Devil's Dice Part 33

"I have certain sources of information that are secret," she laughed, shrugging her shoulders.

"But you suspect him of the crime," I said. "Why, if you know his whereabouts, have you not caused his arrest?"

"Like yourself, I have certain reasons," she answered carelessly, readjusting one of the b.u.t.tons of her glove.

"And your reason is that you fear exposure if he were placed in a criminal's dock--eh?"

She winced visibly as my abrupt words fell upon her. "You are generous to everyone except myself, Stuart," she observed presently, pouting like a spoiled child. "We have known each other since children and have always been the best of friends, yet just at the moment when I am most in need of the aid of an honest man, even you forsake me."

"You have never rendered me any a.s.sistance whatever," I exclaimed reproachfully. "Indeed, on the last occasion you visited me, your companion committed a mean, despicable theft, which makes him liable to prosecution."

"A theft!" she echoed, with unfeigned astonishment, "Of what?"

"Of certain fragments of private letters that were in my keeping," I answered angrily, adding, "Surely it must throw discredit upon any lady to be the a.s.sociate of a thief?"

"Mr Markwick would never descend to such an action," she cried indignantly. "I am absolutely certain that he never took your papers, whatever they were."

"And I am equally convinced that he did," I said in as quiet a tone as I could command. I had suspected her of complicity in the tragedy, and her words and demeanour corroborated my worst suspicions.

"But what motive could he have to possess himself of them? Were they of any value?"

"To me, yes. To others they were utterly worthless," I replied, standing with my hands clasped behind me regarding her closely.

Evidently she was ill at ease, for her gloved fingers toyed nervously with the ribbon decorating the silver handle of her sunshade and her tiny shoe peeping from beneath her plain tailor-made skirt impatiently tapped the carpet. "You are a strange woman, Mabel, as variable as the wind," I added after a pause. "One day you declare that man Markwick to be what he really is, an adventurer, while on the next you defend him as strongly as if he were your lover."

"Lover!" she cried, her face crimsoning. "You are constantly making reflections upon my character and endeavouring to destroy my good name."

"Remember I a.s.sert nothing," I declared. "But your extraordinary friends.h.i.+p for this man must strike everyone who is aware of it as-- well, to say the least, curious." During a few moments she was silent; then, lifting her face to me, said in faltering tones:

"I--I admit all that, Stuart. People may misjudge us as they will. It is, unfortunately, the way of the world to play fast and loose with a smart woman's reputation, and I have, therefore, long ago ceased to care what lies my traducers may amuse themselves by uttering. To you I have on a previous occasion spoken the truth of my relations with Markwick.

Can you never believe me?"

"You admit, then, that Fyneshade was justified in his notion that he is your lover?"

"I tell you he is not my lover!" she cried fiercely. Then hoa.r.s.ely she added: "I--I fear him, it's true. I am fettered to him because--well, truth to tell, I am powerless to rid myself of his attentions because he has possessed himself of a great and terrible secret that is mine alone, one that if betrayed would crush me."

I regarded her steadily. Her face was a trifle paler, and in her eyes I thought I detected signs of tears.

"Is this really the truth, Mabel?" I asked with earnestness. She had deceived me before, and I was determined not to accept any of her statements without verification.

"It is the absolute truth," she declared huskily. "I swear I am unable to treat the man as I should wish because I fear he may make known the truth."

"Is it so serious, then? Is yours a secret of so terrible a nature that you dare not face exposure? It is not like you, Mabel, to flinch," I said.

"But I cannot let this man speak--I dare not."

"You do not love him?"

"I hate him, but must treat him with tact and discretion. Did I not tell you when we met him unexpectedly at Thackwell's to beware of him?

Already I knew how he and certain accursed parasites who surround him had misled you, and had entrapped you into an impossible marriage. I--"

"Impossible?" I echoed. "Why do you use that word? Do you insinuate that Sybil was an impossible person?"

"Yes; when you know the truth about her it will amaze you. Indeed, were it not for the fact that I have witnessed certain things with my own eyes I myself would never believe the story if related to me."

"But tell me, Mabel; tell me more of her," I urged. "Ever since my strange marriage, under circ.u.mstances of which you are apparently well aware, I have been groping in the dark, seeking always, but finding nothing. I have tried to penetrate the mystery of her past, but, alas!

cannot."

"Ah! that is not surprising. The precautions taken to prevent you ascertaining the truth are indeed elaborate, every possible contingency having been provided for."

"Do you mean that I am never to obtain the knowledge I seek; that I am always to remain in ignorance?"

"With Markwick's sanction you will never know. He is implicated far too deeply."

"How implicated?"

"I am not yet in possession of the whole of the facts. If I were I should not be compelled, as I now am, to purchase his silence by risking my own reputation. But it is for that very reason I sought you this morning. If I dared, I would tell you all I know of Sybil; but by doing so I should bring upon my head the exposure that I dread."

What, I wondered, was the nature of the secret which she feared Markwick would betray? Only one solution of the problem occurred to me, and it rooted itself firmly in my mind. The secret was none other than the fact that she had either lured young Sternroyd to his death or had actually fired the fatal shot herself. The thought was startling, but her words and manner showed conclusively her guilt, and in those brief moments, during which a silence fell between us, I told myself that two persons must be a.s.sociated in the murder of the young millionaire, and that their names were Mabel, Countess of Fyneshade, and Captain John Bethune.

Hers was unmistakably the face of one whose conscience was borne down by a guilty secret, and I felt instinctively to shrink from her as next second she stretched forth her gloved hand and laid it gently on my arm.

"I am powerless, Stuart, utterly powerless to tell you what you desire to know about the woman who was so strangely married to you," she said.

"For reasons already explained I am forced to remain silent; but further, I cast myself upon your generosity. I beseech you once again to help a woman friendless among enemies, who seek her degradation and social ruin."

"Well, what do you want?" I asked rather roughly.

"I have told you why I am compelled to still remain friendly with this man Markwick, a person hated by both of us. He has threatened me; he has declared that he will disclose my secret if I cannot obtain your silence regarding that interview in the garden at Blatherwycke. To-day I come to you to beg, nay, to pray to you to reconsider your decision."

She spoke so earnestly that I confess myself surprised.

"Upon that interview there apparently rests some very important development," I observed, thoughtfully, after a pause. "He must have some exceedingly strong motive if he attempts to secure secrecy by such means. What is it?"

"I have no idea," replied the Countess, quickly. "He does not desire that his friends.h.i.+p should compromise me, I suppose."

"But has it not already compromised you in the eyes of Fyneshade?" I suggested, in a tone of suspicion.

"True; but your testimony, the word of a man of honour, will go a long way toward dispelling whatever absurd notions my husband has got into his head," she urged.

"His notions, viewed by the light of later events, are not altogether surprising. To say the least, the circ.u.mstances are suspicious."

"Ah! I quite admit that. It is for that very reason I cast myself upon your generosity and beg of your a.s.sistance. If I do not secure your silence, he--the man who holds me in his power--will not hesitate to denounce and crush me. Your promise may save me."

"Save you? I cannot see how," I said, mechanically, for I was thinking of the probability that she was the actual culprit.

"Ah! you do not--you cannot, understand," she cried, impatiently. "I would prefer death to exposure. If he betrays my secret, then I--I will kill myself."

"Come, come," I said, sympathetically. "This is wild talk. Suicide is mere cowardice."

"But it would avert the greater scandal. If you knew everything you would not be surprised at my rash words, nay, you would wonder how I have endured all this mental anguish so long, rather than yield to the temptation of taking at one draught the contents of a tiny bottle I have locked away in my room."