Whatsoever a Man Soweth

by William Le Queux

was staying herewith Cynthia, and now you and I come here as working-class holidaymakers. Ah!" she sighed, bitterly, "I was happy then, before--" and shedid not conclude her sentence.

  "Before what?" I asked, standing at her side beneath the great old elmwith the sheep grazing quietly around.

  "Before evil fell upon me," she said, hoarsely, with poignantbitterness.

  We remained in Leeds a week, and although I had given Budd my address atthe post-office I received no word from him concerning Eric.

  Day by day I watched the columns of the _Telegraph_ until one morningthere came an answer to Tibbie's cipher advertisement, a reply which Iread as,--

  "To S.--You have been betrayed! Exercise caution, and escape at once,the instant you see this.--Your Friend."

  I lost no time in seeking her, and with affected carelessness handed herthe paper, making a casual remark upon the news of the day. I watchedher, however, and saw that she at once turned to the column which heldthe greatest interest for her.

  Her eyes fell upon the reply to her secret message. In a few momentsshe had deciphered it, and sat with the journal still in her hand,staring straight before her.

  "Wilfrid!" she exclaimed, in a low, strained voice when she at lengthfound tongue, "I must leave here at once. Every moment's delayincreases my peril. I must escape."

  "Why?"

  But again she refused any explanation, merely saying that her departurefrom Leeds was imperative, and expressing despair that her enemies wouldnever relinquish their hot pursuit. They were hounding her down, shesaid in despair, and they must sooner or later triumph over her.

  "No," I exclaimed. "Hope on, Tibbie. You must escape--you will escape.They shall never harm you as long as I have strength to be yourprotector."

  "Ah!" she cried. "How can I thank you, Wilfrid. To you I owe my verylife. Without you I should have ended it all long ago."

  "Never mind that now," I urged. "You must escape. Where shall you go?"

  "Anywhere. It is just the same to me," was her answer.

  "Then I suggest you take the midday train up to Newcastle. There's aquiet hotel where you may live comfortably and unnoticed, the Douglas,in Grainger Street West. Remain there a few days, and then move onacross to Carlisle."

  "I know Carlisle," she said. "I've broken the journey there often whengoing to Scotland."

  "But you are not known there?"

  "Only at the County Hotel. I can go somewhere else, of course. But areyou not coming?" she asked, quickly. "Remember my whole future dependsupon you passing yourself off as my husband, William Morton."

  "For the next few days I think it would be as well for us to remainapart," I replied, for truth to tell I had suddenly formed a plan, andwas now anxious to make a flying visit up to London in order to put itinto execution.

  Her face fell.

  "But you will return to me?" she asked, very anxiously.

  "Yes--I will meet you in Carlisle in a week's time. Go to Newcastle forfour days, and thence to Carlisle. Indeed, change your addressconstantly. In Newcastle assume another name, and in Carlisle another.Do not go in the name of Morton again until we meet. I shall write toyou at the post-office in Carlisle. To-day is Tuesday. Next Tuesdayyou shall hear from me."

  "Why do you leave me alone?" she pouted. "How can I spend a whole weekwandering about without a companion?"

  "Don't you see, Tibbie, that it is very necessary that I should show upto your mother and Jack in order to still pretend to make an effort tofind traces of you?" I asked.

  "Ah! yes," she sighed. "I suppose you are right. You do all you can inmy interests, so I ought not to complain."

  "I am glad you are convinced that my return to London is with the objectof averting suspicion," I said. "Go up to Newcastle and escape theseenemies of yours--whoever they are. Travel constantly if possible. Youhave money. If not I can give you some."

  "Thanks--I have plenty," was her reply; and then she reluctantlycommenced packing her trunk preparatory to her hurried departure.

  And at noon we had grasped hands on the platform and I had seen her intoa third-class compartment of the express bound for Newcastle.

  "_Au revoir_," she said, bending to me from the carriage window."Remember, next Tuesday in Carlisle. You are my friend--promise youwill not desert me."

