I said; then turning to him I added: “Dora has been talking daily of you, and wondering when you would return.”

“I obeyed your commands immediately,” he observed, with an expression that was full of mystery.

“And you have acted wisely,” I said. I saw it was not judicious to continue the conversation further, therefore we rose from the table, and during the morning I left Dora and her lover to wander in the garden and talk together.

After luncheon, on the pretext of playing billiards, I took Jack alone to the billiard-room, where I knew we should be undisturbed. Instead of taking up the cues we sat together smoking in the deep old-fashioned bay-window that overlooked the broad pastures and the winding Nene.

“Well,” I said at length. “Now be frank with me, Jack, old fellow; what does all this mean? Why did you leave the country so suddenly and cause all this talk?”

“What has been said about me? Have the papers got hold of it?” he inquired quickly.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Thank Heaven!” he gasped, with a sigh of relief. “Then I am safe up to the present.”

Up to the present! He feared the future. This was a confession of his guilt! The fingers that held his cigar trembled slightly as he spoke.

“But you have not told me the reason of your flight. What is it you fear?” I inquired.

“The reason is a secret,” he said, as if speaking to himself, looking away fixedly across the meadows and the sun-illumined river. “Some incidents have occurred that, although they have happened in real life, are even more startling and extraordinary than any I have ever imagined in fiction.”

“Cannot you explain them to me, your friend?”

“No. I cannot—I—I dare not, believe me. For the present I must preserve my secret,” and he shook his head sadly.

“Why?”

“Because my whole future depends upon my ability to remain silent.”

For some minutes I did not speak; my bitter thoughts were wandering back to the conversation I had overheard in the garden at Blatherwycke. At last I resolved to attack him point-blank.

“Jack,” I exclaimed earnestly, looking into his pale, pained face. “Answer me one question. Did you ever know a woman named Sybil?”

For an instant his brow contracted, and his breath seemed to catch. His hand again trembled as he removed the cigar from his mouth.

“Sybil!” he echoed, his face paler than before. “Yes, it is true, I—I once knew someone of that name. You have discovered the secret of—”

“Captain Bethune,” interrupted my father’s man, who, followed by Dora, had entered the billiard-room unobserved, and who stood before us holding a card on a salver.

“Yes,” answered Jack, turning sharply.

“A gentleman has called to see you, sir.”

Jack took the card, glanced at it for an instant, and then starting suddenly to his feet, stood with clenched fists and glaring eyes.

“My God, Stuart! He is here! Save me, old fellow! You are my friend. Save me!”

Next second he sank back again into his chair with his chin upon his breast, rigid and motionless as one dead.

Noticing Dora’s look of surprise at the words he uttered, he set his teeth, steadied himself by dint of great effort, and turning to the man ordered him to show the visitor in. Then, addressing the woman he loved, he added hoarsely:

“I must see this man alone, dearest.”

“You wish me to leave?” she inquired, her pretty face clouded by a sudden expression of bewilderment. He nodded, without replying, and as she moved slowly towards the door, I followed.

“No, Stuart,” he cried anxiously. “No, stay, old fellow, stay! You are my friend, stay!”

Dora turned, glanced at her lover and then disappeared through the doorway, while I returned slowly to where he was standing, staring like one fallen under some occult influence.

“Who is this visitor?” I asked, but before he could reply, the man appeared at the door, and announced:

“Mr Francis Markwick.”

At the same moment there advanced into the room the mysterious individual who had been my conductor on the night of my marriage; the man whose intimate acquaintance with Lady Fyneshade was so puzzling! He was well-groomed and sprucely-dressed in a well-cut frock-coat, tightly-buttoned, and wore a flower and grey suede gloves.

“Ah! my dear Bethune!” he cried, walking towards him with extended hand, without apparently noticing me. “I heard you were back, and have taken the earliest opportunity of calling. Where have you been all this time?” But Jack, thrusting his hands into his pockets, made no reply to this man’s effusiveness. His greeting was frigid, for he merely inclined his head. Suddenly the remembrance of those partially charred letters I had found in Jack’s chambers on the night of the murder of Sternroyd flashed through my brain. In them the name “Markwick” occurred several times, and the writer of one had referred to him as “that vile, despicable coward.” Who had penned these words? Sybil had no doubt written one of the letters I had discovered, but did this condemnation emanate from her? I stood watching him and wondering.

When he found Bethune disinclined to enter into any conversation, he turned to me and with a slight start recognised me for the first time.

“I believe, Mr Markwick, we have the pleasure of mutual acquaintance,” I said, bowing.

He looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then, with an expression of perplexity, replied:

“You really have the advantage of me, sir. I cannot recall where we have met before.”

I was certainly not prepared for this disclaimer, but his eyes were unwavering, and there was no sign of confusion. His sinister face was a perfect blank.

“Come,” I said, rather superciliously, “you surely remember our meeting one night at Richmond, our strange journey together and its tragic result!”

“Strange journey—tragic result!” he repeated slowly, with well-feigned ignorance. “I confess I have no knowledge of what you mean.”

“Complete loss of memory is advantageous sometimes,” I remarked dryly. “But if you deny that you did not meet me one night in the Terrace Gardens at Richmond, that you did not induce me to go to a certain house to have an interview with the woman I loved, and that while in that house an event occurred which—”

“How many whiskies have you had this morning?” he asked with a laugh. His impassibility was astounding.

“I tell you if you deny these facts you lie!” I cried angrily.

“I certainly do deny them,” he answered firmly. “And what is more, I have never set eyes upon you before to-day.”

“Then you will deny that Lady Fyneshade had a visitor who met her clandestinely—in the shrubbery at Blatherwycke the other night—and that that visitor was yourself? You will deny that you have acted as the Countess’s inquiry agent; that you followed my friend, Captain Bethune, to the Continent, dogged his footsteps through France, Germany and Italy, and made such arrangements that he could be arrested at any moment—”

“What for?” cried Bethune, amazed. “What crime is alleged against me?”

There was silence. Markwick flashed a rapid glance at me.

“None,” I said at last I saw that this man Markwick was too wary to show his hand.

“Then if what you say is true, why should this man act as spy upon me?” demanded Jack fiercely.

“Ask him,” I replied. “From his own lips I heard him report to his employer, Lady Fyneshade, the result of his investigations.”

