Devil's Dice Part 26

"With what object?" I asked.

"As far as we can ascertain, there was absolutely no object," he answered.

"Do they expect to make an arrest?"

"They hope to, of course," he replied vaguely. "Personally, I know but little about it beyond what I've read in the newspapers. It is a strange feature in the case that the body has not been found."

"What about the will?"

"Ah! another very curious point; but I don't attach much importance to it. Many hare-brained, wealthy young fools make wills in favour of women they admire. It is an everyday occurrence, only they generally revoke or destroy the will, or else spend all their money before they die. No; there is little in that, and certainly no clue. By the way, the lady to whom he has left his money is the wife of your friend the Earl. You knew Sternroyd, then?"

I was unprepared for this, but, affecting ignorance, answered:

"I saw him in the street one day. Lady Fyneshade introduced me. That is all I knew of him."

The detective, apparently satisfied, did not press his question further; but a few minutes later, the performance having concluded and the theatre rapidly emptying, he suggested it was time to go, and outside, in Leicester Square, we shook hands and parted.

"Good-night," he said heartily, as he turned to leave. "I shall be astir early to-morrow, and see if I can find the man who has eluded me to-night."

"Good-night," I laughed. "I shall look for the case in the papers."

Then he b.u.t.toned his overcoat and strolled rapidly away along Cranbourne Street, while I made my way home in the opposite direction, my mind full of strangely dismal forebodings.

Somehow--I know not by what means--it had been impressed upon me during the last quarter of an hour I had been with Grindlay, that this shrewd police officer was not searching for the diamond thief, for, on reflection, I had a faint suspicion that, as we alighted from the cab and entered the vestibule, one of the men he suspected had actually pa.s.sed us, and that my friend had stared him full in the face. I was too excited at the prospect of witnessing an arrest in the theatre to notice the incident at that moment, and, strangely enough, it was only when walking home absorbed in thought I remembered it.

Why had Grindlay allowed these men to thus slip through his fingers?

No! I felt absolutely convinced that the detective was searching for an entirely different person. Indeed, the suggestion pa.s.sed through my mind, as I recollected his apparently artless questions, that after all I might be suspected. Perhaps someone had seen me leave Jack's chambers on that fatal night; perhaps the name upon the warrant, which he refused to show me, was actually my own.

Again, the discovery of my portrait in that gallery of criminals was amazing, and seemed to have some hidden connection with the disappearance of the young millionaire. Perhaps Grindlay had purposely given me the alb.u.m to inspect in order to watch how I was affected by the discovery. In any case, the curious events of that evening had rendered the problem even more complicated than before.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A HOUSE OF SHADOWS.

My mother, I ascertained from a letter a few days later, had invited Dora to remain with her a week, and Jack, still my father's guest, was therefore basking in the smiles of the woman he loved. How long would this continue, I wondered. Suspected and surrounded by spies and enemies, Jack Bethune must, I felt certain, sooner or later betray his terrible secret, either by word or deed, and then the a.s.size court would be the portal to the gallows. I pitied Dora, well knowing what a crus.h.i.+ng blow must sooner or later fall to dispel her day-dreams and shatter her air-built castles. I pitied Jack, because I had seen in his haggard, care-worn face only too plainly the terrible pangs of conscience that, torturing him by day and night, were goading him towards his doom.

Beauty is one of the rarest and most desirable things in nature. Dora Stretton, with her calm beauty, with its hints of animation and pa.s.sion, with her accomplishment of form and sweetness of voice, was one of those ravis.h.i.+ng creatures for whose smiles men do great deeds, for whom men fight and die, through whom they feel that sudden throb of the heart that lifts them beyond the common round. The sweet, bright-eyed woman who loved this murderer was one of those who make the joy, the poetry, the tragedy of life. Alas! that it should have been so.

