If Sinners Entice Thee

“Almost. But a little to the right,” he answered. “The road passing beneath the railway takes an abrupt but short incline just where I found her. She was evidently mounting the hill on her cycle when she was shot down.”

“Tell me exactly how you discovered her, and how you acted immediately afterwards,” she urged. “Begin at the beginning, and tell me all. It may be that you can assist me in releasing Liane from her bondage.”

Her words puzzled him, nevertheless, in obedience to her wish, he related in their proper sequence each of the events of that memorable evening; how he had made the appalling discovery, how he had found the long-lost miniature of Lady Anne, had ridden with all speed down to the village for assistance, and how he had subsequently discovered the mysterious hairpin among the long grass by the gateway.

“Have you been able to determine how the missing miniature came into Nelly’s possession?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It is entirely a mystery. It almost seems as if she had carried it in her hand, and it fell from her fingers when she was struck.”

“The papers also mentioned a brooch which was missing from Nelly’s dress,” she observed.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was no doubt stolen by the murderer.”

“Why are you so certain the assassin was also the thief?” she inquired.

“Well, everything points to such being the case,” he said.

“When you first discovered the crime are you certain that the brooch was not still at her throat?” his mysterious visitor asked, eyeing him seriously.

He paused, reflecting deeply for a moment.

“I took no notice,” he answered. “I was too much upset by the startling discovery to take heed what jewellery the victim wore.”

“Cannot you sufficiently recall the appearance of the unfortunate girl when first you saw her to say positively whether or not she was still wearing the ornament? Try; it is most important that this fact should be cleared up,” she urged. Her gay carelessness had left her, and she was full of serious earnestness.

Again he reflected. Once more before his vision rose the tragic scene just as he had witnessed it, and somehow, he felt a growing consciousness that this woman’s suggestion was correct. Yes, he felt certain that Nelly, although her eyes were sightless and her heart had ceased to beat, still wore the brooch which her admirer had given her. Again and again he strove to decide, and each time he found himself convinced of the one fact alone – that at that moment the brooch was still there.

“Well,” she exclaimed at last, after intently watching every expression of his face, “what is your reply?”

“Now that I come to reflect, I am almost positive that the brooch had not been stolen,” he answered, slowly.

“You are quite confident of that?” she cried, quickly.

“I will not swear,” he answered, “but if my memory does not deceive me it was still at her throat. I recollect noticing a strange mark beneath her chin, and wondering how it had been caused. Without doubt when her head sunk heavily upon her breast in death her chin had pressed upon the brooch.”

“In that case you certainly have sufficient justification to take an oath if the question were put to you in a court of justice,” she observed, her brows knit reflectively.

George was puzzled how this fact could affect Liane’s future welfare, or rescue her from marriage with the Prince. This woman, too, was a mystery, and he found himself wondering who and what she was.

“You are already aware of my name,” he observed, after a brief pause. “Now that we have exchanged confidences in this manner, may I not know yours?”

“It is no secret, m’sieur,” she replied, looking into his face and smiling. “My name is Mariette Lepage.”

“Mariette Lepage!” he gasped, starting from his chair, and glaring at her in bewilderment.

“That, m’sieur, is my name,” she answered, opening her dark eyes widely in surprise at his strange and sudden attitude. “Surely it is not so very extraordinary that, in giving you, a stranger, an address at the Post Restante I should have used a name that was not my own?”

Chapter Fifteen

Held in Bondage

George Stratfield walked out of his hotel next morning his mind full of Mariette Lepage’s strange statements. Long and deeply he pondered over the curious situation, but could discern no solution of the intricate problem. That there was some deep mystery underlying the actions of this woman he could not fail to recognise, yet, try how he would, he nevertheless found himself regarding her with misgiving. Her coquettishness caused him grave suspicion. Although she had endeavoured to convince him of her friendliness towards Liane it was apparent from certain of her remarks that she had some ulterior motive in endeavouring to obtain from him the exact details of the tragedy. He felt confident that she was Liane’s enemy.

Was it not a cruel vagary of Fate that he should discover this unknown woman whom his father had designated as his wife, only to find her the bitterest foe of the woman he loved? This was the woman who, under his father’s eccentric will, was to be offered twenty thousand pounds to accept him as husband!

