TenderlyI placed my love upon the couch, and then rang the bell.
In answer to my summons the young Italian man-servant appeared.
"Send Mallock here quickly," I said. "Miss Shand is not well. But say nothing of this to your mistress, or to the other servants. You understand, Egisto?"
"Cer-tainly, sare," replied the smart young Tuscan, and a few moments later the door re-opened to admit the thin-faced maid in black, wearing her muslin apron and gold-rimmed glasses.
She dashed across to the couch in an instant, and bent, looking into the white, immobile face of my well-beloved.
"I fear your mistress has fainted, Mallock, so I thought it best to call you. I have, unfortunately, imparted to her some news which has upset her. Will you please see after her?"
"Of course, sir. I'll go and get some smelling salts and some water."
And quickly the girl disappeared. Then, when shehad gone, I stood before the inanimate form of the woman I loved so well, and wondered what could be the real, actual truth.
Her admission had taken me aback. She had confessed to visiting my friend, but had alleged that he had compelled her. Was she actually beneath some mysterious thraldom—was she held in some secret bondage by the man I had trusted and who was my best friend?
The very suspicion of it filled me with a fierce irresponsible anger, and I clenched my fists.
Ah! I would find him and face him. I would clutch his throat and force the truth from his lips.
And if he had betrayed me—if he had exercised any evil influence over Phrida—then, by heaven! I would take his life!
Mallock bustled in the next moment, and sinking upon her knees began to apply restoratives.
"Tell your mistress that I will return after luncheon, if she will see me," I said.
"Yes, sir."
"And—and tell her, Mallock, to remain calm until I see her. Will you?"
"Yes, sir," answered the maid, and then I went out into the hall, struggled into my overcoat, and left the house.
Out in Cromwell Road the scene, grey, dull and dismal, was, alas! in accord with my own feelings.
The blow I had feared had fallen. The terrible suspicion I had held from that moment when, upon the stairs at Harrington Gardens, I had smelt that sweet, unusual perfume and heard the jingle of golden bangles, had been proved.
She had actually admitted her presence there—with the man I had believed to be my friend, the man, whom, up to the present, I had sought to shield and protect!
I hailed a taxi, and not knowing what I did, drove to the Reform. As I passed up the steps from Pall Mall the porter handed me my letters, and then, heedless of where my footsteps carried me, I entered the big, square hall and turned into the writing-room on the left—a room historic in the annals of British politics, for many a State secret had been discussed there by Ministers of the Crown, many a point of the Cabinet's policy had been decided, and also the fate of many a bill.
The long, sombre room with the writing tables covered with blue cloth, was empty, as it usually is, and I flung myself down to scribble a note—an apology for not keeping an appointment that afternoon.
My overburdened heart was full of chagrin and grief, for my idol had been shattered by a single blow, and only the wreck of all my hopes and aspirations now remained.
In a week's time the coroner would hold his adjourned inquiry into the tragedy at Harrington Gardens, and then what startling revelations might be made! By that time it was probable that the police would be able to establish the identity of the accused, and, moreover, with Mrs. Petre vengeful and incensed against Phrida, might she not make a statement to the authorities?
If so, what then?
I sat with my elbows upon the table staring out into Pall Mall, which wore such a cold and cheerless aspect that morning.
What could I do? How should I act? Ah! yes, at that moment I sat utterly bewildered, and trying in vain to discern some way out of that maze of mystery.
I had not looked at the unopened letters beneath my hand, but suddenly chancing to glance at them, I noticed one in an unfamiliar feminine handwriting.
I tore it open carelessly, expecting to find some invitation or other, when, within, I found three hastily scrawled lines written on the notepaper of the Great Eastern Hotel at Liverpool Street. It read:
"Since I saw you something has happened. Can you meet me again as soon as possible? Please wire me, Mrs. Petre, Melbourne House, Colchester."
"Since I saw you something has happened. Can you meet me again as soon as possible? Please wire me, Mrs. Petre, Melbourne House, Colchester."
I gazed at the note in extreme satisfaction. At least, I had the woman's address. Yes, after I had again seen Phrida I would see her and force from her lips the truth.
I rose quickly, placed the other letters in my pocket without opening them, and drove down to the City, where I was compelled to keep a business appointment.
At half-past three Egisto admitted me to Mrs. Shand's, and in reply to my question, told me that the "Signorina," as he always called Phrida, was in the morning-room.
Dressed in a pale grey gown, relieved with lace at the collar and wrists, she rose slowly from a big armchair as I entered, and came across to me, her face pale, drawn, and anxious.
"Ah! dearest," I cried. "I'm glad to see you better. Are you quite yourself again now?"
"Quite, thanks," was her low, rather weak reply. "I—I felt very unwell this morning. I—I don't know what was the matter." Then clinging to me suddenly, she added, "Ah! forgive me, Teddy, won't you?"
"There is nothing to forgive, dear," was my reply, as, placing my arm tenderly about her slim waist, I looked into the depths of those wonderful dark eyes of hers, trying to fathom what secret lay hidden there.
"Ah!" she ejaculated. "I know, dear, that though you affect to have forgiven me—that you have not. How could you possibly forgive?"
"I am not angry with you in the least, Phrida!" I assured her quite calmly. "Because you have not yet told me the truth. I am here to learn it."
"Yes," she gasped, sinking into a chair and staring straight into the fire. The short winter's day was dying, and already the light had nearly faded. But the fire threw a mellow glow upon her pale, hard-set features, and she presented a strangely dramatic picture as she sat there with head bent in shame. "Ah! yes. You are here again to torture me, I suppose," she sighed bitterly.
"I have no desire in the least to torture you," I said, standing erect before her. "But I certainly think that some explanation of your conduct is due to me—the man whom you are to marry."
"Marry!" she echoed in a blank voice, with ashrug of her shoulders, her eyes still fixed upon the fire.
