Whatsoever a Man Soweth

by William Le Queux

circle, had now all given place to aquietness of manner and a thoughtful seriousness that utterly amazed me.In her peril, whatever it was, the stern realities of life had risenbefore her. She no longer looked at men and things throughrose-coloured spectacles, she frankly admitted to me, but now saw thegrim seriousness of life around her.

  Dull drab Camberwell had been to her an object-lesson, showing her thatthere were other peoples and other spheres beside that gay world aroundGrosvenor Square, or bridge parties at country houses. Yet she had,alas! learned the lesson too late. Misfortune had fallen upon her, andnow she was crushed, hopeless, actually seriously contemplating suicide.

  This latter fact caused me the most intense anxiety.

  Apparently her interview with Arthur Rumbold's mother had caused her todecide to take her life. The fact of Parham having found her in Glasgowwas, of course, a serious _contretemps_, but the real reason of herdecision to die was the outcome of her meeting with Mrs Rumbold.

  What had passed between the two women? Was their meeting at FortWilliam a pre-arranged one, or was it accidental? It must have beenpre-arranged, or she would scarcely have gone in the opposite directionto that of which she left word for me.

  The situation was now growing more serious every moment. As we stoodtogether there I asked her to release me from my imposture as herhusband, but at the mere suggestion she cried,--

  "Ah! no, Wilfrid! You surely will not desert me now--just at the momentwhen I most need your protection."

  "But in what way can this pretence of our marriage assist you?"

  "It does--it will," she assured me. "You do not know the truth, or mymotive would be quite plain to you. I have trusted you, and I stilltrust in you that you will not desert or betray me."

  "Betray you? Why, Tibbie, what are you saying?" I asked, surprised.Could I betray her? I admired her, but I did not love her. How could Ilove her when I recollected the awful charge against her?

  "Do you suspect that I would play you false, as some of your friendshave done?" I asked, looking steadily into her fine eyes.

  "No, no; forgive me, Wilfrid," she exclaimed earnestly, returning mygaze. "I sometimes don't know what I am saying. I only mean that--youwill not leave me."

  "And yet you asked me to go back to London only a few minutes ago!" Isaid in a voice of reproach.

  "I think I'm mad!" she cried. "This mystery is so puzzling, soinscrutable, and so full of horror that it is driving me insane."

  "Then to you also it is a mystery!" I cried, utterly amazed at herwords. "I thought you were fully aware of the whole truth."

  "I only wish I knew it. If so, I might perhaps escape my enemies. Butthey are much too ingenious. They have laid their plans far too well."

  She referred, I supposed, to the way in which those scoundrels hadforced money from her by threats. She was surely not alone in herterrible thraldom. The profession of the blackmailer in London isperhaps one of the most lucrative of criminal callings, and also one ofthe safest for the criminal. A demand can cleverly insinuate withoutmaking any absolute threat, and the blackmailer is generally a perfectpast-master of his art. The general public can conceive no idea of thewidespread operations of the thousands of these blackguards in allgrades of society. When secrets cannot be discovered, cunning traps areset for the unwary, and many an honest man and woman is at this momentat the mercy of unscrupulous villains, compelled to pay in order to hushup some affair of which they are in reality entirely innocent. No oneis safe. From the poor squalid homes of Whitechapel to the big mansionsof Belgravia, from garish City offices to the snug villadom of Norwood,from fickle Finchley to weary Wandsworth, the blackmailer takes histoll, while it is calculated that nearly half the suicides reportedannually in London are of those who take their own lives rather thanface exposure. The "unsound mind" verdict in many instances merelycovers the grim fact that the pockets of the victim have been draineddry by those human vampires who, dressed smugly and passing asgentlemen, rub shoulders with us in society of every grade.

  I looked at Sybil, and wondered what was the strange secret which shehad been compelled to hush up. Those letters I had filched from thedead man were all sufficient proof that she was a victim. But what wasthe story? Would she ever tell me? I looked at her sweet, beautifulface, and wondered. We moved on again, slowly skirting the picturesquelake. She would not allow me to release myself from my bond, declaringthat I must still pose as William Morton, compositor.

