night.
On getting up I dressed myself in them, and then examined myself in theglass. I cut a figure that was, in my eyes, ridiculous. The suit borea stiff air and odour of newness that was tantalising, yet I saw no wayof altering it, save by pressing out the creases, and with that object Icalled Budd, who first looked me up and down, and then regarded me asthough I had taken leave of my senses.
"Is that a new suit, sir?" he asked, scrutinising it.
"Yes, Budd," I replied. "Now, you see what it is. I want to appearlike a working-man," I added confidentially. "The truth is I'm watchingsomebody, though, of course, you'll say nothing."
"Of course not, sir," he answered discreetly, for he was a reliableservant.
Then I took counsel with him how to take off the palpable newness of theclothes, and he, like the clever valet he was, took them out, and aftera while returned with them greatly improved.
So when dressed in a cheap cotton shirt, a dark red tie, a suit of darkgrey tweed, and a drab cap, I at last looked the typical working-manfrom South London wearing his best clothes.
With Budd's ready assistance I slipped out of my chambers into BoltonStreet, and half an hour later arrived by omnibus at the obscure hotelwhere Tibbie awaited me.
When she saw me she smiled merrily; and when we were alone together inthe Waterloo Bridge Road she burst out laughing, saying,--
"What an interesting pair we really do make. Your get-up is delightful,Wilfrid. You look a real compositor. But just put your cap a little onone side--it's more graceful. What does Budd say?"
"He first thought I'd taken leave of my senses; but I've allayed all hissuspicions."
And so we went jauntily on along the wide road to the Obelisk and thenup the London Road, where the costermongers' barrows were ranged andhoarse-voiced men were crying their cheap wares to thrifty housewives.
All was strange to her. She knew nothing of working London, and viewedeverything with keen interest. I could not help smiling at her demurelittle figure in the cheap black dress.
At the bottom of the London Road we entered a tram and went as far asCamberwell Gate, the neighbourhood where she had decided to establishherself as Mrs William Morton.
Leaving the main road we turned down a long, dreary street of uniformsmoke-blackened houses with deep areas in search of a card showing"apartments to let furnished," and at last discovering one, we ascendedthe steps with considerable trepidation and knocked.
"You talk to them," I whispered. "You want three rooms furnished," andnext second the door opened and we were face to face with a big,red-faced woman whose bloated countenance was certainly due to the undueconsumption of alcohol--probably that spirit so dear to the lower classfeminine palate--Old Tom.
Sybil explained that we were in search of apartments, and we wereconducted up to the second floor and shown three dirty, badly-furnishedrooms, the very sight of which was depressing.
Tibbie's gaze met mine, and then she inquired the price.
"Of course, you'd want the use of the kitchen. That's downstairs,"replied the woman.
"Oh! there's no kitchen, I see," Tibbie remarked quickly, seizing thatdefect as a means of escape from the miserable place. "I'm afraid thenthey won't suit us. My husband is always so very particular abouthaving the kitchen on the same floor."
And then with many regrets we withdrew, and found ourselves once moreout upon the pavement.
House after house we visited, some very poor but clean, others dirty,neglected and malodorous. Surely there are no more dismaldwelling-places in England than furnished lodgings in South London.Through the Boyson and Albany Roads, through Villa Street and FaradayStreet we searched, but discovered no place where Tibbie could possiblylive. Tousled-haired women were mostly the landladies, evil-facedscowling creatures who drank gin, and talked with that nasal twang soessentially the dialect of once-rural Camberwell.
At last in Neate Street, a quiet thoroughfare lying between theCamberwell and Old Kent Roads, we saw a card in the parlour window of asmall house lying back from the street behind a strip of smoke-driedgarden. On inquiry the landlady, a clean, hard-working, middle-agedwoman, took us upstairs, and there we found three cheaply-furnishedrooms with tiny kitchen all bearing the hall-mark of the hire system.
The woman, who seemed a respectable person, told us that she had been aparlour-maid in the employ of a lady at Kensington, and her husband wasforeman in a mineral-water factory in the neighbourhood.
Tibbie was struck with the woman's homely manner. She was fromDevonshire, and the way she spoke of her own village showed her to be atrue lover of the country.
"My husband, Mr Morton, is a compositor on a newspaper in Fleet Streetand is always away at nights," Tibbie explained. "We've been marriednearly a year. I, too, was in service--a lady's-maid."
"Ah! I thought you 'ad been," replied the landlady, whose name wasWilliams. "You speak so refined."
So after re-examining the rooms Tibbie seated herself in the wickerarmchair of the little parlour, and leaning back suggested that weshould engage the apartments.
To this I, of course, agreed, and having given Mrs Williams half asovereign as deposit, we left promising to take possession with ourpersonal belongings--that same evening.
Outside, Tibbie expressed herself well pleased.
