his side?" she asked shrewdly.
"Of course I am. I came down to explain matters to him. If I canascertain that he didn't get the letter then that's all I want. I'm astranger, I know," I added, "but as it is in Mr Denton's interest Idon't think you'll refuse."
She hesitated, saying she thought she ought to ask her husband when hereturned from the mill. But by assuring her of her lodger's peril, andthat I had to catch the six-thirty train back to London, I at lastinduced her to admit me to the house, and there in the small, clean,front parlour which was given over to her lodger when he was there, shetook a quantity of letters from a cupboard and placed them before me.
Among the accumulated correspondence were quite a number of registeredletters, and several little packets which most likely contained articlesof value.
While I chatted with the woman with affected carelessness, pretending tobe on very friendly terms with her lodger, I quickly fixed upon theletter in question, a registered envelope directed in a man's educatedhand, and bearing the Blandford post-mark.
In order, however, to divert her attention, I took up another letter,declaring that to be the important one, and that the fact of his nothaving received it was sufficient to prevent the action being brought.
"I'm very glad of that," she declared in satisfaction. "Mr Denton issuch a quiet gentleman. When he's here he hardly ever goes out, butsits here reading and writing all day."
"Yes," I agreed, "he's very studious--always was--but a very excellentfriend. One of the very best."
"So my husband always says. We only wish he was here more."
"I saw him in London about a month ago," I remarked, in order to sustainthe fiction.
How I longed to open that letter that lay so tantalisingly before me.But what could I do? Such a thing was not to be thought of. Therefore,I had to watch the woman gather the correspondence together and replacethem in the cupboard.
I rose and thanked her, saying,--
"I'm delighted to think that Charlie will escape a very disagreeableaffair. It's fortunate he wasn't here to receive that letter."
"And I'm glad, too. When he returns I'll tell him how you came here,and what you said. What name shall I give him?"
"Williams--Harry Williams," I answered. "He will know."
Then as I walked round to the window I examined the room quickly, but tomy disappointment saw that there were no photographs. He might, Ithought, keep the portraits of some of his friends upon the mantelshelf,as so many men do. Was this Denton one of the conspirators, I wondered?His absence without an address for four months caused me to suspectthat he was.
Just as I had given her my assumed name, somebody knocked at the door,and she went to open it.
Next instant a thought flashed across to me. Should I take that letter?It was a theft--that I recognised, yet was it not in the interests ofjustice? By that communication I might be able to establish the deadman's identity.
There was not a second to lose. I decided at once. I heard the womanopen the door and speak to someone, then swift as thought I opened thecupboard, glanced at the packet of letters, and with quickly-beatingheart took the one which bore the Blandford post-mark.
In a moment it was in my pocket. I re-closed the cupboard, and sprangto the opposite side of the room just as the good woman re-entered.
Then, with profuse thanks and leaving kind messages to the man of whom Ispoke so familiarly as "Charlie," I took my leave and hurried along thebroad road into Salford, where I jumped upon a tram going to theExchange.
I was in the train alone, in a third-class compartment, travelling northto Carlisle, before I dared to break open the letter.
When I did so I found within a scribbled note in cipher written on thepaper of the Bear Hotel, at Devizes. After some difficulty, with theaid of the key which the writer had evidently used in penning it, Ideciphered it as follows:--
"Dear Denton,--I saw you in the smoking-room of the Midland at Bradford,but for reasons which you know, I could not speak. I went out, and onmy return you had gone. I searched, but could not find you. I wantedto tell you my opinion about Ellice and his friend. They are notplaying a straight game. I know their intentions. They mean to give usaway if they can. Sybil fears me, and will pay. I pretend to know alot. Meet me in Chichester at the Dolphin next Sunday. I shall put upthere, because I intend that she shall see me. Come and help me, for Ishall have a good thing on, in which you can share. She can alwaysraise money from her sister or her mother, so don't fail to keep theappointment. Ellice has already touched a good deal of the Scarcliffs'money from young Jack, and I now mean myself to have a bit. She'll doanything to avoid scandal. It's a soft thing--so come.--Yours,--
"R.W."
The dead man was, as I had suspected, one of the gang, and he was ablackmailer. He had compelled her to meet him and had made demandswhich she had resisted. Yes--the letter was the letter of a barefacedscoundrel.
I clenched my hands and set my teeth.
Surely I had done right to endeavour to protect Sybil from such a bandof ruffians. Once I had pitied the dead man, but now my sympathy wasturned to hatred. He had written this letter to his friend Denton,suggesting that the latter should assist him in his nefarious scheme ofblackmail.
He confessed that he "pretended" to know a lot. What did he pretend toknow, I wondered? Ah! if only Sybil would speak--if only she wouldreveal to me the truth.
Yet, after all, how could she when that man, the fellow who had writtenthat letter, had fallen by her hand?
The letter at least showed that her enemies had been and were stillunscrupulous. Winsloe, even now, was ready to send her to her grave,just as I had been sent--because I had dared to come between theconspirators and their victim. And yet she trusted Nello--whoever thefellow was.
Who was the man Denton, I wondered? A friend of the mysterious "R.W.,"without a doubt, and a malefactor like himself.
I placed my finger within the linen-lined envelope, and to my surprisefound a second piece of thin blue paper folded in half. Eagerly Iopened it and saw that it was a letter written in plain English, in badink, and so faint that with difficulty I read the lines.
It was in the scoundrel's handwriting--the same calligraphy as that uponthe envelope.
I read the lines, and so extraordinary were they that I sat back uponthe seat utterly bewildered.
What was written there complicated the affair more than ever. Theproblem admitted of no solution, for the mystery was by those writtenlines rendered deeper and more inscrutable than before.
Was Sybil, after all, playing me false?
I held my breath as the grave peril of the situation came vividly hometo me.
Yes--I had trusted her; I had believed her.
She had fooled me!
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
PLACES MATTERS IN A NEW LIGHT.
The words upon the second slip of paper were,--
"Ellice believes that Sybil still loves Wilfrid Hughes. This isincorrect. Tell him so. The girl is merely using Hughes for her ownpurposes. She loves Arthur Rumbold. I have just learnt the truth--something that will astonish you."
Rumbold! Who was Arthur Rumbold? I had never heard mention of him.This was certainly a new feature of the affair. Sybil had a secretlover of whom I was in ignorance. She was no doubt still incommunication with him, and through him had learnt of Eric's whereaboutsand other facts that had surprised me.
I read and re-read the letter, much puzzled. She was only using me forher own purposes--or in plain English she was fooling me!
I was angry with myself for not being more wary.
The train stopped at Preston, and then rushed north again as I sat alonein the corner of the carriage thinking deeply, and wondering who wasthis man Rumbold.
At Carlisle another surprise was in store for me, for I found a hurriednote from Sybil saying that she had unfortunately been recognised by afriend and compelled to leave. She had gone on to Glasgow, and wouldawait me
there at the Central Station Hotel. Therefore, by the Scotchexpress at two o'clock that morning I travelled up to Glasgow, and onarrival found to my chagrin that she had stayed there one night, andagain left. There was a note for me, saying that she had gone toDumfries, but that it would be best for me not to follow.
"Return to Newcastle and await me," she wrote. "My quick movements areimperative for my own safety. I cannot tell you in a letter what hashappened, but will explain all when we meet."
"By what train did the lady leave?" I inquired of the hall-porter whohad handed me the letter.
"The six-twenty last night, sir," was the man's answer. "I got herticket--a first-class one to Fort William."
"Then she went north--not south," I exclaimed, surprised.
"Of course."
Sybil had misled me in her letter by saying that