Devil's Dice Part 11

"Great Heaven!" I cried aloud, "the writing is Sybil's!" I recognised the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack's possession! Even these half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we were happy in each other's love.

At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the post-mark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of note-paper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following words--"Tuesday--Dear Sir,--Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08 on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter, and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her, kindly telegraph to me personally.--Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe."

Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was "her ladyship?" Was it old Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady's maid, and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by means of an ingeniously-worded advertis.e.m.e.nt. But this would necessarily occupy time.

I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton's maid, Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel's was a French girl, named Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet, unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there, and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack's correspondent, showed that "her ladyship," whoever she was, took every precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman's lover? Was he playing a double game?

I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.

"Proof," I murmured aloud. "What greater proof can I have than the evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?"

I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a portion of Sybil's letter. Apparently a secret had existed between them.

From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterious surroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that Jack Bethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatal shot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?

He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayed his hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and his eagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurred to me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was his feeling.

Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon my table, but from them could gather no further information. The message from the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet its true significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that the meeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabel was Sternroyd's friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square he had inadvertently referred to her as "Mab;" therefore, after all, it seemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke in such veiled terms of "unpleasantness."

The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed hour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I was wondering who was Markwick, the "vile, despicable coward," and dreading the result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph to Hounslow to ascertain Jack's whereabouts, lest by so doing I should betray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what might perhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidence that might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep it secret, at least for the present, and by that means a.s.sist my friend, even if he were guilty, to escape.

In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would go there to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the police would raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journals would be full of "Another West-End Mystery."

I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an a.s.sa.s.sin, perhaps a.s.sisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidence of Jack's guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.

I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saunders entered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched, but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to find mention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came from Jack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terrible secret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted air or the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into the club and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on the first floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip and pa.s.s the time. When I entered I found several city men had grouped themselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, were discussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had no interest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their Stock Exchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to p.r.i.c.k up my ears.

"Bah! he'd become one of our directors at once if we made it worth his while," an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a long cigar between his lips.

"I doubt it," another voice exclaimed. "His name carries weight, but he's not in want of fees."

"If he isn't at this moment he very soon will be," the other answered knowingly. "He's now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with."

"I don't believe that," the others cried in chorus.

"My dear fellows," answered the elder man. "His pretty wife has absolutely ruined him. Another year, and he'll be in the Bankruptcy Court."

"Well, she's cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now," exclaimed one.

"I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simply magnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair, insipid-looking youth. n.o.body knew who he was."

"The latest lover, I suppose," laughed the man who had announced the Earl's impending bankruptcy. "If report speaks true she's rather addicted to flirtation."

"No doubt," observed one of his companions. "But we're discussing business just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of the Countess don't concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on our board. Can it be done?"

"Yes," promptly answered the man who had first spoken. "I'll manage it."

"If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the Great Watersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl's name carries weight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremely beneficial to us."

"Very well. I'll call on him to-morrow," the man said, blowing a cloud of smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon some technicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere in Mashona-land.

Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financial difficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact, and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not help feeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I had overheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that her entertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smart circle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were facts known to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills at Worth's and Redfern's since her marriage must have been as large as those of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her, dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out of date an unforgivable offence against Society's laws. She had lately been living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had become notorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to be enormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never once entered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had good grounds for his a.s.sertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, as I descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at Lady Stretton's, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.

Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now lay dead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had with my adored one, or with that grim untenanted mansion in Gloucester Square? I took the portrait from my pocket and in the fading light glanced at it as I slowly walked. Yes, there was no mistaking the features, nor the oddly-shaped scarf-pin. It was undoubtedly the same man.

CHAPTER TEN.

TATTLE AND TRAGEDY.

When half-an-hour later I sat drinking tea _en famille_ with Lady Stretton and her daughter, I confess I felt ill at ease, notwithstanding their light and pleasant gossip.

"I really don't think you are looking very well, Stuart," the old lady was saying, as the footman handed her her cup. "Town life does not agree with you, perhaps."

"No," I said. "I always prefer the country."

"So do I. If it were not for dear Dora's sake, I think I should live at Blatherwycke altogether."

