Devil's Dice

Chapter Twelve

In Strict Confidence

My first impulse was to remain outside and watch for any person who might emerge, but I knew that his front windows commanded a wide view of the street and he would soon detect me; and again, if anyone did come out, I should not know whether they came from one of the other flats in the same building. Slowly I walked round to my chambers, contemplating the best course to pursue, and at length came to the conclusion that a midnight vigil would be useless, for it might possibly further arouse my friend’s suspicions and so thwart my own efforts.

His refusal to disclose the identity of his guest and his firm determination to keep the visit a secret, convinced me more than ever that by his hand Gilbert Sternroyd had fallen, and that he was endeavouring to get rid of the evidence of his crime. That night I slept but little, and in the morning, remembering Dora’s appointment, I resolved to run round and see him before she called. It was my intention to make pretence that I had a conviction that his visitor was a woman, and wished to give him a chance of explaining to me. If he again refused, then I would impart my suspicions to the woman who loved him. I had no desire to cause her pain, but felt it best that she should know the truth. Sooner or later the blow must fall, and I knew alas! that it would crush her.

Just before ten I stood again outside Bethune’s door and rang. My summons was answered by Mrs Horton, who in reply to my question whether Captain Bethune was in, answered:

“No, sir. The Captain hasn’t been home these three days, sir. He’s at barracks, I believe.”

“For three days!” I echoed. It was evident that he had returned and again left unknown to this woman. Then I asked whether she had been there every day.

“No sir. I’ve been down in Hampshire, sir, to bury my poor niece. The Captain said he would be away, so my daughter went with me.”

In answer to further questions she told me that she had returned to work at eight that morning, and that the Captain was still absent. It was evident, too, that she had no suspicion of the tragedy, every trace of which had now been carefully removed.

Making an excuse that I wanted to obtain a paper from the rack in the dining-room, I entered and looked around. Nothing had apparently been disturbed, but on the mantelshelf I saw a plain gold signet ring that had evidently been overlooked. Taking it up, I examined it, and found engraved on the inside the initials “G.S.” It was evidently a ring from the dead man’s finger.

I put it down, scrutinised the room carefully, looked in the grate, but saw nothing, then taking up a paper, went out, wishing Mrs Horton “good-day.”

Punctually at the hour appointed, Saunders ushered Dora into my room. She was elegantly dressed in a smart tailor-made gown of dove-grey cloth with a large black hat with feathers, and wore a flimsy veil that rather enhanced than concealed her beauty.

“I feel I’m becoming awfully reckless in making this visit,” she commenced with a laugh when she had seated herself in my chair, “but when I got home last night I received such a strange letter from Jack that I felt compelled to seek your advice.”

“If I can be of any service I shall be delighted,” I said.

She seemed nervously agitated, and her eyes were, I thought, unduly heavy, as if she were unusually anxious.

“Thanks, you are always kind,” she said. “Both Mabel and myself always look upon you as our big brother. We often wonder why you never marry. We shall hear of it, however, some day.”

“Never, I hope,” I answered with a forced smile, remembering the grim tragedy of my marriage, and recollecting that her lover had once made the very same remark to me.

“Why never? If you had a wife you would be far happier. At present you have only your man to look after your personal comforts, and surely your dinners at your club can never be so pleasant as if you dined at home in company with a pretty wife.”

“Upon my word,” I cried, laughing, “I shall believe that you actually intend to propose to me next, Dora. I think if it were not – well, if it were not for an obstacle whose name is Jack Bethune, I should be inclined to offer you marriage.”

“Oh! Don’t talk like that,” she protested with a demure look. “You quite misconstrue my words. Once you and I were lovers, when we were in our teens, but all that is past. We have both seen the world now, and have met others whom we could love better.”

“I don’t know that I have,” I said reflectively. She was one of the most charming girls of the season, and I believe were it not for the fact that I had already loved and lost, and that my feelings toward the opposite sex had become sadly embittered by what I felt was unnecessary pain that had been heaped upon me, I should have asked her to renounce her lover and let me take his place.

But only during a few moments did I entertain such foolish thoughts, for I quickly saw that she adored the soldier-novelist, and that I had no right to be disloyal to a friend, even though that friend might be a murderer.

“I’m afraid our conversation is drifting towards a rather dangerous topic,” she said. “But you are such a confirmed bachelor that I always feel I can talk to you without fear that you will go down on your knees or perform some other equally absurd antic.”

“I’m sure I’m greatly gratified to know that I’m held in such high esteem,” I observed laughing. “But under the eyes of a pretty woman like yourself, men are sometimes fascinated, you know.”

“Yes, but fascination is not love. When a man is fascinated by a woman, either the latter is an adventuress, or the former a fool.” And she threw back her handsome head and laughed at my discomfiture.

