CHAPTER XXIX
"IT WAS MR. SABIN"
It was still an hour or two before dawn. No trace whatever of themarauders had been discovered either outside the house or within. Withdifficulty the Earl had been persuaded to relinquish his smokingrevolver, and had retired to his room. The doors had all been locked,and two of the most trustworthy servants left in charge of the library.Wolfenden had himself accompanied his father upstairs and after a fewwords with him had returned to his own apartment. With his mother he hadscarcely exchanged a single sentence. Once their eyes had met and he hadimmediately looked away. Nevertheless he was not altogether unpreparedfor that gentle knocking at his door which came about half an hour afterthe house was once more silent.
He rose at once from his chair--it seemed scarcely a night forsleep--and opened it cautiously. It was Lady Deringham who stood there,white and trembling. He held out his hand and she leaned heavily on itduring her passage into the room.
He wheeled his own easy chair before the fire and helped her into it.She seemed altogether incapable of speech. She was trembling violently,and her face was perfectly bloodless. Wolfenden dropped on his knees byher side and began chafing her hands. The touch of his fingers seemed torevive her. She was not already judged then. She lifted her eyes andlooked at him sorrowfully.
"What do you think of me, Wolfenden?" she asked.
"I have not thought about it at all," he answered. "I am only wondering.You have come to explain everything?"
She shuddered. Explain everything! That was a task indeed. When theheart is young and life is a full and generous thing; in the days ofromance, when adventures and love-making come as a natural heritage andform part of the order of things, then the words which the woman had tosay would have come lightly enough from her lips, less perhaps as aconfession than as a half apologetic narration. But in the days whenyouth lies far behind, when its glamour has faded away and nothing butthe bare incidents remain, unbeautified by the full colouring andexuberance of the springtime of life, the most trifling indiscretionsthen stand out like idiotic crimes. Lady Deringham had been a proudwoman--a proud woman all her life. She had borne in society thereputation of an almost ultra-exclusiveness; in her home life she hadbeen something of an autocrat. Perhaps this was the most miserablemoment of her life. Her son was looking at her with cold, inquiringeyes. She was on her defence before him. She bowed her head and spoke:
"Tell me what you thought, Wolfenden."
"Forgive me," he said, "I could only think that there was robbery, andthat you, for some sufficient reason, I am sure, were aiding. I couldnot think anything else, could I?"
"You thought what was true, Wolfenden," she whispered. "I was helpinganother man to rob your father! It was only a very trifling theft--ahandful of notes from his work for a magazine article. But it wastheft, and I was an accomplice!"
There was a short silence. Her eyes, seeking steadfastly to read hisface, could make nothing of it.
"I will not ask you why," he said slowly. "You must have had very goodreasons. But I want to tell you one thing. I am beginning to have gravedoubts as to whether my father's state is really so bad as Dr. Whitlettthinks--whether, in short, his work is not after all really of someconsiderable value. There are several considerations which incline me totake this view."
The suggestion visibly disturbed Lady Deringham. She moved in her chairuneasily.
"You have heard what Mr. Blatherwick says," she objected. "I am surethat he is absolutely trustworthy."
"There is no doubt about Blatherwick's honesty," he admitted, "but theAdmiral himself says that he dare trust no one, and that for weeks hehas given him no paper of importance to work upon simply for thatreason. It has been growing upon me that we may have been mistaken allalong, that very likely Miss Merton was paid to steal his work, and thatit may possess for certain people, and for certain purposes, a realtechnical importance. How else can we account for the deliberate effortswhich have been made to obtain possession of it?"
"You have spent some time examining it yourself," she said in a lowtone; "what was your own opinion?"
"I found some sheets," he answered, "and I read them very carefully;they were connected with the various landing-places upon the Suffolkcoast. An immense amount of detail was very clearly given. The currents,bays, and fortifications were all set out; even the roads and railwaysinto the interior were dealt with. I compared them afterwards with a mapof Suffolk. They were, so far as one could judge, correct. Of coursethis was only a page or two at random, but I must say it made animpression upon me."
There was another silence, this time longer than before. Lady Deringhamwas thinking. Once more, then, the man had lied to her! He was on somesecret business of his own. She shuddered slightly. She had no curiosityas to its nature. Only she remembered what many people had told her,that where he went disaster followed. A piece of coal fell into thegrate hissing from the fire. He stooped to pick it up, and catching aglimpse of her face became instantly graver. He remembered that as yethe had heard nothing of what she had come to tell him. Her presence inthe library was altogether unexplained.
