Whatsoever a Man Soweth

“But you also know the reason why she is masquerading as a maid; why at Fort William and at Oban you made people believe she was your maid. You had a motive, and I think you may as well admit it.”

“I do not see your right to question me about my private affairs!” she exclaimed angrily. “This is monstrous!”

“I have no desire to pry into your affairs, madam,” I answered, quite coolly. “The Honourable Sybil is a friend of mine, and I am anxious to know her whereabouts,” I said.

“But I cannot tell you what I don’t know myself. She went on to Carlisle – that’s all I know.”

“She parted from you suddenly. Why?” I asked. “Shall I tell you? Because she is in fear of being followed,” I exclaimed, and, smiling, added, “I think, madam, that I hold greater knowledge of the family than perhaps even you do yourself. I have known the Scarcliffs all my life. Old Lady Scarcliff is greatly upset regarding Sybil’s protracted absence. They are beginning to think that something has happened to her. I can now tell her that she has been with you, masquerading as your maid, and that you refuse all information concerning her. You know, I daresay, that the police are actively trying to find her on the application of her brother, Lord Scarcliff?”

My threat caused her some consternation. I could see that from the way she fumed and fidgeted.

“To tell Lady Scarcliff such a thing would only be to throw a blame upon myself of which I am entirely innocent,” she protested. “I assure you that if I knew where she had gone, I would tell you.”

“No, pardon me, madam. You would not. You believe that I’m a detective.”

“Your actions certainly betray you,” she exclaimed resentfully. “You’ve been watching us closely – for what reason?”

“Well,” I replied slowly. “The fact is, I am fully aware of the secret love existing between Sybil Burnet and Arthur Rumbold.”

“Sybil and Arthur?” she cried, turning pale and looking me straight in the face. “What do you mean? Arthur – my boy, Arthur!”

I nodded in the affirmative.

“Who are you?” she exclaimed, starting up breathlessly from her chair. She was in fear of me, I saw. “Who are you that you should know this?” she gasped.

“William Morton,” was my cool reply. “I thought I sent my name up to you this morning!”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Complications and Confessions

Next morning, after a night journey, I called at the Douglas Hotel, in Newcastle, and was informed that Mrs Morton had arrived on the previous evening.

At last I had run her to earth.

She sent word that she would see me in half an hour, therefore I idled along Grainger Street West, killing time until she made her appearance. She approached me in the hall of the hotel smiling merrily and putting out her hand in welcome. Her black dress seemed slightly the worse for wear owing to her constant travelling, yet she was as neat and dainty as ever, a woman whose striking beauty caused every head to be turned as she passed.

We went out, turning to walk towards Blackett Street, and then amid the bustle of the traffic began to talk. She asked me when I had arrived, and how I had fared in London.

I told her nothing of the success of my advertisements, or the discovery of the plot so ingeniously formed against her, and allowed her to believe that I had only just arrived from London. I was waiting to see whether she would explain her journey to Scotland, and her companionship with Mrs Rumbold.

But she said nothing. We walked on together through Albion Place, and presently found ourselves in Leazes Park, that pretty promenade, gay in summer, but somewhat cheerless on that grey wintry morning.

“You were recognised in Carlisle,” I exclaimed after we had been chatting some time. “Tell me about it. I was surprised to get your note, and I confess I was also somewhat alarmed. Was the person who recognised you an enemy or a friend?”

“A friend,” was her prompt reply. “But his very friendliness would, I knew, be fatal to my interests, so I had to fly. He recognised me, even in this dress, stopped me in the street, raised his hat and spoke. But I discerned his intention, therefore I passed on with affected indignation and without answering. Had I opened my mouth my voice might have betrayed me. I went on to Glasgow.”

“And there? What happened?”

She glanced at me in quick suspicion. I saw she was embarrassed by my question.

“Happened?” she echoed, nervously. “What do you mean?”

We were in the Park, and quite alone, therefore I halted, and looking her straight in the face exclaimed, —

“Something happened there, Sybil. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Sybil,” she said in a tone of reproach. “Am I no longer Tibbie to you, as of old? You are changed, Wilfrid – changed towards me. There is something in your manner so very unusual. What is it?”

“I desire to know the truth,” I said in a hard voice. “You are trying to keep back things from me which I ought to know. I trust you, and yet you do not trust me in return. Indeed, it seems very much as though you are trying to deceive me.”

“I am not,” she protested. “You still misjudge me, Wilfrid, and merely because there are certain things which it would be against my own interests to explain at this moment. Every woman is permitted to have secrets; surely I may have mine. If you were in reality my husband, then it would be different. Hitherto, you have been generosity itself towards me. Why withdraw it now, at the critical moment when I most require your aid and protection.”

“Why?”

“Because in Glasgow I was recognised by one of my enemies,” she said. “Ah! you don’t know what a narrow escape I had. He traced me – and came from London to hunt me down and denounce me. Yet I managed to meet him with such careless ease that he was disarmed, and hesitated. And while he hesitated I escaped. He is still following me. He may be here, in Newcastle, for all I know. It we meet again, Wilfrid,” she added in a hoarse, determined voice, “if we meet again it will all be hopeless. My doom will be sealed. I shall kill myself.”

“No, no,” I urged. “Come, don’t contemplate such a step as that!”

“I fear to face him. I can never face him.”

“You mean John Parham.”

“Who told you?” she started quickly. “How did you know his name?”

“I guessed it. They told me at the hotel that you had had a visitor, and that you had soon afterwards escaped to the north.”

“Do you actually know Parham?”

“I met him once,” was my reply, but I did not mention the fellow’s connection with the house with the fatal stairs.

“Does he know that we are friends?”

“How can I tell? But why do you fear him?”

“Ah, it is a long story. I dare not face that man, Wilfrid. Surely that is sufficient.”

“No. It is not sufficient,” I replied. “You managed to escape and get up to Fort William.”

“Ah! The man at the hotel told you so, I suppose,” she said. “Yes, I did escape, and narrowly. I was betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“Unwittingly betrayed by a friend, I think,” she replied, as we walked on together towards the lake. On a winter’s morning there are few people in Leazes Park, therefore we had the place to ourselves, save for the keeper strolling idly some distance away.

“Sybil,” I exclaimed presently, halting again, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, “why are you not straightforward and outspoken with me?”

I recollected the postscript of the dead man’s letter which I had secured in Manchester – the allegation that she was playing me false.