  "Next Tuesday," I repeated, lifting my cloth cap. "I promise. Tillthen, adieu."

  And she smiled sadly as the express glided out of the station.

  Half an hour later I was on my way to London again, and a little afterfive o'clock entered the offices of the _Daily Telegraph_ and handed ina cipher advertisement, which read,--

  "To Nello.--Meet me outside Baker Street Station to-night at eight.Very urgent. Nothing to fear.--S."

  I was convinced that the mysterious Nello lived in London, and thereforewould see the paper next morning. I was determined to ascertain who itwas in whom Tibbie placed such implicit trust.

  I feared to approach Bolton Street; therefore I took a room at theCaledonian Hotel on Adelphi Terrace and sent a note to Budd to come andsee me.

  In an hour my man stood before me, telling me of the eager inquiriesmade for me by Mr Ellice Winsloe, and the message he had left, askingme to call and see him as soon as ever I returned.

  The scoundrel never believed that I would return. He expected that mybody was far out to sea by this time, just as other bodies had beendespatched from that house of mystery.

  Budd brought me some clean linen and my letters, but I still retained myguise as a working-man, for I had yet a very difficult and delicate taskbefore me, namely, the watching of the man whom Tibbie addressed asNello.

  At noon next day I received a telegram from the woman upon whom restedthe dark shadow of a secret crime, telling me of her safe arrival inNewcastle, and reminding me of my promise to return. Then I went forthand lounged about the Burlington in the hope of catching a glimpse ofthe man who was her enemy as well as mine.

  He generally strolled through the Arcade about five o'clock, for he wentdaily to old General Taylor, in the Albany. I knew his haunts well,therefore, keeping away from his path, I watched until I saw him pass indeep conversation with a man of his own age, whose sharp, clean-shavedface gave me the impression that he was a barrister. Winsloe lookedmore refined, more fashionably dressed, with his frock coat cleanlybrushed and his glossy silk hat apparently only that moment out of theironer's hands.

  I pretended to be deeply interested in a hosier's window as he passed.But even had we met face to face I doubt if he would have recognised mein the disguise of a working-man.

  His face was harder and more evil-looking and his shifty eyes wereeverywhere. From the way the pair were talking, I could not resist theconviction that the clean-shaven fellow was one of his associates oraccomplices.

  To that elegant man who passed as a gentleman, and was invited to halfthe best houses in London, I owed all my present distress and anxiety,while at the same time he was Sybil's enemy, the man who held her futurein his merciless hands.

  I watched him out of sight, and then turning upon my heel went backcitywards.

  That night, just before eight, I strolled along the Marylebone Road, andslowly passed Baker Street Station and along by Madame Tussaud's,without, however, seeing traces of anyone. A couple of newsboys wereidling on the kerb gossiping, but all else was bustle, and there were nolingerers.

  I could not well remain there fearing lest Winsloe or any of hisassociates who knew me might recognise me. Therefore I was compelled tostroll up and down on the opposite side of the way, my eyes eager todiscern any man who halted there in expectation.

  One man dressed like a City clerk came to a sudden standstill just aftereight, looked at his watch and peered inside the station. But I wasdisappointed, for a few moments later a young woman, in brown, probablyhis sweetheart, met him, and they both walked away in company. Again asecond man emerged from the station and stood for a long time inindecision. He, too, was keeping
an appointment, for he was joinedpresently by a much older man, and they went into a neighbouringsaloon-bar.

  Half-past eight struck; even nine o'clock. But the appointment was notkept. Perhaps the mysterious Nello had not seen the message?

  I was beginning to fear that such was the case, or that my ruse hadfailed, when a dark-eyed rather handsome young girl, dressed plainly,like a shop assistant, alighted from a hansom about a hundred yards fromthe station, paid the driver, and hurriedly approached the spot where Istood.

  She took no notice of my presence, but crossing the roadway entered thestation and searched eagerly everywhere as though she were late for herappointment.

