CHAPTER XXIII
The request was a strange one, Berrington thought.
Not that he failed to trust Mary Sartoris. In spite of everything, hehad faith in her. Whatever she was doing in that queer household, noshadow of shame or disgrace could possibly lie on her.
And yet what could she want that letter for? Again, what was the need todrag Beatrice Darryll into this black business? The more Berringtonthought it over, the more puzzled he became. Only one thing wastolerably clear--Sir Charles Darryll had valuable interests somewhere,interests of which he had been in utter ignorance, and which theseruffians had determined to obtain and apply to their own ends.
Still, Berrington hesitated. He did not know what would be for the best.If he declined to write that letter it might be the worse for him andeverybody else in the long run; if he did write the letter it mightpossibly prove harmful to Beatrice. Certainly Carl Sartoris had that endin view. Then there was another thing to take into consideration. HadInspector Field got safely away?
Berrington could not be absolutely certain, for the reason that therehad been no attempt to rescue him which was Field's obvious duty when heescaped. Yet a great many hours had passed and there had been no attemptof the kind.
Very thoughtfully Berrington took paper and pen and ink from the drawerin the table. He was not surprised to see that the paper bore theaddress "100, Audley Place." So Beatrice was to be lured there for somereason, or other, and Berrington was to be used for the purpose. Hethrew the pen down and determined that he would do nothing in thematter. He had barely come to this conclusion when the whistle in thetube sounded very faintly. It might have been no more than the wind inthe pipe, and yet on the other hand it might have been meant for acautious message. Berrington crossed over and asked a question in a lowvoice. Immediately a reply came in the faintest possible whisper.
"It is I who speak," the voice said. "Mary, you know. By accident I havea chance of a few words with you again. My brother thinks that I am inignorance of everything. He told me that you had left the house and thateverybody had gone. At the same time he declined to have the servantsback yet, and that aroused my suspicions. You can hear me?"
"My dearest girl, I can hear you perfectly well," Berrington replied."Where is your brother now? Can you speak freely to me for a time?"
"For a minute or two perhaps, certainly not more. Carl has gone into theconservatory for something; he may be back almost at once. He told methat you had gone. I did not believe it for a minute, so I watched andlistened. Then I found out that you were a prisoner here; I found outall about the letter."
"The letter to Beatrice Darryll, you mean?"
"Yes, yes. Don't ask me why they desire to get her here, because I can'ttell you,--I don't know. But there is something about Burmah and rubymines that I fail to understand. It has something to do with SirCharles Darryll and Miss Violet Decie's father."
"Shall we ever get to the bottom of this business!" Berringtonexclaimed. "But why should you particularly want me to write thatletter?"
"Because I shall be chosen as the messenger," the girl said eagerly."There are no servants here; the rest of my brother's friends are busyelsewhere. I gather that the letter is urgent; that being the case, Ishall be chosen to take it. You see, I am supposed to know nothingwhatever about it. I shall be able to see Miss Darryll myself."
Berrington expressed his appreciation of the suggestion. Perhaps Marymight find herself in a position to do more than that.
"Very well," he said. "Under the circumstances I am to write that letterwith the understanding that you are going to convey it to itsdestination and warn Miss Darryll. But you must do more than that, Mary.It is impossible that I can remain a prisoner here like this. The thingis a daring outrage in the middle of London; it sounds more like a pagefrom a romance than anything else. At all risks, even to the brother bywhom you are standing so nobly, you must do this thing for me. After youhave seen Miss Darryll you are to go down to Scotland Yard and ask foran interview with Inspector Field. Tell him where I am to be foundand----"
"Oh, I cannot, Philip, dearest," came the trembling whisper. "My ownbrother----"
"Who has been the curse of your life and mine," Berrington said sternly."What do you suppose you gain by standing by him in this fashion? Sooneror later he must come within grip of the law, and so all yoursufferings will be futile. If there was anything to gain by thisself-sacrifice I would say nothing. But to spoil your life for ascoundrel like that----"
"Don't say it, Phil," Mary's voice pleaded. "Please don't say it. If youlove me as you once seemed to do, have a little patience."
All the anger melted out of Berrington's heart. He had intended to behard and stern, but that gentle, pleading voice softened him at once.Knowing Mary as he did, he could imagine what her life had been theselast three years. Her sense of duty was a mistaken one, perhaps, but itwas nobly carried out, all the same. Sooner or later the effort must belost, and it occurred to Berrington that it would be cruel to hurry theend. Besides, there would be a greater satisfaction to him to feel thathe had beaten Sartoris at his own game.
"I love you now as I loved you in the happy years gone by," he said."Indeed, I love you more, for I know how you have suffered, dearest.Mind you, I am not afraid. I do not regard myself as being in any greatdanger here--that is not the point. So I will write the letter and youshall deliver it when you please. What is that?"
