Chapter Nineteen.
Gives a Message to Nello
A little after ten o’clock that same evening, in our guise as working people, we walked along the Briggate, in Leeds, and presently found a small eating-house, where Tibbie obtained accommodation for the night.
Dressed as we were, Tibbie’s trunk at the station, and a small bag in my hand, I was unable to go to any of the larger hotels. Therefore, after supping off a chop and tomatoes, washed down with a tankard of ale, I bade her good-night and went off to find a bed round in Commercial Street.
Next day, in the dull grey morning, we walked the busy streets of Leeds – Kirkgate, Bond Street, Albion Street, and the neighbouring thoroughfares – and took counsel with each other. Her advertisement, which I saw printed in that morning’s Telegraph puzzled me. Yet I could not admit knowledge of the cipher without also admitting that I was in possession of the key.
I showed it to her in the paper, but she only smiled and thanked me, saying, —
“I suppose you suspect that I am communicating with some lover – eh?”
“Well, Tibbie,” I remarked, in as calm a voice as I could command, “I must admit that I’m much surprised. You seem, somehow, to be misleading me.”
“Because I am compelled to do so,” was her frank, outspoken answer.
I longed to ask right out who was the man Nello – brief for Lionel – the man to whom she sent a secret message of trust.
We were passing St. John’s Churchyard towards North Street, and had been discussing the advisability of her taking a furnished room in one of the respectable houses in Roundhay Road, where we had seen “Apartments to let: Furnished,” when, catching her countenance, I suddenly said, —
“Eric has disappeared. He left Bolton Street some days ago, and I’ve heard nothing of him. I’m getting very anxious.”
“Eric!” she echoed. “Well, he’s hardly the kind of a man to disappear, is he? I’ve often heard from his friends that he goes away abroad frequently and forgets to write. Perhaps he’s abroad now.”
She did not tell me that he was in Paris, the statement which she made in secret to the man she called Nello.
I discussed the subject further, but she steadfastly refused to admit that she knew of his whereabouts. By her attitude I was much mystified.
Neither the Sussex Constabulary nor the Scarcliffs themselves entertained the slightest suspicion that the sudden departure of the Honourable Sybil from Ryhall had any connection with the mysterious affair in Charlton Wood. I had made careful inquiry when I had visited old Lady Scarcliff at Grosvenor Street, and young Lady Wydcombe, visits which I had purposely made in town in order to allay any suspicion that I was aware of Tibbie’s place of hiding.
The whole family were, of course, extremely anxious, and I was compelled to play a double game, pretending to make every inquiry in those quarters in London where she was so well known. I had even invented stories as to her having been seen at Oddenino’s at supper, with two other ladies, and accompanied by both ladies on the departure platform at St. Pancras, stories concocted with a dual purpose, to reassure Jack and his mother that she was well, and also to mislead those who were so eagerly in search of her.
As we walked side by side through that busy centre of commercial life, all of which was so strange to her, I expressed regret that she could tell me nothing further.
“If I knew the truth,” I said, “it would enable me to steer clear of pitfalls, and render your life happier and brighter.”
“You are posing as my husband,” she said, looking straight into my face with those wonderful eyes of hers. “Your self-sacrifice is surely great, Wilfrid, for one who entertains no affection. When a man loves he will do anything – he will ruin himself for the sake of a woman, as so many do. But when love is absent it is all so different.”
And she sighed and turned her head away. She was a neat, demure little figure in her cheap black dress, her small toque, and her black cotton gloves, with the false badge of matrimony underneath.
“I cannot for the life of me imagine what safeguard I am to you – pretending to be your husband.”
“Ah?” she said. “You will know everything some day – some day you will realise my awful peril,” and her mouth closed tightly as tears welled in her eyes. Did she refer to the crime in Charlton Wood? That afternoon we engaged apartments in what seemed to be a pleasant little house in Roundhay Road, kept by an honest old Yorkshire woman, who spoke broadly and welcomed us warmly. Therefore Tibbie obtained her trunk from the cloak-room, and took up her abode there, while I explained my enforced absence from my wife, saying that I was compelled to go to Bradford. Instead of that, however, I returned to my quarters in Commercial Street, and met her in Kirkgate at eleven o’clock next morning.
Ours was a strange, adventurous life in the days that followed, and were it not for the veil of mystery upon everything, and the grave suspicion which I still entertained of my dainty little companion, it would have all been very pleasant.
