Part 40 (1/2)
”I have not said so. The word defy is scarcely one which should be used between us, I think, considering that our interests are to-day mutual-- just as they were on the night of the crime.”
”I fail to see that,” I answered. ”I have no interest whatever in keeping this terrible secret hidden, for while I do so I am acting the part of accessory.”
”But surely you have an interest in preserving your own life?” she urged.
”Then you imply that if I were to lay information at Scotland Yard I should be in peril of my life?” I asked, looking straight into those calm eyes that ever and anon seemed full of mystery.
”Of that I cannot speak with any degree of certainty,” she responded.
”I would only warn you that in this matter continued silence is by far the best.”
”But you have uttered a veiled threat!” I cried. ”You are aware of the whole facts, and yet refuse to impart to me the simple information of the whereabouts of Mrs Anson. Do you think it possible in such a case that I can entertain any confidence in you, or in your extraordinary story regarding the affairs of Bulgaria and its Prince?”
”I am unable to give you any information regarding the lady you mention,” she replied, with a slight frown of annoyance.
”But you are acquainted with her?”
”I may be--what then?”
”I demand to know where she is.”
”And in reply I tell you that I am in ignorance.”
”In that case,” I said angrily, ”I refuse to have any further dealings whatsoever with you. From the first I became drawn into a trap by you, bound down and for six years held silent by your threats. But, madam, I now tell you plainly of my intentions. I mean to-morrow to lay the whole facts before the Director of Criminal Investigations, including this story of yours regarding the Prince and his people.”
She rose slowly from her chair, perfectly calm, her dignity unruffled.
Her manner was absolutely perfect. Had she been a princess herself she could not have treated my sudden ebullition of anger with greater disdain.
She gathered up the papers she had put before me, and, replacing them in the dispatch-box, locked it with the golden master-key upon her bangle.
Afterwards, she turned to me and said, in a hard distinct voice--
”Then I understand that I have to inform His Serene Highness that you refuse to a.s.sist him further?”
”Tell him whatever you choose, madam,” I answered, rising and taking up my hat and cane. ”I shall, in future, act according to my own inclinations.”
”And at your own risk!” she added, in a harsh voice, as, bowing stiffly before her, I turned towards the door.
”Yes, madam,” I answered; ”I accept your challenge--at my own risk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
MORE SCHEMING.
The mellow summer twilight was fast deepening into night as I strode along Piccadilly towards the Circus, after leaving the grey-eyed woman who held the secret.
What she had revealed to me was startling, yet the one fact which caused me more apprehension than all others was the curious means by which she had discovered my whereabouts. If she had been enabled to do this, then the police would, no doubt, very soon find me and return me to my so-called ”friends.”
In despair I thought of Mabel. Long ago I had surrendered my whole heart to her. She had at first placed a strong and high-minded confidence in me, judging me by her own lofty spirit, but that unaccountable rupture had occurred, and she had gone from me crushed and heart-broken. In my pocket I carried her letter, and the more I thought over it the more puzzled I became. Daily, hourly, I lamented over the broken and shattered fragments of all that was fairest on earth; I had been borne at once from calm, lofty, and delighted speculations into the very heart of fear and tribulations. My love for her was now ranked by myself as a fond record which I must erase for ever from my heart and brain. Once I had thought to link my destiny with hers; but, alas! I could not now marry her, nor could I reveal to her, knowing them not, the mysterious influences which had changed the whole current of my life and purposes. My secret burden was that of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief.
The whole of the events swept past me like a torrent which hurried along in its dark and restless course all those about me towards some overwhelming catastrophe. Tormented by remorseful doubts and pursued by distraction, I felt a.s.sured that Mabel, in her unresisting tenderness, her mournful sweetness, her virgin innocence, was doomed to perish by that relentless power which had linked her destiny with crime and contest in which she had no part but as a sufferer. It is, alas! the property of crime to extend its mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessing over many that deserve them not.