  "But everyone knows we are not married," I said. "Mrs Rumbold, forinstance!"

  "Not everyone. There are some who believe it, or they would nothesitate to attack me," was her vague and mysterious response.

  "For my own part, Tibbie, I think we've carried the masquerade on quitelong enough. I'm beginning to fear that Jack, or some of his friends,may discover us. Your description is circulated by the police,remember; besides, my prolonged absence has already been commented uponby your people. Jack and Wydcombe have been to my rooms half a dozentimes, so Budd says."

  "No. They will not discover us," she exclaimed, quite confidently.

  "But walking here openly, and travelling up and down the country isreally inviting recognition," I declared. "You were recognised, you'llremember, in Carlisle, and again in Glasgow. To-morrow you may be seenby one of your friends who will wire to Jack. And if we are foundtogether--what then?"

  "What then?" she echoed. "Why, I should be found with the man who is mybest--my only friend."

  "But a scandal would be created. You can't afford to risk that, youknow."

  "No," she answered slowly in a low, hard voice, "I suppose you areright, I can't. Neither can you, for the matter of that. Yes," sheadded, with a deep sigh, "it would be far better for me, as well as foryou, if I were dead."

  I did not reply. What could I say? She seemed filled by a darkforeboding of evil, and her thoughts now naturally reverted to theaction over which she had perhaps for weeks or months been brooding.

  I had endeavoured to assist her for the sake of our passionate idylliclove of long ago, but all was in vain, I said. I recognised that sooneror later she must be discovered, and the blow--the exposure of herterrible crime--must fall. And then?

  She had killed the man who had held her in thraldom. That was anundoubted fact. Eric had fully explained it, and could testify to thedeed, although he would, I knew, never appear as witness against her.The unknown blackguard scorning her defiance had goaded her to a frenzyof madness, and she had taken her revenge upon the cowardly scoundrel.

  Could she be blamed? In taking a life she had committed a crime beforeGod and man, most certainly. The crime of murder can never be pardoned,yet in such circumstances surely the reader will bear with me forregarding her action with some slight degree of leniency--with what ourFrench neighbours would call extenuating circumstances.

  And the more so when I recollected what the dead unknown had written tohis accomplice in Manchester. The fellow had laid a plot, but he hadfailed. The woman alone, unprotected and desperate, had defendedherself, and he had fallen dead by her hand.

  In my innermost heart I decided that he deserved the death.

  Why Ellice Winsloe had recognised the body was plain enough now. Thetwo men were friends--and enemies of Sybil Burnet.

  I clenched my fingers when I thought of the dangerous man who was stillposing as the chum of young Lord Scarcliff, and I vowed that I wouldlive to avenge the wrong done to the poor trembling girl at my side.

  She burst into hot tears again when I declared that it would be betterfor us to return again to the obscurity of Camberwell.

  "Yes," she sobbed. "Act as you think best, Wilfrid. I am entirely inyour hands. I am yours, indeed, for you saved my life on--on that nightwhen I fled from Ryhall."

  We turned into the town again through Gallowgate when she had dried hereyes, and had lunch at a small eating-house in New Bridge Street, sheafterwards returning to her hotel to pack, for we had decided to takethe afternoon tra
in up to King's Cross.

  She was to meet me at the station at half-past three, and just beforethat hour, while idling up and down Neville Street awaiting the arrivalof her cab, of a sudden I saw the figure of a man in a dark travellingulster and soft felt hat emerge from the station and cross the road toGrainger Street West.

  He was hurrying along, but in an instant something about his figure andgait struck me as familiar; therefore, walking quickly after him at anangle before he could enter Grainger Street, I caught a glimpse of hiscountenance.

  It was John Parham! And he was going in the direction of the DouglasHotel.

  He had again tracked her down with an intention which I knew, alas! toowell could only be a distinctly evil one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

  TAKES ME A STEP FURTHER.

  We were back again in Neate Street, Camberwell.

