William Le Queux (continued 3)

“Yes; I must.”

Her hands clasped, her teeth firmly set, her bloodless face tear-stained and haggard, and her hair disordered, she stood rigidly beside the chair that supported her, striving by an almost superhuman effort to suppress her emotion.

“Vera,” I shouted fiercely, “it seems I’ve been fooled. Curse that man who has brought misery and destruction to us both! By heaven if—”

“He is not to blame: it is I,” she interrupted. “You shield him at the expense of yourself. I see. Now, hear me. All my questions you have evaded; to none will you give direct answers. Enough of mysteries which you have refused to reveal ever since knowing me; therefore, we can do naught else but part.”

“What—you will leave me because of this?” she moaned, with a wild, hysterical cry. “Why don’t you go a step further—why don’t you say at once you are tired of me?” she cried, with an outburst of passion. “Say that you wish me dead.”

“That would be untrue,” I answered. “You know well I have lived only for you, Vera, and at nothing should I rejoice more than to be able to prove myself mistaken; yet, until that can be done, we must separate.”

She was grave and thoughtful for a moment, then, looking into my face, said haughtily:

“If you are determined upon this step, I am powerless to prevent it.”

“No, you are not,” I asserted.

“Why?”

“Because you might answer satisfactorily the questions I put to you just now.”

“No; no, anything but that,” she replied promptly, as with a frantic gesture she covered her face with her hands, continuing, “It—it would be far better for us to part, or the result—the result—might prove fatal.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded incredulously, as the mystery of the seal recurred to me.

“I mean that my secret must be kept, even if we part,” she gasped, with a futile endeavour to compose herself.

“This is your final decision, then?”

“Alas! it must be.”

“Very well, Vera, I wish you adieu,” I said sadly, for I was completely broken-hearted at the thought of my idol’s deceit, and the transparent subterfuges by which she had endeavoured to conceal her guilt. “We have been happy during the few months of our wedded life, but that is a thing of the past. Henceforth mine will be a dark, hopeless existence, while yours, I trust, may be as pleasant as it has hitherto been; for though you have dishonoured me, I love you too well, even now, to wish any calamity should ever befall you.”

“No, Frank, don’t leave me. I could not bear it!” she shrieked, bursting into a torrent of tears. “I have told you the truth—I have, by heaven! It is my terrible misfortune that I am unable to explain who that man was, and from the same cause it has not been possible for me to acquaint you with anything relating to my past. Wait patiently for a little, and I promise you faithfully—I swear you shall know everything.”

She was terribly in earnest, I could see; her whole future depending upon my decision that moment. It was the secret of her life I was anxious to learn beyond anything, and I asked:

“How long must I wait?”

She gazed at me for a few seconds blankly, apparently making some calculation.

“Three weeks. Wait till then before you condemn me—do, I implore of you!”

What ingenious motive could there be in thus gaining time, I asked myself. Could it be that in three weeks’ time the murderer would be safely out of the country?

This seemed more than probable.

I felt half inclined to demand an immediate explanation or carry out the alternative, when, on a moment’s reflection, I resolved not to resort to extremes without giving her an opportunity of disproving my allegations.

“Very well,” I said impatiently, at last; “the matter shall rest for the present; but this day three weeks I shall be prepared—I shall expect to hear a complete explanation. Bear that in mind.”

As I spoke the door had opened noiselessly, and Demetrius, with an expectant expression on his good-humoured face, and a cigarette in his mouth, stood upon the threshold.

Vera, who had been awaiting my reply with breathless agitation, murmured in a low, intense voice, “In three weeks you shall know all, I—promise—you,” and before I could save her she had swayed forward helplessly and fallen full length in a dead swoon.

“Ma foi!” exclaimed Demetrius; “why, what has happened?” as he rushed forward in consternation and assisted me to lift her upon the couch.

“Nothing,” I replied. “A little difference of opinion between us, that’s all;” and ringing the bell violently to summon the servants, I left the room without further utterance.

Chapter Twenty One.

Storms of Fate.

It will readily be imagined that it was in no amiable state of mind I left the house. Distraction was what I wanted—distraction from thoughts of the sad events which had just transpired, and which threatened to wreck all the hopes of wedded happiness I had founded upon Vera’s supposed love for me. It was a bitter experience of the vanity of human pleasures, and was one more proof of the falsity and hollowness of her whom I had loved more than life itself.

Determined to leave the Dene and rid myself of these remorseful thoughts, I jammed on my hat and rushed from the house.

While walking down the drive the postman passed me, bearing the second delivery of letters. The sight of him recalled to my mind the fact that, in the midst of the morning’s excitement, the usual batch of correspondence had escaped my notice. Turning hastily, I made for the study, where a number of letters were awaiting me.

There was only one communication which possessed for me any interest. It was from my old friend Bob Nugent, and a thrill of pleasure passed through me as I recognised the familiar scrawl—Bob was never a neat writer.

The letter was as follows: “Dear Old Frank,—I am writing in great haste, and at the usual high pressure, to give you the welcome news that Teddy Rivers has turned up after his New Zealand experiences, as fresh as paint. He hasn’t much time to spare; so if you want to have one of the old dinners at the Junior Garrick, my boy, and can tear yourself away from the little wife for a few hours, why—come soon.—Yours ever, Bob Nugent.”

“Tear yourself away from the little wife!” I repeated to myself with a groan. Bob was quite right; Vera had truly charmed me, laying me under the spell of her beauty and the vivacity of her manner—for what! With a savage stamp of my foot I threw the letter upon the fire.

A moment’s reflection convinced me that my best course would be to run up to town and meet my friends. As a matter of fact, the opportunity was just what I needed. It would afford a little excitement to drown the weary hours, and cause the time to pass more quickly.

I decided to go.

My preparations were soon complete, and the afternoon mail saw me being rapidly conveyed to town, after having left an explanatory note for Vera, to the effect that I should in all probability be absent three weeks.

That journey I shall ever remember. The mad noisy whirl of the express train was as nothing compared with the wild tormenting dance of my thoughts as they again and again reverted to the unhappy events of the morning. At one time I blamed my precipitation; at another I bemoaned my weakness in allowing myself to be wheedled into waiting another three weeks. Should I ever live those fearful twenty-one days? Some presentiment seemed to fill my brain, and as the train rushed through the stations one after another, every moment seemed bearing me nearer and nearer to some catastrophe.

With a sense of vast satisfaction, therefore, I alighted from a cab in Adam Street, Strand, the same evening, and found myself standing outside the time-stained old building, with which so much of my past had been associated. As its well-known entrance met my gaze it appeared to be but yesterday when I left that very spot on the morning the first murder was committed in Bedford Place.

Brushing aside these memories—for they threatened to become very dismal—I walked quickly upstairs to the well-remembered smoking-room, and glanced around.

As I did this it occurred to me that I had made a great omission. I had forgotten to inform Bob by telegram that I so promptly accepted his invitation, and consequently he was not awaiting me, nor did I know a single face about me.

Evidently there was no utility in staying there, for it might be hours before my friend put in an appearance. I knew his address, but did not feel in the humour for going to hunt him up; finally I resolved to go to a hotel at once.

On regaining the street I noticed, crouching beside the iron railings, which, however, afforded him very little shelter, a haggard-looking man. His threadbare coat was buttoned tightly across his chest, and a battered silk hat, which had seen better days, was pulled down over his eyes, giving him a peculiar, almost repulsive, appearance. Under the rim of his hat a pair of sharp keen eyes glittered with a baleful yet anxious glare, and these two orbs were the most striking part of the man’s tout ensemble. Something about the fellow’s appearance caused me to regard him with attention.

He did not withdraw his glance as mine rested on him. On the contrary, he seemed to become satisfied of my identity. With earnest gesture he rose and stopped me as I was about to enter the cab.

“Now then; move on!” shouted a harsh voice, as the unknown placed his hand, lean, thin and dirty, upon the sleeve of my ulster. The figure of a constable loomed up suddenly in the flickering gaslight.

“Stay! What is it you want?” I asked, for my heart seemed to tell me he was no ordinary alms-seeker.

He was about to reply, and I could feel his hand upon my arm trembling with eagerness, when the policeman again interposed.

“He’s only a-beggin’ again, sir,” said that worthy. “I often turn him away when he’s bothering the gents—and that’s pretty nigh always,” he added, in a grumbling undertone.

“What’s the matter with him?” I inquired, noting the paleness of the poor fellow’s face. Before I could say another word his hold on my arm had relaxed, and he fell backwards, almost into the arms of the too zealous officer.

Bending beside him, I ordered some brandy to be brought, and in spite of the assurance from my astute friend that “he was not worth the trouble,” I did all I could to restore the inanimate form to consciousness.

“I’ve never seen ’im like this ’ere before, blow me!” observed the cabby, who was lending a little assistance, because, as I supposed, he thought there might be some profit attaching to the operation. My authority was not to be slighted when I was in earnest, which was the case just then.

