For some twenty minutes or so I watched her, undecided whether she were actually the representative of the mysterious Nello, or whether she was merely a shop-girl in the vicinity who expected to meet a friend.
Time after time, although she was ignorant of the constant observation I kept upon her, I managed to get close sight of her, and after a time began to doubt whether she really was a shop assistant. Her black coat and skirt was of some cheap but effective material, and the boa about her neck was of the type usually worn by the employees of Westbourne Grove; yet once as she passed, my eyes caught a gleam beneath the sleeve of her coat, and I saw that she wore, only half-concealed, one of those curious New Zealand bracelets of pale green stone which are so shaped upon the wrist that they can never be removed. Solid and circular, it was a strange, almost barbarous-looking ornament and yet very striking, for in one part was a small band of gold, wherein was set a single diamond, the gleam of which had attracted my attention.
Now if she were a shop assistant, I argued, she could not sell ribbons and laces with such an ornament upon her wrist. No employer would allow such personal adornment. And as she could not remove it there was doubt that she really was what she appeared to be.
It commenced to rain and she put up her umbrella. It was old, and in it were several slits.
I was in half a mind to raise my hat, wish her good-evening, and inquire if she were there in response to the advertisement addressed to Nello, yet on reflection I saw that such a movement would be very indiscreet, and that if she were really there as Nello’s representative then I could gain more by watching her. So, unnoticed, I stood within the station, my back turned to her, and my head buried in an evening paper. To her I was, I suppose, only an ordinary working-man, and if I had approached her she would have at once snubbed me.
Fortunately I so constantly changed my position that she never gave me a look, and was entirely unconscious of being watched. Greater part of the time I stood apart some distance, on the opposite side of the street at the corner of York Place.
From the eager way in which she watched every female approaching, I knew that she was waiting for a woman.
At last she became convinced that her vigil was in vain. The rain had ceased, she closed her umbrella and entered an omnibus which had pulled up before the station, and an instant afterwards moved on towards the Edgware Road.
It passed close to where I was standing on the kerb, and a few moments afterwards I was in a hansom following it at a respectable distance, my head again hidden in a newspaper. Down Edgware Road, past the Marble Arch and along Park Lane we went to Victoria Station, where the dark-eyed girl alighted, and entering the Chatham and Dover terminus passed through the barrier with the return half of a first-class ticket.
Without reflection I went to the booking-office, obtained a third for Loughborough Junction, a station through which most trains passed, and five minutes later was seated in a compartment near her. If she had really responded to my invitation, then it was my duty to discover her destination and learn something concerning her.
For half an hour I sat in the train looking out at every stopping-place, but seeing nothing of her.
At last, at a half-lit suburban station she descended and hurried out. I followed quickly, handing the collector a two-shilling piece as excess fare.
I glanced at the name on the station lamp. It was Lordship Lane.
Outside was the foot of Sydenham Hill.
I allowed her to get on well in front and then followed her along the silent ill-lit suburban road for half a mile up the steep hill, flanked on either side by large detached houses. For some reason best known to herself she had not gone on to the next station, Upper Sydenham. Perhaps she was too well known there.
Half-way up the hill I walked more quickly and gained upon her, so that I saw into which gateway she went.
She disappeared through the gate of the house called Keymer—the house of the mysterious John Parham!
Then I was, of course, convinced that she had kept the appointment on behalf of the unknown Nello.
I had not called upon Mrs Parham since that tragic incident which I had witnessed from the pavement, and longed now to follow the dark-eyed girl and learn the reason of her presence at Baker Street. But a visit at that hour was entirely out of the question. Besides, my disguise as a working-man would arouse suspicion.
Therefore I was compelled to retrace my steps, return to my hotel in Adelphi Terrace, and send a line to Budd, ordering him to bring me a hat and a decent suit of clothes in a kitbag.
Eric’s complete silence now alarmed me. How did Tibbie know that he was in Paris? Surely she possessed some means of communication with certain persons of which I was in entire ignorance. There might be other advertisements in other journals which I had not seen—by pre-arrangement in some obscure country journal possibly.
Jack and Lord Wydcombe were now anxious regarding the absence of both of us from London, and must, of course, regard our silence as curious. Yet so far as I could gather they never for one moment connected my absence with Tibbie’s disappearance. Tibbie they regarded as erratic and utterly uncontrollable, just as she had ever been from the time she was expelled from her school at Versailles for defying the principal, and causing the other pupils to revolt over some fancied grievance.
Next day about twelve, risking recognition by any person who might know me, I assumed my frock coat, silk hat and gloves and visited Keymer.
Mrs Parham was in the drawing-room, arranging some flowers in a vase, and turned to me quickly when I was announced.
“Forgive me for calling, madam, but you will, of course, recollect me,” I said. “I was in this neighbourhood and thought I would pay my respects and ascertain how you were.”
