As Cyril sat toying with his dinner, it was little by little borne in on him that the butler had something on his mind. How he got this impression he really did not know, for Douglas performed his duties as precisely, as unobtrusively as ever. Yet long before the last course had been reached, Cyril was morally certain that he had not been mistaken. He waited for the dessert to be placed on the table; then, having motioned the footmen to leave the room, he half turned to the butler, who was standing behind his chair.
"Douglas."
"Yes, my lord?" The man stepped forward, so as to face his master.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Cyril, scrutinising the other attentively.
The abrupt question seemed neither to surprise nor to discompose the butler; yet he hesitated before finally answering:
"I—I don't quite know, my lord."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "You must know whether or not something has happened to upset you."
Douglas fidgeted uneasily.
"Well, my lord—it's this way, my lord—Susan, the upper 'ousemaid, says as how there has been somebody or—" here his voice sank to a whisper and he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder—"or something in the library last night!"
Cyril put down the glass of wine he was carrying to his lips untasted.
"She thinks she saw a ghost in the library?"
"No, my lord. She didn't see anything, but this morning she found finger-marks on the top of his Lordship's desk."
"Pooh! What of that? One of the servants may have gone in there out of curiosity."
"But what would anybody be doing there in the night, I should like to know? And Susan says those marks could only 'ave been made last night, my lord."
"Why?"
"On account of the dust, my lord. It takes time for dust to settle and a 'ousemaid, who knows 'er business, can tell, after she's been in a place a couple of months, just about 'ow long it's been since any particular piece of furniture has been dusted. Aye, Susan knows, my lord. No young 'ousemaid can pull the wool over 'er eyes, I can tell you."
"Does every one know of Susan's suspicions?"
"No, my lord. Susan's a sensible woman, and though she was frightened something terrible, she only told Mrs. Eversley and Mrs. Eversley told me and we three agreed we'd hold our tongues. Every one's that upset as it is, that they'd all 'ave 'ighstrikes if they knew that It was walking."
"Don't be a fool, Douglas. No one believes in ghosts nowadays. But even if there were such things, an intangible spirit couldn't possibly leave finger-marks behind it."
"But, my lord, if you'll excuse me, my aunt's cousin—" began the butler, but Cyril cut him short.
"I have no time now to hear about your aunt's cousin, though no doubt it is a most interesting story. Send Susan to me at once."
"Very good, my lord."
Susan had, however, no further information to impart. She was positive that the marks must have been made some time during the night.
"And it's my belief they were made by a skeleton hand," she added. "And as for going into that room again, indeed I just couldn't, not for nobody, meaning no disrespect to your Lordship; and as for the other 'ousemaids, they'll not go near the place either and haven't been since the murder."
"Very well, Susan, I shall not ask you to do so. Those rooms shall not be opened again till this mystery is cleared up. I will go now and lock them up myself."
"Thank you, my lord."
Striding rapidly across the hall, Cyril opened the door of the library. This part of the castle had been equipped with electric light and steam heat, and as he stepped into the darkness, the heavy-scented air almost made him reel. Having found the switch, he noticed at once that the room had indefinably changed since he had been in it last. Notwithstanding the heat, notwithstanding the flood of crimson light, which permeated even the farthest corners, it had already assumed the chill, gloomy aspect of an abandoned apartment.
Stooping over the desk, he eagerly inspected the marks which had so startled the housemaid. Yes, they were still quite visible, although a delicate film of dust had already begun to soften the precision of their outline—very strange! They certainly did look like the imprint of skeleton fingers. He laid his own hand on the desk. His fingers left a mark at least twice as wide as those of the mysterious visitant.
For a long time he stood with bent head pondering deeply; then, throwing back his shoulders, as if he had arrived at some decision, he proceeded to explore the entire suite. Having satisfied himself that no one was secreted on the premises, he turned off the light, shut the door—but he did not turn the key.
Some hours later Cyril, in his great four-posted bed, lay watching, with wide-open eyes, the fantastic shadows thrown by the dancing firelight on the panelled walls. To woo sleep was evidently not his intention, for from time to time he lighted a wax vesta and consulted the watch he held in his hand. At last the hour seemed to satisfy him, for he got out of bed and made a hasty toilet. Having accomplished this as best he could in the semi-obscurity, he slipped a pistol into his pocket and left his room.
Groping his way through the darkness, he descended the stairs and cautiously traversed the hall. Not a sound did he make. His stockinged feet moved noiselessly over the heavy carpet. At the door of the library he paused a moment and listened intently; then, pistol in hand, he threw open the door. Darkness and silence alone confronted him. Closing the door behind him, he lighted a match and carefully inspected the desk. Having assured himself that no fresh marks had appeared on its polished surface, he blew out the match and ensconced himself as comfortably as the limited space permitted behind the curtains of one of the windows. There he waited patiently for what seemed to him an eternity. He had just begun to fear that his vigil would prove fruitless, when his ear was gladdened by a slight sound. A moment later the light was switched on. Hardly daring to breathe, Cyril peered through the curtains. Valdriguez! Cyril's heart gave a bound of exultation. Had he not guessed that those marks could only have been made by her small, bony fingers?
Clad like a nun in a loose, black garment, which fell in straight, austere folds to her feet; a black shawl, thrown over her head, casting strange shadows on her pale, haggard face, she advanced slowly, almost majestically, into the room. Cyril had to acknowledge that she looked more like a medieval saint than a midnight marauder.
Evidently the woman had no fear of detection, for she never even cast one suspicious glance around her; nor did she appear to feel that there was any necessity for haste, for she lingered for some time near the writing-table, gazing at it, as if it had a fascination for her; but, finally, she turned away with a hopeless sigh and directed her attention to the bookcase. This she proceeded to examine in the most methodical manner. Book after book was taken down, shaken, and the binding carefully scrutinised. Having cleared a shelf, she drew a tape measure from her pocket and rapped and measured the back and sides of the case itself.
What on earth could she be looking for, wondered Cyril. Not a will, surely? For his cousin's will, executed at the date of his marriage, had been found safely deposited with his solicitor. A later will, perhaps? One in which she hoped that her master had remembered her, as he had probably promised her that he would? Yes, that must be it.
Well, there was no further need of concealment, he decided, so, parting the curtains, he stepped into the room.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
His own voice startled him, it rang out so loud and harsh in the silence of the night.
Valdriguez knelt on the floor with her back to him, and it seemed as if the sudden shock had paralysed her, for she made no effort to move, and her hand, arrested in the act of replacing a book, remained outstretched, as if it had been turned to stone.
"It is I, your master. What are you doing here?" he repeated.
He saw her shudder convulsively, then slowly she raised her head, and as her great, tragic eyes met his, Cyril was conscious of a revulsion of feeling toward her. Never had he seen anything so hopeless yet so undaunted as the look she gave him. It reminded him, curiously enough, of a look he had once seen in the eyes of a lioness, who, with a bullet through her heart, still fought to protect her young.
