"I tell you I did," I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I went on to describe the exact position in which it lay.
My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained no suspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal, and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal night and witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I held he was visibly crushed and cowed.
"Well, go on," he said mechanically, in a hoa.r.s.e tone. "I suppose you want to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest--eh?"
"Think of the nature of my evidence," I continued. "I entered your flat again on the following night to find you present, the body removed, and you met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking the door and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficient circ.u.mstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?"
He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.
"Again," I said, "in addition to this, I may as well tell you that the body you sought to hide has been discovered."
"Discovered!" he gasped. "Have they found it?"
"Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always difficult to hide."
"Who searched? Who discovered it?"
"The police."
"And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?"
I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts.
Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the success of my next move.
Turning to him presently, I said: "I have a confession to make, Bethune.
On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act openly and tell me what you know of her."
"I know nothing--nothing," he answered, in a low tone.
"That"s a lie!" I exclaimed angrily. "She wrote to you on apparently the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with her."
"Well, I was acquainted with her."
"And with Sternroyd?"
"And with Sternroyd."
"Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position, and why the police desired her arrest?"
"No; I cannot tell you that," he answered firmly. "Why?"
"Because I refuse."
"You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell the truth because it would incense me?"
"I do not fear to tell the truth," he retorted.
"Then why do you decline?"
"Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preserving silence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter."
His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words I had read a hundred times before. They were: "...desire that your friend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact." Yes; he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.
"Will you tell me nothing regarding her?" I asked persuasively.
"I am not at liberty to say anything."
"Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a right to know who and what she was, I have," I urged.
"I"m well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by her extraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and--"
"Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?" I cried fiercely.
"Take it as you please, the truth is the same," he answered, with a sneering smile. "You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a fly in a trap." And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.
"Then you will tell me nothing about her?" I exclaimed angrily. "You refuse to a.s.sist me in recognition of the service I have done you in avoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well-- there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall you will never extricate yourself."
"Death?"
"No; an officer of police."
"Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter," he cried, in a tone of banter. "Denounce me--let them arrest me. I am ready to face my traducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothing of Sybil."
"Very well," I said. "Then the warrant shall be executed without delay."
And I turned and left him.
What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
MABEL"S PENITENCE.
My first impulse had been to give information to the German police of Bethune"s whereabouts, and thus cause his arrest; yet somehow I could not bring myself to do so. Grindlay and his men would, sooner or later, trace the fugitive; therefore I left the work to them, and returned to London.
As I calmly contemplated the affair in all its phases I became convinced of the strange fact that the mystery surrounding Sybil was the one pivot upon which the whole circ.u.mstances revolved. Once I could penetrate the veil, the motive for Sternroyd"s murder would, I felt certain, become apparent. But with tantalising contrariness, all my efforts during these dark, anxious days had been absolutely futile. Even though I had, on more than one occasion, to work with the care and caution of a trained detective, I had failed to glean anything further than what my well-beloved had told me herself at the little Pyrenean spa where first she had brought brightness to my life.
Later events had rendered the enigma increasingly bewildering, rather than simplifying it, and I was compelled to acknowledge myself baffled in every attempted elucidation.
When I arrived home about eight o"clock one morning, having travelled by the night service via Antwerp and Harwich, the industrious Saunders, who, wearing his ap.r.o.n of green baize, was busy cleaning some plate, handed me my letters, and told me that Lady Fyneshade had called on the previous evening. She had desired to see me on some important matter, and had expressed great disappointment at my absence. She, however, left a message asking me to telegraph to Eaton Square the moment I returned, and make an appointment for her to call upon me. This I did, and about eleven o"clock the same morning she was ushered in. She was quietly dressed in black, and her face bore unmistakable traces of a restless night. She looked more anxious and worried than I had ever before seen her, and as she seated herself in her armchair and raised her veil, I felt inclined to ask her to give some explanation of her extraordinary conduct on the occasion of her last visit. But she allowed me no time to question her, for with a light laugh she burst forth--
"I"m glad you"re back so quickly. Your man told me you were away, and that the date of your return was quite uncertain."
"So it was," I replied. "Very uncertain."
"You have, I suppose, been following your friend Captain Bethune?"
"How did you know that?" I asked, surprised, believing myself the only person aware of his escape.