Devil's Dice

We had been smoking and gossiping some time, and as I sat opposite my host I thought I somehow observed a change in him. Some anxiety seemed reflected in his clear-cut features, the expression upon which was a trifle stern and moody. It had softened a little while his wife kept up her light amusing chatter, but when she left there again settled upon his countenance the troubled look that puzzled me. It was caused no doubt by his suspicions of Mabel’s faithlessness.

He had been describing a new play he had seen produced in Paris, when suddenly he turned to me, exclaiming, as he wiped his single eye-glass and readjusted it: “Dora’s illness is most unfortunate, isn’t it? The whole thing seems enshrouded in mystery. Even Mabel is either ignorant, or desires to keep the cause of her sister’s affliction a secret. What do you know about it?”

I removed my cigar from my lips very slowly, for I hesitated whether I should unbosom myself and explain the strange circumstances in which I had discovered her. But in that brief moment I saw that if I did so I might become an unwilling witness in the tragedy. I knew the Earl as an inveterate gossip at his club, and having no desire that my name should be bruited all over London in connection with the affair, I therefore affected ignorance.

He plied me with many questions regarding Bethune’s movements, but to these also I remained dumb, for I could detect the drift of his conversation.

“Well,” he said at length, “he killed young Sternroyd undoubtedly, though from what motive it is impossible to imagine.”

“I suppose it will all come out at the trial,” I observed.

“All come out! What do you mean?” he asked, moving slightly to face me.

“I mean that his motive will then be made clear.”

“Ah! yes, of course,” he said smiling. “You see this wretched business is most unfortunate for us; it so closely affects my wife, and therefore worries me beyond measure. Even now there are many people evil disposed enough to couple Mabel’s name with his, merely because of the will; but he was a mad-brained young fool, and only those who knew him personally can imagine the irresponsibility of his actions.”

“Were you acquainted with him?” I asked, eagerly seizing upon this opportunity to dear up a point on which I had been in doubt.

“Oh, yes! I knew him quite well. His father was my friend when a young man, but what induced Gilbert to leave all his money to Mabel I really cannot understand.”

“Perhaps he did it in accordance with his father’s instructions. He may have been under some obligation to you. Had not Gilbert any relatives?”

“I believe he had some direct relatives; but by some means they seriously offended him before his father’s death. Of course, one cannot disguise the truth that such a large sum would be very acceptable were it not for the melancholy facts surrounding it,” and an expression of sadness crossed his heavy brow as he added with a touch of sorrow: “Poor lad – poor lad!”

“Yes, he seemed a good-hearted young fellow,” I said. “I met him on one occasion with Mabel.”

“Where?” he inquired, quickly. “Where were you?”

“In Radnor Place.”

“Radnor Place? What took you there?” he demanded with undisguised anxiety.

“I went there to try to find a certain house.”

“And did you discover it?”

“Yes.”

“And you met them there!” he cried, as if a sudden amazing thought occurred to him.

“Certainly, I met them there. The carriage was waiting, and together we drove towards the Reform to call for you. I alighted, however, at Piccadilly Circus.”

“They – they gave you no explanation – I mean you did not enter this house you speak of?” he added, bending towards me, restlessness portrayed on his countenance.

“On that occasion, no. But I have been inside since.”

“You have! And – and you found her there – you saw her!”

“No,” I replied calmly; “I have never seen Mabel in the house. But why are you so upset at these words of mine? Was it not within your knowledge that Gilbert was seen in public with your wife, that – ”

“Of course it was. I’m not an idiot, man,” he cried, as, crimson with anger, he rose and paced the room in feverish haste. “But I have been misled, fooled, and by heaven! those who have deceived me shall pay dearly. I won’t spare them. By God! I won’t,” and he brought down his fist so heavily upon the dining-table that some flowers were jerked from the épergne.

Then halting unsteadily, and pouring out some brandy into a liqueur glass, he swallowed it at one gulp, saying:

“Let us go to the drawing-room, but remember, not a word to her. She must not know that you have told me,” and he led the way to where his wife awaited us.

He entered the room jovial and smiling as if no care weighed upon his mind, and throughout the evening preserved a pleasant demeanour, that seemed to bring full happiness to Mabel’s heart.