Staggering a little as she rose, Valdriguez nevertheless managed to draw herself up to her full height.
"I am here, my lord, to get what is mine—mine," she repeated almost fiercely.
Cyril pulled himself together. It was absurd, he reasoned, to allow himself to be impressed by her strange personality.
"A likely story!" he exclaimed; and the very fact that he was more than half-inclined to believe her, made him speak more roughly than he would otherwise have done.
"Think what you like," she cried, shrugging her shoulders contemptuously. "Have me arrested—have me hung—what do I care? Death has no terrors for me."
"So you confess that it was you who murdered his Lordship? Ah, I suspected it! Your sanctimonious airs didn't deceive me," exclaimed Cyril triumphantly.
"No, I did not murder him," she replied calmly, almost indifferently.
"I think you will have some difficulty convincing the police of that. You have no alibi to prove that you were not in these rooms at the time of the murder, and now when I tell them that I found you trying to steal——"
"I am no thief," she interrupted him with blazing eyes. "I tell you, I came here to get what is mine by right."
"Do you really expect me to believe that? Even if what you say were true, you would not have had to sneak in here in the middle of the night. You know very well that I should have made no objections to your claiming your own."
"So you say. But if I had gone to you and told you that a great lord had robbed me, a poor woman, of something which is dearer to me than life itself, would you have believed me? If I had said to you, 'I must look through his Lordship's papers; I must be free to search everywhere,' would you have given me permission to do so? No, never. You think I fear you? That it was because I was ashamed of my errand that I came here at this hour? Bah! All I feared was that I should be prevented from discovering the truth. The truth?" Valdriguez's voice suddenly dropped and she seemed to forget Cyril's presence. "It is here, somewhere." She continued speaking as if to herself and her wild eyes swept feverishly around the room. "He told me it was here—and yet how can I be sure of it? He may have lied to me about this as he did about everything else. How can I tell? Oh, this uncertainty is torture! I cannot bear it any longer, oh, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her streaming eyes to heaven, "Thou knowest that I have striven all my life to do Thy will; I have borne the cross that Thou sawest fit to lay upon me without a murmur, nor have I once begged for mercy at Thy hands; but now, now, oh, my Father, I beseech thee, give me to know the truth before I die——"
Cyril watched the woman narrowly. He felt that he must try and maintain a judicial attitude toward her and not allow himself to be led astray by his sympathies which, as he knew to his cost, were only too easily aroused. After all, he reasoned, was it not more than likely that she was delivering this melodramatic tirade for his benefit? On the other hand, it was against his principles as well as against his inclinations to deal harshly with a woman.
"Calm yourself, Valdriguez," he said at last. "If you can convince me that his Lordship had in his possession something which rightfully belonged to you, I promise that, if it can be found, it shall be restored to you. Tell me, what it is that you are looking for?"
"Tell you—never! Are you not of his blood? You promise—so did he—the smooth-tongued villain! All these years have I lived on promises! Never will I trust one of his race again."
"You have got to trust me whether you want to or not. Your position could not be worse than it is, could it? Don't you see that your only hope lies in being able to persuade me that you are an honest woman?"
For the first time Valdriguez looked at Cyril attentively. He felt as if her great eyes were probing his very soul.
"Indeed, you do not look cruel or deceitful. And, as you say, I am powerless without you, so I must take the risk of your being what you seem. I will tell you the truth. But first, my lord, will you swear not to betray my secret to any living being?"
"You have my word for it. That is—" he hastily added, "if it has nothing to do with the murder."
"Nothing, my lord."
Cyril waited for her to continue, but for a long time it seemed doubtful if she would have the courage to do so.
"I am looking," she said at last, speaking slowly and with a visible effort, "for a paper which will tell me whether my—son is alive or dead."
"Your son? So you were his Lordship's mistress——"
"Before God I was his wife! I am no wanton, my lord!"
"The old story—" began Cyril, but Valdriguez stopped him with a furious gesture.
"Do not dare to say that my child's mother was a loose woman! I will not permit it. Arthur Wilmersley—may his Maker judge him as he deserves—wrecked my life, but at least he never doubted my virtue. He knew that the only way to get me was to marry me."
"So he actually married you?" exclaimed Cyril.
"No—but for a long time I believed that he had. How could a young, innocent girl have suspected that the man she loved was capable of such cold-blooded deception? Even now, I cannot blame myself for having fallen into the trap he baited with such fiendish cunning. Think of it—he induced me to consent to a secret marriage by promising that if I made this sacrifice for his sake, he would become a convert to my religion—my religion! And as we stood together before the altar, I remember that I thanked God for giving me this opportunity of saving a soul from destruction. I never dreamed that the church he took me to was nothing but an old ruin he had fitted up as a chapel for the occasion. How could I guess that the man who married us was not a priest but a mountebank, whom he had hired to act the part?"
Valdriguez bowed her head and the tears trickled through her thin fingers.
"I know that not many people would believe you but, well—I do." It seemed to Cyril as if the words sprang to his lips unbidden.
"Then indeed you are a good man," exclaimed Valdriguez, "for it is given only to honest people to have a sure ear for the truth. Now it will be easier to tell you the rest. Some weeks after we had gone through this ceremony, first Lord and then Lady Wilmersley died; on her deathbed I confided to my lady that I was her son's wife and she gave me her blessing. My humble birth she forgave—after all it was less humble than her own—and was content that her son had chosen a girl of her own race and faith. As soon as the funeral was over, I urged my husband to announce our marriage, but he would not. He proposed that we should go for a while to the continent so that on our return it would be taken for granted that we had been married there, and in this way much unpleasant talk avoided. So we went to Paris and there we lived together openly as man and wife, not indeed under his name but under mine. He pretended that he wanted for once to see the world from the standpoint of the people; that he desired for a short time to be free from the restrictions of his rank. I myself dreaded so much entering a class so far above me that I was glad of the chance of spending a few more months in obscurity. For some weeks I was happy, then Lord Wilmersley began to show himself to me as he really was. We had taken a large apartment near the Luxembourg, and soon it became the meeting-ground for the most reckless element of the Latin Quarter. Ah, if you but knew what sights I saw, what things I heard in those days! I feared that my very soul was being polluted, so I consulted a priest as to what I should do. He told me it was my duty to remain constantly at my husband's side; with prayer and patience I might some day succeed in reforming him. So I stayed in that hell and bore the insults and humiliations he heaped upon me without a murmur. Now, looking back on the past, I think my meekness and resignation only exasperated him, for he grew more and more cruel and seemed to think of nothing but how to torture me into revolt. Whether I should have been given the strength to endure indefinitely, the life he led me I do not know, but one evening, when we were as usual entertaining a disreputable rabble, a young man entered. I recognised him at once. It was the man who had married us! He was dressed in a brown velveteen suit; a red sash encircled his waist; and on his arm he flaunted a painted woman. Imagine my feelings! I stood up and turned to my husband. I could not speak—and he, the man I had loved, only laughed—laughed! Never shall I forget the sound of that laughter....