The unfortunate man presently showed signs of reviving, having been carried into the cloak-room of the club, while I questioned the constable as to who he was and where he lived.

“As for who he is, sir, that’s more than any one knows barrin’ hisself,” and he laughed. “He lives ’ere, or has done so for the last eight or nine months and always seems to be lookin’ out for somebody wot he thinks he’ll know when he sees.”

This appeared rather enigmatical. Why had the stranger sought to detain me? A momentary thought crossed my mind—was Vera concerned in this?

With a new interest I turned to the constable.

“Has he ever stopped any one else and spoken like this?” I asked.

“Bless you, yes,” he replied. “But I never knew him so earnest as this time—hullo, old fellow, how do you feel now?”

A faint flush of colour tinged the careworn face; the stimulant had done its work. How sickening it was, I thought, to hear the affectation of friendliness in this man’s voice, now he thought that because my sympathy had been attracted towards the sufferer there was a chance of gaining a few shillings!

“It’s him—it’s him! I knew I’d find him some day,” cried the prostrate man, raising himself on his arm and pointing eagerly at me, as if awakening from some bad dream. Then, as he saw the interested faces of those who had gathered around, and noted the keen looks with which he was regarded, he scowled darkly, and struggled into a sitting posture. As he noticed me again watching him intently, he started.

“Did you want to speak to me, my poor fellow?” I inquired kindly.

“For mercy’s sake wait a few moments, sir, please. Let me get breath. Send these people away, I—I’m better now. See,” and he rose and walked unsteadily to the door, watching me all the time with a keen scrutiny which made me feel rather uncomfortable.

A moment or two later we were on the pavement outside, where the cab I had ordered still remained.

“We must hurry, or we shall be too late,” he urged. “Follow quickly, sir.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, my prudence for the moment mastering my curiosity. “What do you want with me, and where are you going to take me?” With a searching stare he faced me, but I did not flinch. There was an ominous gleam in his dark eyes scowling fiercely into mine, as he said impetuously,—

“Don’t stand here, wasting precious time in useless questions. You cannot know now what it is I want you for—if you are the right man—and Heaven grant you may be—you shall know all.”

“You are talking nonsense,” I said quietly, and with determination. “What’s at the bottom of all this? Come, tell me quickly; my time is being wasted.”

My watch, as I glanced at it in the gaslight, showed that the hour was about half-past ten, but my earnestness to find the real meaning of this mysterious adventure, coupled with my curiosity, would probably have kept me there for hours.

Soon, however, I became impatient.

My unknown questioner looked at me with a resolute smile. His features, or as much of them as could be seen beneath the shabby hat, were not unhandsome, and the smile became him well.

“You are coming with me to-night and soon,” he said, in the same cool and determined manner I had myself displayed.

This was too much. Without word or sign I sprang into the cab, and as the Jehu touched the animal with his whip, my face was determinedly turned away from my strange acquaintance.

My action was so sudden that at first he seemed disconcerted. The cab had only moved a few yards before, with a sudden bound, he gained the horse’s head.

“Leave go that ’orse!” shouted the cabman with an oath.

For a few seconds there was a scene of confusion. The man still holding the reins, and heedless of the plunging and affrighted animal, approached me. He was evidently exhausted, and could withstand the excitement no longer. His coat had burst asunder, revealing in all its raggedness the soiled shirt underneath, through the holes in which his panting chest was plainly visible.

“One word, sir,” he implored, springing with the wildness of despair upon the front of the hansom. “Just one more word, and then if you won’t come, the consequence will lie upon your own head. Do, do stop!”

Thoroughly alarmed at his vehemence, I again ordered the cabman to pull up. There must, I reflected, be something in this matter, after all.

“Will you tell me, without delay, the reason I’m stopped here; or do you wish me to give you into custody as a beggar?” I sternly asked.

There was a crowd around us. It was a rather unusual spectacle, and the passers-by gave eager attention to it.

“Very well, then, I’ll show you something that will decide you, if you will let the man drive on a little, out of this crush,” he rejoined, diving his hand into his breast-pocket.

Impatiently I told him to jump in, giving the order to drive away, anywhere. After the lapse of a few minutes I turned to the strange being by my side.

He held a piece of torn paper, but what was on it I could not then see. Putting his shaking hand upon my shoulder, and his ashen face with its wild, glaring eyes, close to my own, he hissed, with a kind of vicious pleasure.

“You think me an impostor, eh? Well, look at this, and remember what it has revealed to you before. Then say if I have stopped you without cause. Its author may yet be found!”

His face wore a smile of triumph as he held before my eyes a torn fragment of paper. With an indefinable thrill of excitement, not unmingled with alarm—for his words were ominous—I took it. So dark was it in the vehicle that I held it close to my eyes till we approached the next street-lamp. As we did so, and the light fell across the crumpled and dirty paper, my heart almost stopped beating, and my pulses, for a moment ceased.

There, in all its frightful reality, was the seal!

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Verge of a Discovery.

My first impulse was to call the police, but he noticed my intention, and his hand was laid hurriedly upon my mouth.

“There’s nothing to fear—I’m not the man,” he said. “Make no noise, and keep your own counsel. I can tell you plenty about this, if you care to listen.”

The words fell dimly and indistinctly upon my ears. I was stunned and speechless—it was as if some vast substance had struck me an annihilating blow, which, while paralysing my senses to a certain degree, yet left me half oblivious. It was clear we were in a cab, driving aimlessly about London streets at a late hour. It was also true that I had once more seen that fatal, horrible symbol, associated with which were the most terrifying and agonising events of my life. I could not, however, speak, and it was only by great effort that I retained my courage.

My companion stooped and picked up something that had fallen at our feet. It was the paper to which the seal was affixed, that had dropped from my nerveless fingers.

Suddenly an icy-cold hand was laid upon my forehead.

“Wake up! wake up!—be a man! I’ve told you to fear nothing with me. We’re wasting precious time. Arouse yourself for once in your life!”

My senses returned as suddenly as they had fled. The horror of feeling his hand—a hand that had in its possession the seal—recalled me. I sat upright and drew to my side of the cab as much as I could.

“Ah!” he exclaimed bitterly, “you are still afraid of me. See here, now,” and he leaned across, speaking deliberately and with quiet emphasis, “I may die to-night, but—”

“What!” I exclaimed, “you die to-night?”

“Yes,” he replied, in the same cool and determined tone. “You seem incredulous, but I am sure. Look!”

He put his hand to the back of his head and withdrew it, holding it before my eyes.

“Blood! Good heavens?” I ejaculated, as again the light revealed his thin grimy fingers.

“True, and I’ve not long to live—all the more reason, is it not, that I should make haste? Will you come to my home, now?”

“At once. But let us drive to a doctor and see about your head.” All my repugnance had vanished.

“Wait,” he said, shouting to the cabman an address. I remember that we at once altered our course, but whither we were proceeding I cared not—knew not. Here was, perhaps, an elucidation of the mystery forthcoming, and I had nearly done my utmost to prevent it.

“Go on; tell me all you can,” I demanded, when, after considerable persuasion, he had consented to have his head bound up as well as my slight knowledge of surgery permitted.

“Presently. When we get home—or what was once my home,” he rejoined. He was paler than before, and leaned back in a state apparently of the utmost exhaustion. His necktie had been loosened, and I had placed my travelling rug around the thinly-covered chest, yet in spite of this the severe reaction affected him severely. Sometimes he closed his eyes, and every now and then, when we passed along streets where the lights were more brilliant than in others, he stared vacantly at the roof of the cab.

Once, when I was leaning over him, making him a little more comfortable, a tear rolled down the thin, haggard cheek.

The journey seemed interminable. Street after street we traversed, and yet our journey’s end appeared as far off as ever. We had evidently wandered a long way before our driver received a definite address, or possibly he was lengthening the course for his own benefit.

The fact was that, in my impatience, it appeared longer than it really would have done.

Eventually we regained the Strand, and shortly afterwards our conveyance came to a standstill in what appeared to be anything but an inviting neighbourhood. Not a soul was about, and the empty street rattled loudly as we clattered along it.

We were in Drury Lane, before the entrance to a narrow squalid court.

As we stopped I turned with a sigh of relief to my companion, who, however, stirred not.

A fearful misgiving entered my heart. Was it possible he was dead?

Profoundly thankful I felt when, after shaking him, he turned and opened his eyes.

“Come; is this the place?” I asked, assisting him to his feet.

He followed me mechanically, but leaned very heavily on my arm as we stood for a moment while I paid the cabman.

“Where is it?” was my next question.

With an effort he composed himself, passing his hand wearily over his eyes. He appeared much changed. Inwardly deploring my forgetfulness, I drew my flask from my pocket and tendered him a pull, which he accepted with feverish energy.

“Ah! that puts new life into one!” he exclaimed, with a gasp.

His tone struck me as peculiar, and, regarding him attentively, it was plainly to be seen that he was in a very faint condition.

