William Le Queux (continued 5)

“A theft!” she echoed, with unfeigned astonishment, “Of what?”

“Of certain fragments of private letters that were in my keeping,” I answered angrily, adding, “Surely it must throw discredit upon any lady to be the associate of a thief?”

“Mr Markwick would never descend to such an action,” she cried indignantly. “I am absolutely certain that he never took your papers, whatever they were.”

“And I am equally convinced that he did,” I said in as quiet a tone as I could command. I had suspected her of complicity in the tragedy, and her words and demeanour corroborated my worst suspicions.

“But what motive could he have to possess himself of them? Were they of any value?”

“To me, yes. To others they were utterly worthless,” I replied, standing with my hands clasped behind me regarding her closely. Evidently she was ill at ease, for her gloved fingers toyed nervously with the ribbon decorating the silver handle of her sunshade and her tiny shoe peeping from beneath her plain tailor-made skirt impatiently tapped the carpet. “You are a strange woman, Mabel, as variable as the wind,” I added after a pause. “One day you declare that man Markwick to be what he really is, an adventurer, while on the next you defend him as strongly as if he were your lover.”

“Lover!” she cried, her face crimsoning. “You are constantly making reflections upon my character and endeavouring to destroy my good name.”

“Remember I assert nothing,” I declared. “But your extraordinary friendship for this man must strike everyone who is aware of it as—well, to say the least, curious.” During a few moments she was silent; then, lifting her face to me, said in faltering tones:

“I—I admit all that, Stuart. People may misjudge us as they will. It is, unfortunately, the way of the world to play fast and loose with a smart woman’s reputation, and I have, therefore, long ago ceased to care what lies my traducers may amuse themselves by uttering. To you I have on a previous occasion spoken the truth of my relations with Markwick. Can you never believe me?”

“You admit, then, that Fyneshade was justified in his notion that he is your lover?”

“I tell you he is not my lover!” she cried fiercely. Then hoarsely she added: “I—I fear him, it’s true. I am fettered to him because—well, truth to tell, I am powerless to rid myself of his attentions because he has possessed himself of a great and terrible secret that is mine alone, one that if betrayed would crush me.”

I regarded her steadily. Her face was a trifle paler, and in her eyes I thought I detected signs of tears.

“Is this really the truth, Mabel?” I asked with earnestness. She had deceived me before, and I was determined not to accept any of her statements without verification.

“It is the absolute truth,” she declared huskily. “I swear I am unable to treat the man as I should wish because I fear he may make known the truth.”

“Is it so serious, then? Is yours a secret of so terrible a nature that you dare not face exposure? It is not like you, Mabel, to flinch,” I said.

“But I cannot let this man speak—I dare not.”

“You do not love him?”

“I hate him, but must treat him with tact and discretion. Did I not tell you when we met him unexpectedly at Thackwell’s to beware of him? Already I knew how he and certain accursed parasites who surround him had misled you, and had entrapped you into an impossible marriage. I—”

“Impossible?” I echoed. “Why do you use that word? Do you insinuate that Sybil was an impossible person?”

“Yes; when you know the truth about her it will amaze you. Indeed, were it not for the fact that I have witnessed certain things with my own eyes I myself would never believe the story if related to me.”

“But tell me, Mabel; tell me more of her,” I urged. “Ever since my strange marriage, under circumstances of which you are apparently well aware, I have been groping in the dark, seeking always, but finding nothing. I have tried to penetrate the mystery of her past, but, alas! cannot.”

“Ah! that is not surprising. The precautions taken to prevent you ascertaining the truth are indeed elaborate, every possible contingency having been provided for.”

“Do you mean that I am never to obtain the knowledge I seek; that I am always to remain in ignorance?”

“With Markwick’s sanction you will never know. He is implicated far too deeply.”

“How implicated?”

“I am not yet in possession of the whole of the facts. If I were I should not be compelled, as I now am, to purchase his silence by risking my own reputation. But it is for that very reason I sought you this morning. If I dared, I would tell you all I know of Sybil; but by doing so I should bring upon my head the exposure that I dread.”

What, I wondered, was the nature of the secret which she feared Markwick would betray? Only one solution of the problem occurred to me, and it rooted itself firmly in my mind. The secret was none other than the fact that she had either lured young Sternroyd to his death or had actually fired the fatal shot herself. The thought was startling, but her words and manner showed conclusively her guilt, and in those brief moments, during which a silence fell between us, I told myself that two persons must be associated in the murder of the young millionaire, and that their names were Mabel, Countess of Fyneshade, and Captain John Bethune.

Hers was unmistakably the face of one whose conscience was borne down by a guilty secret, and I felt instinctively to shrink from her as next second she stretched forth her gloved hand and laid it gently on my arm.

“I am powerless, Stuart, utterly powerless to tell you what you desire to know about the woman who was so strangely married to you,” she said. “For reasons already explained I am forced to remain silent; but further, I cast myself upon your generosity. I beseech you once again to help a woman friendless among enemies, who seek her degradation and social ruin.”

“Well, what do you want?” I asked rather roughly.

“I have told you why I am compelled to still remain friendly with this man Markwick, a person hated by both of us. He has threatened me; he has declared that he will disclose my secret if I cannot obtain your silence regarding that interview in the garden at Blatherwycke. To-day I come to you to beg, nay, to pray to you to reconsider your decision.” She spoke so earnestly that I confess myself surprised.

“Upon that interview there apparently rests some very important development,” I observed, thoughtfully, after a pause. “He must have some exceedingly strong motive if he attempts to secure secrecy by such means. What is it?”

“I have no idea,” replied the Countess, quickly. “He does not desire that his friendship should compromise me, I suppose.”

“But has it not already compromised you in the eyes of Fyneshade?” I suggested, in a tone of suspicion.

“True; but your testimony, the word of a man of honour, will go a long way toward dispelling whatever absurd notions my husband has got into his head,” she urged.

“His notions, viewed by the light of later events, are not altogether surprising. To say the least, the circumstances are suspicious.”

“Ah! I quite admit that. It is for that very reason I cast myself upon your generosity and beg of your assistance. If I do not secure your silence, he—the man who holds me in his power—will not hesitate to denounce and crush me. Your promise may save me.”

“Save you? I cannot see how,” I said, mechanically, for I was thinking of the probability that she was the actual culprit.

“Ah! you do not—you cannot, understand,” she cried, impatiently. “I would prefer death to exposure. If he betrays my secret, then I—I will kill myself.”

“Come, come,” I said, sympathetically. “This is wild talk. Suicide is mere cowardice.”

“But it would avert the greater scandal. If you knew everything you would not be surprised at my rash words, nay, you would wonder how I have endured all this mental anguish so long, rather than yield to the temptation of taking at one draught the contents of a tiny bottle I have locked away in my room.”

I saw that she was genuinely in earnest; she spoke with a gesture that told me plainly she had confessed the truth. Was it that, seized by bitter remorse at the consequences of her act, she preferred suicide to arrest? This was but natural, I argued. She knew that if Jack Bethune fell into the hands of the police, revelations must ensue that would implicate her deeply, and that she would be placed in the dock beside him. I loathed her for the vile, despicable part she had played in the death of her young admirer, yet I felt an indescribable pity for her as she sat trembling before me in an attitude of utter dejection, her fate hanging upon my words.

For a brief moment I looked into her great tearful eyes, then gravely I said—

“It is not within my province to judge you, Mabel, for I am unaware of your offence, still, although I will never swear that Markwick was not with you on that night, I will grant your request. I promise to assist you in concealing the truth you wish to hide.”

“And you will say I was with you?” she cried eagerly, jumping to her feet joyfully, grasping my hand with a sudden impulse.

“I will not swear it, remember,” I said. “I will, however, let it be understood that you and I met clandestinely.”

“Ah! you are a real, generous friend, Stuart,” she cried, smiling through her tears. “I knew when you had heard the truth about my misery you would not fail to render me help. Mine has been an existence full of wretched, hollow shams; but in future I mean to act without duplicity, to abandon the schemes I had long ago formed, and to try and lead a better life. To the world I am gay and happy, for am I not acknowledged one of the smartest women in England? Yes, alas! and the penalty for all this is an agony of mind that is torturing me hour by hour, moment by moment, while the temptation to destroy myself allures me until I fear that, sooner or later, I must yield.”

“No, no; do nothing of the kind,” I exclaimed pityingly. “Your confession has pained me, but arm yourself against your enemies, and at the same time count upon my friendship. If you have spoken falsely to me—if I find that you have lied—then ask no further favour, for assuredly I shall be your most bitter enemy, and seek to bring upon you the punishment merited by your acts.”

“Punishment!” she gasped, gazing fixedly across the room with wild, wide-opened eyes. Her lips moved, but she was voiceless. The single word transfixed her.

“Is it the absolute truth that you were unaware of the theft committed in these rooms by Markwick?” I demanded, after a brief, painful pause.

“I swear I knew nothing of it,” she replied frankly, without hesitation. “He invited me to play the piano while we waited for your return, and while my back was turned he must have abstracted them. But you will do one thing further to appease him, won’t you? You’ll give me a line assuring him of your intention not to betray his presence at Blatherwycke?”

I hesitated. My promise was verbal, yet she desired an undertaking in writing. This was a fresh development of the affair: there was a strong element of suspicion in it.

