Chapter Eleven. Shows a Woman’s Weakness.

Eric, standing with his back to the mantelshelf, revealed to me a fact that was both extraordinary and startling.

“After you’d left Ryhall yesterday,” he said, “I was walking across the park to meet Cynthia, who’d gone out to pay a visit to that thin old parson’s wife over at Waltham, when, quite unexpectedly, I came across Ellice standing talking to a rather badly-dressed young woman. She was in shabby black, with a brown straw hat trimmed with violets, and an old fur tippet around her neck. They were under a tree a little aside from the by-path that leads across to Waltham, and were speaking excitedly. I was walking on the grass and they did not hear me approach. Suddenly she made some statement which caused him to hesitate and think. Then he gave her some money hurriedly from his pocket, and after a further conversation they parted, she proceeding towards the high road, while Winsloe went in the direction of the house. I followed at a respectable distance, and that afternoon, when we assembled in the hall for tea, he announced that he had been suddenly recalled to town. In this I suspected something, so when he left by the seven-thirty-five express I followed him here.”

“Well?” I asked, looking straight into his face.

“Well, he’s in search of Tibbie.”

“Of Tibbie! What does he know?”

“That woman who met him in the park told him something. She probably knew of your appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because this morning he went to Harker’s Hotel in Waterloo Road, and inquired for her. But you had very fortunately taken her away.”

“Then if he knows of our appointment he will certainly follow me!” I said, in utter amazement.

“Most certainly he will. You recognise the grave peril of the situation?”

“I do,” I said, for I saw that Sybil must at once be seriously compromised. “But who could have known our secret? Who was the woman?”

“I’ve never seen her before. She’s an entire stranger. But that she is aware of Tibbie’s movements is beyond doubt. You were evidently seen together when you met last night—or how would he know that she slept at Harker’s Hotel?”

I was silent. I saw the very serious danger that now lay before us. Yet why was this man in search of Tibbie? He had proposed to her, she had said, and had been refused.

I recalled to my companion the fact of the photograph of the dead man being found in his bag.

“Yes,” Eric said. “He has recognised the victim but has some secret motive in remaining silent. Is it, I wonder, a motive of revenge?”

“Against whom?”

For a few moments he did not speak. Then he answered—

“Against Tibbie.”

I pursed my lips, for I discerned his meaning. Was it possible that Ellice Winsloe knew the truth?

“Therefore, what are we to do? What do you suggest?” I asked.

“You must not risk going to see Sybil to-morrow. Where is she?”

I briefly explained all that we had done that day, and how and where she had gone into hiding.

“Then you must send her an express letter in the morning. We must not go to see her. You are certainly watched.”

“But think of her,” I said. “I am posing as her husband, and she will require my presence there to-morrow in order to complete the fiction.”

“It’s too risky—far too risky,” Eric declared, shaking his head dubiously.

“The only way is for you to keep watch upon Winsloe,” I suggested, “and warn me of his movements.”

“But the woman—the woman who met him by appointment in the park? She may be in his employ as spy.”

“Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, I wonder,” I said.

“Never mind how they got to know,” he exclaimed. “I tell you that you mustn’t go near Tibbie. It’s far too dangerous at this moment.”

His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybil there alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it very strange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it. Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.

To allay Eric’s fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and made him promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guest whenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, and after a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far into the night.

Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloe ascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch upon him, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe had well-furnished rooms in King Street, St. James’s Square, was one of a go-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayest clubs frequented by the jeunesse dorée.

It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street, Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric’s advice I succeeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Station and along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams’ a little after eleven o’clock.

Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window, and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voice loud enough for the landlady to overhear,—

“Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?”

“Yes, dear,” was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closed the door.

“The time passes here awfully slowly,” she declared in a low voice. “I thought you were never coming. I shall have to get a few books to read.”

“I was delayed,” I said, taking off my cloth cap and flinging it upon the sofa. “I found Eric Domville awaiting me. He came up from Ryhall to-day and told me some strange news.”

“Strange news!” she gasped, turning deathly pale and clutching at the back of a chair in order to steady herself. “What—what news?”

The truth was instantly plain. Her fear was that the mystery of the unknown had been discovered.

I had quite inadvertently struck terror into her heart, for upon her countenance was that same haunted look as on that night when she had left Ryhall in secret.

“What Eric has told me concerns Ellice Winsloe,” I said, much surprised, and yet allowing her agitation to pass unnoticed.

“Ellice Winsloe. Is he—has he come to London?” she gasped, staring at me and starting.

