Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Fifteen.Beneath the Rouge.In no mood to participate in the gaiety, I went to the library and wrote a long telegram which I addressed to “Harding, Hotel Trombetta, Turin,” explaining that if he feared arrest for any crime his fears were groundless, as no warrant was out, and urging him to return to Dora if only for a few days. This I despatched by my own man to Gretton station, to be transmitted the first thing in the morning. Afterward I again sought Mabel.When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and as she sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, she regarded me, I think, with some little surprise.“Well,” she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguised expression of amusement, “why all this secrecy? Don’t you think it would be best if we allowed the door to be open?”“No, Mabel,” I answered. “What I am about to utter is for no other ears than yours.”She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath the faint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, she recovered her self-possession and declared that she was all attention. She was always an admirable actress.“We have been friends, Mabel, for many years, and this fact allows me to speak with greater freedom,” I said, seating myself carelessly upon the edge of the table before her. “To-night I have made a discovery. I discovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who—”“And you overheard!” she gasped, starting to her feet. “You—you listened to what I said?”“I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither your enemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I assure you, is in safe keeping.”Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly into the dying fire.“You will remember,” I continued, “that you introduced me to young Sternroyd, the man who is missing—the man who has been murdered.”“Murdered? How do you know?” she snapped.I saw I had nearly betrayed my knowledge, but quickly correcting myself I said: “Murdered, according to your belief. Well, it strikes me as curious that you should take such an intensely keen interest in the missing man; that you have thought fit to urge the police to arrest my friend, Captain Bethune; nay, that you yourself should employ a private detective to watch his movements. When you told me, on the occasion on which you introduced us, that Sternroyd was a protégé of your husband’s, you lied to me!”She frowned, bit her lip, but no word escaped her. “Fyneshade knows no more of Sternroyd than he does of this man whom you have met in the garden to-night,” I continued. “Therefore, when the mystery surrounding the young man’s disappearance is cleared up, no doubt it will make some exceedingly interesting matter for the newspapers.”“You insinuate that I love Sternroyd!” she cried, starting up again suddenly, and facing me with a look of defiance. “Well, all I can say is, Mr Ridgeway, that you are very much mistaken in your surmise. You are quite at liberty to go to my husband and explain the circumstances under which you were introduced to Gilbert. Tell him that Gilbert was my lover, and see what he says,” she added laughing.“If he were not your lover I scarcely think you would take so much trouble to ascertain his present whereabouts,” I observed with sarcasm.“He is not my lover, I say,” she cried angrily. “I hated and detested him. It is not love that prompts me to search for his assassin.”I smiled incredulously, saying: “Your denial is but natural. If it is not love that causes you to seek the truth regarding Sternroyd’s disappearance, what is it?”“I refuse to answer any such impertinent question,” she replied haughtily. “I am absolute mistress of my own actions, and my husband alone has a right to inquire my reasons.”“Very well,” I said calmly, surprised at her denial and sudden defiance. “I have no desire whatever to ascertain facts that you desire to conceal; on the other hand, you must admit that I have acted quite openly in telling you that I overheard your conversation with your strange visitor, who, if I am not mistaken, I have met before.”“Where?” she answered quickly.“Have you already forgotten that evening at old Thackwell’s, where you met him with a thin, scraggy girl in pink?” I asked. “On that occasion you were deeply embittered against him, and urged me to avoid him. You said that you knew him ‘once.’ I presume your friendship has now been resumed?”“Only because it has been imperative,” she declared, speaking mechanically, her face hard set and haggard.“But is he a desirable acquaintance for a woman like yourself, whose every action is chronicled by Society gossips, and who is surrounded by jealous women who would ruin your reputation if only they had half a chance?”“I do not seek him,” she answered. “He comes to me because my interests are his.”“In what direction?”“I cannot tell you. It is really unfair to ask. You are aware of my acquaintance with this man, and I merely tell you that it is absolutely compulsory.”She was standing before me, with jewels upon her neck and arms flashing in the lamplight, one of the handsomest of women, yet upon her face was a wild and wearied expression such as I had never before seen. Assuredly some great and terrible secret lay hidden in her heart. “I heard you mention to your friend that Jack Bethune once knew a woman—a woman named Sybil. Who was she?” I asked at last.“Sybil! Sybil!” she repeated, with a puzzled look, as if trying to recall the conversation. “Oh, yes! you mean Sybil Houston.”“Who was she?”“The daughter of a retired naval officer, I believe. I never met her, but I understood that she acted as Jack’s amanuensis. She was, however, engaged to some impossible person or other, whom she married.”“Are you sure he knew no other woman named Sybil?” I asked eagerly.“My dear Mr Ridgeway, however should I know? Jack did not tell me all his little affairs of the heart, for, remember, I am Dora’s sister, and he feared probably that I might tell her,” and she gave vent to a harsh, discordant laugh.I remembered, with a sudden pang, that the letter I had discovered was undoubtedly in my dead bride’s handwriting, and felt half inclined to disbelieve her; yet she had spoken so frankly that it seemed as though she had told all she knew. It was only her strange laugh, almost hysterical, that aroused doubts within me.“If anyone should know something of Jack Bethune’s female friends it is yourself. I know you are his confidant,” she added.“He has no female friends now but Dora,” I observed, “and he loves her dearly.”“Yes, I know, but they must both see the absurdity of it all,” she said petulantly. “They can never marry, so I cannot see why Dora should trouble her head about him. I declare she has been going about looking quite pale and wretched during the past week. People are beginning to talk.”“And why can’t they marry?” I asked.“We’ve discussed the question before,” she replied impatiently. “First, he hasn’t sufficient money, for Dora would ruin him in a year; secondly—” and she paused.“Well—secondly?”“Secondly, my sister shall never marry a murderer!” she said in a hoarse half-whisper, first glancing at the door to ascertain that it was still closed.“But if he returns, and is able to prove that he has had no hand in the sudden disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd?”“He cannot. I shall be able to prove to the contrary. Let him return to England, and each step he takes will be towards the gallows,” she declared vehemently.“Your words betray you,” I said severely. “Although you have pretended that Sternroyd is merely missing, you know he has been murdered!”She started violently, clutching at the edge of the table to steady herself.“And—and your words also show that you are aware! of the truth, that he has been foully done to death, and that your friend Bethune is guilty of the crime!” she gasped when, in a few moments, she recovered her self-possession. “Let him come, let him face me if he can.” There was a wild look in her bright eyes, an expression of terrible murderous hatred as her fingers worked convulsively, and her bare chest with its diamonds heaved and fell quickly, causing the gems to glitter with dazzling brilliancy. Her face was that of a woman haunted by the shadow of a crime.“Very well,” I said, quickly. “We will not prolong this very painful interview. He will return, either to prove his innocence or be convicted; either to pay the penalty or marry Dora.”Walking to the door I threw it open, and as I did so she tottered across the room towards it and almost fell. I caught her quickly, but she only laughed hysterically, saying:“I am a little faint and shall not dance again. If you see Fyneshade, tell him—say that I have gone to my room,” and, with a cold, haughty bow she swept suddenly past me with hurried, uneven steps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?” she answered quickly.