"Yes, marry," I repeated. "You made an admission to me this morning—one of which any man would in such circumstances demand explanation. You said that my friend had forced you to go to Harrington Gardens. Tell me why? What power does that man hold over you?"
"Ah, no! Teddy!" she cried, starting wildly to her feet. "No, no!" she protested, grasping my hands frantically. "Don't ask that question. Spare me that! Spare me that, for the sake of the love you once bore for me."
"No. I repeat my question," I said slowly, but very determinedly.
"Ah! no. I—I can't answer it. I——"
For a few moments a silence fell between us.
Then I said in a low, meaning tone:
"You can't answer it, Phrida, because you are ashamed, eh?"
She sprang upon me in an instant, her face full of resentful fire.
"No!" she declared vehemently. "I am not ashamed—only I—I cannot tell you the reason I went to Harrington Gardens. That's all."
"Yours is, to say the least, a rather thin excuse, is it not?" I asked.
"What else can I say? Simply I can tell you nothing."
"But you admit that you went to Harrington Gardens. Did you go more than once?" I asked very quietly.
She nodded in the affirmative.
"And the last occasion was on the nightwhen my friend was forced to fly, eh?" I suggested.
I saw that she was about to elude answering my question. Therefore, I added:
"I already know you were there. I have established your presence beyond the shadow of doubt. So you may just as well admit it."
"I—I do," she faltered, sinking again into her chair and resting her elbows upon her knees.
"You were there—you were present when the crime was committed," I said, looking straight at her as I stood before her with folded arms.
"Whoever has said that tells wicked lies," was her quick response.
"You were in Digby's room that night—after I left," I declared.
"How do you know."
"Because the police have photographs of your finger-prints," was my quiet reply.
The effect of my words upon her was electrical.
"The police!" she gasped, her face instantly pale as death. "Do they know?"
"Inspector Edwards is in possession of your finger-prints," I replied briefly.
"Then—then they will suspect me!" she shrieked in despair. "Ah! Teddy! If you love me, save me!"
And she flung herself wildly at my feet, clutching my hands and raising her face to mine in frantic appeal.
"For that very reason I have returned here to you to-day, Phrida," I replied in a low tone of sympathy. "If I can save you from being implicated in this terrible affair, I will. But you must tell me the whole truth from the start.Then I may be able to devise a plan to ensure your security."
And I slowly assisted her to her feet and led her back to her chair.
She sat without moving or speaking for some moments, gravely thinking. Then of a sudden, she said in a hard, hoarse voice:
"Ah! you don't know, Teddy, what I have suffered—how I have been the innocent victim of a foul and dastardly plot. I—I was entrapped—I——"
"Entrapped!" I echoed. "By whom? Not by Digby Kemsley? He was not the sort of man."
"He is your friend, I know. But if you knew the truth you would hate him—hate him, with as deep and fierce a hatred as I do now," she declared, with a strange look in her great eyes.
"You told me he had forced you to go to his flat."
"He did."
"Why?"
"Because he wanted to tell me something—to——"
"To tell you what?"
"I refuse to explain—I can't tell you, Teddy."
"Because it would be betraying his secret—eh?" I remarked with bitterness. "And, yet, in the same breath you have told me you hate him. Surely, this attitude of yours is an unusual one—is it not? You cannot hate him and strive to shield him at the same moment!"
She paused for a second before replying. Then she said:
"I admit that my attitude towards your friend is a somewhat strange one, but there are reasons—strong, personal reasons of my own—which prevent me revealing to you the whole of what is a strange and ghastly story. Surely it will suffice you to know that I did not conceal all knowledge of your friend and call upon him in secret all of my own free will. No, Teddy, I loved you—and I still love you, dear—far too well for that."
"I trusted you, Phrida, but you deceived me," I replied, with a poignant bitterness in my heart.
"Under compulsion. Because——" and she paused with a look of terror in her eyes.
"Because what?" I asked slowly, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.
She shrank from contact with me.
"No. I—I can't tell you. It—it's all too terrible, too horrible!" she whispered hoarsely, covering her white face with her hands. "I loved you, but, alas! all my happiness, all the joy of which I have so long dreamed, has slipped away from me because of the one false step—my one foolish action—of which I have so long repented."
"Tell me, Phrida," I urged, in deep earnestness, bending down to her. "Confide in me."
"No," she replied, with an air of determination. "It is my own affair. I have acted foolishly and must bear the consequences."
"But surely you will not sacrifice our love rather than tell me the truth!" I cried.
Hot tears welled in her eyes, and I felt her frail form tremble beneath my touch.
"Alas! I am compelled," she faltered.
"Then you refuse to tell me—you refuse to explain why this man whom I believed to be my friend, and to whom I have rendered many services, has held you in his thraldom?" I exclaimed bitterly.
Mylove paused. She remained silent for a long time. Then, with her head bowed, she faltered:
"Yes. I—I am compelled to refuse."
"Why compelled?" I demanded.
"I—I cannot tell you," she whispered hoarsely. "I dare not."
"Dare not? Is your secret so terrible, then?"
"Yes. It is all a mystery. I do not know the truth myself," she replied. "I only know that I—that I love you, and that now, because that woman has spoken, I have lost you and am left to face the world—the police—alone!"
"Have I not told you, dearest, that I will do my best to protect and defend you if you will only reveal the truth to me," I said.
"But I can't."
"You still wish to shield this blackguard who has held you in secret in his hands?" I cried in anger.
"No, I don't," she cried in despair. "I tell you, Teddy, now—even if this is the last time weever meet—that I love you and you alone. I have fallen the victim of a clever and dastardly plot, believe me, or believe me not. What I tell you is the truth."
"I do believe you," I replied fervently. "But if you love me, Phrida, as you declare, you will surely reveal to me the perfidy of this man I have trusted!"