“Ah! of course,” she exclaimed. “I remember you perfectly—on that night—that night when they came here,” she faltered, rather tamely, I thought, and she motioned me to a chair and seated herself.
“The poor girl has, of course, been buried,” I said. “I saw accounts of the inquest in the papers.”
“Yes. They brought in a verdict of murder, but up to the present the police have discovered nothing, it appears. Ah!” she sighed. “They are so very slow. It’s monstrous that such a thing could happen here, in the centre of a populated district. Out in the lonely country it would be quite another thing. I should have left the house at once, only I feared that my husband would be annoyed. He is abroad, you know.”
“And have you had no word from him?”
“Not a line. I’m expecting a letter from India by every mail. He is in India, I know, as he told one of his City friends that he was going. He sailed on the Caledonia from Marseilles nearly five weeks ago. He may have written me from Paris and the letter miscarried. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
I recollected that I had never given her a card, therefore she very fortunately did not know my name, and I did not intend that she should, if concealment were at all possible.
There was a mystery about that house and its occupants which caused me to act with circumspection.
I looked around the room. Nothing had been altered save that the couch upon which they had laid the dead girl was now gone, and the corner of the carpet which had been torn up had been re-nailed down. The piano at which my hostess had sat when attacked was still in its place, and the table whereon had stood the photograph which I had stolen still contained that same silver and bric-à-brac.
As Mrs Parham was speaking the door suddenly opened, and the dark-eyed young girl whom I had watched on the previous night came gaily into the room. The instant I saw her I recognised that she was a lady. In a clean, fresh cotton blouse and neat tailor-made skirt she presented a much smarter appearance them in that cheap black coat and skirt as she stood in the muddy roadway. The green stone bracelet was still upon her wrist, the one object which alone had showed me that she was no shop assistant.
“This is Miss O’Hara,” my hostess exclaimed, introducing us; “she has kindly come to stay with me until my husband’s return.”
And as we bowed to each other I saw that the newcomer had no previous knowledge of me.
“I was present at the unfortunate affair,” I said. “Mrs Parham must have been very upset by it.”
“She was,” declared the girl, in a quiet, refined voice. “But she’s getting over it now. The worst shock was the maid’s death. It was a most dastardly piece of business, and moreover, no one knows with what motive it was done.”
“To get possession of something which Mr Parham had concealed here,” I said.
“That may be, but as far as Mrs Parham is aware they took nothing beyond a few of her husband’s private papers.”
“Nothing except a photograph that stood on the table over there,” remarked my hostess.
“A photograph!” I exclaimed, in pretended surprise. “Of whom?”
“Of a friend,” was the vague response, and I saw that the two women looked at each other meaningly.
They intended to keep the identity of the original of the stolen portrait a secret. Yet they were in utter ignorance that it was in my possession.
Why had this Miss O’Hara gone to meet Sybil in Nello’s place? I wondered.
I chatted with them both for a long time, but without being able to discover any additional fact. They were both clever women, and knew how to hold their tongues.
Presently Mrs Parham said suddenly,—
“I’m sure my husband will feel very indebted to you when he knows all the facts. I have not the pleasure of your name.”
“Morton,” I said, “William Morton,” and feeling in my pocket expressed regret that I had forgotten my card-case.
A quarter of an hour later I took my leave and was walking down Sydenham Hill when I suddenly encountered my friend the police inspector of the night of the strange affair at Keymer.
He glanced at me, and our recognition was mutual.
Then when he had greeted me he turned on his heel and walked in my direction. After some conversation regarding the mysterious attempt and its fatal termination, he said in a hard voice,—
“Our people are rather surprised at your attitude, you know.”
“My attitude! What do you mean?” I exclaimed, looking at him in surprise.
“Well. You might have given information when you knew that we wanted to question that man Parham.”
“Information of what?”
“Of his whereabouts. You were seen one evening not long ago talking to him.”
“Where?”
“In the entrance to the Empire,” replied the inspector. “One of our plain-clothes men saw you with Parham and another man. But the fellow managed to get away, as he always does.”
I stood aghast.
“Was he a fair bald-headed man?”
“Of course.”
I was silent. The truth was plain, the revelation a staggering one. Winsloe had introduced his accomplice, John Parham, to me as the traveller and engineer named Humphreys!
It was in John Parham’s house that the dastardly attempt had been made upon my life—in his house that other persons had met with mysterious and untimely ends.
That same evening, attired in my working clothes, I watched Winsloe’s chambers in King Street at the hour when I knew his habit was to return to dress for dinner.
From five o’clock till half-past seven I lingered in the vicinity; then returning to my hotel in the Adelphi I there met Budd, whom I sent round to the man’s chambers to inquire when he would be in.
