CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN FULL CRY
The amazing letter which I held in my nerveless fingers had beenhurriedly scribbled on a piece of my wife's own notepaper, and read--
"DEAR OWEN--I feel that our marriage was an entire mistake. I have grossly deceived you, and I dare not hope ever for your forgiveness, nor dare I face you to answer your questions. I know that you love me dearly, as I, too, have loved you; yet, for your own sake--and perhaps for mine also--it is far best that we should keep apart.
"I deeply regret that I have been the means of bringing misfortune and unhappiness and sorrow upon you, but I have been the tool of another. In shame and deepest humiliation I leave you, and if you will grant one favour to an unhappy and penitent woman, you will never seek to discover my whereabouts. It would be quite useless. To-night I leave you in secret, never to meet you again. Accept my deepest regret, and do not let my action trouble you. I am not worthy of your love. Good-bye. Your unhappy--SYLVIA."
I stood staring at the uneven scribbled lines, blurred as they were bythe tears of the writer.
What had happened? Why had she so purposely left me? Why had she madethat signal from the theatre-box to her accomplice?
She admitted having grossly deceived me, and that she was unworthy.What did she mean? In what manner had she deceived me?
Had she a secret lover?
That idea struck me suddenly, and staggered me. In some of her recentactions I read secrecy and suspicion. On several occasions lately shehad been out shopping alone, and one afternoon, about a week before,she had not returned to dress for dinner until nearly eight o'clock.Her excuse had been a thin one, but, unsuspicious, I had passed it by.
Had I really been a fool to marry her, after all? I knew Marlowe'sopinion of our marriage, though he had never expressed it. That shehad been associated with a shady lot had all along been apparent. Theterrors of that silent house in Porchester Terrace remained only toofresh within my memory.
That night I spent in a wild fever of excitement. No sleep came to myeyes, and I think Browning--to whom I said nothing--believed that Ihad taken leave of my senses. The faithful old servant did not retire,for at five in the morning I found him seated dozing in a chairoutside in the hall, tired out by the watchful vigil he had kept overme.
I tried in vain to decide what to do. I wanted to find Sylvia, toinduce her to reveal the truth to me, and to allay her fear of myreproaches.
I loved her; aye, no man in all the world ever loved a woman better.Yet she had, of her own accord, because of her own shame at herdeception, bade farewell, and slipped away into the great ocean ofLondon life.
Morning dawned at last, cold, grey and foggy, one of those dispiritingmornings of late autumn which the Londoner knows so well. Still I knewnot how to act. I wanted to discover her, to bring her back, and todemand of her finally the actual truth. All the mystery of those pastmonths had sent my brain awhirl.
I had an impulse to go to the police and reveal the secret of thatclosed house in Porchester Terrace. Yet had she not implored me not todo so? Why? There was only one reason. She feared exposure herself.
No. Ten thousand times no. I would not believe ill of her. Can any manwho really loves a woman believe ill of her? Love is blind, it istrue, and the scales never fall from the eyes while true affectionlasts. And so I put suspicion from my mind, and swallowed the cup ofcoffee Browning put before me.
The old man, the friend of my youth, knew that his mistress had notreturned, and saw how greatly I was distressed. Yet he was far toodiscreet a servant to refer to it.
I entered the drawing-room, and there, in the grey light, facing me,stood the fine portrait of my well-beloved in a silver frame, the oneshe had had taken at Scarborough a week after our marriage.
I drew it from its frame and gazed for a long time upon it. Then I putit into an envelope, and placed it in my pocket.
Soon after ten o'clock I returned to the Coliseum, and showed theportrait to a number of the attendants as that of a lady who wasmissing. All of them, both male and female, gazed upon the picture,but nobody recognized her as having been seen before.
The manager, whom I had seen on the previous night, sympathized withme, and lent me every assistance. One after another of the staff hecalled into his big office on the first floor, but the reply wasalways the same.
At length a smart page-boy entered, and, on being shown the portrait,at once said to the manager--
"Why, sir, that's the lady who went away with the gentleman who spoketo me!"
"Who was he?" I demanded eagerly. "What did he say? What was he like?"
"Well, sir, it was like this," replied the boy. "About a quarter of anhour before the curtain fell last night I was out in the vestibule,when a tall dark gentleman, with his hair slightly grey and nomoustache, came up to me with a lady's cloak in his hand--a dark blueone. He told me that when the audience came out a fair young ladywould come up to me for the cloak, as she wanted to get away veryquickly, and did not want to wait her turn at the cloak-room. Therewas a car--a big grey car--waiting for her outside."
"Then her flight was all prepared!" I exclaimed. "What was the manlike?"
