Devil's Dice
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“Ah! that is not surprising. The precautions taken to prevent you ascertaining the truth are indeed elaborate, every possible contingency having been provided for.”
“Do you mean that I am never to obtain the knowledge I seek; that I am always to remain in ignorance?”
“With Markwick’s sanction you will never know. He is implicated far too deeply.”
“How implicated?”
“I am not yet in possession of the whole of the facts. If I were I should not be compelled, as I now am, to purchase his silence by risking my own reputation. But it is for that very reason I sought you this morning. If I dared, I would tell you all I know of Sybil; but by doing so I should bring upon my head the exposure that I dread.”
What, I wondered, was the nature of the secret which she feared Markwick would betray? Only one solution of the problem occurred to me, and it rooted itself firmly in my mind. The secret was none other than the fact that she had either lured young Sternroyd to his death or had actually fired the fatal shot herself. The thought was startling, but her words and manner showed conclusively her guilt, and in those brief moments, during which a silence fell between us, I told myself that two persons must be associated in the murder of the young millionaire, and that their names were Mabel, Countess of Fyneshade, and Captain John Bethune.
Hers was unmistakably the face of one whose conscience was borne down by a guilty secret, and I felt instinctively to shrink from her as next second she stretched forth her gloved hand and laid it gently on my arm.
“I am powerless, Stuart, utterly powerless to tell you what you desire to know about the woman who was so strangely married to you,” she said. “For reasons already explained I am forced to remain silent; but further, I cast myself upon your generosity. I beseech you once again to help a woman friendless among enemies, who seek her degradation and social ruin.”
“Well, what do you want?” I asked rather roughly.
“I have told you why I am compelled to still remain friendly with this man Markwick, a person hated by both of us. He has threatened me; he has declared that he will disclose my secret if I cannot obtain your silence regarding that interview in the garden at Blatherwycke. To-day I come to you to beg, nay, to pray to you to reconsider your decision.” She spoke so earnestly that I confess myself surprised.
“Upon that interview there apparently rests some very important development,” I observed, thoughtfully, after a pause. “He must have some exceedingly strong motive if he attempts to secure secrecy by such means. What is it?”
“I have no idea,” replied the Countess, quickly. “He does not desire that his friendship should compromise me, I suppose.”
“But has it not already compromised you in the eyes of Fyneshade?” I suggested, in a tone of suspicion.
“True; but your testimony, the word of a man of honour, will go a long way toward dispelling whatever absurd notions my husband has got into his head,” she urged.
“His notions, viewed by the light of later events, are not altogether surprising. To say the least, the circumstances are suspicious.”
“Ah! I quite admit that. It is for that very reason I cast myself upon your generosity and beg of your assistance. If I do not secure your silence, he – the man who holds me in his power – will not hesitate to denounce and crush me. Your promise may save me.”
“Save you? I cannot see how,” I said, mechanically, for I was thinking of the probability that she was the actual culprit.
“Ah! you do not – you cannot, understand,” she cried, impatiently. “I would prefer death to exposure. If he betrays my secret, then I – I will kill myself.”
“Come, come,” I said, sympathetically. “This is wild talk. Suicide is mere cowardice.”
“But it would avert the greater scandal. If you knew everything you would not be surprised at my rash words, nay, you would wonder how I have endured all this mental anguish so long, rather than yield to the temptation of taking at one draught the contents of a tiny bottle I have locked away in my room.”
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 attitude 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 assist 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 assuredly 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 assuring 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 button-hole of his grey frock-coat, and carrying his cane with a jaunty air. His swift glance ran round the room, to assure 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 passing, 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 assure 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 assure 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 assistance 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 circumstances, 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 damning 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 to-day 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.”
“Then tell me quickly,” she cried excitedly; “tell me, is it true what the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he has fled abroad?”
She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind should again become unhinged.
“Yes, Dora,” I said sympathetically. “I am afraid it is true.”