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

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

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

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

“In what direction?”

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

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

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

“Who was she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And why can’t they marry?” I asked.

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

“Well—secondly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Sixteen.The Mysterious Mr Markwick.The daily ride was a regular institution at Wadenhoe, whither Dora came frequently to visit my mother, and during the few days following the dance we went out each morning. We chose early hours for riding; starting betimes to enjoy to the full the poetry of those bright mornings, and often the sounds of our horses’ hoofs were the first to awaken the echoes along the roads and lanes. From the brown fields would be rising in white clouds the filmy mist, gossamers would be gently waving, reflecting all the colours of the rising sun, while on every tuft and blade of grass stood glistening dewdrops. Then as we reached the woods the air would become fresher, and from all sides would arise the pleasant smell of damp moss and wood, of wild thyme, and of the many little spring flowers that filled the air with woodland fragrance, seeming to blossom out altogether as if anxious not to lose an instant of the opening day.It was then that I felt mostly under her influence, the influence of a true, honest woman. The way was narrow, and we had to go in single file—Dora going first, entirely absorbed in holding up her horse, who would occasionally stumble over the slippery stumps; I following, leaving my horse to follow his own way, my attention fixed upon the lithe, graceful figure in straw hat and perfectly-fitting habit before me.Alas! an undefined sense of trouble remained to me, and now that I was questioning myself and trying to read my heart, I was so astonished at my own feelings that I endeavoured to give them any name, to explain them by any possibility, rather than resolve them into a single word.I knew that my admiration was almost akin to love. That instinctive feeling which attends all affection, the need of reciprocity, had awakened in my heart. The only event that could save me from falling actually in love with her would, I knew, be the advent of Jack Bethune. Six days had already passed, but I had received no word from him. Possibly the fugitive had left Turin before my telegram arrived, or, more likely, he had regarded it as a ruse on the part of the police to induce him to return, and thus save the complicated process of extradition.Yet each morning as we rode together she discussed the prospect of seeing him, and wondering why he had neither arrived nor telegraphed, while I endeavoured to console her by anticipating his arrival each evening. Foolishly I clung to those hours of ignorance, and, like a man who shuts his eyes because he will not see, I forced my mind and heart not to remember or forebode. I would snatch from Fate yet one more day, one single day longer of that vague, ill-defined uneasiness which I could treat as foolishness until the voice of authority had pronounced it to be well-founded. Once more I would feel without alloy that I was young, happy, beloved.She, too, was happy in the expectation of having the man she loved again by her side. She was ignorant that he was suspected of murder; and I felt myself utterly unable to begin attacking so deep and tranquil a happiness, linked so firmly into what seemed an endless chain of bliss.We were riding together one morning on the road between Thrapston and Aldwinkle, and when near the cross-road that leads to Titchmarsh, Dora suddenly uttered an exclamation of joy and pointed on before. I looked, and saw upon the road a familiar figure in a tweed suit and grey felt hat. With one accord we galloped forward, and in a few minutes were shaking Jack Bethune heartily by the hand.But in those glad moments I could not fail to notice how changed he was. His unshaven face was pale and thin, and in his eyes was a curious expression; indeed, he seemed to avoid my gaze. Then again there fell upon me the suspicion that this man had been Sybil’s lover. Yet I gripped his hand in welcome.“I received your telegram, old fellow,” he said, turning to me after he had greeted the woman he loved. “How did you ascertain I was in Turin?”I laughed, but vouchsafed no satisfactory reply, and as we all three walked towards Wadenhoe the conversation grew animated. Jack, suppressing the truth that he had feared arrest, made it appear to Dora that he had been sent abroad on a secret mission and had been compelled to move rapidly from place to place. At breakfast he related how he had received my telegram late at night, after travelling to Asti, and had packed up and left immediately.