Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Which Puzzles both of us.Holding our breath in our eagerness, we turned over the letters and hastily scanned them through, save where the writing was obliterated by those dark stains.They were a revelation to us both. They told a story which utterly amazed us.Within the flat circular locket were engraved the words: “From Sybil—August 14th,” but there was no year. It was a love token which the unknown had worn around his neck, a beautiful miniature signed by one of the most fashionable modern miniaturists.The letters were, for the most part, in a woman’s large, rather sprawling hand, which I at once recognised as Sybil’s, and signed either by her Christian name or by her initials, “S.B.”The first we read was written on the notepaper of Hethe Hall, in Cumberland, a country house near Keswick, where she often visited. Undated, it ran:—“I do wish, Ralph, you would be more careful. Your actions every day betray the truth, and I fear somebody may suspect. You know how carefully I am watched and how my every action is noted. Every hour I live in dread. Think what exposure would mean to me. I shall walk down to Braithwaite Station to-morrow evening about 5:30. Do not write to me, as I fear Mason may get hold of one of your letters. She is so very curious. If you are free to-morrow evening perhaps I shall meet you ‘accidentally.’ But I do warn you to be careful for my sake. Till to morrow.—S.”What was meant by the “truth?” Was that ill-dressed, low-born fellow actually her secret lover? The love token showed that such was actually the case. Yet who was he?Another note, written hurriedly upon a plain sheet of common notepaper, was as follows:—“I don’t know if I can escape them. If so, I shall try and get hold of one of Mason’s dresses and hats and meet you in Serle Street, outside Lincoln’s Inn. But it is very risky. Do be careful that you are not followed.”The next was upon pale green notepaper, bearing in gold the heading, “S.Y.Regina,” with the added words, “Off the Faroe Islands:—“I am longing to be back again in town, but it cannot be for another four or five weeks. We have decided to do the Fiords. Do not write, as your letter must go through so many hands before it reaches me. What you tell me makes me suspicious. Why should they ask you that question if there had not been some whisper? Find out. Remember I have enemies—very bitter ones. It was hazardous of you to come to Glasgow. I saw you on the quay when we sailed. But you may have been recognised. If so, think of my position. Again I do beg of you to be as cautious as I am. From me the world shall never know the truth. I can keep a secret. See if you cannot do so, for my sake.”Apparently the fellow had preserved all her letters, either because he was so deeply in love with her, or with that ulterior motive of which she had so openly accused him.“Why did you speak to me on the stairs last night?” she asked, reproachfully, in another hastily-written note upon plain paper. “You imperil me at every moment. You may love me as fervently as you declare you do, but surely you should do nothing that may imperil my good name!”In another, evidently of more recent date, she wrote:“I cannot understand you. Our love has been a very foolish romance. Let us part and agree to forget it. I have been injudicious, and so have you. Let us agree to be friends, and I will, I assure you, do all I can for your interests in the future. Sometimes I think that Mason suspects. She may have seen you speak to me, or overheard you. She looks at me so very strangely sometimes, and I’m sure she watches me.”Again in another communication, which was besmirched by the dead man’s blood, writing from the Hotel Ritz, in Paris, she said:—“We are in deadly peril, both of us—but you more especially. E— knows the truth. Avoid him. He intends to betray you. I met J— in the Bois to-day, and he asked if you were in Paris. I pretended to be ignorant of your very existence, but he told me that E— had explained certain things, and he promised to keep my secret. I send you fifty pounds enclosed. Don’t acknowledge it. Burn this letter.”The longest, written on thin blue foreign paper, was even more enigmatical. It was dated from her sister’s place up in Durham, and read:—“You are right when you declared last night that I am very fond of Wilfrid Hughes. It is a pity, perhaps, that I did not marry him three years ago. If I had I should have been spared this awful anxiety and double life that I am now forced to lead. You say that I am giddy and heartless, thoughtless and reckless. Yes. I am all that, I admit. And yet I am only like many women who are seeking to forget. Some take morphia, others drink brandy, and I—well, I try and amuse myself as far as my remnant of a conscience will allow me. Ah! when I look back upon my quiet girlhood down at Ryhall I recollect how happy I was, how easily satisfied, how high were my ideals when I loved Wilfrid Hughes. And now? But will you not give me back my freedom? I ask, I beg, I implore of you to give me liberty—and save my life. You have always said that you loved me, therefore you surely will not continue this cruel persecution of a woman who is defenceless and powerless. I feel that your heart is too noble, and that when we meet to-morrow you will release me from my bond. Up to the present I have been able to close the lips of your enemies, yet how have you repaid me? But I do not reproach you. No. I only crave humbly at your feet.”The last, written from Ryhall, and dated three days before, was brief but to the point:—“If you are absolutely determined that I should see you then, I will keep your appointment. Recollect, however, that I have no fear of you. I have kept my mouth closed until to-day, and it will remain closed unless you compel me to open it.—S.”The other papers, of which we made methodical examination, were mysterious and puzzling. Upon a sheet of ruled sermon paper was drawn in red ink a geometrical device—the plan of a house we took it to be—while another piece of paper was covered with long lists of letters, words and phrases in a masculine but almost microscopic hand, together with their cipher equivalents.Was this the cipher used by the dead man to communicate with Sybil?“This will assist us, no doubt,” remarked Eric, scrutinising it beneath the light. “Probably she sent him cipher messages from time to time.”There was also a man’s visiting card, bearing the name,—“Mr John Parham, Keymer, Sydenham Hill, S.E.” As I turned it over I remarked, “This also may tell us something. This Mr Parham is perhaps his friend.” The card-case was empty, but a couple of pawn tickets for a watch and ring, showing them to be pawned at a shop in the Fulham Road in the name of Green, completed the miscellaneous collection that I had filched from the dead man’s pockets, and showed that, at any rate, he had been in want of money, even though he had a few shillings upon him at the time of his death.To say the least, it was a strange, gruesome collection as it lay spread upon the table. To my chagrin one of the blood-stained letters made an ugly mark upon the long hem-stitched linen toilet-cover.Eric took up letter after letter, and with knit brows re-read them, although he vouchsafed no remark.Who was the man? That was the one question which now occupied our minds.“How fortunate we’ve been able to possess ourselves of these!” I remarked. “Think, if they had fallen into the hands of the police!”“Yes,” answered my friend, “you acted boldly—more boldly than I dare act. I only hope that the person who saw us will not gossip. If he does—well, then it will be decidedly awkward.”“If he does, then we must put the best face upon matters. He probably didn’t see us take anything from the body.”“He may have followed and watched. Most likely.”“We’ve more to fear from somebody having seen Sybil go to the spot this afternoon. At that hour people would be at work in the fields, and anybody crossing those turnips must have been seen half a mile off.”“Unless they made adétourand came through the wood from the opposite side, as I expect she did. She would never risk discovery by going there openly.”“But what shall we do with all this?” I asked.“Burn the lot; that’s my advice.”“And if we’ve been discovered. What then? It would be awkward if the police came to us for these letters and we had burnt them. No,” I declared. “Let us keep them under lock and key—at least for the present.”“Very well, as you like. All I hope is that nobody will identify the fellow,” my friend said. “If they do, then his connection with Sybil may be known. Recollect what the letters say about the maid Mason. She suspects.”“That’s so,” I said, seriously. “Mason must be sent to London on some pretence the first thing in the morning. She must not be allowed to see the body.”“It seems that Sybil held some secret of the dead man’s, and yet was loyal to him throughout. I wonder what it was?”“The fellow was an outsider, without a doubt. Sybil foolishly fell in love with him, and he sought to profit by it. He was an adventurer, most certainly. I don’t like that cipher. It’s suspicious,” I declared.“Then you’ll keep all these things in your possession. Better seal them up and put them in your bank or somewhere safe.”“Yes,” I said, “I’ll take them to my bank. At any rate, they’ll be put away from prying eyes there.”“And how shall we face her?” Eric asked.“How will she face us, that’s the question?” I said, in a low voice.Then almost at the same moment we were both startled by hearing a low tapping upon my door.Eric and I turned and looked inquiringly at each other.“It’s Budd, your man, I expect,” he whispered. “He must not see me. Perhaps he’s heard of the affair and come to tell you. Look, I’ll get in there,” and springing across to a big old-fashioned oak wardrobe he slipped inside and I closed the door noiselessly.Then, quick as thought, I swept up the letters and other articles upon the table, placed them in one of the drawers, and stood awaiting a further summons.In a moment the low tapping was repeated.“Who’s there?” I inquired, crossing and drawing aside the heavyportière.“Wilfrid!” whispered a low voice. “Can you see me? I must speak with you at once.”I started as though I had received a blow. It was Sybil herself!

Holding our breath in our eagerness, we turned over the letters and hastily scanned them through, save where the writing was obliterated by those dark stains.

They were a revelation to us both. They told a story which utterly amazed us.

Within the flat circular locket were engraved the words: “From Sybil—August 14th,” but there was no year. It was a love token which the unknown had worn around his neck, a beautiful miniature signed by one of the most fashionable modern miniaturists.

The letters were, for the most part, in a woman’s large, rather sprawling hand, which I at once recognised as Sybil’s, and signed either by her Christian name or by her initials, “S.B.”