The papers were full of laudatory reviews of Bethune's new book, "The Siren of Strelitz," and while everywhere the opinion was expressed that the "soldier-novelist" had never done better work, the popular author himself was clinging to the last hours of his happiness with Dora, trembling at each approaching footstep, and expecting arrest at any moment. A dozen, nay, a hundred, times I sat and calmly reflected whether I had the slightest shadow of doubt in my own mind that he was Gilbert's murderer; but I could find none. I alone had, by strange mischance, discovered the body, and when I had returned he refused to allow me to enter one of the rooms. He had locked the door in my face.

In there the body had been hidden, and thence, by the exercise of some deep cunning, the nature of which I was unaware, he had removed it and disposed of it in such a manner that discovery was impossible. He had hidden every trace of this terrible deed, and there remained only myself as witness against him.

I had seen the body. My evidence alone might send him to a murderer's grave.

But if, finding himself cornered, he wove a web about me, in what plight should I find myself? This startling thought impressed itself upon me one morning as, sitting alone in my chambers, I had been reading a half-column of "Latest Details" hashed up by an enterprising reporter who had carefully "written around the facts" without carrying his reader any further. There was just a chance that Bethune might give information against me and cause my arrest. In such circ.u.mstances it would, I realised not without alarm, be very easy for him to give some d.a.m.ning circ.u.mstantial evidence. Yet he could not allege that he had found me searching the spot where the body had lain, otherwise his evidence would show that he had previous knowledge of the crime, and some awkward cross-examination would follow regarding the disposal of the body. No! Careful consideration of any evidence that might be given against me brought me to the gratifying conclusion that he dare not adopt the bold course of accusing me of firing the fatal shot I had determined to seek a solution of the mysterious link that I felt more than ever convinced connected the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd with my strange marriage and Sybil's death; yet I knew not in what direction to seek. The Countess had admittedly been acquainted with her; Markwick had, I knew from personal knowledge, held some mystic influence over her; and the murdered man had known her so intimately that, at her own desire, their photographs had been exhibited together in Regent Street.

Either Mabel or Markwick could, if they chose, tear aside the veil and present the facts undistorted; but from neither could I hope for any a.s.sistance, for the man had disclaimed all knowledge of me prior to our formal introduction at Wadenhoe, while Lady Fyneshade made perjury the price of her secret.

I had, therefore, to act on my own initiative, as before, and again at this time the strange words written on my card that had been attached to the wreath in Woking Cemetery urged me to still prosecute my search after truth. The mysterious message, apparently from the dead and intended no doubt for me, had read, "Seek and you may find." That hour I renewed my search with increased vigour and a keen desire to revenge the death of Sybil, which I felt convinced had been brought about by foul play.

For many days I wandered aimlessly about London, expecting to hear of Jack's arrest, and scarcely daring to glance at the contents bills of the evening papers lest my eyes should fall upon the words I dreaded there to see.

Since my meeting with Sybil and the inexplicable and startling events that had followed I had become so utterly world-weary that I cared nothing for the festivities I attended. I accepted invitations merely out of habit, but truth to tell, had it not been for the keen desire to elucidate the ever-deepening mystery I should have returned to the country or gone abroad. I felt, however, that in London alone a clue might be discovered, therefore I remained; but, although day after day, I racked my brains in an endeavour to form some plan of action, I could see no ray of light through the impenetrable veil. On several occasions I had met Grindlay accidentally, and had tried in vain to learn from him whether any further evidence had been obtained against Bethune. He always affected ignorance, and the only point on which he deigned to enlighten me was that the two men he had pointed out to me at the Empire had successfully succeeded in eluding him.

Dora, having remained three weeks at Wadenhoe, had returned to Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke, and was daily expected in town for the season; Jack had left and gone to North Wales, for the purpose of getting local colour for a new historical romance dealing with life in Wales in the sixteenth century; and, as far as I could ascertain, the Earl of Fyneshade had gone to the Continent. I had not seen Mabel for nearly a month, and had not the slightest desire to meet her, but I heard rumours that she went about a good deal with Markwick, who was a constant visitor at her house. The Earl's friends.h.i.+p with this man on that memorable evening at the Empire was extraordinary. There was some deep motive underlying his feigned good-nature, but what it was I was utterly unable to discover. That it must be of a sinister character I knew, but further I could surmise nothing.