“This way,” he continued, as, bracing himself up, he led the way up the court.

“Here—here was where I found her, murdered!”

“Who?” I asked, instantly.

“My wife.”

The words were simple ones, and might have been spoken and heard a thousand times on any day; but at that time, and in those circumstances, they thrilled me indescribably. If those two words had been uttered by an enthusiastic lover to his bride for the first time, they could not have been more tenderly breathed.

Brushing aside all sentiment, however, I inquired, coldly, “When was this?”

“On the night of the fourth of March.”

“What! that was the night after I returned from Russia!” I exclaimed, involuntarily. “And the seal. Was that found upon her?”

“It was. But hush! we may be overheard. Let us go in.”

Filled with horror and amazement, I followed him up the tortuous stairs of a house in close proximity to the spot. After mounting several flights in utter darkness, we entered an attic—as it proved on striking a match—containing only the scantiest possible furniture. In one corner stood a bed, and by it a broken wicker-bottomed chair. An old box was placed near the broken fireplace rusted by damp, and that, with a few other articles, formed the whole contents of the miserable apartment.

He lighted the piece of candle which was upon the box, and after carefully closing the door, we sat down.

Scarcely had we done this, however, than he fell forward with a crash upon the bare floor, the blood at the same time gushing out afresh from the wound at the back of the head, and forming a small pool. Greatly to my relief he spoke almost immediately, although in such low tones as to be scarcely audible.

“It’s useless to call for assistance, for the house is empty. Lay me on the bed, if you can, and I’ll tell you all—everything.”

“But you are hurt, and must be attended to,” I said. There was a pang at my heart all the time, for, with my selfish desire to solve the mystery at once, this new wound meant fresh delay.

“If you leave me you will, on returning, find me dead. Lay me on the bed; keep quiet, and listen.”

Those were the words he spoke, and strangely calm and composed they seemed. With a precipitation which I have never ceased to deplore, I lifted him as he desired, and gave up the idea of trying to obtain medical aid at that hour in a quarter unknown to me.

He was soon arranged as comfortably as possible. The spectacle he presented—spare, pale and gaunt, propped up on a squalid bed, the pillows all stained with blood—will never be erased from my memory.

At a sign from him I snuffed the cheap candle and drew closer to his side.

“A year ago on the fourth of next March,” he commenced, speaking deliberately, but in a very weak voice, “my wife left me for a few hours. We were in utter poverty, for our little all had been stolen from us by my wife’s brother-in-law. You may have guessed already that I was not always what I appear now. At one time—”

“But,” I interrupted, “had you not better tell me why you have brought me here, before—”

“Before it is too late, eh? You’re right. Well, my wife left me on a desperate errand. She went to ask for money from some one over whom she had a great hold—and—and she never came home.”

He paused to gain breath. My heart beat violently as I noted the great effort he had to make for respiration.

“The man she went to see was—who?”

“Wait! By mere accident she knew his secret. One night, a long time ago, she told me that a gold mine had been opened to her. In the City, at a public-house where she had called, she met her sister Jane, who gave her a five-pound note. A few days afterwards Nell went to see some gentleman, and came home with a lot of money. She said she knew a secret out of which we both might make our fortunes. In the meantime Jane had disappeared. They were sisters, and so much alike that one could scarcely tell the difference. Open the box with this key, and give me the portrait you’ll find there.”

Chafing with impatience I did as he required and quickly found the picture.

The little photograph was of the ordinary cheap pattern, and presented the features of a rather attractive young woman.

“This,” said my strange narrator, taking it in his trembling hand, “is my wife’s picture, and it will do very well for Jane’s. We saw little of her, as she moved about so much, sometimes in England and sometimes abroad.”

“Really this does not throw much light on the occurrence,” I remarked. “What connects me with all this?”

“The fact that you witnessed the murder at Bedford Place,” he replied. “You have seen the man who killed Mrs Inglewood, and he also, I am certain, murdered my wife! You may well stare; but consider well, as I have done, and you will come to the same conclusion. When Nell left me she said, ‘Good-bye Ned; I know it’s a dangerous errand I’m on, but don’t fret.’ It was dangerous—fatal. When I found she did not return I went out. It was dark, and a very few steps from my door I stumble on a drunken woman lying in a corner. When I looked closer my head reeled, and I nearly fainted—it was Nell! On her breast was the—the—”

“The seal!” I exclaimed.

He did not answer. Gradually his voice had become fainter, till it was only by placing my ear almost to his mouth that I caught the feebly-uttered syllables.

Putting the candle to his face I saw that his eyes were fixed on vacancy, while huge drops of dank perspiration stood upon the tightly-drawn skin of the forehead.

Evidently my mysterious acquaintance was dying rapidly. What was to be done?

The fatal secret was yet locked in his bosom.

Maddened with a feverish anxiety I emptied the brandy remaining in the flask down his throat, afterwards wiping his pallid face with my handkerchief.

My efforts for a time seemed in vain, but by degrees the breathing became more perceptible. Presently he opened his eyes.

“Thanks, thanks,” he murmured, his hands clutching convulsively over mine with each respiration.

“Are you better now?” I asked.

He disregarded my question, and appeared to be endeavouring to recall his thoughts.

“Ah, yes, it was the seal that was on Nell,—yes, the seal, and I took it off. It’s in the box, along with the portrait.”

“And you wanted me—for what?” I said, inquiringly, for he seemed to be losing himself again.

“You? Who are you?”

The question fell with a terrible weight upon my ears—it was clear that the man’s senses had fled.

“Frank Burgoyne is my name,” was my reply. “You were going to tell me who it was your wife went to see, and why you wanted me.”

“Wanted you? Ah, yes! I’ve seen you before—in Drury Lane. Nell showed you to me, for you gave evidence at the inquest. Yes, I’ve seen you!”

In a moment the remembrance of that mysterious encounter in Drury Lane came vividly back to me.

Was this the suspicious character who had come up as if he meant to speak to me, and who afterwards vanished?

There was something very awful in the ravings of that man during the next quarter of a hour. At times he was apparently hiding like a beaten hound, cringing and whining, while from the mention of the Junior Garrick Club it struck me that he was, in imagination, pleading to be allowed to stay outside the club house.

“I will see him! I will wait, if I stay here till I die!” he yelled wildly, struggling to rise.

My endeavours to hold him down were at length successful, and, apparently exhausted, he lay back, groaning and muttering.

Slowly and wearily the time passed. When at last I looked at my watch its hands pointed to the hour of half-past four.

In a frenzy of excitement I listened breathlessly for every word, hoping to catch some clue to the problem. The sick man moaned and ground his teeth, ever and anon raising his voice, startling me with the suddenness of the outbursts. Lower and lower sank the candle in its socket, until I feared that unless the day soon dawned we should be in darkness.

A cold shiver ran through me.

Then strain was beginning to take effect; my limbs trembled with the tension to which my nerves subjected them.

Presently the day broke, and never was it more welcome.

The candle had just flickered and died out when the injured man spoke with startling distinctness.

“You shall be revenged, Nell, never fear! I’ll find him. He has seen him once—red-handed then. The blood was upon him—he shall be richly repaid!”

Was he talking of me? I had seen the murderer once, certainly.

“I tell you I will! My oath is sacred. Who will believe me, without him—without Burgoyne?” he continued in his delirium.

Hoping a sudden fright might bring him to consciousness, I laid my hand upon his arm sharply, and exclaimed,—

“What do you want me to do?”

Seemingly startled for a moment, he was silent. Then he asked,—

“What time is it?”

“Half-past six,” I answered.

“I’ve told you all. That cursed fall last night has done for me; or I would have gone with you—gone with you to—to—”

Again he faltered. The fingers which I clasped seemed to stiffen around mine and grow cold.

He was dying!

“For Heaven’s sake bear up a few moments!” I implored. “There must be a doctor about now. See, it’s getting light!”

Those dark eyes which had pierced me on the previous night once more turned to mine. In their depths a film was gathering. He motioned that he wished to speak, and I leaned down till my face almost touched his.

“Well?” I inquired, kindly and softly.

“It’s—for—Nell—I—”

All was over!

For a few seconds I was stunned. It seemed impossible that he was dead—it was not to be realised, in spite of the inanimate body before me.

Then suddenly I gazed about me.

The noise of busy London was in my ears; the day was before me. No more could be learnt from the corpse—why should I stay?

Hastily putting the photograph and the piece of sealed paper into my pocket, I turned and left the room.

The energy of the movement was so great that as I opened the door my attention was attracted by the skirt of a woman’s dress disappearing round a corner of the landing.

In spite of my haste, however, the person had gone when I reached the door of the house and stepped into the street. There was no one visible.

Then I remembered an omission.

Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and cold as I had left it a few minutes before.

I closed the eyes, and then went home.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Dead Woman’s Picture.

About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, where I had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towards the club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.

Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout,—

“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”

It was Demetrius Hertzen.

“What! you in London?” I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad to meet him.

“Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, and Vera is so cut up, that I thought I’d come to town, find you, and prevail upon you to return.”

Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, “What’s the meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow; I am your wife’s cousin.”

I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on the verge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.

“Well,” I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, “it is all owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have little differences sometimes, you know.”

He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said,—

“Ah! I see. A lover’s quarrel, eh? Why don’t you return to Elveham and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better.”

I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must pass before any explanation.

“No,” I answered, “I’ll remain in London, at least for the present. I don’t know exactly when I shall return.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk so despondently. Remember it’s only a petty quarrel, after all,” he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.

I tried again to laugh, saying, “Yes, that’s true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder—we’re told.”

“Very well, old fellow, if you won’t take my advice I can’t help it,” he observed disappointedly.

By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, “By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?”

“Nothing.”

“Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I’m on my way there.”

“Thanks, you’re very kind. By Jove, I’ve had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I’m getting a trifle peckish!”

“Then come along,” I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club.

In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.

They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.

Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.

I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at by those who were not his friends.

Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall, dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I should scarcely have recognised him.

Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his jokes and beamed with that bonhomie as was his wont in times gone by.

Bob, Ted, Demetrius and myself, were a merry quartette, despite the anxiety and the many maddening thoughts gnawing constantly at my heart. The dinner passed off pleasantly, Ted giving a humorous description of life among Australian squatters. Although he asserted that dramatic business took him to the Antipodes, he admitted that he had been compelled to go up-country in search of work, and that his employment at one period had been that of a shepherd in Gippsland.

His description of the shifts which he had been put to in order to obtain a crust—he, a curled darling of Society, whilom actor at a West End theatre, and pet of the ladies—was very amusing, and caused us to roar with laughter.

“And how have you been all this time, Burgoyne?” he asked of me, when he had finished his narrative.

“Oh! Frank’s a Benedict now,” interposed Bob, laughing. “Married a fair Russian.”

“What!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Well, well, it’s what all of us must come to, sooner or later. But Burgoyne’s different from us poor beggars; he’s rich, and can afford matrimony.”

“I don’t see what money has to do with it,” I said. “Many poor men are happy with good helpmates.”

“Oh! don’t you,” exclaimed Rivers. “My idea is that marriage without money is suicide under an euphonious name.”

“Opinions differ on that point,” remarked Demetrius. “If I married a woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money. But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I’ve left my cigar-case in my overcoat,” and rising, he left the table.

“Ah, cigars?” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve some somewhere,” and feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and papers with it.

I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the table-cloth.

It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.

I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it up, exclaiming,—

“Hulloa! carrying Vera’s photo about like a love-sick swain, eh? By Jove?” he ejaculated when he had glanced at it. “Ah!—I’ve caught you, have I? Why, this isn’t Vera, but some other woman! I’m surprised at you,” and he feigned the utmost indignation.

“Let’s look!” demanded Rivers, taking it from Bob’s hand, as I vainly endeavoured to regain possession of it.

“Ah—Heavens?” exclaimed Ted with a repugnant gesture, when his eyes fell upon it.

“What! you know her, then?” asked Bob.

“No—er—no, my dear fellow,” replied the other hurriedly, with a curious smile. “Never saw her in my life. The likeness is very like some one—some one I once knew,” he added hastily, as he scrutinised it carefully, looking upon the back at the name of the photographer. “But I see I—I’m mistaken, it isn’t she.”

And he returned the picture to me.

“Who’s the lady?” inquired Bob. “Pretty woman, without a doubt.”

“Ask no questions,” I replied, smiling mysteriously. “A purely private matter.”

“Hum!—those private matters are entertaining, sometimes,” remarked Ted, as he and Bob laughed at my confusion; but as Demetrius returned just at that moment, the subject dropped.

We went to the smoking-room and sat chatting over coffee and liqueurs, but I noticed a marked difference in the manner of Rivers. He was no longer gay, but gloomy and taciturn, and more than once I caught him regarding me with an evil, angry glitter in his dark eyes, and a scowl upon his features. The others noticed it also, but made no remark.

When the clock chimed ten Ted rose, and addressing Nugent, said: “You must excuse me, old fellow, but I’ve an engagement which I must keep. Sorry to have to leave you so early, but it’s a matter of rather urgent business.”

“Oh, no. Stay another hour; the evening’s young yet,” urged Demetrius.

“Very sorry; but I cannot.”

“Put off your engagement till to-morrow,” I suggested, but he made no reply, affecting not to have heard me.

“Well, if you must go, au revoir,” Bob said, offering his hand. “I’m here every evening, so I hope you’ll often drop in, now you have returned to civilisation.”

“Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be re-elected a member.”

He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.

Without wishing me good-night, he departed.

An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?

Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?

Was he the murderer of the dead man’s wife, the unfortunate Nell, who was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from Russia?

Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my room until the small hours, then—heartily sick of it all—I sought repose.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Doubts and Fears.

“You seemed so out of sorts last night, Frank, old chap, that I thought I’d just drop in and see whether you could be cheered up a bit.”

“You’re very kind, Bob,” I said, cracking a matutinal egg, for I was breakfasting; “I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than being out of sorts just now.”

Bob laid his hand kindly upon my shoulder, exclaiming earnestly,—

“That’s exactly what I expected. You and I used to be old chums—now, is it so private that you can’t confide in me, and let me see what I can do, if anything?”

“The fact is I’m just desperate, and don’t know which way to turn for the best,” was my answer, with a savage curse to myself.

“Look here, Frank, remember that I am speaking seriously. In the old days we had many a ‘spree’ together—to use a colloquialism—and perhaps our actions, judged from a high standard of morality, were not all they might have been. You know very well that I’ve never pretended to be a saint, and that I never preach because I can’t be such a confounded hypocrite as to rail at others for being as foolish as myself—and—and you’ll believe, I hope, that I’m sincere in saying this—that you are doing yourself an injustice, and Vera also, if there’s any truth in what we teased you about last night.”

Never had I seen Bob so much in earnest before, and certainly he had never made such a speech in this life. Dear old Bob, he was a right good fellow at heart, after all!

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, although there was an uneasy consciousness that I was to blame.

“Why, to speak plainly, if you have married Vera, and love her, you should not carry another woman’s photograph. You should not leave your wife at Elveham. You know what I mean, well enough.”

A light dawned upon me. Bob thought the picture was that of some courtesan!

“Confound it all, old fellow, you jump to conclusions too readily,” I replied, with justifiable warmth.

“Well, what does it mean, then?” he asked, adding, “I don’t wish to pry into your secrets, but you’ll excuse me endeavouring, even just a little, to pull you up when you seem off the straight line. I should thank any one for doing so for me, if they meant it honestly.”

“I’m sure you would, Bob. This, I may tell you, is simply a little tiff which Vera and I have had, owing—oh, well, perhaps that’s sufficient.”

“I see. You don’t care to confide in me, therefore as I’ve business waiting for me, I’ll wish you good-bye,” he said, rather sadly, rising and extending his hand.

“Sit down, Bob, and don’t make a fool of yourself. How can I explain to you what I don’t myself understand? Answer me that, my Christian moraliser.”

“Then it has to do with her secret, eh? Have you never fathomed that yet?” he asked, eagerly, sinking into his chair again.

“What the devil do you know of her secret?” I demanded, in intense surprise. “How did you know there was one in connection with her?”

“Partly from my own observation, and partly from what I picked up after you left Genoa so suddenly. At that time I did not know you were going to marry her, or possibly I should not have been so inquisitive,” he replied rather disinterestedly.

“Then perhaps you can solve some of these mysteries that have puzzled me so long? Come, tell me everything about it, Bob, and you’ll do me an inestimable service. However it may be viewed, I strive to convince myself that Vera is not to blame. Don’t keep me in suspense—tell me at once, is that so?”

Here was the grand chance come at last. Now I should hear that for which my ears had been on the alert all these weary months.

Bob regarded me with a stare of curiosity, mingled with suspicion, and maintained silence for a few moments. Then he said, incredulously,—

“Is it possible there is anything unknown to you, save what we used to discuss when we first met your wife?”

“I’m absolutely ignorant of all save the fact that, with an infatuation for which I cannot account, I loved Vera and married her. I love her still, in spite of— Oh, I cannot go further! For Heaven’s sake tell me all you know now, at once, or I shall not retain my senses?”

Bob’s face was a study for a time. It apparently struck him that I was playing a part and wished to learn the depth of his knowledge regarding my wife. After a short pause, however, he continued, and imparted to me the first facts I had ever learned on this mysteriously-guarded point.

“Well, you see, after you left Genoa business compelled me to return. I was thrown on my own resources for a day or two, and during that period I made it a point to keep my ears open so as to catch anything I could regarding the mysterious fair one who had so interested us. Having a friend with me who was known at the police bureau it needed not a great deal of ingenuity to ascertain a few particulars. The first thing that came to light was the fact that old Hertzen, the grumbling uncle, was living under an assumed name.”

