by sand.
Jack, noticing the inconvenient position of the piano, dragged it towardthe fire, then bringing a music-stool, he placed a fire-screen behindit, and falling back into an easy-chair, said, "Now we are ready tolisten."
She blushed again, overcome with proof of his solicitude, but sat downwith murmured thanks; then, after a moment's pause, she turned to me,exclaiming:
"It is not enough for you to say you like music. What is your favouritestyle? Classical or modern?--grave or gay?"
"Whatever you please," I answered.
She thought for a moment, reviewing in her mind the works she knew, thenbegan a nocturne by Chopin. Then another and another, passing onabruptly to the celebrated impromptu whose tempo agitato and vehementbursts suddenly tone down into a movement of exquisite softness.
After the first few bars, Jack, rising, had gone to lean over the end ofthe piano, attracted alike by the charm of the caressing touch and bythe strangeness of the music that pleased his ears. From where he stoodhis eyes wandered over her, from the brown of her hair, softened stillmore by the shaded light of the candles, to her bust, so white, frail,and elegant. Even to me it seemed that what she was playing was as muchher own as her loveliness, and I fell into a reverie until her richcontralto voice suddenly broke forth in Tosti's song:
"If in your heart a corner lies that has no place for me. You do notlove me as I deem that love should ever be."
Then, when she had concluded and risen, and I had thanked her, Jacksuddenly stooped over her tiny hand and kissed it, as he said in a low,tender voice, "Thanks to the little fingers that have charmed me."
Chancing to glance at my watch, I found it was already past eighto'clock. Enchanted by our fair visitor, neither of us had thought ofdinner, but a private room at Verrey's was quickly suggested by Jack,and we went thither in a cab without waiting to dress and thereconcluded an enjoyable evening, Dora's lover afterward escorting herback to Eaton Square, while I strolled home.
Alone in my chambers that night I carefully examined the portraits ofSybil and Gilbert Sternroyd, but the mystery surrounding them grewhourly more puzzling. That Jack knew something of Sternroyd wasevident, therefore I resolved to call on him on the morrow, show him thepictures, and seek his advice.
CHAPTER NINE.
WHO IS HER LADYSHIP?
When I sought Jack on the following morning I was informed by thehall-porter that he had left a message for any callers that he had beencompelled to go to Barracks unexpectedly, and would be back fromHounslow in the evening. Disappointed, I went into the City and had along talk with my father at the bank on the subject of finances, thenfinished the day gossiping in the club and strolling in the Park. Atnight, remembering the Countess' promise to be at Lady Hillingdon'sdance, I went there, but, in a marvellous gown of old rose, she was thecentre of a gay crowd of admirers, and I could obtain but few words withher. I wanted to learn more of Sternroyd, but alas! I saw thatanything like a private conversation was out of the question, and wascompelled to content myself with waltzing and chatting with variouswomen I knew, for the most part gay, brainless butterflies.
In my state of mind the glare and glitter were nauseating and the musicjarred upon my nerves, therefore soon after one o'clock I left and droveto Jack's chambers, anxious to seek the truth.
The outer door was shut, for the hall-porter had retired, but, as thekey of my own chambers had on many previous occasions opened it, Iquickly gained admittance. Mounting the great staircase to the door ofhis flat, I rang twice, but Mrs Horton did not reside there and mysummons was not answered. Jack had evidently not returned, thereforethe thought suggested itself to enter with my key and leave a note, as Ihad done many times before. Acting upon this suggestion, I went in,groping my way down the small passage to his den, where the glimmeringlight told me that his reading-lamp was burning; but just on thethreshold of the room my feet struck something in the darkness, and,grasping wildly at air, I fell forward on my face, unable to savemyself.
I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped mewhen next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared withsomething damp and sticky.
"Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!" I cried, but in the darkness therewas neither sound nor movement.
Rushing into the study, I snatched up the light, and as its softradiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startlingthat the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.
The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but GilbertSternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!
Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerlybeneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. Hishands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.
His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedlysearched his victim's pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom doorlay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack's.
Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the whitedrawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at aloss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw thatsuch a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terribletruth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetratedthe crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himselfjealous of this young man?
With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create anoise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered Inoticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-tablewere open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossedaside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in theroom, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, blacktinder.
The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of documents.Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had beenforced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he nothave used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quiteconsumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp.They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, thecharacteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.
I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at theside of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket.In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with aspectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. Thereading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners ofthe room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurkingthere. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, Iknew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime,therefore, after a final glance at the dead man's face, I extinguishedthe light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining thestreet in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.
But all was quiet. I escaped unobserved.
On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd's blood,and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight ofmy own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of thevictim of the secret tragedy.
Having gulped down a stiff glass of brandy to steady my nerves, Iproceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of privatepapers which effort had been made to destroy.
The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal document. Ina firm clerk's hand were the words "...and the said John Arthur Bethuneon this fourteenth day of..." upon one, and on the other "...undertaketo preserve this secret knowledge until after my death..."
The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I decipheredconveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and wereevidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage "...togive credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totallyunfounded..." and another, "...I look to you as my friend to preservethe reputation of a defenceless woman..." The name "Markwick" occurredseveral times, and once it was "that vi
le, despicable coward, Markwick."
"That vile, despicable coward, Markwick," I repeated aloud. I reflecteddeeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signatureupon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was thereanything to show when they had been written. On both sides of eachportion there were words, but very few of them had context, andconsequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.
One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my ownname. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were"...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignoranceof the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I..."
"Great Heaven!" I cried aloud, "the writing is Sybil's!" I recognisedthe hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note offarewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack's possession!
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