haven't found arevolver."
And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.
When we had all assembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone beingabsent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly,--
"Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the carearly this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Didanybody hear the car go off?" she inquired, looking around the table.
But all expressed surprise at Tibbie's absence, and of course nobody hadheard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked.Whereupon her ladyship merely replied,--
"I'm sure I can't tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribblednote at nine o'clock this morning, saying that she had found it in herroom. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn't sleep she had gotup and gone out with Mason. `Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,' shesays, `but if I am not, please don't worry after me. I shall be allright and will write.'"
"Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps," remarked Jack. "Shesaid something about running down there a few days ago."
"But it isn't proper for a young girl tearing about the country byherself and driving her own car," protested the old lady. "She knowsthat I most strongly disapprove of it."
"And therefore does it all the more," laughed the man who had identifiedthe victim in Charlton Wood.
"Tibbie is really quite incorrigible."
"Quite, Mr Winsloe," declared her ladyship. "My only fear is that oneday something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is,I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She'll come to griefsome day--depend upon it!"
Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word ofreply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?
But the others were chattering gaily, and next moment he turned from meand joined in their merry gossip.
That afternoon I remained at home, but he drove out with two ladies ofthe party to make a call on some people about five miles away.
After he had gone Eric returned, and I told him all that I had seen, andof my suspicions.
He stood at the end of the grey old terrace, and heard me through to theend, then said,--
"This puts an entirely new complexion upon matters, old fellow. Yoususpect him of knowing something. If so, then we must act at once, andfearlessly--just as we did last night."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"He's out. Therefore we must go to his room and see whether he hasanything there--any letters, for instance. To me, it seems plain thathe was in expectation of the tragedy, and that he fears lest the deadman should be identified."
"Then your suggestion is to search his belongings?"
"Certainly. Let's go up there. There's no time to lose. He may beback at any moment."
And so we crossed the great hall and quickly ascended to his room unseenby the servants. Then after looking rapidly through the drawers wefound that one of Eric's keys fitted the strong brown kitbag at the footof the bed.
In a moment it was open, and a few seconds later its contents were outupon the floor.
Among them we saw something lying which caused us to stare blankly ateach other in utter amazement. The sight of it staggered us completely.
Again the mystery was still further increased. It was inexplicable.
I recognised my own grave peril if I dared to carry out Tibbie's boldand astounding suggestion.
CHAPTER NINE.
STRICTLY IN SECRET.
Thursday night was wet and dismal in London as I stood outside theunderground railway station at King's Cross at eight o'clock, keeping myappointment with the Honourable Sybil.
There was a good deal of traffic and bustle in the Pentonville Road; theshops were still open, and the working-class population, notwithstandingthe rain, were out with their baskets, making their purchases aftertheir day's labour.
At that spot in the evening one sees a veritable panorama of Londonlife, its humours and its tragedies, for there five of the greatarteries of traffic converge, while every two minutes the subterraneanrailway belches forth its hurrying, breathless crowds to swell thenumber of passers-by.
The station front towards the King's Cross Road is somewhat in theshadow, and there I stood in patience and in wonder.
What Eric and had discovered in Winsloe's kitbag had rendered themystery the more tantalising, it being a cheap carte-de-visitephotograph of the dead stranger--a picture which showed him in a darktweed suit and golf-cap stuck slightly askew, as many young men of theworking-class wear their caps.
We were both greatly puzzled. How came the portrait in Ellice'spossession? And why, if he were not in fear of some secret beingdivulged, did he not identify the stranger?
Again I recollected well how Sybil had declared her intention to marryEllice. For what reason? Was it in order to prevent her own secretbeing exposed?
We had replaced the photograph--which, unfortunately, bore nophotographer's name--re-locked the bag, and left the room utterlyconfounded.
During the two days that followed both of us had watched Winsloecarefully, and had seen his ill-concealed anxiety lest the dead manshould be identified by Jack. Once or twice, as was but natural, attable or in the billiard-room, Scarcliff had referred to the strangeaffair and declared,--
"I'm sure I've seen the poor chap before, but where, I can't for thelife of me recollect."
The face was constantly puzzling him, and thus Winsloe remained anxiousand agitated.
In order to watch and learn what I could, I remained Jack's guest untilafter the inquest. The inquiry was duly held at the Spread Eagle atMidhurst, with the usual twelve respectable tradesmen as Jurymen, andcreated great excitement in the little town. Ellice went out shootingwith Wydcombe on that day, while Jack, Eric and myself drove over tohear the evidence.
There was very little to hear. The affair was still a complete mystery.According to the two doctors who had made the examination the strangerhad been shot through the heart about eight hours prior to hisdiscovery--murdered by an unknown hand, for although the police had madea strict search the weapon had not been discovered.
The fact that not a scrap of anything remained to lead to the dead man'sidentity puzzled the police, more especially the absence of the tab fromthe back of the coat. The two detectives from London sat beside us andlistened to the evidence with dissatisfaction. Booth made hisstatement, and then the inquiry was formally adjourned.
There was nothing else. Both police and public were puzzled and thecoroner remarked to the jury that he hoped when they next met someinformation would be forthcoming which might lead to the stranger'sidentity.
We drove back in the dog-cart, and on the way Jack turned to me,saying,--
"I'd give worlds to know the real truth of that affair. I'm quitepositive I've seen the face somewhere, but where, I can't fix."
"That's a pity," Eric remarked. "One day, however, it'll come to you,and when it does we may hope to discover the guilty person."
That night in the billiard-room Winsloe asked us what had taken place atthe inquest, endeavouring to put his question unconcernedly. Eric and Icould, however, see how anxious he was.
"Nobody knows yet who he is," Jack answered, as he chalked his cuepreparatory to making a shot. "The police have discovered nothing--except that a woman was seen coming from the wood just about fouro'clock."
"A woman!" I cried, staring at him. "Who said so? It was not given inevidence."
"No," he replied. "Booth told me just as we came out that somebody hadsaid so, but that he did not give it in evidence, as he considered itwiser to say nothing."
I held my breath.
"Who was the woman?" asked Winsloe, apparently as surprised as myself.
"He didn't tell me. In fact, I don't think she was recognised. If shehad been, he would, of course, have interrogated her by this time."
Ellice Winsloe was silent. I saw as he stood back in the shado
w fromthe table that his brows had contracted and that he was pensive andpuzzled. And yet upstairs in his bag he had a portrait of the dead man,and was, therefore, well aware of his identity.
Now that we reflected we agreed that we really knew very little ofEllice Winsloe. He was Jack's friend rather than ours. The son of aCornishman whose income was derived from his interest in certain tinmines, he had, on his father's death, been left well off. Jack hadknown him at Magdalen, but had lost sight of him for some years, when ofa sudden they met again one night while at supper at the Savoy, andtheir old friendship had been renewed. Ellice, it appeared, was wellknown in a certain set in town, and up to the present moment we had bothvoted him as a good all-round sportsman, a good fellow and a gentleman.But this