The first we read was written on the notepaper of Hethe Hall, in Cumberland, a country house near Keswick, where she often visited. Undated, it ran:—

“I do wish, Ralph, you would be more careful. Your actions every day betray the truth, and I fear somebody may suspect. You know how carefully I am watched and how my every action is noted. Every hour I live in dread. Think what exposure would mean to me. I shall walk down to Braithwaite Station to-morrow evening about 5:30. Do not write to me, as I fear Mason may get hold of one of your letters. She is so very curious. If you are free to-morrow evening perhaps I shall meet you ‘accidentally.’ But I do warn you to be careful for my sake. Till to morrow.—S.”

What was meant by the “truth?” Was that ill-dressed, low-born fellow actually her secret lover? The love token showed that such was actually the case. Yet who was he?

Another note, written hurriedly upon a plain sheet of common notepaper, was as follows:—

“I don’t know if I can escape them. If so, I shall try and get hold of one of Mason’s dresses and hats and meet you in Serle Street, outside Lincoln’s Inn. But it is very risky. Do be careful that you are not followed.”

The next was upon pale green notepaper, bearing in gold the heading, “S.Y.Regina,” with the added words, “Off the Faroe Islands:—

“I am longing to be back again in town, but it cannot be for another four or five weeks. We have decided to do the Fiords. Do not write, as your letter must go through so many hands before it reaches me. What you tell me makes me suspicious. Why should they ask you that question if there had not been some whisper? Find out. Remember I have enemies—very bitter ones. It was hazardous of you to come to Glasgow. I saw you on the quay when we sailed. But you may have been recognised. If so, think of my position. Again I do beg of you to be as cautious as I am. From me the world shall never know the truth. I can keep a secret. See if you cannot do so, for my sake.”

Apparently the fellow had preserved all her letters, either because he was so deeply in love with her, or with that ulterior motive of which she had so openly accused him.

“Why did you speak to me on the stairs last night?” she asked, reproachfully, in another hastily-written note upon plain paper. “You imperil me at every moment. You may love me as fervently as you declare you do, but surely you should do nothing that may imperil my good name!”

In another, evidently of more recent date, she wrote:

“I cannot understand you. Our love has been a very foolish romance. Let us part and agree to forget it. I have been injudicious, and so have you. Let us agree to be friends, and I will, I assure you, do all I can for your interests in the future. Sometimes I think that Mason suspects. She may have seen you speak to me, or overheard you. She looks at me so very strangely sometimes, and I’m sure she watches me.”

Again in another communication, which was besmirched by the dead man’s blood, writing from the Hotel Ritz, in Paris, she said:—

“We are in deadly peril, both of us—but you more especially. E— knows the truth. Avoid him. He intends to betray you. I met J— in the Bois to-day, and he asked if you were in Paris. I pretended to be ignorant of your very existence, but he told me that E— had explained certain things, and he promised to keep my secret. I send you fifty pounds enclosed. Don’t acknowledge it. Burn this letter.”

The longest, written on thin blue foreign paper, was even more enigmatical. It was dated from her sister’s place up in Durham, and read:—

“You are right when you declared last night that I am very fond of Wilfrid Hughes. It is a pity, perhaps, that I did not marry him three years ago. If I had I should have been spared this awful anxiety and double life that I am now forced to lead. You say that I am giddy and heartless, thoughtless and reckless. Yes. I am all that, I admit. And yet I am only like many women who are seeking to forget. Some take morphia, others drink brandy, and I—well, I try and amuse myself as far as my remnant of a conscience will allow me. Ah! when I look back upon my quiet girlhood down at Ryhall I recollect how happy I was, how easily satisfied, how high were my ideals when I loved Wilfrid Hughes. And now? But will you not give me back my freedom? I ask, I beg, I implore of you to give me liberty—and save my life. You have always said that you loved me, therefore you surely will not continue this cruel persecution of a woman who is defenceless and powerless. I feel that your heart is too noble, and that when we meet to-morrow you will release me from my bond. Up to the present I have been able to close the lips of your enemies, yet how have you repaid me? But I do not reproach you. No. I only crave humbly at your feet.”

The last, written from Ryhall, and dated three days before, was brief but to the point:—

“If you are absolutely determined that I should see you then, I will keep your appointment. Recollect, however, that I have no fear of you. I have kept my mouth closed until to-day, and it will remain closed unless you compel me to open it.—S.”

The other papers, of which we made methodical examination, were mysterious and puzzling. Upon a sheet of ruled sermon paper was drawn in red ink a geometrical device—the plan of a house we took it to be—while another piece of paper was covered with long lists of letters, words and phrases in a masculine but almost microscopic hand, together with their cipher equivalents.

Was this the cipher used by the dead man to communicate with Sybil?

“This will assist us, no doubt,” remarked Eric, scrutinising it beneath the light. “Probably she sent him cipher messages from time to time.”

There was also a man’s visiting card, bearing the name,—

“Mr John Parham, Keymer, Sydenham Hill, S.E.” As I turned it over I remarked, “This also may tell us something. This Mr Parham is perhaps his friend.” The card-case was empty, but a couple of pawn tickets for a watch and ring, showing them to be pawned at a shop in the Fulham Road in the name of Green, completed the miscellaneous collection that I had filched from the dead man’s pockets, and showed that, at any rate, he had been in want of money, even though he had a few shillings upon him at the time of his death.

To say the least, it was a strange, gruesome collection as it lay spread upon the table. To my chagrin one of the blood-stained letters made an ugly mark upon the long hem-stitched linen toilet-cover.

Eric took up letter after letter, and with knit brows re-read them, although he vouchsafed no remark.

Who was the man? That was the one question which now occupied our minds.

“How fortunate we’ve been able to possess ourselves of these!” I remarked. “Think, if they had fallen into the hands of the police!”

“Yes,” answered my friend, “you acted boldly—more boldly than I dare act. I only hope that the person who saw us will not gossip. If he does—well, then it will be decidedly awkward.”

“If he does, then we must put the best face upon matters. He probably didn’t see us take anything from the body.”

“He may have followed and watched. Most likely.”

“We’ve more to fear from somebody having seen Sybil go to the spot this afternoon. At that hour people would be at work in the fields, and anybody crossing those turnips must have been seen half a mile off.”

“Unless they made adétourand came through the wood from the opposite side, as I expect she did. She would never risk discovery by going there openly.”

“But what shall we do with all this?” I asked.

“Burn the lot; that’s my advice.”

“And if we’ve been discovered. What then? It would be awkward if the police came to us for these letters and we had burnt them. No,” I declared. “Let us keep them under lock and key—at least for the present.”

“Very well, as you like. All I hope is that nobody will identify the fellow,” my friend said. “If they do, then his connection with Sybil may be known. Recollect what the letters say about the maid Mason. She suspects.”

“That’s so,” I said, seriously. “Mason must be sent to London on some pretence the first thing in the morning. She must not be allowed to see the body.”

“It seems that Sybil held some secret of the dead man’s, and yet was loyal to him throughout. I wonder what it was?”

“The fellow was an outsider, without a doubt. Sybil foolishly fell in love with him, and he sought to profit by it. He was an adventurer, most certainly. I don’t like that cipher. It’s suspicious,” I declared.

“Then you’ll keep all these things in your possession. Better seal them up and put them in your bank or somewhere safe.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll take them to my bank. At any rate, they’ll be put away from prying eyes there.”

“And how shall we face her?” Eric asked.

“How will she face us, that’s the question?” I said, in a low voice.

Then almost at the same moment we were both startled by hearing a low tapping upon my door.

Eric and I turned and looked inquiringly at each other.

“It’s Budd, your man, I expect,” he whispered. “He must not see me. Perhaps he’s heard of the affair and come to tell you. Look, I’ll get in there,” and springing across to a big old-fashioned oak wardrobe he slipped inside and I closed the door noiselessly.

Then, quick as thought, I swept up the letters and other articles upon the table, placed them in one of the drawers, and stood awaiting a further summons.

In a moment the low tapping was repeated.

“Who’s there?” I inquired, crossing and drawing aside the heavyportière.

“Wilfrid!” whispered a low voice. “Can you see me? I must speak with you at once.”

I started as though I had received a blow. It was Sybil herself!

