Chapter Twenty Eight. A Promise.

While in the Club that afternoon the page-boy handed me a card, uttering the stereotyped phrase, “Gentleman to see you, sir.”

I took it, and, to my surprise, found it was Markwick’s. When he entered, a few moments later, he was wearing a crimson flower in the button-hole of his grey frock-coat, and carrying his cane with a jaunty air. His swift glance ran round the room, to assure himself that we were alone, as he greeted me with an air of gay nonchalance.

My recognition was, I am afraid, very frigid; but, tilting his hat, he cast himself into one of the saddle-bag chairs, and, comfortably settling himself, tapped the sole of his varnished boot with his cane, exclaiming:

“I was just passing, don’t you know, and thought I’d look you up. We haven’t met for an age,” and taking out a silver case, he selected a cigarette and lit it.

“I think,” I said dryly, “it would have been better for me had we never met at all.”

He smiled sardonically, moved uneasily, and, turning towards me, exclaimed:

“My dear fellow, you entirely misjudge me. I was, I admit, unconsciously the cause of a rather grave catastrophe in your life; but surely that is all of the past. Why think more of one who is dead?”

“Then, at last, you do now admit that you enticed me to that house? Once you denied it.”

“I know,” he said, smiling. “From diplomatic motives I was compelled; nevertheless, no blame attaches to me, I assure you. This I shall prove to you before long, I hope.”

“Why not now?” I urged eagerly. “Why not tell me what you know of Sybil? That you were intimately acquainted with her is certain; and if you wish to assure me of your honesty of purpose, there can be no better way of doing so than explaining who and what she was.”

“Ah! unfortunately I am unable, at least for the present,” he said, watching his cigarette smoke curl towards the dark oak-beamed ceiling. “I may add, however, that, in return for your assistance in the little matter concerning Lady Fyneshade, I will before long render you a service of a character that will, perhaps, astonish you.”

“Then she has already seen you?” I exclaimed.

“She has,” he said, nodding. “And she has given me your note. It is for that I looked in to thank you.”

We exchanged glances. His thin pimply face wore an expression of perfect composure. There were no signs of mental agitation, but rather confidence and extreme self-satisfaction.

“Will you not, in return for my silence, tell me something of the woman to whom I was so strangely wedded?” I asked at last.

“No. If it were possible I would, but I am precluded by certain circumstances, the nature of which you shall be later on made aware. At present be patient. The mystery that puzzles you will before long be elucidated, and I will keep my promise made to you on the night we met.”

“To tell me all?”

“To explain everything. But, by the way,” he added suddenly, “have you any knowledge where your friend Bethune is?”

“Why?”

“Surely you’ve seen the morning papers, haven’t you?” Replying in the negative I took up the Standard that lay within reach, and found it opened at one of the inside pages. Almost the first thing that caught my eyes were the startling head-lines, “The Murder of a Millionaire: Discovery of the Body.”

The papers had obtained knowledge of the truth at last.

Eagerly I read the jumble of distorted facts which the representative of a press agency had gathered from an apparently unreliable source, and found to my amazement a statement appended, to the effect that after the discovery of the remains a warrant had been issued against a well-known person who had absconded and was now in Germany. The police, however, were fully cognisant of his whereabouts, and his arrest was only a matter of a few hours.

When I lifted my face from the paper my glance met the calm face of my visitor.

“Well,” he asked, “what do you think of it? It points to Bethune. The police seem at last to be on the right scent. They’ve muddled the whole thing, or they would have arrested him long ago.”

“Upon that point I can express no opinion,” I observed. “He has evidently, however, failed to get away unnoticed.”

“If ever there was a cowardly crime it was the shooting of Gilbert Sternroyd,” the man said bitterly. “His generosity kept a whole school of bounders and hangers-on, and only because he refused to be blackmailed and bled they spread damning reports about his admiration for Lady Fyneshade. Truly the life of a millionaire, young or old, is not exactly a bed of roses.”

“Then you believe implicitly in Bethune’s guilt?” I inquired.

“Most decidedly; no sane man who watched him as I watched him when he fled immediately after the crime can doubt that he is the culprit. It is written on his face.”

With this opinion I was unfortunately compelled to agree, and although I endeavoured by dint of some artful questions to “draw” him upon several points, he parried my attacks with consummate skill and tantalising smiles, and left me after promising to see me again in a few days.

The reason he had called was only too evident. He desired to ascertain what facts I knew regarding the crime, for he, like others, was unaware that I had actually been the first to discover it, and although one or two of his questions were artfully directed, I detected the trend of his strategy, and combated all his crafty efforts to “pump” me. He was admittedly an adventurer of the worst type, and his presence always filled me with anger which I found difficult of control.

That day was one of interviews, for shortly after four o’clock, while writing a letter at the club, Saunders brought me a note, observing that as Miss Stretton’s maid had delivered it, stating that it was very urgent, he had come with it at once. An excellent man was Saunders. I paid him well, and he was untiring in his efforts to secure me comfort and freedom from the minor worries of life. Having dismissed him I opened the letter, finding to my surprise and intense satisfaction that it was a sanely-worded note from Dora saying that she had been dangerously ill, but was now very much better, and desired to see me without delay if I could make it convenient to call that afternoon.

