William Le Queux (continued 3)

Truly the shop-assistant’s life is an intensely dismal one. Knowing all this, I felt sorry for Muriel.

“Then the winter has been very dull,” I observed, after she had been telling me of the miserable weather and her consequent inability to get out on Sundays.

“Yes,” she answered. “I used to be envious when you wrote telling me of the sunshine and flowers you had on the Riviera. It must be a perfect Paradise. I should so like to go there and spend a winter.”

“As far as natural beauties are concerned, the coast is almost as near Paradise as you can get on this earth,” I said, laughing. “But Monte Carlo, although delightful, is far nearer an approach to the other place—the place which isn’t often mentioned in polite society—in fact, somebody once said, and with a good deal of truth, that the door of the Casino was the entrance-gate to hell.”

“I’d like to see the gambling-rooms just once,” she said.

“You are best away from them,” I answered. “The moral influence of the tables cannot fail to prove baneful.”

“I was disappointed,” she said, “when I heard you had left London without wishing me good-bye. You had never done so before. I called at your chambers, and Simes told me you had gone abroad. Surely you could have spared ten minutes to wish me farewell,” she added reproachfully.

I glanced at her and saw a look of regret and disappointment upon her face. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful.

I told myself that I had always loved Muriel, that I loved her still.

Her eyes met mine, and I saw in their dark depths a deep and trusting love. Yet I was socially her superior, and had foolishly imagined that we could always remain friends without becoming lovers. When I reflected how years ago I used to chat with her in her father’s shop, in the days when she was a hoydenish schoolgirl, and compared her then with what she was now, I saw her as a graceful, modest, and extremely beautiful woman, who possessed the refinement of speech and grace of carriage which many women in higher standings in life would have envied, and whom I knew was honest and upright, although practically alone and unprotected in that great world of London.

“You must forgive me,” I said. “I ought to have seen you before I went away, but I left hurriedly with my sister and her husband. You know what a restless pair they are.”

“Of course,” she answered. “But you’ve been back in England several weeks. Mary Daffern wrote to me and said she had seen you driving in Stamford nearly three weeks ago.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I was sick of the eternal rounds of Nice and Monte Carlo, so travelled straight to Tixover without breaking my journey in town. But surely,” I added, “it doesn’t matter much if I don’t see you for a month or two. It never has mattered.”

Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and I thought her lips trembled.

“Of course it does,” she responded. “I like to know how and where you are. We are friends—indeed, you are the oldest friend I have in London.”

“But you have your other admirers,” I said. “Men who take you about, entertain you, flatter you, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes, yes,” she answered hurriedly. “But you know I hate them all. I merely accept their invitations because it takes me out of the dreary groove in which my work lies. It’s impossible for a woman to go about alone, and the attentions of men amuse me rather than gratify my natural woman’s vanity.”

She spoke sensibly, as few of her age would speak. Her parents had been honest, upright, God-fearing folk, and she had been taught to view life philosophically.

“But you have loved,” I suggested. “You can’t really tell me with truth that of all these men who have escorted you about of an evening and on Sundays there is not one for whom you have developed some feeling of affection.”

She blushed and glanced up at me shyly.

“It really isn’t fair to ask me that,” she protested, flicking at the last year’s leaves with the point of her umbrella. “A woman must have a heart like stone if she never experiences any feeling of love. If I replied in the negative I should only lie to you. That you know quite well.”

“Then you have a lover, eh?” I exclaimed quickly, perhaps in a tone of ill-concealed regret.

“No,” she responded, in a low, firm voice, “I have no lover.” Then after a few moments’ pause she inquired, “Why do you ask me that?”

“Because, Muriel,” I said seriously, taking her hand, “because I desire to know the truth.”

“Why?” she asked, looking at me in mingled amazement and alarm. “We are friends, it is true; but your friendship gives you no right to endeavour to learn the secret of my heart,” and she gently withdrew her hand from my grasp.

I was silent, unable to reply to such an argument.

“And you love this man?” I said, in a rather hard voice.

But she merely shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laugh answered—

“Oh, let’s talk of something else. We are out to enjoy ourselves to-day, not to discuss each other’s love affairs.”

We had approached the Diana fountain, and she stood pensively beside it for a moment watching the shoal of lazy carp, some of which have lived in that pond for over a century.

“I do not wish to discuss my own affairs of the heart, Muriel,” I burst forth passionately, as I stood beside her. “Yet, as one who holds you in esteem, who has ever striven for your welfare, I feel somehow that I ought to be still your confidant.”

“You only wish to wring my secret from me because it amuses you,” she protested, her eyes flashing resentfully. “You know that’s the truth. When you have nothing better to do you bring me out, just because I’m company. If you had held me in esteem, as you declare you do, you would have at least wished me farewell before you went abroad for the winter.”

This neglect had annoyed her, and in sudden pique she was reproaching me in a manner quite unusual to her. I had never before seen her assume so resentful an air.

“No,” I responded, pained that she should thus charge me with amusing myself at leisure with her society, although when I reflected I was compelled to admit within myself that her words were the absolute truth. For several years I had merely treated her as a friend to be sought when I had no other person to dine with or accompany me out. Yes, of late, I had neglected Muriel sadly.

“I don’t think you are quite fair,” I said. “That I hold you in esteem you must have seen long, long ago, and the reason why I did not wish you farewell was because—well, because I was just then very much upset.”

“You had met a woman whom you believed you loved,” she said harshly. “It is useless to try and conceal the truth from me.”

“I have not attempted to conceal anything,” I responded, nevertheless starting at her mention of that woman who had been enveloped in such mystery, and who, after a few days’ madness, had now so completely gone out of my life. How could she have known?

In answer she looked me straight in the face with her dark, fathomless eyes.

“You have told me nothing of your love,” she exclaimed in a hoarse tone. “If you cannot trust me with your confidences as once you used to do, then we can no longer remain the fast friends we have been. We must drift apart. You have already shown that you fear to tell me of your fascination—a fascination that was so near to becoming fatal. You know nothing of Aline Cloud—of who or what she is—yet you love her blindly!” Her well-arched brows knit themselves, her face became at that instant pale and hard set, and she held her breath, as if a sudden determination had swept upon her.

She knew my secret, and I stood confused, unable to reply to those quick, impetuous words which had involuntarily escaped her.

Did she love me? I wondered. Had jealousy alone prompted that speech? Or was she really aware of the truth concerning the blue-eyed woman whom I had adored for those few fleeting days, and whom I was now seeking to hunt down as a criminal?

Chapter Twelve.

“You! Of All Men!”

“No,” I admitted, “I was not aware who Aline Cloud was, nor did I know that you were acquainted with her.”

She started. She had unwittingly betrayed herself.

“I—acquainted with her!” she cried in a voice of indignation. “You are mistaken.”

“But you know her by repute,” I said. “Tell me the truth about her.”

She laughed, a light, nervous laugh, her eyes still fixed upon the water.

“You love her!” she exclaimed. “It is useless for me to say anything.”

“No, no, Muriel,” I cried. “I do not love her. How could I love her when I know nothing whatsoever of her? Why, I only saw her twice.”

“But you were with her a sufficient length of time to declare your love.”

How could she know? I wondered. Aline herself must have told her. She uttered a falsehood when she declared that she did not know the mysterious fair-faced woman whose power was so mysterious and unnatural.

I was puzzled.

“Well,” I said at length, “I admit it. I admit that in a moment of mad ecstasy I made a foolish declaration of affection—an avowal which I have ever since regretted.”

She gave me a pitying, scornful look, a glance which proved to me how fierce was her hatred of Aline.

“If you had told me of your fascination I might have been able to have explained the truth concerning her. But as you have thought fit to preserve your secret, no end can now be gained by the exposure of anything I know,” she said, quite calmly.

“What do you know about her, Muriel?” I inquired, laying my hand upon her arm in all seriousness. “Tell me.”

But she shook her head, rather sadly perhaps. The bright expression of happiness which had illuminated her countenance until that moment had died away and been replaced by a look of dull despair. The sun shone down upon her brightly, the birds were singing in the trees and all around was gladness, but she seemed troubled and oppressed as one heartbroken.

“No!” she answered in a low tone, her breast slowly heaving and falling. “If you have really escaped the enthralment it is enough. You may congratulate yourself.”

“Why?”

“Merely because you have avoided the pitfall set in your path,” she answered. “She was beautiful. It was because of her loveliness that you became entranced, was it not?”

“There is no necessity to conceal anything,” I said.

“You speak the truth.”

“And you had some illustrations of the evil influence which lay within her?” Muriel asked.

I recollected how my crucifix had been mysteriously reduced to ashes, and nodded in the affirmative, wondering whether I should ever succeed in obtaining knowledge of the truth which she evidently possessed.

“Yet you had the audacity to love her!” she laughed. “You thought that she—this woman whom all the world would hound down if they knew the true facts—could love you in return! It is amazing how a pretty face can lead the strongest-willed man to ruin.”

I rather resented her attitude in thus interfering in my private affairs. That I admired her was true; yet I was not her lover, and she had no right to object to any of my actions.

“I cannot see that I have been so near ruin as you would make out,” I exclaimed, philosophically. “An unrequited love is an incident in most men’s lives.”

