The Soul Stealer

"Oh," she answered almost hysterically, "he was so beautiful and so strong. They must have killed him because he was so different to other men." She did not see the tall man who sat before her wince and quiver. She did not see his face change and contort itself into malignancy. She did not realize that these innocent words, wrung from a simple distressed and loving heart, meant awful things for the man she longed for.

"But, Marjorie," the voice came steady and strong, "you know that is just a little fantastic, if you will forgive me for saying so. People don't go about injuring other people because they are better-looking or have finer natures than themselves. They only say unkind things about them, they don't kill them, you know."

"Oh, of course, you are right, William," she answered, "and I hardly know what I'm saying, the pain of it all is so great. But then, there is nothing to say. I can't understand, I can hardly realize what has happened."

"For my part," Sir William answered, "I have left no stone unturned to discover the truth. I have been in communication with every force or agency which might be able to explain the thing. And no one has given me the slightest hint, except perhaps – "

She leapt up from her chair, her pale face changed.

"Yes?" she cried, "What is it? What is that?"

Her breath came thick and fast. Sir William remained sitting in his chair and his head was bowed.

"Sit down, Marjorie," he answered; "I didn't mean to say that."

"But you said it," she replied. "Ah! my ears are very keen, and there was something in your voice which had meaning. William, what is it? What is it?"

"Nothing," he answered in a deep, decisive voice.

But the voice brought no conviction to her ears. She had detected, or thought she had detected, the note of an inner knowledge when he had first spoken. She crossed the room with rapid strides and laid her white hand upon his shoulder.

"You've got to tell me," she said imperiously. And her touch thrilled him through and through with an exquisite agony and an exquisite joy.

"It's nothing," he repeated.

Now there was less conviction than ever in his voice. She laughed hysterically. "William," she said, "I know you so well, you can't hide anything from me. There's something you can tell me. Whatever it may be, good or bad, you've just got to tell me."

At that he looked up at her, and his face, she saw, was drawn and frightened.

"Marjorie," he said, "don't let any words of mine persuade you into any belief. Since you ask me I must say what I have got to say. But mind you, I am in no way convinced myself that what I am going to tell you is more than mere idle supposition."

"Tell me," she whispered, and her voice hissed like escaping steam.

"Well, it's just this," he said, "and it's awfully hard for me even to hint such a thing to you. But, you know, Rathbone had recently made rather a friend of poor Eustace Charliewood. I like Charliewood; you never did. A man's point of view and a girl's point of view are quite different about a man. But of course I can't pretend that Charliewood is exactly, well – er – what you might call – I don't know quite how to put it, Marjorie."

"I know," she said with a shudder of disgust "I know. Go on."

"Well, just before Rathbone disappeared those two seemed to have been about together a good deal, and of course Charliewood is a man who has some rather strange acquaintances, especially in the theatrical world. That is to say, in the sub-theatrical world. Marjorie, I hardly know how to put it to you, and I think I had better stop."

"Go on!" she cried once more.

"Well," he said wearily, "Rathbone was a good fellow, no doubt, but he is a young man, and no girl really knows what the life of a young man really is or may be. I know that Charliewood introduced Rathbone to a certain girl. Oh, Marjorie, I can't go on, these suspicions are unworthy."

"Terribly unworthy," she cried, standing up to her full height, and then in a moment she drooped to him, and once more she asked him to go on.

He told her of certain meetings, saying that there could have been, of course, no harm in them, skilfully hinting at this or that, and then testifying to his utter disbelief in the suspicions that he himself had provoked. She listened to him, growing whiter and whiter. At last his hesitating speech died away into silence, and she stood looking at him.

"It might be," she whispered, half to herself, "it might be, but I do not think it could be. No man could be so unutterably cruel, so unutterably base. I have made you tell me this, William, and I know that you yourself do not believe it. He could not be so wicked as to sacrifice everything for one of those people."

And then Sir William rose.

"No," he said, "he couldn't. I feel it, though I don't know him. Marjorie, no living man could leave you for one of the vulgar syrens of the half world."

She looked at him for a moment as he put the thing in plain language, and then burst into a passion of weeping.

"I can't bear any more, William," she said between her sobs. "Go now, but find him. Oh, find him!"

CHAPTER X

A MAN ABOUT TOWN PAYS A DEBT

The people in the luxurious smoking-room of the great Palace Hotel saw a pale, ascetic-looking and very distinguished man come in to the comfortable place and sit down upon a lounge.

"Do you know who that is?" one man whispered to another, flicking the ash off a cigar.

"No; who is he?" his companion answered.

"That's Sir William Gouldesbrough."

"Oh, the great scientific Johnny, you mean."

"Yes, they say that he is going to turn the world topsy-turvy before he's done."

"The world's good enough for me," was the reply, "and if I'd my way, these people who invent things should all be taken out and shot. I'm tired of inventions, they make life move too quickly. The good old times were best, when it took eight hours to get from Brighton to London, and one could not have telegrams from one's office to worry one."

"Perhaps you're right," said the first man. "But still, people look at things differently now-a-days. At any rate, Gouldesbrough is said to be one of the leading men in England to-day."

"He doesn't look happy over it," replied his companion. "He looks like a death's-head."

"Well, you know, he's mixed up in the Rathbone mystery in a sort of way."

"Oh yes, of course; he was engaged to the girl who chucked him over for the Johnny who has disappeared, wasn't he?"

"That's it. Just watch him, poor wretch; doesn't he look pipped?"

"Upon my word, the perspiration's standing out on his forehead in beads. He seems as if – "

"As if he had been overworking and overeating. He wants a Turkish bath, I expect. Now then, Jones, what do you really think about the fall in South Africans? Will they recover in the next two months? That's what I want to know; that's what I want to be certain of."

Sir William had just left the up-stairs apartments of the Pooles. He had rung for the lift and entered, without a word to the attendant, who had glanced fearfully at the tall, pale man with the flashing eyes and the wet face. Once or twice the lift-man noticed that the visitor raised his hand to his neck above the collar and seemed to press upon it, and it may have been fancy on the lift-man's part – though he was not an imaginative person – but he seemed to hear a sound like a drum beating under a blanket, and he wondered if the gentleman was troubled with heart-disease.

Gouldesbrough pressed the little electric bell upon the oak table in front of him, and in a moment a waiter appeared.

"Bring me a large brandy and soda," he said in a quiet voice.

The waiter bowed and hurried away.

The waiter did not know, being a foreigner, and unacquainted with the tittle-tattle of the day, that Sir William Gouldesbrough, the famous scientist, was generally known to be a practical teetotaller, and one who abhorred the general use of alcoholic beverages.