“But why have you not written oftener?” Dora asked. “Your letters were couched so strangely that I confess I began to fear you had done something dreadfully wrong.”I watched the effect of those innocent words upon him. He started guiltily, his thin lips compressed, and his face grew pale.“You are not very complimentary, dearest,” he stammered. “I have never been a fugitive, and I hope I never shall be. I suppose the papers have been saying something about me. They always know more about one than one knows one’s self. The statements I read in my press-cuttings are simply amazing.”“As far as I am aware the papers have not commented upon your absence,” she answered. “It was merely a surmise of my own, and, of course, absolutely absurd. Forgive me.”“There is nothing to forgive,” he answered, rather dryly.“No, nothing,” I said; then turning to him I added: “Dora has been talking daily of you, and wondering when you would return.”“I obeyed your commands immediately,” he observed, with an expression that was full of mystery.“And you have acted wisely,” I said. I saw it was not judicious to continue the conversation further, therefore we rose from the table, and during the morning I left Dora and her lover to wander in the garden and talk together.After luncheon, on the pretext of playing billiards, I took Jack alone to the billiard-room, where I knew we should be undisturbed. Instead of taking up the cues we sat together smoking in the deep old-fashioned bay-window that overlooked the broad pastures and the winding Nene.“Well,” I said at length. “Now be frank with me, Jack, old fellow; what does all this mean? Why did you leave the country so suddenly and cause all this talk?”“What has been said about me? Have the papers got hold of it?” he inquired quickly.“Not to my knowledge.”“Thank Heaven!” he gasped, with a sigh of relief. “Then I am safe up to the present.”Up to the present! He feared the future. This was a confession of his guilt! The fingers that held his cigar trembled slightly as he spoke.“But you have not told me the reason of your flight. What is it you fear?” I inquired.“The reason is a secret,” he said, as if speaking to himself, looking away fixedly across the meadows and the sun-illumined river. “Some incidents have occurred that, although they have happened in real life, are even more startling and extraordinary than any I have ever imagined in fiction.”“Cannot you explain them to me, your friend?”“No. I cannot—I—I dare not, believe me. For the present I must preserve my secret,” and he shook his head sadly.“Why?”“Because my whole future depends upon my ability to remain silent.”For some minutes I did not speak; my bitter thoughts were wandering back to the conversation I had overheard in the garden at Blatherwycke. At last I resolved to attack him point-blank.“Jack,” I exclaimed earnestly, looking into his pale, pained face. “Answer me one question. Did you ever know a woman named Sybil?”For an instant his brow contracted, and his breath seemed to catch. His hand again trembled as he removed the cigar from his mouth.“Sybil!” he echoed, his face paler than before. “Yes, it is true, I—I once knew someone of that name. You have discovered the secret of—”“Captain Bethune,” interrupted my father’s man, who, followed by Dora, had entered the billiard-room unobserved, and who stood before us holding a card on a salver.“Yes,” answered Jack, turning sharply.“A gentleman has called to see you, sir.”Jack took the card, glanced at it for an instant, and then starting suddenly to his feet, stood with clenched fists and glaring eyes.“My God, Stuart! He is here! Save me, old fellow! You are my friend. Save me!”Next second he sank back again into his chair with his chin upon his breast, rigid and motionless as one dead.Noticing Dora’s look of surprise at the words he uttered, he set his teeth, steadied himself by dint of great effort, and turning to the man ordered him to show the visitor in. Then, addressing the woman he loved, he added hoarsely:“I must see this man alone, dearest.”“You wish me to leave?” she inquired, her pretty face clouded by a sudden expression of bewilderment. He nodded, without replying, and as she moved slowly towards the door, I followed.“No, Stuart,” he cried anxiously. “No, stay, old fellow, stay! You are my friend, stay!”Dora turned, glanced at her lover and then disappeared through the doorway, while I returned slowly to where he was standing, staring like one fallen under some occult influence.“Who is this visitor?” I asked, but before he could reply, the man appeared at the door, and announced:“Mr Francis Markwick.”At the same moment there advanced into the room the mysterious individual who had been my conductor on the night of my marriage; the man whose intimate acquaintance with Lady Fyneshade was so puzzling! He was well-groomed and sprucely-dressed in a well-cut frock-coat, tightly-buttoned, and wore a flower and grey suede gloves.