Devil's Dice Part 14

"When you call next time, old chap, you might ring, and not enter with your key. It was a narrow squeak that I didn't wing you."

"Are you so fond of shooting at people?" I asked meaningly.

"Shooting! What do you mean?" he asked with a sickly smile. "As a soldier I have to practice with the revolver, of course."

"But not upon your visitors, I hope," I said laughing as we were pa.s.sing along the narrow hall.

We were outside the door of the dining-room, which, being ajar, showed there was no light inside, when suddenly there came from the room a distinct sound.

"Halloa!" I cried gayly. "Who have you got in there? Let's have a look."

I placed my hand upon the door to push it open, but with an agile movement he sprang towards me and stood resolutely with his back to the door, deathly pale in alarm.

"No, Stuart," he gasped. "You must not enter."

"Why? Who's your friend? You arouse my curiosity," I said.

"I forbid you to enter," he replied firmly, standing with his arms akimbo and brows knit in determination.

"What's the meaning of this confounded secrecy?" I asked seriously.

"It means--well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me privately."

"Male or female?"

"I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs," he replied brusquely.

"Come, don't humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is," I said, trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:

"I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed, your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I'm almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them."

"Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?"

"I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity of my best friend."

Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor's ident.i.ty.

Was it some person who was a.s.sisting him to get rid of the hideous evidence of the crime?

His hands trembled perceptibly as he stood before the locked door, and there had returned to his ashen face that wild, haggard expression of intense fear so noticeable when he had first discovered me.

"You speak of the person being compromised if discovered by me," I said.

"Then I presume your visitor is a woman?"

"You are at liberty to entertain whatever conviction you please. I shall, however, tell you nothing."

"You refuse?"

"Yes, I refuse."

"Even though I should tell Dora that I found, in the middle of the night, a mysterious woman in your rooms?"

"Even then I shall refuse to compromise my visitor," he answered, with firmness that completely astounded me.

"Very well," I said abruptly. "Good-night. Remember your appointment, and come down to Wadenhoe next Sat.u.r.day."

"Good-night. Next time we meet I hope you will not be quite so inquisitive," he replied, as he closed the door after me and I descended the stairs.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN STRICT CONFIDENCE.

My first impulse was to remain outside and watch for any person who might emerge, but I knew that his front windows commanded a wide view of the street and he would soon detect me; and again, if anyone did come out, I should not know whether they came from one of the other flats in the same building. Slowly I walked round to my chambers, contemplating the best course to pursue, and at length came to the conclusion that a midnight vigil would be useless, for it might possibly further arouse my friend's suspicions and so thwart my own efforts.

His refusal to disclose the ident.i.ty of his guest and his firm determination to keep the visit a secret, convinced me more than ever that by his hand Gilbert Sternroyd had fallen, and that he was endeavouring to get rid of the evidence of his crime. That night I slept but little, and in the morning, remembering Dora's appointment, I resolved to run round and see him before she called. It was my intention to make pretence that I had a conviction that his visitor was a woman, and wished to give him a chance of explaining to me. If he again refused, then I would impart my suspicions to the woman who loved him. I had no desire to cause her pain, but felt it best that she should know the truth. Sooner or later the blow must fall, and I knew alas! that it would crush her.

Just before ten I stood again outside Bethune's door and rang. My summons was answered by Mrs Horton, who in reply to my question whether Captain Bethune was in, answered:

"No, sir. The Captain hasn't been home these three days, sir. He's at barracks, I believe."

"For three days!" I echoed. It was evident that he had returned and again left unknown to this woman. Then I asked whether she had been there every day.

"No sir. I've been down in Hampshire, sir, to bury my poor niece. The Captain said he would be away, so my daughter went with me."

In answer to further questions she told me that she had returned to work at eight that morning, and that the Captain was still absent. It was evident, too, that she had no suspicion of the tragedy, every trace of which had now been carefully removed.

Making an excuse that I wanted to obtain a paper from the rack in the dining-room, I entered and looked around. Nothing had apparently been disturbed, but on the mantel-shelf I saw a plain gold signet ring that had evidently been overlooked. Taking it up, I examined it, and found engraved on the inside the initials "G.S." It was evidently a ring from the dead man's finger.

I put it down, scrutinised the room carefully, looked in the grate, but saw nothing, then taking up a paper, went out, wishing Mrs Horton "good-day."

Punctually at the hour appointed, Saunders ushered Dora into my room.

She was elegantly dressed in a smart tailor-made gown of dove-grey cloth with a large black hat with feathers, and wore a flimsy veil that rather enhanced than concealed her beauty.

"I feel I'm becoming awfully reckless in making this visit," she commenced with a laugh when she had seated herself in my chair, "but when I got home last night I received such a strange letter from Jack that I felt compelled to seek your advice."

"If I can be of any service I shall be delighted," I said.

She seemed nervously agitated, and her eyes were, I thought, unduly heavy, as if she were unusually anxious.

"Thanks, you are always kind," she said. "Both Mabel and myself always look upon you as our big brother. We often wonder why you never marry.

We shall hear of it, however, some day."

"Never, I hope," I answered with a forced smile, remembering the grim tragedy of my marriage, and recollecting that her lover had once made the very same remark to me.

"Why never? If you had a wife you would be far happier. At present you have only your man to look after your personal comforts, and surely your dinners at your club can never be so pleasant as if you dined at home in company with a pretty wife."

"Upon my word," I cried, laughing, "I shall believe that you actually intend to propose to me next, Dora. I think if it were not--well, if it were not for an obstacle whose name is Jack Bethune, I should be inclined to offer you marriage."

"Oh! Don't talk like that," she protested with a demure look. "You quite misconstrue my words. Once you and I were lovers, when we were in our teens, but all that is past. We have both seen the world now, and have met others whom we could love better."