She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the lace trimming of her dress.
“They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I understand,” she said. “The police think that Jack shot him.”
“They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I believe.”
“Do you suspect him?” she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.
“I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion.”
“Ah! I understand; you, like the others, think he is guilty,” she said in a tone of bitter reproach. “Some enemy has denounced him and set the bloodhounds of the law upon him. They will follow the scent, and soon discover him. But is he guilty?”
“I can only tell you one fact, Dora, much as I regret it,” I answered. “The detective who has the case in hand, one of the most renowned experts in his profession, holds evidence against him of a most conclusive character.”
“In what way? What is the nature of the evidence?” she demanded.
“There is a witness,” I replied slowly. “A person discovered Gilbert lying dead in Jack’s chambers immediately after the crime. On the following night the same person visited the place secretly, and there met Jack, who was apparently engaged in getting rid of all traces of the murder. This witness desired to enter one of the rooms, but Jack locked the door in his face. In that room it will be proved the body of the murdered man was still lying.”
“It will not be so easy to prove that last fact as you imagine,” she said very seriously.
“Then Jack has already told you the truth!” I exclaimed.
“He told me something before – before I fell ill,” she answered.
It was on my lips to ask her for an explanation of the cause that led to her brain-trouble, but, remembering the strict injunctions of the great specialist, I deferred my question.
“Then you believe he is innocent?” I asked eagerly.
“The police may bring forward an array of whatever witnesses they choose, but I will show them that Jack is no murderer,” she said firmly. “I do not wonder that you, in common with others, suspect him, but when the truth is made clear you will be amazed at the villainy that has been resorted to by those responsible for Sternroyd’s death.”
“Do you, then, allege that there was more than one person?”
“That point will be made clear at the trial,” she answered briefly. “But tell me, you know something of Jack’s movements. When do you anticipate he will be arrested?”
“To-night most probably,” I said. “Perhaps he is already detained.”
“He is at some little out of-the-world place in Germany, isn’t he?”
“Yes; how did you ascertain that?”
“I had a letter from him to-day,” she replied; “but we have no time to lose. Ah!” And she stood with both hands suddenly pressed to her brow. “My head throbs so painfully now and then. Sometimes it seems as if my forehead must really burst.”
“Can I assist you?” I asked, rising quickly and standing beside her, but as I did so the door opened and the Earl of Fyneshade was announced.
“Ah! my dear Dora,” he cried effusively, as he strode into the room. “I only returned from Paris this morning, and hearing you were unwell came along to inquire. The account I had of you was that you were delirious, with all sorts of other complications, but I’m glad you are not so ill as reported.”
“Thanks very much,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m very much better to-day.”
Then I exchanged greetings with the Earl. He looked spruce and well, and by his casual question whether Mabel had been there often during his absence, no one would have suspected him of any serious disagreement with his young wife. For a quarter of an hour we chatted, when, finding Lady Stretton was out driving, he rose and left.
“I’m so thankful he’s gone,” Dora exclaimed with a grimace, as soon as the door had closed. “He’s such a dreadful old bore. I wonder Mabel ever fell in love with him; but there, ill-disposed persons say she didn’t.”
And we both laughed.
“But we haven’t any time to gossip,” she exclaimed, rising with a sudden impetuosity. “You will go with me, won’t you?”
“Where?”
“Not far. I want to convince you that what I have said regarding Jack’s innocence is the absolute truth.”
“I am, of course, open to conviction,” I said eagerly. “If I could only see him cleared of this terrible suspicion I should be happy.”
“Then you shall,” she said, laying her hand tenderly on my arm, and adding with earnestness, “Stuart, you told me on one occasion that you had loved a true, honest woman, and that your life had been blighted by her death.”
“Yes,” I said, “I remember I spoke to you once of her.”
“Have you ceased to remember her?” she asked mysteriously.