In order to kill time, as well as to avoid being met in Leeds together by our landlady, we visited the various outlying places of interest, Kirkstall with its ruined abbey and its umbrageous landscapes, the old church of Adel with the pretty glen, par excellence a walk for lovers, Cookridge Hall, Chapeltown, the village on the Great North Road where one obtains such magnificent views, and lastly the splendid old mansion of Temple Newsham, where walking in the park one sunny, afternoon Tibbie halted, and looking away to the distant Tudor mansion, said, —
“How strange life is, Wilfrid. Only two years ago I was staying here with Cynthia, and now you and I come here as working-class holiday makers. Ah!” she sighed, bitterly, “I was happy then, before – ” and she did not conclude her sentence.
“Before what?” I asked, standing at her side beneath the great old elm with the sheep grazing quietly around.
“Before evil fell upon me,” she said, hoarsely, with poignant bitterness.
We remained in Leeds a week, and although I had given Budd my address at the post-office I received no word from him concerning Eric.
Day by day I watched the columns of the Telegraph until one morning there came an answer to Tibbie’s cipher advertisement, a reply which I read as, —
“To S. – You have been betrayed! Exercise caution, and escape at once, the instant you see this. – Your Friend.”
I lost no time in seeking her, and with affected carelessness handed her the paper, making a casual remark upon the news of the day. I watched her, however, and saw that she at once turned to the column which held the greatest interest for her.
Her eyes fell upon the reply to her secret message. In a few moments she had deciphered it, and sat with the journal still in her hand, staring straight before her.
“Wilfrid!” she exclaimed, in a low, strained voice when she at length found tongue, “I must leave here at once. Every moment’s delay increases my peril. I must escape.”
“Why?”
But again she refused any explanation, merely saying that her departure from Leeds was imperative, and expressing despair that her enemies would never relinquish their hot pursuit. They were hounding her down, she said in despair, and they must sooner or later triumph over her.
“No,” I exclaimed. “Hope on, Tibbie. You must escape – you will escape. They shall never harm you as long as I have strength to be your protector.”
“Ah!” she cried. “How can I thank you, Wilfrid. To you I owe my very life. Without you I should have ended it all long ago.”
“Never mind that now,” I urged. “You must escape. Where shall you go?”
“Anywhere. It is just the same to me,” was her answer.
“Then I suggest you take the midday train up to Newcastle. There’s a quiet hotel where you may live comfortably and unnoticed, the Douglas, in Grainger Street West. Remain there a few days, and then move on across to Carlisle.”
“I know Carlisle,” she said. “I’ve broken the journey there often when going to Scotland.”
“But you are not known there?”
“Only at the County Hotel. I can go somewhere else, of course. But are you not coming?” she asked, quickly. “Remember my whole future depends upon you passing yourself off as my husband, William Morton.”
“For the next few days I think it would be as well for us to remain apart,” I replied, for truth to tell I had suddenly formed a plan, and was now anxious to make a flying visit up to London in order to put it into execution.
Her face fell.
“But you will return to me?” she asked, very anxiously.
“Yes – I will meet you in Carlisle in a week’s time. Go to Newcastle for four days, and thence to Carlisle. Indeed, change your address constantly. In Newcastle assume another name, and in Carlisle another. Do not go in the name of Morton again until we meet. I shall write to you at the post-office in Carlisle. To-day is Tuesday. Next Tuesday you shall hear from me.”
“Why do you leave me alone?” she pouted. “How can I spend a whole week wandering about without a companion?”
“Don’t you see, Tibbie, that it is very necessary that I should show up to your mother and Jack in order to still pretend to make an effort to find traces of you?” I asked.
“Ah! yes,” she sighed. “I suppose you are right. You do all you can in my interests, so I ought not to complain.”
“I am glad you are convinced that my return to London is with the object of averting suspicion,” I said. “Go up to Newcastle and escape these enemies of yours – whoever they are. Travel constantly if possible. You have money. If not I can give you some.”
“Thanks – I have plenty,” was her reply; and then she reluctantly commenced packing her trunk preparatory to her hurried departure.
And at noon we had grasped hands on the platform and I had seen her into a third-class compartment of the express bound for Newcastle.
“Au revoir,” she said, bending to me from the carriage window. “Remember, next Tuesday in Carlisle. You are my friend – promise you will not desert me.”
“Next Tuesday,” I repeated, lifting my cloth cap. “I promise. Till then, adieu.”
And she smiled sadly as the express glided out of the station.
