The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

led me to the beliefthat she was aware of his death. If he were dead, then certainly hewould no longer be her friend.

  Her sudden and abject amazement at seeing the pencil in my hand; herexclamation of surprise; her eagerness to examine it; all were factswhich showed plainly that she knew that it remained no longer in hispossession, and was yet dumbfounded to find it in my hand. Had she notalso regarded me with evident suspicion? Perhaps, having identified herpresent, she suspected me of foul play?

  The thought held me petrified. For aught I knew she might be well awareof that man's tragic end, and the discovery of part of his property inmy possession was to her evidence that I had committed murder.

  My position was certainly growing serious. I detected in the ratherformal manner in which she took leave of me a disinclination to shake myhand. Perhaps she believed it to be the hand of the murderer. Indeed,my declaration that I had found that incriminating object was in itselfsufficient to strengthen her suspicion if, as seemed quite probable, shewas aware of her friend's tragic end. Yet I had really found it. Itwas no lie. I had found it in his pocket, and taken it as a clue bywhich afterwards to identify him.

  Now, if it were true that the man who had been struck dead at my sidewas actually Mabel's friend, then I was within measurable distance ofelucidating the mystery of that fateful night and ascertaining theidentity of the mysterious Edna, and also of that ruler of my destiny,who corresponded with me under the pseudonym of "Avel."

  This thought caused me to revert to that hour when I had sat upon theseat in the Park, keeping a tryst with some person unknown. Seated inthe corner of the railway-carriage I calmly reflected. More than acoincidence it seemed that at the moment my patience became exhausted,and I rose to leave the spot my mysterious correspondent had appointedfor the meeting, I should have come face to face with the woman whosegrace and beauty held me beneath their spell. For some purpose--what Iknew not--I had been sent to that particular seat to wait. I hadremained there in vain, smoking a dozen cigarettes, reading through mypaper even to the advertisements, or impatiently watching every personwho approached, yet the moment I rose I encountered the very person forwhom I had for days past been in active search.

  Had Mabel's presence there any connexion with the mysterious order whichI had obeyed? Upon this point I was filled with indecision. First,what possible connecting link could there be between her naturalmovements and the letter from that unknown hand? As far as I coulddiscern there was absolutely none, I tried to form theories, but failed.I knew that Mabel attended at the Royal Academy of Music, and what wasmore natural than that she should cross the Park on her way home? Herway did not lie along the path where I had kept such a watchful vigil,and had I not risen and passed towards Grosvenor Gate at that moment weshould not have met. There, indeed, seemed no possible combinationbetween the request I had received from my unknown correspondent and herpresence there. In my wild imaginings I wondered whether she wereactually the woman whom in my blindness I had known as Edna, but nextinstant flouted the idea.

  The voice, the touch, the hand, all were different. Again, her personalappearance was not at all that of the woman described by West, thecabman who had driven me home after my strange adventures.

  No; she could not be Edna.

  As the train roared through the stifling tunnels City-wards, I strove toarrive at some decision. Puzzled and perplexed at the various phasespresented by the enigma which ever grew more and more complicated, Ifound any decision an extremely difficult matter. I am not a man givento forming theories upon insufficient evidence, nor jumping to immatureconclusions, therefore I calmly and carefully considered each fact inits sequence as related in this narrative. The absence of motives inseveral instances prevented any logical deduction. Nevertheless, Icould not somehow prevent a suspicion arising within me that theappointment made by my anonymous correspondent had some remote connexionwith my meeting with the woman who had so suddenly come into my life--amere suspicion, it is true, but the fact that no one had appeared tokeep the appointment strengthened it considerably.

  Whenever I thought of Mabel, recollections of Channing's strangeadmonition arose within me. Why had he uttered that warning ere I hadbeen acquainted with her a few hours? To say the least, it wasextraordinary. And more especially so as he refused to give anyexplanation of his reasons.

