Whatsoever a Man Soweth

“Yes, unfortunately,” I said, “our work is mostly at night, you know – getting ready the next day’s paper.”

He was affable from the first, and apparently entirely unsuspicious, for he sent his wife downstairs for a jug of ale, and I was compelled to take a glass with him in order to cement our acquaintanceship, after which he and his wife discreetly withdrew with, I hope, the opinion that we were “a very nice, quiet couple.”

At eight o’clock I took leave of Tibbie after we had had a supper of cold meat. She rather missed her dinner, but assured me that she would soon get used to dining in the middle of the day. Then, after seeing that she was quite comfortable, and that the locks on the doors acted, I shook hands with her.

“Good-bye, Willie dear,” she laughed. “Come home early, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I replied, echoing her laugh, and then as William Morton I went out to my work.

Walking through Trafalgar Road I found myself in the Old Kent Road, and presently hailing a hansom I drove as far as Piccadilly Circus, where I alighted and went on foot to my rooms.

As I entered Eric Domville came to the door of my sitting-room to meet me. He had been awaiting my return.

I saw from his face that something had occurred.

“Why, Eric – you?” I gasped. “What has happened?”

He placed his forefinger to his lips, indicative of silence, and glanced behind me along the hall to the room wherein Budd had disappeared. Then, when I had passed into my own cosy den, he closed the door carefully.

“Yes,” he said, in a low, strained voice, “something has happened, old fellow – something serious. I’ve discovered a fact that puts an entirely new complexion upon the affair. You are both in gravest peril. Listen, and I’ll explain.”

Chapter Eleven.

Shows a Woman’s Weakness

Eric, standing with his back to the mantelshelf, revealed to me a fact that was both extraordinary and startling.

“After you’d left Ryhall yesterday,” he said, “I was walking across the park to meet Cynthia, who’d gone out to pay a visit to that thin old parson’s wife over at Waltham, when, quite unexpectedly, I came across Ellice standing talking to a rather badly-dressed young woman. She was in shabby black, with a brown straw hat trimmed with violets, and an old fur tippet around her neck. They were under a tree a little aside from the by-path that leads across to Waltham, and were speaking excitedly. I was walking on the grass and they did not hear me approach. Suddenly she made some statement which caused him to hesitate and think. Then he gave her some money hurriedly from his pocket, and after a further conversation they parted, she proceeding towards the high road, while Winsloe went in the direction of the house. I followed at a respectable distance, and that afternoon, when we assembled in the hall for tea, he announced that he had been suddenly recalled to town. In this I suspected something, so when he left by the seven-thirty-five express I followed him here.”

“Well?” I asked, looking straight into his face.

“Well, he’s in search of Tibbie.”

“Of Tibbie! What does he know?”

“That woman who met him in the park told him something. She probably knew of your appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because this morning he went to Harker’s Hotel in Waterloo Road, and inquired for her. But you had very fortunately taken her away.”

“Then if he knows of our appointment he will certainly follow me!” I said, in utter amazement.

“Most certainly he will. You recognise the grave peril of the situation?”

“I do,” I said, for I saw that Sybil must at once be seriously compromised. “But who could have known our secret? Who was the woman?”

“I’ve never seen her before. She’s an entire stranger. But that she is aware of Tibbie’s movements is beyond doubt. You were evidently seen together when you met last night – or how would he know that she slept at Harker’s Hotel?”

I was silent. I saw the very serious danger that now lay before us. Yet why was this man in search of Tibbie? He had proposed to her, she had said, and had been refused.

I recalled to my companion the fact of the photograph of the dead man being found in his bag.

“Yes,” Eric said. “He has recognised the victim but has some secret motive in remaining silent. Is it, I wonder, a motive of revenge?”

“Against whom?”

For a few moments he did not speak. Then he answered —

“Against Tibbie.”

I pursed my lips, for I discerned his meaning. Was it possible that Ellice Winsloe knew the truth?

“Therefore, what are we to do? What do you suggest?” I asked.

“You must not risk going to see Sybil to-morrow. Where is she?”

I briefly explained all that we had done that day, and how and where she had gone into hiding.

“Then you must send her an express letter in the morning. We must not go to see her. You are certainly watched.”

“But think of her,” I said. “I am posing as her husband, and she will require my presence there to-morrow in order to complete the fiction.”

“It’s too risky – far too risky,” Eric declared, shaking his head dubiously.

“The only way is for you to keep watch upon Winsloe,” I suggested, “and warn me of his movements.”

“But the woman – the woman who met him by appointment in the park? She may be in his employ as spy.”

“Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, I wonder,” I said.

“Never mind how they got to know,” he exclaimed. “I tell you that you mustn’t go near Tibbie. It’s far too dangerous at this moment.”

His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybil there alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it very strange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it. Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.

To allay Eric’s fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and made him promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guest whenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, and after a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far into the night.

Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloe ascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch upon him, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe had well-furnished rooms in King Street, St. James’s Square, was one of a go-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayest clubs frequented by the jeunesse dorée.

It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street, Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric’s advice I succeeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Station and along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams’ a little after eleven o’clock.

Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window, and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voice loud enough for the landlady to overhear, —

“Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?”

“Yes, dear,” was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closed the door.

“The time passes here awfully slowly,” she declared in a low voice. “I thought you were never coming. I shall have to get a few books to read.”