Alone, my brain ever racked by the torments of this tantalising mystery, I strove with every endeavour to learn something of the movements of the polished adventurer who had been designated as a "vile, despicable coward," but could hear little beyond the fact that Mabel and he were close friends.

She had distinctly denied the insinuation that there was a liaison between them, and I confess I believed her words were true. If he had not been attracted by her beauty then his friends.h.i.+p meant conspiracy.

The conversation I had overheard at Blatherwycke was sufficient proof of this.

It was in a despairing, uncertain state of mind when, alone in my room one afternoon, I reverently drew Sybil's portrait from its hiding-place and looked lingeringly at it. Her grave eyes peered forth with just that sweet expression of sadness that had puzzled me in that gay little mountain town where we had first met. What strange secret was hidden in her mind? What suspicion, deep rooted, terrible perhaps, had caused that woeful look upon her flawless countenance? Through my brain there floated memories of the past--sweet, tender memories of the few brilliant sun-lit idle days among the mountains; sad, bitter memories of a never-to-be-forgotten night, each event of which was photographed indelibly upon my memory. All recurred to me. The meeting with Markwick at Richmond, his devilish cunning, and the weird and tragic ceremony in that mysterious mansion. The recollection of the house in Gloucester Square caused me to deeply ponder. I remembered that I had set out to inspect the place on one occasion, and the persons who had prevented me had been Mabel and her murdered admirer, Gilbert. Was there any reason why she had met me at the door? Could it have been possible that she had followed me with the determination that I should not enter there? On calm reflection it certainly seemed as if such had actually been the case, even though I remembered there was a board up announcing that the great house was to let.

I locked the photograph away and sat motionless for a long time thinking, at last resolving to revisit the house. I had a morbid desire to again stand in that great drawing-room wherein I had been married, and where Sybil had died; I wanted to inspect the house and refresh my memory as to its details. The solution of the mystery was now the sole object of my life. All previous effort having failed, I determined to revert again to the very beginning.

That afternoon I drove past the house in a cab, and taking notice of the address of the firm of estate agents who, according to the notice-board, had the letting of it, went on to their office in Sloane Street, arriving there just as they were closing. I ascertained that the house had been let six months before to an Indian merchant, named Fryer, who had signed an agreement for five years. I observed that the house was still empty and the board had not been removed, whereupon the clerk told me that the new tenant had, before returning to India, said it was probable that he would not return to take possession for perhaps another year.

"I have a very keen desire to go over the place," I said disappointedly, after he had told me that they had given up the key. "Some relatives of mine once lived there, and the house has so many pleasant memories for me. Is it absolutely impossible to obtain entrance to it?"

"I'm afraid so, sir," the man answered. "The tenant has possession. It is his own fault that the board has not been removed."

"Come," I said, bending over the counter towards him, "I feel sure the tenant would not object to me going over the place. Here is my card, and if there are any little out-of-pocket expenses I'm prepared to pay them, you know."

He smiled and glanced at me with a knowing air, as if calculating the amount of the "tip" that I might be expected to disburse, and then exclaimed in a low tone so that his fellow-clerks should not overhear:

"The case is rather peculiar. Although this Mr Fryer has taken the house and we have given up the key, yet to effect an entrance would really be easy enough. You must keep secret from the firm what I tell you, but the fact is when the house was first put into our hands, some years ago, we had a caretaker who did not live on the premises, and as we required to keep a key here in case anyone called to go over the house, we had to have a duplicate key made for him. We have that key still in our possession."

Slowly I drew from my vest-pocket a sovereign and slipped it un.o.bserved into his palm, saying: "Lend me that key until to-morrow."