Chapter Six.Contains a Curious Confession.I unlocked the door, and opening it, met the love of my youth standing there in the darkness.“Wilfrid!” she gasped, in a low whisper, “I—I want to speak to you. Forgive me, but it is very urgent. Come along here—into the blue room. Come, there is no time to lose.”Thus impelled, I followed her along the corridor to the small sitting-room at the end, where she had apparently left her candle.By its light I saw that she was dressed in a black tailor-made gown, and that her face was white and haggard. She closed the door, and noticing that I was still dressed, said,—“Have you only just come up to bed?”“Yes,” was my answer. “Eric and I have been gossiping. The others went up long ago, but he began telling me some of his African yarns.”“But everyone is in bed now?” she inquired, quickly.“Of course,” I answered, wondering why she had come to me thus, in the middle of the night. She had changed her dinner-gown for a walking dress, but there was still the bow of blue velvet in her gold-brown hair which she had apparently forgotten to remove.“Wilfrid!” she said, in a low, hard voice, suddenly grasping both my hands. “Although you refused to marry me you are still my friend, are you not?”“Your friend! Of course I am,” I answered rather hoarsely. “Did I not tell you so before dinner?”“I know you did, but—” and she dropped her fine eyes, still holding my hands in hers. Her own hands trembled, and apparently she dared not look me full in the face.“But what—?” I asked. “What troubles you? Why are you dressed like this?”“I—I have been very foolish,” she whispered. “I am, after all, a woman, and very weak. Ah! Wilfrid—if I only dare tell you the truth—if I only dare?” she gasped, and I saw how terribly agitated she was.“Why not? Why not confide in me?” I urged, seriously. “I can keep a secret, you know.”“No, no,” she cried. “How can I? No, I only beg and implore of you to help me, and not to misjudge me.”“Misjudge you, why? I don’t understand,” I said, in pretence of ignorance.“Ah! of course not. But to-morrow you will know everything, and—” but she did not conclude her sentence.There was a change in her countenance, and I saw that she was fainting. I drew her to a big armchair, and a second later she sank into it unconscious.Next instant I dashed along to my room for the water-bottle, whispered to Eric what had taken place and ran back to assist my little friend.Ten minutes later she opened her eyes again and gazed steadily at the candle. Then, finding me at her side, she whispered,—“Yes, ah—yes, I remember. How very foolish I have been. Forgive me, Wilfrid, won’t you? I miscalculated my strength. I thought myself stronger,” and her soft hand again sought mine, and she looked into my eyes steadily, with a long, earnest gaze.“You are in distress, Tibbie,” I said, as kindly as I could. “What is it? How can I help you?”“You can save me,” she said in an intense, earnest voice. “You can save my life if you will.”“If I will? Why, of course I will,” was my quick response.“Then you will really help me?”“Only tell me what you wish me to do and I’ll do it at once,” I replied.“You will have no fear?”“Fear of what?”“Well,” she exclaimed, hesitating, “suppose you were suspected of something—that the police believed you to be guilty of a crime?”“Guilty of a crime?” I echoed, with a forced smile. “Well, they might suspect whatever they like, so long as I was innocent.”“Then you are really prepared to bear any suspicion if it would be for my salvation?”“Have I not already said that I am quite ready to help you, Tibbie?”“Ah, yes, because you do not yet realise your grave peril,” she said. “If only I dare be frank with you—if only I dare tell you the awful, bitter truth! Yet I can’t, and you must remain in ignorance. Your very ignorance will cause you to court danger, and at the same time to misjudge me.”“I shall not misjudge you,” I assured her. “But at the present I am, as you say, entirely in the dark. What is it you want me to do?”For a moment she was silent, apparently fearing to make the suggestion lest I should refuse. At last she looked straight into my face and said,—“What I ask you to do is to make a great sacrifice in order to save me. I am in peril, Wilfrid, in a grave, terrible peril. The sword of fate hangs over me, and may fall at any instant. I must fly from here—I must fly to-night and hide—I—”She hesitated again. Her words were an admission of her guilt. She was a murderess. That unknown man that I had left lying cold and dead beneath the trees had fallen by her hand.“Well?” I asked, rather coldly, I fear.“I must hide. I must efface my identity, and for certain reasons—indeed to obtain greater security I must marry.”“Marry!” I echoed. “Well, really, Sybil, I don’t understand you in the least. Why?”“Because I can, I hope, save myself by marrying,” she went on quickly. “To-night I am going into hiding, and not a soul must know of my whereabouts. The place best of all in which to hide oneself is London, in one of the populous working districts. They would never search for me there. As the wife of an industrious working-man I should be safe. To go abroad would be useless.”“But why should you leave so hurriedly?” I asked her.“Ah! you will know in due course,” was her answer. “Ask me no questions now, only help me to escape.”“How?”“Listen, and I will tell you of the plans I have formed. To-night I have thought it all out, and have made resolve. The car is in the shed over against the kennels. I backed it in yesterday, therefore it will run down the hill along the avenue, and right out through the lodge gates without petrol and noiselessly. Once in the Chichester road, I can drive it away without awakening either the house or the Grants who keep the gate. You’ll come with me.”“Where?”“To London.”“And what would people say when it was known that you and I left together in the middle of the night?”“Oh! they’d only say it was one of Tibbie’s mad freaks. It is useful sometimes,” she added, “to have a reputation for eccentricity. It saves so many explanations.”“Yes, that’s all very well, but it is not a judicious course in any way.”Suddenly I recollected the woman Mason whom I saw at all costs must be got out of the way. As a servant she might get a view of the dead man out of curiosity and identify him as her mistress’s lover.“No,” I added, after a moment’s reflection. “If you really want to escape to London go in exactly the opposite direction. Run across the New Forest to Bournemouth, for instance. Take Mason with you. Go to the Bath Hotel, and then slip away by train say up to Birmingham, and from there to London.”“Yes, but I can’t take Mason. She must remain in ignorance. She knows far too much of my affairs already.”“Well, I can’t go with you. It would be madness. And you cannot go alone.”She was silent, her lips pressed together, her brows knit. Her countenance was hard and troubled, and there was a look of unmistakable terror in those wonderful eyes of hers.“And if I act on your advice, Wilfrid, will you meet me in secret in London to-morrow or the next day?”“Certainly. I will do all I can to help you—only accept my advice and take Mason with you. Mislead her, just as you are misleading everyone.”“You will not think ill of me if I ask you something?” she said, seriously, looking very earnestly up into my face.“Certainly not. You can be perfectly open and straightforward with me, surely.”“Then I want you to do something—although I’m almost afraid to ask you.”“And what’s that?”“I have no one else I can trust, Wilfrid, as I trust you. You are a man of honour and I am an honest woman, even though my enemies have whispered their calumnies regarding me. You are my friend; if you were not I surely dare not ask you to help me in this,” and her voice faltered as she averted her gaze. “I want you—I want you to pretend that you are my husband.”“Your husband,” I exclaimed, staring at her.“Yes,” she cried quickly. “To place myself in a position of safety I must first live in a crowded part of London where I can efface my identity; and secondly, for appearances’ sake, as well as for another and much stronger motive, I must have a husband. Will you, Wilfrid, pretend to be mine?”Her request utterly nonplussed me, and she noticed my hesitation.“If you will only consent to go into hiding with me I can escape,” she urged, quickly. “You can easily contrive to live in Bolton Street and pose as my husband in another part of the world; while I—well, I simply disappear. There will be a loud hue and cry after me, of course, but when I’m not found, the mater and the others will simply put my disappearance down to my eccentricity. They will never connect us, for you will take good care to be seen in London leading your usual life, and indeed seriously troubled over my disappearance. They will never suspect.”“But why must you appear to have a husband?” I asked, extremely puzzled.“I have a reason—a strong one,” she answered, earnestly. “I have enemies, and my hand will be strengthened against them the instant they believe that I have married.”“That may be so,” I said, dubiously. “But where do you suggest taking up your abode?”“Camberwell would be a good quarter,” she responded. “There is a large working-class population there. We could take furnished apartments with some quiet landlady. You are a compositor on one of the morning newspapers, and are out at work all night. Sometimes, too, you have to work overtime—I think they call it—and then you are away the greater part of the day also. I don’t want you to tie yourself to me too much, you see,” she added, smiling. “We shall give out that we’ve been married a year, and by your being a compositor, your absence won’t be remarked. So you see you can live in Bolton Street just the same, and pay me a daily visit to Camberwell, just to cheer me up.”“But surely you could never bear life in a back street, Tibbie,” I said, looking at her utterly bewildered at her suggestion. “You would have to wear print dresses, cook, and clean up your rooms.”“And don’t you think I know how to do that?” she asked. “Just see whether I can’t act the working-man’s wife if you will only help to save me from—from the awful fate that threatens me. Say you will, Wilfrid,” she gasped, taking my hand again. “You will not desert me now, will you? Remember you are the only friend I dare go to in my present trouble. You will not refuse to be known in Camberwell as my husband—will you?”I was silent. Was any living man ever placed in dilemma more difficult? What could I reply? That she was in real deep earnest I saw from her white, drawn countenance. The dark rings around her eyes told their own tale. She was desperate, and she declared that by acting as she suggested I could save her.The dead, staring, clean-shaven countenance of that man in the wood arose before me, and I held my breath, my eyes fixed upon hers.She saw that I hesitated to compromise her and implicate myself.Then slowly she raised my hand to her lips and kissed it, saying in a strange voice, so low that I hardly caught the words,—“Wilfrid, I—I can tell you no more. My life is entirely in your hands. Save me, or—or I will kill myself. I dare not face the truth. Give me my life. Do whatever you will. Suspect me; hate me; spurn me as I deserve, but I crave mercy of you—I crave of you life—life!”And releasing me she stood motionless, her hands clasped in supplication, her head bent, not daring to look me again in the face.What could I think? What, reader, would you have thought? How would you have acted in such circumstances?

I unlocked the door, and opening it, met the love of my youth standing there in the darkness.

“Wilfrid!” she gasped, in a low whisper, “I—I want to speak to you. Forgive me, but it is very urgent. Come along here—into the blue room. Come, there is no time to lose.”

Thus impelled, I followed her along the corridor to the small sitting-room at the end, where she had apparently left her candle.

By its light I saw that she was dressed in a black tailor-made gown, and that her face was white and haggard. She closed the door, and noticing that I was still dressed, said,—

“Have you only just come up to bed?”

“Yes,” was my answer. “Eric and I have been gossiping. The others went up long ago, but he began telling me some of his African yarns.”

“But everyone is in bed now?” she inquired, quickly.

“Of course,” I answered, wondering why she had come to me thus, in the middle of the night. She had changed her dinner-gown for a walking dress, but there was still the bow of blue velvet in her gold-brown hair which she had apparently forgotten to remove.

