endeavouring to recallhis thoughts.
"Ah, yes, it was the seal that was on Nell,--yes, the seal, and I tookit off. It's in the box, along with the portrait."
"And you wanted me--for what?" I said, inquiringly, for he seemed to belosing himself again.
"You? Who are you?"
The question fell with a terrible weight upon my ears--it was clear thatthe man's senses had fled.
"Frank Burgoyne is my name," was my reply. "You were going to tell mewho it was your wife went to see, and why you wanted me."
"Wanted you? Ah, yes! I've seen you before--in Drury Lane. Nellshowed you to me, for you gave evidence at the inquest. Yes, I've seenyou!"
In a moment the remembrance of that mysterious encounter in Drury Lanecame vividly back to me.
Was this the suspicious character who had come up as if he meant tospeak to me, and who afterwards vanished?
There was something very awful in the ravings of that man during thenext quarter of a hour. At times he was apparently hiding like a beatenhound, cringing and whining, while from the mention of the JuniorGarrick Club it struck me that he was, in imagination, pleading to beallowed to stay outside the club house.
"I _will_ see him! I _will_ wait, if I stay here till I die!" he yelledwildly, struggling to rise.
My endeavours to hold him down were at length successful, and,apparently exhausted, he lay back, groaning and muttering.
Slowly and wearily the time passed. When at last I looked at my watchits hands pointed to the hour of half-past four.
In a frenzy of excitement I listened breathlessly for every word, hopingto catch some clue to the problem. The sick man moaned and ground histeeth, ever and anon raising his voice, startling me with the suddennessof the outbursts. Lower and lower sank the candle in its socket, untilI feared that unless the day soon dawned we should be in darkness.
A cold shiver ran through me.
Then strain was beginning to take effect; my limbs trembled with thetension to which my nerves subjected them.
Presently the day broke, and never was it more welcome.
The candle had just flickered and died out when the injured man spokewith startling distinctness.
"You shall be revenged, Nell, never fear! I'll find him. He has seenhim once--red-handed _then_. The blood was upon him--he shall be richlyrepaid!"
Was he talking of me? I had seen the murderer once, certainly.
"I tell you I will! My oath is sacred. Who will believe me, withouthim--without Burgoyne?" he continued in his delirium.
Hoping a sudden fright might bring him to consciousness, I laid my handupon his arm sharply, and exclaimed,--
"What do you want me to do?"
Seemingly startled for a moment, he was silent. Then he asked,--
"What time is it?"
"Half-past six," I answered.
"I've told you all. That cursed fall last night has done for me; or Iwould have gone with you--gone with you to--to--"
Again he faltered. The fingers which I clasped seemed to stiffen aroundmine and grow cold.
He was dying!
"For Heaven's sake bear up a few moments!" I implored. "There _must_be a doctor about now. See, it's getting light!"
Those dark eyes which had pierced me on the previous night once moreturned to mine. In their depths a film was gathering. He motioned thathe wished to speak, and I leaned down till my face almost touched his.
"Well?" I inquired, kindly and softly.
"It's--for--Nell--I--"
All was over!
For a few seconds I was stunned. It seemed impossible that he wasdead--it was not to be realised, in spite of the inanimate body beforeme.
Then suddenly I gazed about me.
The noise of busy London was in my ears; the day was before me. No morecould be learnt from the corpse--why should I stay?
Hastily putting the photograph and the piece of sealed paper into mypocket, I turned and left the room.
The energy of the movement was so great that as I opened the door myattention was attracted by the skirt of a woman's dress disappearinground a corner of the landing.
In spite of my haste, however, the person had gone when I reached thedoor of the house and stepped into the street. There was no onevisible.
Then I remembered an omission.
Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and coldas I had left it a few minutes before.
I closed the eyes, and then went home.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
THE DEAD WOMAN'S PICTURE.
About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, whereI had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towardsthe club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.
Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of theearly morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of thepresence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back andheard a voice shout,--
"Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as ifyou'd been to a funeral."
It was Demetrius Hertzen.
"What! you in London?" I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad tomeet him.
"Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, andVera is so cut up, that I thought I'd come to town, find you, andprevail upon you to return."
Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, "What'sthe meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow;I am your wife's cousin."
I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on theverge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered thepromise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.
"Well," I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, "it isall owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have littledifferences sometimes, you know."
He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said,--
"Ah! I see. A lover's quarrel, eh? Why don't you return to Elvehamand end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better."
I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart Ithanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks mustpass before any explanation.
"No," I answered, "I'll remain in London, at least for the present. Idon't know exactly when I shall return."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk so despondently. Remember it's onlya petty quarrel, after all," he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.
I tried again to laugh, saying, "Yes, that's true, but absence makes theheart grow fonder--we're told."
"Very well, old fellow, if you won't take my advice I can't help it," heobserved disappointedly.
By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, "Bythe way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?"
"Nothing."
"Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the JuniorGarrick; I'm on my way there."
"Thanks, you're very kind. By Jove, I've had nothing to eat since Ileft the Dene, and I'm getting a trifle peckish!"
"Then come along," I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and enteredthe club.
In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commandeda view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men hadassembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.
They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn,I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner,soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.
Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, adevil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded asrather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession.Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was aworking journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of atouring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards trave
ller for afirm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf.Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, andwas usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.
I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarkedfor Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatricalspeculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted atby those who were not his friends.
Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall,dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerablyaltered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess Ishould scarcely have recognised him.
Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model ofuprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genialPhilistine in my bachelor days, and now,