“Never. Daily, hourly she is in my thoughts. There has, alas! been no brightness in my life since the well-remembered day when I lost her,” I exclaimed fervently.
“If what I hear be true, she puzzles you. You knew nothing of her parentage, of her past, of the reason for the strange ceremony of your marriage,” she said in a soft voice.
“Nothing. I have ever since sought to penetrate the mystery and ignominiously failed in every effort.”
She paused and, looking steadfastly into my face, exclaimed in a strange voice full of suppressed excitement: “Then to-night I will take you to a place where you may ascertain the truth. At all hazards I will save Jack the indignity of falling into the hands of the police, and at the same time reveal to you certain facts that will astound you.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
Reconciliation
Of her French maid, who appeared in answer to her summons, Dora ordered her hat and coat, but ere these could be brought she again placed her hands convulsively to her brow and, pacing the room in feverish haste, complained of the recurrence of excruciating pains.
Not knowing how to relieve her I stood watching, fearing lest she should be seized with another attack of mental aberration. She pushed her hair back from her brow, and suddenly halting before me, said:
“It is as I feared. My head is reeling and I cannot think. My mind is growing as confused as it was the other day. I – I cannot imagine what ails me.”
“Shall I send for Dr Fothergill?” I suggested anxiously. She had promised to make a revelation, and I foresaw the possibility that if her mind became unhinged I should learn nothing.
“No,” she answered, wearily sinking into a chair. “Forgive me. I am afraid I miscalculated my strength. I thought I had quite recovered, but the slight exertion of trying to recall the past brings back those fearful pains that have of late so tortured me. The blow must have injured my brain.”
“The blow! What blow?” I cried.
“Cannot you see?” she said, placing her hand to her hair and parting it at the side.
I bent to examine, and there saw, half concealed by the skillful manner in which her hair had been dressed by her maid, unmistakable signs of a terrible blow that had been dealt her. It was strange. I also had been felled at the moment I had discovered her creeping silently into that mysterious room in Gloucester Square. Had she also fallen by the same unknown hand? Evidently the injury to her brain was the result of the crushing blow she had received.
“Who caused this?” I inquired. “You have been struck from behind!”
“Yes, by an enemy. But ask me nothing, ask me nothing,” she groaned. “I – cannot think – I cannot talk. The place goes round – round.”
The neat maid entered with her young mistress’s hat at that moment, but seeing her mistress lying back in the chair pale and motionless, the girl halted on the threshold, scared.
“Send a messenger at once for Dr Fothergill,” I commanded. “Miss Dora has been taken ill again,” and while she flew to execute my orders I crossed to the recumbent invalid and tenderly chafed her hands. They seemed cold and clammy. Her wild staring eyes were fixed upon me and she shuddered, but to my questions she gave incoherent replies, lapsing gradually into a state of semi-insensibility.
On the eve of revealing the secret of Sybil, she had been thwarted by mental weakness. Full of pain and anxiety I watched her, reflecting that this added one more to the string of misfortunes consequent upon my strange union. Even my friends seemed by the conspiring vagaries of Fate prevented from rendering me any aid.
Within a quarter of an hour the great specialist arrived, being followed almost immediately by Lady Stretton, haughty, fussy and rapidly fanning herself. The doctor, after hearing from me how Dora had suddenly been attacked, and having examined her carefully, said, with a sigh:
“Ah! Just as I expected; just what I feared. She has had a relapse, and a very serious one. But she will always be subject to these spasmodic attacks, unless by chance she experiences some great unexpected joy or sorrow, which may restore her mind to its proper balance. We can only hope,” he added, turning to Lady Stretton who stood beside him. “Hope!”
“But cannot you cure her?” her ladyship asked. “Surely hers is not such a very serious case?”
“The injury to the brain was very serious,” he answered slowly. “Her case is a most perplexing one and full of the gravest complications. Speaking with candour, I cannot say with any degree of certainty that she will ever completely recover.”