insipid-looking girl in pink upon his arm.
For an instant our eyes met. It was a startling encounter. We glaredat each other for one brief second, both open-mouthed in amazement.Then, smiling cynically at Mabel, he hurried away, being lost nextsecond in the laughing, chattering crowd.
I had recognised the face instantly. It was the mysterious individualwho had met me at Richmond and conducted me to Sybil! My first impulsewas to spring up and dash after him, but, noticing the Countess was onthe point of fainting, I rushed across to Dora and borrowed hersmelling-salts. These revived my companion, who fortunately had notcreated a scene by losing consciousness, but the unexpected encounterhad evidently completely unnerved her, for she was trembling violently,and in her eyes was a wild, haggard look, such as I had never beforewitnessed.
"That man recognised you," I said a few moments later. "Who is he?"
"What man?" she gasped with well-feigned surprise. "I was not awarethat any man had noticed me."
"The fellow who passed with a fair girl in pink."
"I saw no girl in pink," she replied. "The heat of this crowded roomupset me--it caused my faintness." Then, noticing my expression ofdoubt, she added, "You don't appear to believe me."
"I watched him smile at you," I answered calmly.
"He smiled! Yes, he smiled at me!" she said hoarsely, as if to herself."He is the victor and I the vanquished. He laughs because he wins,but--" She stopped short without finishing the sentence, as if suddenlyrecollecting my presence, and annoyed that she should have involuntarilyuttered these words.
"Tell me, Mabel, who he is," I inquired. "I have met him before, and tome he is a mystery."
"To me also he is a mystery," she said, with knit brows. "If he is yourfriend, take my advice and end your friendship speedily."
"But is he not your friend?" I asked.
"I knew him--once," she answered in a low voice; adding quickly: "If Iremain here I shall faint. Do take me to my carriage at once."
She rose unsteadily, bade good-night to her sister and Jack, then takingmy arm accompanied me downstairs to the great hall.
It was an entirely new phase of the mystery that the Countess ofFyneshade should be acquainted with my strange, sinister-facedconductor. That she feared him was evident, for while there had been anunmistakable look of taunting triumph in his face, she had flinchedbeneath his gaze and nearly fainted. Her declaration that she hadrecognised no man at that moment, her strenuous efforts to remain calm,and her subsequent admission that he was her enemy, all pointed to thefact that she was well acquainted with him; and although, as we stoodwhile her carriage was being found, I asked her fully a dozen times todisclose his name or something about him, she steadily refused. It wasa secret that she seemed determined to preserve at all hazards.
When she grasped my hand in farewell she whispered, "Regard what I havetold you as a secret between friends. I have been foolish, but I willtry to make amends. Adieu!" Then she stepped into her carriage, and Iwent up into the drawing-room in search of the mysterious dark-visagedguest, whose appearance had produced such a sudden, almost electriceffect upon her. Through several rooms, the great conservatory, and thecorridors I searched, but could neither discover my strange companion onthat eventful night, nor the pale-faced girl in pink. For fully half anhour I wandered about, my eager eyes on the alert, but apparently theyhad both disappeared on being recognised.
Did this strange individual fear to meet me face to face?
Though my mind was filled with memories of that fateful night when I hadbeen joined in matrimony to my divinity, I nevertheless chatted withseveral women I knew, and at last found myself again with Dora, "Jack,lad," being carried off by our energetic old host to be introduced tothe buxom daughter of some Lancashire worthy.
Dora pulled a wry face and smiled, but we talked gayly together untilthe soldier-novelist returned. Soon afterwards, however, old LadyStretton came up to us and carried off her daughter, while Jack sharedmy cab as far as his chambers, where we parted.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
ON LIFE'S QUICKSANDS.