“Wilfrid!” she said, in a low, hard voice, suddenly grasping both my hands. “Although you refused to marry me you are still my friend, are you not?”

“Your friend! Of course I am,” I answered rather hoarsely. “Did I not tell you so before dinner?”

“I know you did, but—” and she dropped her fine eyes, still holding my hands in hers. Her own hands trembled, and apparently she dared not look me full in the face.

“But what—?” I asked. “What troubles you? Why are you dressed like this?”

“I—I have been very foolish,” she whispered. “I am, after all, a woman, and very weak. Ah! Wilfrid—if I only dare tell you the truth—if I only dare?” she gasped, and I saw how terribly agitated she was.

“Why not? Why not confide in me?” I urged, seriously. “I can keep a secret, you know.”

“No, no,” she cried. “How can I? No, I only beg and implore of you to help me, and not to misjudge me.”

“Misjudge you, why? I don’t understand,” I said, in pretence of ignorance.

“Ah! of course not. But to-morrow you will know everything, and—” but she did not conclude her sentence.

There was a change in her countenance, and I saw that she was fainting. I drew her to a big armchair, and a second later she sank into it unconscious.

Next instant I dashed along to my room for the water-bottle, whispered to Eric what had taken place and ran back to assist my little friend.

Ten minutes later she opened her eyes again and gazed steadily at the candle. Then, finding me at her side, she whispered,—

“Yes, ah—yes, I remember. How very foolish I have been. Forgive me, Wilfrid, won’t you? I miscalculated my strength. I thought myself stronger,” and her soft hand again sought mine, and she looked into my eyes steadily, with a long, earnest gaze.

“You are in distress, Tibbie,” I said, as kindly as I could. “What is it? How can I help you?”

“You can save me,” she said in an intense, earnest voice. “You can save my life if you will.”

“If I will? Why, of course I will,” was my quick response.

“Then you will really help me?”

“Only tell me what you wish me to do and I’ll do it at once,” I replied.

“You will have no fear?”

“Fear of what?”

“Well,” she exclaimed, hesitating, “suppose you were suspected of something—that the police believed you to be guilty of a crime?”

“Guilty of a crime?” I echoed, with a forced smile. “Well, they might suspect whatever they like, so long as I was innocent.”

“Then you are really prepared to bear any suspicion if it would be for my salvation?”

“Have I not already said that I am quite ready to help you, Tibbie?”

“Ah, yes, because you do not yet realise your grave peril,” she said. “If only I dare be frank with you—if only I dare tell you the awful, bitter truth! Yet I can’t, and you must remain in ignorance. Your very ignorance will cause you to court danger, and at the same time to misjudge me.”

“I shall not misjudge you,” I assured her. “But at the present I am, as you say, entirely in the dark. What is it you want me to do?”

For a moment she was silent, apparently fearing to make the suggestion lest I should refuse. At last she looked straight into my face and said,—

“What I ask you to do is to make a great sacrifice in order to save me. I am in peril, Wilfrid, in a grave, terrible peril. The sword of fate hangs over me, and may fall at any instant. I must fly from here—I must fly to-night and hide—I—”

She hesitated again. Her words were an admission of her guilt. She was a murderess. That unknown man that I had left lying cold and dead beneath the trees had fallen by her hand.

“Well?” I asked, rather coldly, I fear.

“I must hide. I must efface my identity, and for certain reasons—indeed to obtain greater security I must marry.”

“Marry!” I echoed. “Well, really, Sybil, I don’t understand you in the least. Why?”

“Because I can, I hope, save myself by marrying,” she went on quickly. “To-night I am going into hiding, and not a soul must know of my whereabouts. The place best of all in which to hide oneself is London, in one of the populous working districts. They would never search for me there. As the wife of an industrious working-man I should be safe. To go abroad would be useless.”

“But why should you leave so hurriedly?” I asked her.

“Ah! you will know in due course,” was her answer. “Ask me no questions now, only help me to escape.”

“How?”

“Listen, and I will tell you of the plans I have formed. To-night I have thought it all out, and have made resolve. The car is in the shed over against the kennels. I backed it in yesterday, therefore it will run down the hill along the avenue, and right out through the lodge gates without petrol and noiselessly. Once in the Chichester road, I can drive it away without awakening either the house or the Grants who keep the gate. You’ll come with me.”

“Where?”

“To London.”

“And what would people say when it was known that you and I left together in the middle of the night?”

“Oh! they’d only say it was one of Tibbie’s mad freaks. It is useful sometimes,” she added, “to have a reputation for eccentricity. It saves so many explanations.”

“Yes, that’s all very well, but it is not a judicious course in any way.”

Suddenly I recollected the woman Mason whom I saw at all costs must be got out of the way. As a servant she might get a view of the dead man out of curiosity and identify him as her mistress’s lover.

“No,” I added, after a moment’s reflection. “If you really want to escape to London go in exactly the opposite direction. Run across the New Forest to Bournemouth, for instance. Take Mason with you. Go to the Bath Hotel, and then slip away by train say up to Birmingham, and from there to London.”

“Yes, but I can’t take Mason. She must remain in ignorance. She knows far too much of my affairs already.”

“Well, I can’t go with you. It would be madness. And you cannot go alone.”

She was silent, her lips pressed together, her brows knit. Her countenance was hard and troubled, and there was a look of unmistakable terror in those wonderful eyes of hers.

“And if I act on your advice, Wilfrid, will you meet me in secret in London to-morrow or the next day?”

“Certainly. I will do all I can to help you—only accept my advice and take Mason with you. Mislead her, just as you are misleading everyone.”

“You will not think ill of me if I ask you something?” she said, seriously, looking very earnestly up into my face.

“Certainly not. You can be perfectly open and straightforward with me, surely.”

“Then I want you to do something—although I’m almost afraid to ask you.”

“And what’s that?”

“I have no one else I can trust, Wilfrid, as I trust you. You are a man of honour and I am an honest woman, even though my enemies have whispered their calumnies regarding me. You are my friend; if you were not I surely dare not ask you to help me in this,” and her voice faltered as she averted her gaze. “I want you—I want you to pretend that you are my husband.”

“Your husband,” I exclaimed, staring at her.

“Yes,” she cried quickly. “To place myself in a position of safety I must first live in a crowded part of London where I can efface my identity; and secondly, for appearances’ sake, as well as for another and much stronger motive, I must have a husband. Will you, Wilfrid, pretend to be mine?”

Her request utterly nonplussed me, and she noticed my hesitation.

“If you will only consent to go into hiding with me I can escape,” she urged, quickly. “You can easily contrive to live in Bolton Street and pose as my husband in another part of the world; while I—well, I simply disappear. There will be a loud hue and cry after me, of course, but when I’m not found, the mater and the others will simply put my disappearance down to my eccentricity. They will never connect us, for you will take good care to be seen in London leading your usual life, and indeed seriously troubled over my disappearance. They will never suspect.”

“But why must you appear to have a husband?” I asked, extremely puzzled.

“I have a reason—a strong one,” she answered, earnestly. “I have enemies, and my hand will be strengthened against them the instant they believe that I have married.”

“That may be so,” I said, dubiously. “But where do you suggest taking up your abode?”

“Camberwell would be a good quarter,” she responded. “There is a large working-class population there. We could take furnished apartments with some quiet landlady. You are a compositor on one of the morning newspapers, and are out at work all night. Sometimes, too, you have to work overtime—I think they call it—and then you are away the greater part of the day also. I don’t want you to tie yourself to me too much, you see,” she added, smiling. “We shall give out that we’ve been married a year, and by your being a compositor, your absence won’t be remarked. So you see you can live in Bolton Street just the same, and pay me a daily visit to Camberwell, just to cheer me up.”

“But surely you could never bear life in a back street, Tibbie,” I said, looking at her utterly bewildered at her suggestion. “You would have to wear print dresses, cook, and clean up your rooms.”

“And don’t you think I know how to do that?” she asked. “Just see whether I can’t act the working-man’s wife if you will only help to save me from—from the awful fate that threatens me. Say you will, Wilfrid,” she gasped, taking my hand again. “You will not desert me now, will you? Remember you are the only friend I dare go to in my present trouble. You will not refuse to be known in Camberwell as my husband—will you?”

I was silent. Was any living man ever placed in dilemma more difficult? What could I reply? That she was in real deep earnest I saw from her white, drawn countenance. The dark rings around her eyes told their own tale. She was desperate, and she declared that by acting as she suggested I could save her.

The dead, staring, clean-shaven countenance of that man in the wood arose before me, and I held my breath, my eyes fixed upon hers.

She saw that I hesitated to compromise her and implicate myself.

Then slowly she raised my hand to her lips and kissed it, saying in a strange voice, so low that I hardly caught the words,—

“Wilfrid, I—I can tell you no more. My life is entirely in your hands. Save me, or—or I will kill myself. I dare not face the truth. Give me my life. Do whatever you will. Suspect me; hate me; spurn me as I deserve, but I crave mercy of you—I crave of you life—life!”

And releasing me she stood motionless, her hands clasped in supplication, her head bent, not daring to look me again in the face.

What could I think? What, reader, would you have thought? How would you have acted in such circumstances?