“Ah! she spared you!” she cried. “If she had smitten you, you would have perished as swiftly as objects dissolve into ashes when she is present. At least she pitied you. And you were doubly fortunate.”

“Yes,” I said, reflecting upon her words, at the same time recollecting her mysterious connection with poor Roddy Morgan. “She was without doubt endowed with a power that was inexplicable.”

“Inexplicable!” she echoed. “It was supernatural. Things withered at her touch.”

“If I, your friend, am fortunate in my escape, would it not be but an act of friendship to explain to me all you know concerning her?”

Her dark, luminous eyes met mine in a long, earnest glance.

“No!” she answered, after a moment’s reflection. “I have already explained. You have escaped; the incident is ended.” And she added with a laugh, “Your neglect of me was, of course, fully justified in such circumstances.”

“Now, that’s unfair, Muriel,” I exclaimed. “I had no intention of neglecting you, neither had I the slightest suspicion that you desired me to say farewell to you. Have you not told me that you have an admirer whom you could love? Surely that is sufficient. Love him, and we may always remain friends, as we now are.”

“No!” she responded, with a dark look of foreboding. “We cannot remain friends longer. Our mutual confidence is shattered. We may be acquaintances, but nothing more.”

I had not mentioned poor Roddy’s death, for it was a subject so painful that I discussed it as little as possible. Was it not, however, likely that if I explained all the circumstances and told her my suspicions, her hatred might lead her to disclose some clue whereby I might trace Aline Cloud?

Her words had caused me considerable misgiving, for it was now entirely plain that, contrary to what I had confidently believed, namely, that she loved me, she in reality held me in contempt as weak and fickle, influenced by every pretty face or wayward glance.

I looked at her again. Yes, my eyes were not love-blinded now. She was absolutely bewitching in her beauty. For the first time I became aware that there was but one woman I really loved, and that it was Muriel.

“I regret that you should not consider me to be still worthy your confidence,” I said, bending towards her seriously. “I have admitted everything, and have expressed regret. What more can I do?”

“Forget her!” she answered, with a quick petulance. “It is best to forget.”

“Ah!” I sighed. “That is unfortunately impossible.”

“Then you love her still!” she cried, turning upon me. “You love her!”

“No,” I answered. “I do not love her, because—”

“Because she treated you shabbily, and left without giving you her address, eh? You see, I know all the circumstances.”

“You are mistaken,” I protested. “I do not love her because I entertain a well-founded if perhaps absurd suspicion.”

“Suspicion! What do you suspect?” she asked quickly.

Then, linking my arm in hers, I walked on, and commencing at the beginning told her of that fateful day when I discovered the tragic death of poor Roddy, and the circumstances which, combined with Aline’s own confession, seemed to point to her being his visitor, immediately prior to his death.

As she listened her face grew ashen, and she perceptibly trembled. A violent emotion shook her slight frame, and as I continued to relate my dismal story and piece together the evidence which I felt certain must some day connect Aline with the tragedy, I was dumbfounded to discern that which, in a single instant, changed the whole aspect of the situation.

Muriel was speechless. She was trembling with fear.

“And you really suspect that your friend was murdered?” she exclaimed at last in the voice of one preoccupied. “If that had been really so, wouldn’t the doctors have known?”

“Medical evidence is not always reliable,” I answered. “From what I have already explained it is proved conclusively that some one visited him in his valet’s absence.”

“Who called there, do you think?”

“Ah! I don’t know,” I answered. “That is what I am endeavouring to discover.”

She gave a slight, almost imperceptible sigh. It was a sigh of relief!

Could it be true that my little friend held locked within her breast the secret of Roddy’s tragic end? I glanced again at her face as she strolled by my side. Yes, her countenance was now pale and agitated, its aspect entirely changed from what it had been half an hour before.

“Why cannot you tell me something of Aline?” I asked quietly, after a long silence.

“Because I am as entirely ignorant of her as you are,” she answered without hesitation. “All I know is that she is a strange person—a woman possessed of powers so marvellous as to appear almost supernatural. Indeed, she seems the very incarnation of the Evil One himself. It was because of that I was angry when I knew that her beauty had entranced you.”

“But you are acquainted with her,” I declared. “Your words prove that.”

“No, I have had no dealings with her,” she answered. “I should fear to have, lest I should fall beneath her evil influence.”

“Then how did you know of my acquaintance with her?” I asked, noting how charming she was, and wondering within myself why during all the years that I had known her I had not discovered the true estimate of her beauty until that afternoon.

“The information was conveyed to me,” she responded vaguely.

“And you believed that I had forgotten you, Muriel?” I said tenderly, in a voice of reproach.

“It is certain that you were held powerless under that spell which she can cast over men at will. You reposed in contentment beneath her fascination, and called it love.”

“But it was not love,” I hastened to assure her. “I admired her, it is true, but surely you do not think that I could love a woman who is thus under suspicion?”

“Had your friend ever spoken of her?” she inquired after a brief silence.

“No,” I said. “Aline, however, admitted that she knew him, but strangely enough declared that he had committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before.”

“Then what she said could not be correct,” Muriel observed thoughtfully.

“I really don’t know what to believe,” I answered, bewildered. “Her words were so strange and her influence so subtle and extraordinary that sometimes I feel inclined to think that she was some supernatural and eminently beautiful being who, having wrought in the world the evil which was allotted as her work, has vanished, leaving no more trace than a ray of light in space.”

“Others who have known her have held similar opinions,” my pretty companion said. “Yet she was apparently of flesh and blood like all of us. At any rate, she ate and drank and slept and spoke like every other human being, and certainly her loves and her hatreds were just as intense as those of any one of us.”

“But her touch was deadly,” I said. “As a magician is able to change things, so at her will certain objects dissolved in air, leaving only a handful of ashes behind. In her soft, white hand was a power for the working of evil which was irresistible, an influence which was nothing short of demoniacal.”

Muriel held her breath, her eyes cast upon the ground. There was a mysteriousness in her manner, such as I had never before noticed.

“You are right—quite right,” she answered. “She was a woman of mystery.”

“Cannot you, now that I have made explanation and told you the reason of my apparent neglect, tell me what you know of her?” I asked earnestly.

“I have no further knowledge,” she assured me. “I know nothing of her personally.”

But her words did not convince me when I remembered how, on explaining my suspicions regarding Aline’s complicity in the crime, she had betrayed an abject fear.

“No,” I said dubiously. “You are concealing something from me, Muriel.”

“Concealing something!” she echoed, with a strange, hollow laugh. “I’m certain I’m not.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, rather impatiently, “to-day you have treated me, your oldest friend, very unfairly. You tell me that I merely consider you a convenient companion to be patronised when I have no other more congenial acquaintance at hand. That I deny. I may have neglected you,” I went on in deep earnestness, as we halted for a moment beneath the great old trees, “but this neglect of late has been owing to the tragedy which has so filled my mind. I have set myself to trace out its author, and nothing shall deter me in my investigations.”

She was blanched to the lips. I noticed how the returning colour died from her face again at my words, but continuing, said—

“We have been friends. Those who know of our friendship would refuse to believe the truth if it were told to them, so eager is the world to ridicule the idea of a purely platonic friendship between man and woman. Yet ours has, until now, been a firm friendship, without a thought of love, without a single affectionate word.”

“That is the reason why I regret that it must now end,” she answered, faltering, her voice half-choked with emotion.

“End! What do you mean?” I cried, dismayed.

“Ah, no!” she exclaimed, putting up both her hands, as if to shut me out from her gaze. “Don’t let us discuss it further. It is sufficient that we can exchange no further confidences. It is best now that this friendship of ours should cease.”

“You are annoyed that I should have preferred the society of that strange, mysterious woman to yours,” I said. “Well, I regret—I shall always regret that we met—for she has only brought me grief, anxiety, and despair. Cannot you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” she answered blankly. “To have admired this woman was surely no offence against me?”

“But it was,” I declared, grasping her hand against her will.

“Why?”

I held my breath and looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes. Then, in as firm a voice as I could summon, I said—

“Because—because, Muriel, I love you?”

“Love me!” she gasped, with a look of bewilderment. “No! No!”

“Yes,” I went on, in mad impetuousness, “for years I have loved you, but feared to tell you, because you might regard my declaration as a mere foolish fancy on account of our positions, and impossible of realisation because of the probable opposition of my family. But I have now told you the truth, Muriel. I love you!”

And with my hands holding hers, I bent for the first time to kiss her lips. But in an instant she avoided me, and twisted her gloved fingers from my grasp.

“You must be mad!” she cried, with a glint of indignation in her eyes. “You must be mad to think that I could love you—of all men!”

Chapter Thirteen.

The Old Love and the New.

I drew back crushed and humiliated.

Her tone of withering scorn showed that she no longer looked upon me with favour.

“For years I have loved you, Muriel,” I said in as calm a tone as I could, “but I have feared to speak until to-day. Now that I have declared the truth cannot you trust me?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head determinedly. “It is useless. I cannot love you.”

“Then you have tried and failed?” I gasped in dismay, looking into her white, agitated face.

“Yes, I have tried,” she answered after a pause.

“And do you doubt me?” I demanded quickly.

“Without mutual confidence there can be no love between us,” she responded in a dismal tone.