Half an hour later my valet returned with the information that Mr Winsloe was out of town, and was not expected back for several days. He had gone to the north, his man believed, but he had no instructions to forward letters.
Gone north! Had he discovered Tibbie’s whereabouts and gone after her?
Mine was a tantalising position, unable to return to my own rooms for fear that Winsloe and Parham should discover that I was still alive. They believed me to be dead—that I had “gone home,” as “White Feather” reported.
That night I spent several hours wandering through those streets behind Regent Street, trying to recognise the house with the fatal stairs. All, however, was to no purpose. I had, I think, mistaken the direction which we had taken. Tired and worn out, I ate supper about ten o’clock in a small and rather uncleanly little foreign restaurant in Dean Street, and then returned to the Adelphi, where I sat a long time in my room overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, lost in the mazes of mystery that now presented themselves.
Where was Eric Domville? Where was Ellice Winsloe? Where was John Parham, alias Humphreys?
Tibbie evidently knew a great deal more than she would admit. She had told me that my friend was in Paris. How could she know if she held no communication with anyone?
No—the more I reflected the more evident did it become that she was playing a double game.
As I sat at the window with the dark deserted gardens below me, the row of gas-lamps and the wide river before me, I tried to analyse my real feelings towards the dainty little love of my youth.
She was a woman guilty of the terrible crime of murder, and yet I had promised to shield her because she had declared that her enemies intended to crush her. Had I really acted rightly? I asked myself. Truly, I was endeavouring to defeat the ends of justice. Nevertheless, I recollected her wild earnest appeal to me, how she had fallen upon her knees and implored my help and protection. I remembered, too, that in her desperation she would have taken her own life rather than face her enemies.
What did it all mean?
So extraordinary had been the sequence of amazing events that my mind failed to grasp the true significance of all the facts.
Of one truth, however, I was well aware, namely, that the dull life of workaday Camberwell had worked a wonderful change in my little friend. She was more sedate, more composed, more womanly, while her calmness accentuated her sweetness of manner. Yet why did she wish to pose as a married woman? What did she fear beyond the exposure of her crime?
She was fascinating, I own that. But upon her beauty and grace was resting that dark, gruesome shadow, the shadow of the sword of retribution, which hung over her, and from which she, alas! would never escape.
What did the family think of her prolonged absence? What did the police think?
I knew well that both old Lady Scarcliff and Jack were leaving no stone unturned to try to discover her, while Wydcombe had left word with Budd that as soon as ever I returned he wished to see me. I would dearly have liked to have gone round to Curzon Street, but by doing so, I saw that Jack would know I had been there, and he might mention my visit to Winsloe, who, without doubt, was still his friend.
My cipher advertisement had been so successful that, after due consideration, I resolved to try and draw “White Feather,” and ascertain the identity of that mysterious person.
Therefore I sat at the table, and after half an hour had reduced to the cipher the following announcement,—
“To White Feather.—Must see you. Very urgent. Meet me to-night at entrance to Dean’s Yard, Westminster, at nine, without fail.—S.”
If “White Feather” was in London he or she would certainly keep the appointment with Sybil. My only fear was that she might see the paper up in Newcastle, and detect the forgery.
Before midnight I handed in the advertisement at the newspaper office in Fleet Street, and next morning had the satisfaction of seeing it in print.
The day I spent in comparative idleness. Budd, to whom I explained my strange conduct by saying that I was still engaged in watching someone, called with my letters and executed several commissions for me. I wrote to “Mrs William Morton” at the post-office at Carlisle, and spent the afternoon reading in the hotel. Budd had instructions to let me know immediately anything was heard of Eric, and was now acting as my secret agent, eager to serve me in every particular.
It was a wet, unpleasant night, as, a little before nine, I alighted from an omnibus in Victoria Street, and passing up Great Smith Street, approached Dean’s Yard from the Great College Street side, the opposite entrance to the spot where the appointment was to be kept.
Dean’s Yard is a quiet square of ancient smoke-blackened houses, a cloister of the abbey in the old days, quiet and secluded even in these modern go-ahead times. In all Westminster there is no quieter, old-world spot, frequented in the daytime only by the few persons who use it as a short cut to Tufton Street and Horseferry Road, and at night quiet and deserted.
Entering the small secluded square from the opposite side, I slipped along half-way on the south side to a position where I could have a good view of the great arched gate communicating with Victoria Street, and there found a deep, dark doorway which afforded me admirable concealment.
I stood and waited. Scarcely had I settled myself there when the chimes of Big Ben rang out the hour, and then I strained my eyes towards the great ill-lit Gothic gateway.
Not a soul was in the place, not even a policeman. Presently a poor woman with a shawl over her head hurried past in the falling rain, and afterwards came the postman, who, very fortunately, had no letters for the door where I stood concealed in the shadow. The place seemed dark, mysterious, almost ghostly, in the dead silence of the night.
