Devil's Dice
causing me to remain dumbfounded and open-mouthed inexpectation.
"Were any of her letters discovered?" Mabel asked in a low tone.
"None. Fortunately all were carefully destroyed."
"But why should he have left so mysteriously if he were in no wayconnected with Gilbert's disappearance? I suspect him of murder,therefore I gave instructions to have him watched. I care nothing forthe cost, or for any scandal that may accrue, so long as I bring theassassin to justice. Gilbert entrusted me with the secret of his fear,and it is therefore my duty to seek out the murderer."
"Even at the risk of Dora's happiness?" he inquired. "Yes. At risk ofher happiness. At present she must know nothing--nothing beyond thefact with which she is already well acquainted, namely, that marriagewith Bethune is entirely out of the question. But listen! Someone iscoming! It's Fyneshade! Go! he must not see you. Quick!"
The man jumped up quickly and slipped away in the darkness, while theCountess also rose with a frou-frou of silk, and went forward to meether husband, laughing aloud, saying:
"Ah! you dear old boy, I knew you would be looking for me. The roomsare so awfully hot that I came out to get a breath of air. It's simplydelightful out to-night."
"Yes," he answered dryly, turning and walking back with her, utteringsome rapid, earnest words that I could not catch as they crossed thelawn.
That the Countess had been acquainted with Sybil was a fresh revelation.The strange sinister-looking individual whose identity was enshroudedin mystery, and with whom she appeared to be on such intimate terms, hadaroused in my heart fresh suspicions that I had been duped. He haddeclared that Jack Bethune, the man I had trusted as a friend, and whomI was now striving to shield, had been one of Sybil's lovers! Thethought was maddening. I sprang to my feet, clenched my fists, andwalked forward in a sudden outburst of fury. If Mabel had known her,was it not highly probable that she was fully aware of the secret of mymarriage and the true story of her fate? The strange words inscribedupon the wreath that had been so mysteriously placed upon the graverecurred to me. "Seek and you may find." Those words danced before myeyes in letters of fire. The whole enigma was one which grew morepuzzling daily, and, try how I would, I was unable to solve it.
From what I had overheard I had learnt more than one fact of the highestimportance. If no warrant had been issued against Bethune why shouldnot this be communicated to him; why indeed should I not seek of Mabelthe truth about the woman I had loved?
This course, after some consideration, commended itself to me, and Iwalked on with firm resolve to obtain from the smart Society leader somefacts regarding Sybil's tragic end. With that object I again wanderedamong the dancers in search of the striking study in heliotrope. Icould not, however, find her, but discovering Dora flushed by waltzing,fanning herself, and enduring the inane chatter of an insipid youngsprig of the Stock Exchange, I managed to take her aside.
"Now, Dora, tell me," I said, when we were standing together alone onthe veranda, "do you really want Jack back again?"
"Want him back!" she cried in wistful tones. "If you can induce him toreturn you will render me a service that I can never forget--a servicethat will bring happiness to us both."
Happiness! I sighed, remembering the man who had fallen cold and stiffin the narrow passage in Bethune's chambers. How could I allow her,bright, pure and good, to marry a murderer? But was I not selfish? Iconfess that in those moments of anguish and suspicion I cared fornought save myself. I was determined to know the truth regarding hisrelations 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 communicatewith him."
"Leave all to me," I answered. "In a week he will be at your side, andI--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; howintensely I love him. You are my friend. Yes, you have always provedyourself my friend, although I fear I have on more than one occasionridiculed 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, becauseI, alas! have experienced all that poignant bitterness, the dregs oflife'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, butshe has gone, gone, and I am left alone with nothing but the memory ofher 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, sweetcountenance always caused a lump to rise in my throat.
Dora echoed my sigh and was silent, deeply absorbed in thought, gazingaway to where the moonbeams shimmered on the lake.
"Dead! then all is of the past," she said presently. "I never suspectedthat you had really loved. I never knew that you had been guilty of anydeeper indiscretion than the mild flirtation which used to be carried onbetween us in the old days. Now that you have told me your secret, Ican 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, butunfortunately I have grown world-weary early, and have been overwhelmedby 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 Bethuneis deeply attached to you. Therefore I will do my best to induce him toreturn."
She turned to me, and taking my hand in hers went on: "I can onlyexpress my gratitude, and--and hope that into your life may enter someother woman who may be as worthy honest love as the one whose sad deathhas 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 aprevious occasion, if it were not for Jack's existence I should, in allprobability, 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 oncedubbed as an absurd antic," I said gallantly.