“Mabel! then she, too, is my enemy,” he exclaimed furiously. “She has endeavoured all along to part me from Dora, but she shall not—by God! she shan’t.”

“And what proof have you?” asked Markwick, addressing me. “What proof have you, pray, that I had been employed—as you so delicately put it—by the Countess?”

“Your own words. I overheard you. It was highly interesting, I assure you,” I answered, smiling as I watched the effect of my words.

Suddenly Jack, pale with anger, started with a sudden impulse towards him, crying:

“You have spied upon me and endeavoured unsuccessfully to give me into the hands of the police. Well, it is a fight between us. Were it not for the fact I am a guest in a friend’s house I would horsewhip you as a cad and a coward. As it is, you shall go free. I shall, however, be armed against you; these revelations by my friend Ridgeway have proved what I long ago suspected, and—”

“This friend of yours, who desires to claim acquaintance with me, lies!” he said with calm indifference.

“Go! Tell the Countess, whose lover you may be for aught I know, that the man she suspects is innocent, and that if necessary he will prove it,” Bethune answered bitterly.

“I knew you were innocent, Jack!” I cried. “Prove it, old fellow! Don’t delay a moment.”

He turned quickly, and asked me frigidly: “Then you also suspect me—of what?”

I saw that my involuntary exclamations had again betrayed my suspicions. Ere I could reply, Markwick, who had flung himself into an armchair and was sitting in an indolent attitude with legs outstretched, had cried:

“Innocent—bah!”

“What crime then do you allege?” Jack demanded. His face blanched as he strode up to his strange visitor with clenched fists.

Chapter Seventeen.

Attack and Defence.

Springing to his feet and tearing open his coat, Markwick, the man designated by one of Bethune’s fair correspondents as “that vile, despicable coward,” drew from his breast-pocket a folded newspaper, saying:

“This newspaper, the Daily News of this morning, will perhaps refresh your memory. Listen while I read. I promise not to bore you,” and opening the paper quickly a cynical smile played about his thin lips as he read as follows:—

”‘Yesterday, at Bow Street Police Court, Mr J Arthur Price, barrister, made an extraordinary application to the magistrate. He stated that three years ago Sir Henry Sternroyd, Knight, the well-known Wigan ironfounder, died at Cannes, leaving his entire fortune, amounting to about three millions, to his son Gilbert. Two years ago Gilbert Sternroyd, who had been educated at Bonn, received the property, and took up his residence in London. He was a member of several good clubs, and soon became well-known and popular with a rather smart set. On March 12 last he went to the Empire Theatre alone, had supper with a friend at the New Lyric Club, and from there went to the Army and Navy. He left there about half-past twelve alone, and walked in the direction of his chambers. Since that hour nothing whatever has been seen or heard of him. On the following morning a check for a rather large amount was presented for payment, but, as this check was drawn three days before, it is not thought by the police to have any connection with his mysterious disappearance. One fact, counsel pointed out, was strange, namely, that although the check was dated three days before, the check-book containing the counterfoil had not been discovered in his chambers, and it is therefore presumed that he had it upon him at the time of his disappearance. The case, counsel continued, presented many extraordinary and even sensational features, one of which was the fact that a will had been discovered, properly executed by the missing man’s solicitors, by which the whole of his extensive fortune is bequeathed to a lady well-known in society, the much-admired wife of a peer. It is feared that the young man has met with foul play, and it was counsel’s object in making the application on behalf of the relatives to direct public attention to the case, and express a hope that any person possessed of information as to his whereabouts would not fail to communicate with the police. The magistrate observed that the Press would no doubt take notice of counsel’s application.’”

Markwick paused, his small eyes glistening with a revengeful fire as he gazed at Jack Bethune.

“Does not this statement bring back to your memory the incidents of that night?” he asked slowly, without taking his eyes off him.

With sinking heart I saw that my friend visibly trembled, and noticed that he started as each mention of the name of the murdered man stabbed his conscience. His face was bloodless; the dark rings around his eyes gave his ashen countenance an almost hideous appearance. The statement about the will was a new and amazing phase of the mystery, for it pointed conclusively to the fact that the dead man had left his wealth to Mabel, a fact that accounted for the seemingly unreasonable interest which the Countess had taken in his disappearance.

“I—I really don’t know why the report of the sudden disappearance of a man whom I knew but very slightly should be of paramount interest to me,” Jack answered, but the haggard expression on his face told only too plainly the effect caused by the mine his enemy had suddenly sprung upon him.

“It may one day be of vital interest to you,” Markwick said menacingly, as he carefully refolded the paper and placed it again in his pocket.

Jack gave vent to a dry, hollow laugh, saying: “It is certainly a strange affair altogether, but surely this is not news to you. I heard of Sternroyd’s disappearance weeks ago.”

“You were perhaps the first person aware of it—eh?” observed Markwick caustically.

“By that remark you insinuate that I possess knowledge which I have not disclosed,” Jack answered brusquely. “Both the Countess and yourself have perfect liberty to form your own conclusions, and they would be amusing were it not for the gravity of the question involved, namely, whether or not Gilbert Sternroyd has met with foul play.”

“He has met with foul play,” cried Markwick sternly. “And you alone know the truth.”

This direct accusation startled me. I glanced at my friend. He was standing upright, rigid, silent, his terrified eyes gazing fixedly into space.

But for a moment only. Suddenly, he again sprang towards his accuser, and facing him boldly, cried:

“You’re endeavouring to fasten upon me the responsibility of young Sternroyd’s disappearance! Well, do what you will. I do not fear you,” and a strange laugh escaped his lips. “Arrest me, put me in a criminal’s dock, bring forward your array of counsel, your evidence, and the results of your accursed espionage, then, when you have finished I will speak. But before you do this, before you advance one step further upon the dangerous course you are now pursuing, remember that slander is an offence against the law; remember that in such evidence as must be given in an assize court certain persons must be seriously compromised, and do not forget that the very weapon by which I shall defend my own honour will be one that must prove disastrous to yourself. I have said enough. Go!”

Markwick was amazed at this unexpected outburst. He, like myself, had apparently expected Jack to confess to the crime of which we both suspected him, but by this firm declaration of innocence it almost seemed as though we were both mistaken. Yet in that brief moment I remembered his refusal to allow me to enter the room in which he had undoubtedly concealed the body. I reflected upon the many suspicions that had been aroused within me. No! I was still convinced of his guilt, notwithstanding his denial. The fact seemed apparent that he possessed a secret of Markwick’s, and felt secure because he knew that this man dare not risk the dire consequences of its revelation.

