Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Three.In Silent Company.As I ascended, my feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, raising clouds of dust, the particles of which danced in the bright ray from my lamp, like motes in a streak of sunlight. The ceiling of the hall had been beautifully painted, but portions of it had now fallen away, revealing ugly holes and naked laths.The first room I entered on reaching the landing was, I discovered, the small study into which I had been ushered on that night. It was much cleaner than the other apartments, but, on going to the grate and bending to examine it, I found the chimney still closed by an iron plate, and in the fireplace there remained a quantity of burnt charcoal. It was covered with dust, and was no doubt the same that had been used to render me unconscious. The window, too, was shuttered and barred, and on the door-lintel I could still trace where the crevices had been stopped.As I turned, after examining the room thoroughly, I saw, standing on a small table near the window, a cheap photograph frame in carved white wood. The portrait was of an old lady, and did not interest me, but the frame riveted my attention. I recognised it. Across the top it had the single word “Luchon” carved. I took it up and examined it closely. Yes! It had belonged to Sybil. I had been with her when, attracted by its quaintness, she had purchased it for three francs.As I put it down there surged through my mind a flood of memories of those pleasant bygone days. Suddenly a sound caused me to start.Not daring to move, I listened. It was the rustle of silk! Some one was ascending the stairs!In an instant I blew out my light, and waited just inside the door. The noise approached rapidly, and in a few moments a slim, graceful woman, in an evening gown, and carrying in her hand a red-shaded lamp, passed the door.As she went by the crimson glow did not sufficiently illuminate her face, but her appearance gave me a sudden start. Had she entered with sinister design; or was this weird, neglected place her home? Thinking only of the elucidation of the mystery that had surrounded Sybil, I crept on noiselessly after her. Apparently she was no stranger to the place, for, passing the first room on the left, she entered the second, which proved to be the great drawing-room where I had once stood beside my lost bride. Passing to the end, her thin evening shoes making no noise on the thick dust-covered carpet, she crept like a thief to the opposite end of the spacious apartment, and placed the lamp upon a little table. Then, for the first time, I saw that behind it was a door, and I crept back into the shadow so that she could not detect my presence.For a moment she hesitated, placing her hand upon her breast, as if to stay the wild beating of her heart. Then, slowly and noiselessly, she turned the handle of the door, and a flood of brilliant light streamed forth.She peered in, but next second drew back terrified. The scene within the room had held her spell-bound with horror, which seemed to grasp her heart as if with icy fingers. Her trembling hands tightly clenched, she prepared to enter. One long, deep breath she drew, and set her teeth in desperation; but at that moment, as with her hand she pushed back the hair from her clammy brow, her face was turned full towards the lamp.I looked, and stood stupefied. It was Dora!I sprang forward to arrest her progress, but at that instant a frightful blow fell upon the back of my skull, crushing me, and I fell senseless like a log.How long I remained unconscious, or what events occurred during the oblivion that fell upon me, I have no idea.My only recollection is that I felt the presence of some person near me, and I heard words uttered. But upon my ears they fell as if spoken so far away as to be indistinguishable. Scenes strangely distorted, sad and humorous, pleasing and horrible, flitted through my mind as I lay dozing, half-conscious, striving to think, but unable even by the dint of greatest effort, to sufficiently collect my senses to reflect with reason.In this half-dreamy stupor I must have remained a very long time. Hours passed. I lay as one dead—unable to move, unable to think.Gradually, however, I found my mind growing clearer. Thoughts, that at first were hopelessly mixed, slowly shaped themselves; and I remember trying to recall the startling events that had preceded the cowardly blow dealt me by some unknown hand. Thus, painfully and with the utmost difficulty, I struggled to regain knowledge of things about me.Opening my eyes at last, I found myself in darkness, save for a glimmer of faint grey light that crept in over the top of what I imagined to be heavy closely-barred shutters. It was about ten o’clock at night when I had been struck down; it was now already morning. Stretching forth my cold, nerveless fingers, I groped to feel my surroundings on either side, discovering myself still lying on the floor, but whereas the drawing-room in which I had encountered Dora had been well-carpeted, this room seemed bare, for I was lying upon cold flags. With a sudden movement I put out my hands and raised my head, in an endeavour to regain my feet. But this action brought vividly to my mind that the injury I had received was serious.A pain shot through my head. So excruciating was it that I fainted.During the hours that followed all was again blank. When I reopened my hot fevered eyes I saw that the streak of dawn—the one welcome ray that inspired hope within me—was now a thin golden bar of sunshine, that gave just sufficient light to enable me to distinguish my strange surroundings. Endeavouring to reflect calmly, my eyes were fixed upon the blackened ceiling. At first I wondered what had caused it to become so sooty, and calculated the number of years during which spiders had festooned their dust-laden webs upon it, when suddenly my eyes clearly distinguished that the ceiling was arched—that it was unplastered, and of bare begrimed brick.Eagerly I looked on either side. The walls also were of bare brick I was in a cellar!Struggling unsteadily to my feet I stood amazed. Who, I wondered, had conveyed me to this place? Surely not Dora! If I had been murderously attacked, might not she also have fallen a victim? But why had she come here; by what means had she obtained an entrance? As I recalled the startling encounter of the previous night I recollected that she had been dressed as if for a dance, and it was therefore probable that she had slipped away from home on some errand that was imperative. Her visit there placed a new complexion upon the remarkable current of circumstances.These and a thousand other puzzling thoughts filled my brain as I stood in that gloomy, subterranean, vermin-infested place into which I had been thrust. It was not large, but half filled by a great heap of lumber piled up to the roof. There was something about the place that I could not understand. I felt stifled; my nostrils were filled by a strange sickening odour. Towards the window I walked to obtain fresh air, but found what I had at first imagined to be shutters were not shutters at all; the streak of welcome light came through a little barred aperture about three inches wide in the pavement above. The pains in my head caused me giddiness and nausea.What if I had been imprisoned here? The horrifying prospect of slow starvation in an empty, deserted house appalled me, and I sprang towards the heavy door, that had at some time or other been strengthened by bands of iron.I turned the handle. It was locked!Staggering back, I gave vent to an exclamation of despair. The pain in my skull was terrible, and as I placed my hand at the back of my head I felt my hair stiff and matted by congealed blood. One thought alone possessed me. I knew that my life depended on my escape. Again I tried to recollect minutely every incident of the previous night, but it all seemed like some terrible nightmare. In fact, in my nervous anxiety to free myself, I was unable to realise that Dora had actually been present, and tried to convince myself that it had been merely some strange chimera produced by my unbalanced imagination.Yet so vividly did it all recur to me that there seemed no room for doubt. The one fear uppermost in my mind was that Dora herself had met with foul play. I remembered the firm look of desperation upon her face, and I tried to imagine what scene of horror she had witnessed in that brilliantly-lit inner room that should cause that look of horror upon her countenance. Evidently she had entered this weird, neglected house with a firm resolve, but what her purpose had been I failed to imagine.Had I been placed in that cellar by my assailant, who, finding me unconscious, had been under the apprehension that he had committed murder? This seemed at least a reasonable surmise. Yet it was utterly inexplicable.But the necessity for freedom impressed itself upon me. The nauseating odour that filled the place choked me; I gasped for fresh air. The small opening in the further wall, near the roof, did not admit any air, as there was a piece of thick, dirt-begrimed glass before it so high up that I could not reach to break it. The door was the only means of exit, but when I again endeavoured to open it I found all efforts unavailing. True, the great thickly-rusted lock with its formidable socket was on the inside, but it was of such dimensions that to break it was utterly impossible.I knew that I had been conveyed to that place by some unknown enemy, who had either believed me dead, or who intended that I should remain there to starve; therefore, to escape without delay before darkness fell was absolutely imperative. By the meagre light afforded by the single ray of sunshine I made a careful examination of the lock, but was compelled to admit that in order to break it I should require a heavy hammer or a chisel. Both lock and hinges had evidently been freshly oiled, probably in order that the door could be opened and shut without creaking.For a considerable time I was engaged in searching among the lumber for some instrument with which to effect my escape, but could discover none. There were a large number of empty wine cases, old books, broken furniture, discarded wearing apparel, a table with one leg missing, and a variety of miscellaneous domestic articles; but none of these could I utilise for the purpose of breaking out of my prison. At last, hidden away beneath a pile of old boxes, I discerned a large black old-fashioned travelling trunk, with long iron hinges. Pulling away some of the rubbish piled about it, I felt the iron clamps, and it occurred to me if I could only detach one of them they were heavy enough to use as a hammer to break off the socket of the lock. Unlike the other boxes, which were dry, the wood of this trunk was damp, mildewed and rotting. Along the side was a great crack, into which I could have placed my hand, and the side had bulged as if the trunk had been burst open by some terrific force. With care I felt one of the iron fastenings, and before long came to the conclusion that to remove it would be an easy task. Therefore, without delay, I threw down the boxes piled above it; but in doing so, the big heavy trunk also lurched over, and before I could steady it, fell with a crash upon the flags.The fall loosened the iron clamp, and kneeling upon the box, exerting all my efforts, I succeeded at last in tearing it bodily from the wet decaying wood.As I did so, however, my weight upon the trunk caused part of the damaged side to fall out, and thus the lid, that had once been securely locked, became unloosened. Out of sheer curiosity to see what it contained, I pulled it aside and gazed in.“My God!” I cried next second, thrilled with horror.I had recklessly thrust my hand into the trunk, thinking it to contain some old wearing apparel, and my fingers had, with startling suddenness, come into contact with a cold, lifeless human hand.The sun had been obscured, and there was not sufficient light to enable me to discern distinctly the lifeless form therein concealed. I could, however, see that it was a body, the clenched hand of which, stretched above, pointed to the suggestion that the person had been doubled up and placed there before the spark of vitality had been extinguished. The fingers showed in what terrible paroxysm of agony the victim’s last breath had been drawn.This discovery appalled me. I stood with the long iron hinge still in my hand, gazing awe-stricken at the box in which the body was concealed. I now realised how, by decomposition of the contents, the wood had rotted; how, by the accumulation of gases, it had been rent asunder, and that the sickening stifling odour that nauseated me emanated from this hidden evidence of a crime.Around this cellar that had been converted into a charnel-house I gazed half fearfully, my eyes penetrating its darkest recesses, dreading to meet some spectral form or to face the unknown person who had made such a violent attempt upon my life on the previous night. Once again I summoned courage to peer into the decaying trunk, but could distinguish little in that tantalising darkness. Repugnance prevented me from turning over the box, and emptying its gruesome contents on the flags; therefore, I replaced the lid and waited a few moments to recover myself. The appalling discovery had filled me with an indescribable fear, and weakened as I had been by the injuries to my head, my senses reeled.At last, summoning a firm resolution to arm myself against this terror and misfortune, I doubled the hinges back together so as to strengthen them, and walking to the door, made a carefully directed but frantic attack upon the socket holding the lock. Although old and very rusty, it seemed that no effort of mine was strong enough to break it, for it withstood all attack, and the damage I did consisted in merely knocking off a little of the incrustation. Again and again I rained blows upon it with my improvised hammer, but the iron itself was strong, and four large screws that secured it to the woodwork remained unloosened.Presently my weakness compelled me to pause to regain breath, as with failing heart I was forced to acknowledge myself utterly baffled. Again I examined it long and earnestly. After another quarter of an hour’s effort, however, the thought momentarily flashed through my mind that by the exercise of patience I could utilise one end of the hinge which was narrow and thin, as a screw-driver, and by its aid remove the screws.This had not before occurred to me, but in a few moments I was kneeling at the lintel, and, using the hinge deftly, had half removed the first screw. Within ten minutes I succeeded in extracting them all, and, taking off the socket, emerged into the passage, afterwards closing the entrance to the gruesome place.Passing down the stone passage in the basement, which I remembered having explored on the previous night, I ascended at last into the spacious gloomy hall and walked towards the street door. As I did so an unusual noise startled me. I halted, listening with breathless anxiety.It came from above. Through the deserted mansion it once again resounded, clearly distinct and dismal. It was a wild, shrill cry—a woman’s despairing shriek!My first impulse was to rush upstairs and resume my investigations, but, a sudden fear seizing me, I opened the door and fled precipitately from the weird house of hidden mysteries.