“Ah! my dear Bethune!” he cried, walking towards him with extended hand, without apparently noticing me. “I heard you were back, and have taken the earliest opportunity of calling. Where have you been all this time?” But Jack, thrusting his hands into his pockets, made no reply to this man’s effusiveness. His greeting was frigid, for he merely inclined his head. Suddenly the remembrance of those partially charred letters I had found in Jack’s chambers on the night of the murder of Sternroyd flashed through my brain. In them the name “Markwick” occurred several times, and the writer of one had referred to him as “that vile, despicable coward.” Who had penned these words? Sybil had no doubt written one of the letters I had discovered, but did this condemnation emanate from her? I stood watching him and wondering.When he found Bethune disinclined to enter into any conversation, he turned to me and with a slight start recognised me for the first time.“I believe, Mr Markwick, we have the pleasure of mutual acquaintance,” I said, bowing.He looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then, with an expression of perplexity, replied:“You really have the advantage of me, sir. I cannot recall where we have met before.”I was certainly not prepared for this disclaimer, but his eyes were unwavering, and there was no sign of confusion. His sinister face was a perfect blank.“Come,” I said, rather superciliously, “you surely remember our meeting one night at Richmond, our strange journey together and its tragic result!”“Strange journey—tragic result!” he repeated slowly, with well-feigned ignorance. “I confess I have no knowledge of what you mean.”“Complete loss of memory is advantageous sometimes,” I remarked dryly. “But if you deny that you did not meet me one night in the Terrace Gardens at Richmond, that you did not induce me to go to a certain house to have an interview with the woman I loved, and that while in that house an event occurred which—”“How many whiskies have you had this morning?” he asked with a laugh. His impassibility was astounding.“I tell you if you deny these facts you lie!” I cried angrily.“I certainly do deny them,” he answered firmly. “And what is more, I have never set eyes upon you before to-day.”“Then you will deny that Lady Fyneshade had a visitor who met her clandestinely—in the shrubbery at Blatherwycke the other night—and that that visitor was yourself? You will deny that you have acted as the Countess’s inquiry agent; that you followed my friend, Captain Bethune, to the Continent, dogged his footsteps through France, Germany and Italy, and made such arrangements that he could be arrested at any moment—”“What for?” cried Bethune, amazed. “What crime is alleged against me?”There was silence. Markwick flashed a rapid glance at me.“None,” I said at last I saw that this man Markwick was too wary to show his hand.“Then if what you say is true, why should this man act as spy upon me?” demanded Jack fiercely.“Ask him,” I replied. “From his own lips I heard him report to his employer, Lady Fyneshade, the result of his investigations.”“Mabel! then she, too, is my enemy,” he exclaimed furiously. “She has endeavoured all along to part me from Dora, but she shall not—by God! she shan’t.”“And what proof have you?” asked Markwick, addressing me. “What proof have you, pray, that I had been employed—as you so delicately put it—by the Countess?”“Your own words. I overheard you. It was highly interesting, I assure you,” I answered, smiling as I watched the effect of my words.Suddenly Jack, pale with anger, started with a sudden impulse towards him, crying:“You have spied upon me and endeavoured unsuccessfully to give me into the hands of the police. Well, it is a fight between us. Were it not for the fact I am a guest in a friend’s house I would horsewhip you as a cad and a coward. As it is, you shall go free. I shall, however, be armed against you; these revelations by my friend Ridgeway have proved what I long ago suspected, and—”“This friend of yours, who desires to claim acquaintance with me, lies!” he said with calm indifference.“Go! Tell the Countess, whose lover you may be for aught I know, that the man she suspects is innocent, and that if necessary he will prove it,” Bethune answered bitterly.“I knew you were innocent, Jack!” I cried. “Prove it, old fellow! Don’t delay a moment.”He turned quickly, and asked me frigidly: “Then you also suspect me—of what?”I saw that my involuntary exclamations had again betrayed my suspicions. Ere I could reply, Markwick, who had flung himself into an armchair and was sitting in an indolent attitude with legs outstretched, had cried:“Innocent—bah!”“What crime then do you allege?” Jack demanded. His face blanched as he strode up to his strange visitor with clenched fists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not to my knowledge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” answered Jack, turning sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

