Whatsoever a Man Soweth Part 31

Among the acc.u.mulated correspondence were quite a number of registered letters, and several little packets which most likely contained articles of value.

While I chatted with the woman with affected carelessness, pretending to be on very friendly terms with her lodger, I quickly fixed upon the letter in question, a registered envelope directed in a man's educated hand, 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 not having received it was sufficient to prevent the action being brought.

"I'm very glad of that," she declared in satisfaction. "Mr Denton is such a quiet gentleman. When he's here he hardly ever goes out, but sits here reading and writing all day."

"Yes," I agreed, "he's very studious--always was--but a very excellent friend. 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 sustain the 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 replace them in the cupboard.

I rose and thanked her, saying,--

"I'm delighted to think that Charlie will escape a very disagreeable affair. 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 to my disappointment saw that there were no photographs. He might, I thought, 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 suspect that he was.

Just as I had given her my a.s.sumed 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 of justice? By that communication I might be able to establish the dead man's ident.i.ty.

There was not a second to lose. I decided at once. I heard the woman open the door and speak to someone, then swift as thought I opened the cupboard, glanced at the packet of letters, and with quickly-beating heart took the one which bore the Blandford post-mark.

In a moment it was in my pocket. I re-closed the cupboard, and sprang to 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 I spoke so familiarly as "Charlie," I took my leave and hurried along the broad road into Salford, where I jumped upon a tram going to the Exchange.

I was in the train alone, in a third-cla.s.s compartment, travelling north to Carlisle, before I dared to break open the letter.

When I did so I found within a scribbled note in cipher written on the paper of the Bear Hotel, at Devizes. After some difficulty, with the aid of the key which the writer had evidently used in penning it, I deciphered 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 on my return you had gone. I searched, but could not find you. I wanted to tell you my opinion about Ellice and his friend. They are not playing a straight game. I know their intentions. They mean to give us away if they can. Sybil fears me, and will pay. I pretend to know a lot. Meet me in Chichester at the Dolphin next Sunday. I shall put up there, because I intend that she shall see me. Come and help me, for I shall have a good thing on, in which you can share. She can always raise money from her sister or her mother, so don't fail to keep the appointment. 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 do anything 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 a blackmailer. He had compelled her to meet him and had made demands which she had resisted. Yes--the letter was the letter of a barefaced scoundrel.

I clenched my hands and set my teeth.

Surely I had done right to endeavour to protect Sybil from such a band of ruffians. Once I had pitied the dead man, but now my sympathy was turned to hatred. He had written this letter to his friend Denton, suggesting that the latter should a.s.sist him in his nefarious scheme of blackmail.

He confessed that he "pretended" to know a lot. What did he pretend to know, I wondered? Ah! if only Sybil would speak--if only she would reveal to me the truth.

Yet, after all, how could she when that man, the fellow who had written that letter, had fallen by her hand?

The letter at least showed that her enemies had been and were still unscrupulous. Winsloe, even now, was ready to send her to her grave, just as I had been sent--because I had dared to come between the conspirators and their victim. And yet she trusted Nello--whoever the fellow 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 surprise found a second piece of thin blue paper folded in half. Eagerly I opened it and saw that it was a letter written in plain English, in bad ink, and so faint that with difficulty I read the lines.

It was in the scoundrel's handwriting--the same calligraphy as that upon the envelope.

I read the lines, and so extraordinary were they that I sat back upon the seat utterly bewildered.

What was written there complicated the affair more than ever. The problem admitted of no solution, for the mystery was by those written lines 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 home to 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 is incorrect. Tell him so. The girl is merely using Hughes for her own purposes. 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 secret lover of whom I was in ignorance. She was no doubt still in communication with him, and through him had learnt of Eric's whereabouts and other facts that had surprised me.

I read and re-read the letter, much puzzled. She was only using me for her 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 alone in the corner of the carriage thinking deeply, and wondering who was this man Rumbold.

At Carlisle another surprise was in store for me, for I found a hurried note from Sybil saying that she had unfortunately been recognised by a friend and compelled to leave. She had gone on to Glasgow, and would await me there at the Central Station Hotel. Therefore, by the Scotch express at two o'clock that morning I travelled up to Glasgow, and on arrival found to my chagrin that she had stayed there one night, and again left. There was a note for me, saying that she had gone to Dumfries, but that it would be best for me not to follow.

"Return to Newcastle and await me," she wrote. "My quick movements are imperative for my own safety. I cannot tell you in a letter what has happened, but will explain all when we meet."