I knew she longed to declare her contentment, now that a public scandal was avoided and they were reconciled, and although she was unable, I recognised in her warm hand-shake when I departed an expression of thanks for my promise to conceal the truth.

Chapter Thirty

One Thousand Pounds

The enigma was maddening; I felt that sooner or later its puzzling intricacies must induce mania in some form or other. Insomnia had seized me, and I had heard that insomnia was one of the most certain signs of approaching madness. In vain I had striven to penetrate the mystery of my union and its tragic sequel, at the same time leaving undisturbed that cold, emotionless mask which I had schooled myself to wear before the world.

Days had passed since my visit to Eaton Square, and through all my pain the one thought had been dominant – I must obtain from Dora the revelation she had promised. It seemed that blindly, willingly I had resigned every hope, joy, and sentiment that made life precious; I had, like Faust, given my soul to the Torturer in exchange for a few sunny days of bliss and fleeting love-dreams.

Wearied, despondent, and anxious I lived through those stifling hours with but one thought, clinging tenaciously to one hope; yet after all, what could I expect of a woman whose mind was affected, and whose lover accused of a capital offence? In this distracted mood I was wandering one evening along the Strand and arriving at Charing Cross Station turned in mechanically to purchase a paper at the bookstall. The hands of the great clock pointed to half-past eight, and the continental train stood ready to start. Porters who had wheeled mountains of luggage stood, wiped their brows and pocketed the tips of bustling tourists about to commence their summer holiday. City clerks in suits of cheap check and bearing knapsacks and alpenstocks were hurrying hither and thither, excited over the prospect of a fortnight in Switzerland for a ten-pound note, while constant travellers of the commercial class strode leisurely to their carriages smoking, and ladies already seated peered out anxiously for their husbands. The scene is of nightly occurrence after the London season, when everyone is leaving town, and I had witnessed it many times when I, too, had been a passenger by the night mail. As I stood for a moment watching I heard two men behind me engaged in excited conversation in French.

“I tell you it’s impossible,” exclaimed one in a decisive tone.

“Very well, then, you shall not leave London,” the other said, and as I turned I was surprised to find that one of them was Markwick, the other a short, rather elderly, shabbily-dressed little Frenchman, whose grey beard and moustache were unkempt, whose silk hat was sadly rubbed and whose dark eyes were keen and small. In an attitude of firm determination he held Markwick by the arms and glared for a moment threateningly into his face. The latter, too occupied to notice my presence, retorted angrily —

“Let me go, you fool. You must be mad to act like this, when you know what we both have at stake.”

“No, no,” the irate Frenchman cried. “No, I am not mad. You desire to escape, but I tell you that you shall not unless you give me the money now, before you go.”

“How much, pray?” Markwick asked with a dark, severe look.

“What you promised. One thousand pounds. Surely it is not a great price.”

“You shall have it to-morrow – I’ll send it to you from Paris.”

“Ah! no, m’sieur, you do not evade me like that! You are playing a deep game, but you omitted me from your reckoning. The ticket you bought this morning was not for Paris, but for New York via Havre.”

“How – how do you know my intentions?” Markwick demanded, starting. “You confounded skunk, you’ve been spying upon me again!”

But the little Frenchman only grinned, exhibited his palms, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders, said:

“I was not at the police bureau in Paris for fifteen years without learning a few tricks. You are clever, M’sieur, shrewd indeed, but if you attempt to leave to-night without settling with me, then you will be arrested on arrival at Dover. Choose – money and liberty; no money and arrest.”

“Curse you! Then this is the way you’d blackmail me?” Markwick cried, his face livid with rage. “I secured your services for a certain fixed sum, which I paid honourably, together with three further demands.”

“In order to secure my silence,” the Frenchman interrupted. “Because you were well aware of your future if I gave information.”

“But you will not – you shall not,” answered the man who had met me in the garden at Richmond on that memorable night. His face wore a murderous look such as I had never before seen. It was the face of an unscrupulous malefactor, a countenance in which evil was portrayed in every line. “If it were not that we are here, in a public place, I’d wring your neck like a rat.”