Devil's Dice

by William Le Queux

undefined sense of trouble remained to me, and now that I wasquestioning myself and trying to read my heart, I was so astonished atmy own feelings that I endeavoured to give them any name, to explainthem by any possibility, rather than resolve them into a single word.

  I knew that my admiration was almost akin to love. That instinctivefeeling which attends all affection, the need of reciprocity, hadawakened in my heart. The only event that could save me from fallingactually in love with her would, I knew, be the advent of Jack Bethune.Six days had already passed, but I had received no word from him.Possibly the fugitive had left Turin before my telegram arrived, or,more likely, he had regarded it as a ruse on the part of the police toinduce him to return, and thus save the complicated process ofextradition.

  Yet each morning as we rode together she discussed the prospect ofseeing him, and wondering why he had neither arrived nor telegraphed,while I endeavoured to console her by anticipating his arrival eachevening. Foolishly I clung to those hours of ignorance, and, like a manwho shuts his eyes because he will not see, I forced my mind and heartnot to remember or forebode. I would snatch from Fate yet one more day,one single day longer of that vague, ill-defined uneasiness which Icould treat as foolishness until the voice of authority had pronouncedit to be well-founded. Once more I would feel without alloy that I wasyoung, happy, beloved.

  She, too, was happy in the expectation of having the man she loved againby her side. She was ignorant that he was suspected of murder; and Ifelt myself utterly unable to begin attacking so deep and tranquil ahappiness, linked so firmly into what seemed an endless chain of bliss.

  We were riding together one morning on the road between Thrapston andAldwinkle, and when near the cross-road that leads to Titchmarsh, Dorasuddenly uttered an exclamation of joy and pointed on before. I looked,and saw upon the road a familiar figure in a tweed suit and grey felthat. With one accord we galloped forward, and in a few minutes wereshaking Jack Bethune heartily by the hand.

  But in those glad moments I could not fail to notice how changed he was.His unshaven face was pale and thin, and in his eyes was a curiousexpression; indeed, he seemed to avoid my gaze. Then again there fellupon me the suspicion that this man had been Sybil's lover. Yet Igripped his hand in welcome.

  "I received your telegram, old fellow," he said, turning to me after hehad greeted the woman he loved. "How did you ascertain I was in Turin?"

  I laughed, but vouchsafed no satisfactory reply, and as we all threewalked towards Wadenhoe the conversation grew animated. Jack,suppressing the truth that he had feared arrest, made it appear to Dorathat he had been sent abroad on a secret mission and had been compelledto move rapidly from place to place. At breakfast he related how he hadreceived my telegram late at night, after travelling to Asti, and hadpacked up and left immediately.

  "But why have you not written oftener?" Dora asked. "Your letters werecouched so strangely that I confess I began to fear you had donesomething dreadfully wrong."

  I watched the effect of those innocent words upon him. He startedguiltily, his thin lips compressed, and his face grew pale.

  "You are not very complimentary, dearest," he stammered. "I have neverbeen a fugitive, and I hope I never shall be. I suppose the papers havebeen saying something about me. They always know more about one thanone knows one's self. The statements I read in my press-cuttings aresimply amazing."

  "As far as I am aware the papers have not commented upon your absence,"she answered. "It was merely a surmise of my own, and, of course,absolutely absurd. Forgive me."

  "There is nothing to forgive," he answered, rather dryly.

  "No, nothing," I said; then turning to him I added: "Dora has beentalking daily of you, and wondering when you would return."

  "I obeyed your commands immediately," he observed, with an expressionthat was full of mystery.

  "And you have acted wisely," I said. I saw it was not judicious tocontinue the conversation further, therefore we rose from the table, andduring the morning I left Dora and her lover to wander in the garden andtalk together.

  After luncheon, on the pretext of playing billiards, I took Jack aloneto the billiard-room, where I knew we should be undisturbed. Instead oftaking up the cues we sat together smoking in the deep old-fashionedbay-window that overlooked the broad pastures and the winding Nene.