Chapter Seven.In which I Play a Dangerous Game.Well—I agreed.Yes—I agreed to pose as the hard-working compositor upon a daily newspaper and husband of the Honourable Sybil Burnet, the woman by whose hand the unknown man had fallen.At first I hesitated, refusing to compromise her, yet she had fallen upon her knees imploring me to help her, and I was bound to fulfil the promise I had so injudiciously made.There was no love between us now, she had declared. The flame had flickered and died out long ago.“If you will only consent to act as though I were your wife, then I may be able to save myself,” she urged. “You will do so, will you not?”“But why?” I had asked. “I cannot see how our pretended marriage can assist you?”“Leave it all to me,” was her confident reply. “One day you will discern the reason.”And then, with tears in her beautiful eyes, and kneeling at my feet, she begged again of me to act as she suggested and thus save her life.So I consented. Yes—you may say that I was foolish, that I was injudicious, that I was still beneath the spell of her exquisite grace and matchless beauty. Perhaps I was: yet I tell you that at the moment so stunned was I by the tragedy, by what Eric had revealed, and by her midnight visit, that I hardly knew what I did.“Very well, Sybil,” I said at last. “Let it be so. I will help you to escape, and I will act as though I were your husband. For your sake I will do this, although I tell you plainly that I see in it a grave and deadly peril.”“There is a far greater peril if I remain unmarried,” she answered. “You recollect my question this afternoon. I asked whether you would not really marry me. I asked because I feared that the blow might fall, and that I should have to seek protection.”“And the blow has fallen?” I asked.“Yes,” she answered, in a low, desperate voice. “And were it not for you I—I should go to my room now and kill myself, Wilfrid! You, however, have promised to save me. There is no time to lose. I must get away at once. You will help me to get out the car?”“Of course. And you will take Mason? You must take her,” I added.“Why?”“Because it is dangerous for her to remain here. She may raise the alarm,” I said, rather lamely. “Take my advice and carry her with you down to Bournemouth.”“Very well,” she answered, hurriedly, and raising my hand to her soft lips, kissed it before I could prevent her, and said, “Wilfrid, let me thank you. You have given me back my life. An hour ago I was in my room and made preparations to bid adieu to everything. But I thought of you—my last and only chance of salvation. Ah! you do not know—no, no—I—I can never tell you! I can only give you the thanks of a desperate and grateful woman!” And then she slipped out, promising to meet me again there with Mason in a quarter of an hour.I crept back to my room, and when I had closed the door Eric stepped from his hiding-place.“She intends to fly,” I explained. “She is going away on the car, and I have persuaded her to take Mason.”“On the car? At this hour?”In brief I explained all that had taken place between us, and he listened to me in silence till the end.“What?” he cried. “You are actually going to make people believe that you’re her husband?”“I’m going to make people in Camberwell believe it,” I answered.“But isn’t that a very dangerous bit of business?” he queried. “Suppose any of her people knew it. What would be said?”I only shrugged my shoulders.“Well,” he remarked at last, “please yourself, old chap, but I can’t help thinking that it’s very unwise. I can’t see either how being married protects her in the least.”“Nor can I. Yet I’ve resolved to shield her, and at the same time to try and solve the mysterious affair, therefore, I’m bound to adopt her suggestions. She must get away at once, and we must get Mason out of the neighbourhood—those two facts are plain. The motor will run down the avenue without any noise, so she’ll be miles away when the household awake.”“Where’s she going?”I told him, and he agreed that my suggestion had been a good one.Leaving him in my room, I crept again down the corridor, and presently both she and Mason came noiselessly along in the dark. My little friend had on a thick box-cloth motor coat with fur collar, a motor-cap and her goggles hanging round her neck, while Mason, who often went in the car with her, had also a thick black coat, close cap and veil.“I hope we sha’n’t get a break-down,” Tibbie said, with a laugh. “I really ought to take Webber with me,” she added, referring to her smart chauffeur. “But how can I?”“No,” I said. “Drive yourself and risk it. I know you can change a tyre or mend a puncture as well as any man.” Whereat she laughed.“Very well,” she said, “let us go,” and we crossed the Long Gallery and descended the wide oak stairs, Mason carrying the candle, which she afterwards blew out.Upon my suggestion, we made our exit by that same window through which Eric and I had passed earlier in the night. Mistress and maid scrambled through, and I assisted them down upon the grass.Then we slipped across to where the car was, opened the door, and after Sybil had mounted into her place Mason and I pushed the fine “Mercedes” slowly out, while she steered it down the incline to the avenue.She let it run twenty yards or so, and afterwards put on the brake to allow her maid to mount beside her. Then after I had tucked the rug round her legs, she gripped my hand tightly and meaningly, saying in a low voice,—“Thanks so much, Mr Hughes. Good-bye.”“Good-bye,” I whispered. “Bon voyage.”And slowly the long powerful car glided off almost noiselessly down the incline, and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the great avenue.I stood peering into the blackness, but in a few moments could hear no further sound. She had escaped, leaving me utterly mystified and wondering.When, ten minutes later, I returned to Eric and described her silent departure, he said,—“So you’re going to meet her in town—eh?”“Yes, in secret, on Thursday night. She has made an appointment. She will leave Mason in Bournemouth, and then simply disappear. By the time Mason returns here the dead man will be in his coffin, therefore she won’t have any opportunity of identifying him.”“But there’ll be a hue and cry after her. The police will think that something has happened to her.”“Let them think. We shall pretend to make inquiries and assist them. In the meantime, with all these letters and things in our hands, we hold the trump cards.”“If Tibbie knew that we had her letters, I wonder what she would say—how she would act?”“She no doubt fears that they may fall into the hands of the police. That is why she is disappearing.”“Of course. And for the present she must be allowed to remain in that belief,” Eric replied. “I wonder who the man Parham is? We must inquire. On Sydenham Hill are some rather nice houses. I once knew a rather pretty girl who lived in that neighbourhood, and used to take her for evening walks up the hill to the Crystal Palace.”“Yes,” I said. “We must discover all we can about the dead man’s friends. We must also call and see the pawnbroker in the Fulham Road. He may be able to tell us who pledged the watch and ring. Indeed, we might get them out of pawn and see whether there are any remarks or inscription that will tell us anything.”With my suggestion he entirely agreed, and for a second time we re-read those curious letters of the woman who was now flying into hiding, and whom I had promised to meet and assist.I had placed myself in a very difficult and dangerous position. Of that I was well aware. I hoped, however, to save her. Too well I knew that she was in desperation, that she had seriously contemplated suicide until she had resolved to make her appeal for my sympathy and help.Yet she was under the impression that I was as yet in ignorance of this tragedy, although in her white, terrified countenance I saw guilt distinctly written.I took counsel with Eric. He was entirely against the very dangerous part that I had now promised to play, saying,—“I can’t for the life of me see what motive she can have. To hide is all very well—to bury herself in a working-class suburb and pretend to be poor is certainly a much safer plan than endeavouring to slip across to the Continent. But why does she want you to act as her husband? Not for appearances’ sake, surely! And yet if she hadn’t a very strong motive she would not thus run the very great risk of compromising herself. She respects you, too, therefore all the stronger reason why she would never ask you to place yourself in that awkward position. No, old fellow,” he declared, seating himself upon the edge of my bed, “I can’t make it out at all.”“Of course, it has to do with the affair of yesterday,” I remarked.“Undoubtedly. It has some connection with it, but what it is we can’t yet discern.”“I can only act as she suggests,” I remarked.“I fear you can’t do anything else,” he said, after a pause. “Only you’ll have to be most careful and circumspect, for I can foresee danger ahead. Tibbie’s clever enough, but she is erratic sometimes, and one untimely word of hers may upset everything. I hardly like the idea of you posing as her husband, Wilfrid. I tell you plainly that I have some distinct premonition of evil—forgive me for saying so.”“I hope not. I’m only consenting to it for her sake.”“Because you are still just a little bit fond of her, old fellow. Now, confess it.”“I’m not, Eric. I swear to you I’m not. We could never marry. We are no longer lovers.”“I hope not,” he said in an altered tone. “But pretended love-making is always dangerous, you know.”“Well,” I said, pacing up the old tapestried room and down again, “let’s leave love out of the question. What I intend to do is to save Tibbie, and at the same time find out the truth. You, Eric, will help me, won’t you?”“With all my heart, my dear chap,” he said. “But—well, somehow I have had lately a very faint suspicion of one thing; and that is, I believe Ellice Winsloe is deeply in love with her. I’ve seen it in his face. If so, you and I have to reckon with him.”“How?”“Because as soon as she disappears he’ll commence making eager inquiries and trying to trace her. His inquiries may lead him in our direction, don’t you see. Besides, it would be awkward if he found you down at Camberwell.”I was silent. There was a good deal of truth in what he said. Eric Domville always had a knack of looking far ahead. He was what is vulgarly known as “a far-seeing man.”“But don’t you think that when I’m a compositor in a well-worn tweed suit and a threadbare overcoat with wages of two pounds a week I’ll be beyond the pale and safe from recognition?”“That’s all very well, but the working-class are intelligent. They’ll easily see through a gentleman’s disguise.”“I quite agree,” I said. “There is no more intelligent class than the working-class in London, or indeed in any of the big cities of the North. It is the working-man who is the back-bone of England, after all. The capitalist may direct and public companies may manoeuvre, but it is the skilled labourer who has made England what she is. Yes, I’m quite with you there. I shall have to exert all my tact if I’m to pass as a printer among working-men. Yet Tibbie’s idea that I should be on a morning paper and be out at work at night is an ingenious one, isn’t it?”“Ingenious? Why, isn’t she one of the very cleverest women in England?” he asked. “I say that she is as unequalled for her ingenuity as for her beauty. Therefore, Wilfrid, have a care. I’ll help you—unknown to Tibbie, of course—but I beg of you to be careful. And now let’s turn in for an hour or so. We must be astir and alert to-morrow, for our work of fathoming the mystery must commence at once. We must be all ears and eyes. We already hold the honours in our hand, it is true; but much very difficult and dangerous work lies before us.”“Never mind,” I said. “We must save her, Eric. We must save her at all hazards!”

