Devil's Dice

justabout to depart. Few words I addressed to the man who had first led meto the mysterious house in Gloucester Square. I merely greeted him,then turned again to Mabel. The strange expression on both their faceswhen I had entered puzzled me. There was, I felt certain, some deepmotive underlying their call.

  But successfully concealing my suspicions and addressing Mabel, I saidas pleasantly as I could:

  "It is not often you favour me with a visit nowadays."

  "My time is unfortunately so much taken up," she answered, with a smile."But I wanted to see you very particularly to-day."

  "What about?" I asked, seating myself on the edge of the table, my backtowards her silent escort, while she in her turn sank back into herchair.

  "About Fyneshade," she answered. "You remember all I told you on theafternoon when you called on me. Well, I have discovered he is back inLondon, but he has not returned home, and a letter to his club haselicited no reply."

  "You want to see him?"

  "I do. If he will hear me I can at once clear myself. You are one ofmy oldest friends and know the little differences that exist between us,therefore I seek your assistance to obtain an interview with him.Invite him here, send me word the day and hour, and I will come also."

  I hesitated. Her request was strange, and more curious that it shouldbe made before the very man who, although hated by Fyneshade, wasnevertheless his friend.

  "I have no desire to interfere between husband and wife," I answeredslowly. "But if any effort of mine will secure a reconciliation, Ishall be only too pleased to do my best on your behalf."

  "Ah!" she cried, a weight apparently lifted from her mind. "You arealways loyal, Stuart; you are always generous to your friends. I knowif you ask Fyneshade he will call on you. A letter to White's will findhim." Markwick, his hands still clasped behind his back, seeming tallerand more slim than usual in his perfect-fitting, tightly-buttonedfrock-coat, had crossed to the window, and was gazing abstractedly outupon the never-ceasing tide of London traffic below. He took nointerest whatever in our conversation, but fidgeted about as if anxiousto get away.

  Mabel and I talked of various matters, when I suddenly asked her aboutDora.

  "Ma is coming to town with her this week," the Countess answered. "Ihad a letter from her a few days ago, and it appears that thehouse-party at Blatherwycke has been an unqualified success."

  "Bethune has been there, I suppose," I hazarded, laughing.

  "Bethune!" she echoed. "Why, haven't you heard of him lately?"

  "Not for several weeks. He is somewhere in Wales."

  "I think not," she said. "From what I have heard from Ma, he arrivedlate one night at Blatherwycke, met Dora clandestinely somewhere on theBulwick Road, and, wishing her farewell, left next day for theContinent. Since that nobody has heard a single word about him."

  "Not even Dora?" I inquired, greatly surprised that Jack should haveleft again without a word to me.

  "No. Dora, silly little goose, is crying her eyes out and quitespoiling her complexion. Their engagement is absolutely ridiculous."

  "She loves him," I observed briefly.

  "Nowadays a woman does not marry the man she loves. She does not learnto love until after marriage, and then, alas! her flirtation is not withher husband."

  I sighed. There was much truth in what this smart woman of the worldsaid. It is only among the middle classes that persons marry for love.The open flirtation in Belgravia would be voted a scandal if it occurredin Suburbia. There is one standard of morals in Mayfair, another inMile End.

  By dint of artful questioning I endeavoured to glean from her whethershe knew the reason of Jack's departure, but either by design or fromignorance she was as silent as the sphinx.

  "The only other fact I know beyond what I have already told you," shereplied, "was contained in a paragraph in the Morning Post, which statedthat Captain Bethune, the well-known soldier-novelist, had left Londonfor the Balkan States, in order to obtain material for a new romanceupon which he is actively engaged. Really, novelists obtain as muchadvertisement and are quite as widely known as princes of reigninghouses."

  Markwick at that moment turned quickly and expressed a fear that he mustbe going, as he had an appointment in the City, while Mabel, rising,stretched forth her small hand in farewell, and urging me not to forgetto arrange a meeting with Fyneshade, accompanied her companion out.

