Devil's Dice

“Brave words! brave words!” exclaimed the other, laughing contemptuously. “A sign from me and the prison doors would close behind you for ever. But see! The train will leave in a few moments. Will you pay, or do you desire to stay and meet your accusers?”

Markwick glanced at the train wherein all the passengers had taken their scats. The guards were noisily slamming the doors, and the ticket-examiners, passing from end to end, had now finished their work. He bit his lips, glanced swiftly up at the dock, and snatching up his small bag said, with a muttered imprecation:

“I care nothing for your threats. I shall go.”

Shaking off the Frenchman’s hand he moved towards the barrier, but his opponent, too quick for him, sprang with agility before him, barring his path.

This action attracted the attention of several bystanders, who paused in surprise, while at the same moment the engine gave vent to a whistle of warning and next second the train slowly moved away. Markwick, seeing himself thus thwarted and the centre of attraction, turned to the little foreigner, and cursing him audibly strode quickly out of the station, while his irate companion walked away in the opposite direction.

In the yard Markwick jumped into a hansom and was driven rapidly away, and as I watched I saw almost at the same moment a tall, well-dressed man spring into another cab, give the driver rapid directions, and then follow the conveyance Markwick had taken.

As the stranger had mounted into the cab and conversed with the man his face was turned full towards me, and in that instant I recognised him. It was Grindlay! He, too, had evidently watched unseen.

That this ex-detective held Markwick’s secret was evident, and as Grindlay – whom I had imagined far away in Germany – was taking such a keen interest in the doings of the man I hated, the thought occurred to me that by following the Frenchman I might be of some assistance. I therefore turned suddenly on my heel, crossed the station-yard, and hurried along the Strand citywards in the direction he had taken. Before long I had the satisfaction of seeing him walking rapidly before me muttering imprecations as he went. By his own admissions he was a blackmailer and had had no doubt a hand in Markwick’s schemes, yet it occurred to me that if judiciously approached he might possibly throw some light upon the events of the past few months. Markwick, himself an adventurer, was not the kind of man to submit to blackmail unless his enemy held him beneath his thumb. The scene I had witnessed proved conclusively that he went in mortal fear of this Frenchman, otherwise he would have treated his importunities with contempt, and left in the train by which he apparently had intended to escape by a roundabout route to America. Therefore, in order to learn more of this latest denunciation of the man whose presence always filled me with hatred and loathing, I kept close behind the angry foreigner. The Strand was crowded with theatre-goers at that hour, but this facilitated my movements, for according to his own statement he had had experience in Paris as an officer of police, and I saw it might be somewhat difficult to follow him without attracting his attention. I had a strong desire to accost him then and there, but on reflection felt certain that it would be best to find out where he went, and afterwards leave him to the tactful Grindlay. A single impolitic question might arrest any revelation that he could make; or if he found himself followed his suspicions might be aroused, and he himself might fly ere I could communicate with my friend the detective. So, exercising every caution, I carefully dogged his footsteps. It was not yet dark and I was therefore enabled to keep him well in view, although at a respectable distance. At the same rapid pace he passed along the Strand, up Bow Street and Endell Street to Oxford Street, which he crossed, continuing up Gower Street. When near the Euston Road he turned into a short dismal thoroughfare bearing the name of University Street, and there entered one of the rather dingy blackened houses by means of a latch-key. When he had disappeared I passed and repassed the house several times, taking careful note of its number and of the appearance of its exterior, then, determined to communicate as early as possible with Grindlay, I returned home and wrote him a note which I sent to Scotland Yard by Saunders.

Shortly before eleven o’clock that night a messenger brought me a hastily-scribbled note from him asking me to come round to his office at once. I went, was ushered into his presence without delay, and related what I had witnessed at the railway station, and what I had overheard.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “their altercation when I arrived had almost ended. I had been keeping close observation on Markwick all the afternoon, but he had eluded me, and it was only by the merest chance that I went along to Charing Cross to see if his intention was to decamp. So you tracked down that wild little Frenchman, did you? Excellent. Why, you are a born detective yourself,” he added, enthusiastically. “Nothing could be better. Now we shall know something.”

“Did Markwick elude you again?” I inquired.

He smiled. “Scarcely,” he answered. “But his acquaintance with Jules De Vries is quite unexpected, and puts an entirely different complexion on affairs.”

“You know the Frenchman then?”

“Yes. He was, before his retirement last year, one of the smartest men in the Paris detective force. During eighteen months before he was pensioned he was head of the section charged with the inquiries into the anarchist outrages.”