"I—I can't now," she said in a voice of excuse. "It is impossible. But you may know some day."
"You knew that I visited him on that fatal night. Answer me?"
She hesitated. Then presently, in a low tone, replied—
"Yes, Teddy, I knew. Ah!" she went on, her face white and haggard. "You cannot know the torture I have undergone—fearing that you might be aware of my presence there. Each time I met you I feared to look you in the face."
"Because your secret is a guilty one—eh?"
"I fell into a trap, and I cannot extricate myself," she declared hoarsely. "Now that the police know, there is only one way out for me," she added, in a tone of blank despair. "I cannot face it—no—I—now that I have lost your love, dear. I care for naught more. My enemies will hound me to my death!"
And she burst into a torrent of bitter tears.
"No, no," I answered her, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Reveal the truth to me, and I will protect you and shield you from them. At present, though the police are in possession of your finger-prints, as being those of a person who had entered the flat on that night, they have no knowledge of your identity, therefore, dear, have no fear."
"Ah! but I am in peril!" she cried, and I felt her shudder beneath my touch. "That woman—ah!—she may tell the police!"
"What woman?"
"Mrs. Petre, the woman who has already betrayed me to you."
"Then she knows—she knows your secret?" I gasped.
She bent her head slowly in the affirmative.
I saw in her eyes a look of terror and despair, such as I had never before seen in the eyes of any person before—a haunted, agonised expression that caused my heart to go out in sympathy for her—for even though she might be guilty—guilty of that crime of vengeance, yet, after all, she was mine and she possessed my heart.
"Is there no way of closing that woman's lips?" I asked very slowly.
She was silent, for, apparently, the suggestion had not before occurred to her. Of a sudden, she looked up into my face earnestly, and asked:
"Tell me, Teddy. Will you promise me—promise not to prejudge me?"
"I do not prejudge you at all, dearest," I declared with a smile. "My annoyance is due to your refusal to reveal to me anything concerning the man who has falsely posed as my friend."
"I would tell you all, dearest," she assured me, "but it is impossible. If I spoke I should only further arouse your suspicions, for you would never believe that I spoke the truth."
"Then you prefer that I should remain in ignorance, and by doing so your own peril becomes increased!" I remarked, rather harshly.
"Alas! my silence is imperative," was all she would reply.
Again and again I pressed her to tell me the reason of the evil influence held over her by the man who was now a fugitive, but with the greatest ingenuity she evaded my questions, afterwards declaring that all my inquiries were futile. The secret was hers.
"And so you intend to shield this man, Phrida," I remarked at last, in bitter reproach.
"I am not silent for his sake!" my love cried, starting up in quick resentment. "I hate him too much. No, I refuse to reveal the truth because I am compelled."
"But supposing you were compelled to clear yourself in a criminal court," I said. "Supposing that this woman went to the police! What then? You would be compelled to speak the truth."
"No. I—I'd rather kill myself!" she declared, in frantic despair. "Indeed, that is what I intend to do—now that I know I have lost you!"
"No, no," I cried. "You have not lost me, Phrida. I still believe in your purity and honesty," I went on, clasping her passionately to my heart, she sobbing bitterly the while. "I love you and I still believe in you," I whispered into her ear.
She heaved a great sigh.
"Ah! I wonder if you really speak the truth?" she murmured. "If I thought you still believed in me, how happy I should be. I would face my enemies, and defy them."
"I repeat, Phrida, that notwithstanding this suspicion upon you, I love you," I said very earnestly.
"Then you will not prejudge me!" she asked, raising her tear-stained eyes to mine. "You will not believe evil of me until—until I can prove toyou the contrary. You will not believe what Mrs. Petre has told you?" she implored.
"I promise, dearest, that I will believe nothing against you," I said fervently, kissing her cold, hard lips. "But cannot you, in return, assist me in solving the mystery of Harrington Gardens. Who was the girl found there? Surely you know?"
"No, I don't. I swear I don't," was her quick reply, though her face was blanched to the lips.
"But Mrs. Petre gave me to understand that you knew her," I said.
"Yes—that woman!" she cried in anger. "She has lied to you, as to the others. Have I not told you that she is my most deadly enemy?"
"Then she may go to the police—who knows! How can we close her mouth?"
My love drew a long breath and shook her head. The light had faded, and only the fitful flames of the fire illuminated the sombre room. In the dark shadows she presented a pale, pathetic little figure, her face white as death, her thin, delicate hands clasped before her in dismay and despair.
"Have you any idea where Digby is at this moment?" I asked her slowly, wondering whether if he were an intimate friend he had let her know his hiding-place.
"No. I have not the slightest idea," was her faint reply.
"Ah! If only I could discover him I would wring the truth from him," I exclaimed between my teeth.
"And if you did so, I myself would be imperilled," she remarked. "No, Teddy, you must not do that if—if you love me and would protect me."
"Why?"
"If you went to him he would know that I had spoken, and then he would fulfil the threats he has so often made. No, you must not utter a single word. You must, for my sake, still remain his friend. Will you, dear?"
"After what you have told me!" I cried. "Never!"
"But you must," she implored, grasping both my hands in hers. "If he had the slightest suspicion that I had admitted my friendship with him, he would act as he has always declared he would."
"How would he act?"
"He would reveal something—he would bring proofs that even you would consider irrefutable," she answered in a low, hard whisper. "No, dear," and her grip upon my hands tightened. "In any case there only remains to me one course—to end it all, for in any case, I must lose you. Your confidence and love can never be restored."
"You must not speak like that," I said very gravely. "I have not yet lost confidence in you, Phrida. I——"
"Ah! I know how generous you are, dear," she interrupted, "but how can I conceal from myself the true position? You have discovered that I visited that man's flat clandestinely, that—that we were friends—and that——"
She paused, not concluding her sentence, and bursting again into tears, rushed from the room before I could grasp and detain her.