As I ascended, my feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, raising clouds of dust, the particles of which danced in the bright ray from my lamp, like motes in a streak of sunlight. The ceiling of the hall had been beautifully painted, but portions of it had now fallen away, revealing ugly holes and naked laths.

The first room I entered on reaching the landing was, I discovered, the small study into which I had been ushered on that night. It was much cleaner than the other apartments, but, on going to the grate and bending to examine it, I found the chimney still closed by an iron plate, and in the fireplace there remained a quantity of burnt charcoal. It was covered with dust, and was no doubt the same that had been used to render me unconscious. The window, too, was shuttered and barred, and on the door-lintel I could still trace where the crevices had been stopped.

As I turned, after examining the room thoroughly, I saw, standing on a small table near the window, a cheap photograph frame in carved white wood. The portrait was of an old lady, and did not interest me, but the frame riveted my attention. I recognised it. Across the top it had the single word “Luchon” carved. I took it up and examined it closely. Yes! It had belonged to Sybil. I had been with her when, attracted by its quaintness, she had purchased it for three francs.

As I put it down there surged through my mind a flood of memories of those pleasant bygone days. Suddenly a sound caused me to start.

Not daring to move, I listened. It was the rustle of silk! Some one was ascending the stairs!

In an instant I blew out my light, and waited just inside the door. The noise approached rapidly, and in a few moments a slim, graceful woman, in an evening gown, and carrying in her hand a red-shaded lamp, passed the door.

As she went by the crimson glow did not sufficiently illuminate her face, but her appearance gave me a sudden start. Had she entered with sinister design; or was this weird, neglected place her home? Thinking only of the elucidation of the mystery that had surrounded Sybil, I crept on noiselessly after her. Apparently she was no stranger to the place, for, passing the first room on the left, she entered the second, which proved to be the great drawing-room where I had once stood beside my lost bride. Passing to the end, her thin evening shoes making no noise on the thick dust-covered carpet, she crept like a thief to the opposite end of the spacious apartment, and placed the lamp upon a little table. Then, for the first time, I saw that behind it was a door, and I crept back into the shadow so that she could not detect my presence.

For a moment she hesitated, placing her hand upon her breast, as if to stay the wild beating of her heart. Then, slowly and noiselessly, she turned the handle of the door, and a flood of brilliant light streamed forth.

She peered in, but next second drew back terrified. The scene within the room had held her spell-bound with horror, which seemed to grasp her heart as if with icy fingers. Her trembling hands tightly clenched, she prepared to enter. One long, deep breath she drew, and set her teeth in desperation; but at that moment, as with her hand she pushed back the hair from her clammy brow, her face was turned full towards the lamp.

I looked, and stood stupefied. It was Dora!

I sprang forward to arrest her progress, but at that instant a frightful blow fell upon the back of my skull, crushing me, and I fell senseless like a log.

How long I remained unconscious, or what events occurred during the oblivion that fell upon me, I have no idea.

My only recollection is that I felt the presence of some person near me, and I heard words uttered. But upon my ears they fell as if spoken so far away as to be indistinguishable. Scenes strangely distorted, sad and humorous, pleasing and horrible, flitted through my mind as I lay dozing, half-conscious, striving to think, but unable even by the dint of greatest effort, to sufficiently collect my senses to reflect with reason.

In this half-dreamy stupor I must have remained a very long time. Hours passed. I lay as one dead—unable to move, unable to think.

Gradually, however, I found my mind growing clearer. Thoughts, that at first were hopelessly mixed, slowly shaped themselves; and I remember trying to recall the startling events that had preceded the cowardly blow dealt me by some unknown hand. Thus, painfully and with the utmost difficulty, I struggled to regain knowledge of things about me.

Opening my eyes at last, I found myself in darkness, save for a glimmer of faint grey light that crept in over the top of what I imagined to be heavy closely-barred shutters. It was about ten o’clock at night when I had been struck down; it was now already morning. Stretching forth my cold, nerveless fingers, I groped to feel my surroundings on either side, discovering myself still lying on the floor, but whereas the drawing-room in which I had encountered Dora had been well-carpeted, this room seemed bare, for I was lying upon cold flags. With a sudden movement I put out my hands and raised my head, in an endeavour to regain my feet. But this action brought vividly to my mind that the injury I had received was serious.

A pain shot through my head. So excruciating was it that I fainted.

During the hours that followed all was again blank. When I reopened my hot fevered eyes I saw that the streak of dawn—the one welcome ray that inspired hope within me—was now a thin golden bar of sunshine, that gave just sufficient light to enable me to distinguish my strange surroundings. Endeavouring to reflect calmly, my eyes were fixed upon the blackened ceiling. At first I wondered what had caused it to become so sooty, and calculated the number of years during which spiders had festooned their dust-laden webs upon it, when suddenly my eyes clearly distinguished that the ceiling was arched—that it was unplastered, and of bare begrimed brick.

Eagerly I looked on either side. The walls also were of bare brick I was in a cellar!

Struggling unsteadily to my feet I stood amazed. Who, I wondered, had conveyed me to this place? Surely not Dora! If I had been murderously attacked, might not she also have fallen a victim? But why had she come here; by what means had she obtained an entrance? As I recalled the startling encounter of the previous night I recollected that she had been dressed as if for a dance, and it was therefore probable that she had slipped away from home on some errand that was imperative. Her visit there placed a new complexion upon the remarkable current of circumstances.

These and a thousand other puzzling thoughts filled my brain as I stood in that gloomy, subterranean, vermin-infested place into which I had been thrust. It was not large, but half filled by a great heap of lumber piled up to the roof. There was something about the place that I could not understand. I felt stifled; my nostrils were filled by a strange sickening odour. Towards the window I walked to obtain fresh air, but found what I had at first imagined to be shutters were not shutters at all; the streak of welcome light came through a little barred aperture about three inches wide in the pavement above. The pains in my head caused me giddiness and nausea.

What if I had been imprisoned here? The horrifying prospect of slow starvation in an empty, deserted house appalled me, and I sprang towards the heavy door, that had at some time or other been strengthened by bands of iron.

I turned the handle. It was locked!

Staggering back, I gave vent to an exclamation of despair. The pain in my skull was terrible, and as I placed my hand at the back of my head I felt my hair stiff and matted by congealed blood. One thought alone possessed me. I knew that my life depended on my escape. Again I tried to recollect minutely every incident of the previous night, but it all seemed like some terrible nightmare. In fact, in my nervous anxiety to free myself, I was unable to realise that Dora had actually been present, and tried to convince myself that it had been merely some strange chimera produced by my unbalanced imagination.

Yet so vividly did it all recur to me that there seemed no room for doubt. The one fear uppermost in my mind was that Dora herself had met with foul play. I remembered the firm look of desperation upon her face, and I tried to imagine what scene of horror she had witnessed in that brilliantly-lit inner room that should cause that look of horror upon her countenance. Evidently she had entered this weird, neglected house with a firm resolve, but what her purpose had been I failed to imagine.

Had I been placed in that cellar by my assailant, who, finding me unconscious, had been under the apprehension that he had committed murder? This seemed at least a reasonable surmise. Yet it was utterly inexplicable.

But the necessity for freedom impressed itself upon me. The nauseating odour that filled the place choked me; I gasped for fresh air. The small opening in the further wall, near the roof, did not admit any air, as there was a piece of thick, dirt-begrimed glass before it so high up that I could not reach to break it. The door was the only means of exit, but when I again endeavoured to open it I found all efforts unavailing. True, the great thickly-rusted lock with its formidable socket was on the inside, but it was of such dimensions that to break it was utterly impossible.

I knew that I had been conveyed to that place by some unknown enemy, who had either believed me dead, or who intended that I should remain there to starve; therefore, to escape without delay before darkness fell was absolutely imperative. By the meagre light afforded by the single ray of sunshine I made a careful examination of the lock, but was compelled to admit that in order to break it I should require a heavy hammer or a chisel. Both lock and hinges had evidently been freshly oiled, probably in order that the door could be opened and shut without creaking.

For a considerable time I was engaged in searching among the lumber for some instrument with which to effect my escape, but could discover none. There were a large number of empty wine cases, old books, broken furniture, discarded wearing apparel, a table with one leg missing, and a variety of miscellaneous domestic articles; but none of these could I utilise for the purpose of breaking out of my prison. At last, hidden away beneath a pile of old boxes, I discerned a large black old-fashioned travelling trunk, with long iron hinges. Pulling away some of the rubbish piled about it, I felt the iron clamps, and it occurred to me if I could only detach one of them they were heavy enough to use as a hammer to break off the socket of the lock. Unlike the other boxes, which were dry, the wood of this trunk was damp, mildewed and rotting. Along the side was a great crack, into which I could have placed my hand, and the side had bulged as if the trunk had been burst open by some terrific force. With care I felt one of the iron fastenings, and before long came to the conclusion that to remove it would be an easy task. Therefore, without delay, I threw down the boxes piled above it; but in doing so, the big heavy trunk also lurched over, and before I could steady it, fell with a crash upon the flags.

The fall loosened the iron clamp, and kneeling upon the box, exerting all my efforts, I succeeded at last in tearing it bodily from the wet decaying wood.

As I did so, however, my weight upon the trunk caused part of the damaged side to fall out, and thus the lid, that had once been securely locked, became unloosened. Out of sheer curiosity to see what it contained, I pulled it aside and gazed in.

“My God!” I cried next second, thrilled with horror.

I had recklessly thrust my hand into the trunk, thinking it to contain some old wearing apparel, and my fingers had, with startling suddenness, come into contact with a cold, lifeless human hand.

The sun had been obscured, and there was not sufficient light to enable me to discern distinctly the lifeless form therein concealed. I could, however, see that it was a body, the clenched hand of which, stretched above, pointed to the suggestion that the person had been doubled up and placed there before the spark of vitality had been extinguished. The fingers showed in what terrible paroxysm of agony the victim’s last breath had been drawn.

This discovery appalled me. I stood with the long iron hinge still in my hand, gazing awe-stricken at the box in which the body was concealed. I now realised how, by decomposition of the contents, the wood had rotted; how, by the accumulation of gases, it had been rent asunder, and that the sickening stifling odour that nauseated me emanated from this hidden evidence of a crime.

Around this cellar that had been converted into a charnel-house I gazed half fearfully, my eyes penetrating its darkest recesses, dreading to meet some spectral form or to face the unknown person who had made such a violent attempt upon my life on the previous night. Once again I summoned courage to peer into the decaying trunk, but could distinguish little in that tantalising darkness. Repugnance prevented me from turning over the box, and emptying its gruesome contents on the flags; therefore, I replaced the lid and waited a few moments to recover myself. The appalling discovery had filled me with an indescribable fear, and weakened as I had been by the injuries to my head, my senses reeled.

