Whatsoever a Man Soweth Part 29

Presently Mrs Parham said suddenly,--

"I'm sure my husband will feel very indebted to you when he knows all the facts. I have not the pleasure of your name."

"Morton," I said, "William Morton," and feeling in my pocket expressed regret that I had forgotten my card-case.

A quarter of an hour later I took my leave and was walking down Sydenham Hill when I suddenly encountered my friend the police inspector of the night of the strange affair at Keymer.

He glanced at me, and our recognition was mutual.

Then when he had greeted me he turned on his heel and walked in my direction. After some conversation regarding the mysterious attempt and its fatal termination, he said in a hard voice,--

"Our people are rather surprised at your att.i.tude, you know."

"My att.i.tude! What do you mean?" I exclaimed, looking at him in surprise.

"Well. You might have given information when you knew that we wanted to question that man Parham."

"Information of what?"

"Of his whereabouts. You were seen one evening not long ago talking to him."

"Where?"

"In the entrance to the Empire," replied the inspector. "One of our plain-clothes men saw you with Parham and another man. But the fellow managed to get away, as he always does."

I stood aghast.

"Was he a fair bald-headed man?"

"Of course."

I was silent. The truth was plain, the revelation a staggering one.

Winsloe had introduced his accomplice, John Parham, to me as the traveller and engineer named Humphreys!

It was in John Parham's house that the dastardly attempt had been made upon my life--in his house that other persons had met with mysterious and untimely ends.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

WHAT OCCURRED IN DEAN'S YARD, WESTMINSTER.

That same evening, attired in my working clothes, I watched Winsloe's chambers in King Street at the hour when I knew his habit was to return to dress for dinner.

From five o'clock till half-past seven I lingered in the vicinity; then returning to my hotel in the Adelphi I there met Budd, whom I sent round to the man's chambers to inquire when he would be in.

Half an hour later my valet returned with the information that Mr Winsloe was out of town, and was not expected back for several days. He had gone to the north, his man believed, but he had no instructions to forward letters.

Gone north! Had he discovered Tibbie's whereabouts and gone after her?

Mine was a tantalising position, unable to return to my own rooms for fear that Winsloe and Parham should discover that I was still alive.

They believed me to be dead--that I had "gone home," as "White Feather"

reported.

That night I spent several hours wandering through those streets behind Regent Street, trying to recognise the house with the fatal stairs.

All, however, was to no purpose. I had, I think, mistaken the direction which we had taken. Tired and worn out, I ate supper about ten o'clock in a small and rather uncleanly little foreign restaurant in Dean Street, and then returned to the Adelphi, where I sat a long time in my room overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, lost in the mazes of mystery that now presented themselves.

Where was Eric Domville? Where was Ellice Winsloe? Where was John Parham, _alias_ Humphreys?

Tibbie evidently knew a great deal more than she would admit. She had told me that my friend was in Paris. How could she know if she held no communication with anyone?

No--the more I reflected the more evident did it become that she was playing a double game.

As I sat at the window with the dark deserted gardens below me, the row of gas-lamps and the wide river before me, I tried to a.n.a.lyse my real feelings towards the dainty little love of my youth.

She was a woman guilty of the terrible crime of murder, and yet I had promised to shield her because she had declared that her enemies intended to crush her. Had I really acted rightly? I asked myself.

Truly, I was endeavouring to defeat the ends of justice. Nevertheless, I recollected her wild earnest appeal to me, how she had fallen upon her knees and implored my help and protection. I remembered, too, that in her desperation she would have taken her own life rather than face her enemies.

What did it all mean?

So extraordinary had been the sequence of amazing events that my mind failed to grasp the true significance of all the facts.

Of one truth, however, I was well aware, namely, that the dull life of workaday Camberwell had worked a wonderful change in my little friend.

She was more sedate, more composed, more womanly, while her calmness accentuated her sweetness of manner. Yet why did she wish to pose as a married woman? What did she fear beyond the exposure of her crime?

She was fascinating, I own that. But upon her beauty and grace was resting that dark, gruesome shadow, the shadow of the sword of retribution, which hung over her, and from which she, alas! would never escape.

What did the family think of her prolonged absence? What did the police think?

I knew well that both old Lady Scarcliff and Jack were leaving no stone unturned to try to discover her, while Wydcombe had left word with Budd that as soon as ever I returned he wished to see me. I would dearly have liked to have gone round to Curzon Street, but by doing so, I saw that Jack would know I had been there, and he might mention my visit to Winsloe, who, without doubt, was still his friend.

My cipher advertis.e.m.e.nt had been so successful that, after due consideration, I resolved to try and draw "White Feather," and ascertain the ident.i.ty of that mysterious person.

Therefore I sat at the table, and after half an hour had reduced to the cipher the following announcement,--

"To White Feather.--Must see you. Very urgent. Meet me to-night at entrance to Dean's Yard, Westminster, at nine, without fail.--S."

If "White Feather" was in London he or she would certainly keep the appointment with Sybil. My only fear was that she might see the paper up in Newcastle, and detect the forgery.

Before midnight I handed in the advertis.e.m.e.nt at the newspaper office in Fleet Street, and next morning had the satisfaction of seeing it in print.

The day I spent in comparative idleness. Budd, to whom I explained my strange conduct by saying that I was still engaged in watching someone, called with my letters and executed several commissions for me. I wrote to "Mrs William Morton" at the post-office at Carlisle, and spent the afternoon reading in the hotel. Budd had instructions to let me know immediately anything was heard of Eric, and was now acting as my secret agent, eager to serve me in every particular.

It was a wet, unpleasant night, as, a little before nine, I alighted from an omnibus in Victoria Street, and pa.s.sing up Great Smith Street, approached Dean's Yard from the Great College Street side, the opposite entrance to the spot where the appointment was to be kept.

Dean's Yard is a quiet square of ancient smoke-blackened houses, a cloister of the abbey in the old days, quiet and secluded even in these modern go-ahead times. In all Westminster there is no quieter, old-world spot, frequented in the daytime only by the few persons who use it as a short cut to Tufton Street and Horseferry Road, and at night quiet and deserted.

Entering the small secluded square from the opposite side, I slipped along half-way on the south side to a position where I could have a good view of the great arched gate communicating with Victoria Street, and there found a deep, dark doorway which afforded me admirable concealment.

I stood and waited. Scarcely had I settled myself there when the chimes of Big Ben rang out the hour, and then I strained my eyes towards the great ill-lit Gothic gateway.