The Sign of Silence Part 15

Her dark brows were knit for a second in distinct displeasure, even of apprehension, and then in an instant I recollected my friend's injunction that I might be watched and followed. In giving her the message the greatest secrecy was to be observed.

She halted, as though in hesitation, took from her bag a tiny lace handkerchief and dabbed her face, then beneath her breath, and without glancing further at me, said:

"Follow me, and I will speak to you presently--when there is no danger."

Upon that I moved away and leisurely lit my pipe, as though entirely unconcerned, while she still stood in the doorway leading to the Haymarket, looking up and down as though awaiting somebody.

Yes, she was a distinctly handsome woman; tall, erect, and well preserved. Her gown fitted her perfectly, and her black jacket, trimmed with some rich dark fur, was a garment which gave her the stamp of a woman of wealth and refinement. She wore a neat felt hat also trimmed with fur, white gloves, and smart shoes, extremely small, even girlish, for a woman so well developed.

Presently she sauntered forth down the Haymarket, and a few moments afterwards, still smoking and carrying my bottle, I lounged lazily after her.

At the corner, by the Carlton, she turned into Pall Mall, continuing along that thoroughfare without once looking back. Opposite the United Service Club she crossed the road, and pa.s.sing across the square in front of the Athenaeum, descended the long flight of steps which led into the Mall.

There in the darkness, beneath the trees, where there were no onlookers--for at that hour the Mall is practically deserted, save for a few loving couples and a stray taxi or two--she suddenly paused, and I quickly approached and raised my cap politely.

"Well?" she asked sharply, almost in a tone of annoyance. "What is it?

What do you want with me, my man?"

CHAPTER X.

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME.

I confess that her att.i.tude took me aback.

I was certainly unprepared for such a reception.

"I believed, madame, that you were in search of me?" I said, with polite apology.

"I certainly was not. I don't know you in the least," was her reply. "I went to the Tube to meet a friend who did not keep his appointment. Is it possible that you have been sent by him? In any case, it was very injudicious for you to approach me in that crowd. One never knows who might have been watching."

"I come as messenger from my friend, Sir Digby Kemsley," I said in a low voice.

"From him?" she gasped eagerly. "I--ah! I expected him. Is he prevented from coming? It was so very important, so highly essential, that we should meet," she added in frantic anxiety as we stood there in the darkness beneath the bare trees, through the branches of which the wind whistled weirdly.

"I have this letter," I said, drawing it from my pocket. "It is addressed 'For E. P. K.'"

"For me?" she cried with eagerness, as she took it in her gloved hand, and then leaving my side she hurried to a street lamp, where she tore it open and read the contents.

From where I stood I heard her utter an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of sudden terror. I saw how she crushed the paper in one hand while with the other she pressed her brow. Whatever the letter contained it was news which caused her the greatest apprehension and fear, for das.h.i.+ng back to me she asked:

"When did he give you this? How long ago?"

"On the night of January the sixth," was my reply. "The night when he left Harrington Gardens in mysterious circ.u.mstances."

"Mysterious circ.u.mstances!" she echoed. "What do you mean? Is he no longer there?"

"No, madame. He has left, and though I am, perhaps, his most intimate friend, I am unaware of his whereabouts. There were," I added, "reasons, I fear, for his disappearance."

"Who are you? Tell me, first."

"My name is Edward Royle," was my brief response.

"Ah! Mr. Royle," the woman cried, "he has spoken of you many times. You were his best friend, he said. I am glad, indeed, to meet you, but--but tell me why he has disappeared--what has occurred?"

"I thought you would probably know that my friend is wanted by the police," I replied gravely. "His description has been circulated everywhere."

"But why?" she gasped, staring at me. "Why are the police in search of him?"

For a few seconds I hesitated, disinclined to repeat the grave charge against him.

"Well," I said at last in a low, earnest voice, "the fact is the police have discovered that Sir Digby Kemsley died in South America some months ago."

"I don't follow you," she said.

"Then I will be more plain. The police, having had a report of the death of Sir Digby, believe our mutual friend to be an impostor!"

"An impostor! How utterly ridiculous. Why, I myself can prove his ident.i.ty. The dead man must have been some adventurer who used his name."

"That is a point which I hope with your a.s.sistance to prove," I said.

"The police at present regard our friend with distinct suspicion."

"And I suppose his worst enemy has made some serious allegation against him--that woman who hates him so. Ah! I see it all now. I see why he has written this to me--this confession which astounds me. Ah! Mr. Royle,"

she added, her gloved hands tightly clenched in her despair. "You do not know in what deadly peril Sir Digby now is. Yes, I see it plainly. There is a charge against him--a grave and terrible charge--which he is unable to refute, and yet he is perfectly innocent. Oh, what can I do? How can I act to save him?" and her voice became broken by emotion.

"First tell me the name of this woman who was such a deadly enemy of his.

If you reveal this to me, I may be able to throw some light upon circ.u.mstances which are at the present moment a complete mystery."

"No, that is his secret," was her low, calm reply. "He made me swear never to reveal the woman's name."

"But his honour--nay, his liberty--is now at stake," I urged.

"That does not exonerate me from breaking my word of honour, Mr. Royle."

"Then he probably entertains affection for the woman, and is hence loth to do anything which might cause her pain. Strangely enough, men often love women whom they know are their bitterest enemies."

"Quite so. But the present case is full of strange and romantic facts--facts, which if written down, would never be believed. I know many of them myself, and can vouch for them."

"Well, is this unnamed woman a very vengeful person?" I asked, remembering the victim who had been found dead at Harrington Gardens.

"Probably so. All women, when they hate a man, are vengeful."

"Why did she hate him so?"

"Because she believed a story told of him--an entirely false story--of how he had treated the man she loved. I taxed him with it, and he denied it, and brought me conclusive proof that the allegation was a pure invention."