night--probably he did.
"You'll have to rest for a day or two," he said, "you had a nasty blow."
But I was uncommunicative, therefore he soon afterwards left.
Budd was, of course, inquisitive, but my explanation was that I had hadan accident, and had fallen in the mud. My clothes were, of course,ruined, my hands grazed and torn, and across my eye was a nasty gashwhere I must have struck a sharp stone.
My brain was awhirl, and after the doctor's departure I swallowed somebrandy and lay down on the bed awaiting Eric.
Had he shared the same fate? If so, to try and find him in the sewerwas useless. The flush had passed, and would sweep him away to hisdeath.
Of course, I had no real proof that he had been in that house other thanoverhearing his voice. I recalled every word, and now more than everwas I convinced that he had been behind that closed door, held byenemies.
From Budd I learned that my friend had gone out about two o'clock, andhad not returned. He had, however, left me a message to say that I wasnot to be alarmed by his absence. He was still making inquiries, Isupposed. What I had related regarding the strange affair at SydenhamHill had puzzled him greatly. Perhaps he had gone down there.
I gave my man strict instructions to say to everyone that I too wasabsent from home.
"Tell everybody that I went out to dinner last night and have not yetreturned," I said. "Express surprise and anxiety. I want to pretend tobe missing--you understand, Budd?"
"Yes, sir," was the man's prompt response. "You expect somebody willcall and inquire, and to everyone I am to know nothing."
"I went out to the club last night and haven't been seen since."
"I quite understand, sir. But what about the doctor?"
"He doesn't matter. The person whom I wish to believe in my absencedoes not know the doctor. I shall remain indoors for a day or two.Mind nobody knows I'm here."
"I shall take good care of that, sir," was the man's reply; and I knewthat I could trust him.
I scribbled a line to Inspector Pickering explaining my inability tomake the statement on account of my injured head, but promising to callin a few days. I urged him not to send to me, as my chambers wereprobably watched. This note I sent by express messenger.
Then thoroughly exhausted I dropped off to sleep.
It was evening when I awoke, but Eric had not made his appearance. Iwas now thoroughly alarmed. Who were the men whom he had defied in thathouse of mystery?
He always carried a revolver, and was a dead shot; but what is a weaponagainst such black treachery as that to which I had been subjected? Hewas fearless, and would fight to the last; yet after my experience inthat house I was apprehensive lest he should, like myself, have fallen avictim.
Many a man and woman disappears in this roaring metropolis of ours andis never again heard of; many an undiscovered crime takes place within astone's-throw of the great London thoroughfares; and many a death-cry isunheard in the hum of traffic and unheeded in the bustle of our everydaylife. The London sewers hold many a secret, and the London chimneyshave smoked with the cremated remains of many an innocent victim.
I wrote to Tibbie an affectionate letter explaining that my absence wasdue to the fact that I had fallen and met with a slight accident to thehead, and signed it "Willie" in order that, if necessary, she might showit to her landlady. It was strange to write to her with so muchaffection when inwardly I was aware of her terrible secret. Yet had Inot promised to save her? Had I not given her that foolish pledge whichhad been the cause of all my exciting adventures and my narrow escapefrom death?
Night came. I sat alone in the armchair before the fire listening formy old friend's footstep, but all in vain. Something had happened, butwhat the something was I feared to contemplate.
I unlocked a drawer in my old-fashioned bureau, a quaint old piece ofQueen Anne furniture from Netherdene, and took out the paper with thecabalistic jumble of figures and letters which I had found on the bodyof the dead man in Charlton Wood.
For a long while I sat and studied the cipher and its key, finding itvery ingeniously contrived--evidently a secret code established for someevil purpose, a code that had been given to the dead man to enable himto have secret communication with some persons who desired to remainunseen and unknown.