At last, summoning a firm resolution to arm myself against this terror and misfortune, I doubled the hinges back together so as to strengthen them, and walking to the door, made a carefully directed but frantic attack upon the socket holding the lock. Although old and very rusty, it seemed that no effort of mine was strong enough to break it, for it withstood all attack, and the damage I did consisted in merely knocking off a little of the incrustation. Again and again I rained blows upon it with my improvised hammer, but the iron itself was strong, and four large screws that secured it to the woodwork remained unloosened.

Presently my weakness compelled me to pause to regain breath, as with failing heart I was forced to acknowledge myself utterly baffled. Again I examined it long and earnestly. After another quarter of an hour’s effort, however, the thought momentarily flashed through my mind that by the exercise of patience I could utilise one end of the hinge which was narrow and thin, as a screw-driver, and by its aid remove the screws.

This had not before occurred to me, but in a few moments I was kneeling at the lintel, and, using the hinge deftly, had half removed the first screw. Within ten minutes I succeeded in extracting them all, and, taking off the socket, emerged into the passage, afterwards closing the entrance to the gruesome place.

Passing down the stone passage in the basement, which I remembered having explored on the previous night, I ascended at last into the spacious gloomy hall and walked towards the street door. As I did so an unusual noise startled me. I halted, listening with breathless anxiety.

It came from above. Through the deserted mansion it once again resounded, clearly distinct and dismal. It was a wild, shrill cry—a woman’s despairing shriek!

My first impulse was to rush upstairs and resume my investigations, but, a sudden fear seizing me, I opened the door and fled precipitately from the weird house of hidden mysteries.

Chapter Twenty Four.A Confession.Hatless, hungry and half fainting, I drove in a cab to my old friend Dr Landsell in Kensington, who examined my wound, pronounced that it was not dangerous, bathed and dressed it. I accepted his invitation to lunch, but, although he expressed surprise how I could have received such a blow, I did not deem it wise to satisfy his curiosity. We parted about three o’clock, for I had resolved to see Grindlay, and was anxious to tell him of my discovery and seek his aid.I was compelled, however, to call at my chambers to obtain a hat and exchange my torn coat for another, and as I alighted in Shaftesbury Avenue I recollected that before consulting the detective I ought first to ascertain whether Dora had returned home. The mysterious shriek of despair I had heard might have been hers! She might still be imprisoned in the house!Ascending the stairs, I entered my chambers with my latch-key, and strode straight towards my sitting-room. To my amazement two persons were awaiting me. Upon the threshold I stood gazing inquiringly at them.Ensconced in my armchair sat Lady Fyneshade, while on the opposite side of the room, his bony hands clasped behind his back, stood her companion Markwick.As I entered Mabel gave vent to a cry that betrayed alarm, and rose quickly to her feet, while her companion stood staring at me open-mouthed, with an expression of mingled fear and astonishment. Both glared at me as if I were an apparition.But only for a single instant. Markwick’s face relaxed into a forced smile, while Mabel, laughing outright, stretched forth her hand frankly, exclaiming:“Here you are at last, Stuart! How are you?”I greeted her rather coldly, but she chattered on, telling me that Saunders had asked them in, saying that he expected me to return every moment. They had, it seems, already waited half an hour, and were just about to depart. Few words I addressed to the man who had first led me to the mysterious house in Gloucester Square. I merely greeted him, then turned again to Mabel. The strange expression on both their faces when I had entered puzzled me. There was, I felt certain, some deep motive underlying their call.But successfully concealing my suspicions and addressing Mabel, I said as pleasantly as I could:“It is not often you favour me with a visit nowadays.”“My time is unfortunately so much taken up,” she answered, with a smile. “But I wanted to see you very particularly to-day.”“What about?” I asked, seating myself on the edge of the table, my back towards her silent escort, while she in her turn sank back into her chair.“About Fyneshade,” she answered. “You remember all I told you on the afternoon when you called on me. Well, I have discovered he is back in London, but he has not returned home, and a letter to his club has elicited no reply.”“You want to see him?”“I do. If he will hear me I can at once clear myself. You are one of my oldest friends and know the little differences that exist between us, therefore I seek your assistance to obtain an interview with him. Invite him here, send me word the day and hour, and I will come also.”I hesitated. Her request was strange, and more curious that it should be made before the very man who, although hated by Fyneshade, was nevertheless his friend.“I have no desire to interfere between husband and wife,” I answered slowly. “But if any effort of mine will secure a reconciliation, I shall be only too pleased to do my best on your behalf.”“Ah!” she cried, a weight apparently lifted from her mind. “You are always loyal, Stuart; you are always generous to your friends. I know if you ask Fyneshade he will call on you. A letter to White’s will find him.” Markwick, his hands still clasped behind his back, seeming taller and more slim than usual in his perfect-fitting, tightly-buttoned frock-coat, had crossed to the window, and was gazing abstractedly out upon the never-ceasing tide of London traffic below. He took no interest whatever in our conversation, but fidgeted about as if anxious to get away.Mabel and I talked of various matters, when I suddenly asked her about Dora.“Ma is coming to town with her this week,” the Countess answered. “I had a letter from her a few days ago, and it appears that the house-party at Blatherwycke has been an unqualified success.”“Bethune has been there, I suppose,” I hazarded, laughing.“Bethune!” she echoed. “Why, haven’t you heard of him lately?”“Not for several weeks. He is somewhere in Wales.”“I think not,” she said. “From what I have heard from Ma, he arrived late one night at Blatherwycke, met Dora clandestinely somewhere on the Bulwick Road, and, wishing her farewell, left next day for the Continent. Since that nobody has heard a single word about him.”“Not even Dora?” I inquired, greatly surprised that Jack should have left again without a word to me.“No. Dora, silly little goose, is crying her eyes out and quite spoiling her complexion. Their engagement is absolutely ridiculous.”“She loves him,” I observed briefly.“Nowadays a woman does not marry the man she loves. She does not learn to love until after marriage, and then, alas! her flirtation is not with her husband.”I sighed. There was much truth in what this smart woman of the world said. It is only among the middle classes that persons marry for love. The open flirtation in Belgravia would be voted a scandal if it occurred in Suburbia. There is one standard of morals in Mayfair, another in Mile End.By dint of artful questioning I endeavoured to glean from her whether she knew the reason of Jack’s departure, but either by design or from ignorance she was as silent as the sphinx.“The only other fact I know beyond what I have already told you,” she replied, “was contained in a paragraph in the Morning Post, which stated that Captain Bethune, the well-known soldier-novelist, had left London for the Balkan States, in order to obtain material for a new romance upon which he is actively engaged. Really, novelists obtain as much advertisement and are quite as widely known as princes of reigning houses.”Markwick at that moment turned quickly and expressed a fear that he must be going, as he had an appointment in the City, while Mabel, rising, stretched forth her small hand in farewell, and urging me not to forget to arrange a meeting with Fyneshade, accompanied her companion out.When they had gone I stood for a long time gazing down into the street, pondering deeply. I could not discern the object of their visit, nor why that curious expression should have crossed their faces when I appeared. The reason they had called was, however, quite apparent half an hour later, for, to my abject dismay, I found that the little cabinet in which I had kept the fragments of paper I had discovered in Jack’s chambers on the night of the tragedy had been wrenched open, the papers turned over hurriedly, and the whole of the letters abstracted.Markwick had stolen them! I now recollected, quite distinctly, that at the moment I entered he had his hands behind his back endeavouring to conceal something.I started forward to go and inform the police, but remembering that ere long I should place Grindlay in possession of all the tangled chain of facts, I rang the bell for Saunders instead.“What time did Lady Fyneshade arrive,” I asked, when he had responded to my summons.“About half an hour before you returned, sir.”“Were they alone in this room the whole time?”“Yes, sir. Her ladyship went to the piano and played several songs.”His words convinced me. Mabel had strummed on the piano in order to drown the sound of the breaking open of the cabinet.For what reason, I strove to imagine, had Markwick obtained the letters? How, indeed, could he have known their hiding-place, or that they were in my possession?I felt absolutely certain that, having satisfied themselves of my absence, they had entered in order to obtain possession of those half-charred letters, and that on my unexpected return Mabel, in order to cover their confusion, had skillfully concocted an object for their visit. She had tricked me cleverly, and although half mad with anger at my loss, I could not help admiring her extraordinary self-possession and the calm circumstantial manner in which she had lied to me.Business London had drawn its whirling fevered day to a close when I entered one of the bare waiting-rooms at New Scotland Yard, and sent my card to Inspector Grindlay. I had not long to wait, for in a few minutes he came in, greeting me bluffly with a hearty hand-shake, expressing pleasure that I had called.“I want to consult you, Grindlay,” I said seriously. “I have made a discovery.”“A discovery!” he laughed. “What is it, some mechanical invention?”“No. A body!”“A body!” he echoed, arching his thick, dark brows, and regarding me keenly.“Yes,” I said. “I want to tell you all about it, for I’ve come to seek your assistance. Shall we be disturbed?”He crossed the room, locked the door, and then, motioning me to a chair, took one himself on the opposite side of the small table, and announced his readiness to hear my story.Commencing at the beginning, I described my meeting with Sybil at Bagnères de Luchon, my love for her, the midnight marriage, and her death.“What name did she give you?” he inquired interrupting me.“I understood that her name was Henniker,” I replied. “Sybil Henniker.”He inclined his head. Proceeding I told him of the subsequent strange events, the finding of the wreath upon her grave with my card, whereon was written the words, “Seek and you may find,” of the discovery of her photograph in the shop in Regent Street, together with that of Gilbert Sternroyd.“Ah! Sternroyd!” he repeated, as soon as I mentioned the name. “And you bought those portraits. Have you still got them?”I drew them from my pocket and handed them across to him. As he gazed at Sybil’s picture he twirled his moustache, thoughtfully knitting his brow.But my tongue’s strings were now loosened, and I confessed how I had discovered the young millionaire lying dead in Jack Bethune’s flat, and how, on my second visit to the place, I found the body removed, and afterward encountered my friend, who would not allow me to enter one of his rooms.“You think he was concealing the body there?” he asked, glancing up from the paper whereon he had scribbled some brief memoranda.“I fear to think anything, lest it should add to the evidence against him. He has left England again.”“Yes,” the detective replied; “we are aware of that. He has eluded us.”“Then you also suspect him?” I cried.For answer he only shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.Continuing my story, I detailed the conversation I had overheard at Blatherwycke between Markwick and the Countess, described my visit to the house in Gloucester Square, my encounter with Dora, the subsequent discovery of a body, and the theft of the half-burnt letters from my own room.When I had concluded he was silent for a long time. My story was evidently more startling and complicated than he had expected, and he was apparently weighing the evidence against the man suspected.“You say you still have the key of this house in your possession.” I nodded.“Very well. We will search the place as a preliminary.”“When?”“At once. I must have a few words with the Chief first; but if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes or so. I’ll be ready to go with you.”He brought me a newspaper, and for about a quarter of an hour I idled over it, until he again returned, accompanied by one of his men, who carried in his hand a small crowbar, a police bull’s-eye, and a box of matches. These he placed carefully in his pocket, while Grindlay glanced through some papers, and in a few minutes we all three entered a cab, and drove rapidly to Radnor Place, alighting at some little distance from the house.Noiselessly I opened the great hall-door and we entered. When I had closed the door again, the inspector turned to his companion, saying:“Remain here, and make no noise. It seems to me probable that some person may be concealed here. Detain anyone who attempts to get out.”“Very well, sir,” the man answered, giving his superior the crowbar, lantern, and matches; and in a few moments I led Grindlay down to the cellar in which I had been imprisoned.We found it without difficulty, and on entering I saw that the trunk containing the body was in the same position in which I had left it. Eagerly the detective advanced, pushed the lid aside, and directed the light upon its contents.“It’s been put in face downwards,” he said, as I stood back, dreading to gaze upon a sight that I knew must be horrible. “It’s a man, evidently, but in a fearful state of decomposition. Come, lend me a hand. We must turn the box over, and get out of this place quickly. The smell is enough to give anybody a fever.”Thus requested, I placed my hand at the end of the box, and together we emptied it out upon the flags.The sight was awful. The face was so terribly decomposed that it was absolutely unrecognisable; but the detective’s keen eye noticed a gleam of gold amid the horrible mass of putrefaction, and, stooping, drew forth from the mass of decaying clothes a watch and chain. He rubbed the watch upon a piece of old rag lying on the rubbish heap, then held it close to the light. The back was elaborately engraved, and I saw there was a monogram.“Initials,” exclaimed the detective calmly. “This watch has already been described. It is his watch, and the letters are ‘G.S.’—Gilbert Sternroyd.”“Gilbert!” I gasped. “Can it really be Sternroyd?” I cried, my eyes fixed upon the black awful heap.“No doubt whatever. The man is in evening dress. On his finger, there—can’t you see it glittering?—is the diamond ring that Spink’s supplied him with six weeks before his disappearance. This discovery at least proves the theory I have held all along, that he has been murdered.”“By whom?”“We have yet to discover that,” he rejoined. “Do you know what connection your friend Bethune had with this house?”“None, as far as I am aware,” I replied.“It is apparent though, that he was well acquainted with the lady to whom you were married here.”I admitted the truth of these words, but he did not pursue the subject further.Kneeling beside the body he took from its withered hand the ring he had indicated and slipped it into his pocket, afterward examining the remains rather minutely. Then, rising, he made a cursory examination of the heap of lumber, looked at the narrow crevice above, and at last suggested that we should set forth to make a thorough search of the place.