She argued, coaxed and urged me until, as the only way of satisfying her, I took a sheet of notepaper and upon it made a declaration of my intention. Having watched me sign it, she placed it carefully in an envelope, transferred it to her pocket, and, after a further brief conversation, thanked me and withdrew, leaving me leaning against the mantelshelf absorbed in thought.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Promise.

While in the Club that afternoon the page-boy handed me a card, uttering the stereotyped phrase, “Gentleman to see you, sir.”

I took it, and, to my surprise, found it was Markwick’s. When he entered, a few moments later, he was wearing a crimson flower in the button-hole of his grey frock-coat, and carrying his cane with a jaunty air. His swift glance ran round the room, to assure himself that we were alone, as he greeted me with an air of gay nonchalance.

My recognition was, I am afraid, very frigid; but, tilting his hat, he cast himself into one of the saddle-bag chairs, and, comfortably settling himself, tapped the sole of his varnished boot with his cane, exclaiming:

“I was just passing, don’t you know, and thought I’d look you up. We haven’t met for an age,” and taking out a silver case, he selected a cigarette and lit it.

“I think,” I said dryly, “it would have been better for me had we never met at all.”

He smiled sardonically, moved uneasily, and, turning towards me, exclaimed:

“My dear fellow, you entirely misjudge me. I was, I admit, unconsciously the cause of a rather grave catastrophe in your life; but surely that is all of the past. Why think more of one who is dead?”

“Then, at last, you do now admit that you enticed me to that house? Once you denied it.”

“I know,” he said, smiling. “From diplomatic motives I was compelled; nevertheless, no blame attaches to me, I assure you. This I shall prove to you before long, I hope.”

“Why not now?” I urged eagerly. “Why not tell me what you know of Sybil? That you were intimately acquainted with her is certain; and if you wish to assure me of your honesty of purpose, there can be no better way of doing so than explaining who and what she was.”

“Ah! unfortunately I am unable, at least for the present,” he said, watching his cigarette smoke curl towards the dark oak-beamed ceiling. “I may add, however, that, in return for your assistance in the little matter concerning Lady Fyneshade, I will before long render you a service of a character that will, perhaps, astonish you.”

“Then she has already seen you?” I exclaimed.

“She has,” he said, nodding. “And she has given me your note. It is for that I looked in to thank you.”

We exchanged glances. His thin pimply face wore an expression of perfect composure. There were no signs of mental agitation, but rather confidence and extreme self-satisfaction.

“Will you not, in return for my silence, tell me something of the woman to whom I was so strangely wedded?” I asked at last.

“No. If it were possible I would, but I am precluded by certain circumstances, the nature of which you shall be later on made aware. At present be patient. The mystery that puzzles you will before long be elucidated, and I will keep my promise made to you on the night we met.”

“To tell me all?”

“To explain everything. But, by the way,” he added suddenly, “have you any knowledge where your friend Bethune is?”

“Why?”

“Surely you’ve seen the morning papers, haven’t you?” Replying in the negative I took up the Standard that lay within reach, and found it opened at one of the inside pages. Almost the first thing that caught my eyes were the startling head-lines, “The Murder of a Millionaire: Discovery of the Body.”

The papers had obtained knowledge of the truth at last.

Eagerly I read the jumble of distorted facts which the representative of a press agency had gathered from an apparently unreliable source, and found to my amazement a statement appended, to the effect that after the discovery of the remains a warrant had been issued against a well-known person who had absconded and was now in Germany. The police, however, were fully cognisant of his whereabouts, and his arrest was only a matter of a few hours.

When I lifted my face from the paper my glance met the calm face of my visitor.

“Well,” he asked, “what do you think of it? It points to Bethune. The police seem at last to be on the right scent. They’ve muddled the whole thing, or they would have arrested him long ago.”

“Upon that point I can express no opinion,” I observed. “He has evidently, however, failed to get away unnoticed.”

“If ever there was a cowardly crime it was the shooting of Gilbert Sternroyd,” the man said bitterly. “His generosity kept a whole school of bounders and hangers-on, and only because he refused to be blackmailed and bled they spread damning reports about his admiration for Lady Fyneshade. Truly the life of a millionaire, young or old, is not exactly a bed of roses.”

“Then you believe implicitly in Bethune’s guilt?” I inquired.

“Most decidedly; no sane man who watched him as I watched him when he fled immediately after the crime can doubt that he is the culprit. It is written on his face.”

With this opinion I was unfortunately compelled to agree, and although I endeavoured by dint of some artful questions to “draw” him upon several points, he parried my attacks with consummate skill and tantalising smiles, and left me after promising to see me again in a few days.

The reason he had called was only too evident. He desired to ascertain what facts I knew regarding the crime, for he, like others, was unaware that I had actually been the first to discover it, and although one or two of his questions were artfully directed, I detected the trend of his strategy, and combated all his crafty efforts to “pump” me. He was admittedly an adventurer of the worst type, and his presence always filled me with anger which I found difficult of control.

That day was one of interviews, for shortly after four o’clock, while writing a letter at the club, Saunders brought me a note, observing that as Miss Stretton’s maid had delivered it, stating that it was very urgent, he had come with it at once. An excellent man was Saunders. I paid him well, and he was untiring in his efforts to secure me comfort and freedom from the minor worries of life. Having dismissed him I opened the letter, finding to my surprise and intense satisfaction that it was a sanely-worded note from Dora saying that she had been dangerously ill, but was now very much better, and desired to see me without delay if I could make it convenient to call that afternoon.

Almost instantly I set forth to respond to her invitation, and half an hour later found her in her mother’s drawing-room, radiant and quite herself again. Lady Stretton was not present, therefore she greeted me in her frank, hoydenish way, as of old, led me to a seat, and taking one herself, proceeded to describe her malady.

“But, of course, you have heard how unwell I’ve been, so I need not tell you,” she added. “I’m quite right again now. For days my head was strangely muddled, and I had no idea that I was at home. I fancied myself in some queer horrid place surrounded by all sorts of terrors; but suddenly, early yesterday morning, this feeling—or hallucination it was, I suppose—left me, and the doctor to-day said I was recovering rapidly. Where is Jack? Have you seen him?”

This was a question I had been momentarily expecting and feared to answer.

“Yes,” I said hesitatingly; “I have seen him.”

“Then tell me quickly,” she cried excitedly; “tell me, is it true what the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he has fled abroad?”

She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind should again become unhinged.

“Yes, Dora,” I said sympathetically. “I am afraid it is true.”

She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the lace trimming of her dress.

“They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I understand,” she said. “The police think that Jack shot him.”

“They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I believe.”

“Do you suspect him?” she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.

“I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion.”

“Ah! I understand; you, like the others, think he is guilty,” she said in a tone of bitter reproach. “Some enemy has denounced him and set the bloodhounds of the law upon him. They will follow the scent, and soon discover him. But is he guilty?”

“I can only tell you one fact, Dora, much as I regret it,” I answered. “The detective who has the case in hand, one of the most renowned experts in his profession, holds evidence against him of a most conclusive character.”

“In what way? What is the nature of the evidence?” she demanded.

“There is a witness,” I replied slowly. “A person discovered Gilbert lying dead in Jack’s chambers immediately after the crime. On the following night the same person visited the place secretly, and there met Jack, who was apparently engaged in getting rid of all traces of the murder. This witness desired to enter one of the rooms, but Jack locked the door in his face. In that room it will be proved the body of the murdered man was still lying.”

“It will not be so easy to prove that last fact as you imagine,” she said very seriously.

“Then Jack has already told you the truth!” I exclaimed.

“He told me something before—before I fell ill,” she answered.

It was on my lips to ask her for an explanation of the cause that led to her brain-trouble, but, remembering the strict injunctions of the great specialist, I deferred my question.

“Then you believe he is innocent?” I asked eagerly.

“The police may bring forward an array of whatever witnesses they choose, but I will show them that Jack is no murderer,” she said firmly. “I do not wonder that you, in common with others, suspect him, but when the truth is made clear you will be amazed at the villainy that has been resorted to by those responsible for Sternroyd’s death.”

“Do you, then, allege that there was more than one person?”

“That point will be made clear at the trial,” she answered briefly. “But tell me, you know something of Jack’s movements. When do you anticipate he will be arrested?”

“To-night most probably,” I said. “Perhaps he is already detained.”

“He is at some little out of-the-world place in Germany, isn’t he?”

“Yes; how did you ascertain that?”

“I had a letter from him to-day,” she replied; “but we have no time to lose. Ah!” And she stood with both hands suddenly pressed to her brow. “My head throbs so painfully now and then. Sometimes it seems as if my forehead must really burst.”

“Can I assist you?” I asked, rising quickly and standing beside her, but as I did so the door opened and the Earl of Fyneshade was announced.

“Ah! my dear Dora,” he cried effusively, as he strode into the room. “I only returned from Paris this morning, and hearing you were unwell came along to inquire. The account I had of you was that you were delirious, with all sorts of other complications, but I’m glad you are not so ill as reported.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m very much better to-day.”

Then I exchanged greetings with the Earl. He looked spruce and well, and by his casual question whether Mabel had been there often during his absence, no one would have suspected him of any serious disagreement with his young wife. For a quarter of an hour we chatted, when, finding Lady Stretton was out driving, he rose and left.