"And for that reason also you ought not to speak quite so frankly," shereplied coquettishly. "But, nevertheless, you will be a perfect angelif you really bring Jack back again. Indeed, I almost feel prompted tokiss you now."
"I am sure I have no objection," I answered laughing. "It wouldn't bethe first time."
"No, but now I'm a woman kissing isn't proper," she answered, with alittle _moue_, and laughing brightly, added: "I think our conversationis 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 softsibilation of Society small-talk, a partner claimed her for a waltz atthat moment commencing, and as she was whirled away she laughed lightlyat me across his shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
BENEATH THE ROUGE.
In no mood to participate in the gaiety, I went to the library and wrotea long telegram which I addressed to "Harding, Hotel Trombetta, Turin,"explaining that if he feared arrest for any crime his fears weregroundless, as no warrant was out, and urging him to return to Dora ifonly for a few days. This I despatched by my own man to Grettonstation, to be transmitted the first thing in the morning. Afterward Iagain sought Mabel.
When I found her I brought her to the library, closed the door, and asshe sank into a comfortable armchair and opened her great fan, sheregarded me, I think, with some little surprise.
"Well," she said, lifting her fine eyes to mine with an undisguisedexpression of amusement, "why all this secrecy? Don't you think itwould be best if
we allowed the door to be open?"
"No, Mabel," I answered. "What I am about to utter is for no other earsthan yours."
She started, and I fancied I detected a slight paleness beneath thefaint suspicion of rouge upon her cheeks. Next second, however, sherecovered 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 tospeak with greater freedom," I said, seating myself carelessly upon theedge of the table before her. "To-night I have made a discovery. Idiscovered the Countess of Fyneshade speaking with a man who--"
"And you overheard!" she gasped, starting to her feet. "You--youlistened to what I said?"
"I certainly did hear. But pray calm yourself, for I am neither yourenemy nor a blackmailer. Your secret, I assure you, is in safekeeping."
Sinking back in her chair she sat pale and silent, gazing fixedly intothe dying fire.
"You will remember," I continued, "that you introduced me to youngSternroyd, 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 myselfI said: "Murdered, according to your belief. Well, it strikes me ascurious that you should take such an intensely keen interest in themissing man; that you have thought fit to urge the police to arrest myfriend, Captain Bethune; nay, that you yourself should employ a privatedetective to watch his movements. When you told me, on the occasion onwhich 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 nomore of Sternroyd than he does of this man whom you have met in thegarden to-night," I continued. "Therefore, when the mystery surroundingthe young man's disappearance is cleared up, no doubt it will make someexceedingly interesting matter for the newspapers."
"You insinuate that I love Sternroyd!" she cried, starting up againsuddenly, and facing me with a look of defiance. "Well, all I can sayis, Mr Ridgeway, that you are very much mistaken in your surmise. Youare quite at liberty to go to my husband and explain the circumstancesunder which you were introduced to Gilbert. Tell him that Gilbert wasmy lover, and see what he says," she added laughing.
"If he were not your lover I scarcely think you would take so muchtrouble to ascertain his present whereabouts," I observed with sarcasm.
"He is not my lover, I say," she cried angrily. "I hated and detestedhim. It is not love that prompts me to search for his assassin."
I smiled incredulously, saying: "Your denial is but natural. If it isnot love that causes you to seek the truth regarding Sternroyd'sdisappearance, what is it?"
"I refuse to answer any such impertinent question," she repliedhaughtily. "I am absolute mistress of my own actions, and my husbandalone 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 toconceal; on the other hand, you must admit that I have acted quiteopenly in telling you that I overheard your conversation with yourstrange visitor, who, if I am not mistaken, I have met before."
"Where?" she answered quickly.
"Have you already forgotten that evening at old Thackwell's, where youmet him with a thin, scraggy girl in pink?" I asked. "On that occasionyou were deeply embittered against him, and urged me to avoid him. Yousaid that you knew him `once.' I presume your friendship has now beenresumed?"
"Only because it has been imperative," she declared, speakingmechanically, her face hard set and haggard.
"But is he a desirable acquaintance for a woman like yourself, whoseevery action is chronicled by Society gossips, and who is surrounded byjealous women who would ruin your reputation if only they had half achance?"
"I do not seek him," she answered. "He comes to me because my interestsare his."
"In what direction?"
"I cannot tell you. It is really unfair to ask. You are aware of myacquaintance with this man, and I merely tell you that it is absolutelycompulsory."