"You would very soon tire of it, mother," her daughter laughed. "You know very well when we are down there you are always wanting to see your friends in town." Lady Stretton looked always stiff and formal in her rich satins. Nearly sixty, with a profusion of white hair and a rather red face, she brimmed over with corpulence, and still preserved some remnant of the beauty that was half sunken beneath her grossness. To me she was always complimentary and caressing. But she said "My dear" to everybody, spoke in a high-pitched voice, and played the child with that doleful languor characteristic of corpulent persons. She loved secrets, made everything a matter of confidence, talked gossip, and was fond of speaking in one's ear. She pitied others; pitied herself; she bewailed her misfortunes and her physical ills. Nothing could have been more pathetic than her constant attacks of indigestion. She took a very real interest in the career of her friends, for it was part of her completeness to be the centre of a set of successful people.

"We are going to Blatherwycke the day after to-morrow," she said. "The hunting this season has been excellent. Have you been out yet?"

"Not once," I replied. "I haven't been home this season, but I mean to go down in a week or so and have a run with the hounds."

"Oh, that will be awfully jolly," Dora exclaimed, gleefully. "We're having a house-party, so we shall hope to see something of you."

"Thanks," I said. "Memories of our many runs are distinctly pleasant, so I hope we may be companions again."

"Of course. Why, the papers always speak of you as one of the familiar figures in the field," she said. "The hounds are out three days a week now, and foxes are awfully plentiful about Rockingham Forest and away beyond Apethorpe."

"Let's hope we shall obtain a few brushes," I said, and then our conversation was mainly upon past recollections of rapid runs, of the artfulness displayed by various reynards, and of spills, amusing and serious.

No woman who rode with the Fitzwilliam hounds sat her horse so magnificently as Dora Stretton. Even my old friend William Raven, of King's Cliffe, for many years one of the most prominent figures in hunting circles in North Northamptonshire, but now of venerable age, white-bearded, and unable to ride to the meet; a thorough hunting man of the old school, who, when the hounds pa.s.s his window, rises from his warm armchair, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs wistfully because he is not longer agile enough to take part in the sport that he loves; an outspoken critic of all things pertaining to the hunt, and never tired of comparing the splendid riding of twenty years ago with the sloppy form now displayed by foppish youngsters who come down from town and hunt "because it is the thing, you know," was compelled to acknowledge the grace, daring, and firmness always displayed by Lady Stretton's youngest daughter. Her pace was usually a hot one; she took dangerous leaps with a recklessness that was astounding, thought nothing of fatigue, and was almost invariably in at the death.

The prospect of mad, exhilarating gallops with her was to me very pleasant, for I was pa.s.sionately fond of the saddle. But alas! my antic.i.p.ations were chilled by the knowledge of the fearful secret in my inner consciousness.

Dora sat in her low chair, bright, radiant, and happy. Her hair was a trifle disarranged, but it is the prettiest hair that sheds the most hairpins. What if I told her the terrible nature of my discovery, of the awful suspicion that the man who was her hero was a murderer, and had fled?

But I chatted to them about mutual acquaintances, discussed Jack's latest book, "The Siren of Strelitz," which the reviewers were declaring to be the novel of the season, and talked of art at the Grosvenor and the New, without scarcely knowing what words I uttered or what opinion I endorsed. The mention of "The Siren of Strelitz" caused Lady Stretton some little annoyance, and I could not help feeling amused. What, I wondered, would this haughty woman of the world say when in a few brief hours, the papers raised a hue and cry for the popular soldier-novelist, in whose room a man had been found shot dead?

Even as I sat calmly gossiping over the tea-cups the police wires might already be at work and the detectives lounging at the ports of departure aroused from their cat-like lethargy to stand with keen eye, watching every person embarking on Channel and other steamers. I had no interest in her ladyship's idle talk; I was only waiting for her to go out of the room so that I might ask a hurried question of her daughter.

At last, the corpulent old lady rose with an effort and a rustling of silk, and left us.

"Well," I said, rising and taking up a position before the fire, "have you seen anything of Jack to-day?"

"No," she replied, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. "I was in the Row this morning and looked out for him, but he was not there. I expect he is still at Hounslow."

"Did he tell you he was going to Hounslow?" I asked. "Yes, he sent me a note yesterday morning, saying that one of his brother-officers had been compelled to obtain leave unexpectedly, and that he was going down to do duty for him."