“I’m so thankful he’s gone,” Dora exclaimed with a grimace, as soon as the door had closed. “He’s such a dreadful old bore. I wonder Mabel ever fell in love with him; but there, ill-disposed persons say she didn’t.”

And we both laughed.

“But we haven’t any time to gossip,” she exclaimed, rising with a sudden impetuosity. “You will go with me, won’t you?”

“Where?”

“Not far. I want to convince you that what I have said regarding Jack’s innocence is the absolute truth.”

“I am, of course, open to conviction,” I said eagerly. “If I could only see him cleared of this terrible suspicion I should be happy.”

“Then you shall,” she said, laying her hand tenderly on my arm, and adding with earnestness, “Stuart, you told me on one occasion that you had loved a true, honest woman, and that your life had been blighted by her death.”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember I spoke to you once of her.”

“Have you ceased to remember her?” she asked mysteriously.

“Never. Daily, hourly she is in my thoughts. There has, alas! been no brightness in my life since the well-remembered day when I lost her,” I exclaimed fervently.

“If what I hear be true, she puzzles you. You knew nothing of her parentage, of her past, of the reason for the strange ceremony of your marriage,” she said in a soft voice.

“Nothing. I have ever since sought to penetrate the mystery and ignominiously failed in every effort.”

She paused and, looking steadfastly into my face, exclaimed in a strange voice full of suppressed excitement: “Then to-night I will take you to a place where you may ascertain the truth. At all hazards I will save Jack the indignity of falling into the hands of the police, and at the same time reveal to you certain facts that will astound you.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Reconciliation.

Of her French maid, who appeared in answer to her summons, Dora ordered her hat and coat, but ere these could be brought she again placed her hands convulsively to her brow and, pacing the room in feverish haste, complained of the recurrence of excruciating pains.

Not knowing how to relieve her I stood watching, fearing lest she should be seized with another attack of mental aberration. She pushed her hair back from her brow, and suddenly halting before me, said:

“It is as I feared. My head is reeling and I cannot think. My mind is growing as confused as it was the other day. I—I cannot imagine what ails me.”

“Shall I send for Dr Fothergill?” I suggested anxiously. She had promised to make a revelation, and I foresaw the possibility that if her mind became unhinged I should learn nothing.

“No,” she answered, wearily sinking into a chair. “Forgive me. I am afraid I miscalculated my strength. I thought I had quite recovered, but the slight exertion of trying to recall the past brings back those fearful pains that have of late so tortured me. The blow must have injured my brain.”

“The blow! What blow?” I cried.

“Cannot you see?” she said, placing her hand to her hair and parting it at the side.

I bent to examine, and there saw, half concealed by the skillful manner in which her hair had been dressed by her maid, unmistakable signs of a terrible blow that had been dealt her. It was strange. I also had been felled at the moment I had discovered her creeping silently into that mysterious room in Gloucester Square. Had she also fallen by the same unknown hand? Evidently the injury to her brain was the result of the crushing blow she had received.

“Who caused this?” I inquired. “You have been struck from behind!”

“Yes, by an enemy. But ask me nothing, ask me nothing,” she groaned. “I—cannot think—I cannot talk. The place goes round—round.”

The neat maid entered with her young mistress’s hat at that moment, but seeing her mistress lying back in the chair pale and motionless, the girl halted on the threshold, scared.

“Send a messenger at once for Dr Fothergill,” I commanded. “Miss Dora has been taken ill again,” and while she flew to execute my orders I crossed to the recumbent invalid and tenderly chafed her hands. They seemed cold and clammy. Her wild staring eyes were fixed upon me and she shuddered, but to my questions she gave incoherent replies, lapsing gradually into a state of semi-insensibility.

On the eve of revealing the secret of Sybil, she had been thwarted by mental weakness. Full of pain and anxiety I watched her, reflecting that this added one more to the string of misfortunes consequent upon my strange union. Even my friends seemed by the conspiring vagaries of Fate prevented from rendering me any aid.

Within a quarter of an hour the great specialist arrived, being followed almost immediately by Lady Stretton, haughty, fussy and rapidly fanning herself. The doctor, after hearing from me how Dora had suddenly been attacked, and having examined her carefully, said, with a sigh:

“Ah! Just as I expected; just what I feared. She has had a relapse, and a very serious one. But she will always be subject to these spasmodic attacks, unless by chance she experiences some great unexpected joy or sorrow, which may restore her mind to its proper balance. We can only hope,” he added, turning to Lady Stretton who stood beside him. “Hope!”

“But cannot you cure her?” her ladyship asked. “Surely hers is not such a very serious case?”

“The injury to the brain was very serious,” he answered slowly. “Her case is a most perplexing one and full of the gravest complications. Speaking with candour, I cannot say with any degree of certainty that she will ever completely recover.”

“Oh, my child! My poor child!” Lady Stretton exclaimed with a sudden outburst of maternal love quite unusual to her, as she bent over her daughter, imprinting a fervent kiss upon her cold brow. The face was bloodless, the eyes closed, the cheeks sunken; she seemed inanimate, as one dead.

“There is, I cannot help thinking, some great weight upon her mind,” the doctor presently exclaimed, speaking in dry businesslike tones. “Once or twice during the past week, in her more lucid moments, she has expressed anxiety regarding a mysterious crime recently committed, in which a wealthy young man was murdered. Did she know that young man; or is she a diligent reader of the newspapers?”

“She has, I believe, taken an unusual interest in the mystery, for the young man was a personal friend of her sister, Lady Fyneshade, and I think she met him at dinner on one occasion at Eaton Square,” her ladyship answered.

“Ah! then that would account for her morbid fascination towards the details of the mysterious affair. In her frame of mind any such event would absorb all her thoughts. I will call again after dinner,” and rising, he took leave of her ladyship, an example I also followed a few minutes later.

Dora’s object had been to prevent Jack’s arrest, but her plans, whatever they were, had been frustrated by this sudden attack. Without doubt she had gained knowledge of my curious marriage. But how? Her promise to take me to some place where I could ascertain the truth was remarkable, yet throughout that evening I found myself half convinced that her words were merely wild, hysterical utterances precursory of the attack that had followed. No! It was absolutely impossible to place any credence in such a promise, for the probability would be that when she regained her normal condition she would immediately disclaim all knowledge of uttering those words.

Next day was Sunday. In the afternoon I called at Lady Stretton’s, only to ascertain that Dora, having recovered consciousness, was found to be light-headed and distracted. She had spoken no rational sentence since those she had uttered to me on the previous day. I left the house sadly, walking alone in the Park for a long time; then returning I dined and spent the evening at home. A cloud rested upon me always, dark and palpable; it entered into my life; it shadowed and destroyed all my happiness.

The next day and the next passed uneventfully. Eagerly I scanned the papers morning and evening to ascertain whether Jack had been arrested, but there was no news of the fact, and I began to believe that my friend had after all succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police. That he was guilty I could not doubt. Dora’s words were but passionate utterances, such as might have been expected of a woman who loves an accused man. Indeed, as time went by I reproached myself for my egregious folly in giving her declaration credence and listening to it attentively. It was, however, impossible to let the matter stand as she had left it. Her mention of my lost well-beloved had whetted my curiosity, and some further inquiry must take place, although I saw that so long as she remained in her present state I could do nothing.

Impatient, with head full of cogent arguments I had raised against myself, I waited in agony of mind indescribable. I lived for one purpose alone, to solve the inscrutable mystery.

A discovery I made accidentally struck me as curious. One afternoon, while in the Park, I saw Fyneshade and his wife driving together. Sitting beside her husband, with an expression of perfect contentment and happiness, Mabel’s attention had been attracted in the opposite direction, therefore she did not notice me. That there had been a reconciliation was apparent, and it gave me intense satisfaction, for I knew that no questions would now be asked me regarding that clandestine meeting in the grounds of Blatherwycke.

Curiously enough, on the following day I received an invitation from Mabel to dine en famille at Eaton Square, and believing that she had some strong motive in this I accepted.

The meal was served with stateliness even though the Earl and his wife had no other visitor. It had been a breathless day in London, and was still light when dinner ended and Mabel rose and left us. The eastern sky was growing from blue to a violet dusk, and even then the crimson-shaded candles upon the table were merely ornamental.

We had been smoking and gossiping some time, and as I sat opposite my host I thought I somehow observed a change in him. Some anxiety seemed reflected in his clear-cut features, the expression upon which was a trifle stern and moody. It had softened a little while his wife kept up her light amusing chatter, but when she left there again settled upon his countenance the troubled look that puzzled me. It was caused no doubt by his suspicions of Mabel’s faithlessness.

He had been describing a new play he had seen produced in Paris, when suddenly he turned to me, exclaiming, as he wiped his single eye-glass and readjusted it: “Dora’s illness is most unfortunate, isn’t it? The whole thing seems enshrouded in mystery. Even Mabel is either ignorant, or desires to keep the cause of her sister’s affliction a secret. What do you know about it?”

I removed my cigar from my lips very slowly, for I hesitated whether I should unbosom myself and explain the strange circumstances in which I had discovered her. But in that brief moment I saw that if I did so I might become an unwilling witness in the tragedy. I knew the Earl as an inveterate gossip at his club, and having no desire that my name should be bruited all over London in connection with the affair, I therefore affected ignorance.