The quarter chimed, but no person lingered at the gateway. Perhaps the advertisement had not been seen; or, more likely, “White Feather” was absent from London.
At last, however, I heard the rattle of a four-wheeled cab outside the gateway. I saw it stop, and a man alighted. Then the vehicle moved on slowly, and again stopped, as though awaiting him. A dark figure in black overcoat and low felt hat loomed up in the darkness of the gateway, and entering the Yard glanced eagerly around.
Next moment another person, a rather taller man, entered and passed him by, but without speaking. Indeed, they passed as strangers, the second man strolling slowly along the pavement in the direction of where I was in hiding. He passed by me, and as the street lamp shone upon his face I saw that he was young and his features were aquiline, dark and evil-looking. I had never to my knowledge seen him before. He seemed well-dressed, for his overcoat did not conceal the fact that he was wearing evening clothes. His collar was turned up, but he went on heedless of the rain, his sharp eyes searching everywhere. My hiding-place was a most excellent one, however, and he failed to detect my presence.
A few minutes later a third man entered the Yard, a youngish man with the air of the Cockney from the East End. He wore a hard hat of the usual costermonger type, a red woollen comforter about his neck, and his trousers were bell-bottomed and adorned with pearl buttons. He, however, gave no sign to either of the other two, although it was apparent that they were acquainted, for sorely three men could not be keeping appointments at that unfrequented spot at the same moment.
The first comer still stood in the gateway, but too far away to allow me to clearly distinguish his features. He stood back in the shadow, his face turned expectantly out to the open roadway, where ever and anon I saw the lights of cabs passing and re-passing. Meanwhile, the two men in the quiet little square had walked to the opposite gateway, and there halted, though at a respectable distance from each other.
The man who had arrived in a cab stood for a long time in patience, the other two giving no sign whatever of their presence. At first I was half inclined to think that the trio were strangers to each other, but on watching their movements I saw that something was premeditated—but what it was I could not gather.
While the man dressed as a costermonger—or perhaps he was a real costermonger—remained near the exit to the Yard ready to give warning of anyone approaching, the man in evening clothes slowly re-passed me, while at the same time the watcher at the gate came forward in his direction.
When not far from me he halted and struck a vesta in order to light a cigarette. The fickle flame betrayed his countenance.
It was the man John Parham, the person believed by his wife to be in India.
What was contemplated? The four-wheeled cab was still in waiting in the little open space which divides Dean’s Yard from Victoria Street, while the exit to Great College Street was being watched, and the thin-faced man lurked there ready for Sybil’s arrival.
Within myself I smiled to think that all their elaborate arrangements were futile, and wondered if Parham was the man who signed himself “White Feather?” In that fellow’s house were the fatal stairs, therefore if I followed him I should now be enabled to fix the actual place to which I had, on that never-to-be-forgotten night, been enticed.
While the costermonger remained on vigil, Parham and his companion passed and re-passed, but still without acknowledging each other.
Once the costermonger suddenly began to whistle a popular music-hall air, and turning I saw that it was a preconcerted signal. A man had entered the Yard from Great College Street and was crossing to where Parham was standing.
For fully three-quarters of an hour they waited patiently until ten o’clock struck. Then Parham approached his companion, and they stood in earnest conversation.
Almost at the same moment a female figure in deep black came swiftly through the gateway into the Yard, causing both to start quickly and draw back. Next instant, however, Parham started off briskly, walking past me to where the costermonger was standing, while his thin-faced accomplice slipped past the newcomer and disappeared into Victoria Street.
It was evident that the woman’s appearance had instantly upset all their calculations.
The newcomer stopped, glanced around and strained her eyes into the darkness. She wore a close black hat, a long mackintosh, and carried an umbrella, yet so swiftly had Parham disappeared that she had not noticed his presence in the Yard, while the other man had so cleverly slipped past her and out through the gateway that she had not seen his face.
For a few moments she stood expectant. I could see that she had hurried, in fear of being too late.
Then, as she approached me, I discerned that she was the girl O’Hara.
And of her, Parham and his lurking accomplices were evidently in fear, as they separated and disappeared.
I watched her standing there and wondered why she had come. Was it in order to save Sybil from some plot that had been prepared for her?
Was it their intention to take her to that dark, mysterious house with the fatal stairs?
I felt convinced that it was. The truth was plain. There was a plot against Sybil. The cab had been in waiting there to convey the victim to her grave!
My bitterest regret was that I had not been able to follow Parham and trace him to the house of doom, but at the moment of his disappearance I had been unable to emerge from my hiding-place, otherwise the girl O’Hara would have seen me. Perhaps, indeed, she might have recognised me. So, by sheer force of adverse circumstances, I was compelled to remain there and see the trio escape under my very nose.