Half an hour later I was on my way to London again, and a little after five o’clock entered the offices of the Daily Telegraph and handed in a cipher advertisement, which read, —
“To Nello. – Meet me outside Baker Street Station to-night at eight. Very urgent. Nothing to fear. – S.”
I was convinced that the mysterious Nello lived in London, and therefore would see the paper next morning. I was determined to ascertain who it was in whom Tibbie placed such implicit trust.
I feared to approach Bolton Street; therefore I took a room at the Caledonian Hotel on Adelphi Terrace and sent a note to Budd to come and see me.
In an hour my man stood before me, telling me of the eager inquiries made for me by Mr Ellice Winsloe, and the message he had left, asking me to call and see him as soon as ever I returned.
The scoundrel never believed that I would return. He expected that my body was far out to sea by this time, just as other bodies had been despatched from that house of mystery.
Budd brought me some clean linen and my letters, but I still retained my guise as a working-man, for I had yet a very difficult and delicate task before me, namely, the watching of the man whom Tibbie addressed as Nello.
At noon next day I received a telegram from the woman upon whom rested the dark shadow of a secret crime, telling me of her safe arrival in Newcastle, and reminding me of my promise to return. Then I went forth and lounged about the Burlington in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man who was her enemy as well as mine.
He generally strolled through the Arcade about five o’clock, for he went daily to old General Taylor, in the Albany. I knew his haunts well, therefore, keeping away from his path, I watched until I saw him pass in deep conversation with a man of his own age, whose sharp, clean-shaved face gave me the impression that he was a barrister. Winsloe looked more refined, more fashionably dressed, with his frock coat cleanly brushed and his glossy silk hat apparently only that moment out of the ironer’s hands.
I pretended to be deeply interested in a hosier’s window as he passed. But even had we met face to face I doubt if he would have recognised me in the disguise of a working-man.
His face was harder and more evil-looking and his shifty eyes were everywhere. From the way the pair were talking, I could not resist the conviction that the clean-shaven fellow was one of his associates or accomplices.
To that elegant man who passed as a gentleman, and was invited to half the best houses in London, I owed all my present distress and anxiety, while at the same time he was Sybil’s enemy, the man who held her future in his merciless hands.
I watched him out of sight, and then turning upon my heel went back citywards.
That night, just before eight, I strolled along the Marylebone Road, and slowly passed Baker Street Station and along by Madame Tussaud’s, without, however, seeing traces of anyone. A couple of newsboys were idling on the kerb gossiping, but all else was bustle, and there were no lingerers.
I could not well remain there fearing lest Winsloe or any of his associates who knew me might recognise me. Therefore I was compelled to stroll up and down on the opposite side of the way, my eyes eager to discern any man who halted there in expectation.
One man dressed like a City clerk came to a sudden standstill just after eight, looked at his watch and peered inside the station. But I was disappointed, for a few moments later a young woman, in brown, probably his sweetheart, met him, and they both walked away in company. Again a second man emerged from the station and stood for a long time in indecision. He, too, was keeping an appointment, for he was joined presently by a much older man, and they went into a neighbouring saloon-bar.
Half-past eight struck; even nine o’clock. But the appointment was not kept. Perhaps the mysterious Nello had not seen the message?
I was beginning to fear that such was the case, or that my ruse had failed, when a dark-eyed rather handsome young girl, dressed plainly, like a shop assistant, alighted from a hansom about a hundred yards from the station, paid the driver, and hurriedly approached the spot where I stood.
She took no notice of my presence, but crossing the roadway entered the station and searched eagerly everywhere as though she were late for her appointment.
She came forth again upon the pavement, looked up and down, and then strolled patiently along the kerb.
She never gave me a single glance. This fact I noted, causing me to wonder if she were not waiting for a woman.
Was she awaiting Sybil? Could she be a messenger from the mysterious Nello, in whom my dainty little friend seemed to place such implicit trust?
I crossed the road and idled past her in order to get a good look at her face.
Then I sauntered on, wondering and perplexed.
Chapter Twenty.
Contains Another Surprise
For some twenty minutes or so I watched her, undecided whether she were actually the representative of the mysterious Nello, or whether she was merely a shop-girl in the vicinity who expected to meet a friend.