He plied me with many questions regarding Bethune’s movements, but to these also I remained dumb, for I could detect the drift of his conversation.

“Well,” he said at length, “he killed young Sternroyd undoubtedly, though from what motive it is impossible to imagine.”

“I suppose it will all come out at the trial,” I observed.

“All come out! What do you mean?” he asked, moving slightly to face me.

“I mean that his motive will then be made clear.”

“Ah! yes, of course,” he said smiling. “You see this wretched business is most unfortunate for us; it so closely affects my wife, and therefore worries me beyond measure. Even now there are many people evil disposed enough to couple Mabel’s name with his, merely because of the will; but he was a mad-brained young fool, and only those who knew him personally can imagine the irresponsibility of his actions.”

“Were you acquainted with him?” I asked, eagerly seizing upon this opportunity to dear up a point on which I had been in doubt.

“Oh, yes! I knew him quite well. His father was my friend when a young man, but what induced Gilbert to leave all his money to Mabel I really cannot understand.”

“Perhaps he did it in accordance with his father’s instructions. He may have been under some obligation to you. Had not Gilbert any relatives?”

“I believe he had some direct relatives; but by some means they seriously offended him before his father’s death. Of course, one cannot disguise the truth that such a large sum would be very acceptable were it not for the melancholy facts surrounding it,” and an expression of sadness crossed his heavy brow as he added with a touch of sorrow: “Poor lad—poor lad!”

“Yes, he seemed a good-hearted young fellow,” I said. “I met him on one occasion with Mabel.”

“Where?” he inquired, quickly. “Where were you?”

“In Radnor Place.”

“Radnor Place? What took you there?” he demanded with undisguised anxiety.

“I went there to try to find a certain house.”

“And did you discover it?”

“Yes.”

“And you met them there!” he cried, as if a sudden amazing thought occurred to him.

“Certainly, I met them there. The carriage was waiting, and together we drove towards the Reform to call for you. I alighted, however, at Piccadilly Circus.”

“They—they gave you no explanation—I mean you did not enter this house you speak of?” he added, bending towards me, restlessness portrayed on his countenance.

“On that occasion, no. But I have been inside since.”

“You have! And—and you found her there—you saw her!”

“No,” I replied calmly; “I have never seen Mabel in the house. But why are you so upset at these words of mine? Was it not within your knowledge that Gilbert was seen in public with your wife, that—”

“Of course it was. I’m not an idiot, man,” he cried, as, crimson with anger, he rose and paced the room in feverish haste. “But I have been misled, fooled, and by heaven! those who have deceived me shall pay dearly. I won’t spare them. By God! I won’t,” and he brought down his fist so heavily upon the dining-table that some flowers were jerked from the épergne.

Then halting unsteadily, and pouring out some brandy into a liqueur glass, he swallowed it at one gulp, saying:

“Let us go to the drawing-room, but remember, not a word to her. She must not know that you have told me,” and he led the way to where his wife awaited us.

He entered the room jovial and smiling as if no care weighed upon his mind, and throughout the evening preserved a pleasant demeanour, that seemed to bring full happiness to Mabel’s heart.

I knew she longed to declare her contentment, now that a public scandal was avoided and they were reconciled, and although she was unable, I recognised in her warm hand-shake when I departed an expression of thanks for my promise to conceal the truth.

Chapter Thirty.

One Thousand Pounds.

The enigma was maddening; I felt that sooner or later its puzzling intricacies must induce mania in some form or other. Insomnia had seized me, and I had heard that insomnia was one of the most certain signs of approaching madness. In vain I had striven to penetrate the mystery of my union and its tragic sequel, at the same time leaving undisturbed that cold, emotionless mask which I had schooled myself to wear before the world.

Days had passed since my visit to Eaton Square, and through all my pain the one thought had been dominant—I must obtain from Dora the revelation she had promised. It seemed that blindly, willingly I had resigned every hope, joy, and sentiment that made life precious; I had, like Faust, given my soul to the Torturer in exchange for a few sunny days of bliss and fleeting love-dreams.

Wearied, despondent, and anxious I lived through those stifling hours with but one thought, clinging tenaciously to one hope; yet after all, what could I expect of a woman whose mind was affected, and whose lover accused of a capital offence? In this distracted mood I was wandering one evening along the Strand and arriving at Charing Cross Station turned in mechanically to purchase a paper at the bookstall. The hands of the great clock pointed to half-past eight, and the continental train stood ready to start. Porters who had wheeled mountains of luggage stood, wiped their brows and pocketed the tips of bustling tourists about to commence their summer holiday. City clerks in suits of cheap check and bearing knapsacks and alpenstocks were hurrying hither and thither, excited over the prospect of a fortnight in Switzerland for a ten-pound note, while constant travellers of the commercial class strode leisurely to their carriages smoking, and ladies already seated peered out anxiously for their husbands. The scene is of nightly occurrence after the London season, when everyone is leaving town, and I had witnessed it many times when I, too, had been a passenger by the night mail. As I stood for a moment watching I heard two men behind me engaged in excited conversation in French.

“I tell you it’s impossible,” exclaimed one in a decisive tone.

“Very well, then, you shall not leave London,” the other said, and as I turned I was surprised to find that one of them was Markwick, the other a short, rather elderly, shabbily-dressed little Frenchman, whose grey beard and moustache were unkempt, whose silk hat was sadly rubbed and whose dark eyes were keen and small. In an attitude of firm determination he held Markwick by the arms and glared for a moment threateningly into his face. The latter, too occupied to notice my presence, retorted angrily—

“Let me go, you fool. You must be mad to act like this, when you know what we both have at stake.”

“No, no,” the irate Frenchman cried. “No, I am not mad. You desire to escape, but I tell you that you shall not unless you give me the money now, before you go.”

“How much, pray?” Markwick asked with a dark, severe look.

“What you promised. One thousand pounds. Surely it is not a great price.”

“You shall have it to-morrow—I’ll send it to you from Paris.”

“Ah! no, m’sieur, you do not evade me like that! You are playing a deep game, but you omitted me from your reckoning. The ticket you bought this morning was not for Paris, but for New York via Havre.”

“How—how do you know my intentions?” Markwick demanded, starting. “You confounded skunk, you’ve been spying upon me again!”

But the little Frenchman only grinned, exhibited his palms, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders, said:

“I was not at the police bureau in Paris for fifteen years without learning a few tricks. You are clever, M’sieur, shrewd indeed, but if you attempt to leave to-night without settling with me, then you will be arrested on arrival at Dover. Choose—money and liberty; no money and arrest.”

“Curse you! Then this is the way you’d blackmail me?” Markwick cried, his face livid with rage. “I secured your services for a certain fixed sum, which I paid honourably, together with three further demands.”

“In order to secure my silence,” the Frenchman interrupted. “Because you were well aware of your future if I gave information.”

“But you will not—you shall not,” answered the man who had met me in the garden at Richmond on that memorable night. His face wore a murderous look such as I had never before seen. It was the face of an unscrupulous malefactor, a countenance in which evil was portrayed in every line. “If it were not that we are here, in a public place, I’d wring your neck like a rat.”

“Brave words! brave words!” exclaimed the other, laughing contemptuously. “A sign from me and the prison doors would close behind you for ever. But see! The train will leave in a few moments. Will you pay, or do you desire to stay and meet your accusers?”

Markwick glanced at the train wherein all the passengers had taken their scats. The guards were noisily slamming the doors, and the ticket-examiners, passing from end to end, had now finished their work. He bit his lips, glanced swiftly up at the dock, and snatching up his small bag said, with a muttered imprecation:

“I care nothing for your threats. I shall go.”

Shaking off the Frenchman’s hand he moved towards the barrier, but his opponent, too quick for him, sprang with agility before him, barring his path.

This action attracted the attention of several bystanders, who paused in surprise, while at the same moment the engine gave vent to a whistle of warning and next second the train slowly moved away. Markwick, seeing himself thus thwarted and the centre of attraction, turned to the little foreigner, and cursing him audibly strode quickly out of the station, while his irate companion walked away in the opposite direction.

In the yard Markwick jumped into a hansom and was driven rapidly away, and as I watched I saw almost at the same moment a tall, well-dressed man spring into another cab, give the driver rapid directions, and then follow the conveyance Markwick had taken.

As the stranger had mounted into the cab and conversed with the man his face was turned full towards me, and in that instant I recognised him. It was Grindlay! He, too, had evidently watched unseen.