He walked away with a business-like air in order to disarm any suspicion that he had been bribed, returned with a ledger, commenced to recommend other houses, and subsequently gave me a latch-key, with one stipulation, that it must be returned to him at 9:30 next morning.

While hurrying along Knightsbridge I met Fyneshade unexpectedly, and wis.h.i.+ng to hear about Mabel and Markwick, accepted his invitation to dine at the St Stephen's Club, instead of going on direct to Gloucester Square. During the meal I learnt that since the evening I had left him stealing from his house like a thief, he had not returned there. Only that morning he had arrived back from Rome, and knew nothing of Mabel or of the man who, according to her statement, had been the cause of their estrangement. Finding that he could give me no information, I excused myself soon after dinner, and purchasing a cheap bull's-eye lantern and a box of matches in a back street in Westminster, entered a hansom.

Had it not been for the fact that I had promised to return the key to the house-agent's clerk at that early hour in the morning, I would have gladly postponed my investigations until daylight, but hindered as I had been by Fyneshade, it was nearly half-past nine when I alighted from the cab at the corner of Hyde Park and walked to Radnor Place, where the front entrance of the houses forming one side of Gloucester Square are situated. Halting under the great dark portico of number seventy-nine, I glanced up and down the street. The lamps shed only a dim sickly light, the street was deserted, and the quiet only broken by the monotonous tinkling of a cab-bell somewhere in Southwick Crescent, and the howling of a distant dog.

I am not naturally nervous, but I confess I did not like the prospect of entering that great gloomy mansion alone. This main entrance being at the rear, only one or two staircase-windows looked out upon the street in which I stood, and all were closely barred. About the exterior, with its grimy conservatory, mud-bespattered door, and littered steps, there seemed an indescribable mysteriousness. I found myself hesitating.

What profit could an intimate knowledge of this place be to me? I asked myself. But I answered the question by reflecting that the place was empty, therefore there was at least nothing to fear as long as I got in un.o.bserved. If the police detected me I should, in all probability, be compelled to go to the nearest station and submit to a cross-examination by an inspector.

All was quiet, and, having no time to lose, I therefore slipped out the key, inserted it in the heavy door, and a few seconds later stood in the s.p.a.cious hall with the door closed behind me. For a moment the total darkness unnerved me, and my heart thumped so quickly that I could hear its beating. I remembered how, while on a similar night search, I had discovered the body of Gilbert Sternroyd.

Quickly I lit my lantern, and by its welcome light stole along, making no sound. The darkness seemed to envelope me, causing me to fear making any noise. There was a close, musty smell about the place, a combined odour of dirt and mildew; but as I flashed my lamp hither and thither into the most distant corners, I was surprised to discover the size of the hall, the magnificence of the great crystal chandelier, and the beauty of the crystal bal.u.s.trades and banisters of the wide handsome staircase. The paintings in the hall were old family portraits, but over them many spiders had spun their webs, which also waved in festoons from the chandelier and from the ceiling. Years must have elapsed since the place had been cleaned, yet it was strange, for on my visit on the night of Sybil's death I had not noticed these signs of neglect.

The place had then been brilliantly lit; now all was dark, squalid, and funereal.

Room after room on the ground floor I entered. The doors of most of them were open, but all the apartments were encrusted by the dust and cobwebs of years. The furniture, some of it green with mildew, was slowly decaying, the hangings had in many places rotted and fallen, while the lace curtains that still remained at the closely-shuttered windows, were perfectly black with age.

It was a house full of grim shadows of the past. The furniture, of a style in vogue a century ago, was handsome and costly, but irretrievably ruined by neglect. Fully half an hour I occupied in exploring the bas.e.m.e.nt and ground-floor, then slowly I ascended the wide staircase in search of the well-remembered room wherein I had unwittingly been one of the contracting parties to as strange a marriage ceremony as had ever been performed.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.