  "Well," I said at length. "Now be frank with me, Jack, old fellow; whatdoes all this mean? Why did you leave the country so suddenly and causeall this talk?"

  "What has been said about me? Have the papers got hold of it?" heinquired quickly.

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Thank Heaven!" he gasped, with a sigh of relief. "Then I am safe up tothe present."

  Up to the present! He feared the future. This was a confession of hisguilt! The fingers that held his cigar trembled slightly as he spoke.

  "But you have not told me the reason of your flight. What is it youfear?" I inquired.

  "The reason is a secret," he said, as if speaking to himself, lookingaway fixedly across the meadows and the sun-illumined river. "Someincidents have occurred that, although they have happened in real life,are even more startling and extraordinary than any I have ever imaginedin fiction."

  "Cannot you explain them to me, your friend?"

  "No. I cannot--I--I dare not, believe me. For the present I mustpreserve my secret," and he shook his head sadly.

  "Why?"

  "Because my whole future depends upon my ability to remain silent."

  For some minutes I did not speak; my bitter thoughts were wandering backto the conversation I had overheard in the garden at Blatherwycke. Atlast I resolved to attack him point blank.

  "Jack," I exclaimed earnestly, looking into his pale, pained face."Answer me one question. Did you ever know a woman named Sybil?"

  For an instant his brow contracted, and his breath seemed to catch. Hishand again trembled as he removed the cigar from his mouth.

  "Sybil!" he echoed, his face paler than before. "Yes, it is true, I--Ionce knew someone of that name. You have discovered the secret of--"

  "Captain Bethune," interrupted my father's man, who, followed by Dora,had entered the billiard-room unobserved, and who stood before usholding a card on a salver.

  "Yes," answered Jack, turning sharply.

  "A gentleman has called to see you, sir."

  Jack took the card, glanced at it for an instant, and then startingsuddenly to his feet, stood with clenched fists and glaring eyes.

  "My God, Stuart! He is here! Save me, old fellow! You are my friend.Save me!"

  Next second he sank back again into his chair with his chin upon hisbreast, rigid and motionless as one dead.

  Noticing Dora's look of surprise at the words he uttered, he set histeeth, steadied himself by dint of great effort, and turning to the manordered him to show the visitor in. Then, addressing the woman heloved, he added hoarsely:

  "I must see this man alone, dearest."

  "You wish me to leave?" she inquired, her pretty face clouded by asudden expression of bewilderment. He nodded, without replying, and asshe moved slowly towards the door, I followed.

  "No, Stuart," he cried anxiously. "No, stay, old fellow, stay! You aremy friend, stay!"

  Dora turned, glanced at her lover and then disappeared through thedoorway, while I returned slowly to where he was standing, staring likeone fallen under some occult influence.

  "Who is this visitor?" I asked, but before he could reply, the manappeared at the door, and announced:

  "Mr Francis Markwick."

  At the same moment there advanced into the room the mysteriousindividual who had been my conductor on the night of my marriage; theman whose intimate acquaintance with Lady Fyneshade was so puzzling! Hewas well-groomed and sprucely-dressed in a well-cut frock-coat, tightlybuttoned, and wore a flower and grey suede gloves.

  "Ah! my dear Bethune!" he cried, walking towards him with extended hand,without apparently noticing me. "I hear
d you were back, and have takenthe earliest opportunity of calling. Where have you been all thistime?" But Jack, thrusting his hands into his pockets, made no reply tothis man's effusiveness. His greeting was frigid, for he merelyinclined his head. Suddenly the remembrance of those partially charredletters I had found in Jack's chambers on the night of the murder ofSternroyd flashed through my brain. In them the name "Markwick"occurred several times, and the writer of one had referred to him as"that vile, despicable coward." Who had penned these words? Sybil hadno doubt written one of the letters I had discovered, but did thiscondemnation emanate from her? I stood watching him and wondering.

  When he found Bethune disinclined to enter into any conversation, heturned to me and