“Then am I to understand that you absolutely defy us?” asked the mysterious friend of Sybil.

“Us?” echoed Bethune indignantly. “By that word you mean Lady Fyneshade and yourself. Yes, I defy you both! Act if you dare; but I warn you the peril will be yours.”

“Very well,” the man answered, bowing haughtily with a coolness that was astounding. “Defiance is of little avail in a criminal’s cell.”

Jack placed his hand upon the bell and rang it violently.

“I have endeavoured to save the honour of more than one person in this affair, but if you wish for exposure you can, of course, make known many ugly facts,” he said.

“But you declare emphatically you are innocent,” Markwick said hastily.

“Neither you nor Ridgeway have alleged any specific charge against me,” he answered. “If any crime is alleged to have been committed by me, then after my arrest it will be time for me to prepare my defence. Until then I shall remain silent.”

“And the day is not far distant when you will be compelled to speak,” the other said in a tone of impatience and annoyance, while at that moment my father’s man appeared in answer to Jack’s summons.

“No further discussion is necessary,” my friend said in a tone more quiet than before. “I decline to enter into details.” Then, turning to the servant, he said:

“Show this gentleman out.”

Markwick uttered not a word. Biting his lip viciously, he glanced threateningly from my guest to myself, drew a deep breath, and turning on his heel followed the man out, and a few moments later passed below the window and disappeared down the drive.

The interview had been an extraordinary one. Markwick, who had with such well-feigned ignorance declared himself unacquainted with me, possessed a most remarkable personality. The mystery that surrounded him was as impenetrable as that which had enveloped Sybil, but I was compelled to admit within myself that I shared his suspicion as to Bethune’s guilt. Yet my friend’s open defiance was absolutely bewildering. He had engaged his enemy with his own weapons, and for the present, at any rate, had vanquished him.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Revelation and its Price.

No word was exchanged between Jack and myself regarding the interview with Markwick. It was a subject we both avoided, and, as he was happy with Dora, I hesitated to inquire into the antecedents of the mysterious individual who had repudiated all knowledge of me with such consummate impudence. Among my letters one morning a week later, however, I found a note from Mabel dated from her town house, asking me to run up and call upon her at once, and requesting me to keep the fact a strict secret. “I want to consult you,” she wrote, “about a matter that closely concerns yourself, therefore do not fail to come. I shall be at home to you at any time. Do not mention the matter to either Jack or Dora.”

During my ride with our two visitors I pondered over this summons, which was rather extraordinary in view of our last interview, and at length resolved to take the mid-day train to town.

Soon after five o’clock that evening I was ushered into the Fyneshade drawing-room, a great handsome apartment resplendent with gilt furniture and hangings of peacock-blue silk, where I found Mabel alone, seated on a low chair before the fire reading a novel.

“Ah! I received your wire,” she exclaimed, casting her book aside, and rising quickly to meet me. “It is awfully good of you to come.”

She looked very handsome in a wondrous tea-gown of silk and chiffon, and as I sat down opposite her and she handed me a cup, I reflected that the journalistic chroniclers were not far wrong in designating her “one of the prettiest women in London.”

“On the last occasion we met, on the night of the ball at Blatherwycke, you uttered some rather bitter personalities, Stuart,” she commenced, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin upon her palms as she crouched by the fire. The evening was chilly, and when I had shaken her hand I noticed how icy it seemed. “I’ve been thinking over your words,” she added after a short pause.

“Well, I only said what I thought,” I answered. “I’m often accused of abruptness.”

“Yes, but it was not to scold you that I asked you to call,” she went on. “The fact is I’m in a terrible difficulty,” and she hesitated as if half fearing to admit the truth.

“Of what nature?” I asked.

“Fyneshade has left me!” she answered suddenly, in a strange half-whisper.

“Left you!” I cried. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that I have acted foolishly, and that he has left this house with a declaration upon his lips that while I inhabit it he will never again cross its threshold. To-day, I have had a letter from his solicitors suggesting that I should have an interview with them for the purpose of coming to some financial arrangement. He offers me Fyneshade Hall for the remainder of my life.”

“Where is he?”

“In Paris, I believe.”

“And the cause of this disagreement? Tell me.”

“No. For the present I must say nothing. It will get into the papers soon enough, I expect, for the public gaze is as acute upon a fashionable woman as upon a prime minister in these days of scurrilous journalism and irresponsible personal paragraphs,” she answered rather sadly.

I felt sorry for her, but I knew that the open manner in which she had carried on flirtation had been a public scandal, and after all I was not really surprised that at last Fyneshade should resolve to end it.

“When did he leave?” I inquired.

“Four days ago. I have not been out since, and am at my wits’ ends how to act so as to allay any suspicions of the servants. He took his valet with him.”

“But why make me your confidant?”

“Because I want you, if you will, to render me one small service,” she answered with deep earnestness. Then after a pause, during which time she took down a feather hand-screen and held it between her face and the fire, she said: “I have already heard that Jack and Dora are together again, and—”

“And you desire to part them,” I hazarded seriously.

“No, I think you misjudge me,” she answered with a winning smile. “I am merely anxious that my sister should not make a disastrous marriage.”

“Then you think marriage with Bethune would prove disastrous?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, sighing. “Already I know what transpired at the interview between Jack and Francis Markwick on the day of the former’s arrival at Wadenhoe.”

“You have again seen your mysterious friend, I suppose, and he has told you everything, eh?”

“Yes, and further, let me confess that it was owing to this interview that Fyneshade, who has suddenly become outrageously jealous, took umbrage, and went away in a passion.”

“I should have thought,” I said, “that the narrow escape you had of detection in the shrubbery at Blatherwycke ought to have already served as warning.”

“Ah! That is the matter upon which I want especially to consult you,” she said suddenly. “Markwick has related to me how you told him of your presence in the shrubbery on that night. It is evident also that Fyneshade suspected that I met someone there clandestinely, and if the truth comes out and our conversation repeated, you must recognise how very seriously I may be compromised.”

I nodded, and slowly sipped my tea.