  She came forth again upon the pavement, looked up and down, and thenstrolled patiently along the kerb.

  She never gave me a single glance. This fact I noted, causing me towonder if she were not waiting for a woman.

  Was she awaiting Sybil? Could she be a messenger from the mysteriousNello, in whom my dainty little friend seemed to place such implicittrust?

  I crossed the road and idled past her in order to get a good look at herface.

  Then I sauntered on, wondering and perplexed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY.

  CONTAINS ANOTHER SURPRISE.

  For some twenty minutes or so I watched her, undecided whether she wereactually the representative of the mysterious Nello, or whether she wasmerely a shop-girl in the vicinity who expected to meet a friend.

  Time after time, although she was ignorant of the constant observation Ikept upon her, I managed to get close sight of her, and after a timebegan to doubt whether she really was a shop assistant. Her black coatand skirt was of some cheap but effective material, and the boa abouther neck was of the type usually worn by the employees of WestbourneGrove; yet once as she passed, my eyes caught a gleam beneath the sleeveof her coat, and I saw that she wore, only half-concealed, one of thosecurious New Zealand bracelets of pale green stone which are so shapedupon the wrist that they can never be removed. Solid and circular, itwas a strange, almost barbarous-looking ornament and yet very striking,for in one part was a small band of gold, wherein was set a singlediamond, the gleam of which had attracted my attention.

  Now if she were a shop assistant, I argued, she could not sell ribbonsand laces with such an ornament upon her wrist. No employer would allowsuch personal adornment. And as she could not remove it there was doubtthat she really was what she appeared to be.

  It commenced to rain and she put up her umbrella. It was old, and in itwere several slits.

  I was in half a mind to raise my hat, wish her good-evening, and inquireif she were there in response to the advertisement addressed to Nello,yet on reflection I saw that such a movement would be very indiscreet,and that if she were really there as Nello's representative then I couldgain more by watching her. So, unnoticed, I stood within the station,my back turned to her, and my head buried in an evening paper. To her Iwas, I suppose, only an ordinary working-man, and if I had approachedher she would have at once snubbed me.

  Fortunately I so constantly changed my position that she never gave me alook, and was entirely unconscious of being watched. Greater part ofthe time I stood apart some distance, on the opposite side of the streetat the corner of York Place.

  From the eager way in which she watched every female approaching, I knewthat she was waiting for a woman.

  At last she became convinced that her vigil was in vain. The rain hadceased, she closed her umbrella and entered an omnibus which had pulledup before the station, and an instant afterwards moved on towards theEdgware Road.

  It passed close to where I was standing on the kerb, and a few momentsafterwards I was in a hansom following it at a respectable distance, myhead again hidden in a newspaper. Down Edgware Road, past the MarbleArch and along Park Lane we went to Victoria Station, where thedark-eyed girl alighted, and entering the Chatham and Dover terminuspassed through the barrier with the return half of a first-class ticket.

  Without reflection I went to the booking-office, obtained a third forLoughborough Junction, a station through which most trains passed, andfive minutes later was seated in a compartment near her. If she hadreally responded to my invitation, then it was my duty to discover herdestination and learn something concerning her.

  For half an hour I sat in the train looking out at every stopping-place,but seeing nothing of her.

  At last, at a half-lit suburban station she descended and hurried out.I followed quickly, handing the collector a two-shilling piece as excessfare.

  I glanced at the name on the station lamp. It was Lordship Lane.

  Outside was the foot of Sydenham Hill.

  I allowed her to get on well in front and then followed her along thesilent ill-lit suburban road for half a mile up the steep hill, flankedon either side by large detached houses. For some reason best known toherself she had not gone on to the next station, Upper Sydenham.Perhaps she was too well known there.

  Half-way up the hill I walked more quickly and gained upon her, so thatI saw into which gateway she went.

  She disappeared through the gate of the house called Keymer--the houseof the mysterious John Parham!

  Then I was, of course, convinced that she had kept the appointment onbehalf of the unknown Nello.