Hatless, hungry and half fainting, I drove in a cab to my old friend Dr Landsell in Kensington, who examined my wound, pronounced that it was not dangerous, bathed and dressed it. I accepted his invitation to lunch, but, although he expressed surprise how I could have received such a blow, I did not deem it wise to satisfy his curiosity. We parted about three o’clock, for I had resolved to see Grindlay, and was anxious to tell him of my discovery and seek his aid.

I was compelled, however, to call at my chambers to obtain a hat and exchange my torn coat for another, and as I alighted in Shaftesbury Avenue I recollected that before consulting the detective I ought first to ascertain whether Dora had returned home. The mysterious shriek of despair I had heard might have been hers! She might still be imprisoned in the house!

Ascending the stairs, I entered my chambers with my latch-key, and strode straight towards my sitting-room. To my amazement two persons were awaiting me. Upon the threshold I stood gazing inquiringly at them.

Ensconced in my armchair sat Lady Fyneshade, while on the opposite side of the room, his bony hands clasped behind his back, stood her companion Markwick.

As I entered Mabel gave vent to a cry that betrayed alarm, and rose quickly to her feet, while her companion stood staring at me open-mouthed, with an expression of mingled fear and astonishment. Both glared at me as if I were an apparition.

But only for a single instant. Markwick’s face relaxed into a forced smile, while Mabel, laughing outright, stretched forth her hand frankly, exclaiming:

“Here you are at last, Stuart! How are you?”

I greeted her rather coldly, but she chattered on, telling me that Saunders had asked them in, saying that he expected me to return every moment. They had, it seems, already waited half an hour, and were just about to depart. Few words I addressed to the man who had first led me to the mysterious house in Gloucester Square. I merely greeted him, then turned again to Mabel. The strange expression on both their faces when I had entered puzzled me. There was, I felt certain, some deep motive underlying their call.

But successfully concealing my suspicions and addressing Mabel, I said as pleasantly as I could:

“It is not often you favour me with a visit nowadays.”

“My time is unfortunately so much taken up,” she answered, with a smile. “But I wanted to see you very particularly to-day.”

“What about?” I asked, seating myself on the edge of the table, my back towards her silent escort, while she in her turn sank back into her chair.

“About Fyneshade,” she answered. “You remember all I told you on the afternoon when you called on me. Well, I have discovered he is back in London, but he has not returned home, and a letter to his club has elicited no reply.”

“You want to see him?”

“I do. If he will hear me I can at once clear myself. You are one of my oldest friends and know the little differences that exist between us, therefore I seek your assistance to obtain an interview with him. Invite him here, send me word the day and hour, and I will come also.”

I hesitated. Her request was strange, and more curious that it should be made before the very man who, although hated by Fyneshade, was nevertheless his friend.

“I have no desire to interfere between husband and wife,” I answered slowly. “But if any effort of mine will secure a reconciliation, I shall be only too pleased to do my best on your behalf.”

“Ah!” she cried, a weight apparently lifted from her mind. “You are always loyal, Stuart; you are always generous to your friends. I know if you ask Fyneshade he will call on you. A letter to White’s will find him.” Markwick, his hands still clasped behind his back, seeming taller and more slim than usual in his perfect-fitting, tightly-buttoned frock-coat, had crossed to the window, and was gazing abstractedly out upon the never-ceasing tide of London traffic below. He took no interest whatever in our conversation, but fidgeted about as if anxious to get away.

Mabel and I talked of various matters, when I suddenly asked her about Dora.

“Ma is coming to town with her this week,” the Countess answered. “I had a letter from her a few days ago, and it appears that the house-party at Blatherwycke has been an unqualified success.”

“Bethune has been there, I suppose,” I hazarded, laughing.

“Bethune!” she echoed. “Why, haven’t you heard of him lately?”

“Not for several weeks. He is somewhere in Wales.”

“I think not,” she said. “From what I have heard from Ma, he arrived late one night at Blatherwycke, met Dora clandestinely somewhere on the Bulwick Road, and, wishing her farewell, left next day for the Continent. Since that nobody has heard a single word about him.”

“Not even Dora?” I inquired, greatly surprised that Jack should have left again without a word to me.

“No. Dora, silly little goose, is crying her eyes out and quite spoiling her complexion. Their engagement is absolutely ridiculous.”

“She loves him,” I observed briefly.

“Nowadays a woman does not marry the man she loves. She does not learn to love until after marriage, and then, alas! her flirtation is not with her husband.”

I sighed. There was much truth in what this smart woman of the world said. It is only among the middle classes that persons marry for love. The open flirtation in Belgravia would be voted a scandal if it occurred in Suburbia. There is one standard of morals in Mayfair, another in Mile End.

By dint of artful questioning I endeavoured to glean from her whether she knew the reason of Jack’s departure, but either by design or from ignorance she was as silent as the sphinx.

“The only other fact I know beyond what I have already told you,” she replied, “was contained in a paragraph in the Morning Post, which stated that Captain Bethune, the well-known soldier-novelist, had left London for the Balkan States, in order to obtain material for a new romance upon which he is actively engaged. Really, novelists obtain as much advertisement and are quite as widely known as princes of reigning houses.”

Markwick at that moment turned quickly and expressed a fear that he must be going, as he had an appointment in the City, while Mabel, rising, stretched forth her small hand in farewell, and urging me not to forget to arrange a meeting with Fyneshade, accompanied her companion out.

When they had gone I stood for a long time gazing down into the street, pondering deeply. I could not discern the object of their visit, nor why that curious expression should have crossed their faces when I appeared. The reason they had called was, however, quite apparent half an hour later, for, to my abject dismay, I found that the little cabinet in which I had kept the fragments of paper I had discovered in Jack’s chambers on the night of the tragedy had been wrenched open, the papers turned over hurriedly, and the whole of the letters abstracted.

Markwick had stolen them! I now recollected, quite distinctly, that at the moment I entered he had his hands behind his back endeavouring to conceal something.

I started forward to go and inform the police, but remembering that ere long I should place Grindlay in possession of all the tangled chain of facts, I rang the bell for Saunders instead.

“What time did Lady Fyneshade arrive,” I asked, when he had responded to my summons.

“About half an hour before you returned, sir.”

“Were they alone in this room the whole time?”

“Yes, sir. Her ladyship went to the piano and played several songs.”

His words convinced me. Mabel had strummed on the piano in order to drown the sound of the breaking open of the cabinet.

For what reason, I strove to imagine, had Markwick obtained the letters? How, indeed, could he have known their hiding-place, or that they were in my possession?

I felt absolutely certain that, having satisfied themselves of my absence, they had entered in order to obtain possession of those half-charred letters, and that on my unexpected return Mabel, in order to cover their confusion, had skillfully concocted an object for their visit. She had tricked me cleverly, and although half mad with anger at my loss, I could not help admiring her extraordinary self-possession and the calm circumstantial manner in which she had lied to me.

Business London had drawn its whirling fevered day to a close when I entered one of the bare waiting-rooms at New Scotland Yard, and sent my card to Inspector Grindlay. I had not long to wait, for in a few minutes he came in, greeting me bluffly with a hearty hand-shake, expressing pleasure that I had called.

“I want to consult you, Grindlay,” I said seriously. “I have made a discovery.”

“A discovery!” he laughed. “What is it, some mechanical invention?”

“No. A body!”

“A body!” he echoed, arching his thick, dark brows, and regarding me keenly.

“Yes,” I said. “I want to tell you all about it, for I’ve come to seek your assistance. Shall we be disturbed?”

He crossed the room, locked the door, and then, motioning me to a chair, took one himself on the opposite side of the small table, and announced his readiness to hear my story.

Commencing at the beginning, I described my meeting with Sybil at Bagnères de Luchon, my love for her, the midnight marriage, and her death.

“What name did she give you?” he inquired interrupting me.

“I understood that her name was Henniker,” I replied. “Sybil Henniker.”

He inclined his head. Proceeding I told him of the subsequent strange events, the finding of the wreath upon her grave with my card, whereon was written the words, “Seek and you may find,” of the discovery of her photograph in the shop in Regent Street, together with that of Gilbert Sternroyd.

“Ah! Sternroyd!” he repeated, as soon as I mentioned the name. “And you bought those portraits. Have you still got them?”

I drew them from my pocket and handed them across to him. As he gazed at Sybil’s picture he twirled his moustache, thoughtfully knitting his brow.

But my tongue’s strings were now loosened, and I confessed how I had discovered the young millionaire lying dead in Jack Bethune’s flat, and how, on my second visit to the place, I found the body removed, and afterward encountered my friend, who would not allow me to enter one of his rooms.

“You think he was concealing the body there?” he asked, glancing up from the paper whereon he had scribbled some brief memoranda.

“I fear to think anything, lest it should add to the evidence against him. He has left England again.”

“Yes,” the detective replied; “we are aware of that. He has eluded us.”

“Then you also suspect him?” I cried.

For answer he only shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.

Continuing my story, I detailed the conversation I had overheard at Blatherwycke between Markwick and the Countess, described my visit to the house in Gloucester Square, my encounter with Dora, the subsequent discovery of a body, and the theft of the half-burnt letters from my own room.

When I had concluded he was silent for a long time. My story was evidently more startling and complicated than he had expected, and he was apparently weighing the evidence against the man suspected.

“You say you still have the key of this house in your possession.” I nodded.

“Very well. We will search the place as a preliminary.”

“When?”

“At once. I must have a few words with the Chief first; but if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes or so. I’ll be ready to go with you.”