“I must see this man alone, dearest.”

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

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

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

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

“Mr Francis Markwick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Innocent—bah!”

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

Chapter Seventeen.Attack and Defence.Springing to his feet and tearing open his coat, Markwick, the man designated by one of Bethune’s fair correspondents as “that vile, despicable coward,” drew from his breast-pocket a folded newspaper, saying:“This newspaper, the Daily News of this morning, will perhaps refresh your memory. Listen while I read. I promise not to bore you,” and opening the paper quickly a cynical smile played about his thin lips as he read as follows:—”‘Yesterday, at Bow Street Police Court, Mr J Arthur Price, barrister, made an extraordinary application to the magistrate. He stated that three years ago Sir Henry Sternroyd, Knight, the well-known Wigan ironfounder, died at Cannes, leaving his entire fortune, amounting to about three millions, to his son Gilbert. Two years ago Gilbert Sternroyd, who had been educated at Bonn, received the property, and took up his residence in London. He was a member of several good clubs, and soon became well-known and popular with a rather smart set. On March 12 last he went to the Empire Theatre alone, had supper with a friend at the New Lyric Club, and from there went to the Army and Navy. He left there about half-past twelve alone, and walked in the direction of his chambers. Since that hour nothing whatever has been seen or heard of him. On the following morning a check for a rather large amount was presented for payment, but, as this check was drawn three days before, it is not thought by the police to have any connection with his mysterious disappearance. One fact, counsel pointed out, was strange, namely, that although the check was dated three days before, the check-book containing the counterfoil had not been discovered in his chambers, and it is therefore presumed that he had it upon him at the time of his disappearance. The case, counsel continued, presented many extraordinary and even sensational features, one of which was the fact that a will had been discovered, properly executed by the missing man’s solicitors, by which the whole of his extensive fortune is bequeathed to a lady well-known in society, the much-admired wife of a peer. It is feared that the young man has met with foul play, and it was counsel’s object in making the application on behalf of the relatives to direct public attention to the case, and express a hope that any person possessed of information as to his whereabouts would not fail to communicate with the police. The magistrate observed that the Press would no doubt take notice of counsel’s application.’”Markwick paused, his small eyes glistening with a revengeful fire as he gazed at Jack Bethune.“Does not this statement bring back to your memory the incidents of that night?” he asked slowly, without taking his eyes off him.With sinking heart I saw that my friend visibly trembled, and noticed that he started as each mention of the name of the murdered man stabbed his conscience. His face was bloodless; the dark rings around his eyes gave his ashen countenance an almost hideous appearance. The statement about the will was a new and amazing phase of the mystery, for it pointed conclusively to the fact that the dead man had left his wealth to Mabel, a fact that accounted for the seemingly unreasonable interest which the Countess had taken in his disappearance.“I—I really don’t know why the report of the sudden disappearance of a man whom I knew but very slightly should be of paramount interest to me,” Jack answered, but the haggard expression on his face told only too plainly the effect caused by the mine his enemy had suddenly sprung upon him.“It may one day be of vital interest to you,” Markwick said menacingly, as he carefully refolded the paper and placed it again in his pocket.Jack gave vent to a dry, hollow laugh, saying: “It is certainly a strange affair altogether, but surely this is not news to you. I heard of Sternroyd’s disappearance weeks ago.”“You were perhaps the first person aware of it—eh?” observed Markwick caustically.“By that remark you insinuate that I possess knowledge which I have not disclosed,” Jack answered brusquely. “Both the Countess and yourself have perfect liberty to form your own conclusions, and they would be amusing were it not for the gravity of the question involved, namely, whether or not Gilbert Sternroyd has met with foul play.”“He has met with foul play,” cried Markwick sternly. “And you alone know the truth.”This direct accusation startled me. I glanced at my friend. He was standing upright, rigid, silent, his terrified eyes gazing fixedly into space.But for a moment only. Suddenly, he again sprang towards his accuser, and facing him boldly, cried:“You’re endeavouring to fasten upon me the responsibility of young Sternroyd’s disappearance! Well, do what you will. I do not fear you,” and a strange laugh escaped his lips. “Arrest me, put me in a criminal’s dock, bring forward your array of counsel, your evidence, and the results of your accursed espionage, then, when you have finished I will speak. But before you do this, before you advance one step further upon the dangerous course you are now pursuing, remember that slander is an offence against the law; remember that in such evidence as must be given in an assize court certain persons must be seriously compromised, and do not forget that the very weapon by which I shall defend my own honour will be one that must prove disastrous to yourself. I have said enough. Go!”Markwick was amazed at this unexpected outburst. He, like myself, had apparently expected Jack to confess to the crime of which we both suspected him, but by this firm declaration of innocence it almost seemed as though we were both mistaken. Yet in that brief moment I remembered his refusal to allow me to enter the room in which he had undoubtedly concealed the body. I reflected upon the many suspicions that had been aroused within me. No! I was still convinced of his guilt, notwithstanding his denial. The fact seemed apparent that he possessed a secret of Markwick’s, and felt secure because he knew that this man dare not risk the dire consequences of its revelation.“Then am I to understand that you absolutely defy us?” asked the mysterious friend of Sybil.“Us?” echoed Bethune indignantly. “By that word you mean Lady Fyneshade and yourself. Yes, I defy you both! Act if you dare; but I warn you the peril will be yours.”“Very well,” the man answered, bowing haughtily with a coolness that was astounding. “Defiance is of little avail in a criminal’s cell.”Jack placed his hand upon the bell and rang it violently.“I have endeavoured to save the honour of more than one person in this affair, but if you wish for exposure you can, of course, make known many ugly facts,” he said.“But you declare emphatically you are innocent,” Markwick said hastily.“Neither you nor Ridgeway have alleged any specific charge against me,” he answered. “If any crime is alleged to have been committed by me, then after my arrest it will be time for me to prepare my defence. Until then I shall remain silent.”“And the day is not far distant when you will be compelled to speak,” the other said in a tone of impatience and annoyance, while at that moment my father’s man appeared in answer to Jack’s summons.“No further discussion is necessary,” my friend said in a tone more quiet than before. “I decline to enter into details.” Then, turning to the servant, he said:“Show this gentleman out.”Markwick uttered not a word. Biting his lip viciously, he glanced threateningly from my guest to myself, drew a deep breath, and turning on his heel followed the man out, and a few moments later passed below the window and disappeared down the drive.The interview had been an extraordinary one. Markwick, who had with such well-feigned ignorance declared himself unacquainted with me, possessed a most remarkable personality. The mystery that surrounded him was as impenetrable as that which had enveloped Sybil, but I was compelled to admit within myself that I shared his suspicion as to Bethune’s guilt. Yet my friend’s open defiance was absolutely bewildering. He had engaged his enemy with his own weapons, and for the present, at any rate, had vanquished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show this gentleman out.”