"That night my child was born. That was twenty-eight years ago, but it seems as if it were but yesterday that I held his small, warm body in my arms.... Then comes a period of which I remember nothing, and when I finally recovered my senses, they told me my child was dead.... As soon as I was able to travel, I returned to my old home in Seville and there I lived, working and praying—praying for my own soul and for that of my poor baby, who had died without receiving the sacrament of baptism.... Years passed. I had become resigned to my lot, when one day I received a letter from Lord Wilmersley. Oh! If I had only destroyed it unopened, how much anguish would have been spared me! But at first when I read it, I thought my happiness would have killed me, for Lord Wilmersley wrote that my boy was not dead and that if I would meet him in Paris, he would give me further news of him. I hesitated not a moment. At once did I set out on my journey. On arriving in Paris I went to the hotel he had indicated and was shown into a privatesalon. There for the first time in a quarter of a century I saw again the man I had once regarded as my husband. At first I had difficulty in recognising him, for now his true character was written in every line of his face and figure. But I hardly gave a thought either to him or to my wrongs, so great was my impatience to hear news of my son.... Then that fiend began to play with me as a cat with a mouse. Yes, my boy lived, had made his way in the world—that was all he would tell me. My child had been adopted by some well-to-do people, who had brought him up as their own—no, I needn't expect to hear another word. Yes, he was a fine, strong lad—he would say no more.... Can you imagine the scene? Finally, having wrought me up to the point where I would have done anything to wring the truth from him, he said to me: 'I have recently married a young wife and I am not such a fool as to trust my honour in the keeping of a girl who married an old man like me for his money. Now I have a plan to propose to you. Come and live with her as her maid and help me to guard her from all eyes, and if you fulfil your duties faithfully, at the end of three years I promise that you shall see your son.'
"His revolting proposition made my blood boil. Never, never, I told him, would I accept such a humiliating situation. He merely shrugged his shoulders and said that in that case I need never hope to hear what had become of my son. I raved, threatened, pleaded, but he remained inflexible, and finally I agreed to do his bidding."
"So you, who call yourself a Christian, actually consented to help that wretch to persecute his unfortunate young wife?" demanded Cyril sternly.
Valdriguez flung her head back defiantly.
"His wife? What was she to me? Besides, had she not taken him for better or worse? Why should I have helped her to break the bonds her own vows had imposed on her? He did not ill-treat her, far from it. He deprived her of her liberty, but what of that? A nun has even less freedom than she had. What were her sufferings compared to mine? Think of it, day after day I had to stand aside and watch the man I had once looked upon as my husband, lavish his love, his thought, his very life indeed, on that pretty doll. Although I no longer loved him, my flesh quivered at the sight."
"Nevertheless—" began Cyril.
"My lord, I care not for your judgment nor for that of any man. I came here to find my son. Would you have had me give up that sacred task because a pink and white baby wanted to flaunt her beauty before the world? Ah, no! Lady Wilmersley's fate troubles me not at all; but what breaks my heart is that, as Arthur died just before the three years were up, I fear that now I shall never know what has become of my boy. Sometimes I have feared that he is dead—but no, I will not believe it! My boy lives! I feel it!" she cried, striking her breast. "And in this room—perhaps within reach of my hand as I stand here—is the paper which would tell me where he is. Ah, my lord, I beg, I entreat you to help me to find it!"
"I will gladly do so, but what reason have you for supposing that there is such a paper?"
"It is true that I have only Lord Wilmersley's word for it," she replied, and her voice sounded suddenly hopeless. "Yet not once but many times he said to me: 'I have a paper in which is written all you wish to know, but as I do not trust you, I have hidden it, yes, in this very room have I hidden it.' And now he is dead and I cannot find it! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Even if we cannot find the paper, there are other means of tracing your son. We will advertise——"
"Never!" she interrupted him vehemently. "I will never consent to do anything which might reveal to him the secret of his birth. I would long ago have taken steps to find him, if I had not realised that I could not do so without taking a number of people into my confidence, and, if I did that, the story of my shame would be bound to leak out. Not for myself did I care, but for him. Think of it, if what Lord Wilmersley told me was true, he holds an honourable position, believes himself the son of respectable parents. Would it not be horrible, if he should suddenly learn that he is the nameless child of a servant girl and a villain? The fear that he should somehow discover the truth is always before me. That is why I made you swear to keep my secret."
"Of course, I will do as you wish, but I assure you that you exaggerate the risk. Still, let us first search this room thoroughly; then, if we do not find the paper, it will be time enough to decide what we shall do next."
"Ah, my lord, you are very good to me and may God reward you as you deserve. Day and night will I pray for you." And to Cyril's dismay, Valdriguez suddenly bent down and covered his hands with kisses.
Cyril and Valdriguez spent the next morning making a thorough search of the library, but the paper they were looking for could not be found. Cyril had from the first been sceptical of success. He could not believe that her child was still alive and was convinced that Arthur Wilmersley had fabricated the story simply to retain his hold over the unfortunate mother. Valdriguez, however, for a long time refused to abandon the quest. Again and again she ransacked places they had already carefully examined. When it was finally borne in upon her that there was no further possibility of finding what she so sought, the light suddenly went out of her face and she would have fallen if Cyril had not caught her and placed her in a chair. With arms hanging limply to her sides, her half-closed eyes fixed vacantly in front of her, she looked as if death had laid his hand upon her. Thoroughly alarmed, Cyril had the woman carried to her room and sent for a doctor. When the latter arrived, he shook his head hopelessly. She had had a stroke; there was very little he could do for her. In his opinion it was extremely doubtful if she would ever fully recover her faculties, he said.
Cyril having made every possible arrangement for the comfort of the afflicted woman, at last allowed his thoughts to revert to his own troubles.
He realised that with the elimination of both Valdriguez and Prentice there was no one but Anita left who could reasonably be suspected of the murder; for that the two Frenchmen were implicated in the affair, was too remote a possibility to be seriously considered. No, he must make up his mind to face the facts: the girl was Anita Wilmersley and she had killed her husband! What was he going to do, now that he knew the truth? Judson's advice that Anita should give herself up, he rejected without a moment's hesitation. Yet, he had to acknowledge that there was little hope of her being able to escape detection, as long as the police knew her to be alive.... Suddenly an idea occurred to him. If they could only be made to believe that she was dead, that and that alone would free her at once and forever from their surveillance. She would be able to leave England; to resume her life in some distant country where he.... Cyril shrank instinctively from pursuing the delicious dream further. He tried to force himself to consider judicially the scheme that was shaping itself in his mind; to weigh calmly and dispassionately the chances for and against its success. If a corpse resembling Anita were found, dressed in the clothes she wore the day she left Geralton, it would surely be taken for granted that the body was hers and that she had been murdered. But how on earth was he to procure such a corpse and, having procured it, where was he to hide it? The neighbourhood of the castle had been so thoroughly searched that it would be no easy task to persuade the police that they had overlooked any spot where a body might be secreted. Certainly the plan presented almost insurmountable difficulties, but as it was the only one he could think of, Cyril clung to it with bull-dog tenacity.
