Chapter Fifteen. A Strange Assertion.

The look of combined alarm and surprise which Jack’s face betrayed was sufficient to convince me of the truth. Aline was the woman from whom he had fled; and she had visited him secretly. She had, it was apparent, discovered his whereabouts, and rather than excite gossip by coming to call upon him in the village, had met him clandestinely at some point on the high road halfway between Stamford and Duddington.

Then I reflected upon all that he had told me on the previous night; of how fondly he loved her, and of the curious dread in which he held her. Were not my own experiences more extraordinary than those of mortal man? Were not the changes wrought in my rooms by her influence little short of miraculous?

Aline Cloud, although the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, possessed a potency for the working of evil that was appalling. When I thought of it I shuddered.

Perhaps Jack Yelverton had discovered this. Perhaps he, a clergyman, a worker in the holy cause, had found out what evil influences emanated from her, and on that account had held aloof. He had told me plainly that he had come there to escape her. Did not that prove that he had discovered, what I, too, had found out, that her influence was alluring, that in her hand she held the golden apple?

He had been entranced by her beauty, but fortunately her witchery had not been sufficient to allure him to his ruin. I remembered when, in a moment of madness, I had declared my love to her, how she had told me she could not reciprocate it. What more likely then, that she loved Jack Yelverton?

That night I sat alone thinking it all over in the small, old-fashioned sitting-room which had been my own den before I had left to live in London. What, perhaps, puzzled me most of all was the fact that Muriel possessed such intimate knowledge of Aline’s actions and of my brief period of madness; and somehow I could not get rid of a vague feeling that she was aware of the truth concerning poor Roddy’s sad end.

Oppressed by the knowledge of a terrible truth which he had sworn not to divulge, and hiding from a woman whom he feared, Jack Yelverton was in as strange a position as myself; therefore next day I called upon him to give him an opportunity of telling me how this woman had at last discovered him.

He, however, said nothing; and when I incidentally expressed my intention of returning to London, and a hope that his whereabouts would still remain a secret from the person whom he did not wish to meet, he merely smiled sadly, saying—

“Yes. I hope she won’t discover me. If she does—well, I must move again. Should I disappear suddenly you will know the cause, old fellow.”

These words caused me to doubt the truth of my surmise. His manner was as though he had not kept the appointment, as I had suspected, and indeed I had no absolute knowledge that Aline and this woman whom he held in fear were one and the same person. Thus I left him with my mind in a state of indecision and bewilderment.

I knew not what to think.

Through the close, stifling days of July and August I remained in London with but one object, namely, that of finding Muriel. She had disappeared completely, and with some object; for she had not only hidden herself from me, but also from her nearest relatives.

Through those hot, dusty days, which, in former years, I had spent at Tixover, I pursued my inquiries in the various drapery establishments at Holloway, Peckham, Brixton, Kensington, and other shopping centres, but with no result. She had not written to any of the “young ladies” at Madame Gabrielle’s, and none knew her whereabouts.

Yet the unexpected always happens. Just as I was about to give up my search and return to Tixover to get fresh air, for August and September are pleasant months in the Midlands, I chanced one afternoon to be crossing Ludgate Circus, from Ludgate Hill to Fleet Street, when I suddenly overtook a figure that seemed familiar.

I started, drew back in hesitation for a moment, and then approached and raised my hat.

It was Aline Cloud.

“You!” she gasped, paling slightly as she recognised me.

“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m not so very formidable, am I?”

“No,” she laughed, in an instant recovering her self-possession as she took my hand. “Only you startled me.”

I remarked upon the lapse of time since we had met, and in response she answered—

“Yes. I’ve been away.”

I recollected her visit to Stamford, but said nothing, resolving to mention it later. It was about four o’clock, and in order to chat to her I invited her to take tea. At first she was unwilling, making a couple of vague excuses and contradicting herself in her confusion; but as I hailed a cab and it drew up to the kerb she saw that all further effort to avoid me was unavailing, and accompanied me.