My curiosity aroused, my eye chanced to fall upon the morning's paperand I took it up and turned to the "agony column," where I saw severalcipher advertisements. One of them I endeavoured to read by the aid ofthe dead man's key, but was unable. Therefore I tried the second, andafterwards the third. The latter only consisted of two lines of ameaningless jumble of letters and numerals, but taking a pencil Icommenced to write down the equivalent of the cipher in plain English.
In a few moments my heart gave a bound.
I had deciphered the first word of the message, namely, "White."
Very carefully, and after considerable search and calculation, Ipresently transcribed the secret message thus:--
"White Feather reports W.H. gone home. Nothing to fear."
That was all. But was it not very significant? The initials were myown, and did not the announcement that I had "gone home" mean that I hadgone to my death. There was nothing to fear, it was plainly stated.
They therefore had feared us, and that was the motive of their ingeniouscrime.
For whose eyes was that curious advertisement intended, I wondered. Whowas "White Feather?"
Ah! If I could only discover, then I should obtain a clue to themystery that was now puzzling me and driving me to despair.
At two o'clock Eric was still absent, therefore I turned in. My headtroubled me. It was very painful, and the horrors of that past nightever rose before me, while my unbalanced brain was distracted by wonderat the reason of that desperate attempt upon my life. Man of the worldthat I was, I knew well enough that there was some deep motive. Theyfeared me--but why?
Next morning, there being no word from Eric, my anxiety was greatlyincreased. My friend might have shared the same fate as myself andremained unconscious till the flood had overwhelmed him. If so, thenall trace of him might have disappeared and his body was now floatingslowly out to sea.
Those hard defiant words of his still rang in my ears. What did hemean? Who were the persons who held him in their power?
To remain inactive was impossible. Every moment I remained increasedthe danger of my discovery by Winsloe and his companions. I could, ofcourse, have gone forth to King Street with a constable and given him incharge for the attempt upon me. Indeed, that was my first impulse, yeton reflection I saw that by adopting such a course I might imperilSybil. Without a doubt the fellow knew her secret, and for that reasonwas in such active search of her.
Therefore I decided to remain patient and watchful. Winsloe believedthat I was dead, and perhaps it was as well, for I should now beafforded an opportunity of watching his movements.
For three whole days I was compelled to remain a prisoner on account ofmy annoying bandages, which were too conspicuous to allow me to goforth. I had several callers, including Jack and Lord Wydcombe, but toeveryone Budd replied that both his master and Mr Domville were absent,where, he had no idea.
My anxiety for Eric increased hourly, yet what could I do?
The doctor, at my request, removed the bandages so that my wound washidden when I wore a golf-cap, and about eleven o'clock that same night,dressed in my working clothes, I crept forth into Bolton Street unseen,and in Piccadilly mingled with the crowd homeward bound from thetheatre.
I went into Regent Street confident in my excellent disguise, and takingone of the streets to the right, wandered on and on in search of thehouse with the fatal stairs. On that disastrous night the villainouspair had engaged me deeply in conversation as we drove along, in orderto take my attention off the route we were traversing, therefore I ownthat I was absolutely without any landmark. All I knew was that we hadturned off Regent Street about half-way up and that the house wassitua
ted in a quiet, rather dark street, an old-fashioned house of threestoreys.
Eagerly in search of the place from which I had so narrowly escaped withmy life I wandered in the night up and down those narrow thoroughfares,that puzzling maze of streets that lie between Regent Street and SohoSquare--Brewer Street, Bridle Lane, Lexington Street, Poland Street andBerwick Street. I could not, however, find any house answering to thevery vague impression I retained of it, though I went on and on untilfar into the night.
Fearing to return to Bolton Street, I took a bed at an obscure hotel inthe Euston Road, and next morning went over to Camberwell, where Tibbiewarmly welcomed me. I attributed the cut on my head to a fall on thekerb, and when we sat together I saw how thoroughly resigned she hadbecome to her strange surroundings.
With womanly enthusiasm she told me of the kindness of the landlady, whowould not allow her to mope there alone. She had taken her out to
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