At home I cast myself in my chair and threw myself into an ocean ofmemories. I did not switch on the light, but mused on, gazing into thedarkness, now and then lit up by the ruddy flames as they shot forthfrom the grate and cast great quivering shadows, like dancing spectres,on the walls and ceiling. Ever and anon a momentary flash would hoverabout the antique silver ewer or glint along the old oak sideboard,which, like a vague dark mass, filled up an angle in the room, or playabout the set of old china or the pair of antique vases on themantelshelf. This prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams, wassoothing after the glare and glitter of what had irreverently beentermed the cotton-palace, and as the fickle light fell in spectralrelief about the gloom-hidden furniture, I mused on in coldestpessimism.
As I sat thinking what I had lived through, scenes in many climes andpictures of various cities rose before my mind, but one face alone stoodout boldly before me, the sweet countenance of the woman I had loved.
I recollected the strange events of that fateful night of grief andterror, and reflected upon the recognition between the Countess and theunknown man whom she had admitted was her enemy. How suddenly andcompletely he had disappeared! Yet it was apparent that he held somestrange influence over Fyneshade's wife, for she feared to tell me hisname or disclose her secret. Even though he had brushed past me and hiscold, glittering eyes had gazed into my face, he had again eluded me.The expression of triumph upon his dark countenance was still plainlybefore me, a look full of of portent and evil.
I met Dora several times, once riding in the Park, once at the theatrewith Lady Stretton, and once in Park Lane with her lover. From her Ilearnt that the Countess had been very unwell ever since that evening atThackwell's, and had not been out. Her doctor had recommended completerest for a week, and suggested that she should afterwards go to theRiviera for a change.
Was this extreme nervousness from which she was suffering the result ofthe unexpected encounter with the man she held in dread? I feltinclined to call at Eaton Square, but doubted whether, if she were ill,she would receive me.
One bright dry morning, about ten days later, I was strolling aimlesslyalong Regent Street with Jack Bethune, who, knowing that Dora would beout shopping, had come out to look for her. About half-way along thethoroughfare some unknown influence prompted me to halt before aphotographer's window and inspect a series of new pictures ofcelebrities, when suddenly my eye fell upon an object which, placed inthe most prominent position in the centre of the window, caused me toutter a cry of surprise.
Enclosed in a heavy frame of oxidised silver was a beautifully-finishedcabinet portrait of Sybil!
The frame, a double one, also contained the portrait of a youngpleasant-faced man of about twenty-five, who wore his moustachecarefully curled, and about whose features was a rather foreignexpression. The picture of my dead love riveted my attention, and as Istood gazing at it with my face glued to the glass, Jack chaffed me,saying:
"What's the matter, old chap? Who's the beauty?" His flippant wordsannoyed me.
"A friend," I snapped. "Wait for me. I'm going in to buy it."
"On the stage, I suppose?" he hazarded. "Awfully good-looking, whoevershe is."
"No, she's not on the stage," I answered brusquely, leaving him andentering the shop.
At my request the frame was brought out of the window, and in responseto my inquiries regarding it the manager referred to his books, anoperation which occupied considerable time. Meanwhile Jack, who hadfound Dora, had rushed in, announced his intention of calling on me inthe evening, and left.
At last the photographer's manager came to me, ledger in hand, saying:"Both photographs were taken at the same time. I remember quitedistinctly that the young lady accompanied the gentleman, and it was ather expense and special request that they were framed together andexhibited in our window. The prints were taken hurriedly because thegentleman was going a
broad and wanted to take one with him."
"What name did they give?"
"Henniker."
"And the address?" I demanded breathlessly.
The photographer consulted his book closely, and replied: "The printsappear to have been sent to Miss Henniker, 79 Gloucester Square, HydePark."
Upon my shirt cuff I scribbled the address, and having paid for both theportraits, was about to leave, congratulating myself that at last I hadprobably obtained a clue to the house to which I had been conducted,when it suddenly occurred to me to ask the date when the photographswere taken.
"They were taken on January 12th last," he replied. "Last year, youmean," I said.
"No, the present year. This ledger was only commenced in January."
"What?" I cried amazed. "Were these portraits actually taken only sixweeks ago? Impossible! The lady has been dead fully three months."