That this ex-detective held Markwick’s secret was evident, and as Grindlay—whom I had imagined far away in Germany—was taking such a keen interest in the doings of the man I hated, the thought occurred to me that by following the Frenchman I might be of some assistance. I therefore turned suddenly on my heel, crossed the station-yard, and hurried along the Strand citywards in the direction he had taken. Before long I had the satisfaction of seeing him walking rapidly before me muttering imprecations as he went. By his own admissions he was a blackmailer and had had no doubt a hand in Markwick’s schemes, yet it occurred to me that if judiciously approached he might possibly throw some light upon the events of the past few months. Markwick, himself an adventurer, was not the kind of man to submit to blackmail unless his enemy held him beneath his thumb. The scene I had witnessed proved conclusively that he went in mortal fear of this Frenchman, otherwise he would have treated his importunities with contempt, and left in the train by which he apparently had intended to escape by a roundabout route to America. Therefore, in order to learn more of this latest denunciation of the man whose presence always filled me with hatred and loathing, I kept close behind the angry foreigner. The Strand was crowded with theatre-goers at that hour, but this facilitated my movements, for according to his own statement he had had experience in Paris as an officer of police, and I saw it might be somewhat difficult to follow him without attracting his attention. I had a strong desire to accost him then and there, but on reflection felt certain that it would be best to find out where he went, and afterwards leave him to the tactful Grindlay. A single impolitic question might arrest any revelation that he could make; or if he found himself followed his suspicions might be aroused, and he himself might fly ere I could communicate with my friend the detective. So, exercising every caution, I carefully dogged his footsteps. It was not yet dark and I was therefore enabled to keep him well in view, although at a respectable distance. At the same rapid pace he passed along the Strand, up Bow Street and Endell Street to Oxford Street, which he crossed, continuing up Gower Street. When near the Euston Road he turned into a short dismal thoroughfare bearing the name of University Street, and there entered one of the rather dingy blackened houses by means of a latch-key. When he had disappeared I passed and repassed the house several times, taking careful note of its number and of the appearance of its exterior, then, determined to communicate as early as possible with Grindlay, I returned home and wrote him a note which I sent to Scotland Yard by Saunders.

Shortly before eleven o’clock that night a messenger brought me a hastily-scribbled note from him asking me to come round to his office at once. I went, was ushered into his presence without delay, and related what I had witnessed at the railway station, and what I had overheard.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “their altercation when I arrived had almost ended. I had been keeping close observation on Markwick all the afternoon, but he had eluded me, and it was only by the merest chance that I went along to Charing Cross to see if his intention was to decamp. So you tracked down that wild little Frenchman, did you? Excellent. Why, you are a born detective yourself,” he added, enthusiastically. “Nothing could be better. Now we shall know something.”

“Did Markwick elude you again?” I inquired.

He smiled. “Scarcely,” he answered. “But his acquaintance with Jules De Vries is quite unexpected, and puts an entirely different complexion on affairs.”

“You know the Frenchman then?”

“Yes. He was, before his retirement last year, one of the smartest men in the Paris detective force. During eighteen months before he was pensioned he was head of the section charged with the inquiries into the anarchist outrages.”

“But he was apparently endeavouring to levy blackmail!” I observed.

“Oh! there’s a good deal of corruption among the French police,” he answered, laughing. “Perhaps, living retired, he is seeking to make money out of the secrets entrusted to him in his professional capacity. That is often the case.”

Our conversation then turned upon the inquest upon the body of Gilbert Sternroyd, which had now been fixed, and to which I was summoned to give evidence regarding the discovery of the body at Gloucester Square. Grindlay, in answer to my question, admitted that Jack had not yet been arrested, but that as soon as certain inquiries then in active progress were complete the German police would detain him for extradition.

“Then you still believe him guilty,” I observed with sadness.

“Can anyone doubt it?” he asked. “I ought to say nothing about the matter, but as you are a witness I may as well tell you that our inquiries show conclusively that your friend Bethune committed the murder, although the circumstances under which the fatal shot was fired were of such an astounding character that I leave you to hear them officially. It is sufficient for me to say that the murder of young Sternroyd is the strangest and most complicated crime that in the course of my twenty-four years’ experience I have ever been called upon to deal with. But I must be off. I am due at eleven-thirty at Shepherd’s Bush, so you must excuse me. We will meet again soon. Good-bye.”

A moment later we parted, and I returned to my chambers.

Soon after eleven o’clock next morning Saunders entered my sitting-room and announced a visitor. I took the card. It was Dora’s!

Rushing forward I greeted her gladly, and bringing her in, enthroned her in my big armchair, the same in which she had sat on a previous occasion when she had called upon me.

She was dressed simply but with taste in light grey alpaca with a large black hat and veil, but the face which was disclosed when the veil was raised was pale as death, lit by two large lustrous eyes. For a moment she regarded me with a sad, wistful expression, as if imploring me not to reproach but to pity her. Then a sad, quiet smile slowly dawned upon her countenance, and she stretched forth her hand towards me.

“Stuart,” she murmured, in a low voice like the subdued wail of an aching heart. “Stuart, are you displeased with me? Are you angry that I should come to you?”

“Displeased! Angry!” I exclaimed, quickly grasping her extended hand between my own. “No, no! Dora. I only hope you have recovered, that you are now strong and well again.”

“Yes. I—I feel better,” she said. “But what of him—tell me. Has he yet cleared himself? At home they affect ignorance of everything—everything.”

I shook my head sadly, remembering Grindlay’s words. “No, alas! He has not cleared himself, and to-day, or at least to-morrow, he will, I fear, be arrested.”

“Then it is time to act—time to act,” she repeated excitedly. “I promised I would reveal some strange facts—facts that will amaze you—but I was prevented by illness. Now, while there is still time you will help me, will you not? You will come with me and see with your own eyes, hear with your own ears. Then only can you justly judge. I confess that long ago,” she added in a low half-whisper bending towards me, “long ago I loved you, and wondered why you never uttered words of love to me. But now I know. I have ascertained the wretched duplicity of those about you, their evil machinations, and the purity of the one beautiful woman whom you loved. There has been a conspiracy of silence against you, rendered imperative by strange circumstances, but it shall continue no longer. You shall accompany me and know the truth. Come.”

She rose suddenly. Obeying her I sought my hat, and together we descended the long flight of stone stairs into the busy thoroughfare below.

At last the promised revelation was to be made.

Chapter Thirty One.

The Scent of Violets.

In accordance with Dora’s instructions I hailed a cab, and although she would give me no inkling of our destination, she ordered the man to drive with all haste to Paddington. At the station she told me to book to Didcot, the junction for Oxford, and about an hour later we alighted there.

From a neighbouring inn we obtained a fly, and together drove out across a level stretch of country some two miles, until we passed a crumbling stone cross, and turning suddenly entered a peaceful old-world village, which I understood by her order to the driver to be East Hagbourne. It consisted of one long straggling street of cottages, many of them covered with roses and honeysuckle, with here and there some good sized, quaint-gabled house, or lichen-covered, moss-grown barn, but when nearly at the further end of the little place the man pulled up suddenly before a large, rambling house of time-mellowed red brick, half hidden by ivy and creepers. It stood near the road with a strip of well-kept lawn in front and an iron railing, quite an incongruity in those parts. When we alighted our summons was responded to by a neat maid whom Dora addressed as Ashcombe, and who at once led the way to a long, low room, oak-beamed, panelled and very comfortably furnished.

“Who lives here?” I inquired in a half-whisper when the domestic had gone, but my question was answered by the sudden appearance of its occupant, who next second stood silent upon the threshold, motionless, statuesque.

Astonishment held me dumb. I sprang from the chair whereon I had been seated agape, amazed, my eyes riveted upon the figure standing silent before the dark portiere curtain.

Words froze on my lips; my tongue refused to articulate. Had insanity, the affliction I most dreaded, at last seized me, or was it some strange chimera, some extraordinary trick of my warped imagination? It was neither. The figure that had passed into the room swiftly and noiselessly while I had for an instant turned to question Dora was that of a living person—a person whose presence roused within my heart a tumult of wonder and of joy.

It was Sybil!

Yes, there was the delicately-poised head, the same flawlessly beautiful face that had entranced me in the little Southern mountain town, the same candid forehead, the same half-parted lips, the same dimpled cheeks that I had so often kissed with a mad passion such as I had never experienced before or since. She wore a grey silk gown; at her throat was one simple rose of deepest crimson. Her little white hand bore a wedding-ring—the one I had placed upon it—the lace on her skirt and bodice, the delicate pale tint of her face, bore testimony to the elegant and opulent indolence of her existence.

Yet was she not dead? Had I not been present when her soul and body parted? Had I not stood before the spot where she slept beneath a willow planted years ago by pious hands that had raised a neighbouring tomb? That willow had, I remembered, never grown vigorous and free in the strength of its sap. I knew how sadly its yellow foliage drooped, the ends of its branches hung down like heavy, weary tears. I recollected how, when first I saw it, I had thought that its roots went down and absorbed from my dead love’s heart all the bitterness of a life thrown away. And the roses near her grave bore large blossoms as white as milk and of a deep red. The roots penetrated to the depths of the coffin, the sweet-smelling blooms took their whiteness from a virgin bosom and their crimson from a wounded heart.

I had held her cold hand and kissed her icy lips. Yet here she stood before me in the flesh, grave-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale, an inner beauty shining from her face.

At last my tongue’s strings became loosened. I stammered her name. For answer she uttered in a well-remembered voice, one word:

“Stuart!”

Next instant with a shriek of joy she was locked in my embrace, and my eager lips pressed passionately her dimples, those nests for kisses. In those joyful, dreamy moments we left remembrances unuttered, and nothing mingled with the sound of our kisses but a whispered word from Dora. When one finds living and well one’s love who was long ago lowered to the grave there is no need for the voice; a single look says more than a long speech.

Through the open windows the garden looked quite gay. The lawn grew thick and strong with its well-kept beds of crimson, white, scarlet and blue. Fresh air came in abundance from the open country, with puffs of all the pleasant perfumes of the flowers. The sweet scents seemed to fill Sybil with lassitude. She leant upon my arm quite faint, as if the smell had sent her off to sleep with love.