“Now,” she continued in an earnest, appealing tone. “You, Stuart, have always been my friend; if you choose you can shield me. Before long you may be cross-examined upon that very incident, but what is there to prevent you from saying that it was you yourself and not Markwick who was sitting with me?”

“You ask me to lie in order to save you?” I exclaimed severely.

“Well, to put it very plainly, it amounts to that.”

“But who will cross-examine me? In what form do you dread exposure?”

“I only dread the scandal that must arise when it becomes known that I am acquainted with this man,” she answered quickly. “As I have before told you, there is no thought of affection or regard between us. While hating him, I have been compelled to seek his assistance by untoward circumstances.”

“When do you anticipate these attempted revelations?” I asked calmly.

She was silent. The flames shot high in the grate, illuminating the great handsome apartment and were reflected in the many mirrors, while outside a neighbouring clock slowly struck six. The mansion seemed strangely quiet and dismal, now that its master, the Earl, had parted from his smart wife.

“Bethune will be tried for murder. Some awkward questions will then be asked,” she answered at last.

“Markwick is quite resolved, then,” I cried, starting up.

“Quite. I, too, have every reason to believe that Gilbert fell by Bethune’s hand.”

“Yet you have no proofs,” I observed.

“I did not say that Certain proofs will be forthcoming at the trial.”

“But I presume you are aware that Jack strenuously denies the allegation?”

“Of course. It is but natural. He fancies himself secure and is confident we dare not cause his arrest for fear he should make a revelation regarding a strange and startling incident that occurred recently. But he is quite mistaken. I intend to establish the fact that Gilbert was murdered, and further, that he fell by the hand of your friend.”

“And the reason for this, Mabel,” I exclaimed, bitterly; “the reason for this is because you have received information that the foolish youth executed a will under which, in the event of his death, you inherit three millions. This fact is already common gossip, although your name has not yet transpired in the newspapers. It is but natural that you should wish to prove his death, even though you may have loved him.”

“He was a foolish boy, and pretended to admire me, but I swear, on my honour, that I gave him no encouragement. I treated him kindly, as the married woman usually treats a love-sick youth.”

“And he has left you three millions because you were kind to him,” I said. “Well, of course you are anxious to prove that he is not merely ill or abroad and likely to turn up again; in fact, it is to your own interest to show that he was murdered.”

“I will prove it, even if I have to face a cross-examination in the witness-box,” she exclaimed with firm determination. “All I ask you is, for the sake of our long friendship, not to reveal the conversation you overheard in the shrubbery.”

“You wish me to assist you against my friend?” I said. “No, Mabel, I cannot give you my promise. What I overheard was suspiciously like a conspiracy formed to convict Jack of murder, and if I am asked I shall speak the truth.”

Her lips quivered. With a pretty woman’s wilful egotism she had anticipated that I would perjure myself to shield her, and her disappointment and chagrin were apparent. Her face was turned toward the fire, and for a long time neither of us uttered a word.

“Because my husband has gone and I am defenceless,” she said at last with much bitterness, “all my whilom friends will, I suppose, now unite in maligning me. You, of all men, know the tragedy of my marriage,” she continued appealingly. “I married for money and a coronet, but ere my honeymoon was over, I discovered that to love my husband was impossible, and further that his reputed wealth existed entirely in the imagination; for truth to tell he has been on the verge of bankruptcy ever since our marriage. No, my life during these past three years has been a wretchedly hollow sham; but because I am Countess of Fyneshade, and am considered smart, I have been flattered and courted. Put yourself for a moment in my place, and see whether you would prefer the misery of your husband’s great, empty, comfortless home to the many happy, well-filled, and brilliant houses always open to you, houses where you are deemed the centre of attraction, and where admiration and flattery greet you on every hand. Think, think deeply for a moment, and I feel assured you will not condemn me so unmercifully as you have.”

“I do not condemn you, Mabel,” I said quietly, “On the contrary, you have my most sincere sympathy. If there is anything I can do that will induce Fyneshade to return and thus avoid the scandal, I will do it willingly, but, understand, once and for all, I will not perjure myself in a court of justice.”

“Ah, you are cruel and hard-hearted, for you refuse to allay his suspicions, even though you must know from the character of our conversation that at least there is not one iota of affection between Markwick and myself. Is it because of Jack that you refuse?”

“Yes,” I answered point-blank. “It is because I don’t believe he is guilty.”

Slowly she rose from her low chair and stood before me, tall and erect, a bewitching figure against the fitful firelight.

“Then let me tell you one fact that may induce you to alter this opinion,” she said. “You will remember that you went to his chambers alone in the darkness, and met him there. You suspected him, but gave him no inkling of your suspicions, yet when you wanted to enter one of his rooms he refused to allow you.”

“Yes,” I said, amazed. “How do you know that?”

“It matters not by what means I have gained this knowledge; but I tell you further that in that room at the moment you desired to enter, there was stretched upon the floor the body of Gilbert Sternroyd!”

Her words came upon me as a bolt from the blue. How she had become aware of my visit was an entire mystery, but her allegation fully bore out my horrible suspicion that the murderer was at that moment hiding the ghastly evidence of his crime.

“Such, then, is the nature of the evidence you intend to adduce against him,” I said, when I had fully contemplated her startling announcement. “You will, however, be compelled to prove that he committed the crime. If you are aware that the body was concealed in that room, you probably know where it is at the present time.”

“My proofs I retain until the trial,” she said. “Gilbert has been murdered, and I am but doing my best to bring the culprit to justice. You think I am acting strangely; that my husband perhaps is, under the circumstances, justified in leaving me to face a scandal and the derision of the women who have envied me. Well, you are welcome to your opinion. I can tell you, however, that when the truth is out, although my reputation may be blighted, some revelations will be made that will amaze you.”

“I do not blame you for endeavouring to solve this mystery, Mabel,” I said rather sympathetically, “but remember Jack Bethune is my friend, and Dora loves him dearly—”

“Because, poor girl, she is ignorant of the terrible truth,” she interrupted.

“Then let her remain in ignorance until his guilt be proved,” I urged. “She is happy; do not disturb what unfortunately may be but a brief period of joy.”

“You may rely on me,” she answered. “I shall tell my sister nothing. But if Bethune is arrested do not be surprised.”

“I do not anticipate his arrest,” I observed. “For when he is brought to trial, the revelations of which you have spoken will implicate too many people.”

“How do you know? What has he told you?” she inquired quickly.