"Impossible? Nonsense! Nothing is impossible! Impossible is but a word designed to shield the incompetent or frighten the timid," he muttered loudly in his heart, unconsciously squaring his broad shoulders.
He decided to leave Geralton at once, for the plan must be carried out immediately or not at all, and it was only in London that he could hope to procure the necessary assistance.
On arriving in town, however, Cyril had to admit that he had really no idea what he ought to do next. If he could only get in touch with an impoverished medical student who would agree to provide a body, the first and most difficult part of his undertaking would be achieved. But how and where was he to find this indispensable accomplice? Well, it was too late to do anything that evening, he decided. He might as well go to the club and get some dinner and try to dismiss the problem from his mind for the time being.
The first person he saw on entering the dining-room was Campbell. He was sitting by himself at a small table; his round, rosy face depicted the utmost dejection and he thrust his fork through an oyster with much the same expression a man might have worn who was spearing a personal enemy.
On catching sight of Cyril, he dropped his fork, jumped from his seat, and made an eager step forward. Then, he suddenly wavered, evidently uncertain as to the reception Cyril was going to accord him.
"Well, this is a piece of luck!" cried Cyril, stretching out his hand.
Guy, looking decidedly sheepish, clasped it eagerly.
"I might as well tell you at once that I know I made no end of an ass of myself the other day," he said, averting his eyes from his friend's face. "It is really pretty decent of you not to have resented my ridiculous accusations."
"Oh, that's all right," Cyril assured him, "I quite understood your motive. But I am awfully glad you have changed your attitude towards me, for to tell you the truth, I am in great need of your assistance."
"Oh, Lor'!" ejaculated Campbell, screwing up his face into an expression of comic despair.
As soon as there was no danger of their being overheard, Cyril told Campbell of his interview with Judson. At first Guy could not be persuaded that the girl was Anita Wilmersley.
"She is not a liar, I am sure of it! If she said that her hair had turned white, it had turned white, and therefore it is impossible that she had dyed it," objected Campbell.
"Judson suggested that she dyed only part of her hair and that it was the rest which turned white."
Having finally convinced Guy that there was no doubt as to the girl's identity, Cyril proceeded to unfold his plan for rescuing her from the police.
Guy adjusted his eye-glass and stared at his friend speechless with consternation.
"This affair has turned your brain," he finally gasped. "Your plan is absurd, absolutely absurd, I tell you. Why, even if I could bribe some one to procure me a corpse, how on earth could you get it to Geralton?"
"In a motor-car."
"And where under Heaven are you to hide it?"
"Get me a corpse and I will arrange the rest," Cyril assured him with more confidence than he really felt.
"First you saddle me with a lot of stolen jewels and now you want me to travel around the country with a corpse under my arm! I say, you do select nice, pleasant jobs for me!" exclaimed Campbell.
"Have you any other plan to suggest?" asked Cyril.
"Can't say I have," acknowledged Guy.
"Are you willing to sit still and see Anita Wilmersley arrested?"
"Certainly not, but your scheme is a mad one—madder than anything I should have credited even you with having conceived." Campbell paused a moment as if considering the question in all its aspects. "However, the fact that it is crazy may save us. The police will not be likely to suspect two reputable members of society, whose sanity has so far not been doubted, of attempting to carry through such a wild, impossible plot. Yes," he mused, "the very impossibility of the thing may make it possible."
"Glad you agree with me," cried Cyril enthusiastically. "Now how soon can you get a corpse, do you think?"
"Good Lord, man! You talk as if I could order one from Whiteley's. When can I get you a corpse—indeed? To-morrow—in a week—a month—a year—never. The last-mentioned date I consider the most likely. I will do what I can, that is all I can say; but how I am to go to work, upon my word, I haven't the faintest idea."
"You are an awfully clever chap, Guy."
"None of your blarney. I won't have it! I am the absolute fool, but I am still sane enough to know it."
"Very well, I'll acknowledge that you are a fool and I only wish there were more like you," said Cyril, clapping his friend affectionately on the back.
"By the way," he added, turning away as if in search of a match and trying to speak as carelessly as possible, "How is Anita?"
For a moment Guy did not answer and Cyril stood fumbling with the matches fearful of the effect of the question. He was still doubtful how far his friend had receded from his former position and was much relieved when Guy finally answered in a very subdued voice:
"She is pretty well—but—" He hesitated.
Cyril turned quickly round. He noticed that Guy's face had lengthened perceptibly and that he toyed nervously with his eye-glass.
"What is the matter?" he inquired anxiously.
"The fact is," replied Campbell, speaking slowly and carefully avoiding the other's eye, "I think it is possible that she misses you."
Cyril's heart gave a sudden jump.
"I can hardly believe it," he managed to stutter.
"Of course, Miss Trevor may be mistaken. It was her idea, not mine, that Ani—Lady Wilmersley I mean—is worrying over your absence. But whatever the cause, the fact remains that she has changed very much. She is no longer frank and cordial in her manner either to Miss Trevor or myself. It seems almost as if she regarded us both with suspicion, though what she can possibly suspect us of, I can't for the life of me imagine. That day at lunch she was gay as a child, but now she is never anything but sad and preoccupied."
"Perhaps she is beginning to remember the past," suggested Cyril.
"How can I tell? Miss Trevor and I have tried everything we could think of to induce her to confide in us, but she won't. Possibly you might be more successful—" An involuntary sigh escaped Campbell. "I am sorry now that I prevented you from seeing her. Mind you, I still think it wiser not to do so, but I ought to have left you free to use your own judgment. The number of her sitting-room is 62, on the second floor and, for some reason or other, she insists on being left there alone every afternoon from three to four. Now I have told you all I know of the situation and you must handle it as you think best."