I had learnt one important fact, however, namely, that a deep conspiracy was afoot against Sybil.
It was beyond comprehension how Tibbie, daughter of the noble and patrician house of Scarcliff, could be so intimately associated with what appealed to me to be a daring gang of malefactors. The treatment I had received at their hands showed me their utter unscrupulousness. I wondered whether what the police suspected was really true, that others had lost their lives in that house wherein I had so nearly lost mine. What was the story of Tibbie’s association with them—a romance no doubt, that had had its tragic ending in the death of the unknown in Charlton Wood.
To me, it seemed plain that he was a member of the gang, for had he not their secret cipher upon him, and did not both Winsloe and Parham possess his photograph?
I recollected the receipt for a registered letter which I had found among the letters in the dead man’s pocket, and next morning told Budd to go and unlock the drawer in my writing-table and bring it to me. He did so, and I saw that the receipt was for a letter handed in at the post-office at Blandford in Dorset, addressed to: “Charles Denton, 16b Bolton Road, Pendleton, Manchester.”
I turned over the receipt in my hand, wondering whether the slip of paper would reveal anything to me. Then, after some reflection, I resolved to break my journey in Manchester on my return to Tibbie in Carlisle, and ascertain who was this man to whom the dead unknown had sent a letter registered.
Next afternoon I passed through Salford in a tram-car, along by Peel Park, and up the Broad Street to Pendleton, alighting at the junction of those two thoroughfares, the one leading to aristocratic Eccles and Patricroft, and the other out to bustling Bolton.
The Bolton road is one over which much heavy traffic passes, and is lined with small houses, a working-class district, for there are many mills and factories in the vicinity. I found the house of which I was in search, a small, rather clean-looking place, and as I passed a homely-looking woman was taking in the milk from the milkman.
Without hesitation I stopped, and addressing her, exclaimed,—
“Excuse me, mum, but do you happen to know a Mr Charles Denton?”
The woman scanned me quickly with some suspicion, I thought, but noticing, I supposed, that although a working-man I seemed highly respectable, replied bluntly, in a pronounced Lancashire dialect,—
“Yes, I do. What may you want with him?”
“I want to see him on some important business,” was my vague reply. “Is he at home?”
“No, he ain’t,” was the woman’s response. “Mr Denton lodges with me, but ’e’s up in London just now, and ’e’s been there this four months.”
“In London!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but I don’t know his address. When he goes away ’e never leaves it. He’s lodged with me this two years, but I don’t think ’e’s been here more than six months altogether the whole time.”
“Then you have a lot of letters for him, I suppose?”
“Yes, quite a lot,” answered the good woman. The letter sent by the dead man might be among them!
“It was about a letter that I wanted to see Mr Denton—about a registered letter. I’ve come from London on purpose.”
“From London!” ejaculated the woman, a stout, good-humoured person.
“Yes. I wonder whether you’d mind me looking at the letters, if it is among them I’d know he had not received it. The fact is,” I added in confidence, “there’s a big lawsuit pending, and if he hasn’t got the letter then the other side can’t take any action against him.”
“Then you’re on his side?” she asked shrewdly.
“Of course I am. I came down to explain matters to him. If I can ascertain that he didn’t get the letter then that’s all I want. I’m a stranger, I know,” I added, “but as it is in Mr Denton’s interest I don’t think you’ll refuse.”
She hesitated, saying she thought she ought to ask her husband when he returned from the mill. But by assuring her of her lodger’s peril, and that I had to catch the six-thirty train back to London, I at last induced her to admit me to the house, and there in the small, clean, front parlour which was given over to her lodger when he was there, she took a quantity of letters from a cupboard and placed them before me.
Among the accumulated correspondence were quite a number of registered letters, and several little packets which most likely contained articles of value.
While I chatted with the woman with affected carelessness, pretending to be on very friendly terms with her lodger, I quickly fixed upon the letter in question, a registered envelope directed in a man’s educated hand, and bearing the Blandford post-mark.
In order, however, to divert her attention, I took up another letter, declaring that to be the important one, and that the fact of his not having received it was sufficient to prevent the action being brought.
“I’m very glad of that,” she declared in satisfaction. “Mr Denton is such a quiet gentleman. When he’s here he hardly ever goes out, but sits here reading and writing all day.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “he’s very studious—always was—but a very excellent friend. One of the very best.”
“So my husband always says. We only wish he was here more.”
“I saw him in London about a month ago,” I remarked, in order to sustain the fiction.
How I longed to open that letter that lay so tantalisingly before me. But what could I do? Such a thing was not to be thought of. Therefore, I had to watch the woman gather the correspondence together and replace them in the cupboard.
I rose and thanked her, saying,—
“I’m delighted to think that Charlie will escape a very disagreeable affair. It’s fortunate he wasn’t here to receive that letter.”