“Vera’s uncle! Was he—is he—not her uncle?” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes; he’s her uncle, I believe,” replied my friend, placidly. “It was not surprising that he was—and is—assuming another patronymic, because, being a Russian exile—”

“An exile!”

“My dear fellow, do not keep interrupting. Yes, I say, being a Russian exile, for some offence or other, it was quite a reasonable deceit to practise. But, while it was almost certain that Hertzen was not his real name, it was equally certain that he was some relation of Vera’s, for he lavished a vast amount of care and attention on her which could not be accounted for on any other supposition. At the same time it was very curious that my informant would not say who he believed Hertzen to be, so on that point I am still quite ignorant.”

“Go on, go on, please; and remember that I want to know about Vera,” I said, with some impatience.

“Listen, then. Your wife’s father was a Russian Count, a man of great wealth, who lived at Warsaw! Vera, his daughter, developed into the beautiful girl we met. Count Nicholas Seroff, her father, was a brave and loyal soldier, and when the Turko-Russian War broke out in 1877 was placed in a responsible position. He had previously served with great distinction in the Crimea, where he gained the sky-blue ribbon of St. Andrew ‘For Faith and Loyalty.’” Bob paused.

“After the war, the count retired to his house in the Njazlov at Warsaw, where he bestowed all his paternal affection on Vera. The two became inseparable, and for a long time, I hear, lived together as one soul.”

“For a long time, you hear—what happened then?”

“We met them at Genoa.”

“But do you mean to say your information ended abruptly at this point? Have you learned nothing since?”

“Nothing whatever. I did not trouble after my return to think any more about the matter. It was only while we were both interested in her that I was interested. You don’t think,” added he, in a half-jesting manner, “that I have nothing else to do but to run after every pretty girl who appears to have a romantic mystery about her, do you?”

“Are you speaking seriously?” I asked, my hopes sinking as rapidly as they had risen.

“Quite,” was his reply.

“Why did you not tell me this on my return, when we saw her at the theatre, together? You knew all about it then, and you also knew how anxious I was.”

“True, but you did not broach the subject, and as soon as we caught sight of her you seemed fascinated, leaving me almost at once, so that I had no chance.”

“But there were plenty of occasions afterwards,” I contended impatiently.

Bob did not seem perturbed in the least. He merely lit another cigarette, as he replied,—

“Whenever I saw you afterwards you were so distant and uncommunicative that it appeared as if you knew far more than you apparently did. As you were still interested in her and her movements it was not my place to take the initiative.”

“And even if you had,” I rejoined, speaking rather warmly, for my disappointment was galling, “it would not have greatly mattered; you don’t seem to know a great deal, after all. It does not make very much difference.”

“Look here, Burgoyne, it is no use attempting to hide your thoughts from me in this matter. It appears as if you wish me to think you are sorry I know so little. Perhaps you are secretly glad that such is the case, eh? It would be awkward for some of your wife’s relations to find that photograph in your pocket, under these circumstances—what is your opinion? Those hot-blooded counts are very jealous relatives, I believe, and—”

“By Heaven! you wrong me there, Bob,” I retorted, touched to the quick by the sneer. “In spite of all Vera’s treachery—in spite of our quarrels, I have never, for an instant been untrue to her—never!”

“Very well,” was his cool reply, “let us admit that. Can you, however, honestly explain your confusion—to say nothing of Rivers’ amazement—when it was produced?”

This direct question nonplussed me entirely. To explain all the facts without exposing Vera—which I was determined not to do—at first appeared a sheer impossibility. Bob watched my vain endeavours to think it out with clearness for several minutes.

Neither of us spoke. Leaning back in his chair he watched the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards. Then he rose again, and said in a tone of voice very sad for me to hear:

“Well, don’t trouble to reply to that last query of mine, Frank, if it causes you pain. I was a fool to make it. Good-bye,” and he held forth his hand.

“Stay,” I urged, “I’ll explain it as well as I can, if you’ll have patience.”

I had made up my mind to tell Bob as much as I could of the mystery surrounding the dead man, and ask his assistance.

Silently and almost incredulously he listened to my statement, as I briefly ran over the events of the night I had spent with the stranger. When I had finished, he asked,—

“And did you leave the body there, and not utter a word to any one? That was scarcely like yourself, was it?”

“But what was I to do? I should have been mixed up in the scandal again; and the question arises, where would it have ended?”

“And did you not search that box for further proof of his assertion? There might have been valuable evidence there.”

“There might! What an idiot I must have been not to think of that at the time. Supposing there were letters from—from—”

“From the murderer? That is quite possible. Why not go and look at once?”

After discussing the matter at some length, it was decided that as soon as night fell I should go to the house alone, so as to lessen the risk of detection, and search the box. With this arrangement we separated, a load having been taken off my mind by this even partial confession to Bob.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Midnight Search.

The hours crept on very slowly that day. To me they seemed interminable. A thousand times I glanced at the little clock that ticked so sharply on the mantelshelf, but its small hand sullenly, as it seemed, refused to move any faster.

Feeling that the suspense was becoming unbearable, I tried a short walk in the Strand. Scarcely had I gone a hundred yards along that busy thoroughfare before I espied Demetrius. He was strolling along in the same aimless fashion as myself. At first my impulse was to go and salute him, for his cheerful companionship might do much to arrest my melancholy feelings, and make the time pass rapidly. My next thought, however, was to avoid him, for he would be certain to notice my preoccupation, and might put me to trouble in framing evasive answers.

While I was thus debating with myself, he settled the point by catching sight of me and coming cheerfully up.

“Hey-day! and why so cheerless?” he cried, as he clasped me warmly by the hand. It was a favourite expression of his, and one which he very frequently used, in spite of its antiquated ring.

“Did I look cheerful?” I responded, purposely answering his inquiry oppositely. “The fact is I’ve come out to kill an hour or two, and when one is seeking amusement it’s not difficult to find it in the streets of this great city of ours, is it?”

He glanced at me with a curious expression in his eyes, and I wondered whether he saw through the forced flippancy of my reply.

“That’s it, is it?” he remarked. “Well, come along, and we’ll do our best to destroy some of your dread enemy, Time, for a while,” and forthwith he hurried me along several miles of streets, bustling among the people right and left, and keeping up a constant chatter which did much to relieve me, as all I need do was to return a fragmentary answer when occasion offered.

Presently, when we had reached a quiet corner, where conversation was much easier, I said,—

“By the way, now I think of it; where are you ‘hanging out’?”

He burst into a loud laugh as he asked,—

“Is it possible you don’t know?”

“’Pon my honour, it never occurred to me to inquire till this moment. Where are you staying?”

“Number 171,” he answered, still laughing.

“Number 171 where—why don’t you speak plainly, and not keep a fellow waiting when he wants to get to his hotel to keep an appointment?”

“What! another engagement!—with the lady whose photograph you were passing to the fellows at the Junior Garrick last night, eh? I heard about it, old fellow,” he exclaimed, evidently thinking he had a fine chance to chaff me. Seeing my frown at the reference, he continued: “Seriously, it is curious you did not know of my whereabouts. My room is 171 at the Charing Cross Hotel, and yours is 172—now do you see why I laughed?”

“Your room next to mine!” I said in concern, the thought that perhaps he might have overheard my interview with Frank that morning suddenly occurring to me.

“Well, there’s nothing to be alarmed at, is there? I’ve not escaped from quarantine. By the way, I took an opportunity of calling upon you this morning, and as you did not notice my timid rap—you know I always give a timid rap, for you’ve often laughed at it—I peeped in. You were, however, so deeply ingrossed in conversation with your friend Nugent that I did not think fit to disturb you, and came away. He’s an old friend of yours, isn’t he?” he asked, carelessly.

When Demetrius told me this my heart stood still; yet what was there to fear? I could have as well trusted him as Frank. Yet somehow the idea of Demetrius knowing about this was intensely disagreeable, especially after his ironical reference to the photograph, which had been uttered in a rather threatening tone.

Hastily muttering something about being sorry he had not come in as Bob was very good company, I looked at my watch and bade him an abrupt adieu. He seemed inclined to walk back with me, but seeing his intention I called a cab and bade the driver hurry to the hotel.

There is an indistinct recollection in my mind of having eaten a hasty dinner, but whether I really did so that eventful evening or not is a matter of speculation. At all events, I wrapped up warmly, for it was a wet night and the prospect was anything but inviting.

Determining to have a sharp walk in order to set my blood in circulation, I had started out, when it occurred to me that, having a good round sum in notes in my pocket, it would be policy to leave them behind. Hurrying back I did this, and turned out sundry valuables from my pocket-book. Then the seal, on its blood-stained and crumpled paper, became apparent in the depths of the wallet and the question arose, should I leave that also?