I had been fascinated by Sybil. Had she been an adventuress, I wondered; or had I been a fool?

“True,” I answered, earnestly. “But woman’s beauty exercises a most powerful influence over man.” Then I added – “I confess that if I was not aware of your love for Jack I should think of you tenderly, and very possibly I should perform one of those gymnastic antics you denounce as absurd.”

“Then I’m very pleased you know of our attachment,” she answered with a coquettish laugh. “I mean to marry Jack, as you are aware, therefore I can never be any more to you than a friend, but friend I will be always, if you will allow me?”

“Of course,” I said. “The many years we have known one another – I mustn’t count them or I shall mention your age, which won’t be polite – give us licence to talk with freedom without falling in love – eh? But there, a truce to joking, what about this extraordinary letter from Jack? Where is he?”

“Well, he writes from Dover,” she said, drawing a note from her perfumed muff. “Shall I read you an extract?”

“Certainly. I suppose I mustn’t read it myself because it is all ‘darling’ love and kisses.”

She blushed, saying: “I have read somewhere – in one of Jack’s books, I think – the proverb, Les hommes aiment par jalousie, mais les femmes sont jalouses par amour. If you loved a woman, you too would call her darling, and I know you would kiss her. Every man does.”

“Your own experience – eh?” I laughed. “Perhaps I should make crosses in representation of kisses. But if you intend to convey the idea of male impossibilities I think those of your own sex are certainly more numerous. It has always occurred to me that feminine impossibilities would make a very remarkable and interesting study. For instance, woman can’t for the life of her make head nor tail out of a time-table; she can’t be jolly and appreciate the most enjoyable function if she thinks her hair is a little out of curl; she can’t help gauging a woman by her clothes, even though experience has taught her that beggars sometimes ride in fine carriages, and she can’t, when it’s a question between Cupid and herself, help saying ‘No’ where she means ‘Yes’ and vice versa.”

“And man, when he sees a woman’s pretty face, no matter if the complexion is added by the hare’s foot or the glorious tresses false, must straightway flirt with her if he has a chance, just as you are doing now.”

Then she laughed heartily, and clapped her small gloved hands gleefully, knowing that she had successfully turned my own sarcasm against myself.

This I was compelled to admit. She was apparently in the highest spirits. Little, alas! did she dream of the terrible truth that the man she loved was an assassin. After more good-humoured banter she pursed her lips in pretty affectation, then opened the treasured letter, saying:

“Now, this is what puzzles me. Jack, who gives no address, the postmark only showing that it was posted at Dover, says: ‘I came up from Hounslow intending to call and see you. I only had sufficient time, however, to drive to Charing Cross and catch the night mail to the Continent. I am writing this in the train, and shall post it at Dover before crossing. I may be absent only a week, or I may be away a month or so. If I can I will write, but I can give no address for I shall be constantly moving. Therefore if you love me do not attempt to communicate with me. I am sorry it is not possible for me to see you and explain, but immediately you receive this letter destroy it, and if anyone inquires after me – whoever they may be – tell them you know nothing. Do not mention my letter to a soul. Trust in me, and when I return I will explain. Good-bye.’”

“What else?” I asked.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said in a low voice, blushing deeply.

“Certainly it is very strange – very strange,” I said. “But if I were you I should not trouble about it. It may be that he has been sent on some special mission abroad.”

“Oh, I shall not worry,” she answered reassuringly. “In a week or two he will return and explain.”

It was upon my lips to tell her the sad news that he would never return, but I stifled the words, and said instead:

“Of course. There is nothing very extraordinary in his omission to give an address. If he is travelling quickly to an uncertain destination, as I have done sometimes, letters are quite out of the question.”

“Yes, I know. But there is yet a stranger fact,” she said. “Last night when we got home Lord Wansford came to supper with some other people, and he told me he had a few hours before seen Jack at Victoria Station talking to a lady who was leaving with a quantity of luggage.”

This new feature was startling, but I saw it was best to scout the idea.

“Old Wansford is rather short-sighted,” I observed. “No doubt he was mistaken. Jack would not wilfully deceive you like that.”

“No. I feel confident he wouldn’t,” she replied, toying with the letter. “My opinion is the same as yours, that he mistook someone else for Jack.”

“No doubt. I’ve been round to his chambers half an hour ago, and seen Mrs Horton. She says he has not been home for three days and that fully bears out his letter.”

“Do you think,” she said hesitatingly a few moments later, “do you think that if I went down to Hounslow I could find out where he has gone? I know Major Tottenham quite well.”

“No. If I were you I would not go. Had he known his destination he would certainly have put it in his letter. I will endeavour to find out for you, but in the meantime do not let his absence trouble you. I have invited him down to Wadenhoe, so you will meet, and – ”