  I had not called upon Mrs Parham since that tragic incident which I hadwitnessed from the pavement, and longed now to follow the dark-eyed girland learn the reason of her presence at Baker Street. But a visit atthat hour was entirely out of the question. Besides, my disguise as aworking-man would arouse suspicion.

  Therefore I was compelled to retrace my steps, return to my hotel inAdelphi Terrace, and send a line to Budd, ordering him to bring me a hatand a decent suit of clothes in a kitbag.

  Eric's complete silence now alarmed me. How did Tibbie know that he wasin Paris? Surely she possessed some means of communication with certainpersons of which I was in entire ignorance. There might be otheradvertisements in other journals which I had not seen--bypre-arrangement in some obscure country journal possibly.

  Jack and Lord Wydcombe were now anxious regarding the absence of both ofus from London, and must, of course, regard our silence as curious. Yetso far as I could gather they never for one moment connected my absencewith Tibbie's disappearance. Tibbie they regarded as erratic andutterly uncontrollable, just as she had ever been from the time she wasexpelled from her school at Versailles for defying the principal, andcausing the other pupils to revolt over some fancied grievance.

  Next day about twelve, risking recognition by any person who might knowme, I assumed my frock coat, silk hat and gloves and visited Keymer.

  Mrs Parham was in the drawing-room, arranging some flowers in a vase,and turned to me quickly when I was announced.

  "Forgive me for calling, madam, but you will, of course, recollect me,"I said. "I was in this neighbourhood and thought I would pay myrespects and ascertain how you were."

  "Ah! of course," she exclaimed. "I remember you perfectly--on thatnight--that night when they came here," she faltered, rather tamely, Ithought, and she motioned me to a chair and seated herself.

  "The poor girl has, of course, been buried," I said. "I saw accounts ofthe inquest in the papers."

  "Yes. They brought in a verdict of murder, but up to the present thepolice have discovered nothing, it appears. Ah!" she sighed. "They areso very slow. It's monstrous that such a thing could happen here, inthe centre of a populated district. Out in the lonely country it wouldbe quite another thing. I should have left the house at once, only Ifeared that my husband would be annoyed. He is abroad, you know."

  "And have you had no word from him?"

  "Not a line. I'm expecting a letter from India by every mail. He is inIndia, I know, as he told one of his City friends that he was going. Hesailed on the _Caledonia_ from Marseilles nearly five weeks ago. He mayhave written me from Paris and the letter miscarried. That's the onlyexplanation I can think of."

  I recollect
ed that I had never given her a card, therefore she veryfortunately did not know my name, and I did not intend that she should,if concealment were at all possible.

  There was a mystery about that house and its occupants which caused meto act with circumspection.

  I looked around the room. Nothing had been altered save that the couchupon which they had laid the dead girl was now gone, and the corner ofthe carpet which had been torn up had been re-nailed down. The piano atwhich my hostess had sat when attacked was still in its place, and thetable whereon had stood the photograph which I had stolen stillcontained that same silver and _bric-a-brac_.

  As Mrs Parham was speaking the door suddenly opened, and the dark-eyedyoung girl whom I had watched on the previous night came gaily into theroom. The instant I saw her I recognised that she was a lady. In aclean, fresh cotton blouse and neat tailor-made skirt she presented amuch smarter appearance them in that cheap black coat and skirt as shestood in the muddy roadway. The green stone bracelet was still upon herwrist, the one object which alone had showed me that she was no shopassistant.

  "This is Miss O'Hara," my hostess exclaimed, introducing us; "she haskindly come to stay with me until my husband's return."

  And as we bowed to each other I saw that the newcomer had no previousknowledge of me.

  "I was present at the unfortunate affair," I said. "Mrs Parham musthave been very upset by it."

  "She was," declared the girl, in a quiet, refined voice. "But she'sgetting over it now. The worst shock was the maid's death. It was amost dastardly piece of business, and moreover, no one knows with whatmotive it was done."

