Devil's Dice Part 22

"I do not condemn you, Mabel," I said quietly, "On the contrary, you have my most sincere sympathy. If there is anything I can do that will induce Fyneshade to return and thus avoid the scandal, I will do it willingly, but, understand, once and for all, I will not perjure myself in a court of justice."

"Ah, you are cruel and hard-hearted, for you refuse to allay his suspicions, even though you must know from the character of our conversation that at least there is not one iota of affection between Markwick and myself. Is it because of Jack that you refuse?"

"Yes," I answered point-blank. "It is because I don't believe he is guilty."

Slowly she rose from her low chair and stood before me, tall and erect, a bewitching figure against the fitful firelight.

"Then let me tell you one fact that may induce you to alter this opinion," she said. "You will remember that you went to his chambers alone in the darkness, and met him there. You suspected him, but gave him no inkling of your suspicions, yet when you wanted to enter one of his rooms he refused to allow you."

"Yes," I said, amazed. "How do you know that?"

"It matters not by what means I have gained this knowledge; but I tell you further that in that room at the moment you desired to enter, there was stretched upon the floor the body of Gilbert Sternroyd!"

Her words came upon me as a bolt from the blue. How she had become aware of my visit was an entire mystery, but her allegation fully bore out my horrible suspicion that the murderer was at that moment hiding the ghastly evidence of his crime.

"Such, then, is the nature of the evidence you intend to adduce against him," I said, when I had fully contemplated her startling announcement.

"You will, however, be compelled to prove that he committed the crime.

If you are aware that the body was concealed in that room, you probably know where it is at the present time."

"My proofs I retain until the trial," she said. "Gilbert has been murdered, and I am but doing my best to bring the culprit to justice.

You think I am acting strangely; that my husband perhaps is, under the circ.u.mstances, justified in leaving me to face a scandal and the derision of the women who have envied me. Well, you are welcome to your opinion. I can tell you, however, that when the truth is out, although my reputation may be blighted, some revelations will be made that will amaze you."

"I do not blame you for endeavouring to solve this mystery, Mabel," I said rather sympathetically, "but remember Jack Bethune is my friend, and Dora loves him dearly--"

"Because, poor girl, she is ignorant of the terrible truth," she interrupted.

"Then let her remain in ignorance until his guilt be proved," I urged.

"She is happy; do not disturb what unfortunately may be but a brief period of joy."

"You may rely on me," she answered. "I shall tell my sister nothing.

But if Bethune is arrested do not be surprised."

"I do not antic.i.p.ate his arrest," I observed. "For when he is brought to trial, the revelations of which you have spoken will implicate too many people."

"How do you know? What has he told you?" she inquired quickly.

"Nothing. I have learnt much from my own observations."

"Now, tell me," she said, suddenly placing her hand softly upon my arm.

"Will you not take upon yourself the ident.i.ty of Markwick for that brief quarter-of-an-hour in the shrubbery--that is, of course, providing you are asked? I--I appeal to you," she added in a low tone, panting with emotion. "I appeal to you, as a woman clinging to one last hope, to remove this unfounded suspicion attaching to me. Speak, Stuart. Tell me you will remain my friend!"

I was silent. The darting flames showed her hand some face upturned to mine, pale, haggard, anxious. Her breast rose and fell beneath its silk and chiffon, and her white hand grasped my arm convulsively.

"I--I have been reckless," I admit, she went on, brokenly. "My recklessness has been caused by an absence of love for my home or my husband, but I swear that Fyneshade's suspicions are utterly groundless.

Ah!--if you knew the terrible secret in my heart you would pity me--you would s.h.i.+eld me, I know you would," and some other words that she uttered were lost in a sudden fit of hysterical sobbing.

"What is your secret?" I asked calmly, when struggling with her emotion, she again looked up to my face.

"You will remember when we were in the library at Blatherwycke, you asked me if I ever knew a woman named Sybil."