“Nothing. I have learnt much from my own observations.”

“Now, tell me,” she said, suddenly placing her hand softly upon my arm. “Will you not take upon yourself the identity of Markwick for that brief quarter-of-an-hour in the shrubbery—that is, of course, providing you are asked? I—I appeal to you,” she added in a low tone, panting with emotion. “I appeal to you, as a woman clinging to one last hope, to remove this unfounded suspicion attaching to me. Speak, Stuart. Tell me you will remain my friend!”

I was silent. The darting flames showed her hand some face upturned to mine, pale, haggard, anxious. Her breast rose and fell beneath its silk and chiffon, and her white hand grasped my arm convulsively.

“I—I have been reckless,” I admit, she went on, brokenly. “My recklessness has been caused by an absence of love for my home or my husband, but I swear that Fyneshade’s suspicions are utterly groundless. Ah!—if you knew the terrible secret in my heart you would pity me—you would shield me, I know you would,” and some other words that she uttered were lost in a sudden fit of hysterical sobbing.

“What is your secret?” I asked calmly, when struggling with her emotion, she again looked up to my face.

“You will remember when we were in the library at Blatherwycke, you asked me if I ever knew a woman named Sybil.”

“Yes,” I cried eagerly. “Yes. Did you know her?”

“I—I lied to you when I denied all knowledge of her,” she answered. “I am well aware of the strange manner in which you became acquainted with her and of your marriage, but even though these incidents are startling, the secret of her life and death is far more astounding.”

“Tell me, Mabel. Tell me all,” I cried breathlessly.

“No,” she answered. “No, not until you have promised to swear that you sat with me in the shrubbery, and that Markwick was not present. Only in exchange for your aid will I reveal to you the secret.”

Chapter Nineteen.

The Earl’s Suspicions.

“Will you—will you swear?” she implored, grasping my hands, her white agitated countenance still lifted to mine in earnest appeal.

I had felt confident long ago that she must know something of Sybil, from the fact that Sternroyd’s photograph had been placed with that of my dead wife, but was entirely unprepared for this strange offer. I was to commit perjury and thus shield this mysterious scoundrel Markwick as well as herself, in order to learn some facts about the woman I had loved. At first, so intense was my desire to obtain a clue to the inscrutable mystery that had enveloped Sybil, that I confess my impulse was to give my promise. But on reflection I saw the possibility that she desired to shield Markwick, and not herself; and I also recognised the probability that her promised revelation might, after all, be entirely untrue. These thoughts decided me.

“No,” I answered with firmness. “I will not commit perjury, even though its price be the secret of my wife’s life.”

“You will not?” she wailed. “Not for my sake?”

“No,” I answered, gravely. “Much as I desire to solve the enigma, I decline to entertain any such offer.”

“Then you, too, are my enemy!” she cried wildly, with a sudden fierceness, staggering back from me a few paces.

“I did not say so. I merely refused to be bribed to perjury,” I answered as she released my hands.

“And you will not help me?” she said, hoarsely, standing before me and twirling the ribbons of her gown between her nervous bejewelled fingers.

“I will assist you in any way I can, but I will not swear that I have not seen that man,” I replied.

“Ah! you are prejudiced,” she said with a deep sigh. Then in a meaning tone she added, “If you knew the secret that I am ready to divulge in exchange for your silence, you might perhaps have cause for prejudice.”

She uttered these words, I knew, for the sole purpose of intensifying my curiosity. It was a woman’s wile. Fortunately, however, I remained firm, and answered a trifle indifferently perhaps:

“If I can only learn the truth at such cost, then I prefer to seek a solution of the mystery from some other source.”

“Very well,” she said, her eyes suddenly flashing with suppressed anger at my blank refusal. “Very well. You refuse to render me a service, therefore I decline to impart to you knowledge that would place your enemies within your power. Speak the truth if you will, but I tell you that ere long you will regret your refusal to enter into the compact I have suggested—you will come to me humbly—yes, humbly—and beg of me to speak.”

“Of what?”

“To tell you the truth,” she said quickly, a heavy frown of displeasure crossing her pale brow. “I am fully aware of the many strange adventures that have occurred to you during the past few months; those incidents that have puzzled and mystified you, as indeed they would any person. I could, if I chose, give you an explanation that would astound you, and place in your hands a weapon whereby you might defeat the evil machinations of those who seek your ruin—nay, your death.”

“My death!” I echoed. “Who seeks my death?”

“Your friends,” she replied with a low cynical laugh, as taking up an unopened note that lay unheeded upon the table, she glanced at its superscription and eagerly concealed it in the pocket of her tea-gown.

For a moment she paused, walking slowly toward the fireplace, but suddenly turning back to me, stretched forth both hands, and with a quiver of intense emotion in her voice, made a final appeal urging me to hide from everyone all knowledge of the interview in the garden at Blatherwycke.

My mind was, however, made up. I shook my head, but no word passed my lips. I regretted deeply that I had responded to her summons.

“You are not more generous than the rest,” she cried suddenly between her set teeth. “No. You would ruin me, drive me to a suicide’s grave! But you shall not. Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed hysterically. “We are enemies now; you and I. Well, let it remain so.”

“It must be so if you desire it,” I answered briefly, and not desiring to prolong the interview, I bowed and turning upon my heel, strode from the room, closing the door behind me.

As I stepped into the hall I encountered a person so suddenly that I almost stumbled over him, yet so quickly did he motion me to silence, that my expression of surprise died from my lips. The appearance of the man under these circumstances was certainly as unexpected as it was puzzling, for it was none other than the Earl of Fyneshade. It was not surprising that he should loiter in his own house, attired in hat and coat, but it was more than passing strange that while his wife was deploring the fact that he had deserted her, and that a scandal would thereby be created, he had actually been standing at the door, and in all probability listening to a conversation which must have been intensely interesting.

This thought flashed in an instant upon me. If he had overheard his wife’s appeal would it not convince him more than ever that his suspicions were justifiable? Yet a few moments later, when he motioned me to step into an adjoining room, the door of which he closed quietly and turned to me in a manner quite friendly and affable, these fears were at once dispelled. Evidently he had heard nothing, for in explanation of his mysterious conduct he told me that he wished his wife to believe he was out of town, and that he had entered with his latch-key in order to obtain some money.