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

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

Chapter Eighteen.A Revelation and its Price.No word was exchanged between Jack and myself regarding the interview with Markwick. It was a subject we both avoided, and, as he was happy with Dora, I hesitated to inquire into the antecedents of the mysterious individual who had repudiated all knowledge of me with such consummate impudence. Among my letters one morning a week later, however, I found a note from Mabel dated from her town house, asking me to run up and call upon her at once, and requesting me to keep the fact a strict secret. “I want to consult you,” she wrote, “about a matter that closely concerns yourself, therefore do not fail to come. I shall be at home to you at any time. Do not mention the matter to either Jack or Dora.”During my ride with our two visitors I pondered over this summons, which was rather extraordinary in view of our last interview, and at length resolved to take the mid-day train to town.Soon after five o’clock that evening I was ushered into the Fyneshade drawing-room, a great handsome apartment resplendent with gilt furniture and hangings of peacock-blue silk, where I found Mabel alone, seated on a low chair before the fire reading a novel.“Ah! I received your wire,” she exclaimed, casting her book aside, and rising quickly to meet me. “It is awfully good of you to come.”She looked very handsome in a wondrous tea-gown of silk and chiffon, and as I sat down opposite her and she handed me a cup, I reflected that the journalistic chroniclers were not far wrong in designating her “one of the prettiest women in London.”“On the last occasion we met, on the night of the ball at Blatherwycke, you uttered some rather bitter personalities, Stuart,” she commenced, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin upon her palms as she crouched by the fire. The evening was chilly, and when I had shaken her hand I noticed how icy it seemed. “I’ve been thinking over your words,” she added after a short pause.“Well, I only said what I thought,” I answered. “I’m often accused of abruptness.”“Yes, but it was not to scold you that I asked you to call,” she went on. “The fact is I’m in a terrible difficulty,” and she hesitated as if half fearing to admit the truth.“Of what nature?” I asked.“Fyneshade has left me!” she answered suddenly, in a strange half-whisper.“Left you!” I cried. “Why, whatever do you mean?”“I mean that I have acted foolishly, and that he has left this house with a declaration upon his lips that while I inhabit it he will never again cross its threshold. To-day, I have had a letter from his solicitors suggesting that I should have an interview with them for the purpose of coming to some financial arrangement. He offers me Fyneshade Hall for the remainder of my life.”“Where is he?”“In Paris, I believe.”“And the cause of this disagreement? Tell me.”“No. For the present I must say nothing. It will get into the papers soon enough, I expect, for the public gaze is as acute upon a fashionable woman as upon a prime minister in these days of scurrilous journalism and irresponsible personal paragraphs,” she answered rather sadly.I felt sorry for her, but I knew that the open manner in which she had carried on flirtation had been a public scandal, and after all I was not really surprised that at last Fyneshade should resolve to end it.“When did he leave?” I inquired.“Four days ago. I have not been out since, and am at my wits’ ends how to act so as to allay any suspicions of the servants. He took his valet with him.”“But why make me your confidant?”“Because I want you, if you will, to render me one small service,” she answered with deep earnestness. Then after a pause, during which time she took down a feather hand-screen and held it between her face and the fire, she said: “I have already heard that Jack and Dora are together again, and—”“And you desire to part them,” I hazarded seriously.“No, I think you misjudge me,” she answered with a winning smile. “I am merely anxious that my sister should not make a disastrous marriage.”“Then you think marriage with Bethune would prove disastrous?”“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, sighing. “Already I know what transpired at the interview between Jack and Francis Markwick on the day of the former’s arrival at Wadenhoe.”“You have again seen your mysterious friend, I suppose, and he has told you everything, eh?”“Yes, and further, let me confess that it was owing to this interview that Fyneshade, who has suddenly become outrageously jealous, took umbrage, and went away in a passion.”“I should have thought,” I said, “that the narrow escape you had of detection in the shrubbery at Blatherwycke ought to have already served as warning.”“Ah! That is the matter upon which I want especially to consult you,” she said suddenly. “Markwick has related to me how you told him of your presence in the shrubbery on that night. It is evident also that Fyneshade suspected that I met someone there clandestinely, and if the truth comes out and our conversation repeated, you must recognise how very seriously I may be compromised.”I nodded, and slowly sipped my tea.