face.
"Certainly not. You can be perfectly open and straightforward with me,surely."
"Then I want you to do something--although I'm almost afraid to askyou."
"And what's that?"
"I have no one else I can trust, Wilfrid, as I trust you. You are a manof honour and I am an honest woman, even though my enemies havewhispered their calumnies regarding me. You are my friend; if you werenot I surely dare not ask you to help me in this," and her voicefaltered as she averted her gaze. "I want you--I want you to pretendthat you are my husband."
"Your husband," I exclaimed, staring at her.
"Yes," she cried quickly. "To place myself in a position of safety Imust first live in a crowded part of London where I can efface myidentity; and secondly, for appearances' sake, as well as for anotherand much stronger motive, I must have a husband. Will you, Wilfrid,pretend to be mine?"
Her request utterly nonplussed me, and she noticed my hesitation.
"If you will only consent to go into hiding with me I can escape," sheurged, quickly. "You can easily contrive to live in Bolton Street andpose as my husband in another part of the world; while I--well, I simplydisappear. There will be a loud hue and cry after me, of course, butwhen I'm not found, the mater and the others will simply put mydisappearance down to my eccentricity. They will never connect us, foryou will take good care to be seen in London leading your usual life,and indeed seriously troubled over my disappearance. They will neversuspect."
"But why must you appear to have a husband?" I asked, extremelypuzzled.
"I have a reason--a strong one," she answered, earnestly. "I haveenemies, and my hand will be strengthened against them the instant theybelieve that I have married."
"That may be so," I said, dubiously. "But where do you suggest takingup your abode?"
"Camberwell would be a good quarter," she responded. "There is a largeworking-class population there. We could take furnished apartments withsome quiet landlady. You are a compositor on one of the morningnewspapers, and are out at work all night. Sometimes, too, you have towork overtime--I think they call it--and then you are away the greaterpart of the day also. I don't want you to tie yourself to me too much,you see," she added, smiling. "We shall give out that we've beenmarried a year, and by your being a compositor, your absence won't beremarked. So you see you can live in Bolton Street just the same, andpay me a daily visit to Camberwell, just to cheer me up."
"But surely you could never bear life in a back street, Tibbie," I said,looking at her utterly bewildered at her suggestion. "You would have towear print dresses, cook, and clean up your rooms."
"And don't you think I know how to do that?" she asked. "Just seewhether I can't act the working-man's wife if you will only help to saveme from--from the awful fate that threatens me. Say you will, Wilfrid,"she gasped, taking my hand again. "You will not desert me now, willyou? Remember you are the only friend I dare go to in my presenttrouble. You will not refuse to be known in Camberwell as my husband--will you?"
I was silent. Was any living man ever placed in dilemma more difficult?What could I reply? That she was in real deep earnest I saw from herwhite, drawn countenance. The dark rings around her eyes told their owntale. She was desperate, and she declared that by acting as shesuggested I could save her.
The dead, staring, clean-shaven countenance of that man in the woodarose before me, and I held my breath, my eyes fixed upon hers.
She saw that I hesitated to compromise her and implicate myself.
Then slowly she raised my hand to her lips and kissed it, saying in astrange voice, so low that I hardly caught the words,--
"Wilfrid, I--I can tell you no more. My life is entirely in your hands.Save me, or--or I will kill myself. I dare not face the truth. Giveme my life. Do whatever you will. Suspect me; hate me; spurn me as Ideserve, but I crave mercy of you--I crave of you life--life!"
And releasing me she stood motionless, her hands clasped insupplication, her head bent, not daring to look me again in the face.
What could I think? What, reader, would you have thought? How wouldyou have acted in such circumstances?
CHAPTER SEVEN.
IN WHICH I PLAY A DANGEROUS GAME.
Well--I agreed.
Yes--I agreed to pose as the hard-working compositor upon a dailynewspaper and husband of the Honourable Sybil Burnet, the woman by whosehand the unknown man had fallen.
At first I hesitated, refusing to compromise her, yet she had fallenupon her knees imploring me to help her, and I was bound to fulfil thepromise I had so injudiciously made.
There was no love between us now, she had declared. The flame hadflickered and died out long ago.
"If you will only consent to act as though I were your wife, then I maybe able to save myself," she urged. "You will do so, will you not?"
"But why?" I had asked. "I cannot see how our pretended marriage canassist you?"
"Leave it all to me," was her confident reply. "One day you willdiscern the reason."
And then, with tears in her beautiful eyes, and kneeling at my feet, shebegged again of me to act as she suggested and thus save her life.
So I consented. Yes--you may say that I was foolish, that I wasinjudicious, that I was still beneath the spell of her exquisite graceand matchless beauty. Perhaps I was: yet I tell you that at the momentso stunned was I by the tragedy, by what Eric had revealed, and by hermidnight visit, that I hardly knew what I did.
"Very well, Sybil," I said at last. "Let it be so. I will help you toescape, and I will act as though I were your husband. For your sake Iwill do this, although I tell you plainly that I see in it a grave anddeadly peril."
"There is a far greater peril if I remain unmarried," she answered."You recollect my question this afternoon. I asked whether you wouldnot really marry me. I asked because I feared that the blow might fall,and that I should have to seek protection."
"And the blow has fallen?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered, in a low, desperate voice. "And were it not foryou I--I should go to my room now and kill myself, Wilfrid! You,however, have promised to save me. There is no time to lose. I mustget away at once. You will help me to get out the car?"
"Of course. And you will take Mason? You must take her," I added.
"Why?"
"Because it is dangerous for her to remain here. She may raise thealarm," I said, rather lamely. "Take my advice and carry her with youdown to Bournemouth."
"Very well," she answered, hurriedly, and raising my hand to her softlips, kissed it before I could prevent her, and said, "Wilfrid, let methank you. You have given me back my life. An hour ago I was in myroom and made preparations to bid adieu to everything. But I thought ofyou--my last and only chance of salvation. Ah! you do not know--no,no--I--I can never tell you! I can only give you the thanks of adesperate and grateful woman!" And then she slipped out, promising tomeet me again there with Mason in a quarter of an hour.
I crept back to my room, and when I had closed the door Eric steppedfrom his hiding-place.
"She intends to fly," I explained. "She is going away on the car, and Ihave persuaded her to take Mason."
"On the car? At this hour?"
In brief I explained all that had taken place between us, and helistened to me in silence till the end.
"What?" he cried. "You are actually going to make people believe thatyou're her husband?"
"I'm going to make people in Camberwell believe it," I answered.
"But isn't that a very dangerous bit of business?" he queried. "Supposeany of her people knew it. What would be said?"
I only shrugged my shoulders.
"Well," he remarked at last, "please yourself, old chap, but I can'thelp thinking that it's very unwise. I can't see either how beingmarried protects her in the least."
"Nor can I. Yet I've resolved to shield her, and at the same time totry and solve the mysterious affair, therefore, I'm bound to adopt hersugg
estions. She must get away at once, and we must get Mason out ofthe neighbourhood--those two facts are plain. The motor will run downthe avenue without any noise, so she'll be miles away when the householdawake."
"Where's she going?"
I told him, and he agreed that my suggestion had been a good one.
Leaving him in my room, I crept again down the corridor, and presentlyboth she and Mason came noiselessly along in the dark. My little friendhad on a thick box-cloth motor coat with fur collar, a motor-cap and hergoggles hanging round her neck, while Mason, who often went in the carwith her, had also a
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