The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

tender sweetness ofa Viola, of the self-possession and intellect of a Portia--combinedtogether so equally and so harmoniously that I could scarcely say thatone quality predominated over the other. Her dignity was imposing, andstood rather upon the defensive; her submission, though unbounded, wasnot passive, and thus she stood wholly distinct in her sweetness fromany woman I had ever met.

  The following day was one on which she was due to take her music-lesson,and I inquired whether I might, as usual, meet her and escort her acrossthe Park.

  "You are really very kind," she responded; "but I fear I take up far toomuch of your time."

  "Not at all," I hastened to assure her. "I always enjoy our walkstogether."

  She smiled, but a moment later said--

  "I fear that I shall be prevented from going to Hanover Squareto-morrow, as I shall be making calls with mother. We've beenneglecting to call of late, and have such a host to make."

  "Then I shan't see you at all to-morrow?" I said in deepdisappointment.

  "No, I fear not," she answered. "As a matter of fact, my movements forthe next few days are rather uncertain."

  "But you'll write and tell me when you are free?" I urged earnestly.

  "If you wish," she responded, smiling sweetly. Apparently she was in nowise averse to my companionship, a fact which had become to me moreapparent now that she had induced her mother to invite me to theirtable.

  I endeavoured to extract from her some appointment, but she onlywhispered--

  "Remember that our meetings are clandestine. Don't let them overhearus. Let's change the subject." And then she began to discuss severalof the latest novels.

  She had apparently a wide knowledge of French fiction, for she explainedhow a friend of hers, an old schoolfellow, who had married a Frenchbaron and lived in Paris, sent her regularly all the notable novels. OfEnglish fiction, too, she was evidently a constant reader, for she toldme much about recent novels that I was unaware of, and criticised stylein a manner which betrayed a deep knowledge of her subject.

  "One would almost think you were a lady novelist, or a book-reviewer," Iremarked, in response to a sweeping condemnation which she maderegarding the style of a much-belauded writer.

  "Well, personally, I like books with some grit in them," she declared."I can't stand either the so-called problem novel, or a storyinterlarded with dialect. If any one wants nasty problems, let themspend a few shillings in the works of certain French writers, who turnout books on the most unwholesome themes they can imagine, and fondlybelieve themselves realists. We don't want these _queue-de-siecle_works in England. Let us stick to the old-fashioned story of love,adventure, or romance. English writers are now beginning to see themistake they once made in trying to follow the French style, and areturning to the real legitimate novel of action--the one that interestsand grips from the first page to the last."

  She spoke sensibly, and I expressed my entire accord with her opinion.But this discussion was only in order to hide our exchange ofconfidences uttered in an undertone while Hickman and the two ladieswere chatting at the further end of the room.

  All the time I was longing to get a sight of the interior of theadjoining apartment, the room whence had burst forth that woman'sagonised cry in the stillness of the night. I racked my brain to findsome means of entering there, but could devise none. A guest can hardlywander over his hostess's house on the first occasion he receives aninvitation. Besides, to betray any interest in the house might, Ireflected, arouse some suspicion. To be successful in these inquirieswould necessitate the most extreme caution.

  The fragrant odour of _peau d'Espagne_ exhaled by her chiffons seemed tohold me powerless.

  The gilt clock with its swinging girl had already struck eleven on itssilver bell, and been re-echoed by another clock in the hall playing theWestminster chimes, when suddenly Mrs Anson, with a book in her hand,looked across to her daughter, saying--

  "Mabel, dear, I've left my glasses on the table in the library. Willyou kindly fetch them for me?"

  In an instant I saw my chance, and, jumping to my feet, offered toobtain them. At first she objected, but finding me determined, said--

  "The library is the next room, there. You'll find them on thewriting-table. Mother always leaves them there. It's really too bad tothus make a servant of you. I'll ring for Arnold."

  "No, no," I protested, and at once went eagerly in search of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  THE INNER ROOM.

  The adjoining room was, I found, in the front part of the house--arather small one, lined on one side with books, but furnished more as aboudoir than a library, for there were several easy-chairs, awork-table, and a piano in a corner. At this instrument the mysteriousplayer had on that night sat executing Chopin's "Andante-Spinato" themoment before it became interrupted by some tragic and unexpectedspectacle. I glanced around and noted that the furniture and carpetwere worn and faded, that the books were dusty and evidently unused, andthat the whole place presented an air of neglect, and had nothingwhatever in keeping with the gorgeousness of the other handsomeapartments.

  The glasses were, as Mrs Anson had said, lying beside the blotting-padupon a small rosewood writing-table. I took them up, and, having made atour of inspection, was about to leave the place, when suddenly, on thetop of some books upon a shelf close to the door, I espied a smallvolume.

  The curious incident of the birthday book occurred to me; therefore Itook down the little volume and found that it really was a birthdaybook. No name was inscribed on the title-page as owner, but there weremany names scribbled therein. In swift eagerness I turned to the pageof my own birthday--the 2nd of July. It was blank.

  I stood pondering with the book still in my hand. The absence of myname there proved one or two things, either I had not signed a birthdaybook at all, or, if I had, it was not the one I had discovered. Now,there are frequently two birthday-books in one house, therefore Iresolved, ere I gave the matter reflection, to prosecute myinvestigations further and ascertain whether there was not a secondbook.

  With this object I made a second tour around the room, noting theposition of every article of furniture. Some music lay scattered besidethe piano, and, on turning it over, I found the actual copy of Chopin's"Andante" which had been played on the night of the tragedy. The coverhad been half torn away, but, on examining it closely beneath the light,I detected plainly a small smear of blood upon it.

  Truly the house was one of mystery. In that room several persons haddrunk champagne on that memorable night when blind Fate led me thither;in that room a woman had, according to the man's shout of alarm, beenfoully done to death, although of this latter fact I was not altogethersure. At any rate, however, it was plain that some tragic event hadpreviously taken place there, as well as in that room beyond where I hadreclined blind and helpless. It was strange also that the apartmentshould remain neglected and undusted, as though the occupantsentertained some dislike to it. But I had been absent long enough, and,returning to the drawing-room with the missing glasses, handed them toMrs Anson.

  Hickman had, in my absence, crossed to Mabel, and was sitting beside herin earnest conversation, therefore I was compelled to seat myself withmy hostess and the Irritating Woman and chat with them. But ere long Icontrived again to reach the side of the woman whom I adored, and toagain press her for an appointment.

  "It is far better forme to write to you," she answered, beneath herbreath. "As I've told you, we have so many calls to make and cards toleave."

  "Your mother tells me that you have a box for the Prince of Wales's onSaturday night, and has asked me to join you," I said. Her eyesbrightened, and I saw that she was delighted at the prospect. But sheexpressed a hope that I wouldn't be bored.

  "Bored!" I echoed. "Why, I'm never bored when in your company. I fearthat it's the other way about--that I bore you."

  "Certainly not," she responded decisively. "I very soon contrive togive persons who are bores their _conge_.
Mother accuses me of rudenessto them sometimes, but I assure you I really can't help being positivelyinsulting. Has mother asked you to dine on Saturday?"

  "Yes," I answered. "But shan't I see you before then?"

  "No; I think it is very unlikely. We'll have a jolly evening onSaturday."

  "But I enjoy immensely those walks across the Park," I blurted forth indesperation.

  "And I also," she admitted with a sweet frankness. "But this week it isutterly impossible to make any arrangements."

  Mention of the theatre afforded me an opportunity of putting to her aquestion upon which, during the past couple of hours, I had reflecteddeeply.

  "You've, of course, been to the Exhibition