Since the night when it was given me by the trembling hands of the man whose room I was now about to invade, it had rested securely there, for I had been afraid to let it out of my possession on any account. It would perhaps be best to leave it at the hotel, under lock and key, so I put it in a little cash-box in my portmanteau. But the next moment a superstitious dread seized me, and I replaced it again in the pocket-book, and then once more started on my adventurous errand.

Before long I reached the spot. It was a rather tall house, uninhabited apparently, for its lower windows were covered with hoarding, and generally the structure bore a grim, uninviting appearance. On the first occasion, when the poor fellow had dragged me there in a kind of mad frenzy, I had not taken particular notice of the manner in which we effected our entrance, but, as there was no one about, I made a careful scrutiny of a side-door.

As I gave it a violent push the noise resounded through the empty place with such a hollow clamour that a chill fell upon my heart, and, save for the intense curiosity which possessed me, I should have come away, leaving the place unexplored.

But this was rendered impossible, for, although the moment had been carefully chosen when there was not a person in sight, my indecision, lasting for several minutes, brought other consequences in its train. The corner where the door was located was a dark one, it was true, yet, as the measured tread of a constable fell upon my strained ears, I saw immediate action was imperative. The prospect of a bull’s-eye lantern being suddenly flashed upon one was not at all encouraging, and was not to be faced.

Another and stronger jerk at the door proved that it was fastened, or that something so obstructed its opening that more force, and therefore more noise, was needed. This would not do; therefore, summoning up some of my old courage and resolution which had unaccountably deserted me of late, I speedily clambered in by a small window, through the broken upper panes of which it was easy to put one’s hand to turn the catch.

Having done this, and replaced, as well as possible in the circumstances, the piece of hoarding, I allowed the constable to pass on before moving further. My heart beat high for a moment as the glare from his lantern flashed through the chinks and lighted, like the gleaming of a fire, the miserable and musty-smelling apartment; but he passed on unheedingly, unsuspicious of the stealthy intruder near him.

When he had gone, all was dark. Never will the memory of that miserable contretemps be surpassed by a more disheartening experience. It required several minutes’ careful search to find the stairs, and my hands encountered all sorts of horrible recesses, as, painfully and slowly, I felt my way about.

The only occasion like it was when, in that dreary Russian dungeon, my hands had discovered the fatal seal. My thoughts instantly reverted to that night, then many months ago, and it felt to my excited and over-wrought nerves, that every crack my fingers found were portions of the occult inscription.

As I at last ascended the stairs my memory endeavoured to recall the position of the room in which I had left the body. It was certainly at the top of the house, for our ascent, in his weak state, had occupied some time.

Arrived at the top landing I struck a match, for it was evident that it would not be observed at such a height. To my surprise there were only two rooms, both entirely empty, one so small that it certainly could not have been the one in which that eventful night had been spent. The other was also small, and had not the shape that I remembered.

Obviously there was some mistake in my calculations, and dropping the burnt match upon the carpetless boards, I resumed my search, this time in a downward direction.

And now an event happened which added increased risk to the adventure, and which, even after the lapse of many months since its occurrence, I cannot think of without a thrill of excitement.

In treading upon the match my face in some way became reversed, so that my next steps, carefully guided as I was by the wall, were in the wrong direction. The first indication I had of this was a collision, with some force, with the balustrades of the stairs. These appeared to be very old and rickety, for as my heavy frame dealt them a blow they shook and rattled ominously.

To seize them convulsively was the work of an instant; but, quick as thought, I had drawn back and thrown myself on my side.

After swaying for a second, the heavy railing plunged forward and fell with a sound almost like thunder down the whole height of the building, bumping from stage to stage in the most hideous manner.

I was saved; but what next!

For a time I lay and listened, as little pieces of plaster rolled down the stairs and the rats scuttled restlessly about. Then, half-dazed, I felt for the matches, which, happily, were safe in my pocket.

By the dim light given by one of these it was easy to see my horrible position, perched on the edge of the landing, some part of my long ulster actually hanging over the side.

Below, all was dark.

A dense cloud seemed rising between my eyes and the match slowly burning itself out.

The choking sensation told me that it was a cloud of dust raised by the fall of so much plaster.

After waiting for a short time, scarcely daring to breathe, I struck another match, and again looked around.

The cloud had disappeared, but my clothes were whitened, indicating where its particles had settled.

Then the match burnt my fingers, and as it dropped down into the Stygian darkness I could descry its course till it became merely a faint red speck in that great depth.

Lighting yet another match, and making a great effort to pull myself together, I slowly and carefully rose and crept away from that dangerous spot.

Why need I go into further detail? Let it suffice for me to state that, with care and eagerness, I searched every room I could find, till my patience and my matches were exhausted—yet without avail.

Evidently I had entered the wrong house!

On the bottom flight I had to encounter and pass over the débris which had fallen from above. The task was a difficult and perilous one, but eventually reaching the bottom, I stood on firm ground.

My journey had been for naught; my clothes were covered with a white powder which all my resources failed to remove; and the task of regaining the street unobserved and unsuspected remained to be accomplished.

I listened attentively. There was not a sound to be heard. All was silent and gloomy, save where the light from a street-lamp shone through a distant window in another room, making the outline of the door dimly visible.

Cautiously and carefully I essayed to reach the pavement by the window which had afforded me an entrance.

Suddenly I was startled by my wrists being seized from the outside, the hoarding removed in a trice, and ere an exclamation could escape me, I found myself in the grasp of a couple of stalwart constables.

“What are you doing here—eh?” one asked, roughly, turning the insufferable glare of his lantern into my eyes.

I tried to answer, but a dimness seemed to come over me, and the only recollection that remains of what followed was of darting across a road accompanied by my two captors, one of whom held me on each side.

”‘Being on unoccupied premises, supposed for an unlawful purpose—’ eh?” suggested the man on my right.

“That’s it,” replied the other, who had first spoken to me.

Then I was dragged into a police-station.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Queer Straits.

“Well, constable, what’s the charge?” asked the inspector on duty, turning on his stool and surveying me critically.

“Found him getting through the window of a house in Angel Court, Drury Lane, sir. The place is unoccupied, and we arrested him in the act of coming out,” replied the man nearest me.

“Stolen anything?”

“No, sir; we think not: we haven’t searched the premises yet.”

“Put him in the dock.”

“This way,” commanded the constable, and I followed him into a bare, unfurnished room, where I entered the prisoners’ dock, and leaned upon the steel rail, silent in perplexity.

In a few moments the inspector came in and seated himself at the desk, saying,—

“Now then, look alive; charge him, and get on your beat again.”

“Stand up straight, I want to take your measure,” the constable said, and as I obeyed, he exclaimed, “Five-foot-nine.”

“What’s your name?” asked the officer, looking towards me.

I hesitated.

“Give us your right one, now; or it may go against you.”

Why need I? Was it not a disgrace to be arrested? For Vera’s sake I felt I must keep the matter secret.

“Harold Dobson,” I replied, uttering the first name that occurred to me.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.” The inspector filled in the charge-sheet.

“Where do you live?”

Again I hesitated.

“No use hatching up any lies! Where do you live?”

“I refuse to say.”

“Hum!” muttered the officer as if to himself. “It’s only guilty persons who refuse their address; but if you won’t answer, then there’s an end of it. What are you?”

“Nothing.”

“Gentleman at large, I suppose,” said he, smiling incredulously as he surveyed my clothes.

“Very well; no occupation,” and then there was a silence of some minutes, only broken by the hissing of the flaring gas-jet, and the monotonous scratching of the inspector’s quill.

“Sign your names,” he commanded, when he had finished; and the two constables who had arrested me appended their signatures.

“Now, prisoner,” said the inspector, as he blotted the charge-sheet, “you are charged with breaking and entering the dwelling-house, Number 4, Angel Court, Drury Lane, for the purpose of committing a felony. I must caution you that any statement you make will be taken down and used as evidence against you.”

“I don’t see how I can be suspected of a felony when the place is unoccupied,” I replied.

“You must leave that point to be decided to-morrow by the magistrate. A man don’t break into a house for nothing.”

“Two days ago a man died in that house, and I was searching for his body in order to give you information,” I said.

“That can’t be true, sir,” interposed one of the men. “The house hasn’t been lived in for a year or more.”

“Well, if a man died there a couple of days ago there would be surely be some furniture, or some traces of habitation. When he’s in the cell, go and examine the premises thoroughly.”

“Very well, sir,” the man answered.

“Now,” said the inspector, turning to me, “have you anything more to say?”

“Nothing; I’ve told you the truth.”

“Turn out your pockets. We’ll take care of your valuables,” he said laying stress on the last word, as if it were not likely my possessions were worth much.

The constable lifted the bar allowing me to step from the dock, and I went to a small table and commenced placing the contents of my pockets thereon. Some silver, my pocket-book, penknife, pencil-case, and other articles I produced, each of which were examined by the two men.