During the first few moments of our meeting she had apparently been inclined to treat me with some disdain, but by the time we arrived at my chambers she was laughing lightly, as though the encounter gave her gratification.

She was dressed with more style and taste than before. Her costume, of some thin, bluish-grey stuff, was made in a style which few London dressmakers could achieve, and its ornamentation, although daring, was nevertheless extremely tasteful, and suited her great beauty admirably.

As she stood in my sitting-room pulling off her gloves I thought that she seemed even more strikingly beautiful than on the first night we had met, for her perfectly-fitting dress showed off her well-rounded figure, and her cream gauzy veil, drawn tight beneath her pointed chin, added a softness to her face which rendered it bewitching.

As her bright eyes fell upon me and her full red lips parted in a smile, I could scarcely bring myself to believe that this was actually the woman whose evil influence was nothing short of supernatural, the woman whose mission in the world was to supplant evil for good, and whose every action was enveloped in mystery impenetrable.

She lifted her veil and placed her delicate nose to the large bowl of red roses on the table. In summer our gardener sent me a box twice weekly, and as she sniffed their odour, I remarked—

“They are from Tixover—my father’s place. It’s near Duddington, on the Northamptonshire border. Do you know that country?”

“No,” she responded quickly. “But the flowers are delicious.”

I saw that she had no intention of admitting her visit to Stamford. There was a strange, indescribable fascination about her. She raised her veil, and turning to the mirror re-arranged her hair coquettishly with both her hands. Then, as her deep blue eyes again fell upon me calmly I felt that they penetrated to my very soul. The sunlight struggling through the smoke-dimmed windows fell upon her, enveloping her head in a halo of golden light, while the flashing of gems caught my eyes, and I saw upon her fingers two magnificent rings, one of rubies and the other of diamonds.

On the first occasion we had met she had been dressed shabbily, without any display of artistic taste, while to-day she presented a graceful, lady-like appearance, her richness of costume being devoid of that loudness which too often detracts from a woman’s natural chic.

Simes brought in the tea, and seated in my armchair she took her cup and laughed gaily to me as she sipped it, declaring that at the moment we had met she had been contemplating entering a tea-shop, for she could not exist without a cup at four o’clock. The majority of men in London can usually go from luncheon to dinner on a whiskey and soda, but I must confess myself fond of tea. Therefore we took it in company, laughing and chatting the while. She appeared perfectly at ease, and our conversation was that of old acquaintance, until, when Simes had gone, I looked straight into her face, and boldly said—

“Aline, tell me truthfully. Why did you deceive me so?”

She met my gaze with a strange, determined look, answering—

“Deceived you! I am not aware that I have done so!”

“You told me that you lived with Mrs Popejoy in Hampstead,” I said.

“And it was the truth. When I told you that, I did live there.”

That was so. She had spoken the truth, and my accusation was so unjust that I was compelled to mutter an apology.

“But many things have occurred since we last met,” I went on. “One event especially has happened which has oppressed and utterly bewildered me.”

“What was that?”

“My friend, Roddy Morgan, is dead.”

“I am aware of that,” she responded, her face in an instant deathly pale. Although she possessed powers which no other human being possessed, she nevertheless was now and then unable to control herself sufficiently to preserve a perfect calm. In this alone did she betray that she was, like myself, of the flesh. Yet when I reflected how things withered at her touch, and how objects dissolved as beneath a magician’s wand, I had often been inclined to believe that she was the incarnation of the Evil One in the form of a beautiful woman.

It was this feeling which again crept upon me as I sat there in her presence, noting her extreme loveliness. I did not love her now. No; I held her rather in fear and hatred. Yet she was still the most strikingly beautiful woman in all the world.

“Then you know how my friend died?” I said, in a rather meaning voice.

“It was in the newspapers,” she responded. “I saw by them that you gave evidence.”

