Guilty Bonds

Those dark eyes which had pierced me on the previous night once more turned to mine. In their depths a film was gathering. He motioned that he wished to speak, and I leaned down till my face almost touched his.

“Well?” I inquired, kindly and softly.

“It’s – for – Nell – I – ”

All was over!

For a few seconds I was stunned. It seemed impossible that he was dead – it was not to be realised, in spite of the inanimate body before me.

Then suddenly I gazed about me.

The noise of busy London was in my ears; the day was before me. No more could be learnt from the corpse – why should I stay?

Hastily putting the photograph and the piece of sealed paper into my pocket, I turned and left the room.

The energy of the movement was so great that as I opened the door my attention was attracted by the skirt of a woman’s dress disappearing round a corner of the landing.

In spite of my haste, however, the person had gone when I reached the door of the house and stepped into the street. There was no one visible.

Then I remembered an omission.

Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and cold as I had left it a few minutes before.

I closed the eyes, and then went home.

Chapter Twenty Three

The Dead Woman’s Picture

About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, where I had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towards the club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.

Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout, —

“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”

It was Demetrius Hertzen.

“What! you in London?” I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad to meet him.

“Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, and Vera is so cut up, that I thought I’d come to town, find you, and prevail upon you to return.”

Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, “What’s the meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow; I am your wife’s cousin.”

I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on the verge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.

“Well,” I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, “it is all owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have little differences sometimes, you know.”

He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said, —

“Ah! I see. A lover’s quarrel, eh? Why don’t you return to Elveham and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better.”

I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must pass before any explanation.

“No,” I answered, “I’ll remain in London, at least for the present. I don’t know exactly when I shall return.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk so despondently. Remember it’s only a petty quarrel, after all,” he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.

I tried again to laugh, saying, “Yes, that’s true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder – we’re told.”

“Very well, old fellow, if you won’t take my advice I can’t help it,” he observed disappointedly.

By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, “By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?”

“Nothing.”

“Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I’m on my way there.”

“Thanks, you’re very kind. By Jove, I’ve had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I’m getting a trifle peckish!”

“Then come along,” I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club.

In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.

They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.

Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.