“I was afraid you would greet me aloud,” he said laughing. “Fortunately you didn’t. The fact is Mabel and I have had some little differences, and for the present our relations are rather strained. Did she ask you to call?”

“Yes,” I replied; adding, “she wanted to speak to me about Dora.”

“Ah! poor Dora!” Fyneshade exclaimed rather sadly. “Most lamentable affair that engagement of hers. She’s a charming girl, but I’m afraid the course of true love will not run very smoothly for her!”

“Why?”

“Well, Bethune is hardly the man one would wish for a husband for one’s daughter,” he answered. “There are ugly rumours afloat regarding his sudden disappearance.”

“But he has now returned to face his traducers,” I answered hastily.

“Yes, yes, I know. But does not his uneasiness strike you as—well, at least as curious?”

His words were an admission that he suspected Jack. Had Mabel, I wondered, told him of her suspicions?

“I really don’t know,” I said, with affected indifference. He smiled rather incredulously, I thought, and lowering his voice, evidently fearing that he might be overheard, he inquired—

“There is a question I want to ask you, Stuart. Are you acquainted with a man named Markwick?”

“He is not an acquaintance of mine,” I answered promptly, determined to show no sign of surprise. “I have seen him at Thackwell’s, but have only spoken to him twice.”

“Do you know who he really is?” he asked, with a strange intensity of tone that surprised me.

“I’ve known him as Markwick, but if he has another name I am utterly unaware of it. To me he has always appeared a rather shady individual whose past is veiled by obscurity.”

“And to me also. For weeks I’ve been trying to discover who the fellow really is, but no one knows. He has been living at the Victoria recently, and before that he made the Savoy his head-quarters. He appears to have plenty of money, but according to the information I have gathered, his movements are most erratic, and their object a profound mystery. He met my wife at some reception or another and called on her the other day.” Then, bending toward me he asked: “Do you think—I mean—well, would you suspect him of being a detective?”

I regarded him keenly. His question was a strange one.

“No,” I replied. “From my observations I feel perfectly confident that he is not a detective. He is more likely an adventurer.”

“Are you absolutely sure he is not connected with the police?”

“I feel certain he’s not,” I answered. “From one fact that came under my notice I have been led to the conclusion that he is an adventurer of the first water.”

“A criminal?”

“No, I don’t go quite so far as that. All I know is that he has an utter contempt for the law.”

“Then he has, to your knowledge, committed some offence?” Fyneshade cried quickly, with undisguised satisfaction.

“Not exactly. His action might, however, bring him within the pale of the law.” I had no desire to impart to this thin, dark-faced peer the wretched story of my marriage.

“What was the nature of his action?” he demanded eagerly. “Tell me.”

“Oh, it was really of no interest,” I replied quite flippantly. “I may have been mistaken after all.”

“In other words, you refuse to tell me—eh?” he observed with a sickly smile.

“I cannot explain any matter of which I have no knowledge,” I retorted, well-knowing that he was endeavouring to worm from me facts to use as weapons against his enemy, and at the same time feeling convinced that in order to discover the secret hinted at by his wife, I must act warily, and with the most careful discretion. This strange encounter with the Earl, his curious actions in his own house, and his eagerness to learn something detrimental to the mysterious Markwick, formed a bewildering problem. Nevertheless by some intuition I felt that by silence and watchfulness I should at last succeed in finding some clue to this ever-deepening mystery.

While we listened we heard the Countess emerge from the drawing-room and call to her pug as, with a rustle of silk, she mounted the stairs. Then Fyneshade’s conversation drifted into other channels. But he made no further mention of his disagreement with Mabel, and never once referred to the strange disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd. Though I exerted all my ingenuity to lead up to both subjects, he studiously avoided them, and having waited until all seemed quiet and none of the servants were moving, we both crept out, the Earl closing the front door silently by means of his key.

In the street he glanced swiftly around in order to see if he had been observed, then suddenly gripping my hand, he wished me a hurried adieu, and walked quickly away, leaving me standing on the curb. His usual courteous manner seemed to have forsaken him, for he offered no excuse for leaving me so abruptly, nor did he apparently desire my company any longer. Therefore I turned and pursued my way engrossed in thought Truly the Earl and Countess of Fyneshade were an ill-assorted pair, and their actions utterly incomprehensible.

Chapter Twenty.

An Evening’s Amusement.

Saunders met me on entering my chambers with the surprising announcement that a lady had called during my absence, and had desired to see me on pressing business.

“Did she leave a card?”

“No, sir. She hadn’t a card, but she left her name. Miss Ashcombe, sir.”

“Ashcombe?” I repeated. “I don’t know anyone of that name,” and for a few moments I tried to recollect whether I had heard of her before, when it suddenly burst upon me that on a previous occasion I had been puzzled by a letter bearing the signature “Annie Ashcombe.” The note I had found in Jack’s room on the night of the tragedy and which requested Bethune to meet “her ladyship” at Feltham, had been written by someone named Ashcombe!

“What kind of lady was she, Saunders?” I inquired eagerly. “Ancient?”

“About thirty-five, I think, sir. She was very excited, dark, plainly dressed in black, and wore spectacles. She seemed very disappointed when I said you had only just returned from Wadenhoe, and had gone out again. She wanted to write a note, so I asked her in and she wrote one, but afterward tore it up and told me to mention that she had called to see you on a matter of the most vital importance, and regretted you were not in.”

“Did she promise to call again?”

“She said she was compelled to leave London immediately, but would try and see you on her return. When I asked if she could make an appointment for to-morrow, she replied, ‘I may be absent only three days, or I may be three months.’”

“Then she gave no intimation whatever of the nature of her business?”

“Not the slightest, sir. I think she’s Irish, for she spoke with a slight accent.”

“You say she tore up her note. Where are the pieces?” He went to the waste-paper basket, turned over its contents, and produced a handful of fragments of a sheet of my own notepaper. These I spread upon the table, and when he had left the room I eagerly set to work placing them together. But the paper had been torn into tiny pieces and it was only after long and tedious effort that I was enabled to read the words, hastily written in pencil, which as far as I could gather, were to the following effect:—

“Dear Sir.—The matter about which I have called to see you is one of the highest importance both to yourself and one of your friends. It is not policy, I think, to commit it to paper; therefore, as I am compelled to leave London at once I must, unfortunately, postpone my interview with you.

