Chapter Twenty Nine. Confides a Motive and a Mystery.

“One Sunday evening early in September,” Chisholm continued at last, in a hoarse, strained voice, low and yet distinct, “May had retired immediately after dinner, owing to a headache, and I agreed to accompany the colonel for a turn along the Esplanade, to smoke a cigar. The night was hot and close, prophetic of a thunderstorm. As we sat together on a seat close to the St. Leonard’s Pier, chatting in the semi-darkness, he suddenly broached a subject and made a suggestion, the astounding audacity of which struck me absolutely dumb with horror. He explained to me in confidence that he knew there had arrived at the Foreign Office from Constantinople certain cipher despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Porte, and that he was prepared to pay almost any price for copies of these documents. He pointed how easy it would be for me, as private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, to photograph them. He tempted me, saying that for such photographs I might name my own price. Wild indignation seized me; but he only laughed and calmly lit a fresh cigar, at the same time dropping a hint that my reward for this suggested service would be his daughter’s hand. May was in ignorance of all this. She never knew that her father was a mean and despicable spy who had constant relations with a foreign Power. I refused, and we argued, he and I, until, what with his persuasions and his promise that May should be my wife, he induced me to comply with his audacious demand. He tempted me, and I fell. Next day, after the exercise of not a little ingenuity, I succeeded in obtaining possession of the despatches in question, took them to my rooms, and secured photographs of each, returning the originals to their place within half an hour. I developed the negatives in secret, made some hasty prints, and delivered them to Lennox at Hastings three days later. By aid of the powerful reading-glass which he had bought at an optician’s in Robertson Street, the cipher of the confidential despatches could be distinctly read, a result which gave him the utmost satisfaction. I was young, inexperienced, and did not then fully appreciate the gravity of my offence. It was, However, certain that those into whose hands the photographs eventually passed possessed a copy of the decipher used by the British Foreign Office, for subsequent events proved that Tewfik Pasha, the Turkish Minister of Foreign Affairs, successfully used the information in his diplomatic juggling with Russia. I never dreamed that this untimely exposure of Britain’s policy in the near East would result in such a serious crisis as eventually came to pass; for my theft was the cause of a grave misunderstanding between England, the Porte, and the Triple Alliance; so serious, indeed, that a European war was only narrowly averted by the tact of Lord Stockbridge, combined with that of Count Murieff, the Russian Foreign Minister.” Chisholm paused again, with eyes downcast.

“Go on,” she said brokenly. “Tell me all, Dudley—everything.”

“I had believed that by doing this scoundrel Lennox a service I had ingratiated myself with him,” the despairing man continued after a pause; “but, so far from this being the case, he told me on the following day that it would be better if I remained apart from them, as my too frequent visits might be suspected by the Foreign Office, especially after what had transpired. May was still my unsophisticated friend, and was quite unaware of the theft I had committed at her father’s bidding; but even in her I fancied I detected a change. It required only this to tear down the last barrier between myself and my conscience; the knowledge that I was a traitor to my Queen and country began to pierce me like sword. Of a sudden, a fortnight after the photographs had passed into the possession of Lennox, the spy settled his daughter as a paying guest with a family living in Christchurch Road, Tulse Hill, and then disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him; but not before he had written me a stiff letter formally refusing his consent to my marriage with May. Then I saw how cleverly I had been entrapped by the adventurer, who knew well that I dared not expose him, for the sake of my own reputation. Soon afterwards the general election was held, and, as a reward for my services, which were believed, of course, to have been faithfully rendered, I was given a safe seat at Albury. Then May and I drifted apart, for she went to live with an aunt up at Berwick-on-Tweed, while I entered enthusiastically upon a political career. The manner in which Sir Henry Lygon’s despatches had leaked out to England’s enemies was a puzzle to the Foreign Office and to the world; but as I possessed the entire confidence of my chief I remained unsuspected, although my treachery had cost the country dearly, for by it I had betrayed my benefactor, Lord Stockbridge, and given to the wily Turk the whip hand over Europe, enabling the Sultan to defy both England and Russia. England had held the trump card in the diplomatic game, but by the premature exposure of her hand all had been lost. Searching inquiries were, of course, made by the cleverest detectives and agents of the Intelligence Department, but the result was absolutely nil.”

“There was considerable comment in the papers at the time,” remarked Claudia slowly. “I recollect Dick speaking of it as a mystery, and condemning the apparent laxity of Foreign Office rules.”