Well—I agreed.

Yes—I agreed to pose as the hard-working compositor upon a daily newspaper and husband of the Honourable Sybil Burnet, the woman by whose hand the unknown man had fallen.

At first I hesitated, refusing to compromise her, yet she had fallen upon her knees imploring me to help her, and I was bound to fulfil the promise I had so injudiciously made.

There was no love between us now, she had declared. The flame had flickered and died out long ago.

“If you will only consent to act as though I were your wife, then I may be able to save myself,” she urged. “You will do so, will you not?”

“But why?” I had asked. “I cannot see how our pretended marriage can assist you?”

“Leave it all to me,” was her confident reply. “One day you will discern the reason.”

And then, with tears in her beautiful eyes, and kneeling at my feet, she begged again of me to act as she suggested and thus save her life.

So I consented. Yes—you may say that I was foolish, that I was injudicious, that I was still beneath the spell of her exquisite grace and matchless beauty. Perhaps I was: yet I tell you that at the moment so stunned was I by the tragedy, by what Eric had revealed, and by her midnight visit, that I hardly knew what I did.

“Very well, Sybil,” I said at last. “Let it be so. I will help you to escape, and I will act as though I were your husband. For your sake I will do this, although I tell you plainly that I see in it a grave and deadly peril.”

“There is a far greater peril if I remain unmarried,” she answered. “You recollect my question this afternoon. I asked whether you would not really marry me. I asked because I feared that the blow might fall, and that I should have to seek protection.”

“And the blow has fallen?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, in a low, desperate voice. “And were it not for you I—I should go to my room now and kill myself, Wilfrid! You, however, have promised to save me. There is no time to lose. I must get away at once. You will help me to get out the car?”

“Of course. And you will take Mason? You must take her,” I added.

“Why?”

“Because it is dangerous for her to remain here. She may raise the alarm,” I said, rather lamely. “Take my advice and carry her with you down to Bournemouth.”

“Very well,” she answered, hurriedly, and raising my hand to her soft lips, kissed it before I could prevent her, and said, “Wilfrid, let me thank you. You have given me back my life. An hour ago I was in my room and made preparations to bid adieu to everything. But I thought of you—my last and only chance of salvation. Ah! you do not know—no, no—I—I can never tell you! I can only give you the thanks of a desperate and grateful woman!” And then she slipped out, promising to meet me again there with Mason in a quarter of an hour.

I crept back to my room, and when I had closed the door Eric stepped from his hiding-place.

“She intends to fly,” I explained. “She is going away on the car, and I have persuaded her to take Mason.”

“On the car? At this hour?”

In brief I explained all that had taken place between us, and he listened to me in silence till the end.

“What?” he cried. “You are actually going to make people believe that you’re her husband?”

“I’m going to make people in Camberwell believe it,” I answered.

“But isn’t that a very dangerous bit of business?” he queried. “Suppose any of her people knew it. What would be said?”

I only shrugged my shoulders.

“Well,” he remarked at last, “please yourself, old chap, but I can’t help thinking that it’s very unwise. I can’t see either how being married protects her in the least.”

“Nor can I. Yet I’ve resolved to shield her, and at the same time to try and solve the mysterious affair, therefore, I’m bound to adopt her suggestions. She must get away at once, and we must get Mason out of the neighbourhood—those two facts are plain. The motor will run down the avenue without any noise, so she’ll be miles away when the household awake.”

“Where’s she going?”

I told him, and he agreed that my suggestion had been a good one.

Leaving him in my room, I crept again down the corridor, and presently both she and Mason came noiselessly along in the dark. My little friend had on a thick box-cloth motor coat with fur collar, a motor-cap and her goggles hanging round her neck, while Mason, who often went in the car with her, had also a thick black coat, close cap and veil.

“I hope we sha’n’t get a break-down,” Tibbie said, with a laugh. “I really ought to take Webber with me,” she added, referring to her smart chauffeur. “But how can I?”

“No,” I said. “Drive yourself and risk it. I know you can change a tyre or mend a puncture as well as any man.” Whereat she laughed.

“Very well,” she said, “let us go,” and we crossed the Long Gallery and descended the wide oak stairs, Mason carrying the candle, which she afterwards blew out.

Upon my suggestion, we made our exit by that same window through which Eric and I had passed earlier in the night. Mistress and maid scrambled through, and I assisted them down upon the grass.

Then we slipped across to where the car was, opened the door, and after Sybil had mounted into her place Mason and I pushed the fine “Mercedes” slowly out, while she steered it down the incline to the avenue.

She let it run twenty yards or so, and afterwards put on the brake to allow her maid to mount beside her. Then after I had tucked the rug round her legs, she gripped my hand tightly and meaningly, saying in a low voice,—

“Thanks so much, Mr Hughes. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I whispered. “Bon voyage.”

And slowly the long powerful car glided off almost noiselessly down the incline, and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the great avenue.

I stood peering into the blackness, but in a few moments could hear no further sound. She had escaped, leaving me utterly mystified and wondering.

When, ten minutes later, I returned to Eric and described her silent departure, he said,—

“So you’re going to meet her in town—eh?”

“Yes, in secret, on Thursday night. She has made an appointment. She will leave Mason in Bournemouth, and then simply disappear. By the time Mason returns here the dead man will be in his coffin, therefore she won’t have any opportunity of identifying him.”

“But there’ll be a hue and cry after her. The police will think that something has happened to her.”

“Let them think. We shall pretend to make inquiries and assist them. In the meantime, with all these letters and things in our hands, we hold the trump cards.”

“If Tibbie knew that we had her letters, I wonder what she would say—how she would act?”

“She no doubt fears that they may fall into the hands of the police. That is why she is disappearing.”

“Of course. And for the present she must be allowed to remain in that belief,” Eric replied. “I wonder who the man Parham is? We must inquire. On Sydenham Hill are some rather nice houses. I once knew a rather pretty girl who lived in that neighbourhood, and used to take her for evening walks up the hill to the Crystal Palace.”

“Yes,” I said. “We must discover all we can about the dead man’s friends. We must also call and see the pawnbroker in the Fulham Road. He may be able to tell us who pledged the watch and ring. Indeed, we might get them out of pawn and see whether there are any remarks or inscription that will tell us anything.”

With my suggestion he entirely agreed, and for a second time we re-read those curious letters of the woman who was now flying into hiding, and whom I had promised to meet and assist.

I had placed myself in a very difficult and dangerous position. Of that I was well aware. I hoped, however, to save her. Too well I knew that she was in desperation, that she had seriously contemplated suicide until she had resolved to make her appeal for my sympathy and help.

Yet she was under the impression that I was as yet in ignorance of this tragedy, although in her white, terrified countenance I saw guilt distinctly written.

I took counsel with Eric. He was entirely against the very dangerous part that I had now promised to play, saying,—“I can’t for the life of me see what motive she can have. To hide is all very well—to bury herself in a working-class suburb and pretend to be poor is certainly a much safer plan than endeavouring to slip across to the Continent. But why does she want you to act as her husband? Not for appearances’ sake, surely! And yet if she hadn’t a very strong motive she would not thus run the very great risk of compromising herself. She respects you, too, therefore all the stronger reason why she would never ask you to place yourself in that awkward position. No, old fellow,” he declared, seating himself upon the edge of my bed, “I can’t make it out at all.”

“Of course, it has to do with the affair of yesterday,” I remarked.

“Undoubtedly. It has some connection with it, but what it is we can’t yet discern.”

“I can only act as she suggests,” I remarked.

“I fear you can’t do anything else,” he said, after a pause. “Only you’ll have to be most careful and circumspect, for I can foresee danger ahead. Tibbie’s clever enough, but she is erratic sometimes, and one untimely word of hers may upset everything. I hardly like the idea of you posing as her husband, Wilfrid. I tell you plainly that I have some distinct premonition of evil—forgive me for saying so.”

“I hope not. I’m only consenting to it for her sake.”

“Because you are still just a little bit fond of her, old fellow. Now, confess it.”

“I’m not, Eric. I swear to you I’m not. We could never marry. We are no longer lovers.”

“I hope not,” he said in an altered tone. “But pretended love-making is always dangerous, you know.”

“Well,” I said, pacing up the old tapestried room and down again, “let’s leave love out of the question. What I intend to do is to save Tibbie, and at the same time find out the truth. You, Eric, will help me, won’t you?”

“With all my heart, my dear chap,” he said. “But—well, somehow I have had lately a very faint suspicion of one thing; and that is, I believe Ellice Winsloe is deeply in love with her. I’ve seen it in his face. If so, you and I have to reckon with him.”

“How?”

“Because as soon as she disappears he’ll commence making eager inquiries and trying to trace her. His inquiries may lead him in our direction, don’t you see. Besides, it would be awkward if he found you down at Camberwell.”