She was standing before me, with jewels upon her neck and arms flashingin the lamplight, one of the handsomest of women, yet upon her face wasa wild and wearied expression such as I had never before seen.Assuredly some great and terrible secret lay hidden in her heart. "Iheard you mention to your friend that Jack Bethune once knew a woman--awoman named Sybil. Who was she?" I asked at last.
"Sybil! Sybil!" she repeated, with a puzzled look, as if trying torecall the conversation. "Oh, yes! you mean Sybil Houston."
"Who was she?"
"The daughter of a retired naval officer, I believe. I never met her,but I understood that she acted as Jack's amanuensis. She was, however,engaged to some impossible person or other, whom she married."
"Are you sure he knew no other woman named Sybil?" I asked eagerly.
"My dear Mr Ridgeway, however should I know? Jack did not tell me allhis little affairs of the heart, for, remember, I am Dora's sister, andhe feared probably that I might tell her," and she gave vent to a harsh,discordant laugh.
I remembered, with a sudden pang, that the letter I had discovered wasundoubtedly in my dead bride's handwriting, and felt half inclined todisbelieve her; yet she had spoken so frankly that it seemed as thoughshe had told all she knew. It was only her strange laugh, almosthysterical, that aroused doubts within me.
"If anyone should know something of Jack Bethune's female friends it isyourself. I know you are his confidant," she added.
"He has no female friends now but Dora," I observed, "and he loves herdearly."
"Yes, I know, but they must both see the absurdity of it all," she saidpetulantly. "They can never marry, so I cannot see why Dora shouldtrouble her head about him. I declare she has been going about lookingquite pale and wretched during the past week. People are beginning totalk."
"And why can't they marry?" I asked.
"We've discussed the question before," she replied impatiently. "First,he hasn't sufficient money, for Dora would ruin him in a year;secondly--" and she paused.
"Well--secondly?"
"Secondly, my sister shall never marry a murderer!" she said in a hoarsehalf whisper, first glancing at the door to ascertain that it was stillclosed.
"But if he returns, and is able to prove that he has had no hand in thesudden disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd?"
"He cannot. I shall be able to prove to the contrary. Let him returnto England, and each step he takes will be towards the gallows," shedeclared vehemently.
"Your words betray you," I said severely. "Although you have pretendedthat Sternroyd is merely missing, you know he has been murdered!"
She started violently, clutching at the edge of the table to steadyherself.
"And--and your words also show that you are aware! of the truth, that hehas been foully done to death, and that your friend Bethune is guilty ofthe crime!" she gasped when, in a few moments, she recovered herself-possession. "Let him come, let him face me if he can." There wasa wild look in her bright eyes, an expression of terrible murderoushatred as her fingers worked convulsively, and her bare chest with itsdiamonds heaved and fell quickly, causing the gems to glitter withdazzling brilliancy. Her face was that of a woman haunted by the shadowof a crime.
"Very well," I said, quickly. "We will not prolong this very painfulinterview. He will return, either to prove his innocence or beconvicted; either to pay the penalty or marry Dora."
Walking to the door I threw it open, and as I did so she tottered acrossthe room towards it and almost fell. I caught her quickly, but she onlylaughed hysterically, saying:
"I am a little faint and shall not dance again. If you see Fyneshade,tell him--say that I have gone to my room," and, with a cold, haughtybow she swept suddenly past me with hurried, uneven steps.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE MYSTERIOUS MR MARKWICK.
The daily ride was a regular institution at Wadenhoe, whither Dora camefrequently to visit my mother, and during the few days following thedance we went out each morning. We chose early hours for riding;starting betimes to enjoy to the full the poetry of those brightmornings, and often the sounds of our horses' hoofs were the first toawaken the echoes along the roads and lanes. From the brown fieldswould be rising in white clouds the filmy mist, gossamers would begently waving, reflecting all the colours of the rising sun, while onevery tuft and blade of grass stood glistening dewdrops. Then as wereached the woods the air would become fresher, and from all sides wouldarise the pleasant smell of damp moss and wood, of wild thyme, and ofthe many little spring flowers that filled the air with woodlandfragrance, seeming to blossom out altogether as if anxious not to losean instant of the opening day.
It was then that I felt mostly under her influence, the influence of atrue, honest woman. The way was narrow, and we had to go in singlefile--Dora going first, entirely absorbed in holding up her horse, whowould occasionally stumble over the slippery stumps; I following,leaving my horse to follow his own way, my attention fixed upon thelithe, graceful figure in straw hat and perfectly-fitting habit beforeme.
Alas! an