Guilty Bonds

For a few seconds I was stunned. It seemed impossible that he was dead – it was not to be realised, in spite of the inanimate body before me.

Then suddenly I gazed about me.

The noise of busy London was in my ears; the day was before me. No more could be learnt from the corpse – why should I stay?

Hastily putting the photograph and the piece of sealed paper into my pocket, I turned and left the room.

The energy of the movement was so great that as I opened the door my attention was attracted by the skirt of a woman’s dress disappearing round a corner of the landing.

In spite of my haste, however, the person had gone when I reached the door of the house and stepped into the street. There was no one visible.

Then I remembered an omission.

Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and cold as I had left it a few minutes before.

I closed the eyes, and then went home.

Chapter Twenty Three

The Dead Woman’s Picture

About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, where I had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towards the club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.

Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout, —

“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”

It was Demetrius Hertzen.

“What! you in London?” I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad to meet him.

“Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, and Vera is so cut up, that I thought I’d come to town, find you, and prevail upon you to return.”

Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, “What’s the meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow; I am your wife’s cousin.”

I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on the verge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.

“Well,” I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, “it is all owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have little differences sometimes, you know.”

He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said, —

“Ah! I see. A lover’s quarrel, eh? Why don’t you return to Elveham and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better.”

I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must pass before any explanation.

“No,” I answered, “I’ll remain in London, at least for the present. I don’t know exactly when I shall return.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk so despondently. Remember it’s only a petty quarrel, after all,” he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.

I tried again to laugh, saying, “Yes, that’s true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder – we’re told.”

“Very well, old fellow, if you won’t take my advice I can’t help it,” he observed disappointedly.

By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, “By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?”

“Nothing.”

“Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I’m on my way there.”

“Thanks, you’re very kind. By Jove, I’ve had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I’m getting a trifle peckish!”

“Then come along,” I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club.

In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.

They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.

Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.

I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at by those who were not his friends.

Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall, dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I should scarcely have recognised him.

Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his jokes and beamed with that bonhomie as was his wont in times gone by.

Bob, Ted, Demetrius and myself, were a merry quartette, despite the anxiety and the many maddening thoughts gnawing constantly at my heart. The dinner passed off pleasantly, Ted giving a humorous description of life among Australian squatters. Although he asserted that dramatic business took him to the Antipodes, he admitted that he had been compelled to go up-country in search of work, and that his employment at one period had been that of a shepherd in Gippsland.

His description of the shifts which he had been put to in order to obtain a crust – he, a curled darling of Society, whilom actor at a West End theatre, and pet of the ladies – was very amusing, and caused us to roar with laughter.

“And how have you been all this time, Burgoyne?” he asked of me, when he had finished his narrative.

“Oh! Frank’s a Benedict now,” interposed Bob, laughing. “Married a fair Russian.”

“What!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Well, well, it’s what all of us must come to, sooner or later. But Burgoyne’s different from us poor beggars; he’s rich, and can afford matrimony.”

“I don’t see what money has to do with it,” I said. “Many poor men are happy with good helpmates.”

“Oh! don’t you,” exclaimed Rivers. “My idea is that marriage without money is suicide under an euphonious name.”

“Opinions differ on that point,” remarked Demetrius. “If I married a woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money. But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I’ve left my cigar-case in my overcoat,” and rising, he left the table.

“Ah, cigars?” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve some somewhere,” and feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and papers with it.

I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the table-cloth.

It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.

I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it up, exclaiming, —