He brought me a newspaper, and for about a quarter of an hour I idled over it, until he again returned, accompanied by one of his men, who carried in his hand a small crowbar, a police bull’s-eye, and a box of matches. These he placed carefully in his pocket, while Grindlay glanced through some papers, and in a few minutes we all three entered a cab, and drove rapidly to Radnor Place, alighting at some little distance from the house.

Noiselessly I opened the great hall-door and we entered. When I had closed the door again, the inspector turned to his companion, saying:

“Remain here, and make no noise. It seems to me probable that some person may be concealed here. Detain anyone who attempts to get out.”

“Very well, sir,” the man answered, giving his superior the crowbar, lantern, and matches; and in a few moments I led Grindlay down to the cellar in which I had been imprisoned.

We found it without difficulty, and on entering I saw that the trunk containing the body was in the same position in which I had left it. Eagerly the detective advanced, pushed the lid aside, and directed the light upon its contents.

“It’s been put in face downwards,” he said, as I stood back, dreading to gaze upon a sight that I knew must be horrible. “It’s a man, evidently, but in a fearful state of decomposition. Come, lend me a hand. We must turn the box over, and get out of this place quickly. The smell is enough to give anybody a fever.”

Thus requested, I placed my hand at the end of the box, and together we emptied it out upon the flags.

The sight was awful. The face was so terribly decomposed that it was absolutely unrecognisable; but the detective’s keen eye noticed a gleam of gold amid the horrible mass of putrefaction, and, stooping, drew forth from the mass of decaying clothes a watch and chain. He rubbed the watch upon a piece of old rag lying on the rubbish heap, then held it close to the light. The back was elaborately engraved, and I saw there was a monogram.

“Initials,” exclaimed the detective calmly. “This watch has already been described. It is his watch, and the letters are ‘G.S.’—Gilbert Sternroyd.”

“Gilbert!” I gasped. “Can it really be Sternroyd?” I cried, my eyes fixed upon the black awful heap.

“No doubt whatever. The man is in evening dress. On his finger, there—can’t you see it glittering?—is the diamond ring that Spink’s supplied him with six weeks before his disappearance. This discovery at least proves the theory I have held all along, that he has been murdered.”

“By whom?”

“We have yet to discover that,” he rejoined. “Do you know what connection your friend Bethune had with this house?”

“None, as far as I am aware,” I replied.

“It is apparent though, that he was well acquainted with the lady to whom you were married here.”

I admitted the truth of these words, but he did not pursue the subject further.

Kneeling beside the body he took from its withered hand the ring he had indicated and slipped it into his pocket, afterward examining the remains rather minutely. Then, rising, he made a cursory examination of the heap of lumber, looked at the narrow crevice above, and at last suggested that we should set forth to make a thorough search of the place.

Chapter Twenty Five.Most Remarkable.My former experiences had unnerved me, so I armed myself, with the crowbar, and together we went through the basement rooms, where only rats and dirt attracted our attention. Regaining the hall, Grindlay urged the necessity for making no noise, and having whispered the query “All right?” to his subordinate, receiving an assurance in the affirmative from the man on guard, we together ascended the great flight of stairs.The place was silent as the grave, but our footsteps awoke no echoes as we gained the staircase and softly crept into the once handsome, but now faded, moth-eaten drawing-room.Crossing the great apartment we came to the small door that Dora had opened at the moment I had been struck down. The crimson-shaded lamp, now burned out, still stood upon the table, but the door leading to the inner chamber, wherein some unknown sight had so strangely affected her, was closed and secured by a wide, strong iron bar placed right across in the manner that window shutters are barred.“Hulloa! What’s this?” whispered the detective when he noticed it. “There’s some mystery here. Hold the lamp and lend me the jemmy.”I handed him the tool, and inserting the pronged end between the woodwork and one of the great sockets he gave it such a sudden wrench that the socket snapped.In an instant he had unbarred the door, and, throwing it open, dashed forward.I followed, but a cry of amazement escaped my lips. The room into which the detective and myself effected a forced entrance was small and shabby. It had apparently once been a boudoir, but the greater part of the furniture had long ago been removed, and what remained was dusty, faded and decaying. The shutters were closed, and secured by a heavy padlocked bar, and the cheap white-shaded lamp that burned dimly upon the table did not shed sufficient light to fully illuminate the place.Suddenly, as Grindlay took the bull’s-eye from my hand and turned its light upon the opposite side of the room, we were both amazed to discover lying upon one of those cheap convertible chair-bedsteads that are the delight of lower-class housewives, a female form in a light dress. With one accord we both advanced toward her. The woman’s face was turned from us, but our entrance apparently aroused her, and she slowly moved and raised her head.From my lips there escaped an anguished cry of amazement.The blanched features were familiar, but upon them was such a strange, wild look that I stopped short to assure myself that this strange scene was not merely imaginary.“My God!” I cried. “Dora, is it you?”Raising herself upon her elbow with a sudden movement she pushed her hair from her white brow, glared for a few moments at me with an unnatural fire in her eyes, then, without replying to my question, gave vent to a long, loud, discordant laugh.“Speak!” I urged, rushing toward her, grasping her hand. “Tell me how it is that we discover you here, locked in this room?”But she answered not. The light in her clear eyes grew more brilliant as she fixed her gaze inquiringly upon me. She did not recognise me. Her face was drawn and haggard, around her eyes were dark rings, and her features that had been so admired seemed now almost hideous, while the dress she wore, soiled and tumbled, was the same handsome evening gown in which I had seen her determinedly entering that room.“Go!” she screamed suddenly. “Do not torture me, you brute! Let me die, I say! Let me kill myself!” and as she uttered the words she tore at her throat with both hands in an attempt to strangle herself.Grindlay flew to her side and with difficulty gripped her hands. But she seemed possessed of demon strength, and even the detective, muscular and athletic as he was, found he had a hard task to hold her down.“Do you know her?” he gasped at last, turning to me. “Who is she?”“An old friend,” I answered, with poignant sorrow. “Her name is Dora; she is younger daughter of Lady Stretton.”“Lady Stretton—Stretton,” the detective repeated thoughtfully. “The name is familiar. Ah! I remember. The lady who benefits so largely by the murdered man’s will is eldest daughter of her ladyship, isn’t she?”I nodded in the affirmative, but the violent struggles of the would-be suicide interrupted our conversation, and our combined efforts were necessary in order to prevent her from accomplishing her purpose.The melancholy fact could not be disguised that Dora, whose beauty had been so frequently commented upon by Society journals, and whose appearance in ballrooms since she “came out” had never failed to cause a sensation, was actually insane. The bright fire of madness was in her eyes as she wildly accused me of unknown crimes. She did not address me by name, but evidently in her hallucination believed me to be an enemy of whom she had just cause for the bitterest hatred. When I tried to seize her hands she shrank from me as if my contact stung her, and when I gripped her determinedly she fought and bit with a strength of which I had never believed a woman capable.In the fierce straggle the lamp was nearly overturned, and at length Grindlay, finding that all attempts to calm her proved futile, slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and with a murmur of apology for treating any friend of mine, and especially a lady, with such indignity, he locked them upon her slender wrists.“It is the only way we can manage her,” he said. “We must, however, be careful of her head.”Already she was swaying her head from side to side, uttering strings of wild, incoherent words, and after brief consultation it was arranged that the detective should call up his assistant, who had remained on guard below, and we should then convey the unfortunate girl to her home.After two shrill blasts upon the inspector’s whistle we were quickly joined by his assistant, who, without betraying any surprise at this discovery, recognised the position of affairs at a glance, and at once held Dora’s head, in order to prevent her injuring herself.“Remain here, and keep a sharp eye on her while we search the place,” Grindlay commanded; and taking up the lantern and jemmy we returned together to the spacious, faded room wherein the strange marriage ceremony had taken place. The boudoir had no other door leading out of it, except the one communicating with the larger apartment that we had burst open, and with its window closely shuttered, the cries of any person held captive were not likely to be heard, for the window overlooked the garden, and there were no passers-by.From the floor whereon we had made this amazing discovery we ascended, searching diligently, even to the garrets, but found nothing noteworthy. Each room was dusty, neglected, and decaying, but they showed plainly that the mansion had once been furnished in luxurious tasteful style, and that its splendour had long ago departed.When we had arrived at the topmost garret, Grindlay, who had moved quickly, almost silently, poking into every corner, and leaving no place uninspected large enough for any person to conceal himself, paused, and, turning to me, said:“This affair is, I confess, a most remarkable one! In the same house, to all appearances closed and uninhabited, we find the body of the murdered man concealed, and the sister of the woman he admired insane, apparently held captive.”“By whom?” I queried.“Ah! We must ascertain that,” he said, flashing his lantern suddenly into a far corner, but finding nothing. “There must be some exceptionally strong motive for keeping your young lady friend away from her home. Has she, as far as you are aware, ever before shown signs of insanity?”“Never; I have known her ever since a child, and her mind has been always normal. She was particularly intelligent, an excellent pianist, and a fair linguist.”“Some sight unusually horrible, a paroxysm of bitter grief, or some great terror, may have temporarily unhinged her mind. Let us hope it is not incurable,” he said, sympathetically.“Do you think she is really demented?” I asked eagerly. “Will she never recover?”“I really can’t tell you; I’m not a mental specialist,” he answered. “It’s true that I’ve seen two similar cases among women.”“And did they recover?”He hesitated, then looking at me gravely he answered: “No; unfortunately they did not One woman, whose symptoms were similar, had murdered her child. The other had so severely injured her husband by throwing a lighted lamp at him that he is incurable. Both are now at Woking Asylum.”“Is there no hope for them?”“None. In each case I made the arrest, and the doctor afterward told me that their condition of mind was consequent upon the realisation of the enormity of their crimes.”Dora’s symptoms were the same as those of murderesses. Such suggestion was appalling.“Do you then suspect that Lady Stretton’s daughter, Mabel, is—has committed a crime?”“Hardly that,” he replied, quickly. “We must, I think, seek for the guilty one in another quarter.” He seemed to speak with conviction.“In which quarter?” I eagerly inquired.“I have formed no definite opinion at present,” he replied quietly. “If we can induce your lady friend to speak rationally for a few minutes she may confirm or dispel my suspicions. Our discoveries this evening have made one fact plain, and they will be the cause of the withdrawal of one warrant,” he added, looking at me with a curious smile.“For whose arrest?”“Your own.”“A warrant for my arrest!” I cried in dismay. “What do you mean? I have committed no offence.”“Exactly. I have already proved that to my entire satisfaction, and that is the reason the warrant in my pocket will to-morrow be cancelled.”“But why was it ever issued?” I demanded.“Because certain suspicions attached themselves to you. Did it never occur to you that it was you yourself upon whom I was keeping observation on that evening we spent together at the Empire?”“It did; but the suggestion seemed so preposterous that I cast it aside. Now, however, I see that the reason you took me to Scotland Yard was to show me two photographs in your book. One was a picture of myself, and the other that of a woman I loved—”“You loved her—eh?” he interrupted.“Yes. But why do you speak in that tone?” I inquired. “You seem to suggest that my affection was misdirected.”“Pardon me,” he said politely. “I suggest nothing—nothing beyond the fact that it was an indiscretion, as was surely proved by later events.”“Later events!” I echoed. “Then you know the truth, Grindlay! Tell me—tell me all, if you are my friend.”“Before we make an arrest our clues are secret,” the inspector said, not unkindly. “By divulging any of them the ends of justice may be defeated. All I can tell you at present is, that we held a warrant for the arrest of that lady whose portrait adorns our collection, and it was not executed, for the reason stated below it in red ink.”“Because she died. Yes; I am aware of it,” I said. “I was present when she breathed her last, when the police burst into this house, and when they retired on finding the person ‘wanted’ was no longer alive. But for what offence was that warrant issued? Surely I, her husband, have a right to know?”“I regret, Mr Ridgeway, I am unable to tell you,” he replied evasively. “You must be well aware that I was abroad at the time, and the warrant, therefore, did not pass through my hands.”I saw in this a polite refusal to give me the information I sought, and was piqued in consequence. Soon we descended the stairs to the room where Dora remained, still uttering incoherent sentences, and after consultation the two police officers called a cab, and having placed the unfortunate girl in it we all drove to Lady Stretton’s, the inspector having first taken the precaution to send to the nearest police station for a “plain-clothes man” to mount guard over the house wherein the body of the murdered man was lying.Our arrival at Lady Stretton’s caused the greatest consternation among the servants, her ladyship, and her two lady visitors. Lady Stretton herself fainted, the family doctor, a noted mental specialist, was quickly summoned, and Dora taken to her room. From the servants I gathered that Dora had only been absent from home for two days, and that very little anxiety had been felt on her account, for it was believed that having had some disagreement with her mother, and having announced her intention of visiting some friends in Yorkshire, she had gone thither.It was, however, a most severe blow to all when she returned in the custody of two police officers a raving lunatic.The doctor, who could obtain no rational reply to any of his questions, summoned another great specialist on mental ailments, who quickly pronounced the case as extremely grave, but not altogether incurable. Insanity of the character from which she was suffering frequently, he said, took a most acute form, but he was not without hope that, with careful and proper treatment, the balance of her mind might again be restored. The family were instructed not to allow, on any account, any question to be put to her regarding the manner in which the attack had commenced. The strain of endeavouring to recollect would, the doctor assured us, do her incalculable harm.Grindlay remained with me at Lady Stretton’s for an hour or more, and when we left we drove together as far as my chambers, where I alighted, while he went on to Scotland Yard.“Remember,” he said, before I wished him good-night, and promised to see him on the morrow, “not a word to a soul that we have discovered the body. Only by keeping our own counsel, and acting with the greatest discretion and patience, can we arrest the guilty one.”“Grindlay, you suspect my friend, Captain Bethune,” I said. “It’s useless to deny it.”“It is the privilege of a man in my profession to suspect, and his suspicions often fall on innocent persons,” he said, with a faint smile. “The body has now been discovered, and we know a crime has been committed. Therefore, we can obtain a warrant against any person upon whom suspicion may rest.”I pursued the subject no further, but sat back in the cab, fully convinced by these words of his intention to arrest Jack on a charge of murder.