“But why can you not trust me? Surely I have given you no great offence?” I said, bewildered at her strange attitude.

“I regret that you should have declared love to me, that’s all,” she answered, quite philosophically.

“Why? Is it such a very extraordinary proceeding?”

“Yes,” she replied petulantly. “You know well that marriage is entirely out of the question. What would your friends say if you hinted at such a thing?”

“The opinion of my friends is nothing to me,” I replied. “I am fortunately not dependent upon them. No. I feel sure that is not the reason of your answer. You have some secret reason. What is it, Muriel?”

“Have I not already told you that I am loved?”

“And you reciprocate this man’s love?” I said harshly.

She made no response, but I saw in this silence an affirmative.

“Who is he?” I inquired quickly.

“A stranger.”

“And you have confidence in him?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and her breast heaved and fell quickly.

“No, no,” she cried at last. “Say no more. This subject is painful to both of us. Do not let us discuss it.”

“But I love you,” I again repeated. “I love you, Muriel!”

“Then forget me,” she answered, in a low, hoarse voice. “Forget me; for we can in future be only acquaintances—not even friends.”

“Then you have promised your lover to end your friendship with me. He is jealous of me!” I cried. “Come, speak the truth,” I added harshly.

“I have spoken the truth,” she responded, in a voice rather calmer than before.

“And you discard my love?” I said, in tones of bitter reproach.

“Yes,” she said, “it is true. I discard your love. You have spoken, and I give you my answer straightforwardly, much as it pains me.”

“But will you not reconsider?” I urged. “When you reflect that I love you, Muriel, better than all the world besides, that I will do all in my power to secure your happiness, that you shall be my sole thought night and day, will your heart not soften towards me? Will you never reflect that you treated me, your oldest friend, a little unfairly?”

“If in the future I reproach myself, I alone shall bear the pricks of conscience,” she answered, with surprising calmness.

“And this, then, is your decision?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a blank, monotonous voice. “I am honoured by your offer, but am compelled to decline it.”

Her words fell as a blow upon me. I had been confident, from the many little services she had rendered me, the interest she had taken in the arrangement of my bachelor’s quarters, and her eagerness always to please me, that she loved me. Yet her sudden, inexplicable desire to end our friendship shattered all my hopes. She loved another. It was my own fault, I told myself. I had neglected her too long, and it was but what I might have expected.

In silence we walked on, emerging at length into the high road, and turning into that well-known hostelry the Greyhound, where we had tea in that great room so well patronised by excursionists on Sundays. We talked but little, both our hearts being too full for words. Our utterances were mere trivialities, spoken in order that those around us should not remark upon our silence. It was a dismal meal, and I was glad when we emerged again and entered the well-kept gardens of Hampton Court, bright with their beds of old-world flowers.

I was never tired of wandering through that historic, time-mellowed, old pile, where the sparrows twitter in the quiet court-yards, the peacocks strut across the ancient gardens, and the crumbling sundials mark the time, as they have done daily through three centuries.

In my gloomy mood, however, I fear I answered her chatter abruptly in monosyllables. It struck me as strange that she could so quickly forget and become suddenly light-hearted. Indeed, it seemed as though she were glad that the ordeal she had feared had passed, and was delighted with her freedom.

The bright air of the riverside was fresh and exhilarating, but the sun soon went down, and when it grew chill we took train back to Waterloo, and drove to Frascati’s, where we dined.

“And is this actually to be our last dinner together?” I asked, as the soup was brought, for I recollected the many snug little meals we had eaten together in times gone by, and how she had enjoyed them as a change after the eternal joints of beef or mutton as supplied to the assistants at Madame Gabrielle’s.

“It must be,” she sighed.

“And you do not regret?”

Her lips quivered, and she glanced at me without replying.

“There is some mystery in all this, Muriel,” I said, bending across to her earnestly. “Why do you refuse to explain to me?”

“Because I cannot. If I could, I would.”

“Then if after to-night we are to part,” I went on bitterly, “mine will be a dismal future.”

“You have your own world,” she said. “You will quickly forget me among your gay friends, as you have already forgotten me times without number.”

I could not bear her reproaches; her words cut me to the quick.

“No. I have never forgotten you,” I protested quickly. “I shall never forget.”

“Did you not utter those same words to that woman who fascinated you a few months ago?” she suggested with a slight curl of the lip.

“If I did, it was because I was beneath the spell of her beauty—a beauty so mysterious as to be almost supernatural,” I answered. “I love you nevertheless,” I added in a low tone, so that none should overhear. “I swear I do.”

“It is useless,” she exclaimed, with a frown of displeasure. “Further discussion of the subject will lead to no alteration of my decision. You know me well enough to be aware that if I am determined no argument will turn me from my purpose.”

“But my future depends upon you, Muriel,” I cried in despair. “Through years—ever since the old days in Stamford—I have admired you, and as time has progressed, and you have become more beautiful and more refined, my admiration has developed into a true and honest love. Will you never believe me?”

“No,” she answered. “I can never believe you. Besides, we could never be happy, for our paths in life will lie in very different directions.”

“That’s all foolish sentiment,” I exclaimed. “I have to ask permission of no one as to whom I may marry. Why will you not reconsider this decision of yours? You know well—you must have seen long, long ago—that I love you.”

“I have already told you my intention,” she responded with a frigidity of manner that again crushed all hope from my heart. “To-night must be our last night together. Afterwards we must remember one another only as acquaintances.”

“No, no!” I protested. “Don’t say that.”

“It must be,” she responded decisively. All argument appeared useless, so I remained silent.

It was nine o’clock before we left the restaurant, too early for her to return to Madame Gabrielle’s, therefore at my invitation she accompanied me to my chambers, and sat with me in my sitting-room for a long time. So long had we been platonic friends that I could not bring myself to believe that that was really her farewell visit. She sat in the same chair in which Aline had sat on the first night when she had so strangely come into my life, and now again she chatted on merrily, as in the old days, inquiring after mutual friends in Stamford, and what changes had been effected in sleepy, lethargic Duddington. I had told her all the latest gossip of the place, when suddenly I observed—

“Just now everybody in the village is taken up with the new curate.”

“No curate gets on well for very long with old Layton,” she remarked. “Mr Farrar was a splendid preacher, and they said it was because the rector was jealous of his talents that he got rid of him.”

“Yes, Farrar was a clever fellow, but Yelverton, the new man, is an awfully good chap. He was at college with me, and you may judge my astonishment when I met him, after years of separation, in my mother’s drawing-room.”

“What did you say his name was?” she inquired, with knit brows.

“Yelverton—Jack Yelverton,” I answered.

“Yelverton!” She uttered the name in a strange voice, and seemed to shrink at its pronouncement.

“Yes. He’s a thoroughly good fellow. He was in London—believes in social reform among the poor, and all that sort of thing. Do you know him?”

“I—well, yes. If it is the same man, I’ve heard of him. He did a lot of good down in the East End somewhere,” she answered evasively.

“I suppose all the girls will be running after him,” I laughed. “It’s really extraordinary what effect a clerical collar has upon some girls; and mothers, too, for the matter of that.”

“They think the Church a respectable profession, perhaps,” she said, joining in my laughter.

“Well, if you’re a clergyman you are not compelled to swindle people; a proceeding which nowadays is the essence of good business,” I said. “The successful commercial man is the fellow who is able to screw the largest amount of profits out of his customers; the rich stockbroker is merely a lucky gambler; and the company promoter is but a liar whose ingenuity is such that by exaggeration he obtains money out of the public’s pockets to float his bubble concerns. It is difficult indeed nowadays to find an honest man in trade, and the professions are not much better off. Medicine is but too often quackery; the law has long been synonymous with swindling; parliamentary Honours are too often the satisfying of unbounded egotism; and the profession of the Church is more often than not followed by men to whom a genteel profession is a necessity, whose capabilities are not sufficient to enable them to enter journalism or literature, and who profess in the pulpit what they don’t practise in private life.”

She laughed again.

“That’s a sweeping condemnation,” she declared. “But there’s a great deal of truth in it. Trade is mostly dishonest, and the more clever the rogue the larger the fortune he amasses.”

“Yes,” I argued; “the man who has for years gained huge profits from the public—succeeded in hoodwinking them with some patent medicine, scented soap, or other commodity out of which he has made eighty per cent, profit—is put forward as the type of the successful business man. There is really no morality in trade in these days.”

“And this Mr Yelverton is actually curate of Duddington,” she said pensively. “Strange that he should go and bury himself down there, isn’t it?”

“He hasn’t been well,” I said. “Work in the slums has upset his health. He’s a good fellow. Not one of those who go in for the Church as an easy means of obtaining five or six hundred a year and a snug parsonage, but an earnest, devout man whose sole object is to do good among his fellow-creatures. Would that there were more of his sort about.”

Thus we chatted on. It seemed as though she knew more of Yelverton than she would admit, and that she had learned with surprise of his whereabouts.

Only once again, when she rose to go, I spoke to her of the great sorrow at my heart, and then alone with her in the silence of my room I implored her to reciprocate my love.

She stood motionless, allowing her hand to rest in mine, while I reiterated my declaration of affection. But when I had finished she withdrew her hand firmly, and with a negative gesture burst into tears.