I stood silent, utterly dumbfounded.
Were those words an admission of her guilt?
Was it by her hand, as that woman had insinuated, the unknown girl's life had been taken?
I recollected the nature of the wound, as revealed by the medical evidence, and I recalled thatknife which was lying upon the table in the drawing-room above.
Why did Phrida so carefully conceal from me the exact truth concerning her friendship with the man I had trusted? What secret power did he exercise over her? And why did she fear to reveal anything to me—even though I had assured her that my confidence in her remained unshaken.
Was not guilt written upon that hard, white face?
I stood staring out of the window in blank indecision. What I had all along half feared had been proved. Between my love and the man of whom I had never had the slightest suspicion, some secret—some guilty secret—existed.
And even now, even at risk of losing my affection, she was seeking to shield him!
My blood boiled within me, and I clenched my fists as I strode angrily up and down that dark room.
All her admissions came back to me—her frantic appeal to me not to prejudge her, and her final and out-spoken decision to take her own life rather than reveal the truth.
What could it mean? What was the real solution of that strange problem of crime in which, quite unwittingly, I had become so deeply implicated?
I was passing the grate in pacing the room, as I had already done several times, when my eyes fell upon a piece of paper which had been screwed up and flung there. Curiosity prompted me to pick it out of the cinders, for it struck me that it must have been thrown there by Phrida before I had entered the room.
To my surprise I saw the moment I held it in my hand that it was a telegram. Opening it carefully I found that it was addressed to her, therefore shehad no doubt cast it upon the fire when I had so suddenly entered.
I read it, and stood open-mouthed and amazed.
By it the perfidy of the woman I loved, alas! became revealed.
She had deceived me!
Thetelegram was signed with the initial "D."—Digby!
The words I read were—"Have discovered T suspects. Exercise greatest care, and remember your promise. We shall meet again soon."
The message showed that it had been handed in at Brussels at one o'clock that afternoon.
Brussels! So he was hiding there. Yes, I would lose no time in crossing to the gay little Belgian capital and search him out.
Before giving him up to the police I would meet him face to face and demand the truth. I would compel him to speak.
Should I retain possession of the message? I reflected. But, on consideration, I saw that when I had left, Phrida might return to recover it. If I replaced it where I had found it she would remain in ignorance of the knowledge I had gained.
So I screwed it up again and put it back among the cinders in the grate, afterwards leaving the house.
Next morning I stepped out upon the platform of the great Gare du Nord in Brussels—a city I knew well, as I had often been there on business—and drove in a taxi along the busy, bustling Boulevard Auspach to the Grand Hotel.
In the courtyard, as I got out, the frock-coated and urbane manager welcomed me warmly, for I had frequently been his guest, and I was shown to a large room overlooking the Boulevard where I had a wash and changed.
Then descending, I called a taxi and immediately began a tour of the various hotels where I thought it most likely that the man I sought might be.
The morning was crisp and cold, with a perfect sky and brilliant sunshine, bright and cheerful indeed after the mist and gloom of January in London.
Somehow the aspect, even in winter, is always brighter across the channel than in our much maligned little island. They know not the "pea-souper" on the other side of the Straits of Dover, and the light, invigorating atmosphere is markedly apparent directly one enters France or Belgium.
The business boulevards, the Boulevarde Auspach, and the Boulevard du Nord, with their smart shops, their big cafés, and their hustling crowds, were bright and gay as my taxi sped on, first to the Métropole, in the Place de Brouckere.
The name of Kemsley was unknown there. The old concierge glanced at his book, shook his head, and elevating his shoulders, replied:
"Non, m'sieur."
Thence I went to the Palace, in front of the station, the great new hotel and one of the finest in Europe, a huge, garish place of gilt and luxury. But there I met with equal success.
Then I made the tour of the tree-lined outer boulevards, up past the Botanical Gardens and along the Rue Royale, first to the Hotel de France, then to the Europe, the Belle Vue, the Carlton in the Avenue Louise, the new Wiltscher's a few doors away, and a very noted English house from the Boulevard Waterloo, as well as a dozen other houses in various parts of the town—the Cecil in the Boulevard du Nord, the Astoria in the Rue Royale, and even one or two of the cheaper pensions—the Dufour, De Boek's, and Nettell's, but all to no purpose.
Though I spent the whole of that day making investigations I met with no success.
Though I administered judicious tips to concierge after concierge, I could not stir the memory of a single one that within the past ten days any English gentleman answering the description I gave had stayed at their establishment.
Until the day faded, and the street lamps were lit, I continued my search, my taxi-driver having entered into the spirit of my quest, and from time to time suggesting other and more obscure hotels of which I had never heard.
But the reply was the same—a regretful "Non, m'sieur."
It had, of course, occurred to me that if the fugitive was hiding from the Belgian police, who no doubt had received his description from Scotland Yard, he would most certainly assume a false name.
But I hoped by my minute description to be able to stir the memory of one or other of the dozens of uniformed hall-porters whom I interviewed. The majority of such men have a remarkably retentive memory for a face, due to long cultivation, just as that possessed by one's club hall-porter, who can at once address any of the thousand or so members by name.
I confess, however, when at five o'clock, I sat in the huge, noisy Café Métropole over a glass of coffee and a liqueur of cognac, I began to realise the utter hopelessness of my search.
Digby Kemsley was ever an evasive person—a past master in avoiding observation, as I well knew. It had always been a hobby of his, he had told me, of watching persons without himself being seen.
Once he had remarked to me while we had been smoking together in that well-remembered room wherein the tragedy had taken place:
"I should make a really successful detective, Royle. I've had at certain periods of my life to efface myself and watch unseen. Now I've brought it to a fine art. If ever circumstances make it imperative for me to disappear—which I hope not," he laughed, "well—nobody will ever find me, I'm positive."
