The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

prefer to be alone," I added harshly.

  "Very well," he answered, rather piqued; "if you wish I'll, of course,go."

  "Yes, go; and don't return till I send for you. Understand that! I'min no humour to be fooled, or told that I'm a lunatic."

  He shrugged his shoulders, and muttering some words I did not catch,turned and left the library.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

  BROKEN THREADS.

  He is a faint-hearted creature indeed who, while struggling along somedark lane of life, cannot, at least intermittently, extract some comfortto himself from the thought that the turn must come at last--the turnwhich, presumably, will bring him out upon the well-metalled high-roadof happy contentment.

  I do not know that I was exactly faint-hearted. The mystery of it allhad so stunned me that I felt myself utterly incapable of believinganything. The whole thing seemed shadowy and unreal.

  And yet the facts remained that I was alive, standing there in thatcomfortable room, in possession of all my faculties, both mental andphysical, an entirely different person to my old self, with six years ofmy past lost and unaccountable.

  Beyond the lawn the shadow of the great trees looked cool and inviting,therefore I went forth, wandering heedlessly across the spacious park,my mind full of thoughts of that fateful night when I had fallen amongthat strange company, and of Mabel, the woman I had loved so fondly anddevotedly.

  Sweet were the recollections that came back to me. How charming she hadseemed to me as we had lingered hand-in-hand on our walks across thePark and Kensington Gardens, how soft and musical her voice! how full oftenderness her bright dark eyes! How idyllic was our love! She hadsurely read my undeclared passion. She had known the great secret in myheart.

  Nevertheless, all had changed. In a woman's life half a dozen years isa long time, for she may develop from girl to matron in that space. Theworst aspect of the affair presented itself to me. I had, in allprobability, left her without uttering a word of farewell, and she--onher part--had, no doubt, accepted some other suitor. What more natural,indeed, than she should have married?

  That thought held me rigid.

  Again, as I strolled on beneath the rustling elms which led straightaway in a wide old avenue towards where a distant village church stood,a prominent figure in the landscape, there recurred to me vividrecollections of that last night of my old self--of the astoundingdiscovery I had made in the drawing-room at The Boltons.

  How was I to account for that?

  I paused and glanced around upon the view. All was quiet and peacefulthere in the mid-day sunlight. Behind me stood the great white facadeof Denbury; before, a little to the right, lay a small village with itswhite cottages--the villages of Littleham, I afterwards discovered--andto the left white cliffs and the blue stretch of the English Channelgleaming through the greenery.

  From the avenue I turned and wandered down a by-path to a stile, andthere I rested, in full uninterrupted view of the open sea. Deep belowwas a cove--Littleham Cove, it proved to be--and there, under shelter ofthe cliffs, a couple of yachts were riding gaily at anchor, while faraway upon the clear horizon a dark smoke-trail showed the track of asteamer outward bound.

  The day was brilliant. It was July in Devonshire, that fairest of allcounties--and July there is always a superb month. The air, warm andbalmy, was laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle, the onlysounds that broke the quiet were the songs of the birds and the softrustling of the trees.

  I sat there trying to decide how to act.

  For the first time it occurred to me that my position was one of acertain peril, for if I did not act with tact and caution, that womanwho called herself my wife, aided by that idiot Britten, might declarethat I was mad, and cause me to be placed beneath restraint. Therefore,to gain my freedom, it was evidently necessary that I should act withdiscretion and keep my own counsel.

  I looked around upon the fair panorama of nature spread before me. Theworld was six years older than when I had known it. What nationalevents had, I wondered, happened in that time? Place yourself in myposition, and picture to yourself the feeling of bewilderment thatovercame me when I reflected upon what might or might not havetranspired.

  There crept over me a longing to escape from that place, the habitationof that awful woman with the powdered cheeks, and to return to London.All my life and pleasure had been centred in the giant capital, and toit I intended now to go back and seek, if possible, the broken thread ofmy history, which might lead me to an elucidation of the marvellousmystery.