  The one dark spot in my life, now that I had recovered my sight, was theever-present recollection of that midnight tragedy. Its remembranceheld me appalled when I thought of it. And when I reflected upon my ownculpability in not giving information to the police, and that in allprobability this neglect of mine had allowed the assassin to escape scotfree, I was beside myself with vexation and regret. My thoughts forever tortured me, being rendered the more bitter by the reflection thatI had placed myself in the power of one who had remained concealed, andwhose identity was inviolable.

  As I declared in the opening of the narrative, it seems almostincredible that in these end-of-the-century-days a man could findhimself in such a plight, surrounded by mysterious enemies, and held inbondage by one unknown and unrevealed. Laboriously I tried to unravelthe tangled skein of events and so extricate myself, but, tired with theovertask, I found that the mystery grew only more inscrutable.

  The woman I loved--the woman to whom I had fondly hoped some day erelong to make the declaration of the secret of my heart--had discoveredin my possession an object which might well be viewed as evidence of afoul and cowardly crime. I feared--indeed, I felt assured--that hersweet sympathy had, in an instant, been turned to hatred.

  I loved her. I adored her with all the strength of my being, and I knewthat without her my life, in the future must only be an aimless blank.In the sweetest natures there can be no completeness and consistencywithout moral energy, and that Mabel possessed it was plainly shown. Inher confidences with me as we traversed the Park and Kensington Gardensshe had shown, with the most perfect artfulness, that she had thatinstinctive unconscious address of her sex which always renders a womandoubly charming. Persons who unite great sensibility and lively fancypossess unconsciously the power of placing themselves in the position ofanother and imagining rather than perceiving what is in their hearts. Afew women possess this faculty, but men never. It is not inconsistentwith extreme simplicity of character, and quite distinct from that kindof art which is the result of natural acuteness and habits ofobservation--quick to perceive the foibles of others, and as quick toturn them to its own purpose; which is always conscious of itself, andif united with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others.

  In her chat with me she had no design formed or conclusion previouslydrawn, but her intuitive quickness of feeling, added to her imagination,caused her to half-confide in me her deep sorrow. Her compassionatedisposition, her exceeding gentleness, which gave the prevailing tone toher character, her modesty, her tenderness, her grace, her almostethereal refinement and delicacy, all showed a true poetic naturewithin, while her dark, fathomless eyes betrayed that energy of passionwhich gave her character its concentrated power.

  Was it any wonder, even though she might have been betrayed into amomentary tergiversation, that I bowed down and worshipped her? She wasmy ideal; her personal beauty and the tender sweetness of her characterwere alike perfect. Therefore my love for her was a passion--thatheadlong vehemence, that fluttering and hope, fear and transport, thatgiddy intoxication of heart and sense which belongs to the novelty oftrue love which we feel once, and but once, in our lives.

  Yet I was held perplexed and powerless by her unexpected andunacknowledged identification of that clue to the unknown dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  A REVELATION.

  Although many days passed, no word of apology came from my mysteriouscorrespondent for not having kept the appointment. I watched every postfor nearly a fortnight, and as I received no explanation, my suspicionregarding Mabel's connexion with the strange affair became, of course,strengthened.

  With heart-sin
king I had taken leave of her on the kerb in KensingtonHigh Street on that well-remembered evening, feeling that the likelihoodof our frequent meeting was very remote, especially now that sheapparently held me in suspicion. In this case, however, I was mistaken,for within a week we met again quite accidentally in Bond Street, and,finding her disposed to accept my companionship, I accompanied hershopping, and spent an extremely pleasant afternoon. Her mother wasrather unwell, she explained, and that accounted for her being alone.

  She was dressed entirely in black, but with a quiet elegance that wassurprising. I had never known before that day how smart and _chic_ awoman could appear in a gown of almost funereal aspect. Her mannertowards me retained nothing of its previous suspicion; she was brightand merry, without that cloud of unhappiness that had so strangelyovershadowed her on the last occasion we had been together. Shepossessed a clever wit, and gossiped and joked amusingly as we went fromshop to shop, ordering fruit for dessert, and flowers