friend I have in the whole world."
Her hand holding mine trembled as I looked straight into her white,frightened countenance.
A silence fell between us. I gazed into those wonderful eyes of hersand noted her marvellous beauty now accentuated by her distress.
"Tibbie." I exclaimed at last in a low, soft voice, scarcely above awhisper, "you are in deadly fear of the man with whom only the other dayyou contemplated marriage--Ellice Winsloe--the man who now intends todenounce you!"
"Who told you so?" she gasped, drawing back in an instant, and turningpaler. "Who--who has betrayed my secret?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
FRIENDS AND FOES.
At seven o'clock that evening I took the train from Camberwell Gate toWestminster Bridge, like the industrious compositor that I representedmyself to be.
In order to assert myself more prominently in the neighbourhood I hadaccepted the invitation of Williams, the mineral-water foreman, who wasmy landlord, to have a glass of ale at the neighbouring public-house;and in the bar was introduced by him to several other working-men as histenant. They seemed a sober, good-humoured set, all having their glassafter the thirst of the day's labour.
My landlord remarked that my wife saw little of me, but I explained howmy employers sent me to various parts of the country in connection witha new patent type-composing machine in which they were interested.
"Well, my missus does 'er best for Mrs Morton and cheers her up," theman said. "Only it 'ud be more pleasant for 'er if you were at 'ome abit more. The poor young lady mopes dreadfully sometimes. You needn'tsay anything, you know, but my old woman has found her a-cryin' toherself lots of times."
I recollected his words as I sat on the top of the tram passing up thoselong broad roads lit by the flare of costermongers' lights and renderednoisy by the strident cries of the butchers and greengrocers shoutingtheir wares. In South London commercial life seems to commence with thesundown, for thrifty working-class housewives go out shopping afterdark.
And Tibbie, the woman whom all smart London knew, who was so brilliant afigure at receptions, balls and weddings, and of whose beauty theladies' papers so constantly spoke, was living amid that poverty andsqualor alone, terrified and crying her heart out.
For what? Had remorse seized her? Was it the awful recollection ofthat fatal moment in Charlton Wood, combined with the constant fear thatEllice Winsloe, whom she had now acknowledged as her enemy, woulddiscover her and bring against her the terrible charge?
That night, after I had slipped unrecognised into my chambers, I changedquickly into my own clothes and went along to the Wellington Club tofind Domville. The hall-porter had not, however, seen him that day;therefore, after strolling through the rooms, I was just on the point ofleaving when, in the hall, I encountered Ellice Winsloe.
"Hulloa! old fellow!" he cried cheerily. "What are you doing to-night?Come along and dine with me at Boodle's."
I hesitated. I had no wish for the company of the man who was Tibbie'ssecret enemy. Once I had distrusted him; now I hated him, for I saw howingeniously he had kept observation upon my movements, and how hisinvitation, so warmly given, was with the ulterior object ofascertaining my movements.
In an instant it occurred to me that I might fight him with his ownweapons. I could be as alert as he was. Therefore, I laughed anddeclared that I had no prior engagement.
"Come along, then," he said; and we both went out and crossed Hyde Parkcorner together.
"I was at the Wydcombes this afternoon. It was Lady Wydcombe's day.They're till most anxious about Tibbie. Nobody knows where she is," headded, with a covert glance at my countenance to watch the effect of hiswords.
"Yes," I said, "she's certainly a bit erratic. I hear, however, thatshe has written to her mother saying that she's all right."
"The police think the letter was written under compulsion. Jack took itto Scotland Yard, with the result that the Criminal InvestigationDepartment have redoubled their efforts to trace her. What's youropinion?"
I shrugged my shoulders. The fellow's object was to get me to talk; butI knew how to be silent when it suited me, and was determined to tellhim nothing.
"Old Lady Scarcliff is very upset, I hear," he went on as we walkedalong Piccadilly to St James's Street.