I was silent. There was a good deal of truth in what he said. Eric Domville always had a knack of looking far ahead. He was what is vulgarly known as “a far-seeing man.”

“But don’t you think that when I’m a compositor in a well-worn tweed suit and a threadbare overcoat with wages of two pounds a week I’ll be beyond the pale and safe from recognition?”

“That’s all very well, but the working-class are intelligent. They’ll easily see through a gentleman’s disguise.”

“I quite agree,” I said. “There is no more intelligent class than the working-class in London, or indeed in any of the big cities of the North. It is the working-man who is the back-bone of England, after all. The capitalist may direct and public companies may manoeuvre, but it is the skilled labourer who has made England what she is. Yes, I’m quite with you there. I shall have to exert all my tact if I’m to pass as a printer among working-men. Yet Tibbie’s idea that I should be on a morning paper and be out at work at night is an ingenious one, isn’t it?”

“Ingenious? Why, isn’t she one of the very cleverest women in England?” he asked. “I say that she is as unequalled for her ingenuity as for her beauty. Therefore, Wilfrid, have a care. I’ll help you—unknown to Tibbie, of course—but I beg of you to be careful. And now let’s turn in for an hour or so. We must be astir and alert to-morrow, for our work of fathoming the mystery must commence at once. We must be all ears and eyes. We already hold the honours in our hand, it is true; but much very difficult and dangerous work lies before us.”

“Never mind,” I said. “We must save her, Eric. We must save her at all hazards!”

Chapter Eight.Mainly about the Stranger.When next morning the tragedy in the wood became known the whole household was agog.It was discussed at the breakfast-table, and Scarcliff, Wydcombe, Ellice Winsloe and myself agreed to walk down to the village and ascertain the facts. Eric remained behind to drive Lady Wydcombe into Chichester as he had arranged on the previous evening.About half-past ten we four men walked down the avenue into the village, where we found the constable with two other officers in plain clothes. Great consternation had, of course, been created by the startling news, and the whole village seemed to be gossiping at the doors, and forming wild theories concerning the death of the unfortunate unknown.After making inquiries of the constables, and hearing details of which I, of course, was already aware, Scarcliff asked leave to view the body.“Certainly, m’lord,” was Booth’s prompt reply, and we moved off together.My great fear was that the village constable should remark upon my previous visit to him, therefore I walked with him, keeping him a considerable distance behind the others as we went up the street.“The superintendent is not here now?” I remarked casually, in order that he should recall our meeting up in the wood while we were alone, and not before my friends.“No, sir. The guv’nor went back to Chichester about an hour ago,” was his answer, and a few minutes later we turned into a farmyard, where in a barn, the door of which was unlocked by one of the men, we saw the body lying face upwards upon a plank on trestles.Booth drew the handkerchief from the dead face that seemed to stare at us so grimly in the semi-darkness of the barn, and from my companions escaped exclamations of surprise and horror.“Awful!” gasped the young viscount—who was known as “The Scrambler” to his intimates—a name given to him at Eton; “I wonder who murdered him?”“I wonder!” echoed Ellice Winsloe in a hard, hushed voice.His strange tone attracted me, and my eyes fell upon his countenance. It had, I was amazed to see, blanched in an instant, and was as white as that of the dead man himself.The sudden impression produced upon the others was such that they failed to notice the change in Ellice. I, however, saw it distinctly.I was confident of one thing—that he had identified the victim.Yet he said nothing beyond agreeing with his companions that a dastardly crime had been committed, and expressing a hope that the assassin would be arrested.“He’s a stranger,” declared Scarcliff.“Yes—an entire stranger,” said Winsloe, emphatically, and at the same time he bent forward to get a better view of the lifeless countenance. Standing behind, I watched him closely.The sight of the body had produced a remarkable change in him. His face was wild and terrified, and I saw that his lips trembled.Nevertheless he braced himself up with a great effort, and said,—“Then it’s a complete mystery. He was found by Harris, the keeper, last night?”“Yes, sir,” answered Booth. “He’d been dead then some hours. Dr Richards says it’s murder. He’s goin’ to make the post-mortem this afternoon.”“Has the revolver been found?” he asked.“No, sir. We’ve been searching all the morning, but can find nothing.”“And what was in his pockets?” inquired Winsloe, his anxiety well disguised.“Nothing.”“Nothing at all?” he demanded.“Oh! a knife, a piece of pencil, a little money and a few odds and ends. But nothing of any use to us.”“Then you can’t identify him?”“Unfortunately we can’t, sir,” was the man’s reply.“We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he’s a total stranger in these parts.”“It’s very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow’s pockets,” Jack said. “He was afraid lest his victim might be identified.”“That’s what we think, m’lord,” remarked one of Booth’s companions. “The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker’s name, has been cut out.”“By the murderer?” asked Wydcombe.“Probably so, m’lord.”“Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap of evidence which might lead to his victim’s identification,” Ellice Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead face.“That’s what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in putting our hand upon the guilty person.”“But did no one hear the shot?” Winsloe inquired.“Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the afternoon,” answered Booth.Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance—the look of a man haunted by a guilty secret—but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,—“Let’s get out of this. The thing’s a complete mystery, and we must leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there’ll be an inquest, and then we may hear something further.”“At present the affair is a complete enigma,” Jack remarked. Then, bending again towards the dead man’s face, he added, “Do you know, Ellice, I can’t help thinking that I’ve seen him before somewhere, but where, I can’t for the life of me recollect.”I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. “I don’t recognise him in the least,” he said quickly. “A face is always altered by death. He now resembles, perhaps, somebody you’ve known.”“Ah, perhaps so,” remarked the young viscount. “Yet I certainly have a faint impression of having seen him somewhere before—or somebody very like him.”“I hope your lordship will try and remember,” urged the village constable. “It would be of the greatest assistance to us.”“I’ll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I’ll send for you,” he answered.“Thank you, m’lord,” the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly at Winsloe I saw that his face had fallen.Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?“To identify a dead person is always most difficult,” Winsloe remarked with assumed disinterestedness. “I’ve heard of cases where half a dozen different families have laid claim to one dead body—wives, mothers, children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried from time to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of any doctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is most difficult to recognise.”By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arouse doubt within Jack’s mind, in order to prevent him making any statement. His attitude increased the mystery a hundredfold.I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previous afternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery—how she had told me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now aroused my suspicions.Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fully convinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Was he, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters of Sybil’s, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts, and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe by sight of the victim.As we left the barn I walked by his side.“A queer affair, isn’t it?” I remarked. “Strange that a man could be murdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and nobody hear the shot!”“But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember,” he said quickly. “The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect.”“I wonder who he is?” I exclaimed.“Ah! I wonder,” he said. “He walked a long way, evidently. He’s probably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with his companion—who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him.”“It will be interesting to see if they discover anything,” I said, glancing at him at the same instant.“Yes,” he said, “it will,” and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe, who was walking at Booth’s side.Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others, who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazed upon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved to wait and to watch.Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strange affair. Jack advanced more than one theory.“Charlton Wood doesn’t lead to anywhere,” he pointed out. “Therefore the dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to his death,” he added. “There may have been two or more assassins.”“No, I rather disagree,” said Wydcombe. “If there had been a plot to kill him they wouldn’t have risked firing a revolver, as it would attract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was not a premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badly worn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. It was as soft as a woman’s.”“But you surely don’t believe that he was a gentleman, do you?” asked Winsloe. “To me the fellow was more like a tramp.”“I hardly know what to think, Ellice,” was his lordship’s reply as he lit a cigarette. “It’s a mystery, and that’s all one can say. Whoever killed him was a confoundedly good shot.”“You don’t think it was suicide?” Winsloe asked slowly, looking the speaker straight in the face.“Suicide! Of course not. Why don’t you hear? They haven’t found a revolver.”And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.When we had all assembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone being absent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly,—“Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the car early this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Did anybody hear the car go off?” she inquired, looking around the table.But all expressed surprise at Tibbie’s absence, and of course nobody had heard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked. Whereupon her ladyship merely replied,—“I’m sure I can’t tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribbled note at nine o’clock this morning, saying that she had found it in her room. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn’t sleep she had got up and gone out with Mason. ‘Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,’ she says, ‘but if I am not, please don’t worry after me. I shall be all right and will write.’”“Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps,” remarked Jack. “She said something about running down there a few days ago.”“But it isn’t proper for a young girl tearing about the country by herself and driving her own car,” protested the old lady. “She knows that I most strongly disapprove of it.”“And therefore does it all the more,” laughed the man who had identified the victim in Charlton Wood.“Tibbie is really quite incorrigible.”“Quite, Mr Winsloe,” declared her ladyship. “My only fear is that one day something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is, I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She’ll come to grief some day—depend upon it!”Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word of reply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?But the others were chattering gaily, and next moment he turned from me and joined in their merry gossip.That afternoon I remained at home, but he drove out with two ladies of the party to make a call on some people about five miles away.After he had gone Eric returned, and I told him all that I had seen, and of my suspicions.He stood at the end of the grey old terrace, and heard me through to the end, then said,—“This puts an entirely new complexion upon matters, old fellow. You suspect him of knowing something. If so, then we must act at once, and fearlessly—just as we did last night.”“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”“He’s out. Therefore we must go to his room and see whether he has anything there—any letters, for instance. To me, it seems plain that he was in expectation of the tragedy, and that he fears lest the dead man should be identified.”“Then your suggestion is to search his belongings?”“Certainly. Let’s go up there. There’s no time to lose. He may be back at any moment.”And so we crossed the great hall and quickly ascended to his room unseen by the servants. Then after looking rapidly through the drawers we found that one of Eric’s keys fitted the strong brown kitbag at the foot of the bed.In a moment it was open, and a few seconds later its contents were out upon the floor.Among them we saw something lying which caused us to stare blankly at each other in utter amazement. The sight of it staggered us completely.Again the mystery was still further increased. It was inexplicable.I recognised my own grave peril if I dared to carry out Tibbie’s bold and astounding suggestion.