"I rather like that woman. She's honest and genuine, I'm sure," shedeclared. "Now I must buy a second-hand trunk and some clothes suitedto my station as your humble and obedient wife," she laughed.
So we went through into the Old Kent Road, and there purchased two bigold travelling trunks, into which we afterwards placed the parcels whichshe had purchased at a cheap draper's. Then, just before dusk, wereturned to our new abode and entered into possession. We had teatogether, prepared for us by Mrs Williams.
"You really make a model husband, Wilfrid," she laughed when we werealone, holding her cup in her hand. "I suppose you'll have to go towork very soon. I wonder what time compositors go to work at night?"
"I haven't the ghost of an idea," I declared. "I must find out. Isuppose about seven or eight. But," I added, "I hope you will becomfortable, and that you won't be too dull."
"I shall work," she said. "I'll keep the rooms clean and dusted, andwhen I've got nothing to do there's always needlework."
"We must pretend to be very frugal, you know," I urged. "A compositor'swages are not high."
"Of course. Leave that to me. You'll have to buy some more clothes. ASunday suit, for instance, and a pair of squeaky boots."
She had made no mention of the affair in Charlton Wood, but on theexcuse that she might be lonely when I had left her, she had bought boththe morning and evening papers, although as yet she had not glanced atthem.
Besides posing as William Morton I had much else to do, and manyinquiries to make. I intended to lose no time in ascertaining who wasthe man living on Sydenham Hill, and whether he had any acquaintancewith the dead unknown.
For quite an hour we were alone in the rather cosy little parlour, theblind down and the gas lit. The furniture was indeed a strange contrastto that at Ryhall, yet the couple of wicker armchairs were decidedlycomfortable, and the fire gave out a pleasant warmth as we sat near it.
"Ours is a curious position, Wilfrid, isn't it?" she whispered at last,looking at me with those wonderful eyes of hers.
"What would the world think if they knew the truth?"
"If they knew the truth," she said, seriously, "they would admire youfor your self-sacrifice in assisting a helpless woman. Yet it is reallyvery amusing," and Tibbie, so well known and popular in the smart set ofLondon, leaned back and smiled.
I was about to refer to the mystery of her flight, yet I hesitated.There was time for that, I thought, when she was more settled in herhiding-place.
It was certainly a novel experience to pose as the husband of Tibbie--the gay, merry, vivacious Tibbie Burnet, who was the life and soul ofthe go-ahead set in which she moved, and as we sat chatting we had many
a good laugh over the ludicrous situation in which we found ourselves.
"You'll have to pretend, in any case, to be very fond of me," shelaughed.
"I suppose I ought to call you `dear' sometimes," I remarked humorously.
"Yes, dear," she responded, with the final word accentuated. "And Ishall call you William--my dear Willie."
"And what am I to call you?"
"Oh! Molly would be a good name. Yes. Call me Molly," and she heldher new wedding ring before my eyes with a tantalising laugh.
"We shall have to be very careful to keep up the fiction," I said."These people will, no doubt, watch us at first."
"I shall soon make friends of Mrs Williams," she said. "Leave that tome. I can be circumspect enough when occasion requires. But--oh--I'dso love to smoke a cigarette."
"A cigarette!" I cried, horrified; "women don't smoke in thisneighbourhood. Whatever you do, don't smoke when I'm not here, they'llsmell it at once."
"Yes," she sighed. "The ideas of the poor people are quite different toours, aren't they?" she reflected.
At that moment there was a tap at the door, and the landlady beggedleave to introduce her husband, a rather tall, well-set-up man with aclosely-cropped dark beard.
He greeted me pleasantly, and expressed a hope that we should becomfortable.
"The missis will do all she can for Mrs Morton, I'm sure," she said."I hear you're on night-work."
"Yes, unfortunately," I said, "our work is mostly at night, you know--getting ready the next day's paper."
He was affable from the first, and apparently entirely unsuspicious, forhe sent his wife downstairs for a jug of ale, and I was compelled totake a glass with him in order to cement our acquaintanceship, afterwhich he and his wife discreetly withdrew with, I hope, the opinion thatwe were "a very nice, quiet couple."
At eight o'clock I took leave of Tibbie after we had had a supper ofcold meat. She rather missed her dinner, but assured me that she wouldsoon get used to dining in the middle of the day. Then, after seeingthat she was quite comfortable, and that the locks on the doors acted, Ishook hands with her.
"Good-bye, Willie dear," she laughed. "Come home early, won't you?"
"Of course," I replied, echoing her laugh, and then as William Morton Iwent out to my work.
Walking through Trafalgar Road I found myself in the Old Kent Road, andpresently hailing a hansom I drove as far as Piccadilly Circus, where Ialighted and went on foot to my rooms.
As I entered Eric Domville came to the door of my sitting-room to meetme. He had been awaiting my return.
I saw from his face that something had occurred.