I saw how agitated she was, how she trembled when her white hands came into contact with mine.

She tried to escape me, but I would not release her. Loving her as I did, I was determined that she should not slip away from me. Surely, I urged, I, her oldest friend, had a right to her rather than a stranger whom she had only known a few brief weeks. She was unjust to me.

Suddenly, while I was imploring earnestly that she would hesitate before thus casting my love aside, the clock of St. Martin’s struck the half-hour.

She glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece, exclaiming—

“See! It is half-past eleven! I must go at once. I shall be locked out now, as it is. I’ve been late so often recently. You know how strict our rules are.”

“But tell me that I may hope, Muriel. Only tell me that I may hope.”

“It is useless,” she answered hastily, twisting free her hand, and re-arranging her veil at the mirror. “I have told you. Let me go.”

“No, no! You shall not, unless you promise me. I love you, Muriel. You shall not pass out of my life like this.”

“It will be midnight before I get back,” she cried distressed. “I had no idea it was so late as this!”

“Your business matters not. To me your love is all—everything.”

She stood erect before me, statuesque, queenly, looking upon me with her dark-brown eyes, in which I thought I detected a glance of pity. But it was only for an instant. Her face suddenly grew hard and set. There was a look of firm determination, which told me that my hope could never be realised; that she had spoken the truth; that she loved another.

“Good-bye,” she said, in a voice half-choked with emotion, and as she put forth her hand I grasped it and pressed it to my lips.

“Good-bye, Muriel,” I murmured, with a bitterness felt in the depths of my soul. “But may I not go with you to your door?”

“No,” she responded, “I shall take a cab. Good-bye.”

And as the tears again rose in her eyes she turned and went out.

I heard Simes saluting her a moment later, then the outer door closed, and I sat motionless, staring before me fixedly. I had, during that afternoon, awakened to the fact that I loved her; but it was, alas! too late. Another had supplanted me in her affections.

She had left me hopeless, crushed, grief-stricken, and desolate.

Next day passed drearily, but on the next I sent Simes along to Madame Gabrielle’s with a note in which I asked Muriel to see me again, making an appointment to meet her at Frascati’s that evening. “Let me see you once more,” I wrote, “if for the last time. Do not refuse me, for I think always of you.”

In half an hour my man returned, and by his face I knew that something unusual had occurred.

He had my note still in his hand.

“Well,” I said inquiringly, “have you brought an answer?”

“Miss Moore is no longer there, sir,” he answered, handing me back the note.

“Not there?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“No, sir. I saw the head saleswoman, and she told me that the young lady was not now in their employ.”

“Not in their employ?” I echoed, starting up. “Has she left?”

“It appears, sir, that on Sunday night she broke one of the rules, which says that no assistant may be out after eleven o’clock. She arrived at midnight, and was yesterday morning instantly dismissed. They told me that she took her belongings and went away without scarcely uttering a word except to complain of the extremely harsh treatment she had received. The manager of the firm was, however, inexorable, for it appears that other assistants had constantly been breaking the rule, and only a week ago a serious warning was posted up in the dining-room. Miss Moore was therefore dismissed as an example to the others.”

“It’s infamous!” I cried. “Then no one knows where she now is?”

“No, sir. I made inquiries, but no one could tell me where I might probably find her. She was, they say, heartbroken at this treatment.”

I said nothing, but taking the note, slowly tore it into tiny fragments.

The woman I loved so well was now cast upon the pitiless world of London, without employment, without friends, and probably without money. Yet where to look for her I knew not.

By her manner when we had parted, I felt confident that her natural pride would not allow her to seek my assistance. She would, I knew, suffer in silence alone rather than allow me to help her.

When I thought of the harshness of this firm she had served so diligently and well, I grew furious. It was unjust to discharge a girl instantly and cast her on the world in that manner. It was infamous.

Chapter Fourteen.

Jack Yelverton’s Confession.

I went myself next morning and saw the manager of Madame Gabrielle, Limited, to demand an explanation. He was one of those frock-coated diviners of the depths of woman’s mind—a person of polite deportment and address, who, although expressing extreme regret at having “to part with the young lady,” nevertheless declared that it was impossible to carry on business if the rules were daily broken. The rules, he said, were framed in order that the establishment should be well conducted, and it was considered that eleven o’clock was quite late enough for any young female to be out in that neighbourhood.

I explained that it was entirely my fault, and that if I had known I would have called and apologised for her; but he merely raised his eyebrows and observed that the young lady had left, and the others had taken her summary dismissal as a salutary lesson. Inwardly I denounced him as a tyrannical taskmaster of the superior shop-walker class, and left with, I confess, very little good-feeling towards him. Muriel had long ago told me how on one occasion this man had attempted to kiss her, and she had smacked his face. He had now driven her out into the world at an instant’s notice, merely because of the vengeful dislike which still rankled within him.

Several weeks passed. The June sun shone brightly in the London streets, giving promise of near holidays to those toiling millions who twice each day hurry across the Thames bridges to and from their labours, and whose only relaxation is a week at Margate or at Southend. But from me all desire for life and gaiety had departed.

Though evening after evening I sought Muriel, and also wrote to her relatives at Stamford in an endeavour to discover her whereabouts, yet all was in vain. She had disappeared entirely.

The thought struck me that on leaving Madame Gabrielle’s she had perhaps immediately found another situation; but as the frock-coated manager had received no letter of inquiry about her that theory seemed scarcely feasible. More and more the circumstances puzzled me. When I reflected upon our conversation that Sunday afternoon in Bushey Park I was inclined to doubt her declaration that she knew nothing of the mysterious Aline. Again, her apparent fear and anxiety when I chanced to mention the death of poor Roddy was more than passing strange. That she had a minute knowledge of Aline’s visits to me was quite plain, therefore what more natural than that she should be aware of the extraordinary acquaintance between Roddy and that woman whose touch consumed. Sometimes I was inclined to believe that she was in possession of the true circumstances of my friend’s death; and at such moments the thought occurred to me that she, Muriel Moore, had been Roddy’s female visitor, who had called in his valet’s absence.

The thought was truly a startling one. Had she thus cast me aside because she feared me—because there was a terrible guilt upon her?

There was some inexplicable association between the fair-faced worker of evil, whom I knew as Aline Cloud, and this pure and honest woman whom I was ready to make my wife. Its nature was an enigma which drove me to despair in my constant efforts to solve it.

One morning, when in the depths of despair, I was sitting after breakfast idling over the newspaper, and wondering whether I could find Muriel by means of advertisement, Simes brought in a telegram, which summoned me at once to Tixover.

An hour later I left, and that afternoon arrived home to find that my father had been thrown from his horse, while riding towards Deene by a bridlepath, and was lying in a dangerous condition, with my old friend Dr Lewis, of Cliffe, and Dr Richardson, of Stamford, in attendance upon him. As may be imagined, my mother was in a state of terrible anxiety, and I at once telegraphed to my sister, who had left Beaulieu long before, and was now at Bournemouth. Next morning she arrived, but by that time my father had taken a turn for the better, and Dr Lewis, who was untiring in his attention, declared that the turning point was past and that he would recover. A good fellow was Lewis; a hardworking, careful, good-natured bachelor, who was known and respected throughout the whole countryside, because of his merry demeanour, the great pains he took with even the poorest, and the skill with which he treated one and all of his patients, from Countess to farm-labourer. Besides which, he was a remarkable whist player.

On the day of my arrival I feared the worst, but when I had been at Tixover for a day or two it was apparent that my father would recover, therefore all our spirits rose again, and one evening after dinner I went up to Mrs Walker’s to have a smoke with Yelverton.

He greeted me with the cordiality of the old days at Wadham as I was ushered in, produced the inevitable whiskey from the cupboard, and we settled down to chat.

He related to me the principal local events of the past month, but with the air of one who was already tired of rusticating.

I remarked upon his apparent apathy, and in reply he said—

“I regret that I left London. All my interests were centred there. It was only my health which compelled me to give it up. But I suppose I shall go back some day,” and he sighed and resumed the briar pipe he had been smoking when I entered.

On the table was a blotting-pad and some manuscript. He had tried that day to write his sermon, but was unable. He had been smoking and meditating instead.

“And as soon as you have got strong again you mean to leave us and go back to a London parish!” I exclaimed. “That’s too bad. I hear you are getting on famously here.”

“Getting on!” he repeated wearily. “Yes, and that’s about all. My work lies in London. I’m not fitted for a country parson, because I can’t be idle. I feel as if I must be always energetic; and too much energy on the part of a country curate generally causes his vicar annoyance. Many vicars think energy undignified.”

“But, my dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “if you’re not well—and I see you’re not well by your face and manner—why don’t you take things easily? You need not kill yourself, surely! London seems to have a remarkable attraction for you. Surely life is much healthier here.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he answered in a clear voice. “There is an attraction for me in London,” and he looked into my face with a curious expression.

“An attraction outside your work?” I suggested. He hesitated. Then, suddenly, he answered—

“Yes. Why need I conceal it from you, Clifton? It is a woman.”

“And you are in love?” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” he responded, in a low tone. “But, hush! Not so loud. No one must know it here.”

“Of course not. If you wish, it shall remain a secret with me,” I said. “Are you engaged?”

