your address, and, if you desire it, I will call uponyou to-morrow."
"As you wish," I replied stiffly. "I have no inclination to remain inthis house longer than necessary."
Crossing to where the body of Sybil reclined, I slowly raised the veil,gazing for some moments upon her calm, pale face, as restful as ifcomposed in peaceful sleep. Bending, I pressed my lips to her clammybrow, then taking a piece of the drooping orange-blossom from her hair,I replaced the veil, and, overcome with emotion, walked unsteadily outover the fallen door, followed by the man whom I felt instinctively wasmy enemy.
Together we descended the fine staircase, brilliantly lit by a hugechandelier of crystal and hung with large time-mellowed paintings, intoa spacious hall, in which a footman with powdered hair awaited us. Halfdazed, my senses not having recovered from the shock caused to them,first by the charcoal fumes and secondly by the appalling discovery ofSybil's death, I remember that when the flunkey threw open the door ahansom was awaiting me, and that my strange companion himself gave thecabman my address. I have also a distinct recollection of havingrefused to grasp my enemy's proffered hand, but it was not until I foundmyself seated alone before the dying embers of the fire in my chambersin Shaftesbury Avenue, my mind troubled to the point of torment, that itsuddenly occurred to me that in leaving the mysterious mansion I hadbeen culpably negligent of the future.
I had actually failed to take notice either of the exterior of thehouse, or of the thoroughfare in which it was situated!
I had, I knew, driven along Oxford Street eastward to Regent Street, andthence home, but from what direction the conveyance had approached theMarble Arch I knew not. In blank despair I paced my room, for I saw Ishould be compelled to search London for a house, of which all I knew ofthe exterior was that it had a wide portico in front and was approachedfrom the pavement by three steps.
My omission to take notice of its aspect overwhelmed me with despair,for there were thousands of similar houses in the West End, and I knewthat, while I prosecuted my inquiries, those responsible for Sybil'sdeath would be afforded ample time to effect their escape.
That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. Butnervousness gave way to determination, at once feverish and fixed, andit was in a mood of perfect self-mastery that, after a long period ofmental conflict, I flung myself upon my couch with my plan of operationsclearly laid out, and lay thinking over them until the yellow light ofthe wintry dawn struggled in between the curtains.
CHAPTER FOUR.
A DEEPENING MYSTERY.
As the cheerless morning wore on, I sat after breakfast gloomilysmoking, trying to verify my first impression that Sybil had been thevictim of foul play in the hope of dispelling it. But it was, on thecontrary, deepened.
Either I was wrong to think thus; and at any price I was determined toconvince myself by facts that I was wrong, or I was right. The soleresource henceforth remaining to me for the preservation of myself-respect and the unburdening of my conscience was ardent andceaseless search after certainty.
Each hour as I pondered I was plunged more profoundly into the gulf ofsuspicion. Yet the very position of the intricate problem which I hadbefore me seemed to forbid all hope of discovering anything whatsoeverwithout a formal inquiry. With foolish disregard for the future, I hadtaken an oath to seek no explanation of what I might witness within thatmysterious house; I had placed myself irrevocably under the thrall ofthe strange, cynical individual who had acted as Sybil's messenger!Yet, now that Sybil was dead and everything pointed to a crime, I wasfully justified in seeking the truth, and had resolved upon bringing theassassin to punishment.
During this debauch of melancholy the door opened and my old friend andcollege chum, Captain Jack Bethune, burst into the room exclaiming:
"Mornin', Stuart, old chap. That ancient servitor of yours, Saunders,told me that you're a bit seedy. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," I said, languidly grasping his hand. "Sit down. To whatgood or evil fortune do I owe the honour of a visit at this unearthlyhour?"
"Good fortune, old chap, good fortune!" he laughed, flinging off hisovercoat and throwing himself back in the capacious arm-chair. "Thebest fortune that could befall a man. Congratulate me, Stuart."
"Upon what? Have you finished a new book, or has your publisher beenunduly generous?"
"Neither. It isn't a book; it's a woman!"
