face, and with sternness said--"You feararrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd." He frowned, and his eyeswere downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed histight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying--
"Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottomof my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances toagain extend to you the hand of friendship."
"I don't want it," he growled. "I tell you plainly that you are myenemy--not my friend."
"I have never been your enemy. It is true that the police of Europe aresearching for you; that your description is in the hands of everyofficial charged with criminal investigation from Christiania toGibraltar, and that the charge against you is that you murdered a youngmillionaire. It is true also that it lays in my power to shield or todenounce you. Think, think for a moment the nature of the evidenceagainst you. One night I entered your flat with my key, stumbled acrosssomething, and discovered to my horror that it was the body ofSternroyd, who had been shot."
"You lie!" he cried, turning upon me fiercely, with clenched fists."You lie! you never saw the body!"
"I tell you I did," I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I wenton to describe the exact position in which it lay.
My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained nosuspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal,and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal nightand witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I heldhe was visibly crushed and cowed.
"Well, go on," he said mechanically, in a hoarse tone. "I suppose youwant to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest--eh?"
"Think of the nature of my evidence," I continued. "I entered your flatagain on the following night to find you present, the body removed, andyou met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking thedoor and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficientcircumstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?"
He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.
"Again," I said, "in addition to this, I may as well tell you that thebody you sought to hide has been discovered."
"Discovered!" he gasped. "Have they found it?"
"Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are alwaysdifficult to hide."
"Who searched? Who discovered it?"
"The police."
"And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?"
I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts.Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of thesuccess of my next move.
Turning to him presently, I said: "I have a confession to make, Bethune.On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyeda number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one froma woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I haveno wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relationswith you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to actopenly and tell me what you know of her."
"I know nothing--nothing," he answered, in a low tone.
"That's a lie!" I exclaimed angrily. "She wrote to you on apparentlythe most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted withher."
"Well, I was acquainted with her."
"And with Sternroyd?"
"And with Sternroyd."
"Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position,and why the police desired her arrest?"
"No; I cannot tell you that," he answered firmly. "Why?"
"Because I refuse."
"You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell thetruth because it would incense me?"
"I do not fear to tell the truth," he retorted.
"Then why do you decline?"
"Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preservingsilence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter."
His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words Ihad read a hundred times before. They were: "...desire that yourfriend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact." Yes;he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.
"Will you tell me nothing regarding her?" I asked persuasively.
"I am not at liberty to say anything."
"Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a rightto know who and what she was, I have," I urged.
"I'm well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by herextraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and--"
"Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?" I criedfiercely.
"Take it as you please, the truth is the same," he answered, with asneering smile. "You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a flyin a trap." And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.
"Then you will tell me nothing about her?" I exclaimed angrily. "Yourefuse to assist me in recognition of the service I have done you inavoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well--there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall youwill never extricate yourself."
"Death?"
"No; an officer of police."
"Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter," he cried, in a toneof banter. "Denounce me--let them arrest me. I am ready to face mytraducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothingof Sybil."
"Very well," I said. "Then the warrant shall be executed withoutdelay."
And I turned and left him.
What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
MABEL'S PENITENCE.
My first impulse had been to give information to the German police ofBethune's whereabouts, and thus cause his arrest; yet somehow I couldnot bring myself to do so. Grindlay and his men would, sooner or later,trace the fugitive; therefore I left the work to them, and returned toLondon.
As I calmly contemplated the affair in all its phases I became convincedof the strange fact that the mystery surrounding Sybil was the one pivotupon which the whole circumstances revolved. Once I could penetrate theveil, the motive for Sternroyd's murder would, I felt certain, becomeapparent. But with tantalising contrariness, all my efforts duringthese dark, anxious days had been absolutely futile. Even though I had,on more than one occasion, to work with the care and caution of atrained detective, I had failed to glean anything further than what mywell-beloved had told me herself at the little Pyrenean spa where firstshe had brought brightness to my life.
Later events had rendered the enigma increasingly bewildering, ratherthan simplifying it, and I was compelled to acknowledge myself baffledin every attempted elucidation.
When I arrived home about eight o'clock one morning, having travelled bythe night service via Antwerp and Harwich, the industrious Saunders,who, wearing his apron of green baize, was busy cleaning some plate,handed me my letters, and told me that Lady Fyneshade had called on theprevious evening. She had desired to see me on some important matter,and had expressed great disappointment at my absence. She, however,left a message asking me to telegraph to Eaton Square the moment Ireturned, and make an appointment for her to call upon me. This I did,and about eleven o'clock the same morning she was ushered in. She wasquietly dressed in black, and her face bore unmistakable traces of arestless night. She looked more anxious and worried than I had everbefore seen her, and as she seated herself in her armchair and raisedher veil, I felt inclined to ask her to give some explanation of herextraordinary conduct on the occasion of her last visit. But sheallowed me no time to question her, for with a light laugh she burstforth--
"I'm glad you're back so quickly. Your man told me you were away, andthat the date of your return was quite uncertain."
"So it was," I replied. "Very uncertain."
"You have, I suppose, been following your friend Captain Bethune?"
"How did you know that?" I asked, surprised, believing my
self the onlyperson aware of his escape.
"I have certain sources of information that are secret," she laughed,shrugging her shoulders.
"But you suspect him of the crime," I said. "Why, if you know hiswhereabouts, have you not caused his arrest?"
"Like yourself, I have certain reasons," she answered carelessly,readjusting one of the buttons of her glove.
"And your reason is that you fear exposure if he were placed in acriminal's dock--eh?"
She winced visibly as my abrupt words fell upon her. "You are generousto everyone except myself, Stuart," she observed presently,