Cyril spent the night in a state of pitiable indecision. Should he or should he not risk a visit to Anita? If the police were shadowing him, it would be fatal, but he had somehow lately acquired the conviction that they were not. On the other hand, if he could only see her, how it would simplify everything! As she distrusted both Guy and Miss Trevor, even if his plot succeeded, she would probably refuse to leave England unless he himself told her that he wished her to do so. Besides, there were so many details to be discussed, so many arrangements to be talked over. "Yes," he said to himself as he lay staring into the darkness, "it is my duty to see her. I shall go to her not because I want to...." A horrid doubt made him pause. Was he so sure that his decision was not the outcome of his own desire? How could he trust his judgment in a matter where his inclinations were so deeply involved? Yet it would be shocking if he allowed his own feelings to induce him to do something which might be injurious to Anita. It was a nice question to determine whether her need of him was sufficient to justify him in risking a visit? For hours he debated with himself but could arrive at no conclusion. No sooner did he resolve to stay away from her than the thought of her unhappiness again made him waver. If he only knew why she was so unhappy, he told himself that the situation would not be so unendurable. When he had talked to her over the telephone, she had seemed cheerful; she had spoken of Guy and Miss Trevor with enthusiasm. What could have occurred since then to make her distrust them and to plunge her into such a state of gloom? As he tossed to and fro on his hot, tumbled bed, his imagination pictured one dire possibility after another, till at last he made up his mind that he could bear the uncertainty no longer. He must see her! He would see her!
Having reached this decision, Cyril could hardly refrain from rushing off to her as soon as it was light. However, he had to curb his impatience. Three o'clock was the only hour he could be sure of finding her alone; so he must wait till three o'clock. But how on earth, he asked himself, was he going to get through the intervening time? He was in a state of feverish restlessness that was almost agony; he could not apply himself to anything; he could only wait—wait. Although he knew that there was no chance of his meeting Anita, he haunted the neighbourhood of the "George" all the morning. Every few minutes he consulted his watch and the progress of the hands seemed to him so incredibly slow that more than once he thought that it must have stopped altogether. Finally, finally, the hour struck.
Flinging back his shoulders and assuming a carelessness that almost amounted to a swagger, Cyril entered the hotel. He was so self-conscious that it was with considerable surprise as well as relief that he noticed that no one paid the slightest attention to him. Even the porter hardly glanced at him, being at the moment engaged in speeding a parting guest.
Cyril decided to use the stairs in preference to the lift, as they were less frequented than the latter, and as it happened, he made his way up to the second landing without encountering anybody.
There, however, he came face to face with a pretty housemaid, who to his dismay looked at him attentively. Cyril went cold all over. Had he but known it, she had been attracted by his tall, soldierly figure and had merely offered him the tribute of an admiring glance. But this explanation never occurred to our modest hero and he hurried, quite absurdly flustered by this trifling incident. He found that No. 62 opened on a small, ill-lighted hall, which was for the moment completely deserted.
Now that he actually stood on the threshold of Anita's room, Cyril felt a curious reluctance to proceed farther. It was unwise.... She might not want to see him.... But even as these objections flashed through his mind, he knocked almost involuntarily.
"Come in."
Yet he still hesitated. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and his hands were trembling. Never had he experienced such a curious sensation before and he wondered vaguely what could be the matter with him.
"I can't stand here forever," he said in his heart. "I wanted to see her; well then, why don't I open the door? I am behaving like a fool!"
Still reasoning with himself, he finally entered the room.
A bright fire was burning on the hearth and before it were heaped a number of cushions and from this lowly seat Anita had apparently hastily arisen. The length of time he had taken to answer her summons had evidently alarmed her, for she stood like a creature at bay, her eyes wide open and frightened. On recognising Cyril a deep blush suffused her face and even coloured the whiteness of her throat.
"So it was you!" she exclaimed.
Her relief was obvious, yet her manner was distant, almost repellent. Cyril had confidently anticipated such a different reception that her unexpected coldness completed his discomfiture. He felt as if the foundations of his world were giving away beneath his feet. He managed, however, to murmur something, he knew not what. The pounding of his heart prevented him from thinking coherently. When his emotion had subsided sufficiently for him to realise what he was doing, he found himself sitting stiffly on one side of the fire with Anita sitting equally stiffly on the other. She was talking—no, rather she was engaging him in polite conversation. How long she had been doing so he did not know, but he gathered that it could not have been long, as she was still on the subject of the weather.
"It has been atrocious in London. I hope you had better luck in the country. To-day has been especially disagreeable," she was saying.
Cyril abused the weather with a vigour which was rather surprising, in view of the fact that till she had mentioned it, he had been sublimely unconscious whether the sun had been shining or not. But finally even that prolific topic was exhausted and as no other apparently suggested itself to either, they relapsed into a constrained silence.
Cyril was suffering acutely. He had so longed to see her, and now an impalpable barrier had somehow arisen between them which separated them more completely than mere bricks and mortar, than any distance could have done. True, he could feast his eyes on her cameo-like profile; on the soft curve of her cheek; on the long, golden-tipped lashes; on the slender, white throat, which rose like a column from the laces of her dress. But he dared not look at her too long. Cyril was not introspective and was only dimly aware of the cause of the turmoil which was raging in his heart. He did not know that he averted his eyes for fear that the primitive male within him would break loose from the fetters of his will and forcibly seize the small creature so temptingly within his reach.
"If I only knew what I have done to displease her!" he said to himself.
He longed to question her, but she held herself so rigidly aloof that he had not the courage to do so. It was in vain that he told himself that her coldness simplified the situation; that it would have been terrible to have had to repel her advances; but he could find no consolation in the thought. In speechless misery he sat gazing into the fire.
Suddenly he thrilled with the consciousness that she was looking at him. He turned towards her and their eyes met.
The glance they exchanged was of the briefest duration, but it sufficed to lift the weight which had been crushing him. He leaned eagerly forward.
"Have I offended you?" he asked.
The corners of her mouth quivered slightly, but she did not answer.
"If I have," he continued, "I assure you it was quite unintentionally. Why, I would give my life to save you a moment's pain. Can't you feel that I am speaking the truth?"
She turned her face towards him, and as he looked at her, Cyril realised that it was not only her manner which had altered; she herself had mysteriously altered. At first he could not define wherein the difference lay, but suddenly it flashed upon him. It was the expression of her eyes which had changed. Heretofore he had been confident that they reflected her every emotion; but now they were inscrutable. It was as if she had drawn a veil over her soul.
"I don't know what you mean," she said. There was more than a hint of hostility in her voice.
The evasion angered him.
"That is impossible! Why not be frank with me? If my visit is distasteful to you, you have only to say so and I will go."
As she did not immediately answer, he added:
"Perhaps I had better go." His tone, however, somehow implied more of a threat than a suggestion; for since they had exchanged that fleeting glance Cyril had felt unreasonably reassured. Despite her coldness, the memory of her tender entreaties for his speedy return, buoyed up his conceit. She could not be as indifferent to him as she seemed, he argued to himself. However, as the moments passed and she offered no objection to his leaving her, his newly-aroused confidence evaporated.
"She does not want me!" he muttered to himself. "I must go." But he made no motion to do so; he could not.
"I can't leave her till I know how I have offended her.... There are so many arrangements to be made.... I must get in touch with her again,—" were some of the excuses with which he tried to convince himself that he had a right to linger.
He tried to read her face, but she had averted her head till he could see nothing but one small, pink ear, peeping from beneath her curls.