"A woman?" I inquired, puzzled.
"I'm engaged to be married, old fellow."
"To Dora Stretton?"
"To Dora Stretton, the most adorable girl in the world."
I sighed; not because I regretted his choice. Far from it. Truth totell, I envied him his happiness.
"With all my heart I congratulate you, Jack," I cried next second,springing up and grasping his hand. "I wish you every prosperity. Ihave known Dora ever since a child, and although she may move in a smartset, yet I have had opportunities that you have not of observing hertrue-heartedness and--what shall I say?--her hatred of the hollow shamsand artificiality by which she is surrounded."
"Yes, you know her far better than I do," he admitted, lighting acigarette and adding, "I'd take your opinion upon a woman's characterbefore anybody else's. As a novelist, I have gained a reputation forportraying female character, yet I assure you my ability in thatdirection only exists in the imaginations of my reviewers. I can writeabout women, but, hang it, old chap, I'm absolutely ignorant of them inreal life. You, a calm philosopher, can analyse a woman's nature andlay every fibre of it bare as if by the scalpel; while I, finding myconclusions always hopelessly at fault when attempting to study fromlife, have written merely what I have believed to be artistic."
"Your books are popular, so I suppose your confession proves that purefiction pays better without an admixture of fact," I laughed.
"Yes," he said; "I'm afraid that is so," and then went on smoking withan expression of joyful contentment.
John Bethune, known as the "soldier-novelist," was a handsome,well-built fellow about thirty-two, with dark hair, a carefully-trimmedmoustache, and a pair of merry brown eyes that were an index to thegenuine bonhomie which was the chief trait of his character. Though heentertained none of the idiosyncrasies or eccentricities of dress commonto many writers, he was, although a smart officer, nevertheless a trueBohemian--always gay and light-hearted and the most popular man in hisregiment.
A thoroughly good fellow, he deserved every bit of the success he hadattained. The son of a struggling barrister, he had graduated, thenjoined the army, afterwards becoming an anonymous contributor to aScotch review of hypercritical trend, edited by the distinguishedcritic, Mr Goring. Having turned his attention to novel-writing incombination with soldiering, he had made a brilliant success with hisfirst book, which had been increased by each other that had been issued.On both sides of the Atlantic the newspapers were full of paragraphsregarding his sayings and doings, many of their writers being fond ofalluding to him as "one of Mr Goring's young men," and for the pastthree years he had been recognised as one of the leading "youngernovelists," whose wondrous insight into the complexities andcontradictions of woman's nature had earned for him a world-widereputation.
As he chatted about the woman to whom he had become engaged, I expressedgenuine satisfaction at his announcement. The honourable Dora Stretton,although sister of the Countess of Fyneshade, one of the smartest womenin England, was altogether sweet and adorable, with a winning manner anda face voted pretty wherever she appeared. She hated town life, for,being a splendid horsewoman, she loved all outdoor sport, and was neverso happy as when riding with the Fitzwilliam pack, or driving herspanking bays over the broad level Lincolnshire highways. Outwardly shewas a smart woman of to-day, but, as her childhood's friend, I knew thatbeneath her tightly-laced Parisian corset and the veneer that she wascompelled to assume, there beat a true heart that yearned for the honestlove of a man.
So I congratulated Jack, explaining how Blatherwycke, old LadyStretton's estate in
Northamptonshire, joined that of my father, and howDora, her sister Mabel, now Countess of Fyneshade, and myself had knowneach other ever since the time when our nurses gossiped. Cruel-tonguedscandalmongers had said that her ladyship, finding her estatesimpoverished on the death of her husband, the Viscount, gave Mabel inmarriage to the Earl of Fyneshade, a widower nearly twice her age, inexchange for a service he rendered her by paying off a certain mortgageupon the property. But, be that how it might, Dora had five thousand ayear in her own right, and this, together with Jack's fair income fromhis royalties, would suffice to keep them in comfort, if not inaffluence.
"I had heard that Dora was likely to become the wife of old LordWansford," I observed at last.
"Yes," he answered in a