the vehicle moved onslowly, and again stopped, as though awaiting him. A dark figure inblack overcoat and low felt hat loomed up in the darkness of thegateway, and entering the Yard glanced eagerly around.
Next moment another person, a rather taller man, entered and passed himby, but without speaking. Indeed, they passed as strangers, the secondman strolling slowly along the pavement in the direction of where I wasin hiding. He passed by me, and as the street lamp shone upon his faceI saw that he was young and his features were aquiline, dark andevil-looking. I had never to my knowledge seen him before. He seemedwell-dressed, for his overcoat did not conceal the fact that he waswearing evening clothes. His collar was turned up, but he went onheedless of the rain, his sharp eyes searching everywhere. Myhiding-place was a most excellent one, however, and he failed to detectmy presence.
A few minutes later a third man entered the Yard, a youngish man withthe air of the Cockney from the East End. He wore a hard hat of theusual costermonger type, a red woollen comforter about his neck, and histrousers were bell-bottomed and adorned with pearl buttons. He,however, gave no sign to either of the other two, although it wasapparent that they were acquainted, for sorely three men could not bekeeping appointments at that unfrequented spot at the same moment.
The first comer still stood in the gateway, but too far away to allow meto clearly distinguish his features. He stood back in the shadow, hisface turned expectantly out to the open roadway, where ever and anon Isaw the lights of cabs passing and re-passing. Meanwhile, the two menin the quiet little square had walked to the opposite gateway, and therehalted, though at a respectable distance from each other.
The man who had arrived in a cab stood for a long time in patience, theother two giving no sign whatever of their presence. At first I washalf inclined to think that the trio were strangers to each other, buton watching their movements I saw that something was premeditated--butwhat it was I could not gather.
While the man dressed as a costermonger--or perhaps he was a realcostermonger--remained near the exit to the Yard ready to give warningof anyone approaching, the man in evening clothes slowly re-passed me,while at the same time the watcher at the gate came forward in hisdirection.
When not far from me he halted and struck a vesta in order to light acigarette. The fickle flame betrayed his countenance.
It was the man John Parham, the person believed by his wife to be inIndia.
What was contemplated? The four-wheeled cab was still in waiting in thelittle open space which divides Dean's Yard from Victoria Street, whilethe exit to Great College Street was being watched, and the thin-facedman lurked there ready for Sybil's arrival.
Within myself I smiled to think that all their elaborate arrangementswere futile, and wondered if Parham was the man who signed himself"White Feather?" In that fellow's house were the fatal stairs,therefore if I followed him I should now be enabled to fix the actualplace to which I had, on that never-to-be-forgotten night, been enticed.
While the costermonger remained on vigil, Parham and his companionpassed and re-passed, but still without acknowledging each other.
Once the costermonger suddenly began to whistle a popular music-hallair, and turning I saw that it was a preconcerted signal. A man hadentered the Yard from Great College Street and was crossing to whereParham was standing.
For fully three-quarters of an hour they waited patiently until teno'clock struck. Then Parham approached his companion, and they stood inearnest conversation.
Almost at the same moment a female figure in deep black came swiftlythrough the gateway into the Yard, causing both to start quickly anddraw back. Next instant, however, Parham started off briskly, walkingpast me to where the costermonger was standing, while his thin-facedaccomplice slipped past the newcomer and disappeared into VictoriaStreet.
It was evident that the woman's appearance had instantly upset all theircalculations.
The newcomer stopped, glanced around and strained her eyes into thedarkness. She wore a close black hat, a long mackintosh, and carried anumbrella, yet so swiftly had Parham disappeared that she had not noticedhis presence in the Yard, while the other man had so cleverly slippedpast her and out through the gateway that she had not seen his face.
For a few moments she stood expectant. I could see that she hadhurried, in fear of being too late.
Then, as she approached me, I discerned that she was the girl O'Hara.