“Now,” she continued in an earnest, appealing tone. “You, Stuart, have always been my friend; if you choose you can shield me. Before long you may be cross-examined upon that very incident, but what is there to prevent you from saying that it was you yourself and not Markwick who was sitting with me?”“You ask me to lie in order to save you?” I exclaimed severely.“Well, to put it very plainly, it amounts to that.”“But who will cross-examine me? In what form do you dread exposure?”“I only dread the scandal that must arise when it becomes known that I am acquainted with this man,” she answered quickly. “As I have before told you, there is no thought of affection or regard between us. While hating him, I have been compelled to seek his assistance by untoward circumstances.”“When do you anticipate these attempted revelations?” I asked calmly.She was silent. The flames shot high in the grate, illuminating the great handsome apartment and were reflected in the many mirrors, while outside a neighbouring clock slowly struck six. The mansion seemed strangely quiet and dismal, now that its master, the Earl, had parted from his smart wife.“Bethune will be tried for murder. Some awkward questions will then be asked,” she answered at last.“Markwick is quite resolved, then,” I cried, starting up.“Quite. I, too, have every reason to believe that Gilbert fell by Bethune’s hand.”“Yet you have no proofs,” I observed.“I did not say that Certain proofs will be forthcoming at the trial.”“But I presume you are aware that Jack strenuously denies the allegation?”“Of course. It is but natural. He fancies himself secure and is confident we dare not cause his arrest for fear he should make a revelation regarding a strange and startling incident that occurred recently. But he is quite mistaken. I intend to establish the fact that Gilbert was murdered, and further, that he fell by the hand of your friend.”“And the reason for this, Mabel,” I exclaimed, bitterly; “the reason for this is because you have received information that the foolish youth executed a will under which, in the event of his death, you inherit three millions. This fact is already common gossip, although your name has not yet transpired in the newspapers. It is but natural that you should wish to prove his death, even though you may have loved him.”“He was a foolish boy, and pretended to admire me, but I swear, on my honour, that I gave him no encouragement. I treated him kindly, as the married woman usually treats a love-sick youth.”“And he has left you three millions because you were kind to him,” I said. “Well, of course you are anxious to prove that he is not merely ill or abroad and likely to turn up again; in fact, it is to your own interest to show that he was murdered.”“I will prove it, even if I have to face a cross-examination in the witness-box,” she exclaimed with firm determination. “All I ask you is, for the sake of our long friendship, not to reveal the conversation you overheard in the shrubbery.”“You wish me to assist you against my friend?” I said. “No, Mabel, I cannot give you my promise. What I overheard was suspiciously like a conspiracy formed to convict Jack of murder, and if I am asked I shall speak the truth.”Her lips quivered. With a pretty woman’s wilful egotism she had anticipated that I would perjure myself to shield her, and her disappointment and chagrin were apparent. Her face was turned toward the fire, and for a long time neither of us uttered a word.“Because my husband has gone and I am defenceless,” she said at last with much bitterness, “all my whilom friends will, I suppose, now unite in maligning me. You, of all men, know the tragedy of my marriage,” she continued appealingly. “I married for money and a coronet, but ere my honeymoon was over, I discovered that to love my husband was impossible, and further that his reputed wealth existed entirely in the imagination; for truth to tell he has been on the verge of bankruptcy ever since our marriage. No, my life during these past three years has been a wretchedly hollow sham; but because I am Countess of Fyneshade, and am considered smart, I have been flattered and courted. Put yourself for a moment in my place, and see whether you would prefer the misery of your husband’s great, empty, comfortless home to the many happy, well-filled, and brilliant houses always open to you, houses where you are deemed the centre of attraction, and where admiration and flattery greet you on every hand. Think, think deeply for a moment, and I feel assured you will not condemn me so unmercifully as you have.”“I do not condemn you, Mabel,” I said quietly, “On the contrary, you have my most sincere sympathy. If there is anything I can do that will induce Fyneshade to return and thus avoid the scandal, I will do it willingly, but, understand, once and for all, I will not perjure myself in a court of justice.”“Ah, you are cruel and hard-hearted, for you refuse to allay his suspicions, even though you must know from the character of our conversation that at least there is not one iota of affection between Markwick and myself. Is it because of Jack that you refuse?”