know much of him."
"Foreigner, isn't he?"
"I don't think so. If he is, he speaks English amazingly well."
"Ah! I thought he had a foreign cast in his features," he said,striking a vesta to relight his cigar. "I've seen him about town oflate, and wondered who and what he was; that's why I asked."
"Well, I don't exactly know what he is. All I know is that he is afriend of the Earl and his wife, and that he visits at one or two goodcountry houses. Beyond that I am ignorant."
The detective did not reply. He was too occupied in searching for thejewel thieves. Time after time we strolled up and down, descended tothe stalls, ascended to the grand circle, and had peered into everynook, but without success, until at length we entered one of the bars todrink. While we stood there, I inquired whether he had the warrant forthe arrest of the man in his pocket, to which he replied in theaffirmative.
"Let me have a look at it," I urged. "I've never seen a warrant."
But he shook his head, and laughing good-naturedly replied:
"No, Mr Ridgeway; you must really excuse me. It is a rigid rule in ourDepartment that we never show warrants to anybody except the personarrested. The ends of justice might, in certain cases, be defeated bysuch an injudicious action; therefore it is absolutely forbidden. Thewarrant is always strictly secret."
I smiled, assured him that it was only out of curiosity I had asked tosee it, and then, mentioning the strange disappearance of GilbertSternroyd, asked him whether he had been engaged in that inquiry.
"Yes," he said, "I have--in an indirect manner. It's an extraordinarycase, most extraordinary. Murder, without a doubt."
"With what object?" I asked.
"As far as we can ascertain, there was absolutely no object," heanswered.
"Do they expect to make an arrest?"
"They hope to, of course," he replied vaguely. "Personally, I know butlittle about it beyond what I've read in the newspapers. It is astrange feature in the case that the body has not been found."
"What about the will?"
"Ah! another very curious point; but I don't attach much importance toit. Many hare-brained, wealthy young fools make wills in favour ofwomen they admire. It is an everyday occurrence, only they generallyrevoke or destroy the will, or else spend all their money before theydie. No; there is little in that, and certainly no clue. By the way,the lady to whom he has left his money is the wife of your friend theEarl. You knew Sternroyd, then?"
I was unprepared for this, but, affecting ignorance, answered:
"I saw him in the street one day. Lady Fyneshade introduced me. Thatis all I knew of him."
The detective, apparently satisfied, did not press his question further;but a few minutes later, the performance having concluded and thetheatre rapidly emptying, he suggested it was time to go, and outside,in Leicester Square, we shook hands and parted.
"Good-night," he said heartily, as he turned to leave. "I shall beastir early to-morrow, and see if I can find the man who has eluded meto-night."
"Good-night," I laughed. "I shall look for the case in the papers."
Then he buttoned his overcoat and strolled rapidly away along CranbourneStreet, while I made my way home in the opposite direction, my mind fullof strangely dismal forebodings.
Somehow--I know not by what means--it had been impressed upon me duringthe last quarter of an hour I had been with Grindlay, that this shrewdpolice officer was not searching for the diamond thief, for, onreflection, I had a faint suspicion that, as we alighted from the caband entered the vestibule, one of the men he suspected had actuallypassed us, and that my friend had stared him full in the face. I wastoo excited at the prospect of witnessing an arrest in the theatre tonotice the incident at that moment, and, strangely enough, it was onlywhen walking home absorbed in thought I remembered it.
Why had Grindlay allowed these men to thus slip through his fingers?
No! I felt absolutely convinced that the detective was searching for anentirely different person. Indeed, the suggestion passed through mymind, as I recollected his apparently artless questions, that after allI might be suspected. Perhaps someone had seen me leave Jack's chamberson that fatal night; perhaps the name upon the warrant, which he refusedto show me, was actually my own.
