Devil's Dice Part 17

From what I had overheard I had learnt more than one fact of the highest importance. If no warrant had been issued against Bethune why should not this be communicated to him; why indeed should I not seek of Mabel the truth about the woman I had loved?

This course, after some consideration, commended itself to me, and I walked on with firm resolve to obtain from the smart Society leader some facts regarding Sybil's tragic end. With that object I again wandered among the dancers in search of the striking study in heliotrope. I could not, however, find her, but discovering Dora flushed by waltzing, fanning herself, and enduring the inane chatter of an insipid young sprig of the Stock Exchange, I managed to take her aside.

"Now, Dora, tell me," I said, when we were standing together alone on the veranda, "do you really want Jack back again?"

"Want him back!" she cried in wistful tones. "If you can induce him to return you will render me a service that I can never forget--a service that will bring happiness to us both."

Happiness! I sighed, remembering the man who had fallen cold and stiff in the narrow pa.s.sage in Bethune's chambers. How could I allow her, bright, pure and good, to marry a murderer? But was I not selfish? I confess that in those moments of anguish and suspicion I cared for nought save myself. I was determined to know the truth regarding his relations with Sybil, and intended with that object to bring him back, even at risk of his subsequent arrest.

"Very well," I said quietly, "within a week he shall be with you."

"But how will you induce him to return? Besides, we cannot communicate with him."

"Leave all to me," I answered. "In a week he will be at your side, and I--I--"

"And you will receive my most heartfelt thanks," she said in low, earnest tones, laying her hand upon my arm and looking into my face.

"You know, Stuart, how I have suffered these long dreary days; how intensely I love him. You are my friend. Yes, you have always proved yourself my friend, although I fear I have on more than one occasion ridiculed you as a confirmed bachelor with a heart of adamant."

"I also loved once," I said.

"Who was the woman?"

"Ah! it is a secret," I answered. "But I sympathise with you, because I, alas! have experienced all that poignant bitterness, the dregs of life's unhappiness that are too often the lot of the lover. I loved, ah! I adored, one woman. She was my life, my very soul was hers, but she has gone, gone, and I am left alone with nothing but the memory of her face that comes back to me constantly in my day-dreams."

"She married someone else, I suppose?" she observed gloomily.

"Death parted us," I answered huskily, for the memory of her sad, sweet countenance always caused a lump to rise in my throat.

Dora echoed my sigh and was silent, deeply absorbed in thought, gazing away to where the moonbeams shimmered on the lake.

"Dead! then all is of the past," she said presently. "I never suspected that you had really loved. I never knew that you had been guilty of any deeper indiscretion than the mild flirtation which used to be carried on between us in the old days. Now that you have told me your secret, I can well understand why pretty women have no longer attraction for you, and the reason you have become something of a misanthrope."

"Misanthrope. Yes, you are right, Dora. I am not old in years, but unfortunately I have grown world-weary early, and have been overwhelmed by a catastrophe that has warped my life and sapped my youthful spirits.

But do not let us discuss it further. You are young, and Jack Bethune is deeply attached to you. Therefore I will do my best to induce him to return."

She turned to me, and taking my hand in hers went on: "I can only express my grat.i.tude, and--and hope that into your life may enter some other woman who may be as worthy honest love as the one whose sad death has struck this chord of tragedy in your heart."

"Thank you, Dora," I answered with earnestness, looking into her eyes.

"But I am afraid I am doomed to bachelorhood. As I have observed on a previous occasion, if it were not for Jack's existence I should, in all probability, go down on my knees and kiss this hand of yours."

"How foolish!" she cried in a strained voice. "I love Jack!"

"For that very reason I have not endeavoured to perform what you once dubbed as an absurd antic," I said gallantly.

"And for that reason also you ought not to speak quite so frankly," she replied coquettishly. "But, nevertheless, you will be a perfect angel if you really bring Jack back again. Indeed, I almost feel prompted to kiss you now."

"I am sure I have no objection," I answered laughing. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"No, but now I'm a woman kissing isn't proper," she answered, with a little _moue_, and laughing brightly, added: "I think our conversation is drifting as usual into a dangerous channel. Come, let us go back."

We turned, and as we re-entered the room, which buzzed with the soft sibilation of Society small-talk, a partner claimed her for a waltz at that moment commencing, and as she was whirled away she laughed lightly at me across his shoulder.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BENEATH THE ROUGE.

In no mood to partic.i.p.ate in the gaiety, I went to the library and wrote a long telegram which I addressed to "Harding, Hotel Trombetta, Turin,"

explaining that if he feared arrest for any crime his fears were groundless, as no warrant was out, and urging him to return to Dora if only for a few days. This I despatched by my own man to Gretton station, to be transmitted the first thing in the morning. Afterward I again sought Mabel.

When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and as she sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, she regarded me, I think, with some little surprise.

"Well," she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguised expression of amus.e.m.e.nt, "why all this secrecy? Don't you think it would be best if we allowed the door to be open?"

"No, Mabel," I answered. "What I am about to utter is for no other ears than yours."

She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath the faint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, she recovered her self-possession and declared that she was all attention.

She was always an admirable actress.

"We have been friends, Mabel, for many years, and this fact allows me to speak with greater freedom," I said, seating myself carelessly upon the edge of the table before her. "To-night I have made a discovery. I discovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who--"

"And you overheard!" she gasped, starting to her feet. "You--you listened to what I said?"

"I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither your enemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I a.s.sure you, is in safe keeping."

Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly into the dying fire.

"You will remember," I continued, "that you introduced me to young Sternroyd, the man who is missing--the man who has been murdered."

"Murdered? How do you know?" she snapped.

I saw I had nearly betrayed my knowledge, but quickly correcting myself I said: "Murdered, according to your belief. Well, it strikes me as curious that you should take such an intensely keen interest in the missing man; that you have thought fit to urge the police to arrest my friend, Captain Bethune; nay, that you yourself should employ a private detective to watch his movements. When you told me, on the occasion on which you introduced us, that Sternroyd was a protege of your husband's, you lied to me!"

She frowned, bit her lip, but no word escaped her. "Fyneshade knows no more of Sternroyd than he does of this man whom you have met in the garden to-night," I continued. "Therefore, when the mystery surrounding the young man's disappearance is cleared up, no doubt it will make some exceedingly interesting matter for the newspapers."

"You insinuate that I love Sternroyd!" she cried, starting up again suddenly, and facing me with a look of defiance. "Well, all I can say is, Mr Ridgeway, that you are very much mistaken in your surmise. You are quite at liberty to go to my husband and explain the circ.u.mstances under which you were introduced to Gilbert. Tell him that Gilbert was my lover, and see what he says," she added laughing.

"If he were not your lover I scarcely think you would take so much trouble to ascertain his present whereabouts," I observed with sarcasm.

"He is not my lover, I say," she cried angrily. "I hated and detested him. It is not love that prompts me to search for his a.s.sa.s.sin."

I smiled incredulously, saying: "Your denial is but natural. If it is not love that causes you to seek the truth regarding Sternroyd's disappearance, what is it?"

"I refuse to answer any such impertinent question," she replied haughtily. "I am absolute mistress of my own actions, and my husband alone has a right to inquire my reasons."

"Very well," I said calmly, surprised at her denial and sudden defiance.

"I have no desire whatever to ascertain facts that you desire to conceal; on the other hand, you must admit that I have acted quite openly in telling you that I overheard your conversation with your strange visitor, who, if I am not mistaken, I have met before."

"Where?" she answered quickly.