"He struck me as being a gentleman, yet his clothes seemed shabby andill-fitting. Indeed, he had a shabby-genteel look, as though he were abit down on his luck."
"He was in evening clothes?"
"No, sir. In a suit of brown tweeds."
"Well, what happened then?"
"I waited till the curtain fell, and then I stood close to thebox-office with the cloak over my arm. There was a big crush, as itwas then raining hard. Suddenly a young lady wearing a creamtheatre-wrap came up to me hastily, and asked me to help her on withthe cloak. This I did, and next moment the man in tweeds joined her. Iheard him say, 'Come along, dear, we haven't a moment to lose,' andthen they went out to the car. That's all I know, sir."
I was silent for a few moments. Who was this secret lover, I wondered?The lad's statement had come as an amazing revelation to me.
"What kind of car was it?" I asked.
"A hired car, sir," replied the intelligent boy. "I've seen it herebefore. It comes, I think, from a garage in Wardour Street."
"You would know the driver?"
"I think so, sir."
It was therefore instantly arranged that the lad should go with meround to the garage, and there try to find the man who drove the greycar on the previous night.
In this we were quickly successful. On entering the garage therestood, muddy and dirty, a big grey landaulette, which the boy at onceidentified as the one in which Sylvia had escaped. The driver was soonfound, and he explained that it was true he had been engaged on theprevious night by a tall, clean-shaven gentleman to pick up at theColiseum. He did so, and the gentleman entered with a lady.
"Where did you drive them?" I asked quickly.
"Up the Great North Road--to the George Hotel at Stamford, about ahundred miles from London. I've only been back about a couple ofhours, sir."
"The George at Stamford!" I echoed, for I knew the hotel, a quiet,old-fashioned, comfortable place much patronized by motorists to andfro on the north road.
"You didn't stay there?"
"Only just to get a drink and fill up with petrol. I wanted to getback. The lady and gentleman were evidently expected, and seemed in agreat hurry."
"Why?"
"Well, near Alconbury the engine was misfiring a little, and I stoppedto open the bonnet. When I did so, the lady put her head out of thewindow, highly excited, and asked how long we were likely to bedelayed. I told her; then I heard her say to the gentleman, 'If theyare away before we reach there, what shall we do?'"
"Then they were on their way to meet somebody or other--eh?"
"Ah! that I don't know, sir. I drew up in the yard of the hotel, andthey both got out. The lady hurried in, while the gentleman paid me,and gave me something for myself. It was then nearly four o'cloc
k inthe morning. I should have been back earlier, only I had a puncturethe other side of Hatfield, and had to put on the 'Stepney.'"
"I must go to Stamford," I said decisively. Then I put something intohis palm, as well as into that of the page-boy, and, entering a taxi,drove back home.
An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur, as we drove through thesteadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath, on our hundred-milejourney into Lincolnshire.
We both knew every inch of the road, having been over it many times.As it was wet, police-traps were unlikely, so, having negotiated thenarrow road as far as Hatfield, we began to "let her out" pastHitchin, and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stiltonvillage. We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford, but abouthalf-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hillbeneath the high wall of Burghley Park, and saw beneath us the roofsand many spires of quiet old Stamford.
Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George, and,alighting, entered the broad hall, with its splendid old oakstaircase, in search of the manageress.
She related a rather curious story.
On the previous night, about eleven o'clock, there arrived by car twowell-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together inFrench. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that theyexpected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in thenight. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of thehotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latterstated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, hesaw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examiningsomething which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to bediamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept awatchful eye upon the pair.
One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed--the exactdescription of Pennington--and the other description the manafterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second manwas none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece ofchicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?
"About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir," went on theboots, "and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in,and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that Ishould not understand, they again started talking in some foreignlanguage--French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentlemancame in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name ofLewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heardhim exclaim: 'By Jove! old man, you can't think how glad we are to seeyou back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another singleliving man would have acted with the determination and bravery withwhich you've acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man--deucedcareful. There are enemies about, you know.' Then the gentleman said:'I know! I'm quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrowshave in Paris a short time ago--I hear from Sonia.' 'Yes,' laughedthe other, 'she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very closething. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?' he asked. The other said: 'Hemet me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me allthat's happened.' 'Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?' heasked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding:'It's a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph--a very bad job for thefellow!' That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time,for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas."
"And what else did you see or hear?" I asked eagerly, much puzzled byhis statement.
"They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir," the man said. "AfterI had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed tohold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two mendrove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I toldhim he was--for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name ofDouglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to theconference."
"Rather curious--to hold a conference in such a manner and at such anhour!" I remarked.
"Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke inanother language. The two men who last arrived were no doubtforeigners."
"Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?" I inquiredquickly.
Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Page 25