Her silence exasperated him.
"Why don't you speak to me? Why do you treat me like this?" he demanded almost fiercely.
"It is a little difficult to know how you wish to be treated!" Her manner was icy, but his relief was so intense that he scarcely noticed it.
"She is piqued!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "She is piqued, that is the whole trouble." He felt a man once more, master of the situation. "She probably expected me to—" He shrank from pursuing the thought any further as the hot blood surged to his face. He was again conscious of his helplessness. What could he say to her?
"Oh, if you could only understand!" he exclaimed aloud. "I suppose you think me cold and unfeeling? I only wish I were!... Oh, this is torture!"
She seemed startled by his vehemence, for she looked up at him timidly.
"Can't you trust me?" he continued. "Won't you tell me what has come between us?"
Two big tears gathered in her eyes.
The sight was too much for Cyril. Right and wrong ceased to exist for him. He forgot everything; stooping forward he gathered her into his arms and crushed her small body against his heart.
She thrust him from her with unexpected force and stood before him with blazing eyes.
"You cannot treat me like a child, who can be neglected one day and fondled the next! I won't have it! At the nursing home I was too weak and confused to realise how strangely you were behaving, but now I know. You dare to complain of my coldness—my coldness indeed! Is my coldness a match to yours? Why do you suddenly pretend to love me?"
He interrupted her with a vigorous protest.
"If you do, then your conduct is all the more inexplicable. If you do, then I ask you, what is it, who is it, that stands between us?"
"If I could tell you, don't you suppose I would?" declared Cyril.
"Then there is some one, some person who is keeping us apart!"
"No—oh, not exactly."
"Ah, you see, you can't deny it! There is another woman in your life. I know it! I felt it!"
"No—no! I love you!" cried Cyril.
He hardly knew what he was saying; the words seemed to have leaped to his lips.
She regarded him for a second in silence evidently only partially convinced.
Cyril felt horribly guilty. He had momentarily forgotten his wife, and although he tried to convince himself that he had spoken the truth and that it was not she who was keeping them apart, yet he had to acknowledge that if he had been free, he would certainly have behaved very differently towards Anita. So in a sense he had lied to her and as he realised this, his eyes sank before hers. She did not fail to note his embarrassment and pressed her point inexorably.
"Swear that there is no other woman who has a claim on you and I will believe you."
He could not lie to her in cold blood. Yet to tell her the truth was also out of the question, he said to himself.
While he still hesitated, she continued more vehemently.
"I don't ask you to tell me anything of your past or my past, if you had rather not do so. One thing, however, I must and will know—who is this woman and what are her pretensions?"
"I—I cannot tell you," he said at last. "I only wish I could. Some day, I promise you, you shall know everything, but now it is impossible. But this much I will say—I love you as I have never loved any one in my whole life."
She trembled from head to foot and half closed her eyes.
For a moment neither spoke. Cyril felt that this very silence established a communion between them, more complete, more intense than any words could have done. But as he gazed at the small, drooping figure, he felt that his self-control was deserting him completely. He almost reeled with the violence of his emotion.
"I can't stand it another moment," he said to himself. "I must go before—" He did not finish the sentence but clenched his hands till the knuckles showed white through the skin.
He rose to his feet.
"I can't stay!" he exclaimed aloud. "Forgive me, Anita. I can't tell you what I feel. Good-bye!" He murmured incoherently and seizing her hands, he pressed them for an instant against his lips, then dropping them abruptly, he fled from the room.
Cyril in his excitement had not noticed that he had called Anita by her name nor did he perceive the start she gave when she heard it. After the door had clicked behind him, she sat as if turned to stone, white to her very lips.
Slowly, as if with an effort, her lips moved.
"Anita?" she whispered to herself. "Anita?" she repeated over and over again as if she were trying to learn a difficult lesson.
Suddenly a great light broke over her face.
"I am Anita Wilmersley!" she cried aloud.
But the tension had been too great; with a little gasp she sank fainting to the floor.
What he did during the next few hours, Cyril never quite knew. He retained a vague impression of wandering through endless streets and of being now and then arrested in his heedless course by the angry imprecations of some wayfarer he had inadvertently jostled or of some Jehu whose progress he was blocking.
How could he have behaved like such a fool, he kept asking himself. He had not said a thing to Anita that he had meant to say—not one. Worse still, he had told her that he loved her! He had even held her in his arms! Cyril tried not to exult at the thought. He told himself again and again that he had acted like a cad; nevertheless the memory of that moment filled him with triumphant rapture. Had he lost all sense of shame, he wondered. He tried to consider Anita's situation, his own situation; but he could not. Anita herself absorbed him. He could think neither of the past nor of the future; he could think of nothing connectedly.
The daylight waned and still he tramped steadily onward. Finally, however, his body began to assert itself. His footsteps grew gradually slower, till at last he realised that he was miles from home and that he was completely exhausted. Hailing a passing conveyance, he drove to his lodgings.
He was still so engrossed in his dreams that he felt no surprise at finding Peter sitting in the front hall, nor did he notice the dejected droop of the latter's shoulders.
On catching sight of his master, Peter sprang forward.
"Hsh! My lord," he whispered with his finger on his lip; and turning slightly, he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder towards the top of the stairs.
With an effort Cyril shook off his preoccupation. Following the direction of his servant's eyes, he saw nothing more alarming than a few dusty plants which were supposed to adorn the small landing where the stairs turned. Before he had time to form a conjecture as to the cause of Peter's agitation, the latter continued breathlessly: "Her Ladyship 'ave arrived, my lord!"
Having made this announcement, he stepped back as if to watch what effect this information would have on his master. There was no doubt that Peter's alarm was very genuine, yet one felt that in spite of it he was enjoying the dramatic possibilities of the situation.
Cyril, however, only blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Her Ladyship? What Ladyship?" he asked.
"Lady Wilmersley, my lord, and she brought her baggage. I haven't known what to do, that I haven't. I knew she ought not to stay here, but I couldn't turn 'er out, could I?"
Cyril's mind was so full of Anita that he never doubted that it was she to whom Peter was referring, so without waiting to ask further questions, he rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and threw open the door of his sitting-room.
On a low chair in front of the fire his wife sat reading quietly.
Cyril staggered back as if he had been struck. She, however, only turned her head languidly and closing her book, surveyed him with a mocking smile.
For a moment Cyril saw red. His disappointment added fuel to his indignation.
"Amy! How dare you come here?" he cried, striding towards her.
She seemed in nowise affected by his anger; only her expression became, if possible, a trifle more contemptuous.
"Your manners have sadly deteriorated since we parted," she remarked, raising her eyebrows superciliously.
"Manners!" he exclaimed and his voice actually shook with rage. "May I ask how you expected to be received? Is it possible that you imagine that I am going to take you back?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she still appeared quite unconcerned.
"Do you know, I rather think you will," she drawled.