“And I’m glad, too. When he returns I’ll tell him how you came here, and what you said. What name shall I give him?”
“Williams—Harry Williams,” I answered. “He will know.”
Then as I walked round to the window I examined the room quickly, but to my disappointment saw that there were no photographs. He might, I thought, keep the portraits of some of his friends upon the mantelshelf, as so many men do. Was this Denton one of the conspirators, I wondered? His absence without an address for four months caused me to suspect that he was.
Just as I had given her my assumed name, somebody knocked at the door, and she went to open it.
Next instant a thought flashed across to me. Should I take that letter? It was a theft—that I recognised, yet was it not in the interests of justice? By that communication I might be able to establish the dead man’s identity.
There was not a second to lose. I decided at once. I heard the woman open the door and speak to someone, then swift as thought I opened the cupboard, glanced at the packet of letters, and with quickly-beating heart took the one which bore the Blandford post-mark.
In a moment it was in my pocket. I re-closed the cupboard, and sprang to the opposite side of the room just as the good woman re-entered.
Then, with profuse thanks and leaving kind messages to the man of whom I spoke so familiarly as “Charlie,” I took my leave and hurried along the broad road into Salford, where I jumped upon a tram going to the Exchange.
I was in the train alone, in a third-class compartment, travelling north to Carlisle, before I dared to break open the letter.
When I did so I found within a scribbled note in cipher written on the paper of the Bear Hotel, at Devizes. After some difficulty, with the aid of the key which the writer had evidently used in penning it, I deciphered it as follows:—
“Dear Denton,—I saw you in the smoking-room of the Midland at Bradford, but for reasons which you know, I could not speak. I went out, and on my return you had gone. I searched, but could not find you. I wanted to tell you my opinion about Ellice and his friend. They are not playing a straight game. I know their intentions. They mean to give us away if they can. Sybil fears me, and will pay. I pretend to know a lot. Meet me in Chichester at the Dolphin next Sunday. I shall put up there, because I intend that she shall see me. Come and help me, for I shall have a good thing on, in which you can share. She can always raise money from her sister or her mother, so don’t fail to keep the appointment. Ellice has already touched a good deal of the Scarcliffs’ money from young Jack, and I now mean myself to have a bit. She’ll do anything to avoid scandal. It’s a soft thing—so come.—Yours,—
“R.W.”
The dead man was, as I had suspected, one of the gang, and he was a blackmailer. He had compelled her to meet him and had made demands which she had resisted. Yes—the letter was the letter of a barefaced scoundrel.
I clenched my hands and set my teeth.
Surely I had done right to endeavour to protect Sybil from such a band of ruffians. Once I had pitied the dead man, but now my sympathy was turned to hatred. He had written this letter to his friend Denton, suggesting that the latter should assist him in his nefarious scheme of blackmail.
He confessed that he “pretended” to know a lot. What did he pretend to know, I wondered? Ah! if only Sybil would speak—if only she would reveal to me the truth.
Yet, after all, how could she when that man, the fellow who had written that letter, had fallen by her hand?
The letter at least showed that her enemies had been and were still unscrupulous. Winsloe, even now, was ready to send her to her grave, just as I had been sent—because I had dared to come between the conspirators and their victim. And yet she trusted Nello—whoever the fellow was.
Who was the man Denton, I wondered? A friend of the mysterious “R.W.,” without a doubt, and a malefactor like himself.
I placed my finger within the linen-lined envelope, and to my surprise found a second piece of thin blue paper folded in half. Eagerly I opened it and saw that it was a letter written in plain English, in bad ink, and so faint that with difficulty I read the lines.
It was in the scoundrel’s handwriting—the same calligraphy as that upon the envelope.
I read the lines, and so extraordinary were they that I sat back upon the seat utterly bewildered.
What was written there complicated the affair more than ever. The problem admitted of no solution, for the mystery was by those written lines rendered deeper and more inscrutable than before.
Was Sybil, after all, playing me false?
I held my breath as the grave peril of the situation came vividly home to me.
Yes—I had trusted her; I had believed her.
She had fooled me!
The words upon the second slip of paper were,—
“Ellice believes that Sybil still loves Wilfrid Hughes. This is incorrect. Tell him so. The girl is merely using Hughes for her own purposes. She loves Arthur Rumbold. I have just learnt the truth—something that will astonish you.”
Rumbold! Who was Arthur Rumbold? I had never heard mention of him. This was certainly a new feature of the affair. Sybil had a secret lover of whom I was in ignorance. She was no doubt still in communication with him, and through him had learnt of Eric’s whereabouts and other facts that had surprised me.
I read and re-read the letter, much puzzled. She was only using me for her own purposes—or in plain English she was fooling me!
I was angry with myself for not being more wary.