There was a sudden commotion at the far end of the speaking tube, andsomething like the sound of wheels. Berrington bent his head eagerly tolisten.
"Is there anybody there?" he asked.
"My brother is coming back," Mary said in a voice so faint thatBerrington could hardly catch the words. "I must fly. If he knows that Ihave been here he will have his suspicions. I will speak to you againas soon as possible."
The whistle was clapped to, and the conversation ended. There wasnothing for it now but patience. Berrington took the pen and began towrite the letter. He wondered if he could possibly warn Beatrice betweenthe lines. There was yet a chance that Mary might not be the messenger.
Berrington racked his brains, but all to no purpose. He must leave thematter to chance, after all. The speaking tube was going again, for thewhistle trilled shrilly. Sartoris was at the other end again; he seemedto be on very good terms with himself.
"What about that letter?" he asked. "Have you changed your mind yet?Solitary confinement worked sufficiently on your nerves yet? Not thatthere's any hurry."
"What shall I gain if I write the letter?" Berrington asked.
"Gain! Why, nothing. The cards are all in my hands, and I play them as Iplease. 'Yours not to reason why, yours not to make reply,' as Tennysonsays. For the present you are a prisoner, and for the present you staywhere you are. But one thing for your comfort. The sooner that letter iswritten and dispatched, the sooner you will be free. We are not takingall these risks for nothing, and our reward is close at hand now, I maytell you. If you don't write that letter I shall have to forge it, andthat takes time. Also a longer detention of your handsome person. If youconsent to write that letter you will be free in eight and forty hours.Don't address the envelope."
Berrington checked a desire to fling the suggestion back in thespeaker's teeth. It angered him to feel that he was in the power of thislittle cripple, and that events in which he should have taken a handwere proceeding without him. But it was no time for feeling of thatkind.
"I admit the defeat of the moment," he said. "I will write that letterat once. But look to yourself when my time comes."
Sartoris laughed scornfully, as he could afford to do. Berrington couldhear him humming as he clapped in the whistle, and then silence fellagain. The letter was finished and sealed at length, and pushed underthe door as Sartoris had directed. A little later and there came thesound of a footstep outside and a gentle scratching on the door panel.
"Is that you, Mary?" Berrington asked, instantly guessing who it was."Have you come for the letter?"
&nb
sp; "Yes, I have," was the whispered reply. "My brother could not manage toget up the stairs. He has one of his very bad attacks to-day. He has notthe least idea that I know anything. He said he dropped an unaddressedletter on this landing last night, and he asked me to fetch it. I darenot stay a minute."
"Don't go quite yet," Berrington pleaded. "I have had a brilliant idea.I can't stop to tell you what it is just now. The switch of the electriclight has been removed from here. Can you tell me where I can find it?"
"You want more light?" Mary asked. "Well, it is a little dreary in therewith only a lamp. The switch was taken off some time ago when the wallswere being done, and the electricians forgot to replace it. It issomewhere in the room, for I recollect seeing it. But unless youunderstand that kind of work----"
"Oh, soldiers understand something of everything," said Berringtoncheerfully. "I shall be able to manage, no doubt. I won't detain you anylonger."
Mary slipped away, and Berrington commenced to make a careful search ofthe room. He found what he wanted presently, in a little blue cup on theovermantel, and in a few minutes he had fixed the switch to the wall. Ashe pressed the little brass stud down, the room was flooded with abrilliant light.
"There's some comfort in being able to see, at any rate," Berringtonreflected. "It's ten chances to one that my little scheme does not comeoff, yet the tenth chance may work in my favour. I'll wait till it getsdark--no use trying it before."
Berrington dozed off in his chair, and soon fell into a profound sleep.When he came to himself again, a clock somewhere was striking the hourof eleven. There was no stream of light through the little roundventilator in the shutter, so that Berrington did not need to be toldthat the hour was eleven o'clock at night.
"By Jove, what a time I've slept," the soldier muttered. "What's that?"
Loud voices downstairs, voices of men quarrelling. Berrington pulled thewhistle out of the tube and listened. Someone had removed the whistlefrom the other end, or else it had been left out by accident, for thesound came quite clear and distinct.
It was the voice of Sartoris that was speaking, a voice like a snarlingdog.
"I tell you you are wrong," Sartoris said. "You tried to fool me, andwhen we make use of you and get the better of you, then you whine likea cur that is whipped. Don't imagine that you have your poor misguidedwife to deal with."
"My wife has nothing to do with the case," the other man said, "so leaveher out."
Berrington's heart was beating a little faster as he glued his ear tothe tube. He did not want to miss a single word of the conversation.
"This grows interesting," he said softly. "A quarrel between Sartorisand Stephen Richford. Evidently I am going to learn something."
The Slave of Silence Page 23