“Yours truly,—

“Annie Ashcombe.”

I unlocked the little cabinet and taking therefrom the strangely-worded letter I had found in Jack’s room I compared minutely the handwriting and found peculiarities identical. The “Annie Ashcombe” who had called to see me was also the writer of the message from the unknown lady who had taken the precaution of journeying to Feltham in order to secure a private interview with Jack Bethune. Annoyed that I had been absent, and feeling that I had been actually within an ace of obtaining a most important clue, I cast the fragments into the grate with a sigh and replaced the letter in the cabinet. The situation was most tantalising; the mystery inexplicable. From her I might have learnt the identity of Jack’s lady friend, and she could have very possibly thrown some light upon the causes that had led to the tragedy, for somehow I could not help strongly suspecting that “her ladyship” referred to in the note was none other than Mabel. But my visitor had gone, and I should now be compelled to await her return during that vague period which included any time from three days to three months.

A fatality seemed always to encompass me, for my efforts in search of truth were constantly overshadowed by the jade Misfortune. I was baffled at every turn. To discover the identity of “her ladyship” was, I had long recognised, a most important fact in clearing or convicting Jack, but, at least for the present, I could hope for no further explanation.

Having dressed, I went to the Club, dined with several men I knew, and afterward descended to one of the smoking-rooms, where I accidentally picked up an evening paper. The first heading that confronted me was in bold capitals the words, “Sternroyd Mystery: Supposed Clue. The Missing Man’s Will.”

Breathless with eagerness I devoured the lines of faint print. They seemed to dance before my excited vision as I learnt from them that a reporter who was investigating the strange affair, had ascertained that a clue had been obtained by the detectives.

“The mystery,” continued the journal, “is likely to develop into one of the most sensational in the annals of modern crime. We use the word crime because from information our representative has obtained, it is absolutely certain that the young millionaire Sternroyd met with foul play. How, or where, cannot yet be ascertained. At Scotland Yard, however, they are in possession of reliable information that Mr Sternroyd had for some time actually anticipated assassination, and had confided this fact to a person who has now come forward and is actively assisting the police. Another extraordinary feature in the case is, that although Mr Sternroyd has a mother and a number of relatives living, he made a will, only a few weeks before his disappearance, bequeathing the whole of his enormous fortune to a lady well-known in London society. The police are most actively engaged in solving the mystery, and now that it has been ascertained that the missing man anticipated his end at the hand of another, it is confidently believed that in the course of a few hours the police will arrest a person suspected.”

The secret was out! Mabel had evidently placed her theory before the police and explained what Gilbert had told her regarding his fears. She was Jack’s enemy, and had placed the detectives on the scent. This, then, was the reason she had endeavoured to silence me regarding her interview with Markwick at Blatherwycke. When she had striven to induce me to swear secrecy, she had without doubt already informed the police of her suspicions, and well knew that ere long I should be called as a witness to speak as to Bethune’s movements. Our friendship had been broken. Fortunately I had promised nothing, and was free to speak.

The pink news-sheet I cast from me, congratulating myself that I had not fallen into the trap the Countess had so cunningly baited.

Even at that moment some men opposite me were discussing the mysterious affair, and as I smoked, my ears were on the alert to catch every syllable of their conversation. It was only now that I fully realised what widespread sensation Sternroyd’s disappearance had caused. Having been absent in the country, I was quite unaware of the intense public interest now centred in the whereabouts or fate of the young millionaire whose little peccadilloes and extravagances had from time to time afforded food for gossip and material for paragraphists in society journals.

“There is a woman in the case,” one of the men was saying between vigorous pulls at his cigar. “I knew Gilbert well. He wasn’t a fellow to disappear and bury himself in the country or abroad. Whatever he did, he did openly, and no better-hearted young chap ever breathed. He was awfully good to his relations. Why, dozens of them actually lived on his generosity.”

“I quite agree,” said another. “But I heard something in the Bachelors’ last night that seems to put quite a different complexion on the affair.”

“What is it?” inquired half-a-dozen eager voices in chorus.

“Well, it is now rumoured that he admired the Countess of Fyneshade, and that he was seen with her on several occasions just prior to his disappearance. Further, that the will about which to-night’s papers give mysterious hints, is actually in her favour. He’s left everything to her.”

The other men gave vent to exclamations of surprise, but this piece of gossip was immediately seized upon as a text for many theories of the weird and wonderful order, and when I rose and left, the group were still as far off solving the mystery to their own satisfaction as they had been half an hour before.

Wandering aimlessly along to Piccadilly Circus, I turned into the Criterion expecting to find a man I knew, but he was not there, and as I started to leave, I suddenly confronted a tall, well-dressed man who had been lounging beside me at the bar, and who now uttered my name and greeted me with a breezy “Good-evening, Mr Ridgeway.”

Unnerved by the constant strain of excitement, this suddenness with which we met caused me to start, but in an instant I told myself that I might learn something advantageous from this man, therefore called for more refreshment, and we began to chat.

The man’s name was Grindlay. He was a detective who owed his position of inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department mainly to my father’s recommendation. About six years previous a great fraud, involving a loss of something like thirty thousand pounds, was perpetrated upon my father’s bank by means of forged notes, and Grindlay, at that time a plain-clothes constable of the City Police, stationed at Old Jewry, succeeded, after his superiors had failed, in tracing the manufacturer of the notes to Hamburg and causing his arrest, extradition, and conviction. The ingenuity of the forger was only equalled by the cunning displayed by the detective, and in consequence of a question my father addressed to the Home Secretary in the House, Grindlay was transferred to Scotland Yard and soon promoted to an inspectorship. Therefore it was scarcely surprising that he should always show goodwill toward my family, and on each occasion we met, he always appeared unusually gentlemanly for one of his calling, and full of genuine bonhomie.

Immediately after the strange adventures of that memorable night on which I had been married to a lifeless bride, I had sought his counsel, but had been informed that he was absent in South America. It was now with satisfaction that I again met him, although I hesitated to speak to him upon the subject. Truth to tell I felt I had been ingeniously tricked, and that now after the lapse of months, even this astute officer could not assist me. No, as I stood beside him while he told me briefly how he had had “a smart run through the States, then down to Rio and home” after a fugitive, I resolved that my secret should still remain my own.

“Yes,” I said at length. “I heard you were away.”