  When they had gone I stood for a long time gazing down into the street,pondering deeply. I could not discern the object of their visit, norwhy that curious expression should have crossed their faces when Iappeared. The reason they had called was, however, quite apparent halfan hour later, for, to my abject dismay, I found that the little cabinetin which I had kept the fragments of paper I had discovered in Jack'schambers on the night of the tragedy had been wrenched open, the papersturned over hurriedly, and the whole of the letters abstracted.

  Markwick had stolen them! I now recollected, quite distinctly, that atthe moment I entered he had his hands behind his back endeavouring toconceal something.

  I started forward to go and inform the police, but remembering that erelong I should place Grindlay in possession of all the tangled chain offacts, I rang the bell for Saunders instead.

  "What time did Lady Fyneshade arrive," I asked, when he had responded tomy summons.

  "About half an hour before you returned, sir."

  "Were they alone in this room the whole time?"

  "Yes, sir. Her ladyship went to the piano and played several songs."

  His words convinced me. Mabel had strummed on the piano in order todrown the sound of the breaking open of the cabinet.

  For what reason, I strove to imagine, had Markwick obtained the letters?How, indeed, could he have known their hiding-place, or that they werein my possession?

  I felt absolutely certain that, having satisfied themselves of myabsence, they had entered in order to obtain possession of thosehalf-charred letters, and that on my unexpected return Mabel, in orderto cover their confusion, had skillfully concocted an object for theirvisit. She had tricked me cleverly, and although half mad with anger atmy loss, I could not help admiring her extraordinary self-possession andthe calm circumstantial manner in which she had lied to me.

  Business London had drawn its whirling fevered day to a close when Ientered one of the bare waiting-rooms at New Scotland Yard, and sent mycard to Inspector Grindlay. I had not long to wait, for in a fewminutes he came in, greeting me bluffly with a hearty hand-shake,expressing pleasure that I had called.

  "I want to consult you, Grindlay," I said seriously. "I have made adiscovery."

  "A discovery!" he laughed. "What is it, some mechanical invention?"

  "No. A body!"

  "A body!" he echoed, arching his thick, dark brows, and regarding mekeenly.

  "Yes," I said. "I want to tell you all about it, for I've come to seekyour assistance. Shall we be disturbed?"

  He crossed the room, locked the door, and then, motioning me to a chair,took one himself on the opposite side of the small table, and announcedhis readiness to hear my story.

  Commencing at the beginning, I described my meeting with Sybil atBagneres de Luchon, my love for her, the midnight marriage, and herdeath.

  "What name did she give you?" he inquired interrupting me.

  "I understood that her name was Henniker," I replied. "Sybil Henniker."

  He inclined his head. Proceeding I told him of the subsequent strangeevents, the finding of the wreath upon her grave with my card, whereonwas written the words, "Seek and you may find," of the discovery of herphotograph in the shop in Regent Street, together with that of GilbertSternroyd.

  "Ah! Sternroyd!" he repeated, as soon as I mentioned the name. "Andyou bought those portraits. Have you still got them?"

  I drew them from my pocket and handed them across to him. As he gazedat Sybil's picture he twirled his moustache, thoughtfully knitting hisbrow.

  But my tongue's strings were
now loosened, and I confessed how I haddiscovered the young millionaire lying dead in Jack Bethune's flat, andhow, on my second visit to the place, I found the body removed, andafterward encountered my friend, who would not allow me to enter one ofhis rooms.

  "You think he was concealing the body there?" he asked, glancing up fromthe paper whereon he had scribbled some brief memoranda.

  "I fear to think anything, lest it should add to the evidence againsthim. He has left England again."

  "Yes," the detective replied; "we are aware of that. He has eluded us."

  "Then you also suspect him?" I cried.

  For answer he only shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.

  Continuing