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I love her, but have not yet spoken. I will tell you the truth; then you can advise me,” and he paused. At last, continuing, he said: “When I joined the Church I made a solemn vow to God of celibacy; not because I hated women, but because I considered that my work, if done conscientiously, as I intended to do it, should be my sole thought. Mine is perhaps a rather extreme view, but I cannot think that a man can work for his Master with that thoroughness if he has a woman to love and cherish as when he is a bachelor and alone. Some may say that woman’s influence upon man is softening and humanising; but I hold that the man who is single can apply himself more devoutly to his fellow-creatures than he who has home ties and family affairs. Well, I took Holy Orders and set myself to work. I know I am not a brilliant preacher, nor have I that gift of self-advertisement which some men cultivate by lecturing with limelight views; but I do know that I strove to act as servant to the Master I had elected to serve, and the thanks of the grateful poor and the knowledge that more than one person had been brought to repentance by my words, were more than sufficient repayment for my efforts. Time went on, and I became deeply absorbed in my work in those foetid slums, until one day I chanced to meet a woman who in an instant entranced me by her beauty. She gave me but a passing glance, but her eyes kindled in my soul the fire of love. We men are, indeed, frail creatures, for in a moment all my good resolutions fell to the ground, and I felt myself devoted to her. We met again, and again. I admired her. I saw how beautiful she was, and then found myself thinking more of her than of the Master whom I was serving. True it is, as it is written, ‘No man can serve two masters,’” and he sighed heavily, and sat dejected, his chin upon his breast.

“And then?” I inquired.

“Some months went by,” he said. “She was aware how deeply I had the welfare of the poor in my parish at heart, and in order, I suppose, to please me, she enrolled herself as a helper. Instead of pleasing me, however, this action of hers caused me loathing. I saw that she had only done this in order to be nearer me; that her pretence of religious fervour was feigned, in order that her actions might not appear irregular to the outside world. Ours was a mutual love, yet no word of affection had ever passed our lips. But I could not bear to be a party to this masquerade. A woman who took up arduous duties like she did, merely because ‘slumming,’ as it was called, happened to be the fashionable craze of the moment, was in no way fitted to become the wife of one whose duty lay ever in the homes of the suffering and needy. I tried to shake off her acquaintance, to discourage her, to frighten her by exaggerated stories of infectious disease, but she would not listen. She was determined, she declared, ‘to work for the Church,’ and encouraged by the vicar, continued to do so. I strove to live down my increasing admiration for her, but could not. Time after time I treated her with unpardonable rudeness, but she merely smiled, and was more tenacious than ever, until at last, in sheer desperation, I resigned, and came here. Now you know all the truth, Clifton,” he added, in a lower tone. “I came down here to escape her!”

“And yet you are ready to again return to London—you want to get back again,” I observed.

“Ah! yes!” he sighed, the dark look still upon his face. “It is my test. I have to choose between love and duty.”

“And you choose the latter?”

“I am trying to do so. With God’s help I hope to succeed,” he answered, in a hoarse voice. “If love proves too strong, then I fall back to the level from which I have striven to rise—the level of the ordinary man.”

“But are you certain you were not mistaken in the object of the lady in joining the work in which you were engaged? May not she have been determined to become self-sacrificing in the holy cause, just as you were?”

“No,” he answered very decisively, “I cannot believe it. There were facts which were suspicious.”

“What kind of facts?”

“In various ways she betrayed her insincerity of purpose,” he answered. “Her friends were wealthy, and the vicar was acute enough to see that if she were encouraged she would bring additional funds to the church. But the poor themselves, always quick to recognise true sincerity, very soon discerned that she visited them without having their welfare at heart, and consequently imposed upon her.”

There was nothing sanctimonious or puritanical about Jack Yelverton. The words he uttered came direct from his faithful, honest heart.

“And yet you love her!” I remarked, amazed. “That’s just it. My admiration of her grace and beauty ripened into love before I was aware of it. I struggled against it, but became overwhelmed. Had she not feigned sincerity and taken up the work that I was doing, I should, I believe, have proposed marriage to her. But her action in trying to appear solicitous after the welfare of the sick, when I knew that her thoughts were all of the world, caused me a revulsion of feeling which ended in my resignation and escape.”

“Escape!” I echoed. “One would think that you had fled from some feared catastrophe.”

“I did fear a catastrophe,” he declared. “I feared that I should marry and become devoted to my wife, instead of to my Master. Ah! Clifton, mine is a strange, a very strange position. You may think my words extremely foolish, but you cannot understand the circumstances aright. If you did, you would see why I acted as I have done.”

“You acted quite wisely, I think,” said I. “None could blame you for seeking a country curacy in such circumstances. To be thus run after by a woman is positively sickening.”

“Ah, there you are mistaken!” he exclaimed quickly. “She didn’t run after me. It was I who, attracted by her beauty, showed her by my actions that I loved her. From the first it was my own fault entirely. I have only myself to reproach.”

“But you cannot actually reproach yourself, if you are still fond of her.”

“Fond of her? I adore her!” he cried. “I only wish I did not. Have I not told you how I’ve fought against this feeling? Yet what’s the use of striving against the deepest and most overwhelming passion in the world?”

“Could you not be happy with her, and yet live as upright, honest, and holy a life as you now do?” I suggested. “Does not the holy proverb say that a man who takes a wife obtains favour with the Lord?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But as I have explained, it is easier for the man to devote himself to religious work when he is single than when he has a wife to occupy his thoughts. He must neglect the one or the other. Of that I am convinced. Besides, I have vowed to God to serve Him alone, and with His assistance I will do so. I will!” and his hands clenched themselves in the fierceness of his words.

Next day I drove my sister into Stamford, and having put up at that well-known old hostelry, the George, she went to do some shopping while I sauntered forth determined to make what inquiries I could of Muriel’s whereabouts. All her relatives were in ignorance. One of them, an aunt, had received a brief note saying that she had left Madame Gabrielle’s, and would send her new address. But she had not done so. From place to place I went, ever with the same question upon my lips, but ever receiving a similar reply. Muriel was utterly lost to all, as to me.

About six o’clock we set out to drive home, but the dull day had culminated in wet, and our journey was in the teeth of a tempestuous wind which drove the rain full into our faces, and made us both very uncomfortable. We had passed Worthorpe, and were halfway towards Colly Weston, on the high road to Duddington, when we approached a female figure in a black mackintosh cape, with difficulty holding her umbrella in the boisterous wind. She was walking towards Stamford, and my sister catching sight of her as we rapidly approached, said—

“I hope that woman is enjoying it.”

It was already half dark, and the road was ankle-deep in mud, yet she strode on determinedly, heedless of the rough weather, and bent upon reaching the town before night fell entirely. At that part of the road it is flat and open—straight across a highway cut years ago through the Rockingham forest, which covered that part of the country, but the land is now divested of trees and cultivated.

Her face was set straight in the direction of Stamford, and with her umbrella held down firmly she did not notice our approach until just as we passed and our high wheels spattered her with mud. She drew her umbrella aside in surprise and looked up.

In an instant we had left her behind, but in that brief space of time I recognised her.

There could be no mistaking that face. It was a countenance which, once seen, rivetted itself upon the memory for ever because of its wondrous loveliness.

It was Aline Cloud.

Quickly I glanced back, but it was evident that with my hat drawn down over my eyes, and my collar turned up I was sufficiently disguised to escape recognition. She did not turn, but trudged on through the mud towards the town far across the valley, where the distant lights were already beginning to glimmer.

I was utterly mystified; and the more so when, a quarter of an hour later, just as we turned the sharp corner to descend the hill into Duddington, we overtook and wished good evening to Jack Yelverton, who was striding along in our direction.

He started suddenly, laughed nervously when I hailed him, and then kept on his way.

Had he walked from Stamford, I wondered.

But next second the suspicion grew upon me that he had kept a secret appointment somewhere on that bleak open road, and that the person he had met was Aline, the Woman of Evil.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Strange Assertion.

The look of combined alarm and surprise which Jack’s face betrayed was sufficient to convince me of the truth. Aline was the woman from whom he had fled; and she had visited him secretly. She had, it was apparent, discovered his whereabouts, and rather than excite gossip by coming to call upon him in the village, had met him clandestinely at some point on the high road halfway between Stamford and Duddington.

Then I reflected upon all that he had told me on the previous night; of how fondly he loved her, and of the curious dread in which he held her. Were not my own experiences more extraordinary than those of mortal man? Were not the changes wrought in my rooms by her influence little short of miraculous?

Aline Cloud, although the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, possessed a potency for the working of evil that was appalling. When I thought of it I shuddered.

Perhaps Jack Yelverton had discovered this. Perhaps he, a clergyman, a worker in the holy cause, had found out what evil influences emanated from her, and on that account had held aloof. He had told me plainly that he had come there to escape her. Did not that prove that he had discovered, what I, too, had found out, that her influence was alluring, that in her hand she held the golden apple?

He had been entranced by her beauty, but fortunately her witchery had not been sufficient to allure him to his ruin. I remembered when, in a moment of madness, I had declared my love to her, how she had told me she could not reciprocate it. What more likely then, that she loved Jack Yelverton?