  The world around me, the calm blue sea, the cloudless sky, the greengrass-lands, the soft whispering of the foliage seemed so peaceful thatI could scarce believe that so much evil, so much of human malice, couldexist. The tranquillity of my surroundings induced within me a quieterframe of mind, and I set to planning carefully how I might escape andreturn to London.

  To endeavour to do so openly would, I saw, be to draw upon me the spiesof my hideous wife. Was I not believed by all to be insane? Thencertainly I should not be allowed to go at large without some one at myside.

  I wanted to be alone. The presence of a second person entertainingsuspicions as to my sanity would seriously hamper me, and prevent meprosecuting the inquiries I intended to institute regarding my past.No. To escape successfully I should be compelled to fly to London, andonce there alter my appearance and assume another name. Search wouldundoubtedly be made for me, but once in London I felt confident in beingable to foil any efforts of my wife's agents.

  Therefore I sat upon the stile and calmly matured my plans.

  The chiming of a clock, apparently in the turret upon my own stables atDenbury, fell upon my ears. It struck one. Then the sharp ringing of abell--the luncheon-bell--followed.

  Gedge had told me that the place was near Budleigh-Salterton. Was itnear enough, I wondered, for me to walk there, and was there a station?There might, I reflected, be a map in the library. I would be compelledto trace it out and seek my route, for I was absolutely ignorant of thatcorner of Devonshire.

  Yes, my best policy, I decided, was to return to the house, act asindifferently as possible, and meanwhile complete my plans for escape.

  I retraced my steps to the house by the path I had traversed, and uponthe lawn was met by the man Gill, who announced--

  "The luncheon-bell has rung, sir. I hope you feel a little better,sir."

  "Oh, much better," I answered airily, and with an effort atself-possession followed him into the imitation old-oak dining-room,which Gedge had shown me during our tour of the place.

  The woman with the powdered cheeks was already seated at the head of thetable, erect and stately, with an expression of _hauteur_ which illbecame her.

  "I hope you feel better after your walk," she said, as I seated myself.

  "Oh, much better," I responded in a tone of irony. "The pain haspractically passed."

  "You should really rest," she said, in that squeaky, artificial tonewhich so jarred upon my nerves. "Do take the doctor's advice."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to make a further unwriteable remarkregarding the doctor, but I managed to control myself and reply--

  "Yes, I think after luncheon I shall lie down for a little time. Ihave, however, some pressing letters to write first."

  "Let Gedge attend to your correspondence for to-day," she urged, withthat mock juvenility which rendered her so hideously ridiculous.

  "No," I responded. "I have, unfortunately, to attend to severalpressing matters personally. Afterwards I will rest."

  "Do, there's a dear," she said.

  I bit my lip. She nauseated me when she used that affectionate term.The only woman I loved was Mabel Anson, but whether she were stillalive, or whether married, I knew not. The very thought that I wasbound in matrimony to this woman sitting in the high-backed chair ofcarved oak was disgusting. I loathed her.

  How I continued to eat the dishes Gill handed me I know not, nor do Iremember what conversation passed be
tween my pseudo-wife and myself aswe sat there. Many were the abrupt and painful silences which fellbetween us.

  She struck me as an ascetic, strong-minded woman, who, before others,fawned upon me with an affected devotion which in one of her age wasludicrous; yet when we were alone she was rigid and overbearing, withthe positive air of one who believed me far beneath her alike in socialstation and in intellect. When Gill was absent she spoke in a hard,patronising tone, which so angered me that with great difficulty Iretained my temper.

  Yet it was my policy, I knew, to conceal my thoughts, and to lead her tobelieve that the words I had uttered, and my failure to recognise her,were owing to the blow I accidentally received, and that I was now, justas I had been before, her husband.

  What a hollow sham that meal was! Now that I think of it I cannotrefrain from smiling at my extraordinary position, and how I showed herdelicate attention in order to the more impress her of my solicitude forher welfare.

  When at last she rose it was with a hope that I would go to my room andrest.