These words of his now came back to me as I sat there pensively smoking, and wondering if, after all, I had better not return again to London and remain patient for the additional police evidence which would no doubt be forthcoming at the adjourned inquest in a week's time.
I thought of the clever cunning exercised by the girl whom I so dearly loved and in whose innocence I had so confidently believed, of her blank refusal to satisfy me, and alas! of her avowed determination to shield the scoundrel who had posed as my friend, and whom the police had declared to be only a vulgar impostor.
My bitter reflection maddened me.
The jingle and chatter of that noisy café, full to overflowing at that hour, for rain had commenced to fall outside in the boulevard, irritated me. From where I sat in the window I could see the crowds of business people, hurrying through the rain to their trams and trains—the neat-waisted little modistes, the felt-hatted young clerks, the obese and over-dressed and whiskered men from their offices on the Bourse, the hawkers crying the "Soir," and the "Dernière Heure," with strident voices, the poor girls with rusty shawls and pinched faces, selling flowers, and the gaping, idling Cookites who seem to eternally pass and re-pass the Métropole at all hours of the day and the night.
Before my eyes was there presented the whole phantasmagoria of the life of the thrifty, hard-working Bruxellois, that active, energetic race which the French have so sarcastically designated "the brave Belgians."
After a lonely dinner in the big, glaring salle-à-manger, at the Grand, I went forth again upon my quest. That the fugitive had been in Brussels on the previous day was proved by his telegram, yet evasive as he was, he might have already left.Yet I hoped he still remained in the capital, and if so he would, I anticipated, probably go to one of the music-halls or variety theatres. Therefore I set out upon another round.
I strolled eagerly through the crowded promenade of the chief music-hall of Brussels—the Pole Nord, the lounge wherein men and women were promenading, laughing, and drinking, but I saw nothing of the man of whom I was in search.
I knew that he had shaved off his beard and otherwise altered his appearance. Therefore my attention upon those about me was compelled to be most acute.
I surveyed both stalls and boxes, but amid that gay, well-dressed crowd I could discover nobody the least resembling him.
From the Pole Nord I went to the Scala, where I watched part of an amusing revue; but my search there was likewise in vain, as it was also at Olympia, the Capucines, and the Folies Bergères, which I visited in turn. Then, at midnight, I turned my attention to the big cafés, wandering from the Bourse along the Boulevard Auspach, entering each café and glancing around, until at two o'clock in the morning I returned to the Grand, utterly fagged out by my long vigil of over fifteen hours.
In my room I threw off my overcoat and flung myself upon the bed in utter despair.
Until I met that man face to face I could not, I saw, learn the truth concerning my love's friendship with him.
Mrs. Petre had made foul insinuations, and now that my suspicions had been aroused thatPhrida might actually be guilty of that terrible crime at Harrington Gardens, the whole attitude of my well-beloved seemed to prove that my suspicions were well grounded.
Indeed, her last unfinished sentence as she had rushed from the room seemed conclusive proof of the guilty secret by which her mind was now overburdened.
She had never dreamed that I held the slightest suspicion. It was only when she knew that the woman Petre had met me and had talked with me that she saw herself betrayed. Then, when I had spoken frankly, and told her what the woman had said, she saw that to further conceal her friendship with Digby was impossible.
Every word she had spoken, every evasive sentence, every protest that she was compelled to remain silent, recurred to me as I lay there staring blankly at the painted ceiling.
She had told me that she was unaware of the fugitive's whereabouts, and yet not half an hour before she had received a telegram from him.
Yes, Phrida—the woman I trusted and loved with such a fierce, passionate affection, had lied to me deliberately and barefacedly.
But I was on the fellow's track, and cost what it might in time, or in money, I did not intend to relinquish my search until I came face to face with him.
That night, as I tossed restlessly in bed, it occurred to me that even though he might be in Brussels, it was most probable in the circumstances that he would exercise every precaution in his movements, and knowing that the police werein search of him, would perhaps not go forth in the daytime.
Many are the Englishmen living "under a cloud" in Brussels, as well as in Paris, and there is not a Continental city of note which does not contain one or more of those who have "gone under" at home.
Seedy and down-at-heel, they lounge about the cafés and hotels frequented by English travellers. Sometimes they sit apart, pretend to sip their cup of coffee and read a newspaper, but in reality they are listening with avidity to their own language being spoken by their own people—poor, lonely, solitary exiles.
Every man who knows the by-ways of the Continent has met them often in far-off, obscure towns, where they bury themselves in the lonely wilderness of a drab back street and live high-up for the sake of fresh air and that single streak of sunshine which is the sole pleasure of their broken, blighted lives.
Yes, the more I reflected, the more apparent did it become that if the man whom Inspector Edwards had declared to be a gross impostor was still in the Belgian capital, he would most probably be in safe concealment in one or other of the cheaper suburbs.
But how could I trace him?
To go to the bureau of police and make a statement would only defeat my own ends.
No; if I intended to learn the truth I must act upon my own initiative. Official interference would only thwart my own endeavours.
I knew Digby Kemsley. He was as shrewd and cunning as any of the famous detectives, whether in real life or in fiction. Therefore,to be a match for him, I would, I already realised, be compelled to fight him with his own weapons.
I did not intend that he should escape me before he told me, with his own lips, the secret of my well-beloved.
"Theidentity of the victim has not yet been established, sir."
These words were spoken to the coroner by Inspector Edwards at the adjourned inquest held on January the twenty-second.
Few people were in court, for, until the present, the public had had no inkling as to what had occurred on that fatal night in Harrington Gardens. The first inquest had not been "covered" by any reporter, as the police had exercised considerable ingenuity in keeping the affair a secret.