That night I sat alone thinking it all over in the small, old-fashioned sitting-room which had been my own den before I had left to live in London. What, perhaps, puzzled me most of all was the fact that Muriel possessed such intimate knowledge of Aline’s actions and of my brief period of madness; and somehow I could not get rid of a vague feeling that she was aware of the truth concerning poor Roddy’s sad end.

Oppressed by the knowledge of a terrible truth which he had sworn not to divulge, and hiding from a woman whom he feared, Jack Yelverton was in as strange a position as myself; therefore next day I called upon him to give him an opportunity of telling me how this woman had at last discovered him.

He, however, said nothing; and when I incidentally expressed my intention of returning to London, and a hope that his whereabouts would still remain a secret from the person whom he did not wish to meet, he merely smiled sadly, saying—

“Yes. I hope she won’t discover me. If she does—well, I must move again. Should I disappear suddenly you will know the cause, old fellow.”

These words caused me to doubt the truth of my surmise. His manner was as though he had not kept the appointment, as I had suspected, and indeed I had no absolute knowledge that Aline and this woman whom he held in fear were one and the same person. Thus I left him with my mind in a state of indecision and bewilderment.

I knew not what to think.

Through the close, stifling days of July and August I remained in London with but one object, namely, that of finding Muriel. She had disappeared completely, and with some object; for she had not only hidden herself from me, but also from her nearest relatives.

Through those hot, dusty days, which, in former years, I had spent at Tixover, I pursued my inquiries in the various drapery establishments at Holloway, Peckham, Brixton, Kensington, and other shopping centres, but with no result. She had not written to any of the “young ladies” at Madame Gabrielle’s, and none knew her whereabouts.

Yet the unexpected always happens. Just as I was about to give up my search and return to Tixover to get fresh air, for August and September are pleasant months in the Midlands, I chanced one afternoon to be crossing Ludgate Circus, from Ludgate Hill to Fleet Street, when I suddenly overtook a figure that seemed familiar.

I started, drew back in hesitation for a moment, and then approached and raised my hat.

It was Aline Cloud.

“You!” she gasped, paling slightly as she recognised me.

“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m not so very formidable, am I?”

“No,” she laughed, in an instant recovering her self-possession as she took my hand. “Only you startled me.”

I remarked upon the lapse of time since we had met, and in response she answered—

“Yes. I’ve been away.”

I recollected her visit to Stamford, but said nothing, resolving to mention it later. It was about four o’clock, and in order to chat to her I invited her to take tea. At first she was unwilling, making a couple of vague excuses and contradicting herself in her confusion; but as I hailed a cab and it drew up to the kerb she saw that all further effort to avoid me was unavailing, and accompanied me.

During the first few moments of our meeting she had apparently been inclined to treat me with some disdain, but by the time we arrived at my chambers she was laughing lightly, as though the encounter gave her gratification.

She was dressed with more style and taste than before. Her costume, of some thin, bluish-grey stuff, was made in a style which few London dressmakers could achieve, and its ornamentation, although daring, was nevertheless extremely tasteful, and suited her great beauty admirably.

As she stood in my sitting-room pulling off her gloves I thought that she seemed even more strikingly beautiful than on the first night we had met, for her perfectly-fitting dress showed off her well-rounded figure, and her cream gauzy veil, drawn tight beneath her pointed chin, added a softness to her face which rendered it bewitching.

As her bright eyes fell upon me and her full red lips parted in a smile, I could scarcely bring myself to believe that this was actually the woman whose evil influence was nothing short of supernatural, the woman whose mission in the world was to supplant evil for good, and whose every action was enveloped in mystery impenetrable.

She lifted her veil and placed her delicate nose to the large bowl of red roses on the table. In summer our gardener sent me a box twice weekly, and as she sniffed their odour, I remarked—

“They are from Tixover—my father’s place. It’s near Duddington, on the Northamptonshire border. Do you know that country?”

“No,” she responded quickly. “But the flowers are delicious.”

I saw that she had no intention of admitting her visit to Stamford. There was a strange, indescribable fascination about her. She raised her veil, and turning to the mirror re-arranged her hair coquettishly with both her hands. Then, as her deep blue eyes again fell upon me calmly I felt that they penetrated to my very soul. The sunlight struggling through the smoke-dimmed windows fell upon her, enveloping her head in a halo of golden light, while the flashing of gems caught my eyes, and I saw upon her fingers two magnificent rings, one of rubies and the other of diamonds.

On the first occasion we had met she had been dressed shabbily, without any display of artistic taste, while to-day she presented a graceful, lady-like appearance, her richness of costume being devoid of that loudness which too often detracts from a woman’s natural chic.

Simes brought in the tea, and seated in my armchair she took her cup and laughed gaily to me as she sipped it, declaring that at the moment we had met she had been contemplating entering a tea-shop, for she could not exist without a cup at four o’clock. The majority of men in London can usually go from luncheon to dinner on a whiskey and soda, but I must confess myself fond of tea. Therefore we took it in company, laughing and chatting the while. She appeared perfectly at ease, and our conversation was that of old acquaintance, until, when Simes had gone, I looked straight into her face, and boldly said—

“Aline, tell me truthfully. Why did you deceive me so?”

She met my gaze with a strange, determined look, answering—

“Deceived you! I am not aware that I have done so!”

“You told me that you lived with Mrs Popejoy in Hampstead,” I said.

“And it was the truth. When I told you that, I did live there.”

That was so. She had spoken the truth, and my accusation was so unjust that I was compelled to mutter an apology.

“But many things have occurred since we last met,” I went on. “One event especially has happened which has oppressed and utterly bewildered me.”

“What was that?”

“My friend, Roddy Morgan, is dead.”

“I am aware of that,” she responded, her face in an instant deathly pale. Although she possessed powers which no other human being possessed, she nevertheless was now and then unable to control herself sufficiently to preserve a perfect calm. In this alone did she betray that she was, like myself, of the flesh. Yet when I reflected how things withered at her touch, and how objects dissolved as beneath a magician’s wand, I had often been inclined to believe that she was the incarnation of the Evil One in the form of a beautiful woman.

It was this feeling which again crept upon me as I sat there in her presence, noting her extreme loveliness. I did not love her now. No; I held her rather in fear and hatred. Yet she was still the most strikingly beautiful woman in all the world.

“Then you know how my friend died?” I said, in a rather meaning voice.

“It was in the newspapers,” she responded. “I saw by them that you gave evidence.”

I nodded in the affirmative, then said—

“You were here on that fatal morning, and you then told me a fact which has puzzled me ever since, namely, that my poor friend committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before. Do you not think you were mistaken, when you recollect that he died only half an hour after you left me?”

“What I told you was the truth,” she replied. “I was present when he took his own life.”

“At Monte Carlo?”

“At Monte Carlo!”

“Well, how do you account for the fact that for six or seven months afterwards he was here, in London, occupying his seat in the House of Commons, and mixing with his friends, when, if what you say is truth, he was then lying in a grave in the suicides’ cemetery at La Turbie?”

“I do not attempt to reason,” she responded, in a voice which sounded so strange that it appeared far distant, while the cup she still held was shaken by a slight tremor. “I only tell you the true facts. It was myself who identified your friend, and gave his name to the Administration of the Casino.”

“And you say he killed himself because he lost everything?”

“That is what I surmise. Those who have good fortune at the tables do not generally seek the last extremity.”

“But I knew nothing of his visit there. Even his man was in ignorance,” I said. “I cannot help thinking that there must be some mistake. It must have been a man who resembled him.”

“I know that he went to the Riviera secretly.”

“Why?”

“Because he had devised some system which, like many others before him, he felt certain must result in large winnings, and he did not tell his friends his intentions lest they might jeer at him. He went; he lost; and he killed himself!”

“But he lived in London afterwards!” I protested. “I saw him dozens of times—dined with him, played billiards with him, and was visited here by him. He could not possibly have been dead at the time!”

“But he was dead!” she declared. “Strange though it may seem, I am ready to swear in any court of law that I was present when Roderick Morgan, the member for South-West Sussex, committed suicide in the Salle Mauresque at Monte Carlo. That fact can no doubt be established in two ways: first, by the register of deaths, and secondly, by exhumation of the body.”

“But when Roddy was here in London, dining, smoking, and talking with me, how can I believe that he was already dead?”

“It was for a brief space that he came back to his own home,” she responded, in that same far-away voice, turning her eyes full upon me. “And did not life leave him suddenly, in a manner which has since remained a mystery?”

“No,” I answered determinedly, my mind fully made up. “Not altogether a mystery. The police have discovered many things.”

“The police!” she gasped. “What have they discovered?”

“They do not generally tell the public the result of their investigations,” I answered. “But they have found out that he received a visitor clandestinely half an hour before his death, and further, that he was murdered.”

“Murdered!” she exclaimed, with an uneasy glance and stirring in her chair. “Do they suspect any one?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They suspect his visitor; and they have discovered that this mysterious person who came to see him immediately before his death was a woman!”

Her lips compressed until they became white and bloodless, and the light died from her countenance. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to utter sound, and she covered her confusion by placing her teacup upon the table.

“Have they found out who it was who called upon him?” she inquired at last, in a low, faltering voice.

“They have a strong suspicion,” I said firmly. “And they are resolved that the one responsible for his death shall be brought to justice.”