My former experiences had unnerved me, so I armed myself, with the crowbar, and together we went through the basement rooms, where only rats and dirt attracted our attention. Regaining the hall, Grindlay urged the necessity for making no noise, and having whispered the query “All right?” to his subordinate, receiving an assurance in the affirmative from the man on guard, we together ascended the great flight of stairs.

The place was silent as the grave, but our footsteps awoke no echoes as we gained the staircase and softly crept into the once handsome, but now faded, moth-eaten drawing-room.

Crossing the great apartment we came to the small door that Dora had opened at the moment I had been struck down. The crimson-shaded lamp, now burned out, still stood upon the table, but the door leading to the inner chamber, wherein some unknown sight had so strangely affected her, was closed and secured by a wide, strong iron bar placed right across in the manner that window shutters are barred.

“Hulloa! What’s this?” whispered the detective when he noticed it. “There’s some mystery here. Hold the lamp and lend me the jemmy.”

I handed him the tool, and inserting the pronged end between the woodwork and one of the great sockets he gave it such a sudden wrench that the socket snapped.

In an instant he had unbarred the door, and, throwing it open, dashed forward.

I followed, but a cry of amazement escaped my lips. The room into which the detective and myself effected a forced entrance was small and shabby. It had apparently once been a boudoir, but the greater part of the furniture had long ago been removed, and what remained was dusty, faded and decaying. The shutters were closed, and secured by a heavy padlocked bar, and the cheap white-shaded lamp that burned dimly upon the table did not shed sufficient light to fully illuminate the place.

Suddenly, as Grindlay took the bull’s-eye from my hand and turned its light upon the opposite side of the room, we were both amazed to discover lying upon one of those cheap convertible chair-bedsteads that are the delight of lower-class housewives, a female form in a light dress. With one accord we both advanced toward her. The woman’s face was turned from us, but our entrance apparently aroused her, and she slowly moved and raised her head.

From my lips there escaped an anguished cry of amazement.

The blanched features were familiar, but upon them was such a strange, wild look that I stopped short to assure myself that this strange scene was not merely imaginary.

“My God!” I cried. “Dora, is it you?”

Raising herself upon her elbow with a sudden movement she pushed her hair from her white brow, glared for a few moments at me with an unnatural fire in her eyes, then, without replying to my question, gave vent to a long, loud, discordant laugh.

“Speak!” I urged, rushing toward her, grasping her hand. “Tell me how it is that we discover you here, locked in this room?”

But she answered not. The light in her clear eyes grew more brilliant as she fixed her gaze inquiringly upon me. She did not recognise me. Her face was drawn and haggard, around her eyes were dark rings, and her features that had been so admired seemed now almost hideous, while the dress she wore, soiled and tumbled, was the same handsome evening gown in which I had seen her determinedly entering that room.

“Go!” she screamed suddenly. “Do not torture me, you brute! Let me die, I say! Let me kill myself!” and as she uttered the words she tore at her throat with both hands in an attempt to strangle herself.

Grindlay flew to her side and with difficulty gripped her hands. But she seemed possessed of demon strength, and even the detective, muscular and athletic as he was, found he had a hard task to hold her down.

“Do you know her?” he gasped at last, turning to me. “Who is she?”

“An old friend,” I answered, with poignant sorrow. “Her name is Dora; she is younger daughter of Lady Stretton.”

“Lady Stretton—Stretton,” the detective repeated thoughtfully. “The name is familiar. Ah! I remember. The lady who benefits so largely by the murdered man’s will is eldest daughter of her ladyship, isn’t she?”

I nodded in the affirmative, but the violent struggles of the would-be suicide interrupted our conversation, and our combined efforts were necessary in order to prevent her from accomplishing her purpose.

The melancholy fact could not be disguised that Dora, whose beauty had been so frequently commented upon by Society journals, and whose appearance in ballrooms since she “came out” had never failed to cause a sensation, was actually insane. The bright fire of madness was in her eyes as she wildly accused me of unknown crimes. She did not address me by name, but evidently in her hallucination believed me to be an enemy of whom she had just cause for the bitterest hatred. When I tried to seize her hands she shrank from me as if my contact stung her, and when I gripped her determinedly she fought and bit with a strength of which I had never believed a woman capable.

In the fierce straggle the lamp was nearly overturned, and at length Grindlay, finding that all attempts to calm her proved futile, slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and with a murmur of apology for treating any friend of mine, and especially a lady, with such indignity, he locked them upon her slender wrists.

“It is the only way we can manage her,” he said. “We must, however, be careful of her head.”

Already she was swaying her head from side to side, uttering strings of wild, incoherent words, and after brief consultation it was arranged that the detective should call up his assistant, who had remained on guard below, and we should then convey the unfortunate girl to her home.

After two shrill blasts upon the inspector’s whistle we were quickly joined by his assistant, who, without betraying any surprise at this discovery, recognised the position of affairs at a glance, and at once held Dora’s head, in order to prevent her injuring herself.

“Remain here, and keep a sharp eye on her while we search the place,” Grindlay commanded; and taking up the lantern and jemmy we returned together to the spacious, faded room wherein the strange marriage ceremony had taken place. The boudoir had no other door leading out of it, except the one communicating with the larger apartment that we had burst open, and with its window closely shuttered, the cries of any person held captive were not likely to be heard, for the window overlooked the garden, and there were no passers-by.

From the floor whereon we had made this amazing discovery we ascended, searching diligently, even to the garrets, but found nothing noteworthy. Each room was dusty, neglected, and decaying, but they showed plainly that the mansion had once been furnished in luxurious tasteful style, and that its splendour had long ago departed.

When we had arrived at the topmost garret, Grindlay, who had moved quickly, almost silently, poking into every corner, and leaving no place uninspected large enough for any person to conceal himself, paused, and, turning to me, said:

“This affair is, I confess, a most remarkable one! In the same house, to all appearances closed and uninhabited, we find the body of the murdered man concealed, and the sister of the woman he admired insane, apparently held captive.”

“By whom?” I queried.

“Ah! We must ascertain that,” he said, flashing his lantern suddenly into a far corner, but finding nothing. “There must be some exceptionally strong motive for keeping your young lady friend away from her home. Has she, as far as you are aware, ever before shown signs of insanity?”

“Never; I have known her ever since a child, and her mind has been always normal. She was particularly intelligent, an excellent pianist, and a fair linguist.”

“Some sight unusually horrible, a paroxysm of bitter grief, or some great terror, may have temporarily unhinged her mind. Let us hope it is not incurable,” he said, sympathetically.

“Do you think she is really demented?” I asked eagerly. “Will she never recover?”

“I really can’t tell you; I’m not a mental specialist,” he answered. “It’s true that I’ve seen two similar cases among women.”

“And did they recover?”

He hesitated, then looking at me gravely he answered: “No; unfortunately they did not One woman, whose symptoms were similar, had murdered her child. The other had so severely injured her husband by throwing a lighted lamp at him that he is incurable. Both are now at Woking Asylum.”

“Is there no hope for them?”

“None. In each case I made the arrest, and the doctor afterward told me that their condition of mind was consequent upon the realisation of the enormity of their crimes.”

Dora’s symptoms were the same as those of murderesses. Such suggestion was appalling.

“Do you then suspect that Lady Stretton’s daughter, Mabel, is—has committed a crime?”

“Hardly that,” he replied, quickly. “We must, I think, seek for the guilty one in another quarter.” He seemed to speak with conviction.

“In which quarter?” I eagerly inquired.

“I have formed no definite opinion at present,” he replied quietly. “If we can induce your lady friend to speak rationally for a few minutes she may confirm or dispel my suspicions. Our discoveries this evening have made one fact plain, and they will be the cause of the withdrawal of one warrant,” he added, looking at me with a curious smile.

“For whose arrest?”

“Your own.”

“A warrant for my arrest!” I cried in dismay. “What do you mean? I have committed no offence.”

“Exactly. I have already proved that to my entire satisfaction, and that is the reason the warrant in my pocket will to-morrow be cancelled.”

“But why was it ever issued?” I demanded.

“Because certain suspicions attached themselves to you. Did it never occur to you that it was you yourself upon whom I was keeping observation on that evening we spent together at the Empire?”

“It did; but the suggestion seemed so preposterous that I cast it aside. Now, however, I see that the reason you took me to Scotland Yard was to show me two photographs in your book. One was a picture of myself, and the other that of a woman I loved—”

“You loved her—eh?” he interrupted.

“Yes. But why do you speak in that tone?” I inquired. “You seem to suggest that my affection was misdirected.”

“Pardon me,” he said politely. “I suggest nothing—nothing beyond the fact that it was an indiscretion, as was surely proved by later events.”

“Later events!” I echoed. “Then you know the truth, Grindlay! Tell me—tell me all, if you are my friend.”

“Before we make an arrest our clues are secret,” the inspector said, not unkindly. “By divulging any of them the ends of justice may be defeated. All I can tell you at present is, that we held a warrant for the arrest of that lady whose portrait adorns our collection, and it was not executed, for the reason stated below it in red ink.”