The pocket-book, one that Vera had given me, attracted the most curiosity, and one of them opened it and commenced reading my memoranda, also scrutinising the various papers and cards therein.

“Hulloa, what’s this?” he suddenly exclaimed, holding a piece of paper nearer his eyes and examining it carefully. The ejaculation caused the other constable to peer over his shoulder, while the inspector rose and walked towards them.

It was then only that I recognised the horrifying reality. It was the fatal seal, the one given me by the strange man, now dead, that they had discovered? “Why, great Heavens!” cried the inspector, as he took the paper from the man’s hand, “don’t you see? It’s the seal that puzzled us so last year!”

“Good God? so it is!” ejaculated both the men almost simultaneously, a look of abject astonishment upon their faces.

The inspector lifted his eyes from the seal and glanced at me keenly. He had been thoroughly taken by surprise at the discovery, but did not lose his head.

“Warner,” he said, hastily, addressing one of the men, “go round to the superintendent and ask him to come here at once.”

“Right, sir!” and, swinging his cape around his shoulders, the man departed.

“Richards, remain here with the prisoner,” he added, as he turned and left the charge-room also.

A few moments later the sharp ring of the telegraph bell in the outer office broke upon my ear, followed by the whirr and click of the instrument; and with a sinking heart I knew that information of my capture was being flashed to Scotland Yard.

For myself I cared nothing. I had never told Vera of my connection with that series of mysterious crimes that had startled the country, and was only thinking of the means by which I could still keep her in ignorance of the facts.

I had given a fictitious name and refused my address; if I were firm and careful not to commit myself I might still be able to keep my identity a secret.

What a fool I had been, thought I, not to have left the seal in the cash-box, as I first intended, and this reflection brought with it another, more maddening, when I remembered that, although I was bearing this oppression and mental torture for Vera’s sake, nevertheless I had found a portion of a seal at Elveham, identical with that which had produced such a consternation among the police.

Again I was seized with that horrible apprehension that Vera wished to rid herself of me, and the seal I found in my library was to have been placed on the next victim—myself!

Why should I not make a clean breast of the matter to the inspector? Vera had already proved herself base and treacherous. For her I had suffered enough in that Russian dungeon, at the horrors of which I involuntarily shuddered, even then. Were I to give my right name the suspicion could easily be removed, and I should be a free man. I was wavering. I own I felt almost inclined to do it. Then I reflected that my wife must know the secret of the seal, and that in the event of my release detectives would be busy. What if it were traced to her and she stood in the position I then was? No, I decided to conceal my identity, come what might, for I had not forgotten the promise I made her before we parted.

In a couple of weeks her explanation would be forthcoming, and in the meantime the police might do their worst.

Presently the inspector returned, and I was taken to a small room leading from the charge-room.

“How did this seal come into your possession?” the officer asked sharply.

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“By a man who is dead.”

“What was his name?”

“I do not know.”

“You don’t know; or you won’t tell me, which?”

“I have already answered.”

“We shall want to know more than that,” he said, ominously.

“Unsatisfactory as my answer may be it is nevertheless a fact,” I replied.

“You expect us to believe it?” he asked with a suspicious smile.

“Discredit it if you like, it’s all the same to me,” I replied rather disinterestedly, after which the officer turned on his heel and left.

I sank upon a chair in a semi-exhausted state, and tried to think of some way out of this maze, for I could plainly see none of my statements appeared to have even the elements of truth.

The constable stood silently at the door, his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon me. He was watching me, fearing, perhaps, lest I should attempt suicide to escape justice.

Shortly afterwards three men entered, accompanied by the inspector. Two were detectives—I knew them at a glance—the other a tall, dark man, with curled moustaches, pointed beard, and a pair of keen grey eyes. He spoke with authority, in a sharp, abrupt tone, and, as I afterwards discovered, I was correct in thinking him the superintendent of that division of Metropolitan police.

“I understand you give a false name, refuse your address, and decline to say how you came possessed of this seal?” he said to me.

“The seal was given me by a man who is dead,” I repeated, calmly.

“Has that man any relations living?”

“I don’t know.”

“What evidence can you bring to corroborate your statement that it was given to you?”

“None. But stay—I have one friend whom I told of the occurrence, although I do not wish him to be brought into this matter.”

“You refuse to name him, or call him on your behalf?” said the chief officer, raising his eyebrows. “I do.”

“Are you aware of the significance of this symbol?”

“Perfectly—in a general sense.”

“Then perhaps it will be no surprise to you to know that a lady named Inglewood was discovered murdered at her house in Bedford Place some time ago, with an identical seal pinned upon her breast, and further, that a woman was found in Angel Court a short time back. Her throat was cut, and she lay within a few yards of where you were arrested. Upon her body was found a portion of paper to which part of a seal adhered, and this paper, which is in our possession, exactly fits the piece that has been torn from the one found in your pocket-book.”

“It does!” I cried, amazed, for in a moment I recognised the serious suspicion now resting upon me.

“Now; what have you to say?”

“I have nothing to add,” I said dreamily.

“And you still refuse your address?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then; we must find out for ourselves.” After a few words to the detectives in an undertone, he turned and said,—

“Inspector, you will charge him on suspicion of the wilful murder of the woman—and, by the way, let one of the men sit with him to-night. I’m going down to the Yard.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the officer, and they all left the room, with the exception of the statuesque constable.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Guiltless Crime.

Down one dimly-lit, dreary corridor, along an other, and up a flight of spiral stairs, I walked listlessly, with two warders at my side.

A low door opened, a breath of warm air, a hum of voices, and I was standing in the prisoners’ dock at the Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey.

As I entered and faced the grave-looking judge, and the aldermen in their fur-trimmed scarlet robes seated beside him, I heard the stentorian voice of the usher cry “Silence,” and immediately the clerk rose, and with a paper in his hand, said in clear monotonous tones:

“Prisoner at the bar, you are indicted for that you did on the night of August the fifteenth, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven, wilfully murder Ethel Inglewood, one of Her Majesty’s subjects, at Number 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, by stabbing her with a knife. Are you guilty, or not guilty?”

Mr Roland, Q.C., who, with Mr Crane, had been retained for my defence, rose promptly and replied, “Prisoner pleads not guilty, m’lord.”

There was a dead silence.

All that could be heard was the rustling of the briefs of the great array of counsel before me, and the busy hum and din of the city that came through the open window, while a stray streak of dusky sunlight, glinting across the sombre Court, fell like a bar of golden dust between myself and the judge. The twelve benevolent-looking yet impassive jurymen sat motionless on my left, and on my right the crowd of eager spectators craned their necks in their curiosity to obtain a glimpse of one who was alleged to be the author of the mysterious crime.

Mine was a celebrated case.

Three weeks had nearly elapsed since my arrest, and Scotland Yard, so far from being idle, had succeeded in working up evidence and charging me with a horrible murder, for which I had been committed to take my trial by the magistrate at Bow Street.

Of Vera I had seen nothing. Both Bob and Demetrius had visited me whilst under remand and endeavoured to cheer me, although both admitted they had been served with subpoenas by the prosecution, but of the nature of the evidence they wished them to give they were ignorant.

Rumours had reached me, even in my prison cell, of the intense excitement that had been caused by the news of my capture, and the plain facts had, I heard, become so distorted in their progress from mouth to mouth that not only was it anticipated that my identity as the murderer was completely established, but speculation had already planned for me another atrocity in connection with the spot where I had been found.

The one topic of conversation was my arrest, and in private circles, as well as in places of general meeting, little else was discussed. The public pulse, in fact, was fevered.

With the opening of the trial the crisis had arrived.

I had been told that the counsel appearing to conduct my prosecution were Mr Norman Ayrton, Q.C., and Mr Paget, and as I glanced at these gentlemen seated in close consultation I instinctively dreaded the cold, merciless face of the former, and the supercilious nonchalance of the latter.

As perfect quietude was restored in the stifling Court with its long tiers of white expectant faces, Mr Ayrton gave his gown a twitch, and with a preliminary cough, rose.

The warder handed me a chair, and, seating myself, I concentrated my attention upon the clear, concise utterances of the man who was doing his utmost to fix the awful stigma upon me.

Turning to the judge, he said: “May it please your lordship, I appear on behalf of the Crown to prosecute the prisoner at the bar. The case which your lordship and gentlemen of the jury have before you to-day is one of an abnormal and extraordinary nature. It will be within the recollection of the Court that during the last three years a series of mysterious and diabolical murders have been committed, absolutely, as far as at present known, without motive. What may have been the motive of these, however, is not the point to which I desire to call your attention, but to one utterly unaccountable crime, as it then appeared, which took place on the night of August the fifteenth, two years ago. On that occasion a lady named Mrs Ethel Inglewood, residing at 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, was discovered murdered, and the connecting link between that tragic occurrence and six of a similar character which had preceded it was the circumstance that a seal of peculiar design, fixed to a blank paper, was found pinned upon the breast of that lady. Of the seal, and the mysteries surrounding it, I shall be in a position to give your lordship and the gentlemen of the jury some further information at a later stage in these proceedings.

