Devil's Dice Part 34

I saw that she was genuinely in earnest; she spoke with a gesture that told me plainly she had confessed the truth. Was it that, seized by bitter remorse at the consequences of her act, she preferred suicide to arrest? This was but natural, I argued. She knew that if Jack Bethune fell into the hands of the police, revelations must ensue that would implicate her deeply, and that she would be placed in the dock beside him. I loathed her for the vile, despicable part she had played in the death of her young admirer, yet I felt an indescribable pity for her as she sat trembling before me in an att.i.tude of utter dejection, her fate hanging upon my words.

For a brief moment I looked into her great tearful eyes, then gravely I said--

"It is not within my province to judge you, Mabel, for I am unaware of your offence, still, although I will never swear that Markwick was not with you on that night, I will grant your request. I promise to a.s.sist you in concealing the truth you wish to hide."

"And you will say I was with you?" she cried eagerly, jumping to her feet joyfully, grasping my hand with a sudden impulse.

"I will not swear it, remember," I said. "I will, however, let it be understood that you and I met clandestinely."

"Ah! you are a real, generous friend, Stuart," she cried, smiling through her tears. "I knew when you had heard the truth about my misery you would not fail to render me help. Mine has been an existence full of wretched, hollow shams; but in future I mean to act without duplicity, to abandon the schemes I had long ago formed, and to try and lead a better life. To the world I am gay and happy, for am I not acknowledged one of the smartest women in England? Yes, alas! and the penalty for all this is an agony of mind that is torturing me hour by hour, moment by moment, while the temptation to destroy myself allures me until I fear that, sooner or later, I must yield."

"No, no; do nothing of the kind," I exclaimed pityingly. "Your confession has pained me, but arm yourself against your enemies, and at the same time count upon my friendship. If you have spoken falsely to me--if I find that you have lied--then ask no further favour, for a.s.suredly I shall be your most bitter enemy, and seek to bring upon you the punishment merited by your acts."

"Punishment!" she gasped, gazing fixedly across the room with wild, wide-opened eyes. Her lips moved, but she was voiceless. The single word transfixed her.

"Is it the absolute truth that you were unaware of the theft committed in these rooms by Markwick?" I demanded, after a brief, painful pause.

"I swear I knew nothing of it," she replied frankly, without hesitation.

"He invited me to play the piano while we waited for your return, and while my back was turned he must have abstracted them. But you will do one thing further to appease him, won't you? You'll give me a line a.s.suring him of your intention not to betray his presence at Blatherwycke?"

I hesitated. My promise was verbal, yet she desired an undertaking in writing. This was a fresh development of the affair: there was a strong element of suspicion in it.

She argued, coaxed and urged me until, as the only way of satisfying her, I took a sheet of notepaper and upon it made a declaration of my intention. Having watched me sign it, she placed it carefully in an envelope, transferred it to her pocket, and, after a further brief conversation, thanked me and withdrew, leaving me leaning against the mantelshelf absorbed in thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A PROMISE.

While in the Club that afternoon the page-boy handed me a card, uttering the stereotyped phrase, "Gentleman to see you, sir."

I took it, and, to my surprise, found it was Markwick's. When he entered, a few moments later, he was wearing a crimson flower in the b.u.t.ton-hole of his grey frock-coat, and carrying his cane with a jaunty air. His swift glance ran round the room, to a.s.sure himself that we were alone, as he greeted me with an air of gay nonchalance.

My recognition was, I am afraid, very frigid; but, tilting his hat, he cast himself into one of the saddle-bag chairs, and, comfortably settling himself, tapped the sole of his varnished boot with his cane, exclaiming:

"I was just pa.s.sing, don't you know, and thought I'd look you up. We haven't met for an age," and taking out a silver case, he selected a cigarette and lit it.

"I think," I said dryly, "it would have been better for me had we never met at all."

He smiled sardonically, moved uneasily, and, turning towards me, exclaimed:

"My dear fellow, you entirely misjudge me. I was, I admit, unconsciously the cause of a rather grave catastrophe in your life; but surely that is all of the past. Why think more of one who is dead?"

"Then, at last, you do now admit that you enticed me to that house?

Once you denied it."

"I know," he said, smiling. "From diplomatic motives I was compelled; nevertheless, no blame attaches to me, I a.s.sure you. This I shall prove to you before long, I hope."

"Why not now?" I urged eagerly. "Why not tell me what you know of Sybil? That you were intimately acquainted with her is certain; and if you wish to a.s.sure me of your honesty of purpose, there can be no better way of doing so than explaining who and what she was."

