Devil's Dice Part 10

"We--we may want a.s.sistance," she said. Then she paused, plainly stopped by the beating of her heart, for her breast rose and fell convulsively as tears forced themselves up to her long eyelashes.

Bethune was leaning over her. The light of those brown eyes, seen through the bright br.i.m.m.i.n.g tears, affected him in a manner strange and touching.

"If we ask Stuart to help us I know he will do all in his power," he a.s.sured her. "Ours must be a secret marriage if her ladyship will not consent. Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly, Jack. I trust you because--because I love you."

"Then after all I have no need to be jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd," the soldier-novelist said smiling.

"Gilbert Sternroyd!" I cried amazed. "Who is Gilbert Sternroyd?"

"Dora will answer your question," my friend replied.

I looked eagerly at her, and her eyes met mine with a look full of surprise and mild reproach.

"He admires me, and because he is wealthy, Mabel has suggested that a marriage is possible," she answered.

"He admires you!" I echoed. "Who is he? what is he?"

With some surprise she regarded me, perhaps alarmed at the fierce manner in which I had demanded an explanation.

"I really know very little except that his income is fabulously large, and that he is regarded by many mothers as a substantial matrimonial prize," she replied, adding, "I really don't know his--well, I--"

"Suppose we go into the next room," Jack interposed, evidently to hide Dora's embarra.s.sment. "There is a piano there, although I'm afraid you'll find it sadly out of tune."

"A piano! I really can't play to-night."

"Oh, but you must," I said laughing. "Remember, you came here to spend the evening, and the penalty for coming to a man's chambers is to bring brightness to his life."

We had both risen. With seeming reluctance she also rose, and together we went into an adjoining room, well furnished with a few handsome pieces of old oak, a quant.i.ty of bric-a-brac, and many strange arms and curios which their owner had picked up in out-of-the-way corners of the world.

The apartment was half dining-room, half drawing-room, with dark upholstered chairs, the walls papered a dull red, the effect of the whole being so severe that the shaded lamps seemed to cast no radiance around, but to die out like water drunk up by sand.

Jack, noticing the inconvenient position of the piano, dragged it toward the fire, then bringing a music-stool, he placed a fire-screen behind it, and falling back into an easy-chair, said, "Now we are ready to listen."

She blushed again, overcome with proof of his solicitude, but sat down with murmured thanks; then, after a moment's pause, she turned to me, exclaiming:

"It is not enough for you to say you like music. What is your favourite style? Cla.s.sical or modern?--grave or gay?"

"Whatever you please," I answered.

She thought for a moment, reviewing in her mind the works she knew, then began a nocturne by Chopin. Then another and another, pa.s.sing on abruptly to the celebrated impromptu whose tempo agitato and vehement bursts suddenly tone down into a movement of exquisite softness.

After the first few bars, Jack, rising, had gone to lean over the end of the piano, attracted alike by the charm of the caressing touch and by the strangeness of the music that pleased his ears. From where he stood his eyes wandered over her, from the brown of her hair, softened still more by the shaded light of the candles, to her bust, so white, frail, and elegant. Even to me it seemed that what she was playing was as much her own as her loveliness, and I fell into a reverie until her rich contralto voice suddenly broke forth in Tosti's song:

"If in your heart a corner lies that has no place for me. You do not love me as I deem that love should ever be."

Then, when she had concluded and risen, and I had thanked her, Jack suddenly stooped over her tiny hand and kissed it, as he said in a low, tender voice, "Thanks to the little fingers that have charmed me."

Chancing to glance at my watch, I found it was already past eight o'clock. Enchanted by our fair visitor, neither of us had thought of dinner, but a private room at Verrey's was quickly suggested by Jack, and we went thither in a cab without waiting to dress and there concluded an enjoyable evening, Dora's lover afterward escorting her back to Eaton Square, while I strolled home.

Alone in my chambers that night I carefully examined the portraits of Sybil and Gilbert Sternroyd, but the mystery surrounding them grew hourly more puzzling. That Jack knew something of Sternroyd was evident, therefore I resolved to call on him on the morrow, show him the pictures, and seek his advice.

CHAPTER NINE.

WHO IS HER LADYSHIP?

When I sought Jack on the following morning I was informed by the hall-porter that he had left a message for any callers that he had been compelled to go to Barracks unexpectedly, and would be back from Hounslow in the evening. Disappointed, I went into the City and had a long talk with my father at the bank on the subject of finances, then finished the day gossiping in the club and strolling in the Park. At night, remembering the Countess' promise to be at Lady Hillingdon's dance, I went there, but, in a marvellous gown of old rose, she was the centre of a gay crowd of admirers, and I could obtain but few words with her. I wanted to learn more of Sternroyd, but alas! I saw that anything like a private conversation was out of the question, and was compelled to content myself with waltzing and chatting with various women I knew, for the most part gay, brainless b.u.t.terflies.

In my state of mind the glare and glitter were nauseating and the music jarred upon my nerves, therefore soon after one o'clock I left and drove to Jack's chambers, anxious to seek the truth.

The outer door was shut, for the hall-porter had retired, but, as the key of my own chambers had on many previous occasions opened it, I quickly gained admittance. Mounting the great staircase to the door of his flat, I rang twice, but Mrs Horton did not reside there and my summons was not answered. Jack had evidently not returned, therefore the thought suggested itself to enter with my key and leave a note, as I had done many times before. Acting upon this suggestion, I went in, groping my way down the small pa.s.sage to his den, where the glimmering light told me that his reading-lamp was burning; but just on the threshold of the room my feet struck something in the darkness, and, grasping wildly at air, I fell forward on my face, unable to save myself.

I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped me when next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared with something damp and sticky.

"Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!" I cried, but in the darkness there was neither sound nor movement.

Rushing into the study, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the light, and as its soft radiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startling that the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.

The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but Gilbert Sternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!

Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerly beneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. His hands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.

His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedly searched his victim's pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom door lay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack's.

Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the white drawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at a loss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw that such a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terrible truth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetrated the crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himself jealous of this young man?

With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create a noise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered I noticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-table were open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossed aside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in the room, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, black tinder.

The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of doc.u.ments.

Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had been forced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he not have used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quite consumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp.

They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, the characteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.

I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at the side of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket.

In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with a spectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. The reading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners of the room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurking there. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, I knew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime, therefore, after a final glance at the dead man's face, I extinguished the light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining the street in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.

But all was quiet. I escaped un.o.bserved.

On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd's blood, and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight of my own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of the victim of the secret tragedy.

Having gulped down a stiff gla.s.s of brandy to steady my nerves, I proceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of private papers which effort had been made to destroy.

The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal doc.u.ment. In a firm clerk's hand were the words "...and the said John Arthur Bethune on this fourteenth day of..." upon one, and on the other "...undertake to preserve this secret knowledge until after my death..."

The other sc.r.a.ps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the pa.s.sage "...to give credence to these absurd rumours which I a.s.sure you are totally unfounded..." and another, "...I look to you as my friend to preserve the reputation of a defenceless woman..." The name "Markwick" occurred several times, and once it was "that vile, despicable coward, Markwick."

"That vile, despicable coward, Markwick," I repeated aloud. I reflected deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature upon these sc.r.a.ps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.

One of the sc.r.a.ps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were "...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I..."