"Take you back, now that you have tired of your lover or he has become disgusted with you, which is probably nearer the truth. Do you think I am mad, or are you?"
He fancied that he saw her wince, but she replied calmly:
"Do not let us indulge in mutual recriminations. They are so futile."
"Mutual recriminations, indeed! I like that! What have you to reproach me with? Didn't I marry you to save you from disgrace and penury? Haven't I done everything I could to keep you straight?"
She rose slowly from her seat and he noticed for the first time that she wore a low-cut gown of some diaphanous material, which revealed and yet softened the too delicate lines of her sinuous figure. Her black hair lay in thick waves around her face, completely covering the ears, and wound in a coil at the back of her neck. He had never seen it arranged in this fashion and reluctantly he had to admit that it was strangely becoming to her. A wide band of dull gold, set with uncut gems, encircled her head and added a barbaric note to her exotic beauty. It was his last gift to her, he remembered.
Yes, she was still beautiful, he acknowledged, although the life she had led, had left its marks upon her. She looked older and frailer than when he had seen her last. But to-night the sunken eyes glowed with extraordinary brilliancy and a soft colour gave a certain roundness to her hollow cheeks. As she stood before him, Cyril was conscious, for the first time in years, of the alluring charm of her personality.
She regarded him for a moment, her full red lips parted in an inscrutable smile. How well he recalled that smile! He could never fathom its meaning. In some mysterious way it suggested infinite possibilities. How he hated it!
"You tried everything, I grant you," she said at last, "except the one thing which would have proved efficacious."
"And what was that, pray?"
"You never loved me."
Her unexpected accusation made Cyril pause. Yes, it was true, he acknowledged to himself. Had he not realised it during the last few days as he had never done before?
"You don't even take the trouble to deny it," she continued. "You married me out of pity and instead of being ashamed of it, you actually pride yourself on the purity of your motive."
"Well, at any rate I can't see what there was to be ashamed of," he replied indignantly.
"Of course you can't! Oh, how you good people exasperate me! You seem to lack all comprehension of the natural cravings of a normal human being. Pity? What did I want with pity? I wanted love!"
"It was not my fault that I could not love you."
"No, but knowing that you did not love me, it was dastardly of you to have married me without telling me the truth. In doing so, you took from me my objective in life—you destroyed my ideals. Oh, don't look so sceptical, you fool! Can't you see that I should never have remained a governess until I was twenty-five, if I had not had ideals? It was because I had such lofty conceptions of love that I kept myself scrupulously aloof from men, so that I might come to my mate, when I found him, with soul, mind, and body unsullied."
She spoke with such passionate sincerity that it was with an effort Cyril reminded himself that her past had not been as blameless as she pictured it.
"Your fine ideals did not prevent you from becoming a drunkard—" he remarked drily.
"When I married, I was not a drunkard," she vehemently protested. "The existence I led was abhorrent to me, and it is true that occasionally when I felt I could not stand it another moment, I would go to my room after dinner and get what comfort I could out of alcohol; but what I did, I did deliberately and not to satisfy an ungovernable appetite. I was no more a drunkard than a woman who takes a dose of morphine during bodily agony is a drug fiend. Of course, my conduct seems inexcusable to you, for you are quite incapable of understanding the torture my life was to me."
"Other women have suffered far greater misfortunes and have borne them with fortitude and dignity."
"Look at me, Cyril; even now am I like other women?" She drew herself up proudly. "Was it my fault that I was born with beauty that demanded its due? Was I to blame that my blood leaped wildly through my veins, that my imagination was always on fire? But I was, and still am, instinctively and fundamentally a virtuous woman. Oh, you may sneer, but it is true! Although as a girl I was starving for love, I never accepted passion as a substitute, and you can't realise how incessantly the latter was offered me. Wherever I went, I was persecuted by it. At times I had a horrible fear that desire was all that I was capable of evoking; and when you came to me in my misery, poverty, and disgrace, I hailed you as my king—my man! I believed that you were offering me a love so great that it welcomed the sacrifice of every minor consideration. It never occurred to me that you would dare to ask me for myself, my life, my future, unless you were able to give me in exchange something more than the mere luxuries of existence."
"I also offered you my life——"
"You did not!" she interrupted him. "You offered up your life, not to me, but to your own miserable conception of chivalry. The greatness of your sacrifice intoxicated you and consequently it seemed to you inevitable that I also would spend the rest of my days in humble contemplation of your sublime character?"
"Such an idea never occurred to me," Cyril angrily objected.
"Oh, you never formulated it in so many words, I know that! You are too self-conscious to be introspective and are actually proud of the fact that you never stop to analyse either yourself or your motives. So you go blundering through life without in the least realising what are the influences which shape your actions. You fancy that you are not self-centred because you are too shy, yes, and too vain to probe the hidden recesses of your heart. You imagine that you are unselfish because you make daily sacrifices to your own ideal of conduct. But of that utter forgetfulness of self, of that complete merging and submerging of your identity in another's, you have never had even the vaguest conception. When you married me, it never occurred to you that I had the right to demand both love and comprehension. You, the idealist, expected me to be satisfied with the material advantages you offered; but I, the degraded creature you take me to be, had I known the truth, would never have consented to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."
"That sounds all very fine, and I confess I may not have been a perfect husband, but after all, what would you have done, I should like to know, if I had not married you?"
"Done? I would have worked and hoped, and if work had failed me, I would have begged and hoped. I would even have starved, before abandoning the hope that some day I should find the man who was destined for me. When I at last realised that you did not love me, you cannot imagine my despair. I consumed myself in futile efforts to please you, but the very intensity of my love prevented me from exercising those arts and artifices which might have brought you to my feet. My emotion in your presence was so great that it sealed my lips and made you find me a dull companion."
"I never thought you dull. You know very well that it was not that which alienated me from you. When I married you, I may not have been what is called in love with you, but I was certainly fond of you, and if you had behaved yourself, I should no doubt in time have become more closely united to you. You talk of 'consuming' yourself to please me. Nice, effective word, that! I must add it to my vocabulary. But you chose a strange means of gaining my affections when you took to disgracing yourself both privately and publicly."
The passionate resentment which had transfigured her slowly faded from Amy's face, leaving it drawn and old; her voice, when she spoke, sounded infinitely weary.