The train stopped at Preston, and then rushed north again as I sat alone in the corner of the carriage thinking deeply, and wondering who was this man Rumbold.
At Carlisle another surprise was in store for me, for I found a hurried note from Sybil saying that she had unfortunately been recognised by a friend and compelled to leave. She had gone on to Glasgow, and would await me there at the Central Station Hotel. Therefore, by the Scotch express at two o’clock that morning I travelled up to Glasgow, and on arrival found to my chagrin that she had stayed there one night, and again left. There was a note for me, saying that she had gone to Dumfries, but that it would be best for me not to follow.
“Return to Newcastle and await me,” she wrote. “My quick movements are imperative for my own safety. I cannot tell you in a letter what has happened, but will explain all when we meet.”
“By what train did the lady leave?” I inquired of the hall-porter who had handed me the letter.
“The six-twenty last night, sir,” was the man’s answer. “I got her ticket—a first-class one to Fort William.”
“Then she went north—not south,” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Of course.”
Sybil had misled me in her letter by saying that she had gone to Dumfries, when really she had travelled in the opposite direction. She had purposely misled me.
“The lady left hurriedly, it would appear.”
“Yes, sir. About five o’clock a gentleman called to see her, and she met him in the hall. She was very pale, I noticed, as though she was surprised at his visit, or rather upset. But they went out together. She returned an hour later, wrote this letter, which she told me to give to you if you called, and then left for Fort William.”
“And did the man call again?”
“Yes. She said he would, and she told me to tell him that she had gone to Edinburgh. I told him that, and he seemed very surprised, but went away. He was in evening dress, and it seemed as though they had intended dining together. She seemed,” added the man rather sneeringly, “to be more like a lady’s-maid than a lady.”
“But the gentleman, describe him to me.”
“Oh! he was a rather short, podgy man, fair, with a baldish head.”
Was it Parham? the description suited him.
“He gave no card?”
“No. He met the young lady here in the hall. My idea was that his presence was very unwelcome, as she seemed in great fear lest he should return before she could get away.”
“Has the man left Glasgow?”
“I think so. I saw him on the platform about nine, just before the Edinburgh express left. He’s probably gone on there. He seemed quite a gentleman.”
“They appeared to be friendly?”
“Perfectly. Only she evidently did not expect to meet him. She asked the name of a hotel at Fort William, and I told her to go to the Station.”
“Then she’s there!” I exclaimed quickly.
“Probably. She arrived there this morning.”
I tipped the man, and after idling in Glasgow some hours, left for Fort William, determined to disobey Sybil’s order to go back to Newcastle.
It was a long but picturesque journey. When I arrived I went at once to the hotel to inquire if Mrs Morton were there.
The manageress shook her head, saying,—
“There was a Mrs Morton, a young woman like a lady’s-maid, who arrived here yesterday morning, and left here last evening. A lady was awaiting her—her mistress, I think.”
“What was her name?”
“Mrs Rumbold,” was the answer, after referring to the visitors’ book.
“Rumbold!” The name of the secret lover.
“Was she old or young?”
“Elderly, with grey hair. A rather stiff, formal kind of person.”
“Where have they gone?”
“I heard Mrs Rumbold say that she wanted to go to Oban. So perhaps they’ve gone there.”
There was a boat down to Oban in three hours’ time, therefore I took it, passed down the beautiful Loch and by the island of Lismore, places too well known to the traveller in Scotland to need any description, and that same evening found myself in Oban, the Charing Cross of the Highlands. I had been there several times before, and always stayed at the Great Western. Therefore I took the hotel omnibus, and on alighting asked if a Mrs Rumbold was staying there.
The reply was a negative one, therefore I went round to several other hotels, finding at last that she and “her maid” had taken a room at the Alexandra that morning, but had suddenly changed their plans, and had left at two o’clock by train for the south, but whether for Glasgow or Edinburgh was not known.
I therefore lost track of them. Sybil had apparently successfully escaped from her male visitor at Glasgow, while at the same time Mrs Rumbold—probably the mother of the man she loved in secret—had awaited her up at Fort William.
For what reason? Why was she now masquerading as maid of the mother of her lover?
Again, if her visitor in Glasgow was really Parham, he must have very quickly obtained knowledge of her whereabouts, for only a few days before I had watched him arrange that ingenious plot against her in Dean’s Yard—a plot which would have no doubt been carried into execution if Sybil had been present.
I hesitated how to act.
If they had gone south, it was useless for me to remain in Oban. Her appointment with me was in Newcastle, and it seemed certain that she would sooner or later seek me there. But at that moment my curiosity was aroused regarding this Mrs Rumbold, as to who and what she was, and further, as to the identity of Arthur, about whom the dead man had known so much.