  I seized that opportunity.

  "I shall," I answered. "But don't let them call me for dinner. I willhave something when I awake. Britten has ordered perfect quiet."

  "Very well," she answered. Then, turning to Gill, she said, "You hear.Mr Heaton is not to be aroused at dinner."

  "Yes, madam," answered the man, bowing as we both passed out.

  At once I walked along to the library, shut the door, and locked it.

  I had much to do to prepare for my flight.

  Yes, as I had expected, there was an ordnance map of the Teignmouthdistrict tacked to the wall; and searching, I quickly found Denburymarked upon it, standing on the Exmouth road over the High Land ofOrcombe, halfway between that place and Budleigh-Salterton. TheSouth-Western Railway ran; I saw, from Exmouth to London, by way ofExeter, and my first impulse was to walk into Exmouth, and take trainthence. The fact that I was probably known at that station occurred tome, therefore I made up my mind to avoid the terminus and join the trainat Lympston, a small station further towards Exeter.

  Taking up my pen I made a rough sketch-plan of my route, which passedLittleham church, then by the left-hand road struck across country,crossing the high-road to Exmouth at right angles, continuing throughthe village of Withycombe Raleigh, and keeping straight on until itjoined the main road to Exeter. At the commencement of the village ofLympston it was necessary, I saw, to turn sharp to the left, and at theend of the road I should find the station, close to the river Exe.

  In order to avoid mistaking the road and entering the town of Exmouth, Imade a full and careful plan, which when completed I placed in mypocket. The distance, I calculated roughly, was between five and sixmiles over a road rather difficult to find without a map.

  Among the books on the table I found a Bradshaw, with the page of localtrains turned down, and from it learned that a train with connexion fromLondon stopped at Lympston at 7:55 p.m., while the train in connexionwith the up-mail from Exeter stopped there at 8:20. The latter Idecided upon taking.

  The fact that I had expressed my desire to sleep would prevent Gillcoming to call me at the dinner hour, and by the time I was missed Ishould be well on my way to London.

  The question of money occurred to me. I had noticed some loose gold anda couple of five-pound notes in one of the drawers which Gedge hadopened, and having a duplicate set of keys in my pocket, I transferredthe whole--a little under fourteen pounds--to my pocket.

  Then I took out my cheque-book. It was too large to be carried in mypocket, therefore I tore out a couple of dozen or so, folded them, andplaced them in an envelope.

  I recognised that I could draw money with them, yet the bank need notknow my whereabouts. If these people, who would, I suppose, callthemselves "my friends," made active search to find the fugitive"madman," they would certainly obtain no clue from my bankers.

  In the same drawer as the cheque-book I found a black leather portfolio,securely locked.

  The latter fact impressed me. Everything else was open to my secretary,who possessed keys, both to writing-table and safe. But this waslocked, apparently because therein were contained certain private papersthat I had wished to keep from his eyes.

  No man, whoever he may be, reposes absolute confidence in his secretary.Every one has some personal matter, the existence of which he desiresto preserve secret to himself alone.

  I drew forth the locked portfolio, and placed it upon the blotting-padbefore me. It was an expansive wallet, of a kind such as I rememberedhaving seen carried by bankers' clerks in the City from bank to bank,attached by chains to the belts around their waists.

  Surely upon my ring I must possess a key to it. I looked, and found asmall brass key.

  It fitted, and a moment later I had unlocked the wallet and spread myown private papers before me.

  What secrets of my lost life, I wondered, might not those carefullypreserved letters and documents contain?

  In eager, anxious wonder I turned them over.

  Next instant a cry of dismay broke involuntarily from my lips, as withintrembling fingers I held one of those papers--a letter addressed to me.

  I could scarce believe my own eyes as I read it. Yet the truth wasplain--hideously plain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

  I MAKE A DISCOVERY.

  Reader, I must take you still further into my confidence. What you havealready read is strange, but certain things which subsequently happenedto me were even still stranger.

  I held that astounding letter in my hand. My eyes were riveted upon it.

