Part 34 (1/2)
”Because in Glasgow I was recognised by one of my enemies,” she said.
”Ah! you don't know what a narrow escape I had. He traced me--and came from London to hunt me down and denounce me. Yet I managed to meet him with such careless ease that he was disarmed, and hesitated. And while he hesitated I escaped. He is still following me. He may be here, in Newcastle, for all I know. It we meet again, Wilfrid,” she added in a hoa.r.s.e, determined voice, ”if we meet again it will all be hopeless. My doom will be sealed. I shall kill myself.”
”No, no,” I urged. ”Come, don't contemplate such a step as that!”
”I fear to face him. I can never face him.”
”You mean John Parham.”
”Who told you?” she started quickly. ”How did you know his name?”
”I guessed it. They told me at the hotel that you had had a visitor, and that you had soon afterwards escaped to the north.”
”Do you actually know Parham?”
”I met him once,” was my reply, but I did not mention the fellow's connection with the house with the fatal stairs.
”Does he know that we are friends?”
”How can I tell? But why do you fear him?”
”Ah, it is a long story. I dare not face that man, Wilfrid. Surely that is sufficient.”
”No. It is not sufficient,” I replied. ”You managed to escape and get up to Fort William.”
”Ah! The man at the hotel told you so, I suppose,” she said. ”Yes, I did escape, and narrowly. I was betrayed.”
”By whom?”
”Unwittingly betrayed by a friend, I think,” she replied, as we walked on together towards the lake. On a winter's morning there are few people in Leazes Park, therefore we had the place to ourselves, save for the keeper strolling idly some distance away.
”Sybil,” I exclaimed presently, halting again, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, ”why are you not straightforward and outspoken with me?”
I recollected the postscript of the dead man's letter which I had secured in Manchester--the allegation that she was playing me false.
Her eyes were cast down in confusion at my plain question, yet the next instant she a.s.sumed a boldness that was truly surprising.
”I don't understand you,” she declared with a light nervous little laugh.
”Then I suppose I must speak more plainly,” I said. ”It is a pity, Sybil, that you did not tell me the truth from your own lips.”
She went pale as her eyes met mine in quick anxiety.
”The truth--about what?”
”About your love for Arthur Rumbold,” I said very gravely, my gaze still fixed steadily upon hers.
In an instant her gloved hands clenched themselves, her lips twitched nervously, and she placed her hand upon her heart as though to stop its wild beating.
”My love?” she gasped blankly--”my love for Arthur Rumbold?”
”Yes, your love for him.”