I glanced at her pale cheek and shell-like ear as her handsome head pillowed itself upon my breast. So delicate they seemed that, were it not for the rising and falling of her bosom, I should have believed she was of wax. But presently, struggling with the emotion that she had striven in vain to suppress, she raised her blue eyes to mine. They were still clear and trustful, childlike in their purity. I fancied I could read her reverie in their blue depths as she smiled upon me with sad sweetness.

“At last!” she murmured dreamily, her little hand gripping my arm convulsively. “At last you have come, Stuart!”

Her words caused a flood of memories to surge through my brain, and as she stood before me still pre-occupied, still mysterious, I felt myself doubting, even then, the reality of my joy. But, no! her presence was a tangible, inexplicable fact. Even at that moment a breath of violets filled my nostrils and again stirred my memory. Away in the Pyrenees long ago her chiffons had exuded that odour. Was it not her favourite perfume? The violets of spring, those modest blossoms snatched from the woods to droop and die in the hands of London flower-sellers, had always brought back to me memories of brief summer days when we had wandered up those distant mountain paths side by side, hand in hand, like children. I had thought of those distant things amidst the dust and clatter and gaiety of the great city, and ofttimes bought a bunch of those flowers, offspring of the dew and rising sun, and wore them in my coat so that I might feast my full on the bitter recollections of those days bygone when I had first seen the sun of a woman’s wondrous beauty.

But in my sudden ecstasy at finding her actually in my embrace, enraptured by her beauty and transported by her passionate kisses, I trod enchanted ground, knowing not what words fell from my lips.

Our questions were naïve and tender, our explanations brief and full of regrets and surprises. Happy in each other’s love, we uttered no word of reproach.

Suddenly I was conscious that Dora had approached, and was speaking.

“I bring him to you, Sybil, because the secret may not be longer preserved,” she said slowly, with emphasis. “It has been sought to fix guilt upon an innocent man who, fearing to betray you, has allowed the newspapers to adjudge him a murderer. Speak, then; tell Stuart, who has, I know, never ceased to love you and revere your memory, the secret that has sealed your lips, the secret which when revealed will bring a terrible Nemesis upon the guilty ones.”

In a moment Sybil withdrew herself from my embrace; then with a sudden impulse she took a few hurried steps forward, and grasping the hand of the woman who had thus spoken, exclaimed:

“Dora, forgive me! I had imagined that you were my rival. I was told that Stuart was your lover, and had positive proof that you had on more than one occasion gone to his rooms alone. I believed that after he had supposed me dead he loved you, but I find that the same lying, scandalous tongue that wounded my reputation tried to wound yours. Instead of my enemy, I know you are still my devoted friend. Forgive me, Dora—forgive me!”

“Say no more, Sybil,” the other answered sympathetically. “All that is now of the past. Stuart and myself have, it is true, been friends—true, platonic friends—and were it not for his exertions on my behalf you would not to-day be in a position to ruthlessly cast off the trammels that have fettered you, preventing you occupying your true position as his wife. Without fear you may now lay bare the secret of your life and divulge facts that will thwart the evil machinations of your enemies. You have waited long and been faithful, both of you, but your triumph will be swift, crushing, complete.”

“Yes,” said my well-beloved, “I have already heard of the suspicion that has fallen upon Captain Bethune, and—”

“Bethune!” I cried, remembering her letter that I had found in his rooms. “Tell me, do you know him?”

“I do, Stuart,” she answered, turning her soft eyes to mine. “He has been my friend, and from time to time has brought me here, in my lonely retreat, news of the one man I loved—yourself.”

“But Markwick is trying to escape,” Dora exclaimed quickly.

“Then he has again deceived me!” Sybil cried. “He shall not elude us! No! the day of denunciation has dawned, and I will lay bare the strange facts so that punishment may fall upon the guilty ones,” and she placed her hand upon her breast where her heart throbbed wildly. “It is a wretched story of duplicity and crime, Stuart,” she added, standing before me with eyes downcast. “When you have heard my confession, perhaps—perhaps you will spurn and hate me for bringing upon you all this terrible anxiety and unhappiness; but I swear before Heaven that secrecy was imperative, that I have been under the control of one evil and unscrupulous, who has held my destiny for life or death. Yes, yes, it is the ghastly truth,” she said, her voice dropping to a scarcely-audible whisper. “I deceived you even though I loved you, yet since that time I have lived tortured by a remorse that knows no night, driven almost to desperation by a knowledge of your unhappiness and an inability to tell you that I still lived.”

“Why were you unable to communicate with me?” I asked in wonder.

“Because I dared not. Ah! Do not judge me prematurely!” she pleaded, clutching my arm. “When you know the truth, you will see there are extenuating circumstances. Tell me that you will hear me to the end before you condemn me as an adventuress.”

“Sybil,” I said, as calmly as I could, my fingers closing over hers, “I love you as I have always loved you. Explain everything, let me act for you in settling accounts with those who have held you in bondage, and then, when all is plain, when the secret of this strange life of yours is explained, then will we resume that perfect but abruptly terminated happiness of the old never-to-be-forgotten days at Luchon.”

“Ah, Stuart! I knew you loved me!” she cried, dinging to me passionately. “I knew that you would hear me, because you are loyal and generous to a woman, as you always were. Yes; now, owing to a combination of circumstances, I am at last free to speak, and will conceal nothing. Our enemies parted us cruelly, deceiving us both, and acting with a cunning that was amazing. Therefore you, the principal sufferer, shall have the satisfaction of exposing their trickery and bringing them to justice. Even upon you, at one time, they heaped suspicion so that you might be made their scapegoat, while against myself the police also held a warrant for an offence I committed without the least criminal intent. Ah! my story is a strange one; stranger than any have imagined.”

“Yes,” observed Dora, “the little I know of it astounds me. When the true facts are made known and the murderer of Gilbert Sternroyd arrested, what a scandal it will cause!”

“Then who is the culprit?” I inquired, in breathless anxiety to solve the inscrutable mystery that had so long puzzled me.

“Be patient for a moment,” Sybil answered, “and I will explain events in their sequence. Then you will see plainly by whose hand Gilbert fell.”

“You knew him, did you not?” I asked.

“Ah!” she said smiling. “You purchased my photograph—the one I had caused to be placed in the shop-window in Regent Street, so that you should notice it, and on buying it, as I knew you must, you would learn that I still lived.”

“Yes. But I could not believe the truth,” I said hastily. “It was so incredible that I came to the conclusion that the photographer had made some mistake about the date.” Then I added: “Why was Sternroyd placed beside you?”

“There was a reason, which you will shortly see,” she replied. “I knew Gilbert, it is true. Do not, however, for a moment imagine he was ever fond of me. He was engaged to someone else.”

She had taken a few steps backward and sunk upon a low chair, while Dora had crossed to the fireplace and ensconced herself in a corner, where she sat in silence, watching us with undisguised satisfaction. I, too, had seated myself in an armchair, so near that of Sybil that I could hold and caress her tiny hand.

“Your ring,” I exclaimed, noticing her wedding-ring, “is that the one I placed upon your finger?”

She smiled and sadly shook her head, replying:

“No, you did not place it there.”

“What!” I cried amazed. “Are you not my wife? Is not that your wedding-ring?”

“No, Stuart,” she answered very gravely. “This is my wedding-ring, it’s true, but you are not my husband.”

“Then you have—you’ve married someone else!” I gasped, starting up. But she gripped my wrist, forcing me firmly back into my chair, saying:

“Did you not, a moment ago, promise you would hear me without question? Have patience, and you shall know everything—everything.”

Then, sighing heavily, she pushed the tendrils of fair hair from her white, open brow, while I sank back among the cushions impatient and perplexed.

“Only to-day, a few hours ago, the chains of the thraldom under which I have lived were drawn so tightly around me, galling me to the quick,” she said, in a low, hurried voice, after sitting a few moments silent and agitated. “Only this morning I saw how hopeless was the effort to elude that thraldom in the smallest degree that my whole being ached in torture, and I hated the world and wished to escape from it; yet the two events for which I have longed through all these dreary, wearying days have now occurred. I am free to speak, and you have come to me with forgiveness on your lips.”

I waited expecting her to continue, but she remained silent.

“Speak, why do you pause?” I asked, impatiently I am afraid.

“I paused, Stuart, because I am doubtful as to how you will take what I am about to say.”

“As you mean it, be assured,” I answered.

“Then listen, and I will tell you.” Again she hesitated, pressing her hand upon her eyes, the while her soft bust heaved with a troublous emotion. Presently, in the same low, faltering voice as before, she said: “You will remember, Stuart, that I fled from you in Luchon with a cold formal note of farewell. On that day, blindly, willingly I took upon myself the burthen of another’s sin. Blindly I resigned myself to a fate worse than that of the doomed. Although I loved you fondly, I was forced to bow my head calmly and submit to be branded with a very leprosy of guilt. Because I loved you and permitted your attentions I was to be a painted puppet, to move about with a curse riveted around my life, to move about and even feel that curse fretting and gnawing at my soul, and yet without the power to win a moment’s peace save in the grave. There, only there, might I find rest.”

“This is terrible,” I cried. “Surely you deceive yourself. There is no power on earth that could have held you thus.”