"You were very good," she said slowly; "you stayed what might have beena tragedy. You knew that I was there, you helped me to escape; yet youmust have known that I was in league with the man who was trying tosteal those papers."
"There was no mistake, then! You were doing that. You!"
"It is true," she answered. "It was I who let him in, who unlocked yourfather's desk. I was his accomplice!"
"Who was the man?"
She did not tell him at once.
"He was once," she said, "my lover!"
"Before----"
"Before I met your father! We were never really engaged. But he lovedme, and I thought I cared for him. I wrote him letters--the foolishletters of an impulsive girl. These he has kept. I treated him badly, Iknow that! But I too have suffered. It has been the desire of my life tohave those letters. Last night he called here. Before my face he burntall but one! That he kept. The price of his returning it to me was myhelp--last night."
"For what purpose?" Wolfenden asked. "What use did he propose to makeof the Admiral's papers if he succeeded in stealing them?"
She shook her head mournfully.
"I cannot tell. He answered me at first that he simply needed somestatistics to complete a magazine article, and that Mr. C. himself hadsent him here. If what you tell me of their importance is true, I haveno doubt that he lied."
"Why could he not go to the Admiral himself?"
Lady Deringham's face was as pale as death, and she spoke with downcasthead, her eyes fixed upon her clenched hands.
"At Cairo," she said, "not long after my marriage, we all met. I wasindiscreet, and your father was hot-headed and jealous. They quarrelledand fought, your father wounded him; he fired in the air. You understandnow that he could not go direct to the Admiral."
"I cannot understand," he admitted, "why you listened to his proposal."
"Wolfenden, I wanted that letter," she said, her voice dying away insomething like a moan. "It is not that I have anything more than follyto reproach myself with, but it was written--it was the only one--aftermy marriage. Just at first I was not very happy with your father. We hadhad a quarrel, I forget what about, and I sat down and wrote words whichI have many a time bitterly repented ever having put on paper. I havenever forgotten them--I never shall! I have seen them often in myhappiest moments, and they have seemed to me to be written with lettersof fire."
"You have it back now? You have destroyed it?"
She shook her head wearily.
"No, I was to have had it when he had succeeded; I had not let him infive minutes when you disturbed us."
"Tell me the man's name."
"Why?"
"I will get you the letter."
"He would not give it you. You could not make him."
Wolfenden's eyes flashed with a sudden fire.
"You are mistaken," he said. "The man who holds for
blackmail over awoman's head, a letter written twenty years ago, is a scoundrel! I willget that letter from him. Tell me his name!"
Lady Deringham shuddered.
"Wolfenden, it would bring trouble! He is dangerous. Don't ask me. Atleast I have kept my word to him. It was not my fault that we weredisturbed. He will not molest me now."
"Mother, I will know his name!"
"I cannot tell it you!"
"Then I will find it out; it will not be difficult. I will put the wholematter in the hands of the police. I shall send to Scotland Yard for adetective. There are marks underneath the window. I picked up a man'sglove upon the library floor. A clever fellow will find enough to workupon. I will find this blackguard for myself, and the law shall dealwith him as he deserves."
"Wolfenden, have mercy! May I not know best? Are my wishes, my prayers,nothing to you?"
"A great deal, mother, yet I consider myself also a judge as to thewisest course to pursue. The plan which I have suggested may clear upmany things. It may bring to light the real object of this man. It maysolve the mystery of that impostor, Wilmot. I am tired of all thisuncertainty. We will have some daylight. I shall telegraph to-morrowmorning to Scotland Yard."
"Wolfenden, I beseech you!"
"So also do I beseech you, mother, to tell me that man's name. Greatheavens!"
Wolfenden sprang suddenly from his chair with startled face. An idea,slow of coming, but absolutely convincing from its first conception, hadsuddenly flashed home to him. How could he have been so blind? He stoodlooking at his mother in fixed suspense. The light of his knowledge wasin his face, and she saw it. She had been dreading this all the while.
"It was Mr. Sabin!--the man who calls himself Sabin!"
A little moan of despair crept out from her lips. She covered her facewith her hands and sobbed.