“What – you will leave me because of this?” she moaned, with a wild, hysterical cry. “Why don’t you go a step further – why don’t you say at once you are tired of me?” she cried, with an outburst of passion. “Say that you wish me dead.”
“That would be untrue,” I answered. “You know well I have lived only for you, Vera, and at nothing should I rejoice more than to be able to prove myself mistaken; yet, until that can be done, we must separate.”
She was grave and thoughtful for a moment, then, looking into my face, said haughtily:
“If you are determined upon this step, I am powerless to prevent it.”
“No, you are not,” I asserted.
“Why?”
“Because you might answer satisfactorily the questions I put to you just now.”
“No; no, anything but that,” she replied promptly, as with a frantic gesture she covered her face with her hands, continuing, “It – it would be far better for us to part, or the result – the result – might prove fatal.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded incredulously, as the mystery of the seal recurred to me.
“I mean that my secret must be kept, even if we part,” she gasped, with a futile endeavour to compose herself.
“This is your final decision, then?”
“Alas! it must be.”
“Very well, Vera, I wish you adieu,” I said sadly, for I was completely broken-hearted at the thought of my idol’s deceit, and the transparent subterfuges by which she had endeavoured to conceal her guilt. “We have been happy during the few months of our wedded life, but that is a thing of the past. Henceforth mine will be a dark, hopeless existence, while yours, I trust, may be as pleasant as it has hitherto been; for though you have dishonoured me, I love you too well, even now, to wish any calamity should ever befall you.”
“No, Frank, don’t leave me. I could not bear it!” she shrieked, bursting into a torrent of tears. “I have told you the truth – I have, by heaven! It is my terrible misfortune that I am unable to explain who that man was, and from the same cause it has not been possible for me to acquaint you with anything relating to my past. Wait patiently for a little, and I promise you faithfully – I swear you shall know everything.”
She was terribly in earnest, I could see; her whole future depending upon my decision that moment. It was the secret of her life I was anxious to learn beyond anything, and I asked:
“How long must I wait?”
She gazed at me for a few seconds blankly, apparently making some calculation.
“Three weeks. Wait till then before you condemn me – do, I implore of you!”
What ingenious motive could there be in thus gaining time, I asked myself. Could it be that in three weeks’ time the murderer would be safely out of the country?
This seemed more than probable.
I felt half inclined to demand an immediate explanation or carry out the alternative, when, on a moment’s reflection, I resolved not to resort to extremes without giving her an opportunity of disproving my allegations.
“Very well,” I said impatiently, at last; “the matter shall rest for the present; but this day three weeks I shall be prepared – I shall expect to hear a complete explanation. Bear that in mind.”
As I spoke the door had opened noiselessly, and Demetrius, with an expectant expression on his good-humoured face, and a cigarette in his mouth, stood upon the threshold.
Vera, who had been awaiting my reply with breathless agitation, murmured in a low, intense voice, “In three weeks you shall know all, I – promise – you,” and before I could save her she had swayed forward helplessly and fallen full length in a dead swoon.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Demetrius; “why, what has happened?” as he rushed forward in consternation and assisted me to lift her upon the couch.
“Nothing,” I replied. “A little difference of opinion between us, that’s all;” and ringing the bell violently to summon the servants, I left the room without further utterance.
Chapter Twenty One
Storms of Fate
It will readily be imagined that it was in no amiable state of mind I left the house. Distraction was what I wanted – distraction from thoughts of the sad events which had just transpired, and which threatened to wreck all the hopes of wedded happiness I had founded upon Vera’s supposed love for me. It was a bitter experience of the vanity of human pleasures, and was one more proof of the falsity and hollowness of her whom I had loved more than life itself.
Determined to leave the Dene and rid myself of these remorseful thoughts, I jammed on my hat and rushed from the house.
While walking down the drive the postman passed me, bearing the second delivery of letters. The sight of him recalled to my mind the fact that, in the midst of the morning’s excitement, the usual batch of correspondence had escaped my notice. Turning hastily, I made for the study, where a number of letters were awaiting me.
There was only one communication which possessed for me any interest. It was from my old friend Bob Nugent, and a thrill of pleasure passed through me as I recognised the familiar scrawl – Bob was never a neat writer.
The letter was as follows: “Dear Old Frank, – I am writing in great haste, and at the usual high pressure, to give you the welcome news that Teddy Rivers has turned up after his New Zealand experiences, as fresh as paint. He hasn’t much time to spare; so if you want to have one of the old dinners at the Junior Garrick, my boy, and can tear yourself away from the little wife for a few hours, why – come soon. – Yours ever, Bob Nugent.”
“Tear yourself away from the little wife!” I repeated to myself with a groan. Bob was quite right; Vera had truly charmed me, laying me under the spell of her beauty and the vivacity of her manner – for what! With a savage stamp of my foot I threw the letter upon the fire.
A moment’s reflection convinced me that my best course would be to run up to town and meet my friends. As a matter of fact, the opportunity was just what I needed. It would afford a little excitement to drown the weary hours, and cause the time to pass more quickly.
I decided to go.
My preparations were soon complete, and the afternoon mail saw me being rapidly conveyed to town, after having left an explanatory note for Vera, to the effect that I should in all probability be absent three weeks.
That journey I shall ever remember. The mad noisy whirl of the express train was as nothing compared with the wild tormenting dance of my thoughts as they again and again reverted to the unhappy events of the morning. At one time I blamed my precipitation; at another I bemoaned my weakness in allowing myself to be wheedled into waiting another three weeks. Should I ever live those fearful twenty-one days? Some presentiment seemed to fill my brain, and as the train rushed through the stations one after another, every moment seemed bearing me nearer and nearer to some catastrophe.
With a sense of vast satisfaction, therefore, I alighted from a cab in Adam Street, Strand, the same evening, and found myself standing outside the time-stained old building, with which so much of my past had been associated. As its well-known entrance met my gaze it appeared to be but yesterday when I left that very spot on the morning the first murder was committed in Bedford Place.
Brushing aside these memories – for they threatened to become very dismal – I walked quickly upstairs to the well-remembered smoking-room, and glanced around.
As I did this it occurred to me that I had made a great omission. I had forgotten to inform Bob by telegram that I so promptly accepted his invitation, and consequently he was not awaiting me, nor did I know a single face about me.
Evidently there was no utility in staying there, for it might be hours before my friend put in an appearance. I knew his address, but did not feel in the humour for going to hunt him up; finally I resolved to go to a hotel at once.