But now, at the adjourned inquiry, secrecy was no longer possible, and the three reporters present were full of inquisitiveness regarding the evidence given on the previous occasion, and listened with attention while it was being read over.
Inspector Edwards, however, had dealt with them in his usually genial manner, and by the exercise of considerable diplomacy had succeededin allaying their suspicions that there was any really good newspaper "story" in connection with it.
The medical witnesses were recalled, but neither had anything to add to the depositions they had already made. The deceased had been fatally stabbed by a very keen knife with a blade of peculiar shape. That was all.
The unknown had been buried, and all that remained in evidence was a bundle of blood-stained clothing, some articles of jewellery, a pair of boots, hat, coat, gloves, and a green leather vanity-bag.
"Endeavours had been made, sir, to trace some of the articles worn by the deceased, and also to establish the laundry marks on the underclothing," the inspector went on, "but, unfortunately, the marks have been pronounced by experts to be foreign ones, and the whole of the young lady's clothes appear to have been made abroad—in France or Belgium, it is thought."
"The laundry marks are foreign, eh?" remarked the coroner, peering at the witness through his pince-nez, and poising his pen in his hand. "Are you endeavouring to make inquiry abroad concerning them?"
"Every inquiry is being made, sir, in a dozen cities on the continent. In fact, in all the capitals."
"And the description of the deceased has been circulated?"
"Yes, sir. Photographs have been sent through all the channels in Europe. But up to the present we have met with no success," Edwards replied. "There is a suspicion because of a name upon atab in the young girl's coat that she may be Italian. Hence the most ardent search is being made by the Italian authorities into the manner and descriptions of females lately reported as missing."
"The affair seems remarkably curious," said the coroner. "It would certainly appear that the lady who lost her life was a stranger to London."
"That is what we believe, sir," Edwards replied. Seated near him, I saw how keen and shrewd was the expression upon his face. "We have evidence that certain persons visited the flat on the night in question, but these have not yet been identified. The owner of the flat has not yet been found, he having absconded."
"Gone abroad, I suppose?"
"It would appear so, sir."
"And his description has been circulated also?" asked the coroner.
"Yes, a detailed description, together with a recent photograph," was Edwards' reply. Then he added: "We have received this at Scotland Yard, sir—an anonymous communication which may or may not throw considerable light on to the affair," and he handed a letter on blue paper to the coroner, which the latter perused curiously, afterwards passing it over to the foreman of the jury.
"Rather remarkable!" he exclaimed.
Then, when the jury had completed reading the anonymous letter, addressing them, he said:
"It is not for you, gentlemen, to regard that letter in the light of evidence, but, nevertheless, it raisesa very curious and mysterious point. The writer, as you will note, is prepared to reveal the truth of the whole affair in return for a monetary reward. It is, of course, a matter to be left entirely at the discretion of the police."
I started at this statement, and gazed across the court—dull and cheerless on that cold winter's afternoon.
Who had written that anonymous letter? Who could it be who was ready to reveal the truth if paid for doing so?
Was Phrida's terrible secret known?
I held my breath, and listened to the slow, hard words of the coroner, as he again addressed some questions to the great detective.
"Yes, sir," Edwards was saying. "There is distinct evidence of the presence at the flat on the night in question of some person—a woman whose identity we have not yet been successful in establishing. We, however, have formed a theory which certainly appears to be borne out by the writer of the letter I have just handed you."
"That the unknown was struck down by the hand of a woman—eh?" asked the Coroner, looking sharply across at the Inspector, who briefly replied in the affirmative, while I sat staring straight before me, like a man in a dream.
I heard the Coroner addressing the jury in hard, business-like tones, but I know not what he said. My heart was too full to think of anything else besides the peril of the one whom I loved.
I know that the verdict returned by the jury was one of "Wilful murder." Then I went out into the fading light of that brief London day, and,seeking Edwards, walked at his side towards the busy Kensington High Street.
We had not met for several days, and he, of course, had no knowledge of my visit to Brussels. Our greeting was a cordial one, whereupon I asked him what was contained in the anonymous letter addressed to "The Yard"?
"Ah! Mr. Royle. It's very curious," he said. "The Coroner has it at this moment, or I'd show it to you. The handwriting is a woman's, and it has been posted at Colchester."
"At Colchester!" I echoed in dismay.
"Yes, why?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.
"Oh, nothing. Only—well, Colchester is a curious place for anyone to live who knows the truth about an affair in Kensington," was my reply, for fortunately I quickly recovered myself.
"Why not Colchester as well as Clapham—eh?"
"Yes, of course," I laughed. "But, tell me, what does the woman say?"
"She simply declares that she can elucidate the mystery and give us the correct clue—even bring evidence if required—as to the actual person who committed the crime, if we, on our part, will pay for the information."
"And what shall you do?" I asked eagerly.
"I don't exactly know. The letter only arrived this morning. To-morrow the Council of Seven will decide what action we take."
"Does the woman give her name?" I asked with affected carelessness.
"No. She only gives the name of 'G. Payne,' and the address as 'The G.P.O., London.' She's evidently a rather cute person."
"G. Payne"—the woman Petre without a doubt.
I recollected her telegram asking me to meet her. She had said that something had "happened," and she had urged me to see her as soon as possible. Was it because I had not replied that she had penned that anonymous letter to the police?
The letter bore the Colchester post-mark, and she, I knew, lived at Melbourne House in that town.
"I suppose you will get into communication with her," I exclaimed presently.
"Of course. Any line of action in the elucidation of the mystery is worth trying. But what I cannot quite understand is, why she requires blood-money," remarked the detective as we strolled together in the arcaded entrance to the Underground Station at High Street, Kensington. "I always look askance at such letters. We receive many of them at the Yard. Not a single murder mystery comes before us, but we receive letters from cranks and others offering to point out the guilty person."