Time after time, although she was ignorant of the constant observation I kept upon her, I managed to get close sight of her, and after a time began to doubt whether she really was a shop assistant. Her black coat and skirt was of some cheap but effective material, and the boa about her neck was of the type usually worn by the employees of Westbourne Grove; yet once as she passed, my eyes caught a gleam beneath the sleeve of her coat, and I saw that she wore, only half-concealed, one of those curious New Zealand bracelets of pale green stone which are so shaped upon the wrist that they can never be removed. Solid and circular, it was a strange, almost barbarous-looking ornament and yet very striking, for in one part was a small band of gold, wherein was set a single diamond, the gleam of which had attracted my attention.
Now if she were a shop assistant, I argued, she could not sell ribbons and laces with such an ornament upon her wrist. No employer would allow such personal adornment. And as she could not remove it there was doubt that she really was what she appeared to be.
It commenced to rain and she put up her umbrella. It was old, and in it were several slits.
I was in half a mind to raise my hat, wish her good-evening, and inquire if she were there in response to the advertisement addressed to Nello, yet on reflection I saw that such a movement would be very indiscreet, and that if she were really there as Nello’s representative then I could gain more by watching her. So, unnoticed, I stood within the station, my back turned to her, and my head buried in an evening paper. To her I was, I suppose, only an ordinary working-man, and if I had approached her she would have at once snubbed me.
Fortunately I so constantly changed my position that she never gave me a look, and was entirely unconscious of being watched. Greater part of the time I stood apart some distance, on the opposite side of the street at the corner of York Place.
From the eager way in which she watched every female approaching, I knew that she was waiting for a woman.
At last she became convinced that her vigil was in vain. The rain had ceased, she closed her umbrella and entered an omnibus which had pulled up before the station, and an instant afterwards moved on towards the Edgware Road.
It passed close to where I was standing on the kerb, and a few moments afterwards I was in a hansom following it at a respectable distance, my head again hidden in a newspaper. Down Edgware Road, past the Marble Arch and along Park Lane we went to Victoria Station, where the dark-eyed girl alighted, and entering the Chatham and Dover terminus passed through the barrier with the return half of a first-class ticket.
Without reflection I went to the booking-office, obtained a third for Loughborough Junction, a station through which most trains passed, and five minutes later was seated in a compartment near her. If she had really responded to my invitation, then it was my duty to discover her destination and learn something concerning her.
For half an hour I sat in the train looking out at every stopping-place, but seeing nothing of her.
At last, at a half-lit suburban station she descended and hurried out. I followed quickly, handing the collector a two-shilling piece as excess fare.
I glanced at the name on the station lamp. It was Lordship Lane.
Outside was the foot of Sydenham Hill.
I allowed her to get on well in front and then followed her along the silent ill-lit suburban road for half a mile up the steep hill, flanked on either side by large detached houses. For some reason best known to herself she had not gone on to the next station, Upper Sydenham. Perhaps she was too well known there.
Half-way up the hill I walked more quickly and gained upon her, so that I saw into which gateway she went.
She disappeared through the gate of the house called Keymer – the house of the mysterious John Parham!
Then I was, of course, convinced that she had kept the appointment on behalf of the unknown Nello.
I had not called upon Mrs Parham since that tragic incident which I had witnessed from the pavement, and longed now to follow the dark-eyed girl and learn the reason of her presence at Baker Street. But a visit at that hour was entirely out of the question. Besides, my disguise as a working-man would arouse suspicion.
Therefore I was compelled to retrace my steps, return to my hotel in Adelphi Terrace, and send a line to Budd, ordering him to bring me a hat and a decent suit of clothes in a kitbag.
Eric’s complete silence now alarmed me. How did Tibbie know that he was in Paris? Surely she possessed some means of communication with certain persons of which I was in entire ignorance. There might be other advertisements in other journals which I had not seen – by pre-arrangement in some obscure country journal possibly.
Jack and Lord Wydcombe were now anxious regarding the absence of both of us from London, and must, of course, regard our silence as curious. Yet so far as I could gather they never for one moment connected my absence with Tibbie’s disappearance. Tibbie they regarded as erratic and utterly uncontrollable, just as she had ever been from the time she was expelled from her school at Versailles for defying the principal, and causing the other pupils to revolt over some fancied grievance.
Next day about twelve, risking recognition by any person who might know me, I assumed my frock coat, silk hat and gloves and visited Keymer.
Mrs Parham was in the drawing-room, arranging some flowers in a vase, and turned to me quickly when I was announced.
“Forgive me for calling, madam, but you will, of course, recollect me,” I said. “I was in this neighbourhood and thought I would pay my respects and ascertain how you were.”