"Why, Eric--you?" I gasped. "What has happened?"
He placed his forefinger to his lips, indicative of silence, and glancedbehind me along the hall to the room wherein Budd had disappeared.Then, when I had passed into my own cosy den, he closed the doorcarefully.
"Yes," he said, in a low, strained voice, "something has happened, oldfellow--something serious. I've discovered a fact that puts an entirelynew complexion upon the affair. You are both in gravest peril. Listen,and I'll explain."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
SHOWS A WOMAN'S WEAKNESS.
Eric, standing with his back to the mantelshelf, revealed to me a factthat was both extraordinary and startling.
"After you'd left Ryhall yesterday," he said, "I was walking across thepark to meet Cynthia, who'd gone out to pay a visit to that thin oldparson's wife over at Waltham, when, quite unexpectedly, I came acrossEllice standing talking to a rather badly-dressed young woman. She wasin shabby black, with a brown straw hat trimmed with violets, and an oldfur tippet around her neck. They were under a tree a little aside fromthe by-path that leads across to Waltham, and were speaking excitedly.I was walking on the grass and they did not hear me approach. Suddenlyshe made some statement which caused him to hesitate and think. Then hegave her some money hurriedly from his pocket, and after a furtherconversation they parted, she proceeding towards the high road, whileWinsloe went in the direction of the house. I followed at a respectabledistance, and that afternoon, when we assembled in the hall for tea, heannounced that he had been suddenly recalled to town. In this Isuspected something, so when he left by the seven-thirty-five express Ifollowed him here."
"Well?" I asked, looking straight into his face.
"Well, he's in search of Tibbie."
"Of Tibbie! What does he know?"
"That woman who met him in the park told him something. She probablyknew of your appointment."
"Why?"
"Because this morning he went to Harker's Hotel in Waterloo Road, andinquired for her. But you had very fortunately taken her away."
"Then if he knows of our appointment he will certainly follow me!" Isaid, in utter amazement.
"Most certainly he will. You recognise the grave peril of thesituation?"
"I do," I said, for I saw that Sybil must at once be seriouslycompromised. "But who could have known our secret? Who was the woman?"
"I've never seen her before. She's an entire stranger. But that she isaware of Tibbie's movements is beyond doubt. You were evidently seentogether when you met last night--or how would he know that she slept atHarker's Hotel?"
I was silent. I saw the very serious danger that now lay before us.Yet why was this man in search of Tibbie? He had proposed to her, shehad said, and had been refused.
I recalled to my companion the fact of the photograph of the dead manbeing found in his bag.
"Yes," Eric said. "He has recognised the victim but has some secretmotive in remaining silent. Is it, I wonder, a motive of revenge?"
"Against whom?"
For a few moments he did not speak. Then he answered--
"Against Tibbie."
I pursed my lips, for I discerned his meaning. Was it possible thatEllice Winsloe knew the truth?
"Therefore, what are we to do? What do you suggest?" I asked.
"You must not risk going to see Sybil to-morrow. Where is she?"
I briefly explained all that we had done that day, and how and where shehad gone into hiding.
"Then you must send her an express letter in the morning. We must notgo to see her. You are certainly watched."
"But think of her," I said. "I am posing as her husband, and she willrequire my presence there to-morrow in order to complete the fiction."
"It's too risky--far too risky," Eric declared, shaking his headdubiously.
"The only way is for you to keep watch upon Winsloe," I suggested, "andwarn me of his movements."
"But the woman--the woman who met him by appointment in the park? Shemay be in his employ as spy."
"Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, Iwonder," I said.
"Never mind how they got to know," he exclaimed. "I tell you that youmustn't go near Tibbie. It's far too dangerous at this moment."
His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybilthere alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it verystrange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it.Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.
To allay Eric's fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and madehim promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guestwhenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, andafter a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far intothe night.
Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloeascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch uponhim, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe hadwell-furnished rooms in King Street, St James's Square, was one of ago-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayestclubs frequented by the _jeunesse doree_.
It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street,Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric's advice Isucceeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Statio
nand along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams' a littleafter eleven o'clock.
Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window,and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voiceloud enough for the landlady to overhear,--
"Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?"
"Yes, dear," was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closedthe door.
"The time passes here awfully slowly," she declared in a low voice. "Ithought you were never coming. I shall have to get a few books toread."
"I was delayed," I said, taking off my cloth cap and flinging it uponthe sofa. "I found Eric Domville awaiting me. He came up from Ryhallto-day and told me some strange news."
"Strange news!" she gasped, turning deathly pale and clutching at theback of a chair in order to steady herself. "What--what news?"
The truth was instantly plain. Her fear was that the mystery of theunknown had been discovered.
I had quite inadvertently struck terror into her heart, for upon hercountenance was that same haunted look as on that night when she hadleft Ryhall in secret.
"What Eric has told me concerns Ellice Winsloe," I said, much