“Because she died. Yes; I am aware of it,” I said. “I was present when she breathed her last, when the police burst into this house, and when they retired on finding the person ‘wanted’ was no longer alive. But for what offence was that warrant issued? Surely I, her husband, have a right to know?”

“I regret, Mr Ridgeway, I am unable to tell you,” he replied evasively. “You must be well aware that I was abroad at the time, and the warrant, therefore, did not pass through my hands.”

I saw in this a polite refusal to give me the information I sought, and was piqued in consequence. Soon we descended the stairs to the room where Dora remained, still uttering incoherent sentences, and after consultation the two police officers called a cab, and having placed the unfortunate girl in it we all drove to Lady Stretton’s, the inspector having first taken the precaution to send to the nearest police station for a “plain-clothes man” to mount guard over the house wherein the body of the murdered man was lying.

Our arrival at Lady Stretton’s caused the greatest consternation among the servants, her ladyship, and her two lady visitors. Lady Stretton herself fainted, the family doctor, a noted mental specialist, was quickly summoned, and Dora taken to her room. From the servants I gathered that Dora had only been absent from home for two days, and that very little anxiety had been felt on her account, for it was believed that having had some disagreement with her mother, and having announced her intention of visiting some friends in Yorkshire, she had gone thither.

It was, however, a most severe blow to all when she returned in the custody of two police officers a raving lunatic.

The doctor, who could obtain no rational reply to any of his questions, summoned another great specialist on mental ailments, who quickly pronounced the case as extremely grave, but not altogether incurable. Insanity of the character from which she was suffering frequently, he said, took a most acute form, but he was not without hope that, with careful and proper treatment, the balance of her mind might again be restored. The family were instructed not to allow, on any account, any question to be put to her regarding the manner in which the attack had commenced. The strain of endeavouring to recollect would, the doctor assured us, do her incalculable harm.

Grindlay remained with me at Lady Stretton’s for an hour or more, and when we left we drove together as far as my chambers, where I alighted, while he went on to Scotland Yard.

“Remember,” he said, before I wished him good-night, and promised to see him on the morrow, “not a word to a soul that we have discovered the body. Only by keeping our own counsel, and acting with the greatest discretion and patience, can we arrest the guilty one.”

“Grindlay, you suspect my friend, Captain Bethune,” I said. “It’s useless to deny it.”

“It is the privilege of a man in my profession to suspect, and his suspicions often fall on innocent persons,” he said, with a faint smile. “The body has now been discovered, and we know a crime has been committed. Therefore, we can obtain a warrant against any person upon whom suspicion may rest.”

I pursued the subject no further, but sat back in the cab, fully convinced by these words of his intention to arrest Jack on a charge of murder.

Chapter Twenty Six.The Fugitive.In my own room I sat for a long time silent in deep reverie. Saunders glided in and out, brought me a brandy-and-soda that went flat, untasted, and placed at my elbow my letters, with a deferential suggestion that some of them might be important. Glancing at their superscriptions, I tossed them aside, in no mood to be bothered with cards of invitation or tradesmen’s circulars.Two hours passed, and the ever-watchful Saunders retired for the night. Then, after pacing the room for a long time in hesitation, I at last determined to write to Jack, who had returned home, warning him of his peril. I knew that by shielding a murderer from justice I accepted a great moral responsibility; nevertheless, I had formed a plan which I meant at any hazard to pursue. It was, I felt certain, my last chance of obtaining the knowledge I had so long and vainly sought, therefore I sat down, wrote a hurried note to him, in which I urged him to fly and hide himself for a time; but, after obtaining a hiding-place, to telegraph to me, using the name of a mutual friend, as I desired to see him at the earliest possible moment. This note I took across to the Club, and gave it to the commissionaire, with strict injunctions to deliver it personally.Three-quarters of an hour later the old pensioner returned, saying that he had placed the letter in Captain Bethune’s hand, and as I strolled again homeward I pondered over the serious responsibility of my action. In my heart I felt convinced that my friend had killed Sternroyd. Indeed, every fact was plain. I knew that he was a murderer, and my previous esteem had now been transformed into a deep-rooted repugnance. If he were innocent he could never have been so suspicious of me as he had been since that memorable night when he found me in his chambers. Within myself I admitted that I had no right in his rooms; nevertheless the old adage, “Murder will out,” forcibly occurred to me. If there was one witness who could bring Captain Bethune to the gallows it was myself.Ah, how quickly things had changed! A few brief weeks ago Jack was the popular soldier and brilliant writer hailed by the Press as one of the greatest living novelists; while Dora, charming and radiant, was courted, flattered, and admired at home, in the Park, in the ballroom—everywhere. Now the one was a murderer, hounded by the police; and the other, alas! demented.Patience and discretion. It was Grindlay’s motto, and I would take it as mine. Already, as I walked through the silent, deserted streets, Bethune was, I knew, preparing for hurried flight somewhere out of reach. I alone had frustrated Grindlay’s plans, but only as a means to attain my own end.Next day passed, and in the evening Saunders brought in the Inspector’s card. When Grindlay entered his first words were:“Your friend Bethune has returned and again bolted.”I feigned surprise, but in the course of the conversation that ensued he sought my advice on the most likely places to find him. I suggested Hounslow, but the detective had already made inquiries there, and could glean nothing.“The curious part of the affair is that he should, after his recent extraordinary show of bravado in returning to England, suddenly become suspicious just at the moment when we meant to take him,” he said, after we had been discussing the matter. “I suppose you have no further suggestions to offer as to any likelihood of his whereabouts?”“None. I should not expect him to try and escape abroad again after his last futile attempt to elude you.”“No. The ports are watched, and he might as well walk into the Yard at once as to attempt to cross the Channel,” remarked the detective, smiling. “But I must be going. If you hear anything let me know at the Yard at once.”I promised, and the inspector, taking one of my cigars, lit it and left.A week went by, but no word of the discovery of the ghastly evidence of the crime found its way into the papers. For reasons of their own the police obtained the postponement of the inquest, although the body had been removed to the mortuary, and the house still remained in the possession of a plain-clothes’ man. The theory of the Criminal Investigation Department was that the house would be visited by someone who, unaware of the discoveries that had been made, would walk straight into the arms of an officer of the law.But it proved a waiting game. Another week passed. Several times I called at Lady Stretton’s, only to learn, alas! that Dora had not improved in the slightest degree. She recognised no one—not even her mother. Her ladyship was prostrate, while Mabel, whom I met one morning when I called, seemed haggard and particularly anxious regarding her sister.The thought did not escape me that Mabel herself had, at least on one occasion, most probably visited that strange house that had its entrance in Radnor Place, and I was on the point of mentioning it to her, but decided to wait and see whether she alluded to it. She, however, did not. When I asked her for news of Fyneshade she replied, snappishly, that she neither knew nor cared where he was. In fact, she treated me with a frigid reserve quite unusual to her.About noon one day Saunders brought me a telegram. Opening it, I found the words:“Tell Boyd to sell Tintos.—Roland. Post, Alf, Moselle.”It was from Bethune. Roland was the name we had arranged. So he had, notwithstanding all the precautions taken by the police, succeeded in again escaping to the Continent, and was now in hiding at the post-house of the little riparian village of Alf. I knew the place. It was far in the heart of the beautiful Moselle country on the bank of the broad river that wound through its vine-clad ruin-crested hills, altogether a quaint Arcadian place, quiet, restful, and unknown to the felt-hatted horde of tourists who swarm over the sunny Rhineland like clouds of locusts.Three days after receiving the telegram I alighted from a dusty, lumbering fly at the door of the building, half post-house, half inn, and was greeted heartily by my friend, who spoke in French and wore as a disguise the loose blue blouse so much affected by all classes of Belgians. Alone in the little dining-room he whispered briefly that he was going under the name of Roland, representing himself to be a land-owner from Chaudfontaine, near Liège. None of the people in the inn knew French; therefore, his faulty accent passed unnoticed. When there were listeners we spoke in French to preserve the deception, and I am fain to admit that his disguise and manner were alike excellent.Together we ate our evening meal with the post-house keeper and his buxom, fair-haired wife; then, while the crimson sunset still reflected upon the broad river, we strolled out along the bank to talk.All the land around on this south side is orchard—great pear and cherry trees linked together by low-growing vines, and in the spring months they make a sea of blossom stretching to the river’s edge. The noise of the weir is loud, but the song of the myriad birds can be heard above it. Away eastward, down the widening, curving stream, above the vines there arise, two miles off, the blackened, crumbling towers of mediaeval strongholds. To the north lies the Eifel, that mysterious volcanic district penetrated by few; to the south the Marienburg and the ever-busy Rhine. The vale of the Moselle on that brilliant evening was a serene and sylvan scene, glorious in the blaze of blood-red sunset, and when we had walked beyond the village, cigar in mouth, with affected indifference, Bethune turned to me abruptly, saying:“Well, now, after all this infernal secrecy, what in the name of Heaven do you want with me?”“You apparently reproach me for acting in your interests rather than in my own,” I answered brusquely.“I acted upon your so-called warning and left England—”“Without seeing Dora?” I inquired.“She’s away in the country somewhere,” he snapped. It was evident that he was entirely ignorant of the dire misfortune that had befallen her.“My warning was justified,” I said quietly. “That a warrant is out for your arrest I am in a position to affirm, and—”“A warrant issued on your own information, I presume,” he interrupted with a sneer.“I have given no information,” I replied. “I obtained the truth from the detective who held the warrant, and sent word to you immediately.”“Extremely kind, I’m sure. You’ve done all you can to prejudice me, and now it seems that for some unaccountable reason you have altered your tactics and are looking after my interests. I place no faith in such friends.”“My tactics, as you are pleased to term them, are at least legitimate,” I answered, annoyed. “I deny, however, that I have ever acted in opposition to your interests. During these past weeks of anxiety and suspicion I have always defended you, and show my readiness to still do so by contriving your escape thus far.”“Bah! What have I to fear?” he exclaimed, turning on me defiantly.I looked straight into his face, and with sternness said—“You fear arrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.” He frowned, and his eyes were downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed his tight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying—“Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottom of my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances to again extend to you the hand of friendship.”“I don’t want it,” he growled. “I tell you plainly that you are my enemy—not my friend.”“I have never been your enemy. It is true that the police of Europe are searching for you; that your description is in the hands of every official charged with criminal investigation from Christiania to Gibraltar, and that the charge against you is that you murdered a young millionaire. It is true also that it lays in my power to shield or to denounce you. Think, think for a moment the nature of the evidence against you. One night I entered your flat with my key, stumbled across something, and discovered to my horror that it was the body of Sternroyd, who had been shot.”“You lie!” he cried, turning upon me fiercely, with clenched fists. “You lie! you never saw the body!”“I tell you I did,” I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I went on to describe the exact position in which it lay.My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained no suspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal, and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal night and witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I held he was visibly crushed and cowed.“Well, go on,” he said mechanically, in a hoarse tone. “I suppose you want to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest—eh?”“Think of the nature of my evidence,” I continued. “I entered your flat again on the following night to find you present, the body removed, and you met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking the door and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficient circumstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?”He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.“Again,” I said, “in addition to this, I may as well tell you that the body you sought to hide has been discovered.”“Discovered!” he gasped. “Have they found it?”“Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always difficult to hide.”“Who searched? Who discovered it?”“The police.”“And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?”I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts. Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the success of my next move.Turning to him presently, I said: “I have a confession to make, Bethune. On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act openly and tell me what you know of her.”“I know nothing—nothing,” he answered, in a low tone.“That’s a lie!” I exclaimed angrily. “She wrote to you on apparently the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with her.”“Well, I was acquainted with her.”“And with Sternroyd?”“And with Sternroyd.”“Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position, and why the police desired her arrest?”“No; I cannot tell you that,” he answered firmly. “Why?”“Because I refuse.”“You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell the truth because it would incense me?”“I do not fear to tell the truth,” he retorted.“Then why do you decline?”“Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preserving silence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter.”His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words I had read a hundred times before. They were: ”...desire that your friend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact.” Yes; he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.“Will you tell me nothing regarding her?” I asked persuasively.“I am not at liberty to say anything.”“Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a right to know who and what she was, I have,” I urged.“I’m well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by her extraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and—”“Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?” I cried fiercely.“Take it as you please, the truth is the same,” he answered, with a sneering smile. “You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a fly in a trap.” And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.“Then you will tell me nothing about her?” I exclaimed angrily. “You refuse to assist me in recognition of the service I have done you in avoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well—there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall you will never extricate yourself.”“Death?”“No; an officer of police.”“Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter,” he cried, in a tone of banter. “Denounce me—let them arrest me. I am ready to face my traducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothing of Sybil.”“Very well,” I said. “Then the warrant shall be executed without delay.”And I turned and left him.What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.