Again, the discovery of my portrait in that gallery of criminals wasamazing, and seemed to have some hidden connection with thedisappearance of the young millionaire. Perhaps Grindlay had purposelygiven me the album to inspect in order to watch how I was affected bythe discovery. In any case, the curious events of that evening hadrendered the problem even more complicated than before.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
A HOUSE OF SHADOWS.
My mother, I ascertained from a letter a few days later, had invitedDora to remain with her a week, and Jack, still my father's guest, wastherefore basking in the smiles of the woman he loved. How long wouldthis continue, I wondered. Suspected and surrounded by spies andenemies, Jack Bethune must, I felt certain, sooner or later betray histerrible secret, either by word or deed, and then the assize court wouldbe the portal to the gallows. I pitied Dora, well knowing what acrushing blow must sooner or later fall to dispel her day-dreams andshatter her air-built castles. I pitied Jack, because I had seen in hishaggard, care-worn face only too plainly the terrible pangs ofconscience that, torturing him by day and night, were goading himtowards his doom.
Beauty is one of the rarest and most desirable things in nature. DoraStretton, with her calm beauty, with its hints of animation and passion,with her accomplishment of form and sweetness of voice, was one of thoseravishing creatures for whose smiles men do great deeds, for whom menfight and die, through whom they feel that sudden throb of the heartthat lifts them beyond the common round. The sweet, bright-eyed womanwho loved this murderer was one of those who make the joy, the poetry,the tragedy of life. Alas! that it should have been so.
The papers were full of laudatory reviews of Bethune's new book, "TheSiren of Strelitz," and while everywhere the opinion was expressed thatthe "soldier-novelist" had never done better work, the popular authorhimself was clinging to the last hours of his happiness with Dora,trembling at each approaching footstep, and expecting arrest at anymoment. A dozen, nay, a hundred, times I sat and calmly reflectedwhether I had the slightest shadow of doubt in my own mind that he wasGilbert's murderer; but I could find none. I alone had, by strangemischance, discovered the body, and when I had returned he refused toallow me to enter one of the rooms. He had locked the door in my face.In there the body had been hidden, and thence, by the exercise of somedeep cunning, the nature of which I was unaware, he had removed it anddisposed of it in such a manner that discovery was impossible. He hadhidden every trace of this terrible deed, and there remained only myselfas witness against him.
I had seen the body. My evidence alone might send him to a murderer'sgrave.
But if, finding himself cornered, he wove a web about me, in what plightshould I find myself? This startling thought impressed itself upon meone morning as, sitting alone in my chambers, I had been reading ahalf-column of "Latest Details" hashed up by an enterprising reporterwho had carefully "written around the facts" without carrying his readerany further. There was just a chance that Bethune might giveinformation against me and cause my arrest. In such circumstances itwould, I realised not without alarm, be very easy for him to give somedamning circumstantial evidence. Yet he could not allege that he hadfound me searching the spot where the body had lain, otherwise hisevidence would show that he had previous knowledge of the crime, andsome awkward cross-examination would follow regarding the disposal ofthe body. No! Careful consideration of any evidence that might begiven against me brought me to the gratifying conclusion that he darenot adopt the bold course of accusing me of firing the fatal shot I haddetermined to seek a solution of the mysterious link that I felt morethan ever convinced connected the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd withmy strange marriage and Sybil's death; yet I kne
w not in what directionto seek. The Countess had admittedly been acquainted with her; Markwickhad, I knew from personal knowledge, held some mystic influence overher; and the murdered man had known her so intimately that, at her owndesire, their photographs had been exhibited together in Regent Street.Either Mabel or Markwick could, if they chose, tear aside the veil andpresent the facts undistorted; but from neither could I hope for anyassistance, for the man had disclaimed all knowledge of me prior to ourformal introduction at Wadenhoe, while Lady Fyneshade made perjury theprice of her secret.
I had, therefore, to act on my own initiative, as before, and again atthis time the strange words written on my card that had been attached tothe wreath in Woking Cemetery urged me to still prosecute my searchafter truth. The mysterious