“There is no proof that he was murdered,” she declared quickly.

“Neither is there any proof that he died from natural causes,” I argued. Then I added, “Was it not strange, Aline, that you should actually have told me of my friend’s death on the very morning that he died?”

“It was certainly a very remarkable coincidence,” she faltered; after a pause adding: “If he has been murdered, as you suspect, I hope the police will not fail to discover the author of the crime.”

“But you declared that Roddy was already dead!” I cried, dumbfounded.

“Certainly!” she answered. “I still maintain the truth of my statement.”

“Then you do not believe he was murdered?”

She shrugged her shoulders without replying.

For an instant I gazed into those eyes which had once held me spell-bound, and said—

“The truth is already known to the police. Roddy Morgan was murdered by a woman, swiftly, silently, and in a manner which showed firm determination and devilish cunning. You may rest assured that she will not escape.”

She started. Her face was blanched to the lips, and she sat before me rigid, open-mouthed, speechless.

Chapter Sixteen.

Rocks among Pebbles.

Her attitude convinced me of her guilt, yet what conclusive proof had I? None—absolutely none.

“Your photograph was found in his rooms. I found it myself,” I said.

“Does that prove that I am untruthful?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows quickly.

I recollected the glove-button. But the gloves she wore were new ones, and all the buttons were intact.

There was a ring of truth in her denials, yet I was unconvinced. I saw in her answers careful evasion of my questions. First, I myself had found poor Roddy dead, and that he had committed suicide six months before seemed to me but a silly tale. Secondly, her strange actions were suspicious. Thirdly, her curious association with Muriel seemed coupled with the latter’s disappearance, and her clandestine visit to Jack Yelverton intensified the mystery in its every detail.

“Of course, the mere finding of a photograph is no proof that you had met Roddy for six months,” I admitted, recollecting Ash’s statement that he had never seen her visit his master.

“Then why suspect me?” she asked, in a tone of reproach.

“I have expressed no suspicion,” I said, as calmly as I could. “My surprise and doubt are surely pardonable under these curious circumstances—are they not?”

“Certainly!” she responded. “Nevertheless during our acquaintance I have, you must admit, been as open with you as I have dared. You professed your love for me,” she went on ruthlessly, “but I urged you to hesitate. Was I not frank with you when I told you plainly that we could never be lovers?”

I nodded in the affirmative, and sighed when I recollected my lost Muriel.

“Then why do you charge me with deception?” she asked, stretching out her tiny foot neat in its suède shoe, and contemplating it. She seemed nervous and hasty, yet determined to get to the bottom of my suspicions and so ascertain the depth of my knowledge of the truth.

Detecting this, I resolved to act with discretion and diplomacy. Only by the exercise of consummate tact could I solve this enigma.

“Deception!” I said. “You must admit that you are deceiving me by concealing the truth of who and what you are!”

“That is scarcely a polite speech,” she observed, toying with the lorgnette suspended from her neck by a long chain of gold with turquoises set at intervals. “What do you suspect me to be?” and she laughed lightly.

“According to your own confession,” I responded, “you are possessed of an influence which is baneful; you are a worker of mysterious evil; a woman whose contact is as venom, whose touch is blasting as fire!”

“No! no!” she cried, starting up wildly and putting out her hands in imploring attitude. “I have done you no wrong—I swear I have not! Spare me your reproaches. A guilt is upon me—a terrible guilt, I admit—but I have at least spared you. I warned you in time, and you escaped!”

“Then you are guilty!” I cried quickly, half-surprised at her sudden confession. But, turning her eyes upon me as she stood, she answered—

“Yes, I am guilty of a deadly sin—a sin that is terrible, awful, and unforgivable before God—yet, it is not what you suspect. I swear I had no hand in the death of your friend.”

“But you can reveal the truth to me!” I cried. “You shall tell me!” I added fiercely, as I approached her.

“No,” she panted, drawing back, “it is impossible. I—I cannot.”

She was confused, pale and flushed by turns, and terribly agitated. I saw by her attitude she was not speaking the truth. I was convinced that, even then, she lied to me. Because of that I grew furious.

“If you were innocent you would not fear to explain all you know,” I cried in anger. “In every detail you attempt to baffle me, but you shall do so no longer.”

She smiled a strange, tantalising smile, and leaning against the edge of the table assumed an easy attitude.

“Is it not the truth that you are a mystery to every one?” I went on heedlessly, at that instant recollecting the conversation between herself and the stranger in Hyde Park. “Is it not the truth that your character is such that, if the people of London knew its true estimate, you would be mobbed and torn limb from limb?”

She started, glaring at me quickly in fear.

“This denunciation is very amusing,” she said, with a forced laugh.

“Amusing!” I cried. “I have not forgotten how your presence here had the effect of reducing sacred objects to ashes; I have not forgotten your own confession to me that you were a worker of iniquity, a woman endowed with an irresistible devastating force—the force of hell itself!”

“And even though I confessed to you, you now charge me with deception,” she answered in a strained tone. “You offered me your love, but I was self-denying, and urged you to forget me and love Muriel Moore, who was as pure and upright as I am wanton and sinful. Did you take my advice?”

“Yes,” I answered, a trifle more calmly. “But she is now lost to me.”

“I am aware of that,” she responded. “You tarried too long ere you declared your affection.”

“Then you know her whereabouts?” I cried eagerly. “Tell me.”

But she shook her head, answering—

“No, we are no longer friends after this denunciation you have to-day uttered. You suspect me of being a murderess; therefore I leave you to assist yourself.”

“Do you actually know where she is and refuse to tell me?” I cried.

“Certainly,” she responded. “There is no reason why her happiness should be again disturbed.”

In an instant a fierce vengeance swept through my brain. This woman was of the flesh, for she stood there before me, her beauty heightened by the flush that had risen to her cheeks, her pale lips quivering with an uncontrollable anxiety which had taken possession of her, yet she was more cruel, more relentless, more ingenious in the working of evil, more resistless and invincible in her diabolical power, than any other person on the earth. All the strength, all the influence, all the ruling power possessed by Satan himself was centred within her.

I looked at the evil light in her eyes. She was, indeed, the incarnation of the Evil One.

“You hold the secret of Muriel’s hiding-place and refuse to tell me; you openly defy me; therefore I am at liberty to act in whatever manner pleases me—am I not?”

“Certainly,” she answered, slowly twisting her rings around her finger.

“Then listen,” I said. “You told me once that you could not love me because you loved another. You spoke the truth, for since then that fact has been proved. Some time ago a man, honest and upright, who on account of his religious convictions had resolved to give himself up to labour in the interests of the poor, accepted a curacy in a poor London parish. He worked there, striving night and day, denying himself rest and the comforts he could well afford in order that the sufferings of a few might be alleviated. Into foul dens where people slept on mouldy mattresses upon the floor, where ofttimes a paraffin lamp was placed in the empty grate in place of a fire, and where hunger and dirt bred disease, this man penetrated and distributed food and money, endearing himself to those dregs of humanity, often the scum of the gaols, by his untiring efforts, his justice, and his kindness of heart. Men who were known to the police as desperate characters welcomed him and were tractable enough beneath his influence. He never sought to cram religion down their throats, for he knew that at first they would have none of it. So he went to work to first gain their hearts, and succeeded so completely that many a confession of crime was in the silence of those bare rooms whispered into his ear by one who was repentant.”

I paused and glanced at her. Her arms had fallen to her sides; she was standing motionless as a statue.

“While pursuing this good work—work undertaken without any thought of the laudation of his fellow-men—there came into that man’s life a woman. She came to tempt him from the path of righteousness, to dazzle his eyes with her beauty, and to absorb his love. He saw himself on the verge of a fatal fascination, an entrancement which would inevitably cause him to break his vow to God; and relinquishing his work for a time, he fled from her secretly. He wished to avoid her; for although he loved her, he knew that she had been sent into his life by the Tempter to rend and destroy him, for he, alas! knew too well that the evil influences in the world are far more potent than the good, and that the godly are as rocks among the pebbles of the sea.”

I paused. Again our eyes met.

“And the rest?” she asked hoarsely, in a low voice.

“You know the rest, Aline,” I said. “You know that the name of that man was John Yelverton, and that the woman of evil was yourself, Aline Cloud. You have no need to inquire of me.”

“How did you know?” she gasped, trembling.

“That matters not,” I replied, in as calm a tone as I could. “Suffice it to know that I have knowledge of the truth.”

“And you know my lover?”

“He is one of my oldest friends,” I answered. “He fled from you, but by your devilish ingenuity you discovered him and sought him out in the remote village where he had hidden himself. You travelled from London, and he was compelled to meet you clandestinely out upon the high road. By the evil spell you have cast upon him you are now hoping that he will return to London.”

“And if I am?” she inquired, with a sudden boldness.

“If you are, then you may at once give up all hope that he will still remain your lover,” I answered firmly. “When I have told him of the truth he will hate you with the same hatred in which he holds the Evil One.”

“What, then, do you intend telling him?” she inquired.

“He is my friend, as Roddy Morgan was,” I answered. “The latter died mysteriously under circumstances which were undoubtedly known to you, and I have resolved that John Yelverton shall not suffer at your hands.”