"When I knew for a certainty that a lukewarm affection was all you would ever feel for me, I lost hope, and in losing hope, I lost my foothold on life. I wanted to die—I determined to die. Time and time again, I pressed your pistol to my forehead, but something stronger than my will always prevented me from pulling the trigger; and finally I sought forgetfulness in drink, because I had not the courage to find it in death. At first I tried to hide my condition from you, but there came a moment when the sight of your bland self-satisfaction became unbearable, when your absolute unconsciousness of the havoc you had made of my life maddened me. I wanted you to suffer! Oh, not as I had suffered, you are not capable of that; but at any rate I could hurt your vanity and deal a death-blow to your pride! You had disgraced me when you tricked me into giving myself to a man who did not love me; I determined to disgrace you by reeling through the public streets. And I was glad, glad!" she cried with indescribable bitterness. "When I saw you grow pale with anger, when I saw you tremble with shame, I suppose you fancy that I must, at times, have suffered from remorse and humiliation? I swear that never for a moment have I regretted the course I chose. I am ashamed of nothing except that I lacked the courage to kill myself. Drink? I bless it! How I welcomed the gradual deadening of my senses, the dulling of my fevered brain! When I awoke from my long torpor and found myself at Charleroi, I cursed the doctor who had brought me back to life. Little by little the old agony returned. The thought of you haunted me day and night, while a raging thirst racked my body, and from this twofold torture the constant supervision of the nurses prevented me from obtaining even a temporary respite. It was hell!"
For a moment Cyril felt a wave of pity sweep over him, but suddenly he stiffened.
"You forget to mention that—consolation was offered you."
"Consolation! Had I found that, I should not be here! I admit, however, that when I first noticed that M. de Brissac was attracted by me, I was mildly pleased. It was a solace to my wounded vanity to find that some one still found me desirable. But I swear that it never even occurred to me to give myself to him, till the doctor told me that you were coming to take me away with you. See you again? Subject myself anew to your indifference—your contempt? Never! So I took the only means of escaping from you which offered itself. And I am glad, glad that I flung myself into the mire, for by defiling love, I killed it. I am at last free from the obsession which has been the torment of my life. Neither you nor any other man will again fire my imagination or stir my senses. I am dead, but I am also free—free!"
As she spoke the last words her expression was so exalted that Cyril was forced to grant her his grudging admiration. As she stood before him, she seemed more a spirit than a woman; she seemed the incarnation of life, of love, of the very fundamentals of existence. She was really an extraordinary woman; why did he not love her, he asked himself. But even as this flashed through his mind the memory of his long martyrdom obtruded itself. He saw her again not as she appeared then, but as the central figure in a succession of loathsome scenes.
"Your attempt to justify yourself may impose on others, but not on me. I know you too well! You are rotten to the core. What you term love is nothing but an abnormal craving, which no healthy-minded man with his work in life to do could have possibly satisfied. Our code, however, is too different for me to discuss the matter with you. And so, if you have quite finished expatiating on my shortcomings, would you kindly tell me to what I owe the honour of your visit?"
She turned abruptly from him and leaned for a minute against the mantelpiece; then, sinking into a chair, she took a cigarette from a box which lay on the table near her and proceeded to light it with apparent unconcern. Cyril, however, noticed that her hand trembled violently. After inhaling a few puffs, she threw her head back and looked at him tauntingly from between her narrowed lids.
"Because, my dear Cyril, I read in yesterday's paper that your wife had been your companion on your ill-timed journey from Paris. So I thought it would be rather amusing to run over and find out a few particulars as to the young person who is masquerading under my name."
She had caught Cyril completely off his guard and he felt for a moment incapable of parrying her attack.
"I assure you," he stuttered, "it is all a mistake—" He hesitated; he could think of no explanation which would satisfy her.
"I expected you to tell me that she was as pure as snow!" she exclaimed with a scornful laugh. "But how you with your puritanic ideas managed to get yourself into such an imbroglio passes my understanding. Really, I consider that you owe it to me, to satisfy my curiosity."
"I regret that I am unable to do so."
"So do I! Still, as I shall no doubt solve the riddle in a few days, I can possess my soul in patience. Meanwhile I shall enjoy watching your efforts to prevent me from learning the truth."
"Unfortunately for you, that pleasure will be denied you. You are going to leave this house at once and we shall not meet again till we do so before judge and jury."
Amy settled herself more comfortably in her chair.
"So you will persist in trying to bluff it out? Foolish Cyril! Don't you realise that I hold all the cards and that I am quite clever enough to use them to the best advantage? You see, knowing you as I do, I am convinced that the motive which led you to sacrifice both truth and honour is probably as praiseworthy as it is absurd. But having made such a sacrifice, why are you determined to render it useless? I cannot believe that you are willing to face the loss not only of your own reputation but of that of the young person who has accepted your protection. How do you fancy she would enjoy figuring as corespondent in a divorce suit?"
Cyril felt as if he were caught in a trap.
"My God," he cried, "you wouldn't do that! I swear to you that she is absolutely innocent. She was in a terrible situation and to say that she was my wife seemed the only way to save her. She doesn't even know I am married!"
"Really? And have you never considered that when she finds out the truth, she may fail to appreciate the delicacy which no doubt prevented you from mentioning the trifling fact of my existence? It is rather funny that your attempts to rescue forlorn damsels seem doomed to be unsuccessful! Or were your motives in this case not quite so impersonal as I fancied? Has Launcelot at last found his Guinevere? If so, I may yet be avenged vicariously."
"Your presence is punishment enough, I assure you, for all the sins I ever committed! But come to the point. What exactly is it that you are threatening me with?"
"Publicity, that is all. If neither you nor this woman object to its being known that you travelled together as man and wife, then I am powerless."
"But you have just acknowledged that you know that our relation is a harmless one," cried Cyril.
"I do not know it—but—yes, I believe it. Do you think, however, that any one else will do so?"
"Surely you would not be such a fiend as to wreck the life of an innocent young girl?"
"If her life is wrecked, whose fault is it? Not mine, at all events. It was you who by publicly proclaiming her to be your wife, made it impossible for her disgrace to remain a secret. Don't you realise that even if I took no steps in the matter, sooner or later the truth is bound to be discovered? Now I—and I alone—can save you from the consequences of your folly. If you will agree not to divorce me, I promise not only to keep your secret, but to protect the good name of this woman by every means in my power."
"I should like to know what you expect to gain by trying to force me to take you back? Is it the title that you covet, or do you long to shine in society? But remember that in order to do that, you would have radically to reform your habits."
"I have no intention of reforming and I don't care a fig for conventional society!"
"You tell me that you no longer love me and that you found existence with me unsupportable. Why then are you not willing to end it?"
"It is true, I no longer love you, but while I live, no other woman shall usurp my place."
"Your place! When you broke your marriage vows, you forfeited your right to a place in my life. But I will make a compact with you. You can have all the money you can possibly want as long as you neither do nor say anything to imperil the reputation of the young lady in question."
"All the wealth in the world could not buy my silence!"
"This is too horrible!" cried Cyril almost beside himself. "In order to shield a poor innocent child, you demand that I sacrifice my freedom, my future, even my honour? Have you no sense of justice, no pity?"
"None. I have said my last word. It is now for you to decide whether I am to go or stay. Well—which is it to be?"
Cyril looked into her white, set face; what he read there destroyed his last, lingering hope.
"Stay," he muttered through his clenched teeth.