"But may not the writers of such letters be endeavouring to fasten guilt upon perfectly innocent persons against whom they have spite?" I suggested.
"Ah! That's just it, Mr. Royle," exclaimed my companion gravely. "Yet it is so terribly difficult to discriminate, and I fear we often, in our hesitation, place aside letters, the writers of which could really give valuable information."
"But in this case, what are your natural inclinations?" I asked. "I know that you possess a curious, almost unique, intuition as to what is factand what is fiction. What is, may I term it, your private opinion?"
He halted against the long shop-windows of Derry & Toms, and paused for several minutes.
"Well," he said at last in a deeply earnest tone, "I tell you frankly, Mr. Royle, what I believe. First, I don't think that the man Kemsley, although an impostor, was the actual assassin."
"Why?" I gasped.
"Well—I've very carefully studied the whole problem. I've looked at it from every point of view," he said. "I confess the one fact puzzles me, that this man Kemsley could live so long in London and pose as the dead Sir Digby if he were not the actual man himself, has amazed me! In his position as Sir Digby, the great engineer, he must have met in society many persons who knew him. We have evidence that he constantly moved in the best circles in Mayfair, and apparently without the slightest compunction. Yet, in contradiction, we have the remarkable fact that the real Sir Digby died in South America in very mysterious and tragic circumstances."
I saw that a problem was presented to Inspector Edwards which sorely puzzled him, as it certainly did myself.
"Well," I asked after a pause, and then with some trepidation put the question, "what do you intend doing?"
"Doing!" he echoed. "There is but one course to pursue. We must get in touch with this woman who says she knows the truth, and obtain what information we can from her. Perhaps she can reveal the identity of the woman whose fingerstouched that glass-topped table in the room where the crime was committed. If so, that will tell us a great deal, Mr. Royle." Then, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tapping it, he added, "Do you know, I've been wondering of late how it is that you got those finger-prints which so exactly corresponded with the ones which we secured in the flat. How did you obtain them?"
His question non-plussed me.
"I had a suspicion," I replied in a faltering voice, "and I tried to corroborate it."
"But you have corroborated it," he declared. "Why, Mr. Royle, those prints you brought to the Yard are a most important clue. Where did you get them?"
I was silent for a moment, jostled by the crowd of passers-by.
"Well," I said with a faint smile, realising what a grave mistake I had made in inculpating my well-beloved, "I simply made some experiments as an amateur in solving the mystery."
"Yes, but those prints were the same as those we got from the flat. Whence did they come?"
"I obtained them upon my own initiative," I replied, with a forced laugh.
"But you must surely tell me, Mr. Royle," he urged quickly. "It's a most important point."
"No," I replied. "I'm not a detective, remember. I simply put to the test a suspicion I have entertained."
"Suspicion of what?"
"Whether my theory was correct or not."
"Whatever theory you hold, Mr. Royle, thetruth remains the same. I truly believe," he said, looking hard at me, "namely that the unknown victim was struck down by the hand which imprinted the marks you brought to me—a woman's hand. And if I am not mistaken, sir—you know the identity of the guilty woman!"
Days, weeks, passed, but I could obtain no further clue. The month of March lengthened into April, but we were as far as ever from a solution of the mystery.
Since my return from Brussels I had, of course seen Phrida many, many times, and though I had never reverted again to the painful subject, yet her manner and bearing showed only too plainly that she existed in constant dread!
Her face had become thin and haggard, with dark rings around her eyes and upon it was a wild, hunted expression, which she strove to disguise, but in vain.
She now treated me with a strange, cold indifference, so unlike her real self, while her attitude was one of constant attention and strained alertness.
The woman Petre had apparently not been approached by Scotland Yard, therefore as the days went by I became more and more anxious to see her, to speak with her—and, if necessary, to come to terms with her.
Therefore, without a word to anyone, I one evening caught the six o'clock train from Liverpool Street, and before eight was eating my dinner in the big upstairs room of The Cups Hotel, while the hall-porter was endeavouring to discover for me the whereabouts of Melbourne House.
I had nearly finished my meal when the uniformed servant entered, cap in hand, saying:
"I've found, sir, that the house you've been inquiring for is out on the road to Marks Tey, about a mile. An old lady named Miss Morgan lived there for many years, but she died last autumn, and the place has, they say, been let furnished to a lady—a Mrs. Petre. Is that the lady you are trying to find?"
"It certainly is," I replied, much gratified at the man's success. Then, placing a tip in his palm, I drank off my coffee, put on my overcoat, and descended to the taxi which he had summoned for me.
He gave directions to the driver, and soon we were whirling along the broad streets of Colchester, and out of the town on the dark, open road which led towards London. Presently we pulled up, and getting out, I found myself before a long, low, ivy-covered house standing back behind a high hedge of clipped box, which divided the small, bare front garden from the road. Lonely and completely isolated, it stood on the top of a hill with high, leafless trees behind, and on the left a thick copse. In front were wide, bare, open fields.
Opening the iron gate I walked up the gravelled path to the door and rang. In a window on the right a light showed, and as I listened I heard the tramp of a man's foot upon the oilcloth of thehall, and next moment the door was unlocked and opened.
A tall, thin-faced young man of somewhat sallow complexion confronted me. He had keen, deep-set eyes, broad forehead, and pointed chin.
"Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired briefly.
In a second he looked at me as though with distrust, then apparently seeing the taxi waiting, and satisfying himself that I was a person of respectability, he replied in a refined voice:
"I really don't know, but I'll see, if you will step in?" and he ushered me into a small room at the rear of the house, a cosy but plainly-furnished little sitting-room, wherein a wood fire burned with pleasant glow.
I handed him my card and sat down to wait, in the meanwhile inspecting my surroundings with some curiosity.
