Devil's Dice

by William Le Queux

Even thesehalf-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when wewere happy in each other's love.

  At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer inhis mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regularItalian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, thepost-mark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet ofnote-paper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the followingwords--"Tuesday--Dear Sir,--Her ladyship wishes me to write and say thatshe will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter,and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case theremay be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urgesthat you should keep this appointment in order to avoid someunpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her,kindly telegraph to me personally.--Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe."

  Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingerssilent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was "her ladyship?" Was it oldLady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady's maid,and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced bymeans of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this wouldnecessarily occupy time.

  I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton's maid,Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel's was a French girl, namedCelestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, Iremembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half fromHounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet,unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasionswhen I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there,and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack'scorrespondent, showed that "her ladyship," whoever she was, took everyprecaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matterupon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature theunpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep theappointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but withher maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman's lover? Was he playing a doublegame?

  I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent thathe was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would notbelieve ill of him until I held absolute proof.

  "Proof," I murmured aloud. "What greater proof can I have than theevidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?"

  I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of aportion of Sybil's letter. Apparently a secret had existed betweenthem.

  From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterioussurroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that JackBethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatalshot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?

  He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayedhis hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and hiseagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurredto me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was hisfeeling.

  Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon mytable, but from them could gather no further information. The messagefrom the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet itstrue significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that themeeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabelwas Sternroyd's friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square hehad inadvertently referred to her as "Mab;" therefore, after all, itseemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke insuch veiled terms of "unpleasantness."

  The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimedhour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I waswondering who was Markwick, the "vile, despicable coward," and dreadingthe result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph toHounslow to ascertain Jack's whereabouts, lest by so doing I shouldbetray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what mightperhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidencethat might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep itsecret, at least for the present, and by that means assist my friend,even if he were guilty, to escape.

  In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would gothere to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the policewould raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journalswould be full of "Another West-End Mystery."

  I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an assassin, perhapsassisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidenceof Jack's guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.

  I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saundersentered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched,but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to findmention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came fromJack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terriblesecret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted airor the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into theclub and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on thefirst floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip andpass the time. When I entered I found several city men had groupedthemselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, werediscussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had nointerest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their StockExchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to prickup my ears.

  "Bah! he'd become one of our directors at once if we made it worth hiswhile," an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a longcigar between his lips.

  "I doubt it," another voice exclaimed. "His name carries weight, buthe's not in want of fees."

  "If he isn't at this moment he very soon will be," the other answeredknowingly. "He's now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with."

  "I don't believe that," the others cried in chorus.

  "My dear fellows," answered the elder man. "His pretty wife hasabsolutely ruined him. Another year, and he'll be in the BankruptcyCourt."

  "Well, she's cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now," exclaimed one."I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simplymagnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair,insipid-looking youth. Nobody knew who he was."

  "The latest lover, I suppose," laughed the man who had announced theEarl's impending bankruptcy. "If report speaks true she's ratheraddicted to flirtation."

  "No doubt," observed one of his companions. "But we're discussingbusiness just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of theCountess don't concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on ourboard. Can it be done?"

  "Yes," promptly answered the man who had first spoken. "I'll manageit."

  "If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the GreatWatersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl's name carriesweight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremelybeneficial to us."

  "Very well. I'll call on him to-morrow," the man said, blowing a cloudof smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon sometechnicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere inMashona-land.

  Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financialdifficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact,and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not helpfeeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I hadoverheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that herentertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smartcircle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were factsknown to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills atWorth's and Redfern's since her marriage must have been as large asthose of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her,dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out o
fdate an unforgivable offence against Society's laws. She had latelybeen living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had becomenotorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to beenormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never onceentered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had goodgrounds for his assertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, asI descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at LadyStretton's, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.

  Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now laydead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had withmy adored one, or with that