“Some months had gone by, and May’s letters, which had been growing perceptibly colder, at last ceased altogether,” he continued, heedless of her remark. “In order to become acquainted with my constituents I had taken up my residence in my Parliamentary Division, at Godalming to be exact, and it was my habit each afternoon to take long walks alone through the woods and over the hills of that delightful neighbourhood. The sequel to what I have already confessed to you,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “occurred one autumn day when the trees were almost bare and the woodland paths were covered with acorns and withered leaves. I had been for a long stretch over the Hog’s Back, having paid a visit to my friend Machray, at Wanborough, and was returning by way of Compton, and then across the meadows and up the hill towards the Charterhouse at Godalming. The gusty wind was chilly and the wintry twilight was fading as I passed Field Place and struck across the wide grass-lands to a corner where the path was divided by a stile from a dense belt of wood, the most lonely and secluded spot in the neighbourhood, and a popular resort of rustic couples. As I leaped over the stile into the dark pathway which led up a very steep incline through the wood, I was startled by being suddenly confronted by a man whom, in an instant, I recognised as Lennox. He had evidently been awaiting me there, for he put his hand upon my shoulder, saying that he desired a few words with me. With disgust and hatred I shook him off; but he resolutely placed himself before me, saying that he desired of me one other service, namely, that I should secure for him a copy of a certain document which had that morning reached the Foreign Office by Queen’s messenger from the British Embassy in Paris. This I flatly refused; whereupon this enemy of England, who had once held Her Majesty’s commission, threatened me with exposure and ruin if I did not at once comply with his demand. My blood rose, and, by way of retort, I gave him to understand that I would inform the police of his presence in England. High words and bitter recriminations ensued. Suddenly, without the least warning, his hand went swiftly to his hip, and I saw him draw a gleaming knife with which next moment he rushed at me. The wild look in his face was sufficient to show his evil intent, and in a second I drew from my pocket the small revolver that I always carried. In the fierce and desperate struggle we were well matched, and for some minutes we fought for life. With wild and fearful oaths he tried time after time to plunge his weapon into my heart, but only succeeded in twice gashing my wrist. I carry the scars to this very day.”

He drew up his shirt-cuff and showed her where his assailant’s knife had wounded him.

“Suddenly I felt my strength failing,” he went on in a low, hard tone, a wild look in his eyes. “Then, in a fury of hatred, I twisted my arm from his sinewy grasp, and fired my revolver full at him. I must, I think have emptied two, or even three, chambers. He fell forward dead—with a curse upon his lips. I—I murdered him—in order to seal his lips!”

“You, Dudley!” cried the pale, bewildered woman, swaying forward as though she had received a blow. “You?—you killed him!”

“Yes, Claudia,” said the guilty man, not daring to look her in the face, “I have confessed to you my double crime. The truth now stands revealed to you in all its naked hideousness. I, the man whom you have trusted and loved for all these years, am a traitor, and worse—a murderer!”

She could not speak, her heart was too full of grief and suffering. She covered her white face with her hands; low sobs escaped her, the bitterest lamentations of a broken heart.

“And now let me conclude my story,” he went on, his own heart almost breaking because of her agony. “How I got away I cannot tell. I remember but little, save that I rushed from the spot, tore across the fields to Farncombe station, whence I took train to Waterloo. From the accounts in the papers it appears that an hour later the body, stiff and cold, was discovered by a pair of lovers walking together, and information was given to the county constabulary. Nothing was found upon the man to lead to his identification, and although the greatest sensation was caused by the tragedy, Scotland Yard was utterly puzzled. One miserable wretch, a tramp who had been seen loitering in the neighbourhood, was arrested on suspicion, but was afterwards released. Detectives searched diligently for some clue, but found nothing to help them in regard to the identity of the murderer or to that of his victim, who was buried in a nameless grave in Godalming Cemetery at the expense of the parish. Imagine the awful remorse I suffered! For a few weeks I remained in London with this terrible guilt weighing upon me, feverishly scanning the papers, and preparing for a journey to the Far East. You will recollect that you were in Pau, when I wrote announcing my sudden departure.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I remember. Dick’s illness had then begun, and the doctors had ordered him abroad.”

“I feared to remain longer in England, and desired to place as great a distance as possible between myself and the scene of my crime. I, belauded by the newspapers as a coming man, was a traitor to my country and a murderer. My conscience drove me to madness. I could not get rid of the ever-recurring recollections of my crime. And so it has been during these later years, whether I have travelled through the eternal snows of the Himalayas, explored the forbidden lands of Bhutan or Nepal, or sat on the Treasury Bench of the House. I have lived in constant dread of denunciation and exposure. While in Calcutta, as the guest of the Viceroy on my return from Chinese Turkestan, I learnt that May Lennox had married a wealthy man named Brodie, and had gone to live up at Kapurthala, in the Punjab. Since that day I have heard nothing of her. Four years have passed since my return, years of awful anxiety and mental strain that have made me old before my time; yet at last Archibald Cator, the man from whom no state secret is safe—that midnight visitor at Wroxeter—has discovered the truth. His secret agents have penetrated to the archives of the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Constantinople, and from them have secured those photographs, to which is attached a docket written in Turkish stating by what channel they were secured. Thus from the carefully-guarded storehouse of the Sultan’s secrets has the evidence of my crime been exposed, and my accusation is now at hand. Guilty of treason and of murder I have lost your love, Claudia—I can hope for nothing, nothing. My very name will become a reproach, and the very people who have so often applauded me will now hate my memory as that of a betrayer. My punishment is complete!” he cried wildly, in hoarse despair. “I have sinned, and this is God’s judgment!”