When next morning the tragedy in the wood became known the whole household was agog.

It was discussed at the breakfast-table, and Scarcliff, Wydcombe, Ellice Winsloe and myself agreed to walk down to the village and ascertain the facts. Eric remained behind to drive Lady Wydcombe into Chichester as he had arranged on the previous evening.

About half-past ten we four men walked down the avenue into the village, where we found the constable with two other officers in plain clothes. Great consternation had, of course, been created by the startling news, and the whole village seemed to be gossiping at the doors, and forming wild theories concerning the death of the unfortunate unknown.

After making inquiries of the constables, and hearing details of which I, of course, was already aware, Scarcliff asked leave to view the body.

“Certainly, m’lord,” was Booth’s prompt reply, and we moved off together.

My great fear was that the village constable should remark upon my previous visit to him, therefore I walked with him, keeping him a considerable distance behind the others as we went up the street.

“The superintendent is not here now?” I remarked casually, in order that he should recall our meeting up in the wood while we were alone, and not before my friends.

“No, sir. The guv’nor went back to Chichester about an hour ago,” was his answer, and a few minutes later we turned into a farmyard, where in a barn, the door of which was unlocked by one of the men, we saw the body lying face upwards upon a plank on trestles.

Booth drew the handkerchief from the dead face that seemed to stare at us so grimly in the semi-darkness of the barn, and from my companions escaped exclamations of surprise and horror.

“Awful!” gasped the young viscount—who was known as “The Scrambler” to his intimates—a name given to him at Eton; “I wonder who murdered him?”

“I wonder!” echoed Ellice Winsloe in a hard, hushed voice.

His strange tone attracted me, and my eyes fell upon his countenance. It had, I was amazed to see, blanched in an instant, and was as white as that of the dead man himself.

The sudden impression produced upon the others was such that they failed to notice the change in Ellice. I, however, saw it distinctly.

I was confident of one thing—that he had identified the victim.

Yet he said nothing beyond agreeing with his companions that a dastardly crime had been committed, and expressing a hope that the assassin would be arrested.

“He’s a stranger,” declared Scarcliff.

“Yes—an entire stranger,” said Winsloe, emphatically, and at the same time he bent forward to get a better view of the lifeless countenance. Standing behind, I watched him closely.

The sight of the body had produced a remarkable change in him. His face was wild and terrified, and I saw that his lips trembled.

Nevertheless he braced himself up with a great effort, and said,—

“Then it’s a complete mystery. He was found by Harris, the keeper, last night?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Booth. “He’d been dead then some hours. Dr Richards says it’s murder. He’s goin’ to make the post-mortem this afternoon.”

“Has the revolver been found?” he asked.

“No, sir. We’ve been searching all the morning, but can find nothing.”

“And what was in his pockets?” inquired Winsloe, his anxiety well disguised.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?” he demanded.

“Oh! a knife, a piece of pencil, a little money and a few odds and ends. But nothing of any use to us.”

“Then you can’t identify him?”

“Unfortunately we can’t, sir,” was the man’s reply.

“We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he’s a total stranger in these parts.”

“It’s very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow’s pockets,” Jack said. “He was afraid lest his victim might be identified.”

“That’s what we think, m’lord,” remarked one of Booth’s companions. “The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker’s name, has been cut out.”

“By the murderer?” asked Wydcombe.

“Probably so, m’lord.”

“Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap of evidence which might lead to his victim’s identification,” Ellice Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead face.

“That’s what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in putting our hand upon the guilty person.”

“But did no one hear the shot?” Winsloe inquired.

“Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the afternoon,” answered Booth.

Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance—the look of a man haunted by a guilty secret—but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,—

“Let’s get out of this. The thing’s a complete mystery, and we must leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there’ll be an inquest, and then we may hear something further.”

“At present the affair is a complete enigma,” Jack remarked. Then, bending again towards the dead man’s face, he added, “Do you know, Ellice, I can’t help thinking that I’ve seen him before somewhere, but where, I can’t for the life of me recollect.”

I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. “I don’t recognise him in the least,” he said quickly. “A face is always altered by death. He now resembles, perhaps, somebody you’ve known.”

“Ah, perhaps so,” remarked the young viscount. “Yet I certainly have a faint impression of having seen him somewhere before—or somebody very like him.”

“I hope your lordship will try and remember,” urged the village constable. “It would be of the greatest assistance to us.”

“I’ll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I’ll send for you,” he answered.

“Thank you, m’lord,” the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly at Winsloe I saw that his face had fallen.

Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?

“To identify a dead person is always most difficult,” Winsloe remarked with assumed disinterestedness. “I’ve heard of cases where half a dozen different families have laid claim to one dead body—wives, mothers, children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried from time to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of any doctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is most difficult to recognise.”

By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arouse doubt within Jack’s mind, in order to prevent him making any statement. His attitude increased the mystery a hundredfold.

I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previous afternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery—how she had told me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now aroused my suspicions.

Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fully convinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Was he, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?

Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters of Sybil’s, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts, and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe by sight of the victim.

As we left the barn I walked by his side.

“A queer affair, isn’t it?” I remarked. “Strange that a man could be murdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and nobody hear the shot!”

“But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember,” he said quickly. “The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect.”

“I wonder who he is?” I exclaimed.

“Ah! I wonder,” he said. “He walked a long way, evidently. He’s probably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with his companion—who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him.”

“It will be interesting to see if they discover anything,” I said, glancing at him at the same instant.

“Yes,” he said, “it will,” and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe, who was walking at Booth’s side.

Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others, who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazed upon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.

Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved to wait and to watch.

Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strange affair. Jack advanced more than one theory.

“Charlton Wood doesn’t lead to anywhere,” he pointed out. “Therefore the dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to his death,” he added. “There may have been two or more assassins.”

“No, I rather disagree,” said Wydcombe. “If there had been a plot to kill him they wouldn’t have risked firing a revolver, as it would attract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was not a premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badly worn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. It was as soft as a woman’s.”

“But you surely don’t believe that he was a gentleman, do you?” asked Winsloe. “To me the fellow was more like a tramp.”

“I hardly know what to think, Ellice,” was his lordship’s reply as he lit a cigarette. “It’s a mystery, and that’s all one can say. Whoever killed him was a confoundedly good shot.”

“You don’t think it was suicide?” Winsloe asked slowly, looking the speaker straight in the face.

“Suicide! Of course not. Why don’t you hear? They haven’t found a revolver.”

And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.

When we had all assembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone being absent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly,—

“Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the car early this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Did anybody hear the car go off?” she inquired, looking around the table.

But all expressed surprise at Tibbie’s absence, and of course nobody had heard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked. Whereupon her ladyship merely replied,—

“I’m sure I can’t tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribbled note at nine o’clock this morning, saying that she had found it in her room. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn’t sleep she had got up and gone out with Mason. ‘Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,’ she says, ‘but if I am not, please don’t worry after me. I shall be all right and will write.’”

“Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps,” remarked Jack. “She said something about running down there a few days ago.”

“But it isn’t proper for a young girl tearing about the country by herself and driving her own car,” protested the old lady. “She knows that I most strongly disapprove of it.”

“And therefore does it all the more,” laughed the man who had identified the victim in Charlton Wood.

“Tibbie is really quite incorrigible.”

“Quite, Mr Winsloe,” declared her ladyship. “My only fear is that one day something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is, I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She’ll come to grief some day—depend upon it!”

Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word of reply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?

But the others were chattering gaily, and next moment he turned from me and joined in their merry gossip.

That afternoon I remained at home, but he drove out with two ladies of the party to make a call on some people about five miles away.

After he had gone Eric returned, and I told him all that I had seen, and of my suspicions.

He stood at the end of the grey old terrace, and heard me through to the end, then said,—

“This puts an entirely new complexion upon matters, old fellow. You suspect him of knowing something. If so, then we must act at once, and fearlessly—just as we did last night.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“He’s out. Therefore we must go to his room and see whether he has anything there—any letters, for instance. To me, it seems plain that he was in expectation of the tragedy, and that he fears lest the dead man should be identified.”

“Then your suggestion is to search his belongings?”

“Certainly. Let’s go up there. There’s no time to lose. He may be back at any moment.”

And so we crossed the great hall and quickly ascended to his room unseen by the servants. Then after looking rapidly through the drawers we found that one of Eric’s keys fitted the strong brown kitbag at the foot of the bed.

In a moment it was open, and a few seconds later its contents were out upon the floor.

Among them we saw something lying which caused us to stare blankly at each other in utter amazement. The sight of it staggered us completely.

Again the mystery was still further increased. It was inexplicable.

I recognised my own grave peril if I dared to carry out Tibbie’s bold and astounding suggestion.

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