In my own room I sat for a long time silent in deep reverie. Saunders glided in and out, brought me a brandy-and-soda that went flat, untasted, and placed at my elbow my letters, with a deferential suggestion that some of them might be important. Glancing at their superscriptions, I tossed them aside, in no mood to be bothered with cards of invitation or tradesmen’s circulars.

Two hours passed, and the ever-watchful Saunders retired for the night. Then, after pacing the room for a long time in hesitation, I at last determined to write to Jack, who had returned home, warning him of his peril. I knew that by shielding a murderer from justice I accepted a great moral responsibility; nevertheless, I had formed a plan which I meant at any hazard to pursue. It was, I felt certain, my last chance of obtaining the knowledge I had so long and vainly sought, therefore I sat down, wrote a hurried note to him, in which I urged him to fly and hide himself for a time; but, after obtaining a hiding-place, to telegraph to me, using the name of a mutual friend, as I desired to see him at the earliest possible moment. This note I took across to the Club, and gave it to the commissionaire, with strict injunctions to deliver it personally.

Three-quarters of an hour later the old pensioner returned, saying that he had placed the letter in Captain Bethune’s hand, and as I strolled again homeward I pondered over the serious responsibility of my action. In my heart I felt convinced that my friend had killed Sternroyd. Indeed, every fact was plain. I knew that he was a murderer, and my previous esteem had now been transformed into a deep-rooted repugnance. If he were innocent he could never have been so suspicious of me as he had been since that memorable night when he found me in his chambers. Within myself I admitted that I had no right in his rooms; nevertheless the old adage, “Murder will out,” forcibly occurred to me. If there was one witness who could bring Captain Bethune to the gallows it was myself.

Ah, how quickly things had changed! A few brief weeks ago Jack was the popular soldier and brilliant writer hailed by the Press as one of the greatest living novelists; while Dora, charming and radiant, was courted, flattered, and admired at home, in the Park, in the ballroom—everywhere. Now the one was a murderer, hounded by the police; and the other, alas! demented.

Patience and discretion. It was Grindlay’s motto, and I would take it as mine. Already, as I walked through the silent, deserted streets, Bethune was, I knew, preparing for hurried flight somewhere out of reach. I alone had frustrated Grindlay’s plans, but only as a means to attain my own end.

Next day passed, and in the evening Saunders brought in the Inspector’s card. When Grindlay entered his first words were:

“Your friend Bethune has returned and again bolted.”

I feigned surprise, but in the course of the conversation that ensued he sought my advice on the most likely places to find him. I suggested Hounslow, but the detective had already made inquiries there, and could glean nothing.

“The curious part of the affair is that he should, after his recent extraordinary show of bravado in returning to England, suddenly become suspicious just at the moment when we meant to take him,” he said, after we had been discussing the matter. “I suppose you have no further suggestions to offer as to any likelihood of his whereabouts?”

“None. I should not expect him to try and escape abroad again after his last futile attempt to elude you.”

“No. The ports are watched, and he might as well walk into the Yard at once as to attempt to cross the Channel,” remarked the detective, smiling. “But I must be going. If you hear anything let me know at the Yard at once.”

I promised, and the inspector, taking one of my cigars, lit it and left.

A week went by, but no word of the discovery of the ghastly evidence of the crime found its way into the papers. For reasons of their own the police obtained the postponement of the inquest, although the body had been removed to the mortuary, and the house still remained in the possession of a plain-clothes’ man. The theory of the Criminal Investigation Department was that the house would be visited by someone who, unaware of the discoveries that had been made, would walk straight into the arms of an officer of the law.

But it proved a waiting game. Another week passed. Several times I called at Lady Stretton’s, only to learn, alas! that Dora had not improved in the slightest degree. She recognised no one—not even her mother. Her ladyship was prostrate, while Mabel, whom I met one morning when I called, seemed haggard and particularly anxious regarding her sister.

The thought did not escape me that Mabel herself had, at least on one occasion, most probably visited that strange house that had its entrance in Radnor Place, and I was on the point of mentioning it to her, but decided to wait and see whether she alluded to it. She, however, did not. When I asked her for news of Fyneshade she replied, snappishly, that she neither knew nor cared where he was. In fact, she treated me with a frigid reserve quite unusual to her.

About noon one day Saunders brought me a telegram. Opening it, I found the words:

“Tell Boyd to sell Tintos.—Roland. Post, Alf, Moselle.”

It was from Bethune. Roland was the name we had arranged. So he had, notwithstanding all the precautions taken by the police, succeeded in again escaping to the Continent, and was now in hiding at the post-house of the little riparian village of Alf. I knew the place. It was far in the heart of the beautiful Moselle country on the bank of the broad river that wound through its vine-clad ruin-crested hills, altogether a quaint Arcadian place, quiet, restful, and unknown to the felt-hatted horde of tourists who swarm over the sunny Rhineland like clouds of locusts.

Three days after receiving the telegram I alighted from a dusty, lumbering fly at the door of the building, half post-house, half inn, and was greeted heartily by my friend, who spoke in French and wore as a disguise the loose blue blouse so much affected by all classes of Belgians. Alone in the little dining-room he whispered briefly that he was going under the name of Roland, representing himself to be a land-owner from Chaudfontaine, near Liège. None of the people in the inn knew French; therefore, his faulty accent passed unnoticed. When there were listeners we spoke in French to preserve the deception, and I am fain to admit that his disguise and manner were alike excellent.

Together we ate our evening meal with the post-house keeper and his buxom, fair-haired wife; then, while the crimson sunset still reflected upon the broad river, we strolled out along the bank to talk.

All the land around on this south side is orchard—great pear and cherry trees linked together by low-growing vines, and in the spring months they make a sea of blossom stretching to the river’s edge. The noise of the weir is loud, but the song of the myriad birds can be heard above it. Away eastward, down the widening, curving stream, above the vines there arise, two miles off, the blackened, crumbling towers of mediaeval strongholds. To the north lies the Eifel, that mysterious volcanic district penetrated by few; to the south the Marienburg and the ever-busy Rhine. The vale of the Moselle on that brilliant evening was a serene and sylvan scene, glorious in the blaze of blood-red sunset, and when we had walked beyond the village, cigar in mouth, with affected indifference, Bethune turned to me abruptly, saying:

“Well, now, after all this infernal secrecy, what in the name of Heaven do you want with me?”

“You apparently reproach me for acting in your interests rather than in my own,” I answered brusquely.

“I acted upon your so-called warning and left England—”

“Without seeing Dora?” I inquired.

“She’s away in the country somewhere,” he snapped. It was evident that he was entirely ignorant of the dire misfortune that had befallen her.

“My warning was justified,” I said quietly. “That a warrant is out for your arrest I am in a position to affirm, and—”

“A warrant issued on your own information, I presume,” he interrupted with a sneer.

“I have given no information,” I replied. “I obtained the truth from the detective who held the warrant, and sent word to you immediately.”

“Extremely kind, I’m sure. You’ve done all you can to prejudice me, and now it seems that for some unaccountable reason you have altered your tactics and are looking after my interests. I place no faith in such friends.”

“My tactics, as you are pleased to term them, are at least legitimate,” I answered, annoyed. “I deny, however, that I have ever acted in opposition to your interests. During these past weeks of anxiety and suspicion I have always defended you, and show my readiness to still do so by contriving your escape thus far.”

“Bah! What have I to fear?” he exclaimed, turning on me defiantly.

I looked straight into his face, and with sternness said—“You fear arrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.” He frowned, and his eyes were downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed his tight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying—

“Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottom of my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances to again extend to you the hand of friendship.”

“I don’t want it,” he growled. “I tell you plainly that you are my enemy—not my friend.”

“I have never been your enemy. It is true that the police of Europe are searching for you; that your description is in the hands of every official charged with criminal investigation from Christiania to Gibraltar, and that the charge against you is that you murdered a young millionaire. It is true also that it lays in my power to shield or to denounce you. Think, think for a moment the nature of the evidence against you. One night I entered your flat with my key, stumbled across something, and discovered to my horror that it was the body of Sternroyd, who had been shot.”

“You lie!” he cried, turning upon me fiercely, with clenched fists. “You lie! you never saw the body!”

“I tell you I did,” I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I went on to describe the exact position in which it lay.

My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained no suspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal, and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal night and witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I held he was visibly crushed and cowed.

“Well, go on,” he said mechanically, in a hoarse tone. “I suppose you want to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest—eh?”

“Think of the nature of my evidence,” I continued. “I entered your flat again on the following night to find you present, the body removed, and you met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking the door and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficient circumstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?”

He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.

“Again,” I said, “in addition to this, I may as well tell you that the body you sought to hide has been discovered.”

“Discovered!” he gasped. “Have they found it?”

“Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always difficult to hide.”

“Who searched? Who discovered it?”

“The police.”

“And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?”

I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts. Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the success of my next move.

Turning to him presently, I said: “I have a confession to make, Bethune. On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act openly and tell me what you know of her.”

“I know nothing—nothing,” he answered, in a low tone.

“That’s a lie!” I exclaimed angrily. “She wrote to you on apparently the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with her.”

“Well, I was acquainted with her.”

“And with Sternroyd?”

“And with Sternroyd.”

“Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position, and why the police desired her arrest?”

“No; I cannot tell you that,” he answered firmly. “Why?”

“Because I refuse.”

“You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell the truth because it would incense me?”

“I do not fear to tell the truth,” he retorted.

“Then why do you decline?”

“Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preserving silence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter.”

His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words I had read a hundred times before. They were: ”...desire that your friend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact.” Yes; he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.

“Will you tell me nothing regarding her?” I asked persuasively.

“I am not at liberty to say anything.”

“Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a right to know who and what she was, I have,” I urged.

“I’m well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by her extraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and—”

“Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?” I cried fiercely.

“Take it as you please, the truth is the same,” he answered, with a sneering smile. “You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a fly in a trap.” And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.

“Then you will tell me nothing about her?” I exclaimed angrily. “You refuse to assist me in recognition of the service I have done you in avoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well—there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall you will never extricate yourself.”

“Death?”

“No; an officer of police.”

“Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter,” he cried, in a tone of banter. “Denounce me—let them arrest me. I am ready to face my traducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothing of Sybil.”

“Very well,” I said. “Then the warrant shall be executed without delay.”

And I turned and left him.

What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.

Back to IndexNext