  In Newcastle we had a very narrow escape. As Parham had walked towardsthe hotel, Sybil had fortunately passed him in a closed cab. On herarrival at the station she was in entire ignorance of the fellow'spresence, and as the train was already in waiting we entered and werequickly on our way to London, wondering by what means Parham couldpossibly have known of her whereabouts.

  Was she watched? Was some secret agent, of whom we were in ignorance,keeping constant observations upon us and reporting our movements to theenemy? That theory was Sybil's.

  "Those men are utterly unscrupulous," she declared as we sat together inthe little upstairs room in Camberwell. "No secret is safe from them,and their spies are far better watchers than the most skilled detectivesof Scotland Yard."

  At that moment Mrs Williams entered, delighted to see us back again,for when we had left, Tibbie had, at my suggestion, paid rent for therooms for a month in advance and explained that we were returning.

  "Two gentlemen came to inquire for you a week ago, Mr Morton," sheexclaimed, addressing me. "They first asked whether Mrs Morton was athome, and I explained that she was away. They then inquired for you,and appeared to be most inquisitive."

  "Inquisitive? About what?" asked my pseudo wife.

  "Oh! all about your private affairs, mum. But I told them I didn't knowanything, of course. One of the men was a foreigner."

  "What did they ask you?" I inquired in some alarm.

  "Oh, how long you'd been with me, where you worked, how long you'd beenmarried--and all that. Most impudent, I call it. Especially as theywere strangers."

  "How did you know they were strangers?"

  "Because they took the photograph of my poor brother Harry to be yours--so they couldn't have known you."

  "Impostors, I expect," I remarked, in order to allay the good woman'ssuspicions. "No doubt they were trying to get some information from youin order to use it for their own purposes. Perhaps to use my wife'sname, or mine, as an introduction somewhere."

  "Well, they didn't get much change out of me, I can tell you," shelaughed. "I told them I didn't know them and very soon showed them thedoor. I don't like foreigners. When I asked them to leave their namesthey looked at each other and appeared confused. They asked where youwere, and I told them you were in Ireland."

  "That's right," I said, smiling. "If they want me they can come hereagain and find me."

  Then, after the landlady had gone downstairs, I asked Tibbie heropinion.

  "Did I not tell you that inquiries would be made to ascertain whether Iwere married?" she said. "The woman evidently satisfied them, for shehas no suspicion of the true state of affairs."

  "Then you are safe?"

  "Safe only for the present. I may be in increased peril to-morrow."

  "And how long do you anticipate this danger to last?" I asked herseriously, as she sat there gazing into the meagre fire.

  "Last! Until my life's end," she answered very sadly. Then turning herwonderful eyes to mine she added, "I know you cannot sacrifice your lifefor me in this way much longer, Wilfrid. Therefore it must end. Yetlife, after all, is very sweet. When I am alone I constantly look backupon my past and recognise how wasted it has been; how I discarded thebenefits of Providence and how from the first, when I came out, I wasdazzled by the glitter, gaiety, and extravagance of our circle. It hasall ended now, and I actually believe I am a changed woman. But it is,alas! too late--too late."

  Those words of hers concealed some extraordinary romance--the romance ofa broken heart. She admitted as much. Why were these men sopersistently hunting her down if they were in no fear of her? It couldonly be some desperate vendetta--perhaps a life for a life!

  What she had said was correct. Mine was now a most invidious position,for while posing as William Morton, I was unable to go to Bolton Streetor even call upon Scarcliff or Wydcombe for fear that Winsloe and hisaccomplices should learn that I was still alive. Therefore I wascompelled to return to the Caledonian Hotel in the Adelphi, where Buddmet me in secret each evening with my letters and necessaries.

  Another week thus went by. The greater part of the day I usually spentwith Tibbie in that dull little room in Neate Street, and sometimes,when the weather was fine, we went to get a breath of air in GreenwichPark or to Lewisham or Dulwich, those resorts of the working-class ofSouth London. At night, ostensibly going to work, I left her and spenthours and hours carefully watching the movements of Ellice Winsloe.