"The originals of the portraits gave us sittings here on the date I havementioned," he said, handing me the packet courteously, putting asidethe frame, and leaving me in order to attend to another customer.
The announcement was incredible. It staggered belief. Emerging fromthe shop, I jumped into a cab and gave the man the address in GloucesterSquare. Then, as we drove along, I took out the photograph of mywell-beloved and examined it for a long time closely. Yes, there was nomistake about her identity. The same sweet, well-remembered face, withits clear, trusting eyes looked out upon me, the same half-sadexpression that had so puzzled me. I raised the cold, polished card tomy lips and reverently kissed it. Presently the cab drew up suddenly,and I found myself before a wide portico extending across the pavementto the curb, in front of a rather gloomy, solid-looking mansion.Alighting, I crossed to the door, and as I did so counted the steps.There were three, the same number that I remembered ascending on thateventful night I had raised my hand to ring the visitors' bell whensuddenly a voice behind me uttered my name. It sounded familiar, and Ilooked round hastily. As I turned, the Countess of Fyneshade, warmlyclad in smart sealskin coat and neat seal toque trimmed with sable,confronted me. Standing upon the pavement beneath the wide gloomyportico, she was smiling amusedly at the sudden start I had given onhearing my name.
"I declare you've turned quite pale, Stuart," she cried with that gay,irresponsible air and high-pitched voice habitual to her. "You gavesuch a jump when I spoke that one would think you had been detected inthe act of committing a burglary, or some other crime equally dreadful."
"I really beg your pardon," I exclaimed quickly, descending the stepsand raising my hat. "I confess I didn't notice you." Then, for thefirst time, I observed standing a few yards from her a slim,well-dressed young man in long dark overcoat and silk hat.
"Gilbert," she said, turning to him, "you've not met Mr Ridgewaybefore, I believe. Allow me to introduce you--Mr Gilbert Sternroyd,Mr Stuart Ridgeway, one of my oldest friends."
We uttered mutual conventionalities, but an instant later, when my eyesmet his, the words froze upon my lips. The Countess's companion was theoriginal of the photograph that had been exhibited at my dead love'srequest in the same frame as her own.
Of what words I uttered I have no remembrance. Bewildered by thisstrange and unexpected encounter, on the very threshold of themysterious house that for months I had been striving in vain todiscover, I felt my senses whirl. Only by dint of summoning all myself-possession I preserved a calm demeanour. That Mabel should haveadmitted acquaintance with the strange and rather shady person who hadmet me at Richmond was curious enough, but her friendship with Sybil'swhilom companion was a fact even more incomprehensible.
An hour ago I had discovered the picture of this man called Sternroyd,yet here he stood before me in the flesh, accompanied by the one personof my acquaintance who knew that nameless man who had inveigled me tothis house of shadows. Heedless of Mabel's amusing gossip, I surveyedher companion's face calmly, satisfying myself that every feature agreedwith the counterfeit presentment I carried in my pocket. The portraitwas strikingly accurate, even his curiously-shaped scarf-pin in the formof a pair of crossed daggers with diamond hilts being shown in thepicture. He was tall, fair, of fresh complexion, aged abouttwenty-four, with grey eyes rather deeply set, and a scanty moustache alittle ragged. Lithe, active, and upright, his bearing was distinctlyathletic, although his speech was a trifle languid and affected. What,I wondered, had been the nature of his relations with Sybil? Thehorrifying thought flashed across my mind that he might have been herlover, but next second I scorned such a suggestion, convinced that shehad been devoted to me alone.
Yet how could I reconcile the statement of the photographer that theportrait had only been taken a few weeks with my own personalinvestigation that she at that time was dead? Had I not, alas! kissedher cold brow and chafed her thin dead hands, hoping to bring back tothem the glow of life? Had I not raised her gloved arm only to find itstiffening in death? The remembrance of that fateful night chilled myblood.