  "To get possession of something which Mr Parham had concealed here," Isaid.

  "That may be, but as far as Mrs Parham is aware they took nothingbeyond a few of her husband's private papers."

  "Nothing except a photograph that stood on the table over there,"remarked my hostess.

  "A photograph!" I exclaimed, in pretended surprise. "Of whom?"

  "Of a friend," was the vague response, and I saw that the two womenlooked at each other meaningly.

  They intended to keep the identity of the original of the stolenportrait a secret. Yet they were in utter ignorance that it was in mypossession.

  Why had this Miss O'Hara gone to meet Sybil in Nello's place? Iwondered.

  I chatted with them both for a long time, but without being able todiscover any additional fact. They were both clever women, and knew howto hold their tongues.

  Presently Mrs Parham said suddenly,--

  "I'm sure my husband will feel very indebted to you when he knows allthe facts. I have not the pleasure of your name."

  "Morton," I said, "William Morton," and feeling in my pocket expressedregret that I had forgotten my card-case.

  A quarter of an hour later I took my leave and was walking down SydenhamHill when I suddenly encountered my friend the police inspector of thenight of the strange affair at Keymer.

  He glanced at me, and our recognition was mutual.

  Then when he had greeted me he turned on his heel and walked in mydirection. After some conversation regarding the mysterious attempt andits fatal termination, he said in a hard voice,--

  "Our people are rather surprised at your attitude, you know."

  "My attitude! What do you mean?" I exclaimed, looking at him insurprise.

  "Well. You might have given information when you knew that we wanted toquestion that man Parham."

  "Information of what?"

  "Of his whereabouts. You were seen one evening not long ago talking tohim."

  "Where?"

  "In the entrance to the Empire," replied the inspector. "One of ourplain-clothes men saw you with Parham and another man. But the fellowmanaged to get away, as he always does."

  I stood aghast.

  "Was he a fair bald-headed man?"

  "Of course."

  I was silent. The truth was plain, the revelation a staggering one.Winsloe had introduced his accomplice, John Parham, to me as thetraveller and engineer named Humphreys!

  It was in John Parham's house that the dastardly attempt had been madeupon my life--in his house that other persons had met with mysteriousand untimely ends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

  WHAT OCCURRED IN DEAN'S YARD, WESTMINSTER.

  That same evening, attired in my working clothes, I watched Winsloe'schambers in King Street at the hour when I knew his habit was to returnto dress for dinner.

  From five o'clock till half-past seven I lingered in the vicinity; thenreturning to my hotel in the Adelphi I there met Budd, whom I sent roundto the man's chambers to inquire when he would be in.

  Half an hour later my valet returned with the information that MrWinsloe was out of town, and was not expected back for several days. Hehad gone to the north, his man believed, but he had no instructions toforward letters.

  Gone north! Had he discovered Tibbie's whereabouts and gone after her?

  Mine was a tantalising position, unable to return to my own rooms forfear that Winsloe and Parham should discover that I was still alive.They believed me to be dead--that I had "gone home," as "White Feather"reported.

  That night I spent several hours wandering through those streets behindRegent Street, trying to recognise the house with the fatal stairs.All, however, was to no purpose. I had, I think, mistaken the directionwhich we had taken. Tired and worn out, I ate supper about ten o'clockin a small and rather uncleanly little foreign restaurant in DeanStreet, and then returned to the Adelphi, where I sat a long time in myroom overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, lost in the mazes ofmystery that now presented themselves.

  Where was Eric Domville? Where was Ellice Winsloe? Where was JohnParham, _alias_ Humphreys?

  Tibbie evidently knew a great deal more than she would admit. She hadtold me that my friend was in Paris. How could she know if she held nocommunication with anyone?

  No--the more I reflected the more evident did it become that she wasplaying a double game.

  As I sat at the window with the dark deserted gardens below me, the rowof gas-lamps and the wide river before me, I tried to analyse my realfeelings towards the dainty little love of my youth.