  To Lord Wydcombe's, in Curzon Street, I followed him on severaloccasions, for he had suddenly become very intimate with Wydcombe itappeared, and while I stood on the pavement outside that house I knew sowell my thoughts wandered back to those brilliant festivities whichCynthia so often gave. One night, after Winsloe had dined there, I sawthe brougham come round, and he and Cynthia drove off to the theatre,followed by Jack and Wydcombe in a hansom. On another afternoon Ifollowed Winsloe to the Scarcliffs in Grosvenor Place, and later on sawhim laughing with old Lady Scarcliff at the drawing-room window thatoverlooked Hyde Park Corner. He presented a sleek, well-to-doappearance, essentially that of a gentleman. His frock coat wasimmaculate, his overcoat of the latest cut, and his silk hat alwaysironed to the highest perfection of glossiness.

  Tibbie, of course, knew nothing of my patient watchfulness. I neverwent near my chambers, therefore Ellice and Parham certainly believed medead, while as to Domville's hiding in Paris, I confess I doubted thetruth of the statement of Tibbie's friend. If the poor fellow stilllived he would most certainly have written to me. No! He was dead--without a doubt. He had fallen a victim in that grim house of doom.

  Again and again I tried to find the gruesome place, but in vain. Not astreet nor an alley in the neighbourhood of Regent Street I leftunexplored, yet for the life of me I could not again recognise thehouse. The only plan, I decided, was to follow Parham, who would oneday go there, without a doubt.

  I called on Mrs Parham at Sydenham Hill, and found that her husband wasstill absent--in India, she believed. Miss O'Hara, however, remainedwith her. What connection had the girl with those malefactors? I triedto discern. At all events, she knew their cipher, and they also fearedher, as shown by their actions on that dark night in Dean's Yard.

  My own idea was that Parham was still away in the country. Or, if hewere in London, he never went near Winsloe. The police were in searchof him, as admitted by the inspector at Sydenham, therefore he might atany moment be arrested. But before he fell into the hands of the policeI was determined to fathom the secret of that house of mystery wherein Ihad so nearly lost my life.

  For Tibbie's personal safety I was now in constant and deep anxiety.They were desperate and would hesitate at nothing in order to securetheir own ends. The ingenuity of the plot to seize her in Dean's Yardwas sufficient evidence of that. Fortunately, however, Tibbie had notseen my cipher advertisements.

  Another week passed, and my pretended wife had quite settled down againamid her humble surroundings. It amused me sometimes to see the girl,of whose beauty half London had raved, with the sleeves of her cottonblouse turned up, making a pudding, or kneeling before t
he grate andapplying blacklead with a brush. I, too, helped her to do thehousework, and more than once scrubbed down the table or cleaned thewindows. Frequently we worked in all seriousness, but at times we werecompelled to laugh at each other's unusual occupation.

  And when I looked steadily into those fine, wide-open eyes, I wonderedwhat great secret was hidden there.

  Time after time I tried to learn more of Arthur Rumbold, but she wouldtell me nothing.

  In fear that the fact of her disappearance might find its way into thepapers, she wrote another reassuring letter to her mother, telling herthat she was well and that one day ere long she would return. This Isent to a friend, a college chum, who was wintering in Cairo, and it wasposted from there. Jack naturally sent out a man to Egypt to try andfind her; and in the meantime we allayed all fears that she had met withfoul play.

  Days and weeks went on. In the security of those obscure apartments inNeate Street, that mean thoroughfare which by day resounded with thecries of itinerant costermongers, and at evening was the playground ofcrowds of children, Sybil remained patient, yet anxious. MrsWilliams--who, by the way, had a habit of speaking of her husband as her"old man"--was a kind, motherly soul, who did her best to keep hercompany during my absences, and who performed little services for herwithout thought of payment or reward. The occupation of compositoraccounted not only for my absence each night during the week, but onSunday nights also--to prepare Monday morning's paper, I explained.

  I told everybody that I worked in Fleet Street, but never satisfied themas to which office employed me.