"Yes," I cried eagerly. "Yes. Did you know her?"

"I--I lied to you when I denied all knowledge of her," she answered. "I am well aware of the strange manner in which you became acquainted with her and of your marriage, but even though these incidents are startling, the secret of her life and death is far more astounding."

"Tell me, Mabel. Tell me all," I cried breathlessly. "No," she answered. "No, not until you have promised to swear that you sat with me in the shrubbery, and that Markwick was not present. Only in exchange for your aid will I reveal to you the secret."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE EARL'S SUSPICIONS.

"Will you--will you swear?" she implored, grasping my hands, her white agitated countenance still lifted to mine in earnest appeal.

I had felt confident long ago that she must know something of Sybil, from the fact that Sternroyd's photograph had been placed with that of my dead wife, but was entirely unprepared for this strange offer. I was to commit perjury and thus s.h.i.+eld this mysterious scoundrel Markwick as well as herself, in order to learn some facts about the woman I had loved. At first, so intense was my desire to obtain a clue to the inscrutable mystery that had enveloped Sybil, that I confess my impulse was to give my promise. But on reflection I saw the possibility that she desired to s.h.i.+eld Markwick, and not herself; and I also recognised the probability that her promised revelation might, after all, be entirely untrue. These thoughts decided me.

"No," I answered with firmness. "I will not commit perjury, even though its price be the secret of my wife's life."

"You will not?" she wailed. "Not for my sake?"

"No," I answered, gravely. "Much as I desire to solve the enigma, I decline to entertain any such offer."

"Then you, too, are my enemy!" she cried wildly, with a sudden fierceness, staggering back from me a few paces.

"I did not say so. I merely refused to be bribed to perjury," I answered as she released my hands.

"And you will not help me?" she said, hoa.r.s.ely, standing before me and twirling the ribbons of her gown between her nervous bejewelled fingers.

"I will a.s.sist you in any way I can, but I will not swear that I have not seen that man," I replied.

"Ah! you are prejudiced," she said with a deep sigh. Then in a meaning tone she added, "If you knew the secret that I am ready to divulge in exchange for your silence, you might perhaps have cause for prejudice."

She uttered these words, I knew, for the sole purpose of intensifying my curiosity. It was a woman's wile. Fortunately, however, I remained firm, and answered a trifle indifferently perhaps:

"If I can only learn the truth at such cost, then I prefer to seek a solution of the mystery from some other source."

"Very well," she said, her eyes suddenly flas.h.i.+ng with suppressed anger at my blank refusal. "Very well. You refuse to render me a service, therefore I decline to impart to you knowledge that would place your enemies within your power. Speak the truth if you will, but I tell you that ere long you will regret your refusal to enter into the compact I have suggested--you will come to me humbly--yes, humbly--and beg of me to speak."

"Of what?"

"To tell you the truth," she said quickly, a heavy frown of displeasure crossing her pale brow. "I am fully aware of the many strange adventures that have occurred to you during the past few months; those incidents that have puzzled and mystified you, as indeed they would any person. I could, if I chose, give you an explanation that would astound you, and place in your hands a weapon whereby you might defeat the evil machinations of those who seek your ruin--nay, your death."

"My death!" I echoed. "Who seeks my death?"

"Your friends," she replied with a low cynical laugh, as taking up an unopened note that lay unheeded upon the table, she glanced at its superscription and eagerly concealed it in the pocket of her tea-gown.

For a moment she paused, walking slowly toward the fireplace, but suddenly turning back to me, stretched forth both hands, and with a quiver of intense emotion in her voice, made a final appeal urging me to hide from everyone all knowledge of the interview in the garden at Blatherwycke.

My mind was, however, made up. I shook my head, but no word pa.s.sed my lips. I regretted deeply that I had responded to her summons.

"You are not more generous than the rest," she cried suddenly between her set teeth. "No. You would ruin me, drive me to a suicide's grave!