"Who are you calling upon, Stuart?" the Countess asked, her light wordsbringing me at last back to consciousness of my surroundings.
"Upon--upon friends," I stammered.
"Friends! Well, they can't live here," she observed incredulously.
"They do," I answered. "This is number seventy-nine."
"True, but the place is empty." She laughed.
I glanced at the doorway, and my heart sank within me when I noticedthat the unwhitened stones were littered with drifting straws and scrapsof paper, the flotsam and jetsam of the street, that the glass of thewide fanlight was thickly encrusted with dirt, and that the board fixedover the door, announcing that the "imposing mansion" was to let, had,judging from its begrimed, blistered, and weather-stained appearance,been in that position several years.
To reassure myself, I glanced at my cuff and inquired of the cabmanwhether the house was not Number 79 Gloucester Square.
"Quite right, sir," answered the plethoric driver. "This 'ere's RadnorPlace, but these 'ouses fronts into the square. This row 'ain't got noentrances there, but the front doors are at the back here. I've knownthese 'ouses ever since I was a nipper. This 'ere one's been to letthis last four years. A French gentleman lived 'ere before."
"I fancy you've mistaken the number," drawled the Countess's companion,putting up his single eye-glass to survey the place more minutely. "Soconfoundedly easy to make mistakes, don't yer know," and he laughed, asif amused at his witticism.
I resented this apparent hilarity, and with difficulty restrained somehot words that rose quickly to my lips. It had occurred to me that if Ipreserved silence and gave no sign, I might perhaps discover theidentity of this foppish young man. The mansion, silent, dismal, anddeserted, was drab-painted and of unusually imposing proportions. Thedrawing-room on the first floor was evidently of vast extent, runningthe whole width of the house and commanding in front a wide view acrossthe square, while at the rear it opened upon a fine domed conservatoryconstructed over the great portico.
"If you can't find your friends, Stuart, I'll give you a lift homeward.My carriage is at the corner," Mabel said, evidently anxious to getaway. "I'm going down to the Reform, to fetch Fyneshade."
In this invitation I saw an opportunity of obtaining some furtherknowledge of her mysterious companion, and, after settling with mycabman, lost no time in embracing it. A few moments later theCountess's smart victoria drew up, and entering, I took the place besideher, while Sternroyd seated himself opposite.
As we drove around Southwick Crescent in the direction of Park Lane,Mabel, in the course of conversation, let drop the fact that Gilbert, aprotege of her husband's, was spending a few days at Eaton Square priorto returning to his studies at Oxford.
"Yes," he drawled. "A fellow appreciates town after poring over mustyvolumes, as I unfortunately am compelled to do. Beastly bore!"
Then he told me he was at Balliol--my old college--and our conversationafterwards turned mainly upon dons and duns.
"
I always have such jolly times with Mab--Lady Fyneshade--each time Icome to town," he said. "Whenever I go back I feel absolutelymiserable."
"Yet memories of the past are sometimes painful," I observed, smiling.At the same time I glanced at Mabel, knowing that the strangecircumstances in which we had parted at the cotton-king's reception muststill be fresh in her mind. Darting at me a swift look of inquiry, shepicked at the buttons of her pearl-grey glove, laughed lightly, andexclaimed flippantly:
"We have no memories when we arrive at years of discretion. Idle memorywastes time and other things. The moments as they drop must disappearand be simply forgotten as a child forgets. Nowadays one lives only forthe future, and lets the past be buried."
"And if the past refuses to be interred?" I asked.
She started visibly, and a frown of annoyance rested for a brief momentupon her handsome countenance. I fancied, too, that her companionlooked askance at me, but not waiting for either to reply, I said:
"I myself find it difficult to altogether forget. Some incidents ineach of our lives are indelibly engraven upon our minds, and there aresome tender memories that in our hours of melancholy we love to lingerover and brood upon. At such times we find solace in solitude and supon vain regrets."
"That's only when we have been in love," the Countess laughed, pattingthe large pug beside her. "Gilbert has never been in love; have