I left Oban and went back to Glasgow. My friend, the hall-porter at the Central Station, was talkative, but had not seen the lady again. It struck me that as the bald-headed man had met her in Glasgow, and as she had left a message for him that she had gone to Edinburgh, she would naturally avoid both places, or at any rate not halt there.
Had she gone on to Dumfries? She had left a message for me that she was there. Would she now go there in order to see if I were awaiting her instead of at Newcastle?
Dumfries, the town of Burns, was on my way down to Carlisle, therefore I resolved to make a halt there for an hour or two to inquire.
I remained the night in Glasgow, for I was fagged out by so much travelling, and next day, just before twelve, I alighted at Dumfries. I had never been there before, but outside the station I saw the Railway Hotel, and entering, asked whether Mrs Rumbold was staying there.
Yes, she was. Did I wish to see her? asked the lady clerk in the bureau.
I replied in the affirmative, and sent her my name, “Mr Morton,” written on a slip of paper.
The waiter returned with a curious look upon his face. I saw in an instant that something had occurred and was not surprised when he said,—
“Mrs Rumbold has a bad headache, sir, and would be glad if you’d call again about five or six. The chambermaid says she’s lying down.”
“Is there another person with her?” I inquired. “Her own maid, I mean.”
“No, sir. She’s alone.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Quite. I took her name when she arrived in the hotel. She has no maid.”
“And no lady friend?”
“No. She’s entirely alone.”
That surprised me. Had Sybil parted from her and gone straight on to Newcastle in order to find me? There was nothing to be done but to wait till half-past five, and call again on Mrs Rumbold. I therefore took a room at the hotel, and lunched in the coffee-room.
The woman’s excuse made me suspicious that she wished to avoid meeting me, and that when I returned at six I should find her gone.
So I passed the time in writing letters, and remained in patience until half-past five, when I sent up again to know if she would receive me. The answer came back that she was still too unwell, and I sent word to her that I could wait, as I wished to see her upon a very important matter.
My determination showed her that I did not intend that she should escape; therefore, just before the dinner gong rang the waiter came to me and said that the lady was in the small drawing-room upstairs and would see me.
I ascended the stairs wondering what would be the outcome of my interview. I wanted to ascertain who the woman was and the nature of the relations between her and Sybil.
When I entered the room a rather elderly lady with whitish hair severely brushed back and attired in deep black rose to meet me, bowing stiffly and saying—
“I have not the honour of your acquaintance, Mr Morton, and am rather curious to know what you want with me.”
“Well, madam,” I replied, “the fact is I want to ask you a question. The Honourable Sybil Burnet has been travelling with you dressed as a lady’s-maid, and I am here to learn where she has now gone.”
The woman started in surprise, and glared at me. She probably, from my disguise as a working-man, put me down as a detective.
“And my reply to you, sir, is that Miss Sybil’s destination is her own affair. We parted, and she has gone south. That is all I know.”
“But you also know the reason why she is masquerading as a maid; why at Fort William and at Oban you made people believe she was your maid. You had a motive, and I think you may as well admit it.”
“I do not see your right to question me about my private affairs!” she exclaimed angrily. “This is monstrous!”
“I have no desire to pry into your affairs, madam,” I answered, quite coolly. “The Honourable Sybil is a friend of mine, and I am anxious to know her whereabouts,” I said.
“But I cannot tell you what I don’t know myself. She went on to Carlisle—that’s all I know.”
“She parted from you suddenly. Why?” I asked. “Shall I tell you? Because she is in fear of being followed,” I exclaimed, and, smiling, added, “I think, madam, that I hold greater knowledge of the family than perhaps even you do yourself. I have known the Scarcliffs all my life. Old Lady Scarcliff is greatly upset regarding Sybil’s protracted absence. They are beginning to think that something has happened to her. I can now tell her that she has been with you, masquerading as your maid, and that you refuse all information concerning her. You know, I daresay, that the police are actively trying to find her on the application of her brother, Lord Scarcliff?”
My threat caused her some consternation. I could see that from the way she fumed and fidgeted.
“To tell Lady Scarcliff such a thing would only be to throw a blame upon myself of which I am entirely innocent,” she protested. “I assure you that if I knew where she had gone, I would tell you.”
“No, pardon me, madam. You would not. You believe that I’m a detective.”
“Your actions certainly betray you,” she exclaimed resentfully. “You’ve been watching us closely—for what reason?”
“Well,” I replied slowly. “The fact is, I am fully aware of the secret love existing between Sybil Burnet and Arthur Rumbold.”
“Sybil and Arthur?” she cried, turning pale and looking me straight in the face. “What do you mean? Arthur—my boy, Arthur!”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Who are you?” she exclaimed, starting up breathlessly from her chair. She was in fear of me, I saw. “Who are you that you should know this?” she gasped.
“William Morton,” was my cool reply. “I thought I sent my name up to you this morning!”