  She was a woman guilty of the terrible crime of murder, and yet I hadpromised to shield her because she had declared that her enemiesintended to crush her. Had I really acted rightly? I asked myself.Truly, I was endeavouring to defeat the ends of justice. Nevertheless,I recollected her wild earnest appeal to me, how she had fallen upon herknees and implored my help and protection. I remembered, too, that inher desperation she would have taken her own life rather than face herenemies.

  What did it all mean?

  So extraordinary had been the sequence of amazing events that my mindfailed to grasp the true significance of all the facts.

  Of one truth, however, I was well aware, namely, that the dull life ofworkaday Camberwell had worked a wonderful change in my little friend.She was more sedate, more composed, more womanly, while her calmnessaccentuated her sweetness of manner. Yet why did she wish to pose as amarried woman? What did she fear beyond the exposure of her crime?

  She was fascinating, I own that. But upon her beauty and grace wasresting that dark, gruesome shadow, the shadow of the sword ofretribution, which hung over her, and from which she, alas! would neverescape.

  What did the family think of her prolonged absence? What did the policethink?

  I knew well that both old Lady Scarcliff and Jack were leaving no stoneunturned to try to discover her, while Wydcombe had left word with Buddthat as soon as ever I returned he wished to see me. I would dearlyhave liked to have gone round to Curzon Street, but by doing so, I sawthat Jack would know I had been there, and he might mention my visit toWinsloe, who, without doubt, was still his friend.

  My cipher advertisement had been so successful that, after dueconsideration, I resolved to try and draw "White Feather," and ascertainthe identity of that mysterious person.

  There
fore I sat at the table, and after half an hour had reduced to thecipher the following announcement,--

  "To White Feather.--Must see you. Very urgent. Meet me to-night atentrance to Dean's Yard, Westminster, at nine, without fail.--S."

  If "White Feather" was in London he or she would certainly keep theappointment with Sybil. My only fear was that she might see the paperup in Newcastle, and detect the forgery.

  Before midnight I handed in the advertisement at the newspaper office inFleet Street, and next morning had the satisfaction of seeing it inprint.

  The day I spent in comparative idleness. Budd, to whom I explained mystrange conduct by saying that I was still engaged in watching someone,called with my letters and executed several commissions for me. I wroteto "Mrs William Morton" at the post-office at Carlisle, and spent theafternoon reading in the hotel. Budd had instructions to let me knowimmediately anything was heard of Eric, and was now acting as my secretagent, eager to serve me in every particular.

  It was a wet, unpleasant night, as, a little before nine, I alightedfrom an omnibus in Victoria Street, and passing up Great Smith Street,approached Dean's Yard from the Great College Street side, the oppositeentrance to the spot where the appointment was to be kept.

  Dean's Yard is a quiet square of ancient smoke-blackened houses, acloister of the abbey in the old days, quiet and secluded even in thesemodern go-ahead times. In all Westminster there is no quieter,old-world spot, frequented in the daytime only by the few persons whouse it as a short cut to Tufton Street and Horseferry Road, and at nightquiet and deserted.

  Entering the small secluded square from the opposite side, I slippedalong half-way on the south side to a position where I could have a goodview of the great arched gate communicating with Victoria Street, andthere found a deep, dark doorway which afforded me admirableconcealment.

  I stood and waited. Scarcely had I settled myself there when the chimesof Big Ben rang out the hour, and then I strained my eyes towards thegreat ill-lit Gothic gateway.

  Not a soul was in the place, not even a policeman. Presently a poorwoman with a shawl over her head hurried past in the falling rain, andafterwards came the postman, who, very fortunately, had no letters forthe door where I stood concealed in the shadow. The place seemed dark,mysterious, almost ghostly, in the dead silence of the night.

  The quarter chimed, but no person lingered at the gateway. Perhaps theadvertisement had not been seen; or, more likely, "White Feather" wasabsent from London.

  At last, however, I heard the rattle of a four-wheeled cab outside thegateway. I saw it stop, and a man alighted. Then