I nodded in the affirmative, then said—

“You were here on that fatal morning, and you then told me a fact which has puzzled me ever since, namely, that my poor friend committed suicide at Monte Carlo months before. Do you not think you were mistaken, when you recollect that he died only half an hour after you left me?”

“What I told you was the truth,” she replied. “I was present when he took his own life.”

“At Monte Carlo?”

“At Monte Carlo!”

“Well, how do you account for the fact that for six or seven months afterwards he was here, in London, occupying his seat in the House of Commons, and mixing with his friends, when, if what you say is truth, he was then lying in a grave in the suicides’ cemetery at La Turbie?”

“I do not attempt to reason,” she responded, in a voice which sounded so strange that it appeared far distant, while the cup she still held was shaken by a slight tremor. “I only tell you the true facts. It was myself who identified your friend, and gave his name to the Administration of the Casino.”

“And you say he killed himself because he lost everything?”

“That is what I surmise. Those who have good fortune at the tables do not generally seek the last extremity.”

“But I knew nothing of his visit there. Even his man was in ignorance,” I said. “I cannot help thinking that there must be some mistake. It must have been a man who resembled him.”

“I know that he went to the Riviera secretly.”

“Why?”

“Because he had devised some system which, like many others before him, he felt certain must result in large winnings, and he did not tell his friends his intentions lest they might jeer at him. He went; he lost; and he killed himself!”

“But he lived in London afterwards!” I protested. “I saw him dozens of times—dined with him, played billiards with him, and was visited here by him. He could not possibly have been dead at the time!”

“But he was dead!” she declared. “Strange though it may seem, I am ready to swear in any court of law that I was present when Roderick Morgan, the member for South-West Sussex, committed suicide in the Salle Mauresque at Monte Carlo. That fact can no doubt be established in two ways: first, by the register of deaths, and secondly, by exhumation of the body.”

“But when Roddy was here in London, dining, smoking, and talking with me, how can I believe that he was already dead?”

“It was for a brief space that he came back to his own home,” she responded, in that same far-away voice, turning her eyes full upon me. “And did not life leave him suddenly, in a manner which has since remained a mystery?”

“No,” I answered determinedly, my mind fully made up. “Not altogether a mystery. The police have discovered many things.”

“The police!” she gasped. “What have they discovered?”

“They do not generally tell the public the result of their investigations,” I answered. “But they have found out that he received a visitor clandestinely half an hour before his death, and further, that he was murdered.”

“Murdered!” she exclaimed, with an uneasy glance and stirring in her chair. “Do they suspect any one?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They suspect his visitor; and they have discovered that this mysterious person who came to see him immediately before his death was a woman!”

Her lips compressed until they became white and bloodless, and the light died from her countenance. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to utter sound, and she covered her confusion by placing her teacup upon the table.

“Have they found out who it was who called upon him?” she inquired at last, in a low, faltering voice.

“They have a strong suspicion,” I said firmly. “And they are resolved that the one responsible for his death shall be brought to justice.”

“There is no proof that he was murdered,” she declared quickly.

“Neither is there any proof that he died from natural causes,” I argued. Then I added, “Was it not strange, Aline, that you should actually have told me of my friend’s death on the very morning that he died?”

“It was certainly a very remarkable coincidence,” she faltered; after a pause adding: “If he has been murdered, as you suspect, I hope the police will not fail to discover the author of the crime.”

“But you declared that Roddy was already dead!” I cried, dumbfounded.

“Certainly!” she answered. “I still maintain the truth of my statement.”

“Then you do not believe he was murdered?”

She shrugged her shoulders without replying.

For an instant I gazed into those eyes which had once held me spell-bound, and said—

“The truth is already known to the police. Roddy Morgan was murdered by a woman, swiftly, silently, and in a manner which showed firm determination and devilish cunning. You may rest assured that she will not escape.”

She started. Her face was blanched to the lips, and she sat before me rigid, open-mouthed, speechless.