"It is really too bad of Tibbie, don't you think so? She ought to drawthe line at disappearing like this. She may have met with foul play forall one knows. It seems, according to Mason, that she took a lot of herjewellery with her on the night she left Ryhall in the car."
"Does Mason know or suspect anything?" I asked quite innocently.
"Nothing, as far as I'm aware. The detectives have made every inquiry,but discovered nothing." Then he added, in a voice which sounded to meto convey a distinct hidden meaning, "They've been just as successfulregarding Tibbie as they have been in the case of the mystery up inCharlton Wood."
I said nothing. My object was to allow him to do all the talking.
At Boodle's we sat down to an excellent dinner, though it was ratherlate.
As he sat before me, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped as hechatted, I looked into his face and wondered what were the innerworkings of his ingenious mind. He made no mention of his call at thatobscure hotel in Lambeth in search of Tibbie, but merely expressed afervent hope that the jewellery which she had carried with her when sheleft on her midnight motor-drive had not been the cause of any attemptupon her by malefactors.
In order to watch his attitude I suddenly exclaimed,--
"That affair in Charlton Wood seems still a mystery. And yet I hear," Iadded, making a bold shot, "that the police have at last found a clue."
His countenance remained perfectly unchanged. He merely responded,--
"I hope they have. It was a dastardly thing. The poor fellow must havebeen shot treacherously--murdered in cold blood. Jack is most anxiousto find the culprit, and I don't wonder. It isn't nice to have a murdercommitted upon one's own estate."
"It's curious that the man has not yet been identified," I said,regarding him keenly.
"And has it not also struck you as strange that Tibbie should suddenlydisappear on the night of the murder?" he asked, his eyes fixed uponmine.
"No," I replied, quite unconcernedly. "I had never given that athought. It is curious, now that you recall it. A mere coincidence, ofcourse."
"Of course," he said, pouring me out a glass of still Moselle. His airof refinement was irritating.
Then, after a brief silence, he said,--
"Do you know, Hughes, I can't help thinking that something serious hashappened to Tibbie. The letter Lady Scarcliff received was posted inGlasgow, but of course that was only a blind. She's in Londonsomewhere. I told Wydcombe to-day that they ought to advertise andoffer a reward for her."
His suggestion suddenly gave me an idea. In the pockets of the unknownman in Charlton Wood I had found the key to a cipher which he hadevidently used to correspond with his friends. Why should I not throughthe medium of the papers open up some correspondence? Would anyonereply?
"You know how erratic Tibbie always is," I remarked. "I've perhapsknown her longer than you have. She was always the same, even as agirl--the despair of the old viscount."
"And yet she is very charming, don't you think so?" asked the man whomshe declared to be one of her bitterest enemies.
"Delightfully amusing," I agreed. "The set she mixes with spoils her.If she could only sever herself entirely from Cynthia's friends shewould be a very different woman."
"Oh, she'll marry some day and settle down," laughed Winsloe. "I usedat one time to hear that you were likely to be the lucky man."
"I think not," was my quick reply, somewhat annoyed at his remark. "Ican't afford to marry," whereat he laughed, as though in disbelief of mypoverty.
He questioned me with a subtle ingenuity worthy of a counsel at thecriminal bar, but my replies were all of them empty ones, while at thesame time I was watching hi
m narrowly, noting that this warmfriendliness was merely assumed, and that beneath that veneer of goodfellowship was a fierce and bitter antagonism that I had never beforesuspected. Ever since Scarcliff had introduced us eighteen months agowe had been very good friends, and had seen quite a good deal of eachother on the Riviera the previous season. I was staying at theMetropole at Monte Carlo, while he was at the Hermitage.
He seemed to have many friends there, well-dressed men whom I did notknow. But one's acquaintances on the Riviera are generally somewhatdoubtful, and need not be recognised beyond the confines of thePrincipality. He became one of Jack's most intimate friends. Theyoften went over to