“Ah! yes. The chain was there—there, clasped around my heart, crushing out every gleam of hope. I was light-hearted and heedless; I could not see the life of torture to which I was yielding myself, so innocently I fell into the trap my enemies had cunningly baited, that ere I realised the truth the bonds were irrevocably welded around my life. At first they sat lightly upon me, and I scarcely felt them; but slowly I became conscious that there hung a deep shadow upon my every step; slowly I became conscious that my every act and word must be in unison with the thraldom under which I moved. At last I knew that I had passed beyond your ken; I knew that I must renounce all thought of you, and I became cold and, I sometimes think, callous. But I prayed, I begged of Heaven that I might lose the feelings of a woman since I had lost her privileges.”

She spoke in a hot, dry feverish tone—a tone that I would not have recognised as that of the low, musical voice of my love. Dora, rising from her seat, stood near her, gazing in wonder at her friend from whose agony these revelations were wrung.

“When I met you, Stuart, I was giddy and thoughtless,” she went on, feverishly. “Towards you my whole soul yearned. Heart, soul and life were all yours; for I loved, I loved! But, alas! our supreme happiness was not for long. In fear of my liberty, I was compelled to fly from you and allow you to believe I had forgotten. Thus in the first moment almost, when a sweet vision of joy flashed upon me, the door of my dungeon was closed, the chains were clasped tightly around my soul, and I was wrenched back from happiness.”

Low tremulous sobs interrupted each word, and every moment it seemed as if she were about to lose control over herself.

“Those who needed me knew well when they might best use me to their advantage. They had seen me waver in my allegiance under the influence of that mad love for you, and they dreaded lest some accident should make me betray their trust. I had entered the closet of their secret, and once in, they were resolved that there should be no loophole for my escape. But I must begin at the beginning, and tell you who and what I am. First, the name I gave you was not assumed, as you must have believed. I am Sybil Henniker, a French subject, born in Paris of a French father and an English mother. My father, a wealthy Deputy, was killed while hunting, and my mother shortly afterwards married an Englishman, but she, too, died within a year, leaving the whole of her fortune to my sister Ethel, who was a year my senior. Another Englishman, a crafty, sycophantic lickspittle of my stepfather, married her, having made a secret compact, by which the two men shared the estate. At that time we were living in Paris, and there came to our house Gilbert Sternroyd, a rich young Englishman of Socialistic tendencies. He had become imbued with Anarchist ideas, and soon developed into an ardent disciple of Ravachol. His theories he expounded to me almost daily, until at length I joined their brotherhood and furnished small sums of money when required. Ah! you will condemn me, I know. It was, I admit, foolish, but remember I did not dream that they would use my money in their attempts to take the lives of innocent persons by means of bombs. It was represented to me that money was required to diffuse Anarchist literature. With secret murder I had no sympathy, I swear. I was in Luchon with my stepfather when he was suddenly recalled to Paris; then I met you and we spent some happy days together, until—until a telegram in cipher reached me one night and the blow that I feared fell—a warrant was out for my arrest. There had been on the previous afternoon a terrible Anarchist outrage at the Chamber of Deputies, and the police, in make some domiciliary visits to suspected Anarchists, had discovered one of my letters which was undoubtedly incriminating. I scribbled you a hasty line of farewell, packed my trunk and left by the first train in the morning, travelling first to Bayonne, then to Madrid and Seville, whence some weeks later I went to London. I thought to escape by getting to England, and intended to at once write to you, but in London I found my brother-in-law and stepfather awaiting me. Then, for the first time, I realised the truth. I had been caught in the net they had so cunningly prepared!”

Again there was silence, broken only by her sobs. I saw only Sybil before me, with all the old love warm upon her pale tear-stained face. I saw her struggle with the secret that held her aloof from me. I witnessed the struggle and knew its meaning. I knew that she was suffering even as I suffered.

There was another pang thrust into my heart in knowing of her torture.

“My stepfather and his unctuous confederate, cowards that they were, claimed my help, claimed it in the name of all that had been done for me in effecting my escape, and—and I could not deny them.” As she spoke she clung tremblingly to Dora, as if fearful of her own words. There was a bewildered expression in her eyes as her gaze was fixed beyond me, staring blankly through the open window.

“Well,” I questioned softly, “why did you not follow the true impulse of your heart?”

She started, her eyes glistening, her whole frame convulsed, as she answered wildly:

“I was hunted by the Paris police as a dangerous Anarchist, and they would have sent me to New Caledonia to work among criminals for the remainder of my life. The two knaves under whose thrall I had fallen knew this, but they had a deeper game to play. It was part of their scheme to entrap me thus, and then coerce me into assisting them. They took me to that dismal, neglected house in Gloucester Square that had belonged to my mother, and there unfolded plans that for perfidious ingenuity were assuredly unequalled. First, they impressed upon me the impossibility of eluding the police for any length of time, and I was compelled to admit that I feared arrest. Then they explained their infamous scheme, well-knowing that my offence made it imperative for me to obediently assist them in their shameful fraud and preserve a silence begotten of fear. My sister Ethel, who was almost the image of myself, was mortally ill, dying slowly, poor girl! of consumption, and knew little of what was transpiring. The miscreant pair, however, knew that when she died the revenue from the vast estates in Savoy would pass back to some relatives of my mother in France; therefore they resolved at all hazards to continue to divide the money, and had formed an ingenious plan to that end. Briefly, they had told me that I must die instead of Ethel.”

“Die?” I ejaculated.

“To the world,” she went on quickly. “My stepfather told me that on Ethel’s death I must pose as the wife of his friend, that I must preserve their secret at all costs, at least for a year or eighteen months, until they could devise some other plan to preserve the fortune to themselves. On their part they promised, on their oaths, to free me and allow me to again seek you. At first I refused with indignation to be party to such an imposition, but they convinced me that the police were already at my heels, and in return for rendering them this service promised to secure me immunity from arrest. My stepfather was powerful, with many influential friends in Paris, and I believed he could do this if he chose. They did not tell me the means they intended to employ to secure this end, but urged me to consent. For a long time I held out, but they pictured to me on the one hand arrest and transportation to a Pacific island, with common murderesses and the scum of Paris; on the other, my return to you after eighteen months, marriage and happiness. So at last—at last I agreed to the compact—I allowed them to fasten the bonds upon me and draw me under their terrible thraldom,” and she bent forward sobbing bitterly, while Dora, kneeling quickly at her side, threw her arms around her, endeavouring to console her.

Chapter Thirty Two.

The Secret.

Presently she resumed in a sad voice full of emotion, lifting her face to mine, saying: “I did not dream, Stuart, of the trickery to which they resorted in order to change my personality and secure me from falling into the dragnet of the police, but my lips were already sealed when I afterwards learnt how my stepfather exerted his influence, and obtained a special licence from the Archbishop to allow your marriage to take place in that weird old house in Gloucester Square, how you were conducted there, and how you and the police were imposed upon by the body of my unfortunate sister being passed off as that of myself. It was not until weeks after that eventful night, when by bribery and influence the pair had buried my identity, that I learned the truth. Then, unable to come to you, fearing even to make my existence known, I could only watch and wait.”

“But why did they marry me in that manner?” I asked, amazed at her remarkable story.

“There were reasons,” she answered. “The police had tracked me, and it was imperative for the success of their scheme that I should remain free. Again, although Ethel was dying it was uncertain what time would elapse ere the spark of life would flicker and die out. They therefore resolved, in order that failure should be rendered impossible, upon effecting a master-stroke by marrying Ethel in my name, because by marriage with you I should change my nationality, and as a British subject it would be impossible to arrest me for a political offence committed in France. This they did, with the result you are already aware, but further, my poor sister expired during the ceremony; thus the police, in bursting in, were doubly baffled. Afterwards, they caused her to be buried as your wife, and upon the grave actually placed a wreath bearing your card, with an inscription purporting to have been written by you. Upon the back of that card I also wrote a message, urging you to prosecute inquiries, hoping that it would fall into your hands.”

“It did,” I said. “I found it, and your words have ever since been uppermost in my mind.”

“It was part of the compact that, posing as the wife of my dead sister’s husband, I should remain here and not visit London. As this man’s wife I was compelled to revive some of my late mother’s relatives, whom I had never before seen. These were the rightful owners of her wealth now that Ethel was no more, but to them I was forced to keep up the wretched deception that I was Ethel, and they, never having seen her since a child, returned to France with any suspicions they had entertained entirely allayed. I remained here alone with my maid Ashcombe as sole companion, and with the cold mask of honesty and indifference upon my face, thinking always of you. If they would only have let me tell you that I was innocent of that cruel deception, only let me show you that I was not the base adventuress you must have imagined, I think—I think I could have borne the rest. When I could not bear it any longer I prayed to them to let me see you, I prayed for one little grain of pity. Circumstances, however, seemed to conspire to thwart their plans, for a person whom they feared threatened to denounce them. Therefore they became desperate and would show me no mercy. At this time, too, I made the astounding discovery that my stepfather had married again unknown to me, two years before, a vain haughty girl young enough to be his daughter. He had kept this fact from me because he knew I had been acquainted with her in my girlhood days, and feared I might reveal his villainy. When I heard of this I wrote to Captain Bethune, who had been a mutual friend, and from him learned facts about yourself and her. I heard of your anxiety, of your futile search after the truth, and of your continual inquiry to fathom the mystery of my life. But our enemies had taken every precaution to prevent your discovering anything, and by threatening to give me up to the police they kept me still enthralled and silent. They, however, saw that the one man who had, by some unknown means, discovered their chicanery, might sooner or later expose the fraud; therefore, they grew reckless, and on one occasion my stepfather threatened my life if I gave you a single sign of my existence. It was after that, that I discovered the crime.”