Now, even as I recall that night, I cannot tell why I should have experienced such a sense of grave insecurity as I did when I sat there awaiting the woman's coming. I suppose we all of us possess in some degree that strange intuition of impending danger. It was so with me that night—just as I have on other occasions been obsessed by that curious, indescribable feeling that "something is about to happen."
There was about that house an air of mystery which caused me to hesitate in suspicion. Whether it was owing to its lonely position, to the heavy mantle of ivy which hid its walls, to the rather weird and unusual appearance of the young man who had admitted me, or to the mere fact that I was there to meet the woman who undoubtedly knew the truth concerning the tragic affair, I know not. But I recollect a distinct feeling of personal insecurity.
I knew the woman I was about to meet to be a cold, hard, unscrupulous person, who, no doubt, held my love's liberty—perhaps her life—in the hollow of her hand.
That horrifying thought had just crossed my mind when my reflections were interrupted by the door opening suddenly and there swept into the room the lady upon whom I had called.
"Ah! Mr. Royle!" she cried in warm welcome, extending her rather large hand as she stood before me, dressed quietly in black, relieved by a scarlet, artificial rose in her waistband. "So you've come at last. Ah! do you know I've wanted to meet you for days. I expected you would come to me the moment you returned from Brussels."
I started, and stood staring at her without replying. She knew I had been to Belgium. Yet, as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my visit—not even Haines.
"You certainly seem very well acquainted with my movements, Mrs. Petre," I laughed.
But she only shrugged her shoulders. Then she said:
"I suppose there was no secrecy regarding your journey, was there?"
"Not in the least," I replied. "I had business over there, as I very often have. My firm do a big business in Belgium and Holland."
She smiled incredulously.
"Did your business necessitate your visiting all the hotels and music-halls?"
"How did you know that?" I asked in quick surprise.
But she only pursed her lips, refusing to give me satisfaction. I saw that I must have been watched—perhaps by Digby himself. The only explanation I could think of was that he, with his clever cunning, had watched me, and had written to this woman, his accomplice, telling her of my search.
"Oh! don't betray the source of your information if you consider it so indiscreet," I said with sarcasm a few moments later. "I came here, Mrs. Petre, in response to your invitation. You wished to see me?"
"I did. But I fear it is now too late to avert what I had intended," was her quiet response. The door was closed, the room was silent, and we were alone.
Seated in an armchair the woman leaned back and gazed at me strangely from beneath her long, half-closed lashes, as though undecided what she should say. I instantly detected her hesitation, and said:
"You told me in your message that something unexpected had occurred. What is it? Does it concern our mutual friend, Digby?"
"Friend!" she echoed. "You call him your friend, and yet at the same time you have been in search of him, intending to betray him to the police!"
"Such was certainly not my intention," I declared firmly. "I admit that I have endeavoured to find him, but it was because I wished to speak with him."
"Ah! of course," she sneered. "That girl Shand has, perhaps, made a statement to you, and now you want to be inquisitive, eh? She's been trying to clear herself by telling you some fairy-tale or another, I suppose?"
"I repeat, Mrs. Petre," I said with anger, "Ihave no desire nor intention to act towards Digby in any way other than with friendliness."
"Ah! You expect me to believe that, my dear sir," she laughed, snapping her fingers airily. "No, that girl is his enemy, and I am hers."
"And that is the reason why you have sent the anonymous letter to the police!" I said in a low, hard voice, my eyes full upon her.
She started at my words.
"What letter?" she asked, in pretence of ignorance.
"The one mentioned at the adjourned inquest at Kensington," I replied. "The one in which you offer to sell the life of the woman I love!"
"So you know she is guilty—eh?" the woman asked. "She has confessed it to you—has she not?"
"No. She is innocent," I cried. "I will never believe in her guilt until it is proved."
"Then it will not be long, Mr. Royle, before you will have quite sufficient proof," she replied with a triumphant smile upon her lips.
"You are prepared to sell those proofs, I understand," I said, suddenly assuming an air of extreme gravity. "Now, I'm a business man. If you wish to dispose of this information, why not sell it to me?"
She laughed in my face.
"No, not to you, my dear sir. My business is with the police, not with the girl's lover," was her quick response.
"But the price," I said. "I will outbid the police if necessary."
"No doubt you would be only too glad of the chance of saving the girl who has so cleverly deceived you. But, without offence, Mr. Royle, I certainlythink you are a fool to act as you are now acting," she added. "A foul crime of jealousy has been committed, and the assassin must pay the penalty of her crime."
"And you allege jealousy as the motive?" I gasped.
"Most certainly," she answered. Then, after a pause of a few seconds, she added—"The girl you have so foolishly trusted and in whom you still believe so implicitly, left her home in Cromwell Road in the night, as she had often done before, and walked round to Harrington Gardens in order to see Digby. There, in his rooms, she met her rival—she had suspicions and went there on purpose armed with a knife. And with it she struck the girl down, and killed her."
"It's a lie!" I cried, starting to my feet. "A foul, wicked lie!"
"But what I say can be proved."
"At a price," I said bitterly.
"As you are a business man, so I am a business woman, Mr. Royle," she replied quite calmly. "When I see an opportunity of making money, I do not hesitate to seize it."
"But if you know the truth—if this is the actual truth which at present I will not believe—then it is your duty, nay, you are bound by law to go to the police and tell them what you know."
"I shall do that, never fear," she laughed. "But first I shall try and get something for my trouble."
"And whom do you intend to bring up as witness against Miss Shand?" I asked.
"Wait and see. There will be a witness—an eye-witness, who was present, and whose evidencewill be corroborated," she declared in due course with a self-satisfied air. "I have not resolved to reveal the truth without fully reviewing the situation. When the police know—as they certainly will—you will then find that I have not lied, and perhaps you will alter your opinion of the girl you now hold in such high esteem."