  The words written there were puzzling indeed. A dozen times I read themthrough, agape with wonder.

  The communication, upon the notepaper of the _Bath Hotel_ atBournemouth, was dated June 4, 1891--five years before--and ran asfollows:--

  "Dear Mr Heaton,--

  "I very much regret that you should have thus misunderstood me. Ithought when we met at Windermere you were quite of my opinion. You,however, appear to have grown tired after the five months of ourengagement, and your love for me has suddenly cooled; therefore ourpaths in life must in future lie apart. You have at least told me thetruth honestly and straightforwardly. I, of course, believed that yourdeclarations were true, and that you really loved me truly, but alas! itis evidently not so. I can only suffer in silence. Good-bye for ever.We shall never, never meet again. But I tell you, Wilford, that I bearyou no malice, and that my prayers will ever be for your welfare andyour happiness. Perhaps sometimes you will give a passing thought tothe sorrowful, heart-broken woman who still loves you.

  "Mabel Anson."

  What could this mean? It spoke of our engagement for five months! Ihad no knowledge whatever of ever having declared the secret of my love,much less becoming her affianced husband. Was it possible that in thefirst few months of my unconscious life I had met her and told her of myaffection, of how I worshipped her with all the strength of my being?

  As I sat there with the carefully preserved letter in my hand therearose before my eyes a vision of her calm, fair face, bending over thepiano, her handsome profile illumined by the candles on either side, thesingle diamond suspended by its invisible chain, gleaming at her throatlike a giant's eye. The impression I had obtained of her on that nightat The Boltons still remained indelibly with me. Yes, her beauty wassuperb, her sweetness unsurpassed by that of any other woman I had evermet.

  Among the other private papers preserved within the wallet were fourscraps of notepaper with typewriting upon them. All bore the samesignature--that of the strange name "Avel." All of them madeappointments. One asked me to meet the writer in the writing-room ofthe _Hotel Victoria_ in London, another made an appointment to meet me"on the Promenade at Eastbourne opposite the Wish Tower"; a thirdsuggested my office at Winchester House as a meeting-place, and thefourth gave a rendezvous on the departure platform at King's CrossStation.

  I fell to wondering whether I had kept any of these engage
ments. Themost recent of the letters was dated nearly two years ago.

  But the afternoon was wearing on, therefore I placed the puzzlingcommunications in my pocket and ascended to my room in order to rest,and thus carry out the feint of attending to old Britten's directions.

  The dressing-bell awakened me, but, confident in the knowledge that Ishould remain undisturbed, I removed the bandages from my head, bathedthe wound, and applied some plaster in the place of the handkerchief.Then, with my hat on, my injury was concealed.

  The sun was declining when I managed to slip out of the houseunobserved, and set forth down the avenue to Littleham village. Thequaint old place was delightful in the evening calm, but, heedless ofeverything, I hurried forward down the hill to Withycombe Raleigh, andthence straight across the open country to Lympston station, where Itook a third-class ticket for Exeter. At a wayside station a passengerfor London is always remarked, therefore I only booked as far as thejunction with the main-line.

  At Exeter I found that the up-mail was not due for ten minutes,therefore I telegraphed to London for a room at the _Grand Hotel_, andafterwards bought some newspapers with which to while away the journey.

  Sight of newspapers dated six years later than those I had last seenaroused within me a lively curiosity. How incredible it all seemed asin that dimly lit railway-carriage I sat gathering from those printedpages the history of the lost six years of my life!

  The only other occupant of the compartment besides myself was a woman.I had sought an empty carriage, but failing to find one, was compelledto accept her as travelling companion. She was youngish, perhapsthirty-five, and neatly dressed, but her face, as far as I coulddistinguish it through her spotted veil, was that of a woman melancholyand bowed down by trouble. In her dark hair were premature threads ofsilver, and her deep-sunken eyes, peering forth strangely at me, werethe eyes of a woman rendered desperate.

  I did not like the look of her. In travelling one is quick