He had said nothing of the offer which sooner or later must be formally made to her, but before they had parted she had given him as her address the Villa Fortunée, at Monaco. He remembered the strange fact of one of her letters being found in Nelly Bridson’s pocket, but when he mentioned it she had merely remarked that she had been acquainted with the unfortunate girl. Nevertheless, he also recollected that the letter had contained an expression never used in polite society, and that it had been considered by the police as an altogether extraordinary and rather incriminating document.

Confused and bewildered, he was walking beneath the awnings on the shops of the Quai Massena on his way to the Promenade, when suddenly he heard his name uttered, and on looking up found Liane standing before him smiling. In her tailor-made gown of pale fawn with a neat toque, she presented an extremely smart and fresh-looking appearance.

“You were so engrossed, George,” she said half-reproachfully, with a pretty pout, “that you were actually passing me unnoticed. What’s the matter? Something on your mind?”

“Yes,” he answered, endeavouring to laugh, so pleased was he that they had met. “I have something always on my mind – you.”

“Then I regret if thoughts of me induce such sadness,” she answered, as turning in the direction she was walking he strolled by her side. The March sun was so warm that its fiery rays burnt his face.

“Don’t speak like that, Liane,” he protested. “You surely must know how heavily those cruel words you spoke at Monte Carlo have fallen upon me. How can I have happiness when I know that ere long we must part?” They had crossed the road, and were entering the public garden in order that passers-by should not overhear their conversation, for in Nice half the people in the streets speak or understand English.

“Yes,” she sighed gloomily. “I know I ought not to have spoken like that, George. Forgive me, I know that happiness is not for me, yet I am trying not to wear my heart upon my sleeve.”

“But what compels you to marry this man, who was once an adventurer and swindler, and is still unscrupulous? Surely such a man is no fitting husband for you?”

Liane glanced at him quickly in surprise. If her lover knew of Zertho’s past he would no doubt have learnt that her father had also earned a precarious livelihood by his wits.

“Already I have told you that a secret tie binds me irrevocably to him,” she answered huskily, as slowly, side by side, they strolled beneath the trees.

“It must be broken, whatever its nature,” he said quickly.

“Ah! I only wish it could be,” she answered wistfully, again sighing. “I am compelled to wear a smiling face, but, alas! it only hides a heart worn out with weariness. I’m the most wretched girl in all the world. You think me cruel and heartless – you believe I no longer love you as I did – you must think so. Yet I assure you that day by day I am remembering with, regret those happy sunny days in Berkshire, those warm brilliant evenings when, wandering through the quiet leafy lanes, we made for ourselves a paradise which we foolishly believed would last always. And yet it is all past – all past, never to return.”

He saw that she was affected, and that tears stood in her eyes.

“Life with me has not the charm it used then to possess, dearest,” he said, in a low, intense tone, as together they sat upon one of the seats. “True, those days at Stratfield were the happiest of all I have ever known. I remember well how, each time we parted, I counted the long hours of sunshine until we met again; how, when I was away from your side, each road, house and tree reminded me of your own dear self; how in my day-dreams I imagined myself living with you always beside me. The blow came – my father died. You were my idol. I cared for nothing else in the world, and before he died I refused to obey his command to part from you.”

“Why,” she asked quickly, “did your father object to me?”

“Yes, darling, he did,” he answered. This was the first time he had told her the truth, and it had come out almost involuntarily.

“Then that is why he acted so unjustly towards you?” she observed, thoughtfully. “You displeased him because you loved me.”

He nodded in the affirmative.

“But I do not regret it,” he exclaimed hastily. “I do not regret, because I still love you as fervently as I did on that memorable evening when my father called me to his bedside and urged me to give up all thought of you. It is because – because of your decision to marry this man, Zertho, that I grieve.”

“It is not my decision,” she protested. “I am forced to act as I am acting.”

“But you shall never marry him!”

“Unfortunately it is beyond your power to assist me, George,” she answered, in a tone of despair. “We love each other, it is true, but we must end it all. We must not meet again,” she added, in a voice broken by emotion. “I – I cannot bear it. Indeed, I can’t.”