“Ah! they told me at the Yard that you had called. Did you want to see me particularly?” he asked, fixing his dark-brown eyes on mine. He was a handsome fellow of middle age, with clear-cut features, a carefully twisted moustache and upon his cheeks that glow of health that seems peculiar to investigators of crime. In his well-made evening clothes and crush hat, he would have passed well for an army officer.

“No,” I answered lightly: “I happened to be near you one day and thought I would give you a call. What are you doing to-night?”

“Keeping observation upon a man who is going to the Empire,” he answered, glancing hurriedly at his watch. “Come with me?”

For several reasons I accepted his invitation. First because I wanted some distraction, and secondly because it had occurred to me that I might ascertain from him something fresh regarding the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.

We lit fresh cigars, and, strolling to the Empire Theatre, entered the lounge at that hour not yet crowded. As we walked up and down, his sharp, eager eyes darting everywhere in search of the man whose movements he was watching, I inquired the nature of the case upon which he was engaged.

“Robbery and attempted murder,” he answered under his breath so that passers-by should not hear. “You remember the robbery of diamonds in Hatton Garden a year ago, when a diamond merchant was gagged and nearly killed, while the thief got clear away with every stone in the safe. Well, it’s that case. I traced the stones back to Amsterdam, but failed to find the thief until three weeks ago.”

“And he’ll be here to-night?”

“Yes, I expect him. But don’t let’s talk of it,” he said under his breath. “Somebody may spot me. If you chance to meet any of your friends here, and am compelled to introduce me, remember I am Captain Hayden, of the East Surrey Regiment.”

“Very well,” I answered smiling, for this was not our first evening together, and I had already been initiated into some of the wiles of members of the Criminal Investigation Department.

For fully an hour we lounged at the bars, watched the variety performance, and strolled about, but my friend failed to discover his man. While standing at one of the bars, however, several men I knew passed and repassed, among them being the Earl of Fyneshade accompanied by Markwick and another man whom I had never before seen. The latter, well-dressed, was apparently a gentleman.

“Do you know that tall man?” I asked Grindlay as they went by, and we happened to be looking in their direction.

“No,” he answered. “Who is he?”

“The Earl of Fyneshade.”

“Fyneshade? Fyneshade?” he repeated. “Husband of the Countess, I suppose. She’s reckoned very beautiful, isn’t she? Do you know them?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They are friends of my family.”

“Oh,” he said, indifferently. “Who are the other men?”

I told my companion that the name of one was Markwick, and our conversation then quickly drifted to other topics. Presently, however, when the Earl repassed along the lounge, he said—

“Have you met his lordship recently? He doesn’t appear to have noticed you.”

“I saw both the Earl and the Countess this afternoon,” I said. “I called at Eaton Square.”

Almost before the words had left my lips, Fyneshade and his friends entered the bar, the trio speaking loudly in jovial tones, and in a moment he recognised me. Markwick and I exchanged glances, but neither of us acknowledged the other. It was strange, to say the least, that he of all men should be spending the evening with Mabel’s husband.

“Hulloa, Ridgeway!” cried the Earl, coming forward. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where did you dine?”

“At the club,” I answered, and turning, introduced Grindlay as Captain Hayden.

“Good show here, isn’t it,” Fyneshade exclaimed enthusiastically to the detective. “Juniori is excellent to-night. Her last song, ‘Trois Rue du Pan,’ is immense. It’s the best thing she has ever sung, don’t you think so?” Grindlay agreed, criticised the vivacious dark-eyed chanteuse with the air of a blasé man-about-town, and chatted with his new acquaintance with well-bred ease and confidence. In a few minutes, however, Fyneshade returned to rejoin his friends at the other end of the small bar, while Grindlay and myself strolled out again on our watchful vigil.

At last, after a diligent search, my friend suddenly gripped my arm, whispering—

“See that man with the rose in his coat. You would hardly suspect him of a diamond robbery, would you?”

“No, by Jove!” I said. “I never should.” As we passed I looked toward him and saw he was aged about fifty, with hair slightly tinged with grey; he wore evening clothes, with a fine pearl and emerald solitaire in his shirt, and upon his hands were lavender gloves. In earnest conversation with him was a short, stout, elderly man, with grey scraggy beard and moustache, about whose personality there was something striking, yet indefinable.

“Oh!” exclaimed Grindlay, when we were out of hearing. “I had not suspected this!”

“Suspected what?” I asked, eagerly; for tracking criminals was to me a new experience.

“I did not know that our friend there was acquainted with the little man. I’ve seen his face somewhere before, and if I’m not very much mistaken, we hold a warrant for him with the offer of a reward from the Belgian Government.” Then placing his cigar in his mouth and puffing thoughtfully at it for a moment, he added, “Let’s saunter back. I must get another look at him.”

We turned, strolling slowly along, and as we passed, Grindlay left me and went close to him to take a match from the little marble table near which the pair was standing. Leisurely he lit his cigar, then returning to me, said briefly:

“I’m not yet certain, but I could almost swear he’s the man. If he is, then I’ve fallen on him quite unexpectedly, and shall arrest him before he leaves this place. But I must first run down to the Yard and refresh my memory. Come with me?”

I assented, and we went out, driving to the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department in a hansom. Through the great entrance hall, up two wide stone staircases and down a long echoing corridor, he conducted me until we entered a large room wherein were seated several clerks. He had thrown away his cigar, his keen face now wore a strange pre-occupied look, and as he approached a shelf, took down a large ledger, and opened it before him, he glanced up at the clock remarking as if to himself—

“I’ve got an hour. They are certain to remain until the end.”

His eye ran rapidly down several columns of names, until one arrested his attention and he closed the index-book, replaced it, and left me for a few moments, observing with a laugh—“I won’t keep you long, but here—there’s something to amuse you.”

Taking from one of the unoccupied desks a large, heavily-bound volume, he placed it before me, adding—“The people in there are mostly foreigners wanted for crimes abroad, and believed to be living in free England.” And he went out, leaving me to inspect this remarkable collection of photographs. Each portrait, mounted in the great album, bore a number written in red ink across it, and I soon found myself highly interested in them. Presently Grindlay returned hurriedly with a similar album, the leaves of which he turned over one by one, carefully scrutinising each picture on the page in his eager search for the counterfeit presentment of the man who, unsuspicious of detection, was calmly enjoying the ballet at the Empire.