“Yes,” I answered point-blank. “It is because I don’t believe he is guilty.”Slowly she rose from her low chair and stood before me, tall and erect, a bewitching figure against the fitful firelight.“Then let me tell you one fact that may induce you to alter this opinion,” she said. “You will remember that you went to his chambers alone in the darkness, and met him there. You suspected him, but gave him no inkling of your suspicions, yet when you wanted to enter one of his rooms he refused to allow you.”“Yes,” I said, amazed. “How do you know that?”“It matters not by what means I have gained this knowledge; but I tell you further that in that room at the moment you desired to enter, there was stretched upon the floor the body of Gilbert Sternroyd!”Her words came upon me as a bolt from the blue. How she had become aware of my visit was an entire mystery, but her allegation fully bore out my horrible suspicion that the murderer was at that moment hiding the ghastly evidence of his crime.“Such, then, is the nature of the evidence you intend to adduce against him,” I said, when I had fully contemplated her startling announcement. “You will, however, be compelled to prove that he committed the crime. If you are aware that the body was concealed in that room, you probably know where it is at the present time.”“My proofs I retain until the trial,” she said. “Gilbert has been murdered, and I am but doing my best to bring the culprit to justice. You think I am acting strangely; that my husband perhaps is, under the circumstances, justified in leaving me to face a scandal and the derision of the women who have envied me. Well, you are welcome to your opinion. I can tell you, however, that when the truth is out, although my reputation may be blighted, some revelations will be made that will amaze you.”“I do not blame you for endeavouring to solve this mystery, Mabel,” I said rather sympathetically, “but remember Jack Bethune is my friend, and Dora loves him dearly—”“Because, poor girl, she is ignorant of the terrible truth,” she interrupted.“Then let her remain in ignorance until his guilt be proved,” I urged. “She is happy; do not disturb what unfortunately may be but a brief period of joy.”“You may rely on me,” she answered. “I shall tell my sister nothing. But if Bethune is arrested do not be surprised.”“I do not anticipate his arrest,” I observed. “For when he is brought to trial, the revelations of which you have spoken will implicate too many people.”“How do you know? What has he told you?” she inquired quickly.“Nothing. I have learnt much from my own observations.”“Now, tell me,” she said, suddenly placing her hand softly upon my arm. “Will you not take upon yourself the identity of Markwick for that brief quarter-of-an-hour in the shrubbery—that is, of course, providing you are asked? I—I appeal to you,” she added in a low tone, panting with emotion. “I appeal to you, as a woman clinging to one last hope, to remove this unfounded suspicion attaching to me. Speak, Stuart. Tell me you will remain my friend!”I was silent. The darting flames showed her hand some face upturned to mine, pale, haggard, anxious. Her breast rose and fell beneath its silk and chiffon, and her white hand grasped my arm convulsively.“I—I have been reckless,” I admit, she went on, brokenly. “My recklessness has been caused by an absence of love for my home or my husband, but I swear that Fyneshade’s suspicions are utterly groundless. Ah!—if you knew the terrible secret in my heart you would pity me—you would shield me, I know you would,” and some other words that she uttered were lost in a sudden fit of hysterical sobbing.“What is your secret?” I asked calmly, when struggling with her emotion, she again looked up to my face.“You will remember when we were in the library at Blatherwycke, you asked me if I ever knew a woman named Sybil.”“Yes,” I cried eagerly. “Yes. Did you know her?”“I—I lied to you when I denied all knowledge of her,” she answered. “I am well aware of the strange manner in which you became acquainted with her and of your marriage, but even though these incidents are startling, the secret of her life and death is far more astounding.”“Tell me, Mabel. Tell me all,” I cried breathlessly.“No,” she answered. “No, not until you have promised to swear that you sat with me in the shrubbery, and that Markwick was not present. Only in exchange for your aid will I reveal to you the secret.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of what nature?” I asked.

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

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

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

“Where is he?”

“In Paris, I believe.”

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

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

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

“When did he leave?” I inquired.

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

“But why make me your confidant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded, and slowly sipped my tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yet you have no proofs,” I observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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