“Yes, and more. He knows that you slept the night before last at Harker’s. He called to see you an hour after we had left yesterday.”

“He knows!” she cried in a low, terrified voice.

“Ellice knows that I was there! Then he has followed me—he—he means to carry out his threat!”

“What threat?”

“Ah, no. I—I’m mad, Wilfrid. I—I don’t know what I’m saying!” she cried, pushing her hair from her brow with both her hands and pacing up and down the room. “But you will help me—won’t you?” she implored, halting before me and looking me straight in the face.

“Help you—of course,” I said. “But I confess I can’t understand. This man only proposed marriage to you a fortnight ago.”

“I know. I know. And I refused him. Ah! Wilfrid. I would rather kill myself than marry that man!”

“Then you know something concerning him that is not in his favour?”

“I know a great deal. I often wonder why Jack and he are such intimate friends.”

“He’s rich, you said, and Lady Scarcliff approved of him.”

“That is so,” she answered thoughtfully. “But the mater is ignorant of it all. Ah! if I only dare tell you. It would astound and stagger you.”

“He is in search of you, that’s very clear,” I said, hoping to induce her to tell me something further.

“But he must not find me,” she declared. “The day he discovers me I shall take my life,” she added in a hard, desperate voice.

“Why? Do you fear him?”

She made no answer, but her chin sank upon her breast.

“Then tell me the truth, Tibbie,” I said. “He tried to compel you to marry him because he held some secret of yours that you do not wish to be known. Am I not right?”

She nodded in the affirmative, and I saw that tears were in her fine eyes.

What was the secret, I wondered? Was it the existence of that low-born lover, a photograph of whom he had carried in his bag? Did he hold over her a threat of exposure because he had become seized by a desire that she should be his wife? Many a woman has been forced into an odious marriage in order to preserve her secret.

I looked into her pale haggard face and wondered. How beautiful she was in her terror and distress. She was in fear of that man, whose life was, when viewed in the plain light of day, somewhat mysterious. But what did she fear? Who was the man who had fallen by her hand?

We had arranged that Mrs Williams should cook for us, and presently she came smilingly to lay the table, simply, but cleanly. Thus, our conversation was interrupted, but when alone again I returned to the subject, and she said, with a serious look,—

“Wilfrid, he must not discover me. If he does—if he does, then all is at an end. Even you cannot save me.”

“But I fear I may be followed here,” I said. “He knew that we met last night, or he would not have been aware that you slept at Harker’s. He, or someone employed by him, is watching me. I must remain away from you.”

“Yes,” she remarked. “I quite foresee the danger, yet I shall be very lonely. And besides, what can I say to Mrs Williams?”

“We’ll have to make an excuse that I’ve been sent into the country to work,” I said. “If I come daily here I’m quite certain Winsloe will discover you. This knowledge of his regarding our meeting the day before yesterday makes me suspicious.”

“You are right,” she declared sadly. “He has means of knowing everything. No secret seems safe from that man, Wilfrid. I sometimes think—sometimes I think that—” and she hesitated.

“That what?”

But she did not reply. She was standing at the window gazing fixedly down into the grey, dismal street. The words she had uttered mechanically, just as though she were speaking to herself.

“You told me, Tibbie, that if I pretended to be your husband that I might save you,” I remarked presently.

“And so you may, providing Ellice Winsloe does not discover me. If he does—then all is useless—quite useless. I shall have compromised myself and placed you in an invidious position, all to no purpose.”

“But by discretion—by my remaining away from you, and only coming here by stealth when I know that Winsloe is not watchful, I may still remain your husband in the eyes of these people.”

“Yes, yes, Wilfrid,” she said eagerly, placing her nervous hand upon my shoulder and looking deeply into my eyes. “That is the only way. I must live here alone—in hiding. They must not find me. Let us have patience—patience always—and we may foil that man’s evil intentions. Ah! If you knew everything you would pity me. But you do not. You believe that I hold some guilty secret. Yes,” she added hoarsely, “it is a guilty secret, and how can I sufficiently thank you for trusting me as blindly as you do? I am very unworthy. You are the best friend, Wilfrid, that woman ever had. Can you wonder at the suggestion I made to you in the Long Gallery the other day?” Then she hesitated, still looking me straight in the face. “But you have forgiven me,” she went on with a sigh. “I thought that you loved me still—yes—I was very foolish. All women are so sometimes—all women who are terrified and unhappy, as I am!”

And the tears again stood in her eyes as she bowed her beautiful head before me.