“Ah! of course,” she exclaimed. “I remember you perfectly – on that night – that night when they came here,” she faltered, rather tamely, I thought, and she motioned me to a chair and seated herself.
“The poor girl has, of course, been buried,” I said. “I saw accounts of the inquest in the papers.”
“Yes. They brought in a verdict of murder, but up to the present the police have discovered nothing, it appears. Ah!” she sighed. “They are so very slow. It’s monstrous that such a thing could happen here, in the centre of a populated district. Out in the lonely country it would be quite another thing. I should have left the house at once, only I feared that my husband would be annoyed. He is abroad, you know.”
“And have you had no word from him?”
“Not a line. I’m expecting a letter from India by every mail. He is in India, I know, as he told one of his City friends that he was going. He sailed on the Caledonia from Marseilles nearly five weeks ago. He may have written me from Paris and the letter miscarried. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
I recollected that I had never given her a card, therefore she very fortunately did not know my name, and I did not intend that she should, if concealment were at all possible.
There was a mystery about that house and its occupants which caused me to act with circumspection.
I looked around the room. Nothing had been altered save that the couch upon which they had laid the dead girl was now gone, and the corner of the carpet which had been torn up had been re-nailed down. The piano at which my hostess had sat when attacked was still in its place, and the table whereon had stood the photograph which I had stolen still contained that same silver and bric-à-brac.
As Mrs Parham was speaking the door suddenly opened, and the dark-eyed young girl whom I had watched on the previous night came gaily into the room. The instant I saw her I recognised that she was a lady. In a clean, fresh cotton blouse and neat tailor-made skirt she presented a much smarter appearance them in that cheap black coat and skirt as she stood in the muddy roadway. The green stone bracelet was still upon her wrist, the one object which alone had showed me that she was no shop assistant.
“This is Miss O’Hara,” my hostess exclaimed, introducing us; “she has kindly come to stay with me until my husband’s return.”
And as we bowed to each other I saw that the newcomer had no previous knowledge of me.
“I was present at the unfortunate affair,” I said. “Mrs Parham must have been very upset by it.”
“She was,” declared the girl, in a quiet, refined voice. “But she’s getting over it now. The worst shock was the maid’s death. It was a most dastardly piece of business, and moreover, no one knows with what motive it was done.”
“To get possession of something which Mr Parham had concealed here,” I said.
“That may be, but as far as Mrs Parham is aware they took nothing beyond a few of her husband’s private papers.”
“Nothing except a photograph that stood on the table over there,” remarked my hostess.
“A photograph!” I exclaimed, in pretended surprise. “Of whom?”
“Of a friend,” was the vague response, and I saw that the two women looked at each other meaningly.
They intended to keep the identity of the original of the stolen portrait a secret. Yet they were in utter ignorance that it was in my possession.
Why had this Miss O’Hara gone to meet Sybil in Nello’s place? I wondered.
I chatted with them both for a long time, but without being able to discover any additional fact. They were both clever women, and knew how to hold their tongues.
Presently Mrs Parham said suddenly, —
“I’m sure my husband will feel very indebted to you when he knows all the facts. I have not the pleasure of your name.”
“Morton,” I said, “William Morton,” and feeling in my pocket expressed regret that I had forgotten my card-case.
A quarter of an hour later I took my leave and was walking down Sydenham Hill when I suddenly encountered my friend the police inspector of the night of the strange affair at Keymer.
He glanced at me, and our recognition was mutual.
Then when he had greeted me he turned on his heel and walked in my direction. After some conversation regarding the mysterious attempt and its fatal termination, he said in a hard voice, —
“Our people are rather surprised at your attitude, you know.”
“My attitude! What do you mean?” I exclaimed, looking at him in surprise.
“Well. You might have given information when you knew that we wanted to question that man Parham.”
“Information of what?”
“Of his whereabouts. You were seen one evening not long ago talking to him.”
“Where?”
“In the entrance to the Empire,” replied the inspector. “One of our plain-clothes men saw you with Parham and another man. But the fellow managed to get away, as he always does.”
I stood aghast.
“Was he a fair bald-headed man?”
“Of course.”
I was silent. The truth was plain, the revelation a staggering one. Winsloe had introduced his accomplice, John Parham, to me as the traveller and engineer named Humphreys!
It was in John Parham’s house that the dastardly attempt had been made upon my life – in his house that other persons had met with mysterious and untimely ends.