“But he was apparently endeavouring to levy blackmail!” I observed.

“Oh! there’s a good deal of corruption among the French police,” he answered, laughing. “Perhaps, living retired, he is seeking to make money out of the secrets entrusted to him in his professional capacity. That is often the case.”

Our conversation then turned upon the inquest upon the body of Gilbert Sternroyd, which had now been fixed, and to which I was summoned to give evidence regarding the discovery of the body at Gloucester Square. Grindlay, in answer to my question, admitted that Jack had not yet been arrested, but that as soon as certain inquiries then in active progress were complete the German police would detain him for extradition.

“Then you still believe him guilty,” I observed with sadness.

“Can anyone doubt it?” he asked. “I ought to say nothing about the matter, but as you are a witness I may as well tell you that our inquiries show conclusively that your friend Bethune committed the murder, although the circumstances under which the fatal shot was fired were of such an astounding character that I leave you to hear them officially. It is sufficient for me to say that the murder of young Sternroyd is the strangest and most complicated crime that in the course of my twenty-four years’ experience I have ever been called upon to deal with. But I must be off. I am due at eleven-thirty at Shepherd’s Bush, so you must excuse me. We will meet again soon. Good-bye.”

A moment later we parted, and I returned to my chambers.

Soon after eleven o’clock next morning Saunders entered my sitting-room and announced a visitor. I took the card. It was Dora’s!

Rushing forward I greeted her gladly, and bringing her in, enthroned her in my big armchair, the same in which she had sat on a previous occasion when she had called upon me.

She was dressed simply but with taste in light grey alpaca with a large black hat and veil, but the face which was disclosed when the veil was raised was pale as death, lit by two large lustrous eyes. For a moment she regarded me with a sad, wistful expression, as if imploring me not to reproach but to pity her. Then a sad, quiet smile slowly dawned upon her countenance, and she stretched forth her hand towards me.

“Stuart,” she murmured, in a low voice like the subdued wail of an aching heart. “Stuart, are you displeased with me? Are you angry that I should come to you?”

“Displeased! Angry!” I exclaimed, quickly grasping her extended hand between my own. “No, no! Dora. I only hope you have recovered, that you are now strong and well again.”

“Yes. I – I feel better,” she said. “But what of him – tell me. Has he yet cleared himself? At home they affect ignorance of everything – everything.”

I shook my head sadly, remembering Grindlay’s words. “No, alas! He has not cleared himself, and to-day, or at least to-morrow, he will, I fear, be arrested.”

“Then it is time to act – time to act,” she repeated excitedly. “I promised I would reveal some strange facts – facts that will amaze you – but I was prevented by illness. Now, while there is still time you will help me, will you not? You will come with me and see with your own eyes, hear with your own ears. Then only can you justly judge. I confess that long ago,” she added in a low half-whisper bending towards me, “long ago I loved you, and wondered why you never uttered words of love to me. But now I know. I have ascertained the wretched duplicity of those about you, their evil machinations, and the purity of the one beautiful woman whom you loved. There has been a conspiracy of silence against you, rendered imperative by strange circumstances, but it shall continue no longer. You shall accompany me and know the truth. Come.”

She rose suddenly. Obeying her I sought my hat, and together we descended the long flight of stone stairs into the busy thoroughfare below.

At last the promised revelation was to be made.

Chapter Thirty One

The Scent of Violets

In accordance with Dora’s instructions I hailed a cab, and although she would give me no inkling of our destination, she ordered the man to drive with all haste to Paddington. At the station she told me to book to Didcot, the junction for Oxford, and about an hour later we alighted there.

From a neighbouring inn we obtained a fly, and together drove out across a level stretch of country some two miles, until we passed a crumbling stone cross, and turning suddenly entered a peaceful old-world village, which I understood by her order to the driver to be East Hagbourne. It consisted of one long straggling street of cottages, many of them covered with roses and honeysuckle, with here and there some good sized, quaint-gabled house, or lichen-covered, moss-grown barn, but when nearly at the further end of the little place the man pulled up suddenly before a large, rambling house of time-mellowed red brick, half hidden by ivy and creepers. It stood near the road with a strip of well-kept lawn in front and an iron railing, quite an incongruity in those parts. When we alighted our summons was responded to by a neat maid whom Dora addressed as Ashcombe, and who at once led the way to a long, low room, oak-beamed, panelled and very comfortably furnished.