And of her, Parham and his lurking accomplices were evidently in fear,as they separated and disappeared.
I watched her standing there and wondered why she had come. Was it inorder to save Sybil from some plot that had been prepared for her?
Was it their intention to take her to that dark, mysterious house withthe fatal stairs?
I felt convinced that it was. The truth was plain. There was a plotagainst Sybil. The cab had been in waiting there to convey the victimto her grave!
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
IS AN ECHO FROM CHARLTON WOOD.
My bitterest regret was that I had not been able to follow Parham andtrace him to the house of doom, but at the moment of his disappearance Ihad been unable to emerge from my hiding-place, otherwise the girlO'Hara would have seen me. Perhaps, indeed, she might have recognisedme. So, by sheer force of adverse circumstances, I was compelled toremain there and see the trio escape under my very nose.
I had learnt one important fact, however, namely, that a deep conspiracywas afoot against Sybil.
It was beyond comprehension how Tibbie, daughter of the noble andpatrician house of Scarcliff, could be so intimately associated withwhat appealed to me to be a daring gang of malefactors. The treatment Ihad received at their hands showed me their utter unscrupulousness. Iwondered whether what the police suspected was really true, that othershad lost their lives in that house wherein I had so nearly lost mine.What was the story of Tibbie's association with them--a romance nodoubt, that had had its tragic ending in the death of the unknown inCharlton Wood.
To me, it seemed plain that he was a member of the gang, for had he nottheir secret cipher upon him, and did not both Winsloe and Parhampossess his photograph?
I recollected the receipt for a registered letter which I had foundamong the letters in the dead man's pocket, and next morning told Buddto go and unlock the drawer in my writing-table and bring it to me. Hedid so, and I saw that the receipt was for a letter handed in at thepost-office at Blandford in Dorset, addressed to: "Charles Denton, 16bBolton Road, Pendleton, Manchester."
I turned over the receipt in my hand, wondering whether the slip ofpaper would reveal anything to me. Then, after some reflection, Iresolved to break my journey in Manchester on my return to Tibbie inCarlisle, and ascertain who was this man to whom the dead unknown hadsent a letter registered.
Next afternoon I passed through Salford in a tram-car, along by PeelPark, and up the Broad Street to Pendleton, alighting at the junction ofthose two thoroughfares, the one leading to aristocratic Eccles andPatricroft, and the other out to bustling Bolton.
The Bolton road is one over which much heavy traffic passes, and islined with small houses, a working-class district, for there are manymills and factories in the vicinity. I found the house of which I wasin search, a small, rather clean-looking place, and as I passed ahomely-looking woman was taking in the milk from the milkman.
Without hesitation I stopped, and addressing her, exclaimed,--
"Excuse me, mum, but do you happen to know a Mr Charles Denton?"
The woman scanned me quickly with some suspicion, I thought, butnoticing, I supposed, that although a working-man I seemed highlyrespectable, replied bluntly, in a pronounced Lancashire dialect,--
"Yes, I do. What may you want with him?"
"I want to see him on some important business," was my vague reply. "Ishe at home?"
"No, he ain't," was the woman's response. "Mr Denton lodges with me,but 'e's up in London just now, and 'e's been there this four months."
"In London
!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, but I don't know his address. When he goes away 'e never leavesit. He's lodged with me this two years, but I don't think 'e's beenhere more than six months altogether the whole time."
"Then you have a lot of letters for him, I suppose?"
"Yes, quite a lot," answered the good woman. The letter sent by thedead man might be among them!
"It was about a letter that I wanted to see Mr Denton--about aregistered letter. I've come from London on purpose."
"From London!" ejaculated the woman, a stout, good-humoured person.
"Yes. I wonder whether you'd mind me looking at the letters, if it isamong them I'd know he had not received it. The fact is," I added inconfidence, "there's a big lawsuit pending, and if he hasn't got theletter then the other side can't take any action against him."
"Then you're on