Almost instantly I set forth to respond to her invitation, and half an hour later found her in her mother’s drawing-room, radiant and quite herself again. Lady Stretton was not present, therefore she greeted me in her frank, hoydenish way, as of old, led me to a seat, and taking one herself, proceeded to describe her malady.

“But, of course, you have heard how unwell I’ve been, so I need not tell you,” she added. “I’m quite right again now. For days my head was strangely muddled, and I had no idea that I was at home. I fancied myself in some queer horrid place surrounded by all sorts of terrors; but suddenly, early yesterday morning, this feeling—or hallucination it was, I suppose—left me, and the doctor to-day said I was recovering rapidly. Where is Jack? Have you seen him?”

This was a question I had been momentarily expecting and feared to answer.

“Yes,” I said hesitatingly; “I have seen him.”

“Then tell me quickly,” she cried excitedly; “tell me, is it true what the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he has fled abroad?”

She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind should again become unhinged.

“Yes, Dora,” I said sympathetically. “I am afraid it is true.”

She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the lace trimming of her dress.

“They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I understand,” she said. “The police think that Jack shot him.”

“They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I believe.”

“Do you suspect him?” she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.

“I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion.”

“Ah! I understand; you, like the others, think he is guilty,” she said in a tone of bitter reproach. “Some enemy has denounced him and set the bloodhounds of the law upon him. They will follow the scent, and soon discover him. But is he guilty?”

“I can only tell you one fact, Dora, much as I regret it,” I answered. “The detective who has the case in hand, one of the most renowned experts in his profession, holds evidence against him of a most conclusive character.”

“In what way? What is the nature of the evidence?” she demanded.

“There is a witness,” I replied slowly. “A person discovered Gilbert lying dead in Jack’s chambers immediately after the crime. On the following night the same person visited the place secretly, and there met Jack, who was apparently engaged in getting rid of all traces of the murder. This witness desired to enter one of the rooms, but Jack locked the door in his face. In that room it will be proved the body of the murdered man was still lying.”

“It will not be so easy to prove that last fact as you imagine,” she said very seriously.

“Then Jack has already told you the truth!” I exclaimed.

“He told me something before—before I fell ill,” she answered.

It was on my lips to ask her for an explanation of the cause that led to her brain-trouble, but, remembering the strict injunctions of the great specialist, I deferred my question.

“Then you believe he is innocent?” I asked eagerly.

“The police may bring forward an array of whatever witnesses they choose, but I will show them that Jack is no murderer,” she said firmly. “I do not wonder that you, in common with others, suspect him, but when the truth is made clear you will be amazed at the villainy that has been resorted to by those responsible for Sternroyd’s death.”

“Do you, then, allege that there was more than one person?”

“That point will be made clear at the trial,” she answered briefly. “But tell me, you know something of Jack’s movements. When do you anticipate he will be arrested?”

“To-night most probably,” I said. “Perhaps he is already detained.”

“He is at some little out of-the-world place in Germany, isn’t he?”

“Yes; how did you ascertain that?”

“I had a letter from him to-day,” she replied; “but we have no time to lose. Ah!” And she stood with both hands suddenly pressed to her brow. “My head throbs so painfully now and then. Sometimes it seems as if my forehead must really burst.”

“Can I assist you?” I asked, rising quickly and standing beside her, but as I did so the door opened and the Earl of Fyneshade was announced.

“Ah! my dear Dora,” he cried effusively, as he strode into the room. “I only returned from Paris this morning, and hearing you were unwell came along to inquire. The account I had of you was that you were delirious, with all sorts of other complications, but I’m glad you are not so ill as reported.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m very much better to-day.”

Then I exchanged greetings with the Earl. He looked spruce and well, and by his casual question whether Mabel had been there often during his absence, no one would have suspected him of any serious disagreement with his young wife. For a quarter of an hour we chatted, when, finding Lady Stretton was out driving, he rose and left.

“I’m so thankful he’s gone,” Dora exclaimed with a grimace, as soon as the door had closed. “He’s such a dreadful old bore. I wonder Mabel ever fell in love with him; but there, ill-disposed persons say she didn’t.”

And we both laughed.

“But we haven’t any time to gossip,” she exclaimed, rising with a sudden impetuosity. “You will go with me, won’t you?”

“Where?”

“Not far. I want to convince you that what I have said regarding Jack’s innocence is the absolute truth.”

“I am, of course, open to conviction,” I said eagerly. “If I could only see him cleared of this terrible suspicion I should be happy.”

“Then you shall,” she said, laying her hand tenderly on my arm, and adding with earnestness, “Stuart, you told me on one occasion that you had loved a true, honest woman, and that your life had been blighted by her death.”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember I spoke to you once of her.”

“Have you ceased to remember her?” she asked mysteriously.

“Never. Daily, hourly she is in my thoughts. There has, alas! been no brightness in my life since the well-remembered day when I lost her,” I exclaimed fervently.

“If what I hear be true, she puzzles you. You knew nothing of her parentage, of her past, of the reason for the strange ceremony of your marriage,” she said in a soft voice.

“Nothing. I have ever since sought to penetrate the mystery and ignominiously failed in every effort.”

She paused and, looking steadfastly into my face, exclaimed in a strange voice full of suppressed excitement: “Then to-night I will take you to a place where you may ascertain the truth. At all hazards I will save Jack the indignity of falling into the hands of the police, and at the same time reveal to you certain facts that will astound you.”