“Who lives here?” I inquired in a half-whisper when the domestic had gone, but my question was answered by the sudden appearance of its occupant, who next second stood silent upon the threshold, motionless, statuesque.

Astonishment held me dumb. I sprang from the chair whereon I had been seated agape, amazed, my eyes riveted upon the figure standing silent before the dark portiere curtain.

Words froze on my lips; my tongue refused to articulate. Had insanity, the affliction I most dreaded, at last seized me, or was it some strange chimera, some extraordinary trick of my warped imagination? It was neither. The figure that had passed into the room swiftly and noiselessly while I had for an instant turned to question Dora was that of a living person – a person whose presence roused within my heart a tumult of wonder and of joy.

It was Sybil!

Yes, there was the delicately-poised head, the same flawlessly beautiful face that had entranced me in the little Southern mountain town, the same candid forehead, the same half-parted lips, the same dimpled cheeks that I had so often kissed with a mad passion such as I had never experienced before or since. She wore a grey silk gown; at her throat was one simple rose of deepest crimson. Her little white hand bore a wedding-ring – the one I had placed upon it – the lace on her skirt and bodice, the delicate pale tint of her face, bore testimony to the elegant and opulent indolence of her existence.

Yet was she not dead? Had I not been present when her soul and body parted? Had I not stood before the spot where she slept beneath a willow planted years ago by pious hands that had raised a neighbouring tomb? That willow had, I remembered, never grown vigorous and free in the strength of its sap. I knew how sadly its yellow foliage drooped, the ends of its branches hung down like heavy, weary tears. I recollected how, when first I saw it, I had thought that its roots went down and absorbed from my dead love’s heart all the bitterness of a life thrown away. And the roses near her grave bore large blossoms as white as milk and of a deep red. The roots penetrated to the depths of the coffin, the sweet-smelling blooms took their whiteness from a virgin bosom and their crimson from a wounded heart.

I had held her cold hand and kissed her icy lips. Yet here she stood before me in the flesh, grave-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale, an inner beauty shining from her face.

At last my tongue’s strings became loosened. I stammered her name. For answer she uttered in a well-remembered voice, one word:

“Stuart!”

Next instant with a shriek of joy she was locked in my embrace, and my eager lips pressed passionately her dimples, those nests for kisses. In those joyful, dreamy moments we left remembrances unuttered, and nothing mingled with the sound of our kisses but a whispered word from Dora. When one finds living and well one’s love who was long ago lowered to the grave there is no need for the voice; a single look says more than a long speech.

Through the open windows the garden looked quite gay. The lawn grew thick and strong with its well-kept beds of crimson, white, scarlet and blue. Fresh air came in abundance from the open country, with puffs of all the pleasant perfumes of the flowers. The sweet scents seemed to fill Sybil with lassitude. She leant upon my arm quite faint, as if the smell had sent her off to sleep with love.

I glanced at her pale cheek and shell-like ear as her handsome head pillowed itself upon my breast. So delicate they seemed that, were it not for the rising and falling of her bosom, I should have believed she was of wax. But presently, struggling with the emotion that she had striven in vain to suppress, she raised her blue eyes to mine. They were still clear and trustful, childlike in their purity. I fancied I could read her reverie in their blue depths as she smiled upon me with sad sweetness.

“At last!” she murmured dreamily, her little hand gripping my arm convulsively. “At last you have come, Stuart!”

Her words caused a flood of memories to surge through my brain, and as she stood before me still pre-occupied, still mysterious, I felt myself doubting, even then, the reality of my joy. But, no! her presence was a tangible, inexplicable fact. Even at that moment a breath of violets filled my nostrils and again stirred my memory. Away in the Pyrenees long ago her chiffons had exuded that odour. Was it not her favourite perfume? The violets of spring, those modest blossoms snatched from the woods to droop and die in the hands of London flower-sellers, had always brought back to me memories of brief summer days when we had wandered up those distant mountain paths side by side, hand in hand, like children. I had thought of those distant things amidst the dust and clatter and gaiety of the great city, and ofttimes bought a bunch of those flowers, offspring of the dew and rising sun, and wore them in my coat so that I might feast my full on the bitter recollections of those days bygone when I had first seen the sun of a woman’s wondrous beauty.

But in my sudden ecstasy at finding her actually in my embrace, enraptured by her beauty and transported by her passionate kisses, I trod enchanted ground, knowing not what words fell from my lips.

Our questions were naïve and tender, our explanations brief and full of regrets and surprises. Happy in each other’s love, we uttered no word of reproach.