“The crime!” I cried. “What crime?”

“I had but one friend, Captain Bethune,” she said in the same low, faltering tones, “and after this threat I went to his chambers late one night to seek his counsel and aid. I wanted to give you a sign that I still lived, but I was held powerless by fear of the terrible vengeance they threatened. I—I found him at home with two other men in his company—one was my stepfather, the other Gilbert Sternroyd. There was no quarrel, no word of anger, but I was witness to the terrible crime. Gilbert, happy and unsuspecting, was shot dead by a coward’s hand—he—”

“You actually saw the shot fired?” I cried, starting up quickly. “Then you also saw the murderer? Speak! name him! Let me know the truth.”

“The man who shot Gilbert Sternroyd,” she said in a hard, firm voice, “the man who drew a revolver secretly from his pocket and fired full upon him as he stepped from the room, was my stepfather! I gripped his arm, but too late. Gilbert fell, and the coward fled.”

“His name?” I demanded.

“He is known to you,” she replied, slowly twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, and with a manner of subdued, fierce vengefulness she laughed a little hard laugh; but it was more significant of inward agony than any words could have been. “He is known to you, to the world, as the Earl of Fyneshade!”

“Fyneshade!” I gasped dumbfounded. “And he is your stepfather?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Seek him, and give him into the hands of the police, for he is the assassin.”

“But the motive?” I cried. “What was it?”

“Twofold. Sternroyd had obtained knowledge of the fraud perpetrated by substituting my personality for Ethel’s, and came to me declaring his intention of exposing it. Besides this he was an ardent admirer of Mabel, my stepfather’s young wife, and although she gave him no encouragement he was infatuated, and had made a will leaving his immense wealth to her. Fyneshade knew this, and saw that by getting rid of him he would preserve his guilty secret, and at the same time enrich his wife and consequently himself. He suggested this to my pseudo-husband, Francis Markwick, who—”

“Markwick!” I gasped. “Was it that scoundrel who assisted in the fraud and posed as your husband?”

“The same. I myself overheard the two men in consultation upon the benefits to be derived from the young millionaire’s death, and afterwards warned him and also told Mabel. Therefore, from the first, Lady Fyneshade and your friend Bethune knew the truth.”

“But why did not Bethune inform the police instead of acting so suspiciously?” I queried in doubt.

“Because he feared to compromise me. He swore he would not speak until I gave him permission. This I could not give until assured of my own immunity from arrest.”

“How would this disclosure compromise you?”

“In the first place, I was present when the murder was committed. Secondly, you will remember you entered Jack’s chambers by stealth on the following night and found the body removed.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “He locked one of the rooms and would not allow me to enter.”

“Because I was in that room, Stuart,” she explained. “I had again called upon him to ask his advice, not knowing how to act. Suddenly you entered, and to conceal me became imperative.”

“But the body was also concealed there, was it not?”

“No, it had been removed to Gloucester Square early in the morning following the murder, after which Jack, in accordance with his promise to shield me, fled from England in order that suspicion might fall upon himself. If he had at once caused the arrest of the murderer I should have been compromised. But Markwick denounced Jack to Mabel, who, of course, already guessed the truth, and very soon your friend was amazed to find circumstantial evidence woven around him in a most serious and amazing manner.”

“But I had all along been aware of his innocence,” Dora interrupted, sick at heart for her friend’s misery. “Sybil had told me.”

“Yes,” continued the woman I loved, turning to her. “Even when the police were hunting for him I feared to speak, knowing that by so doing I must implicate myself, and that the part I had innocently played in the dynamite affair and in the subsequent fraud would inevitably be disclosed. Once,” she continued, again turning to me, “once I sent my maid Ashcombe to you to ascertain secretly how you fared, but you were out, and as it was imperative that she should leave that night for Paris to prosecute some inquiries, she failed to see you and you therefore remained in ignorance.”

“My sister, too, has suffered terrible anguish,” Dora said. “She knew from the first that her husband was an assassin, yet to remove suspicion from him and avoid the terrible scandal, she was compelled to act a part that was to her revolting. That she had no thought for Gilbert and that she was faithful to her husband I am confident, yet in order to obtain confirmation of her suspicions of Fyneshade’s schemes she was compelled to court the friendship of Markwick, the man she most hated, while her husband, to avert suspicion that he had murdered Sternroyd, affected to be jealous of his confederate.”

“But my marriage,” I said, “it is astounding.”

“The plans of this base pair were indeed deeply laid and ingeniously formed,” she went on. “The crafty manner in which you were entrapped and wedded is but one illustration of their marvellous ingenuity and utter unscrupulousness. In securing the handsome revenue from my mother’s estates they provided for every eventuality, but by a conspiracy of circumstances Gilbert Sternroyd obtained knowledge of their secret, of how they had compelled me to pose as Markwick’s wife, and how they had married you to my dead sister. He sympathised with Mabel as wife of this titled adventurer, and, in order to rid her of him, intended to give him up to the police. My stepfather saw that only by death could he be silenced, and he therefore foully murdered him. Yes, Stuart, your marriage was an amazing one, secured by a scoundrel whose influence was far-reaching; but even that event was not one whit more astounding than those that followed.”

“True,” I said, amazed and bewildered at her disclosures.

“Towards me, also, Fyneshade has acted desperately, with double cunning.” Dora exclaimed fiercely, turning to me. “You remember on that night when, for the first time after your strange marriage, you visited the ghostly deserted house in Gloucester Square, I was there also. I knew that Fyneshade, supposed to be in Paris, was in hiding there, so I entered determined to face him and obtain liberty for Sybil, for Jack, nay for all, by compelling him to fly from the country and renounce all claim to return. I was prepared to offer him secrecy in exchange for this. But he detected us. He felled you from behind and dragged you down to the cellar, while he also stunned me, causing concussion of the brain; then locked me in that inner room. Probably I should have gone hopelessly insane and eventually starved had you not discovered me.”

“His villainy is revolting,” I exclaimed angrily. “His own action led to my discovery of the body, but I confess these disclosures put a complexion on the affair such as I had never dreamed;” and turning to Sybil, who had slowly risen and passed to the window, I asked, “Tell me the reason you are now constrained to make this confession.”

The air from the garden fanned her pale cheeks soothingly. She was leaning forward gazing fixedly across the lawn, but turned slowly at my words, and I saw her face was as beautiful as when we had first met.

“Because I no longer fear,” she answered calmly, and one would have doubted that this was the same woman who had been so wildly agitated only a few moments previously, she spoke so quietly. “Yesterday the French Government adopted an amnesty to political offenders, therefore the warrant cannot now be reissued against me. As to the ingenious fraud to which I have been a party, I can prove that I was merely a tool in the hands of these two malefactors who held me in their toils. From this moment I renounce the name of Markwick, to which I have no right, and again resume my maiden name, Sybil. I may be prosecuted—well, I am ready to take my trial—I—I am ready to face all, if only I can think that you believe me innocent, Stuart—if only I may dare to hope we may even be man and wife.”

Next second she was in my embrace, sobbing again with her head upon my shoulder.

“Rest assured,” I said tenderly, “that the innocent shall not suffer, and upon the guilty shall fall punishment swift and certain. If it becomes necessary for you to face a criminal trial, remember that I love you just as fondly as I have ever done.”

“Then you do not hate me for the despicable part I have been forced to act?” she cried joyfully, raising her earnest, tear-stained face.

“No, Sybil. Like myself, you have suffered at the hands of these merciless scoundrels, and before Heaven I swear they shall pay for it,” I cried with fierce anger. Turning to Dora, I added, “This has indeed proved that Jack, loyal and true-hearted, is in every way worthy the affection of the pure honest woman who has befriended us both.”

“I have but endeavoured to repay you for the small services you have rendered to Jack and myself,” she answered with a sweet smile. “I know that at one time you suspected him, but that was only natural, for he intended that you should. Already he is on his way home, and to-night will be in London. He will be present to bear witness with Sybil as to the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd.” Then, with a lingering glance at us, Dora rose and discreetly left on pretence of speaking to Ashcombe, while Sybil and I, alone, clasped in each other’s arms, repeated those vows of undying love we had exchanged far away at that little southern spa, overshadowed by its purple mountains with their eternal snows.

During several hours I remained joyful and content with my loved one, and the sun had already disappeared when we all three entered the fly to drive back to Didcot and catch the train for London. The earth, veiled in a soft shadow, seemed half slumbering, pensive and melancholy. A white opaque sky overhung the horizon, and lucent haze of colourless pearl-grey filled the valley. A time of palpable sadness comes each evening, when although not yet night the light is fading slowly, almost regretfully; and each of us in this silent farewell feels strange anxiety, a great need of hope and faith in his heart Song comes to one’s lips with the first rays of morning, tears to one’s eyes with the last ray of evening light Perhaps it is the dispiriting thought of labour constantly resumed, unceasingly abandoned; the eager wish, mingled with dread, for eternal rest. Perhaps, indeed, it is the resemblance of everything human to that agony of light and sound.