“It is sufficient for my purpose at the present moment simply to indicate the fact that the seal, connected in such a peculiar manner with the previous outrages, was also a conspicuous object in this, and undoubtedly proved that the crime, if not the work of the same hand, emanated at any rate from the same source. The prisoner at the bar was the principal witness in the discovery of the murder of Mrs Inglewood, and gave evidence before the Coroner, when a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown was returned. He professed, in the assistance which he then gave, to have been animated simply and solely by the desire to bring the offender to justice. Considerable doubt was entertained by the police with regard to the veracity of that statement, and I believe, my lord, it will be in my power to prove, by most conclusive evidence, that the prisoner then committed the crime of perjury in addition to the greater and more hideous one for which he stands here indicted.”

Counsel then paused and examined the first folio of his brief.

To my disordered imagination it seemed as if I already stood convicted.

Again the eminent Queen’s Counsel gave a preliminary cough, and resumed:—

“If I shall be in a position to establish beyond any shadow of doubt that the prisoner really committed the murder in Bloomsbury, the evidence which can be adduced against him in regard to a second count, which, however, is not on the present indictment, is even still more indubitable. On the night of March the fourth last, the body of a woman, which has never yet been identified, was discovered lying in a blind alley, called Angel Court, leading from Drury Lane. She was quite dead when discovered, having been stabbed in the throat, and on her breast, as in the previous tragedy, was a piece of paper from which the larger portion had evidently been roughly torn. The small piece adhering was pinned in exactly the same fashion as upon the deceased Mrs Inglewood, and no one could doubt that the murder which had been committed formed one of that series of horrifying outrages of which it formed the eighth.

“From that day till the present no clue whatever has been obtained as to the identity of the poor woman who was then discovered, but events have so conspired, and the police have been so vigilant, that a strange finale has been brought about. There is an old truism, gentlemen, that ‘Murder will out,’ and though that expression is worn almost threadbare by constant repetition, its force is recognised, and its truth is applicable as much now as ever. ‘Murder,’ in this case ‘did out,’ by a most fortuitous circumstance which I will briefly narrate, although the story has been freely circulated in the public Press.”

In a few terse sentences counsel explained my arrest, and the discovery of the seal in my wallet.

“Such, my lord,” he continued, “were the means by which the prisoner at the bar came into the hands of the police, and I would impress very strongly upon the jury, at this stage, the consideration that when charged at the police-station prisoner not only gave a fictitious name, but refused his address, besides giving as his excuse for his presence in the house on the night in question, a silly story which I venture to believe, you, gentlemen of the jury, will at once see to be outside the bounds of credibility. In the extraordinary explanations which the prisoner has given of his actions during the past year—strange and improbable—none so utterly feeble as these have been advanced. He asserts that his motive in going to the house in Angel Court, at that hour of the evening, was the altogether monstrous one of filching from a corpse evidence in connection—in close connection, I may say, gentlemen—with this very crime which we are now investigating.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the densely-packed Court. This was the first time my explanation had been made public.

“Incredible as it may seem,” said counsel, immediately resuming, “for the last twelve months he says he has been actively pursuing inquiries in regard to these crimes, and that his own life having, in some way which he will not at present disclose, been endangered, it has given him peculiar reason so to do. This story, of course, the jury will regard in any light they choose, but I rather think that when the evidence which I shall presently call is given, absolutely no credence will be placed upon it. My remarks will be brief at the present moment, but my learned friends who have been instructed for the defence, will, no doubt, seek to attach great importance to the personal character of the prisoner. Nevertheless I would ask what that character is? Two years ago this man, who used formerly, it is true, to occupy a position of some importance in journalism, became possessed of a fortune, and whether it be that the possession of so much wealth suddenly turned him into a monomaniac, or whether, previously to that time, his actions, of which we have, at present, no record, were characterised by this mad thirst for blood, I cannot inform you. Whatever things may have appeared to the outside world, there is no doubt in my mind that the prisoner has been cherishing a most intense and unnatural hatred against mankind, and that with the accession of wealth his means for executing his fell projects were correspondingly enhanced.

“It is true he bears the character of an English gentleman, but men of the world, such as I see before me in the jury box, are not to be deceived by mere detail of dress or conversation. The actions of men are the means by which they must be judged, and, looking upon the past life of this man by the lurid glare which the statements of the witnesses—and which his own actions themselves afford—it will be matter for surprise that his career has been allowed to go on so long unchecked. When he talks of his character, gentlemen, let me ask one question. In what was he engaged for nearly six months out of the last twelve? Perhaps my learned friend will answer this in his defence. The prisoner refuses, gentlemen, to give one word of explanation.”

Again there was a rustle in court, and the usher interposed with his stern command of “Silence?”

“Now, gentlemen, with these few brief observations, which I shall supplement later on, I will proceed to call my witnesses—persons whose veracity is unimpeachable—who will give you such an insight into his past life that will leave not the faintest suspicion of doubt in your minds that the prisoner at the bar has been the perpetrator of one, at least, of that string of almost unparalleled crimes which have shocked the whole of the civilised world.”

As the leading counsel, with a significant smile at the jury, resumed his seat, and his junior rose to call the witnesses, I folded my arms and waited.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Clique.

The two men first called did not interest me. They were the constables to whose evidence I had listened at the police court.

“Detective-Inspector Cronin,” exclaimed Mr Paget, when they had finished, and a tall, well-preserved, black-bearded man entered the witness-box and was sworn.

“I am John Cronin, detective inspector, Criminal Investigation Department,” said he, in answer to counsel. “The pocket-book which I produce was handed me on prisoner’s arrest, and upon examining it, I found it contained, amongst other things, a bill of the Charing Cross Hotel. I proceeded there, made inquiries, and ascertained that prisoner had been staying there one day, giving his name as Frank Burgoyne. I examined the room he occupied, and found a despatch box in which was the photograph I now produce. Comparing it with that of the woman murdered in Angel Court, taken after death, I find the features exactly coincide.”

“Was there any distinguishing mark?” asked his lordship.

“Yes, m’lord,” replied the detective handing up both photographs. “Your lordship will notice a small scar over the left eye.”

“You made other inquiries, I believe?” asked Mr Paget.

“Yes; on the following day I went to prisoner’s house, Elveham Dene, Northamptonshire, and searched the premises. On examining the drawers of a writing-table in the library, which were unlocked, I found two blank pieces of paper on which were seals corresponding in every particular to that found on the lady murdered in Bedford Place.”

What did all this mean? I knew nothing of these seals. Surely it must be some plot to take away my life!

The frightful suspicion—could Vera be concerned in it—entered my soul.

The doubt was too awful to be entertained; yet she had not communicated with me since my arrest.

“In the same drawer,” continued the detective fumbling among some papers he held in his hand, “I found this telegram. It is dated on the day of the murder in Bloomsbury, and addressed to the deceased. It reads:—‘Handed in at Hull and received at the West Central district office. Shall be with you about midnight. Be at home.’ It is signed with a single letter ‘B.’ On examining the notepaper on the writing-table, I found it was the same as that upon which the seals were impressed.”

“You produce some of that notepaper, I think?” said Mr Paget.

“I do, sir.”

The paper was handed to the judge, who held it to the light and compared the watermarks.

When he had satisfied himself the detective resumed:

“Throughout my examination I was in every way retarded by the action of the prisoner’s wife. On proceeding to search one of the bedrooms she positively refused to give me the keys of a chest of drawers, and I was therefore compelled to force them. Concealed under some papers, which lined one of the drawers, I discovered a small gold padlock, upon which are engraved the initials ‘R.S.’, and to which was attached the small portion of gold chain I now produce. I had charge of the inquiries in the case of Mrs Inglewood, and remember at the time of her decease she was wearing a diamond bracelet which is also produced. When I examined the house at Bedford Place I discovered the case of the bracelet, which bore the name of the jeweller. The manager of the firm in question will be called to prove that the padlock found in the bedroom of the prisoner is the one belonging to Mrs Inglewood’s bracelet, and that it had been sold to her a week before her death.”

Some of the dead woman’s jewellery in my room! Incredible!

Was it possible that Vera—but, no—again banish the thought!

“In the same drawer,” added the detective, with a self-satisfied smile at the intense surprise which his statements excited, “was this letter, in a lady’s handwriting, signed ‘Ethel Inglewood’: ‘Come and dine to-morrow evening. I have the money ready, and rely on you to keep my secret.’ The address embossed on the paper is ‘67, Bedford Place,’ and the date is that of the day previous to the murder.”

“Do you prove anything else?” inquired Mr Paget, expectantly.

“No,” replied the inspector, “except that from inquiries I made I find that very shortly after the inquest on Mrs Inglewood the prisoner left the country suddenly, and the next murder—the one in Angel Court—was perpetrated on the day of his return.”