"Ah! unfortunately I am unable, at least for the present," he said, watching his cigarette smoke curl towards the dark oak-beamed ceiling.

"I may add, however, that, in return for your a.s.sistance in the little matter concerning Lady Fyneshade, I will before long render you a service of a character that will, perhaps, astonish you."

"Then she has already seen you?" I exclaimed.

"She has," he said, nodding. "And she has given me your note. It is for that I looked in to thank you."

We exchanged glances. His thin pimply face wore an expression of perfect composure. There were no signs of mental agitation, but rather confidence and extreme self-satisfaction.

"Will you not, in return for my silence, tell me something of the woman to whom I was so strangely wedded?" I asked at last.

"No. If it were possible I would, but I am precluded by certain circ.u.mstances, the nature of which you shall be later on made aware. At present be patient. The mystery that puzzles you will before long be elucidated, and I will keep my promise made to you on the night we met."

"To tell me all?"

"To explain everything. But, by the way," he added suddenly, "have you any knowledge where your friend Bethune is?"

"Why?"

"Surely you've seen the morning papers, haven't you?" Replying in the negative I took up the Standard that lay within reach, and found it opened at one of the inside pages. Almost the first thing that caught my eyes were the startling head-lines, "The Murder of a Millionaire: Discovery of the Body."

The papers had obtained knowledge of the truth at last.

Eagerly I read the jumble of distorted facts which the representative of a press agency had gathered from an apparently unreliable source, and found to my amazement a statement appended, to the effect that after the discovery of the remains a warrant had been issued against a well-known person who had absconded and was now in Germany. The police, however, were fully cognisant of his whereabouts, and his arrest was only a matter of a few hours.

When I lifted my face from the paper my glance met the calm face of my visitor.

"Well," he asked, "what do you think of it? It points to Bethune. The police seem at last to be on the right scent. They've muddled the whole thing, or they would have arrested him long ago."

"Upon that point I can express no opinion," I observed. "He has evidently, however, failed to get away unnoticed."

"If ever there was a cowardly crime it was the shooting of Gilbert Sternroyd," the man said bitterly. "His generosity kept a whole school of bounders and hangers-on, and only because he refused to be blackmailed and bled they spread d.a.m.ning reports about his admiration for Lady Fyneshade. Truly the life of a millionaire, young or old, is not exactly a bed of roses."

"Then you believe implicitly in Bethune's guilt?" I inquired.

"Most decidedly; no sane man who watched him as I watched him when he fled immediately after the crime can doubt that he is the culprit. It is written on his face."

With this opinion I was unfortunately compelled to agree, and although I endeavoured by dint of some artful questions to "draw" him upon several points, he parried my attacks with consummate skill and tantalising smiles, and left me after promising to see me again in a few days.

The reason he had called was only too evident. He desired to ascertain what facts I knew regarding the crime, for he, like others, was unaware that I had actually been the first to discover it, and although one or two of his questions were artfully directed, I detected the trend of his strategy, and combated all his crafty efforts to "pump" me. He was admittedly an adventurer of the worst type, and his presence always filled me with anger which I found difficult of control.

That day was one of interviews, for shortly after four o'clock, while writing a letter at the club, Saunders brought me a note, observing that as Miss Stretton's maid had delivered it, stating that it was very urgent, he had come with it at once. An excellent man was Saunders. I paid him well, and he was untiring in his efforts to secure me comfort and freedom from the minor worries of life. Having dismissed him I opened the letter, finding to my surprise and intense satisfaction that it was a sanely-worded note from Dora saying that she had been dangerously ill, but was now very much better, and desired to see me without delay if I could make it convenient to call that afternoon.

Almost instantly I set forth to respond to her invitation, and half an hour later found her in her mother's drawing-room, radiant and quite herself again. Lady Stretton was not present, therefore she greeted me in her frank, hoydenish way, as of old, led me to a seat, and taking one herself, proceeded to describe her malady.

"But, of course, you have heard how unwell I've been, so I need not tell you," she added. "I'm quite right again now. For days my head was strangely muddled, and I had no idea that I was at home. I fancied myself in some queer horrid place surrounded by all sorts of terrors; but suddenly, early yesterday morning, this feeling--or hallucination it was, I suppose--left me, and the doctor today said I was recovering rapidly. Where is Jack? Have you seen him?"

This was a question I had been momentarily expecting and feared to answer.

"Yes," I said hesitatingly; "I have seen him."