“I do not intend that he should suffer!” she cried quickly. “I love him. I will be his helpmate, his adviser, his protector. I confess to you that I love him with as great an affection as I can love anything on earth.”

“Did you not tell me once that even though you might love, your influence must nevertheless necessarily be that of evil?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “The baneful power I possess is not of my own seeking. I suppress it so that it may not injure him.”

“This mysterious power of yours injured poor Roddy. You cannot deny that,” I cried.

She sighed, but made no answer. Her thin hands were clenched; she was desperate.

“Yelverton knows nothing of your inexplicable potency for the working of evil. But he must—he shall know.”

“He will not believe you!” she cried defiantly. “You may tell him what you choose, but it cannot alter the love between us.”

“Not if I prove that you were responsible for Roddy Morgan’s death—that it was you who visited him during his valet’s absence?”

In an instant she grew pale as death, and stood there quivering in fear. Her defiance had given place to abject terror, and she dared not utter a word lest she should betray herself. Holding her in suspicion, as I did, I was quick to note the slightest wavering, to detect the least fear as expressed in her flawlessly beautiful countenance.

“You may make whatever allegation you think fit,” she responded, in a harsh tone. “It makes no difference. The man who loves me will not heed you.”

“But he shall!” I cried, in anger. “I will not allow him to be victimised as poor Roddy was. Your very words betray you!” I burst forth again. “When you allege that he committed suicide six months before he died in London you lie!”

“I have spoken the truth,” she answered, meeting my gaze with a calmness which seemed incredible. “Some day, perhaps, you will have proof.”

“Why may not proof be given me now?” I demanded. “Why cannot you explain all, and end this mystery?”

“It is impossible.”

“Impossible!” I cried. “Nonsense! You seek to conceal your evil deeds beneath a cloak of improbabilities, and fancy I am sufficiently credulous to believe them!”

“Surely heated argument is useless,” she observed. “I love a man who is your friend, and you love a woman who is mine. Plainly speaking, our interests are identical, are they not? Your love is in hiding. She had a reason for fleeing from you, just as my lover’s religious views caused him to endeavour to escape me. He knew me not, or he would not have endeavoured to hide himself from me. You, who know me better, are aware that from me there is no escape; that I spare not my enemies nor those who hate me. Before my touch men and things wither as grass cast into an oven.”

“True, I love Muriel,” I said. “She is in hiding, and you, if you will, can direct me to where she is.” Aline, the mysterious handmaiden of evil, paused. Her full breast rose beneath her thin summer bodice and fell slowly, and for an instant her well-arched brows were knit as she thought deeply.

“Yes,” she answered at length. “Your surmise is correct. I am aware where your love has concealed herself.”

“Little escapes you,” I observed, a strange feeling of terror creeping over me. “Sin is always more powerful than righteousness, and cunning more invincible than honesty of purpose. Why will you not impart to me the knowledge that I seek, and tell me where I may find Muriel? As you have very truly said, our interests are identical. I am ready to make any compact with you, in return for your assistance.”

“Very well,” she answered quickly, with a little undue eagerness, I thought. Then, fixing me again with her eyes, she said: “Once you gave yourself to me body and soul and implored me to love you. But I spurned you—not because I entertained any affection for you, but for the sake of the one woman who loved you—Muriel Moore.”

“Then you knew Muriel?” I interrupted quickly, in an endeavour to at least clear up that single fact.

“No,” she answered, “I did not know her. A reader of the heart, I was, however, aware that she was madly enamoured of you, therefore I was frank enough to urge you to reciprocate her love, and thus obtain felicity. Well, she has hidden herself from you, but you shall find her on one condition—namely, that you render yourself passive in my hands—that you give yourself entirely to me.”

“What do you mean?” I gasped, holding back instinctively and glaring at her. “Are you the Devil himself that you should make this proposal which in the mediaeval legend Mephistopheles made to Faust?”

“My intentions are of no concern,” she responded, in a strange voice like one speaking afar off. “Will you, or will you not accept my conditions?”

“But to give myself to you when I love another is impossible!” I protested.

“I make this demand not in any spirit of coquetry,” she replied. “That you should be mine, body and soul, is necessary, in order that you should preserve the silence which is imperative.”

“To put it plainly you desire, in return for the service you will render me, that I should utter no word to your lover of my suspicions?” I said, gradually grasping her meaning.

Again the glint of evil seemed to shine from those blue eyes, which changed their hue with every humour.

“Exactly,” she answered, her slim fingers nervously twisting the golden chain of her lorgnette. “But you must become mine, to do as I bid and act entirely as I direct,” she declared. “Unless you give me your word of honour to do this there can be no agreement between us. Remember that your silence will be for our mutual benefit, for I shall remain happy while you will gain the woman you love.”

For a single moment only I hesitated. But one thought was in my mind, that of Muriel. At all costs I felt that I must discover her, for her disappearance had driven me to distraction. Never before had I known what it really was to love, or the blankness that falls upon a man when the woman he adores has suddenly gone out of his life. I may have been foolish, nay, I knew I was; nevertheless, in the sudden helplessness that was upon me, I turned and answered—

“I am ready to do as you wish.”

Next instant I held my breath, and the perspiration broke forth upon my brow when I realised that my great love for Muriel had led me into an abyss of evil. Heedless of the dire consequences which must follow, I had flung myself into the toils of this mysterious woman whom I held in fear; a woman whose very touch was sacrilegious, and who was more fiendish than human in her delights and hates.

“Then it is agreed,” she said in that strange voice which had several times impressed me so. “Henceforth you are mine, to do my bidding. Recollect that passive obedience is absolutely essential. If I command you will obey passively, without seeking to inquire the reason, without heed of the difference between good and evil. Do you agree to such conditions?” she inquired in deep earnestness.

“Yes,” I responded, my mouth dry and parched. This speech of hers convinced me that she was possessed of some superhuman power which was as subtle as it was mysterious.

“Then having entered into the compact with me, first seek not to discover who or what I am. Secondly, say no word to my lover of the things you have seen or of your suspicions regarding me; and thirdly, rest confident that what I have told you regarding your friend Morgan’s suicide is the absolute truth. Seek not to argue,” she went on, noticing my intention to interrupt; “remain in patience.”

“But where shall I discover Muriel?”

She hesitated in thought.

“You wish to see her to-night—eh?” she inquired. Then, after a pause, she added: “Well, to-night if you go to Aldersgate Street Station, and remain in the booking-office, you will meet her there at nine o’clock.”

“How do you know her movements so intimately?”

I asked in wonderment.

But she only smiled mysteriously. If it were the truth, as I now felt convinced, that she was possessor of a power supernatural, there was surely nothing strange in her knowledge of the actions of those beyond her range of vision. Had she not already told me that she was “a reader of hearts?”

Suddenly she glanced at the clock, declaring that it was time she went, drew on her gloves and re-arranged her veil.

As she stood ready to go I asked her for her address. But she only said that such knowledge was unnecessary, and if she wished to see me she would call.

Thus she left, and I stood again unmanned and undecided, just as I had been when she had left me on the last occasion, only I had now rendered myself helpless and passive in her hands.

I tried to shake off the gruesome thoughts which crept over me, but found myself unable. Already I seemed pervaded by a spirit of evil. The miasma of Hell was upon me.

That night I went eagerly forth to the Aldersgate Street Station of the Underground Railway. Time after time I passed through the booking-office, and out upon the long balcony whence the stairs lead down to the platform, until, almost on the stroke of nine, I caught sight of the woman I loved, neatly dressed, but a trifle worn and pale.

I dashed up to greet her, but next second drew back.

She was not alone. A man was with her, and in an instant I recognised him.

It was the thin, shabby-genteel man whom I had seen with Aline in the Park—the man who had urged her to commit some crime the reason of which was a mystery.

She was laughing at some words her companion had uttered, and brushing past me unnoticed took his arm as she descended the stairs, worn slippery by the tramp of the million wearied feet.

I hesitated in amazement. This shabby scoundrel was her lover. She had preferred him to me. A great jealousy arose within me, and next moment I rushed after them down the stairs.

Chapter Seventeen.

After Business Hours.

Almost at the same instant a train emerged from the tunnel and stopped at the platform. Following close behind Muriel and her companion, unnoticed among the crowd of foot-passengers, I saw them enter a third-class compartment; therefore in order to discover my love’s hiding-place, I sprang into another compartment a little farther off.

At King’s Cross they alighted, and it suddenly occurred me that the woman whom Ash had been sent by his master to meet at the Great Northern terminus might have been Muriel herself.

The pair ascended to the street, and after standing on the kerb for a few moments entered a tram car, while I climbed on top. I had been careful that Muriel should not detect me, and now felt a certain amount of satisfaction in tracking her to her abode, although I confess to a fierce jealousy of this shabby, miserable specimen of manhood who accompanied her. Up the Caledonian Road to the junction of Camden Road with Holloway Road they travelled, alighting in the latter road, and walking slowly along, still deep in earnest conversation, until they came to the row of shops owned by Spicer Brothers, a firm of drapers of that character known in the trade as a “cutting” house, or one who sold goods at the lowest possible price. It was, of course, closed at that hour, but its exterior was imposing, one of those huge establishments which of late years have sprung up in the various residential centres of London.